THE LABOURER by Pete Brown. petebrownuk @ yahoo.com
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Part 18
My discrete tattoo in my armpit with my servant's identification number was not in fact altered, but the State had decided that those of us who were indentured permanently ought to be more prominently marked so that there could never be any doubt as to our status when we appeared on the streets. Consequently the Court bailiff shepherded all three of us down to an area below the court house where we were told to sit on a hard wooden bench in what amounted to a corridor, and to remain silent.
Joey looked ashen, and as we sat there pressed himself against me, and I put an arm around his shoulders to try to comfort him. Craig seemed to be putting a brave face on it, and just sat there as if he didn't have a care in the world - but surely he was concerned that he'd never now be free? Inside, my own feelings swung between downright hatred for Rob and the way that he'd betrayed me, to stark despair at the though of remaining a servant all my life. When I'd started all of this, I'd relished the thought of five years of tough, totally demanding hard work, so that I could see the effects on my body when I was driven past my normal limits. I'd kind of looked forward to resuming "normal" life when I was thirty, now a hardened, honed man who knew his limits and the things of which he was ultimately capable - now all I could look forward to was this life of unremitting toil for ever, and the thought that Mister Rooney could use me sexually in whatever way he chose, whenever he chose. I now began to understand the true hopelessness and desolation of slavery - for that was, I realised, what I now was: a slave in everything but name. I had no control over my life, I had no control over my sexuality, my contract could be bought and sold as my owner pleased, I could be punished almost as my owner chose, and, worst of all, this situation would last for my entire life.
Sure, our society no longer allowed slavery, and there were rules and regulations governing the way that indentured servants could be treated to make sure it was "humane" and that they were not damaged permanently. But, as I'd seen, the longer the period of indenture, the harsher the punishments that an indenture owner could hand out, and the more effective control the owner had over the servant. I shuddered to think of what Mister Rooney could now demand of me, and what he could ordered done to me, on a whim: what now distinguished me from those slaves of the nineteenth century who were sold, forced to labour whenever and wherever their masters required, were used sexually at their master's pleasure, were punished for any transgression of their master's orders, and had absolutely no hope of becoming "free" again? None, as far as I could see - a lifetime indentured servant was no more, no less, than a slave. Mister Rooney owned me in just the same was as those masters of old had owned their niggers, and I was no better than they. In fact I was worse off - no white man like me could have been a slave then, but I was now.
I felt my anger rising, and if there was anything I could have done to break out, to escape, I would have.
But the area under the Court was "secure", designed to hold prisoners awaiting trial, and the only exits were through barred doors with bailiffs on the other side. And I knew it was useless to rage and shout, as not only would the bailiffs punish me now, but Mister Rooney would certainly do so as he was a firm believer that his servants must at all times be respectful and act appropriately: I still shuddered inwardly as I thought of the way that he could order me to be whipped, and there was no way that I could bring myself to even contemplate actions that might result in such a punishment again.
They took us one at a time, and after Joey emerged, almost crying, I knew what my fate was going to be. Even so, as I knelt there feeling the insistent sharp pricking of the tattooist's needle, I was almost raging inside - even if one day I did regain my freedom, everyone would now know that I was a freed slave. My servant ID number, followed by a "P" for permanent, was not shining blackly in very big characters from high on the back of my neck, way above the collar line, and it could only be concealed by growing my hair very unfashionably long.
It seemed that being marked so very visibly affected Craig, too, as his normal air of pretending not to care about what was happening seemed to have evaporated and he was grim-faced. "The other servants will start calling us slaves, Steve", he said. "And they'll expect us to treat them as if they are superior to us as one day they will be free men again, whereas we never will be now." No amount of words from me could convince him that when our hard dicks thrust into them they would know who was boss, and I began to feel rather sad for Craig, as being in control was such an important part of his life.
Mister Rooney was smiling when we were at last taken up from under the Court and out of the building, and he told Craig and me that we were now far, far more valuable that we had been only an hour before. He was almost chortling when he described how much more a permanent indenture contract was worth on the open market than a limited-time one. "It's like a lease, compared to freehold", he suggested. "With a lease the value is constantly diminishing as you use it up, but freehold, where you have use of it in perpetuity, never loses its value and rises steadily in line with the market." I really didn't like being thought of in pure economic terms like this.
As we were standing there in the bright sunlight and were just about to climb into the back of Mister Rooney's truck, I heard a single word, but in a tone so familiar that it made my whole insides lurch. "Steve?"
I turned around and there was my father, in his conservative business clothes. "Yes, dad....", I muttered. Since the big bust-up over my refusal to go to college, and my leaving home under a cloud, neither my father nor any of my close family had ever made any attempt to contact me. It was only later, very much later, that I realised how very hurtful this had been to them all, and how they could not bring themselves to offer even an olive twig, let alone a branch, to resolve matters. But then, neither could I - I don't forgive easily, and had not particularly felt the need to beg forgiveness from them!
"Please, sir! I must insist that you do not speak to my slaves without first asking my permission!", Mister Rooney interrupted. I saw a look of distaste flicker across my father's face, the look I knew of old that he reserved for those he considered inferior, or engaged in sharp or unsavoury practices, or both: a look he normally managed to keep well concealed, as in business he always emphasised how important it was never to let the other side know your true feelings.
My father raised an eyebrow quizzically to Mister Rooney, then seeing the large tattoo on the back of Craig's neck, and remembering Mister Rooney's use of the colloquial "slave" term to describe us, he quickly gathered what was the situation. I heard him apologise to Mister Rooney for his inadvertent breach of the normal rules of polite society, then watched as he drew Mister Rooney to one side for a private conversation. I was expecting him to come back and at least bring me up to date with family news, but as the two men finished talking, my father strode off in his normal purposeful way. I wanted to run after him, call out, have some interchange with this man with whom I had fallen out all those years ago when I refused to go to college, but Mister Rooney was ordering us into the truck, and I did not dare disobey.
There were two surprises as we toiled away that day: firstly, Joey was assigned to work with us. He had to do the normal work on the site that day, and as he was not used to the continuous hard work, the tawse and cane was used liberally on his bare back and across his work shorts as he vainly struggled to keep up with the rest of us. As we sat in the truck going back to the barracks, he was nearly at the end of his physical endurance as his speech was almost incoherent and his whole body just slumped. I remembered how even I had felt after being tawsed and caned to "give my all" on my first day, and I had been much more fit and powerful than Joey, so I knew just how he must be feeling.
"Is it like this every day, Steve?", he managed to get out. "Mister Rooney says I'm a proper worker now, not a house servant any longer. He wants to toughen me up and build me up, for sale in about six months."
"Yes, Joey. It's always hard. Even I still get caned most days. But you'll get used to it. Just do the best you can, and use the pain from the cane to keep your body going - it's the only way to get through the day. But why has Mister Rooney decided to act now?"
"Well I'm almost seventeen, Steve, and he wants me 'muscled up' and sold before I'm eighteen - he says a handsome young guy like me will almost certainly sell into the sex trade, especially as I'm now a 'slave' so they can do a lot more to me, things that wouldn't be allowed to indentured servants on short terms, like nipple torture. And a lot of men like the idea of using a very young guy, and the attraction goes off as I get older. But he's also bought another indentured servant - he went to a sale yesterday - another young guy who, like me, was basically picked up by the authorities just after his sixteenth birthday. He had been in trouble before but they couldn't do anything about it until he was sixteen, and then he could be indentured: just like me, really. Mister Rooney said he couldn't afford to have two of us young guys shaving your balls and being his toy in bed, so it was time for me to 'join the real world', as he put it."
He seemed almost tearful at his prospects, but there's no point in lying about something like that, is there?
I could see he needed some sort of comfort, so I said "Still, of you're one of us workers now, you need a proper name - I'll call you Joe from now on: Joey's a kid's name, and you're certainly no longer a kid."
He seemed to buck up almost immediately, and when we got back to the barracks and some of the other guys started to call out to Joey to go and suck them off or soap them or whatever, I heard him retort "Fuck you! I'm a worker too, now, and it's 'Joe' from now on, understand? And if you want your balls shaving, do it yourself!"
My second surprise came shortly after, though, as when I'd finished my chow and was about to turn in - and could see Joe hovering, waiting to leap in beside me - Ryan came to the door of the dorm and called for me to get dressed and meet Mister Rooney in the yard outside. I have to say that I was trembling a bit - was he taking me off to be sold immediately? I thought of saying goodbye to Joe, and perhaps to Craig, too, but there was not time, and I was soon sitting in the back of a pickup speeding through the warm evening air.
We drove for some time, and as we did the surroundings became more and more familiar. And then with a shock I saw that were in my own street, and then driving up the long drive to our house. Mister Rooney parked, barked at me to get out and then to "mind your behaviour, Steve! Remember, you're a slave now, and I have an even wider range of punishments. Just obey me fully and instantly, whatever happens."
My father himself opened the door, and led us into that room with which I was so familiar: the family room where I'd spent so much time when I lived at home, and where my father and I had spent so many happy hours before our disagreement over college, and his insistence that my plan to work for myself was complete nonsense. The same big, overstuffed couches were there, the same big TV, the fireplace where, even on this warm night, the log fire that my father so liked was flickering. There were newspapers and magazines strewn causally around as there always had been as my father believed that a young man needed to understand the world, and on the coffee tale there was a glass of my father's favourite bourbon, the ice cubes still visible. All was calm, all was peaceful - this is the world I'd grown up in, a very different world from the one I now found myself in, through no fault of my own. Well, I suppose at one level it was my fault - had I listened to my father and gone to college, Rob would not have been able to lead me into slavery. But then, it's the nature of things, for young men to disagree with their fathers, isn't it?
Mister Rooney motioned for me to stand by the side of the fireplace, and almost unconsciously I dropped into the "waiting" posture, with my legs apart, my hands clasped behind my back, and my head bowed. I heard my father offer Mister Rooney a drink, but when he added "...and for you, Steve?", Mister Rooney at once cut in. "Thank you, Mister Masters, but Steve's my permanent indentured servant now - or shall we say 'slave' to use the common parlance - and I don't let him eat or drink except at proper feeding times, as it's bad for discipline."
"Sorry, Rooney", my father replied. "These things are important, I can see that. And I suppose we wouldn't all be here tonight if I'd ever exercised proper control over Steve! But he was always such as good boy, hard working at school, good athlete, on the football team - until he started chasing girls and it all fell apart. Then it was too late, I guess: I was busy with my business, and by the time I'd noticed it happening, Steve had developed this wilful, stubborn streak.... and refused to do as I wanted, wouldn't go to college, and then when I insisted, he simply walked out and went to work construction. I had a hard time at the Club, I can tell you, when all my colleagues were discussing their sons' achievements, and all I could say was that my son seemed to be doing OK as a labourer!"
"Yes", Mister Rooney added. "Discipline is vital. When he first came to me Steve was wild - underneath there was a rebellious streak, however much he said he wanted to work. But the methods we use, the physical coercion, culminating in a proper whipping, have driven it out. He's now a compliant, hard working, totally obedient slave."
"You beat him, Rooney?"
"Yes, of course. At the end of the day, that's what men finally understand. The body learns that a master exerts his control through pain and punishment. Of course we have to be harsh, as men these days are not taught to obey by their parents, so we're starting from a very low base..." He faltered as he said this, and hastily went on "Of course, Mister Masters, I'm not criticising you in this..."
"No, Rooney, I take your point. I was too lenient with Steve."
"Quite so. Most parents don't thrash their sons these days - if Steve had been beaten really hard when he was twelve or so, or when he first started to jerk off, he'd have understood who was in charge, and you wouldn't have had all that argument as he was leaving school."
"I believe you're right. Still, it's too late for that now. You can't re-write history..."
"No, Mister Masters, but you can start again."
"How so?"
"I sense you are unhappy at what has happened to Steve, or, rather, you blame yourself. Perhaps you need to exorcise your guilt.... Do something you should have done years ago."
"Such as?"
"Why don't you give Steve now the spanking that you should have given him years ago? Exorcise the memories of where you went wrong.... a good physical thrashing could make you feel much better emotionally..."
"But Steve..."
"Never mind him! He's used to taking much harsher punishment than, with respect, you're capable of meting out. You won't hurt him permanently, however much he might complain as you're actually doing it...." As he said this, as if to prevent further discussion, Mister Rooney turned to me and snapped "Get naked, Steve. You can leave your boots on, though."
A wave of panic swept through me. I felt my heart racing. It wasn't the thought of being punished by my father, as I knew Mister Rooney was right and a man of my father's age just couldn't permanently hurt me.... Not that my father was not fit and strong, in much better shape than most men in their early fifties, but it's just a matter of practice: if you're not used to using a cane or whip, you just can't do it properly first time around. No, what was causing me to start sweating and my breathing to become laboured was the thought of stripping in front of my father - I mean, it was all right when I was a kid, but once I got to nine or ten, I'd always thereafter shut the bathroom door when I was showering, changed on the beach with a towel wrapped around me, and so on. It was OK to be naked in front of the guys at school or at the gym as we showered after working out, but not in front of my father at home.
I stood there, hesitating, and Mister Rooney snapped "You heard my order, boy! Unclothe! Now!"
There was nothing for it, as I knew Mister Rooney would punish me afterwards if I did not obey. So I pulled my polo up over my head, folded it neatly, and put it down on the coffee table. Then, my fingers almost trembling, but with my face definitely blushing, I undid the buttons on my shorts, and let them slide down my legs. I hated it as I had to stand there on one foot at a time getting them over my boots - we all wore wide-legged shorts as Mister Rooney considered it was healthier for us when we were working as it would help the sweat to evaporate - so there was no actual problem, But, as you know, standing there on one foot trying to get your shorts over the other, you kind of sway around, and your dick and balls hang there, very visible indeed.
But I did it eventually, and stood there again in the normal position. But now it wasn't just the subservience of it that I felt, but the shame: the shame of a grown man, a big, virile man who had sex whenever he wanted, having to stand there nude in front of my father, just like a haughty school kid.
"He's changed...", my father said conversationally to Mister Rooney. "He looks different somehow..."
"Oh yes, well all men look better when their pubic hair is clipped neatly and their balls are shaved. All my servants are like that, as it's better for them: in the hot weather, it helps to keep them cool as it's easier for them to sweat."
"No, Rooney, its' not that - once he started to get to be mature, Steve never showed himself to me so I don't know what his pubic hair would look like anyway!"
"Oh, then, it's probably that I had him cut. I don't like my servants to keep themselves concealed with a 'skin, so I generally have it removed." He looked at me now and went on "It was when you were whipped, wasn't it, Steve?"
Blushing even harder now, I could only mumble "Yes, sir."
"You had him cut? Circumcised? And you had him whipped? One of those proper whippings I've read about in the newspapers...?"
"Yes. I couldn't properly tame him any other way. Once a man learns that you have the power over him to the extent that you can order his 'skin to be lopped off, it changes him, makes him realise that he's no longer in charge of his own body. And it's the same with whipping - there's an excellent whipmaster in this area, guaranteed to focus a man's mind in future on the requirements of his owner. But there's no permanent harm done - well, at least there's no putting back his 'skin, but between you and me, I think his dick is enhanced by 'skinning: before, you just couldn't see the size of the head properly. He's much sleeker, somehow, more ready for action...."
"As I said, Rooney, Steve never displayed himself like that once he started to mature, so I have no real comparison. But I can agree with you now that he has nothing to be ashamed of - most men would die for a body like his, and for a penis and testicles on that scale."
I could hardly believe that my father was talking about me like this, and my embarrassment and shame deepened. It's bad enough when two men start to discuss you as if you're some prize piece of meat at the best of times, but when it's your father, it's terrible.
Rooney was still talking, however. "I can understand your concern about the punishment, too, as some of those whippings can be brutal, but I don't want my assets permanently damaged and so the most you can determine now is a few hard ridges in his muscles where damage has been encysted by his body - here, let me show you."
As he said this, Mister Rooney got to his feet, followed by my father. I felt Mister Rooney's hands running over my naked back, and he said casually "There - here's one. This is what I mean - you can just still determine the line of the whip across his back. But, as you can see, there's nothing visible on the surface: only his lovers will really ever know, and those of us who are interested in his body, of course."
Look, it was bad enough having Mister Rooney's hands running over my bare skin like that and giving a commentary on me, but when My father's smooth, strong fingers began to trail down my back, I thought I was going to die of shame. And dad didn't stop there, either - his hands ran over the taught skin on my butt, then it was as if he was "cupping" the muscles there in his palms.
"My god, Rooney, it must have been some whipping - the boy's backside is crossed with those things!"
"Oh no, not really, Mister Masters. Some of it is the current canings - we have to keep him working hard, you know. But are you going to punish him now for all the anguish he caused you? It would be best, you know: resolve all those conflicts you had with him, once and for all."
"Are you certain, Rooney?"
"Oh yes. Go ahead, it can't hurt - well, it will probably hut him, in one sense, but it can only do you good. Go and sit on the couch over there, and get comfortable."
I watched as my father went and sat down, straight-backed, his knees close together in front of him. He looked really uncomfortable, and I could see he was sweating slightly. Mister Rooney turned to me, and said quietly "Right, Steve! This is what your father should have done to you years ago. Get across his knees, so he can spank you."
"Please, mister Rooney..."
"Do as you're told! Or else your father's hand will not be the only thing hitting your disobedient rump tonight!"
Hating it, my head hung with embarrassment and shame, I almost shuffled across the room, as slowly as I could. Even so, I was acutely conscious of my dick bobbing up and down. I stood in front of my father, and Mister Rooney snapped "Do as you're told!", once more. There was nothing I could do - I bent down, then with my hands pressing the floor on one side and my booted feet firmly planted on the other, I lowered my body across my father's knees. I felt the rough tweed of his expensive causal pants almost scratching my belly and my dick as I lay there, and then he began to hit me.
Look, I know it was nothing, really. A man just can't hit your butt hard enough with his open palm to really hurt you. There's slight stinging as the blow lands and that very satisfying "slap" sound, but it's not like receiving a cane stroke, or even a paddle. But as my father's blows rained down on my naked butt, I felt like crying, crying not just with the utter humiliation of my condition, but because this was my father doing this to me. I was a grown man, and now my dad was taking his bare hand to my butt.
I lost count, but I don't suppose it was more than ten or twelve blows - as I said, it hurts the hand of the guy who's doing it almost as much as the guy whose butt is receiving it. I scrambled to my feet, and now my humiliation was even worse, as I was erect: not just one of those half erections, but a real, solid, dick right up in the air, throbbing with the blood engorging it, kind of erections. Mister Rooney saw this, and I could see my father's eyes riveted on it, too. To break the silence rather than to spare my acute embarrassment, Mister Rooney said "Turn around, Steve, and let's see how your punishment went."
At least I now had my back to them, but my dick just wouldn't lie down. I heard Mister Rooney pointing out the red patches on my butt now, and laughing quietly. But then his tone changed. "Oh no, Mister Masters! Steve has soiled those pants of yours. That's the trouble with these virile young men."
In horror I glanced down and saw Mister Rooney pointing at a wet patch on my father's pants, right in the crotch. It must have been pre-cum leaking out from me, as my erection was so strong.. Now I felt even more embarrassed and ashamed, if that was possible. Not only had I been spanked on my bare butt, but it had excited me sexually, to the extent that I was still standing there with a huge boner, and I'd started to cum over my dad!
"Get down and clean it off, Steve!", Mister Rooney ordered. And when I just stood there, staring at him blankly, he snapped "On your knees, and clean up our father's clothes with your tongue."
My father looked a little surprised, but perhaps he was by now in awe of Mister Rooney himself, as he said nothing. My dick bobbed up and down, and I felt sure I must be leaking more pre-cum, as I took a couple of steps forward and gingerly knelt between my father's legs. Resting my hands lightly on his knees for support, I lowered my head, and started to lick gently at the wet patch on the fabric. My father's pants had that special smell of the vibrant, citrus smell of his expensive toiletries that I remembered from childhood - he'd never changed the after shave and soaps he used, which were specially blended for him and which brought back memories of when I'd sat on his lap as a kid whilst he read me bedtime stories. But now, overlaid on that, was another smell, a smell with which I'd become so familiar: that special male smell which men have in their pubic regions. And as I desperately licked and lapped, I began to realise to my acute discomfort something else - mine was not the only dick that was firmly erect, as through the fabric of his pants I could distinctly feel my father's dick straining upwards for release.
I don't think that licking at my father's pants really did any good at all in terms of removing my pre-cum from them, and in retrospect it seems as if Mister Rooney was just emphasising to me how much I was in his power, and how relationships between my father and me had changed: no longer was I the rebellious man who defied his father and refused to go to college; now I was the naughty child once more, who could be spanked on his naked butt, then made to lick humiliatingly at his father's clothes.
After a couple of minutes Mister Rooney ordered me to my feet, then said curtly "We don't want to see that dick of yours raging upwards like that! Go over and face into the corner, and when you're there jerk yourself off - your father and I have important business to discuss.
Look, it's just awful. I suppose I was almost used to jerking of in front of other guys now, as we did it all the time in the barracks, but those guys were my fellow servants and we were all living together. But being made to do it, in front of other guys, when one of them was my father, was totally shaming. You shouldn't order a man to jerk off in front of you, should you? Now even when he's facing away from you - in fact, that's almost worse: I knew Mister Rooney and my father were watching my body and my red butt as I jerked away, and as I started to cum, I did at least have the presence of mind to catch it in my other hand: if I hadn't, I can' imagine what Mister Rooney would have ordered me to do. But then what? I could hardly stand there holding a palm full of cum could I?
As carefully as I could I raised my hand to my mouth and licked it clean, but, if anything, my blushes of embarrassment must have deepened as I knew they could see my arm move, and I felt sure the bright red colour suffusing my neck and shoulders must now match the red of my butt!
Mister Rooney and my father sat there, talking away, but in low voices so that as I was facing away from them, I could not hear what they were saying. At last, though, Mister Rooney called to me, and feeling very ridiculous as my heavy work boots somehow emphasised my nakedness, I walked back towards the couch.
"Pick up your clothes, Steve!", Mister Rooney ordered, "And get out to the truck."
I did as I was told, and was expecting my father to say something, or to shake my hand in farewell. Then I started to blush again, as if he did this, he'd need to take the hand which I had just used to jerk off with, or the one that I'd caught the cum in. But fortunately he seemed to ignore me, and I walked out of the door and out to the truck. I hesitated about dressing again, as Mister Rooney had not given me any instructions, but as the night was now cooling a little, I thought I dared risk it and pulled on my shorts and polo.
Mister Rooney allowed me to sit in the front of the truck as he drove us back to base, but he didn't speak, and so neither could I. As I crawled into my bed that night I was very confused, and strangely upset, about what had gone on at my old home. Why had my father not done something to properly acknowledge me when we left? I felt somehow desolate and confused, thinking that after the humiliation I'd suffered he'd somehow abandoned me.
End Of Part 18