Taking Wally to Gaytown

TAKING WALLY TO GAYTOWN, part 2 By Master Redbeard (redbeardedsf @ yahoo.com)

(This story is inspired by Waddie Greywolf, who was himself inspired by Richard Davis. Greywolf allowed me to read an advance chapter of a story that is as-yet unpublished. His story is about a fundamentalist Christian father in Texas who enslaves his sons. My story about a father and his sons is very different from Waddie's, but it is based in the same universe and was inspired by reading Waddie's story.)

(This is a fantasy story set in a world in which slavery exists. This story includes gay sex, some of which happens between an adult man of 18 and older men. If any of this is offensive to you or if it's illegal to read such a story in your jurisdiction, go away now. If you have trouble differentiating between reality and fantasy, do not read this story - go get help now.)

The sheriff loaned me all the appropriate chains and cuffs and slave paraphernalia so I could take Wally to the Gaytown slave hall. I knew these things were not supposed to leave his jurisdiction, but that's the nice thing of living in a small town where everyone knows and trusts each other. I shackled Wally up good and stuffed him in the trunk of my car. Then I made a quick stop at home, grabbed Wally's duffel bag and stuffed a bunch of his clothes into it. McGee the slave trader had suggested I do this, but I didn't understand why. I figured I could always drop off the duffel bag of stuff to some charity in Capitol City. Seeing that these were the clothes of a known homosexual, I surely didn't want to give them to my younger son or distribute them in our town. Out of consideration to Wally in the trunk I tossed the duffel bag in the back seat and drove nonstop to Capitol City.

You better believe I was not looking forward to my first visit to Gaytown. I had never been in the presence of homos - at least not that I knew of - and being surrounded by a whole community of them was not an appealing thought to me. But if this was the place for me to get a good price (and to find a good owner) for my newly enslaved queer son, so be it. A dad has to do what a dad has to do.

I knew enough to bring Wally in through the back entrance of the slave hall. He was collared, had handcuffs attached to the collar on the back, and had an 18-inch chain attaching the shackles on his ankles. Sheriff Taylor had used a temporary tattoo to place Wally's slave identification number toward the top of his right pectoral and he had even placed a global positioning chip behind Wally's left ear. I had also, at the suggestion of McGee, dressed the boy in a pair of clean white briefs in place of the standard slave shorts. We got looks from a lot of the men as I led Wally in by a leash attached to his collar. I wasn't sure if the looks were because he wasn't properly groomed as a slave or for some other reason.

Just inside the door I was approached by the queerest queer boy I ever did see. He was nearly my height, but thin as a rail. He held a clipboard up against his torso with both hands. Instead of standing up straight he was sort of leaning back a little, as if he was posing for some girly fashion magazine. His hair was bleached white with a blue streak in it and I swear he was wearing eyeliner. From a distance he looked like a boy but when he was near he looked closer to 30. I looked for signs that he was a slave, but he was not collared and he was fully dressed in tight white slacks and a shirt that was opened almost all the way down the front showing his hairless chest.

I had to fight the urge to talk to this boy about Jesus and try to save him. That wasn't why I was here. And if I looked around the slave hall there were just too many who needed saving. The effete young man lisped at me, "My, my, what have we here? And you're new to peddling slaves in Gaytown, aren't you, sir? I would've remembered a big hunky master like you." He actually giggled like a schoolgirl.

Bracing myself not to show my revulsion, I quietly said, "I'm just here this one time to find a buyer for my son."

I swear to you this flitty homo mumbled under his breath, "Fuckin' hot." He looked up and down Wally and then asked, "This boy is a slave?" I handed him Wally's enslavement papers. He glanced from the papers to the boy and then grinned, "And he's 18?" His hand started toying with Wally's balls through the cotton fabric of the briefs as he continued, "And just yesterday this was free boy tackle."

Impatient I pulled Wally by the leash, inadvertently choking my son for a moment. I glared at the skinny fellow and said, "I'd just like to get this boy prepared for sale and get this whole thing over with. I'd appreciate your help."

He became businesslike and pointed to different stations and services around the hall. Most important was the slave preparation area. He told me there was no charge if I wanted to use the facilities to shave and scrub and give an enema to my boy. I shuddered and quickly blurted, "I ain't giving this boy an enema!"

"Well, sir," he became huffy. "This is not a discount slave traders dealing in broken down mine stock. Our clientele expects that any slaves out on our floor will be totally cleaned outside and inside. If you prefer we offer slave service." He went on to rattle off prices for any and every service you could imagine - not just bathing the slave, shaving his body, giving a proper slave haircut and giving him an enema, but even clipping his toenails. Of course the prices were outrageous, but what choice did I have?

The young man minced over to the preparation area and filled out a card for Wally to have a cleaning, a thorough body shaving, and an enema. I had a little argument about price when I saw that some big hairy muscled slave in his 30s was getting shaved. How dare they charge me the same to body shave Wally's underarms and pubes. I even pulled apart Wally's butt cheeks and, as I suspected, found not one hair there. The attendant, snippier than ever, said, "Well, sir, if you'd prefer to shave the boy yourself then there'd be no charge to you at all." I swear, if it hadn't been that Wally's balls needed to be shaved I would've taken him up on that. As it was I put the charges on my credit card.

The effete young man became solicitous again, thanked me for my business, wished me well in getting a good price for my son, but then under his breath and cheekiest of all he said, "I just wish I'd been there to see you take your son's cherry, dad."

I looked up at him furious and said, "I'll have you know that I'm a good church-going Christian man. I am not a deviant homo like you and your lot!" I realized I had said that in a loud voice and men all around were now looking at me. Would they toss me out on my ear?

The young man stood at his full height and pursed his lips as he asked, "Then why did you come here, sir?"

I pulled myself up to my full height, a few inches taller than him, and said, "My son happens to be a homo. I love my son and want him to be where he belongs - as the slave to some... some..." I couldn't find the right word to use with all of these queers looking at me. I didn't want to insult them when I was outnumbered.

But then he flitty young attendant got a serious look on his face and said, "I'm sorry I was out of line, sir. You're a good father." Then he turned on his heels and left.

I watched as the slaves worked on Wally's slim young body. A slave boy who looked barely older than Wally did the shaving. As I watched I thought this might be a good job for Wally. Even though I hadn't seen any hair in Wally's ass crack, the slave spread my boy's cheeks and ran the razor neatly up the curve on each side.

Then Wally was handed over to an older slave, a solidly built man, who bent him over and started greasing his bottom before shoving an enema nozzle up into my boy. As his butt was being filled, this older slave was whispering something into Wally's ear. I don't know what it was, but there were tears coming down Wally's face. Well, I figured it's highly stressful being enslaved, but I couldn't trouble myself with chatter between slaves. I was surprised that the older slave went on to give Wally three more enemas before he was through with the boy. Then Wally was showered with two slave boys soaping him up, washing him off, and then wiping the water off his body because there didn't seem to be any towels for the slaves. I was asked one last time by the slave in charge if I wanted a proper slave haircut for the boy and, following McGee's advice, I refused. The slave nodded and said, "Good choice, sir. He'll appeal to the men who have a fetish for free boys."

A slave directed me to a platform where Wally would be displayed. I could tell it was not a prime location. I was off toward the back along the side, not a high traffic area. I knew enough about retail to figure that the best spots were given to the regular dealers. Wally had on his slave collar and the white briefs, but his hands were no longer cuffed. I simply had him hold his hands behind his back in slave rest position. His feet were shackled and attached to pegs in the floor.

Another attendant came up to me and began asking a series of questions about Wally, as he wrote things on his clipboard. He examined Wally's enslavement documents more closely. This attendant was just about as effeminate as the first one, but he was all business. He turned on his heels without a word and within five minutes he returned with a neatly typed out sign that listed all of Wally's vital information: height, weight, date of birth, date of enslavement - it even listed the fact that he had not received any formal training and that he was believed to be an anal virgin.

The attendant had hardly left when I heard a screeching voice. I realized it was coming from two men nearby who rushed up to Wally. "Oh, sweetie, this is the one I want." His fingers were quickly pulling at Wally's nipples and then running down the boy's torso, pushing his underpants to his thighs. "Isn't this tight little body just divine?"

I looked over the two men. They both were around 35 and were wearing expensive suits. They might have been executives during the week and they might well have passed for straight men. But together the two of them were mincing like schoolgirls and their voices were way too high pitched. The first who had spoken was blond, but it didn't look like his original hair color. His dark-haired compatriot was just slightly quieter than the blond as he inquired, "Just how old is this little twink anyway?"

The two queers looked over the sign and didn't even acknowledge my presence. "See" the blond squealed, "he's 18, he's legal." By now the blond was manipulating my boy's penis and getting it erect. Wally squirmed but did a good job of maintaining his slave rest position.

The dark-haired man was pumping a finger in and out of Wally's ass. "Yes, honey," he offered. "But look at him. He sure as hell doesn't look 18. What will the neighbors think?"

"The neighbors will be jealous and beating their dicks raw wishing they were us and they had a young piece like this to play with and fuck. The neighbors are all gay and your boss is a screaming old queen," The blond giggled.

Shaking his head, the dark haired fellow was still squeezing Wally's ass cheeks as he said, "Yes, but you know my boss is head of the league that's fighting for tougher laws against underage sex. He's off in Florida right now fighting the change they made in their laws."

Frustration marked the blond's tone as he said, "Yes but this boy isn't underage, is he? He is 18 as of today."

"On paper he's 18," the other man snapped. "But take a look at him? Anyone who sees guys owning a slave boy like this will figure those masters are hot for kids. With a face like this he could more easily pass for 15, maybe even 14, than 18. And if he was laying on his tummy with that smooth ass in the air..." The man shook his head and just stormed off.

The blond called after, "Well, even then he'd still be legal in Florida. Whether your bleeding-heart, slave-loving boss likes it or not they're not about to raise the age of consent back up after the boom in their tourist business." Then he followed quickly after his partner. I went over and pulled Wally's underpants back into place.

About two minutes later the blond returned, approached me, and handed me a bidding slip. I opened it and read "$40,000" along with his name and address. He grinned at me and in a conspiratorial tone he said, "I know a sweet piece like this will go for way more than $40,000 but I just wanna piss off my boyfriend by placing a bid on him." He giggled again and without waiting for a word from me he disappeared into the crowd.

The Gaytown slave hall did not work like an auction house. I would simply keep Wally on this platform and it was my choice whether to sell him to anyone who bid on him. Alongside the sign with Wally's vital information there was a small board that listed the current bid. For more than an hour it stayed at $40,000 and I was starting to think I should be satisfied with that amount.

I watched a succession of men come by and look at Wally. Some just glanced and walked on. Many of them got a good feel of him and were especially interested in testing his ass. I could see now why the slave hall insisted on the boy being thoroughly cleaned outside and inside. A few men stopped and asked questions about the boy. I answered as honestly as I could. Some eyes lit up when they realized the boy had been enslaved less than a day earlier. So this was what was meant by men who had a fetish for free boys. It soon became obvious that the vast majority of men were just window shopping - they probably couldn't even afford slaves but enjoyed seeing and touching boys on a Saturday afternoon.

While I saw many men who fit the stereotype of screaming queens, there were a few who didn't seem queer at all. A serious looking man spent a good deal of time touching Wally all over. He wore jeans, work boots, and a tight t-shirt and looked like a construction worker. My first thought was that he didn't seem gay. My next thought was that he couldn't possibly afford Wally, but he was spending a lot of time. His hands went down into the boy's underpants, both front and back. Finally he looked at me, nodded his head and asked, "You the father?"

I nodded my head in response and he seemed to be studying the sign of vital information before he continued, "So if you're the dad, how come you haven't taken the boy up the ass yet?"

"I'm not a homo," I stated plainly. Knowing what the follow up question would be I added, "I found out that my son here is a queer boy. I believe selling him in Gaytown as a slave is the best thing for the boy."

He smacked Wally on the butt and ordered, "Bend over, boy." When my son did as commanded, the man pushed the boy's briefs down to his knees and started to work one finger in and out of the boy's tight bottom. He was concentrating on his work and then went to two fingers. The big man smacked Wally's butt again and said, "Stand up." Then he went around to the front of my boy and started to stroke his penis and fondle his balls. "Nice size," the man nodded his head. "Looks especially big on his small frame. But then again with a lips like these and an ass like this not many men are gonna care about his dick."

Given how shabbily he was dressed, I was about to ask why he was spending so much time abusing my son's body if he was not a serious bidder. But then the man pulled out a card and wrote down a bid. He handed it to me - $75,000. I looked over the name on the card and he explained, "I'm an agent for a string of international resorts. We cater to wealthy older gentlemen, very exclusive and very expensive. We'd probably start your boy off in our Caribbean location. We might even fudge a little and tell the clients he's younger than 18." That was the first time I saw this large man crack a smile. "In the warmer locations you can get away with things like that." He then pulled Wally's briefs back in place, shook my hand and left.

A few minutes later two men approached - one was around 30 while the other was a thin white-haired man, very distinguished looking. The younger was good looking with curly light brown hair and an open face, and he seemed strangely familiar. He was looking from me to Wally and I saw Wally's eyes go wide. I saw a smile on this man's face as he approached me and shook my hand. I stared at him blankly and he said, "You don't remember me?" He went on, "I'm Ryan Philpott. I was the swimming coach in your son's middle school."

Coach Philpott? He had left the middle school suddenly during Wally's last year there. I never knew why and I hadn't heard anything of him since then. I started putting the pieces together. Coach Philpott together with this older man here in Gaytown. I didn't want to know the details of why he had left our town, but I had already figured out what was behind it.

The coach looked me up and down and said, "Fancy seeing you here?"

I immediately got his implication and blurted out, "I'm not a homo. I'm here for Wally's sake. Wally is as queer as a three-dollar bill and this is where a boy like that belongs."

Philpott turned to Wally and I swear I saw him licking his lips. "My favorite swimmer, my pretty little Wally, hot damn." His hand immediately went to the front of Wally's briefs. He pulled them down and fondled Wally's now fully-shaved penis and balls as he continued, "Just as hairless as it was last time I saw it. Only last time I wasn't allowed to play with it, was I?"

The white-haired gentlemen came up to me and shook my hand. "Nigel Winterly," he said dryly. Then he turned to watch the coach fondling my son. The two men smiled at each other. Then Nigel continued, "Ryan is such a dear boy. I can't deny the lad anything."

Ryan Philpott had gotten behind Wally and was fondling and probably fingering his butt as he licked my boy's ear. The boy's briefs had once again slid to his knees. That's when Wally cried out, "Please, coach, don't. I'm not queer. Please help me. Don't let my dad do this to me." He was loud enough that there were men all around who turned in our direction. Many of them started to come near to watch the scene play out.

My son's former swim coach smacked the boy's bottom so fast and hard the sound reverberated in the room. Then the man looked at me and snapped, "Well, the sign is certainly true. He certainly isn't trained, is he?" I shrugged my shoulders and the man continued, "I expect you will give me permission to paddle the slave for that outburst." Tears were already filling up Wally's eyes.

An instant later a slave had brought a choice of paddles to Ryan, who weighed them and opted for a leather paddle rather than a wooden one. He nodded kindly and said, "I'll go light on the boy as he's new to this." Wally was bent over and suffered eight hard strokes with the leather paddle. The man administering the punishment made no attempt to hide the tent or the stain on the front of his own tan trousers.

The former coach was blatantly touching his penis in his pants as he looked at me and said, "For the indignity the boy caused me, I'd like to have him masturbate me. It's standard here at the slave hall. Unlike using his mouth or his ass it doesn't take anything away from his future buyer."

I was unprepared for the request but I simply nodded my head. As I had no interest in seeing the man's penis being stroked in public, I moved to the side. I realized there was quite a crowd gathered around us - apparently many others were interested in watching Wally stroke the man's exposed penis. I could tell Coach Philpott's pants were opened and I could see my son's arm moving in quick rhythmic strokes.

The man leaned his head next to Wally's and was talking into the boy's ear - but not whispering, talking loud enough for the men surrounding us to hear. "I used to watch you in your Speedos, boy. Fuckin' cutest boy ass I ever did see. I used to jerk off thinking about you, Wally, thinking about what I'd do if I had you naked and all to myself..." There was a gasp and then he shouted out, "Catch it in your free hand, boy. Don't let any of it spill." Then I heard a grunt and the men who were watching the scene cheered. When I turned back I saw that Wally was looking down at his hand that was filled with gooey ejaculate.

"I know you're new at being a slave, boy, but you should at least know what to do with sperm. Eat it, Wally," the man said with an evil smirk. The men watching began to encourage, "Go on, boy, lick it off your hand," while a group of college guys started chanting, "Eat it. Eat it." Philpott took hold of Wally's dripping hand and brought it to the boy's mouth. In a commanding voice he snarled, "Stick out your tongue, Wally." I watched the horrified look on my son's face as his tongue touched the glop in his palm. You would have thought the lad was being poisoned. But he obediently licked his palm clean even as tears flowed freely down his face.

The man who had so recently ejaculated now ran to his older companion like an eager puppy and the two whispered. Nigel then handed me a card with a bid on it - the price for Wally was now up to $85,000, this was more than I earned in two years time.

As I watched Ryan and Nigel walk away I felt a dislike for my son's former swimming coach. But I also thought it might be a nice home for my newly enslaved boy - being a servant to a man he had looked up to just five or six years earlier. I considered the bid and wondered if I should just take it on the spot.

The crowd of men who had watched the proceedings as if it were a stage show moved away. Then I became aware of one gentleman who had not moved away with the rest. He was different from anyone else I had interacted with since arriving in Gaytown - a tall, dignified man with salt and pepper hair and beard, he had a commanding presence, was wearing a white suit in a style that might be called dates and a pair of cowboy boots that must have cost more than a few month's of my salary. He was about two inches taller than me and seemed every inch a man's man.

The distinguished gent nodded to me and told me to call him Major. He said his friends just called him Major and that he hoped he and I would be friends. He then proceeded to take a silver case from his inside jacket pocket. I watched as he pulled out a flask and two silver cups. He handed me one cup and poured from the flask. Then he filled his own cup, tapped it to mine and said, "My daddy never believed in talking business with a dry mouth, sir." I then drank down the smoothest whiskey I've ever tasted. He grinned at me and said, "Twenty-year-old whiskey, sir. A mite older than the lad over there." I had to laugh along with him. It was the first time that entire day that I felt totally at ease.

He refilled my cup and started asking me questions but didn't seem immediately interested in Wally. He was asking about our town, abut my job, about my family and even about my church. It turns out he was raised Assembly of God and he commented quietly about having given more than half the money for his local church to build a new building. He was the sort of gentleman who didn't boast loudly about what he did, but took a quiet pride.

When he finally nodded toward Wally he said, "The boy there reminds me mightily of my favorite grandson, sir. But I must tell you my grandson is quite a bit younger than this slave boy. By the time men in my family reach the age of majority they are around my height if not taller."

I must have sounded apologetic as I said, "Well, my dear departed wife, may the Lord hold her to his bosom, was a small-boned woman, her daddy was not very tall."

The Major stood up and walked around Wally, but he did not touch the boy. He looked at me and said, "You say the boy is a homo. But I heard the boy protesting that he is not. Do you mind, sir?" He stood in front of Wally and said, "Slave, I give you permission to speak. Are you in fact homosexual?"

Wally's eyes moved to me. I knew the boy did not want to get punished again. I softly said, "Go on, boy. Answer the man."

Swallowing hard, the naked slave shook his head and said, "Sir, no sir. I took a celibacy pledge at our church and I never had sex with anyone."

"That's not what I asked, boy," the Major said firmly but softly. "You can still be a homo even if you haven't had sex yet. It's a matter of what you think about when you masturbate, slave boy. Do you have homo desires?"

"Sir, no sir!" Wally said clearly.

The Major remained looking deep into my boy's eyes for a long moment. Then he turned back to me and asked me to tell him the story of what made me believe my son was queer. I told him the entire story of finding the pictures. How some of the pictures even showed boys being dominated by older men and how some of the snapshots had obviously been taken of his teammates from the swim team. I then told the man about Wally springing a full erection when he was stripped naked for enslavement.

The Major nodded his head sagely and said, "Yes, I see how it is." Then after a silence he continued, "Of course lying is a serious offense for a slave. But in this case I believe it's a matter of denial. The boy simply can't admit the truth down to his very core. I would not be harsh with him on this matter."

The major then took his card from his pocket and wrote something on it. He handed it to me. He had bid $90,000 to buy Wally. I met his eyes and said, "I didn't realize you'd be interested in purchasing my son, sir. I mean, you're not queer like the rest of them here."

He laughed and said, "Not queer? Well, maybe a bit different from many of the others, but I do enjoy a nice young bit of slave boy tail on occasion." He continued, "I follow my church's admonition that sex with a male slave does not constitute the sin of homosexuality. I'll admit to you that I'm attracted to male flesh, especially something as lovely and firm as your boy there, but I limit my contacts to slaves.

"Let me add, sir, that I have many dear friends here in Gaytown and in other places where I have homes who are homo to the core. They have sex with each other. They have sex with all sorts of free men. I am fond of many of these friends and I pray for them, sir. But for me, I will assure a place for myself in heaven - and for my slaves as well - by spilling my seed only into the bodies of enslaved lads like this one.

"Tonight, I'm having a few friends over to celebrate my 60th birthday. I came here looking for a boy to be the main attraction at my party. Your son and I have the same birthday. It seems predestined that I should own this boy."

I heartily agreed. I told him excitedly about all the things that had seemed predestined over the previous 24 hours: the fact I found those pictures one day before Wally turned 18, the fact that there was a slave hall in Gaytown on the day of Wally's 18th birthday, and now the amazing fact that the Major was looking for just such a slave boy and that he shared a birthday with my son. I offered my hand to shake on the deal, but the Major pulled back and said, "No, no, sir. This is a business arrangement and you'll just have to see whether I give you the highest bid."

As if on cue, just as the Major walked away Ryan Philpott and Nigel Winterly strolled by and raised their bid to $95,000. Not five minutes later the rugged man representing the resorts came by, chatted me up for a few minutes and raised his bid to $100,0000. I watched for the Major, hoping he would return.

(end of part 2 - to be continued)