One Step Behind You
Part Five
By Randall Austin
This story is erotic fiction meant for mature readers and should only be read by adults over the age of eighteen years old. Please do not use my stories without my permission and please forward all comments to randallaustin2011@hotmail.com
Randall Austin's Archive Group: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Randall_Austin_Stories
It is a strange ambivalent world I find myself in as the Falkenberg's domestic slave. On the one hand I am treated like a normal human being, even as a family member, by Lang and his dad. They chat with me, share intimacies of the sort one would share only with family members, ask for my opinions on various matters, and consult with me on my work schedule for the household. I am allowed to work at my own pace, watch television and listen to music, and I have my own computer and access to the Internet. But on the other hand, I am often treated as though I am the family mascot or a cute family pet; one who is told how cute he is and how well he's doing, but who is nonetheless constantly watched and chided. And I am patronized in the most demeaning ways. I am always getting rubbed and patted on the head as though I am the family dog, and spoken to as is I'm a child who needs instructions spelled out very carefully. And if I do something to upset them, no matter how minor, they don't hesitate to lecture or punish me on the spot, even if we had just been having a great time. With such treatment I find myself utterly unable to get any sense of my bearing and even my worth in my new world.
The Falkenberg's prefer that I stay in my room when I'm not doing my duties. They have a philosophy that a lonely slave is a slave more solicitous of its owner's needs. The only visitors I am ever allowed are family members, and a very small group of my old friends. I know they are hoping that my friends, Eric, Perry, Jill, and Tony, eventually just stop maintaining our friendship, and they outright discourage me from finding new friends. And my friends and family I hesitate to have over because I live in fear of being humiliated in front of them by the Falkenberg's.
One night I was in my room just feeling lonely. I was crying. Lang came in to ask me something, saw me crying, and asked why. I told him I was lonely for a friend, or something and I didn't know what I really wanted. He told me that being and feeling lonely was a very good thing for a slave, and that was why they generally discouraged their slave from having friends or participating in social activities where I could meet other slaves. It is why they prefer that I stay in my room when I'm not doing my chores. Once, after Lang, Weston, and I had finished having a nice chat about history, Lang told me to go back to my room if I had no other chores to do. Out of sight, I heard Weston ask why they always wanted me in my room. Lang answered by telling Weston that being lonely made slaves focus more on their owners. Loneliness helped make slaves more solicitous of their owners, feel more in need of them. It reinforced the idea that their life was centered around their owners', and it helped to form strong attachments and a greater sense of loyalty.
Lang was right. Because I couldn't go out, and do stuff on my own, ever, I was a prisoner as well as a slave, and Lang became the most important person in my life. I had developed something of a crush on him. I wanted to please him. I wanted him to like me. I wanted him to be proud of me when I didn't need punishment. I wanted to be praised by him when I did something right.
And both he and his dad knew it. It was the kind of need they were specialists in eliciting from their slaves. Lang told me, "I'm just like your daddy now. I get to tell you what you can and cannot do. And you have to do what I say, because if you don't I get to take you over my knee and spank you. And I'll be lecturing you and giving you advice, telling you how to dress, what you can and can't do, and evaluating you every step of the way, maybe for as long as the rest of your life. In fact I have more power over you than your real daddy ever did. Because I am legally required to chasten you for all infractions, there is an intimacy that develops between a slave and his owners that is like no other on earth."
That intimacy was very intense, at least that is how I felt it, and that is why when I upset Lang I would feel so terrible. One time Weston and I were playing a game of chess, while Lang watched and chatted with us. We were having a great time, talking about everything just as if we all were the best of friends. At one point Weston and I toasted our juice glasses, he hit my glass hard, causing some juice to fly out onto the carpet, I toasted his empty glass back hard and caused it to drop from his hands and drop on the floor. Lang went to the desk and got a two foot wooden ruler. He ordered me to hold my hands out, palms up, and then proceeded to whack both of my hands each with five stinging swats of the ruler. More than the pain of the ruler, and of being punished in front of Weston, and of the unfairness of having to get my hands swatted while Weston did not, was the shame of having let Lang down, of how I had ruined the fun time we were having.
Though it hurt like a hell, and the humiliation was overwhelming, and I could tell Weston was embarrassed having to watch me get treated in that way, I got a boner watching Lang's hair flop around as he swatted me. I started to cry. Lang was pissed that our game was interrupted and told me not to be a crybaby. He said he was going to go and take a crap and that when he got back I was to be in a good mood and ready to resume the game. And when he got back I was in a good mood, because I was so happy that he still wanted to spend time with me. I knew myself that in the past my behavior would have seemed to me, as a freeboy, to be that of a fawning slave, but from the way I was treated that is what I was turning me into.
All domestic slaves in Pennsylvania must attend "slave school" for 18 months. On Mondays and Thursdays I attend slave school from 9:00 am to 2:00 pm. Each school morning I have to be dressed in my school uniform of slave brown loose cotton slacks and shirt, sandals, and slave beanie, and be standing at the curb in time for the slave transport bus to pick me up. The bus is basically a large flat bed truck with 8 rows of benches bolted to the floor, with the bed part surrounded by a waist high mesh fence so we can't fall off. The first time I was picked up by that truck, and had to be driven to school seated on one of those benches, with all eight benches filled up with about 35 slaves was totally humiliating. We are completely exposed as the truck does its rounds going throughout the town picking up the slave students, and then dropping us off at the county slave school.
Slave school is the one part of our state's slave protocol that the Falkenberg's do not like. They would prefer that I have no contact with the outside world whatsoever, and they warned me about getting too friendly with any of the other slaves.
Slave school is like kindergarten for adults. We have to memorize singsong mantras, memorize slave rules and protocols, do arts and crafts, and practice for a school play which we will give for our owners at year's end. A good portion of each class is spent making things for our owners. We make tea cozies, paint pictures, write poetry, hand decorate our "Commitment to Obedience" books, and write essays for our owners and overseers on such things as "why we admire them", "ten extra special things I intend to do for you this week". At the start of each month we have to write out a set of "obedience resolutions" for ourselves and share them with the class and our owners. We prepare speeches to give to the class on why we are lucky to have the owner we do. And we get monthly report cards that have to be signed by our owners and returned. On the first class after report card day we have to get up in front of the entire class and share how our owners reacted to our report cards, and what actions of praise or punishment we received as a result of our report card grades.
In the school play I have been chosen to play a runaway slave who is captured and returned to his owner. It is a sappy piece, with me having to get a spanking on stage, and then do a great big tearful apology to my beneficent owners at the end of the play.
Slave school is thoroughly degrading, but the one good thing is that I get to meet and know other slaves.
After my first month with the Falkenberg's, when I thought I sort of knew what to expect from life at the Falkenberg residence, Lang called me into his den. When I entered the room he rubbed me on the head and said, "Hey, little guy, how ya doin?" I replied that I hoped I was doing well. Lang said I really was doing well, and that dad and he were super pleased with their new `boy'. He asked me to sit down beside him on the couch. "This little conversation we're about to have now is something dad wanted me to take up with you on your first day here, but I told him, 'no, it can wait.' But he's been bugging me again about it, so I figured now's the time."
"As you know you are registered as a domestic' slave. That's a broad category, and includes such things as both personal and sexual service. Are you aware of that?" I answered, "At my time at the Pennsylvania State Slave Commitment to Obedience' Training Center I learned that the category was broad. And the list of possibilities was mentioned. But there was not much talk of it. We slaves talked about it among ourselves, but it was mainly hearsay. All the slaves I hung out and chatted with were all freshly enslaved like myself and had no experience with slaves of their own."
"Dad and I both use our slave for sexual service, and I, but not dad, also use our slave for personal service. Dad's needs are simple. He will be calling you into his bedroom around 7 am or so about once every three days. His only requirement from you is a simple blow job. He prefers his slave to kneel between his legs and get to work on him. He likes to hold his sucker by the ears. He'll fill you in on just what kind of speed and pressure and so forth he likes. From what I have been able to find out from our other slaves, all he requires is a pretty straightforward suck, and then you're out of there. I told dad that I wanted to put off this conversation until you got settled in because a newly enslaved, distraught, crybaby teenager was probably not going to be giving any focused or dedicated service. Dad agreed with me. You seem now to have gotten over your initial depression, so I think it's time for you to step up to the plate and start delivering full service."
"My needs are about the same, but depending on my situation with my lady friends, weeks could go by without my using you; then, at other times, I could be hauling you into my room and grabbing you by the ears as many as three times a day. The only difference between me and dad is that I like both of my armpits licked, nibbled, and sucked before my blow job."
"The same kind of schedule goes for on how often I'll be using you as a personal servant. It varies according to my needs at the moment. Sometime in the morning you'll be massaging me, helping me groom, sucking my toes, wiping my ass after a shit, and so on. And then sometimes I'll just be too rushed to avail myself of your help."
"Neither dad nor I fuck boys, but I got a couple of friends whom I'll let use you from time to time if they're not being assholes, and they'll be giving you a poke or two. And when my friend Martin from California visits and stays with me about twice a year, he's into some slightly kinky stuff. He'll make you get dressed up like a little girl, put you in panties, bra, and a skirt, and make you wear lipstick. He wants you acting like a bitch in heat, and then he'll ride your slave cunt like a pony."
"Anyway, why don't you just scoot over here beside me so I can give you your first lesson in making dad and me feel good." With that he unbuttoned his shirt, took it off, put his hands in back of his head and leaned back in the couch, in a sitting position. He had a beautiful chest. I suspected he wanted the armpit work done on him which he had just told me about, but I didn't know how to begin. He reached his hand over, grabbed the back of my head, and guided my face into his right arm pit. "Ok, now start flecking it with your tongue. Oh yeah, that's right. That's the way." I was able to do it because I was lonely and horny, and Lang was beautiful. He had me lick, nibble, and scrunch both of his slightly ripe pits. As I sucked he pulled out his beautiful large silky uncut cock with the piss slit beautifully exposed. It was large, as I had guessed it would be. He pushed my head into his lap and told me to start sucking. He complimented me throughout. I was gentle, but he said he liked that. He scooted me to the floor in front of him in a kneeling position, and then grabbed both of my ears. He used my slave ears to control my head bobbing action. He came rather quickly but I could tell he had a very intense orgasm. Afterwards, as he was stuffing his cock back into his pants, I wanted to go to my room and jack off, but he was back to business as usual, and ordered me to get him his afternoon tea and to get to work cleaning the giant bookshelf in the living room.
I asked some of my friends at slave school if they had to do sex, and they all said they had to. I told them I would never be able to let my family and friends know about the things I have to do. They all said the same thing. It seemed that all of us, as slaves, didn't want the people we knew as free boys to know about all of the humiliating stuff we now are subjected to on a routine basis. It was comforting for me to know that I was not the only one who was practically shriveled up by the almost daily humiliations.
One Sunday afternoon Mr. Falkenberg called me and asked me to bring him a coffee and Lang a tea, and serve them in the den. Mr. Falkenberg was seated on the couch, and Lang in an arm chair with his legs lazily draped over one of the arms. When I asked them if there would be anything else, Mr. Falkenberg said that there would be, and asked me to remove all of my clothing. As the Falkenberg's enjoyed their hot beverages I stripped off my uniform, folding each piece, and as protocol dictates, took my bell boy hat off last and set it on top of the pile of folded clothes.
I stood there naked with my arms at my side. Mr. Falkenberg asked, "Where did we get this coffee? Billy, make sure we get more of this same Ethiopian blend." I answered, "Yes sir."
Mr. Falkenberg looked at me, smiled, and began in a leisurely fashion, "Billy, look at yourself. What are you? Don't answer, I'll tell you what you are. You're nothing but a bare-naked little slave boy. That's all you are." He took another sip of coffee. "And you make a perfect cup of coffee. Lang, how is your tea?"
"It's excellent, Dad", smiled Lang as he raised his cup.
"See boy. You're not only a little work boy slave, but you are a little work boy slave who does excellent work. In other words, you are doing what you were meant to be doing, and you are doing it well. You are doing great here, and you should be proud of that fact. But Lang told me that he walked in on you last evening and you were in your room crying again. That means you are not taking comfort in the fact of how pleased we are with you. So I was thinking 'What is he crying about?' I bet I know, Billy. You are crying because you probably want to go and hang out with your friends like old times. I bet if Perry and Eric called you would love to go meet them somewhere, right?"
"Yes sir. I am lonely. I miss what I used to have. I mainly miss my friends. I would like to see them."
"Thank you for being so honest, Billy." He took another sip of coffee. "I know you don't like the fact that we kind of keep you in the house except for when you go to school and accompany us on errands. But you have the good life here. We have lots of things in your room for you to keep yourself entertained. It's true, we want you to stay in there, but you got everything any young man could want. Television, full access to the internet, music system, a computer full of games, you can write in your journal, and everything you do in there is your own stuff. We don't care what you do. We don't care if you chat in those online slave forums. We don't care if you write to the anti-slaver folks."
"But you know what I think. I think that even with all that neat stuff you got in your room, if you were up there and a couple of your friends came here to visit, you would come bounding down here only too eager to see them again. You think that you have some kind of right to mingle with free boys. But you don't Billy. You don't have that right anymore. You are a slave. That's all you are a slave, a bare-naked little slave boy."
"But you know what Lang and I could do? We could have something done to you so you would look different, look more like a slave. And then I wonder if you would still want to go and hang out with your friends at the local club."
In my first eight months as a slave I had learned not only how the body tries to compensate for pain by sending out contradictory signals to the groin region, but how, as now, it tries to compensate for the feeling of total abjection brought about by humiliation by sending some numbing drug to the brain that makes the desire to cry send a warm soft blanket over one's entire body. Every cell relaxes and seems to rejoice.
"How would you like it, Billy, if Lang and I were to have your front teeth removed? Then whenever you talked you would sound like a real slave. We really would have no problem doing that, as that would make you a prime suckerboy. The feeling from a good toothless blow job beats the primest of pussy. Anyway, if your friends came to visit you then, would you then come bounding down from your room to chat with them. Would you then want to continue to talk to them about history, and show everyone how smart you are with your slave lisp. Would you like that Billy? Would your friends be able to hear your words of wisdom if you were talking at them all toothless and lisping? I think rather than listening to you they would be laughing at you. If we had that done to you would not only be just a slave, but you'd be considered a toothless, lisping, suckerboy slave."
"And we could have you ringed with a giant four inch chin ring. That would have some real practical uses for us as well. And if we did that to you as well, then you would be nothing but a toothless, chin-ringed, suckerboy."
"And we could have your ears stapled with those giant slave ID ear tags that you see flopping on the ears of government worker slaves. The ones that look like rabbits. How would you like that? Would you then want to come bounding down from your cozy room to meet all of your family and friends with your ear tags bobbing? You are nothing right now but our little bare-naked work boy, but if we had all that stuff done to you, then you would be our very own bare-naked, toothless, lisping, chin-ringed, ear-tagged, little suckerboy slave. Would you enjoy chatting with Eric then about all the stuff you talk about, would you still try to impress your friends that you are really some kind of cool dude underneath it all? How would you feel when you visited with your family then? What would your brothers think? Would you be able to look Chad in the eye, and what would your little brother Timothy think of his big brother Billy then?"
"And those are just a few of the things we could have done to you. You don't even want to hear what else we could have done to you. Anyway, I think you see my point. Do you?"
"Yes sir, I do."
"Good. Come over here Billy." I did and he asked me to bend my head down. I did and he rubbed it, "You're a good little boy. Come here. Closer." He threw his arm around my hips and pulled me close. "We love you, little Billy. We're not going to have any of that stuff done to you. But we are going to give you a little spanking now, not because you've been bad, but to put into your punishment account. I think it would be a good time to put something into that account to help drive home what I just told you. As it is you still have only one in your account from the collaring ceremony. While you're getting your spanking I want you to think about what I just told you. Ok?" I nodded 'yes'. "Lang, you want to do the honors?"
"Naw, Dad, I just want to watch for a change. But first, Billy, I'd like some more tea." As I scampered naked to take his cup I felt more like a slave than I ever had, and even though I was about to get spanked, I felt relieved, even happy. When Mr. Falkenberg put his arm around my hips it was the warmest human contact I had experienced as a slave, and almost wanted to cry.
I gave Lang his tea, and went over to Mr. Falkenberg, and he patted his lap. I got over my owners knee, and with the first blow from his hand the warmth in my groin was so intense that I almost didn't feel the next couple of blows. Mr. Falkenberg was a strong man, even stronger than Lang, and eventually the pain got intense. I started crying out loud. I didn't know what overtook me, but through the crying I blurted out, "Sir, I am so sorry for not appreciating all the things I have here, how good you are to me." I believe I really believed what I said. I had become a big crybaby slave. I was more ashamed than ever from being so erect in Mr. Falkenberg's lap. That made me cry. Being a slave made me cry. Upsetting my owners made me cry. Everything made me cry, but now crying was starting to feel good.
When the spanking was over Mr. Falkenberg said, "Lang, why don't you leave me and Billy alone here for a bit." As Lang walked out with his teacup he said, "Dad, send him to my room when you're finished with him."