THE LABOURER by Pete Brown. petebrownuk @ yahoo.com
Read all of Pete's stories in groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories
Part 19
It must have been three weeks before my life changed, abruptly. Instead of setting out for a site one day, Mister Rooney again drove me out alone, and I realised we were heading for my old home. He told me to wait by the truck as he went into the house, and my father and he emerged sometime later, shaking hands.
"I've sold your lifetime indenture, Steve", Mister Rooney informed me. "You are now your father's slave.
But he has signed a contract with me to employ you every weekend, and to provide certain services to him - particularly in regard to continuing your training as a loyal slave, and disciplining you as required to ensure that you perform properly. You'll be spending the weeks here, but each weekend you will return to Rooney's Contracts for manual labour. At the same time, your father can request me to focus on some aspect of you that requires improvement, or punishment."
"Yes, Steve", my father cut in. "I realise now that I was not sufficiently stern with you in your formative years, and this is going to be corrected. As my slave here, you will obey me in all things, and work hard as I direct. I will not hesitate to use Mister Rooney's services to have any failure on your part punished, and punished harshly. Do I make myself clear?"
I looked at him, somewhat surprised, as my father was generally a rather liberal man. "Yes, dad", I said quietly.
"That's the first change, Steve!", he snapped. "I think it's important for you to remember that although I am your father, you are actually my slave! I have bought your lifetime's indenture from Mister Rooney, for a considerable sum, I may add, and I expect your total obedience and respect. Consequently for the avoidance of doubt and to make sure that you understand your position, it is appropriate that you refer to me at all times as 'sir'. Is that clear?"
I began to feel astonished. "Yes.... Sir....", I replied hesitantly.
"Good! Now, strip off those clothes ,as they belong to Mister Rooney and form no part of our contract, and we'll get on."
He looked at me and I realised he was serious - he wanted me to strip in front of him, out there on the steps. As I hesitated, Mister Rooney handed my father a cane, one of the standard ones that he and the overseers used all the time. "If I were you, Mister Masters, I would show the slave that you are serious in requiring his complete obedience at all times. You should start off your ownership in the way you wish to continue."
"Quite, Rooney. As ever, you have some sensible advice - I can see this slave owning is just a little more complex than I thought."
As he spoke, my father grabbed my firmly by the left biceps, pushed me towards the hood of Mister Rooney's truck, and pushed at me to indicate that I was to bend over it. Then as I stood there in total astonishment, he laid three strokes of the cane across my butt. He was breathing heavily as he stopped (it can't have been the physical effort of three strokes, so it must have been that he was excited), and said calmly "Now, Steve, every time you disobey me, or fail to obey me rapidly and completely, I will punish you. I told you to remove your clothes - and those boots - so they can be returned to Mister Rooney. Now do so, at once."
As I pulled the polo over my head, Mister Rooney added "And Steve, if you were still my slave, you'd have earned another stroke just then. Your owner gave you an order, and you failed to acknowledge it. Whatever happened to 'sir, yes, sir'?"
As I fumbled with the buttons on my shorts I muttered "Sir, sorry, sir", then began to mentally curse myself for not taking my boots off first! I had to hop around again, then stand there on one foot with the other hitched up to my knee, as I unlaced and pulled off the heavy boots. And all the time my father and Mister Rooney were watching me.
"He's a fine specimen of a man", Mister Rooney said. "A credit to his breeding, if I may say so! Of course, he's been really working hard, and his musculature development is probably now at a peak. Still, provided you don't feed him too much, and don't allow him to drink alcohol or sugary, fizzy drinks, the labour at the weekends will probably mostly maintain it. But whilst I think about it, what are you going to allow him to do about sex?"
"Allow him to do about sex?" My father sounded almost like an echo.
"Well, Steve is twenty six, and exceptionally virile - look at the dick on him, and the way his balls are filled with cum. You saw on our first visit how he's close to cumming a lot of the time! What kind of sex do you intend to allow him to have, as I will need to implement the same regime at the weekends?"
"How do you mean... I wouldn't like women in his room...."
Mister Rooney laughed. "Oh no, certainly not! It's not good for indentured servants who are living together to have women available to them - too much arguing and jealousy about 'who goes first'. In any case, Steve here has a taste for men, not women, as you probably know. No, I mean you could demand that he be celibate - but then there would be rather a lot of mess occasionally as he had wet dreams. Or you could allow him to jerk off on certain days, as you ordain, or you could allow him to jerk off whenever he wanted, which for Steve is about twice a day, I believe. I take it there are no other indentured servants who live here?"
"He likes men? Well, he has changed! But no, there's no one else here. I have contractors come in for the grounds, and the cleaning. And there's an old cook who I employ, but she lives with her family on the other side of town."
"Well then I would not advise you allowing any other indentured servant to visit Steve, or for him to visit them: you don't want strange men around your house at night, or for Steve to be roaming off to other owners' houses: I think it's generally not good for discipline. But at the weekends, in the barracks...."
"But I thought you told me that you only had indentures on males, Rooney."
"I do. But perhaps when he was living at home before, Steve had not properly matured and was still chasing women? Now he's a tough, aggressive dominant top. I'd be grateful if you'd allow him to have sex with my other servants, as it helps to keep them calm and satisfied, and without Steve's dick my other top guy will have a hard time servicing them all..."
I was blushing with shame and embarrassment now, as my father asked quietly "You mean Steve goes with men?" I don't know whether it was because he was asking about me going with men, or whether it was just that I wasn't used even to the concept of my father discussing how often, or with whom, I had sex. When I was at home before it was "don't ask, don't tell", in relation to all the women I had.
"Of course. And as an owner of an indentured servant, you should be grateful: firstly, it keeps him calm and content; and secondly there's no possibility of acrimonious law suits developing: I once had one of my servants get a kitchen maid from the premises next to us pregnant. Goodness knows how they managed it, as I lock my servants in at night and they're fully occupied during the day. And he ran a tight ship, too. Anyway, they did, and when the baby was born it was quite apparent it was sired by one of my servants, as the man in question was a big, buck black and the baby was a 'breed. The man promptly sued me for the costs incurred in being deprived of the services of his maid for about six months, as I had failed to exercise proper control over one of my servants. But with Steve here preferring men, there's no problem."
"Very well, he can have sex when he's at your barracks, but I may sometimes request that it be withheld, as a punishment."
"And are you going to allow him to jerk off during the week, Mister Masters? My experience with men like Steve is that even when you give them the most clear, definitive orders to leave their dicks alone, they persist in jerking off once the lights are out and they think you can't see or hear them! If he's to remain celibate during the week, I strongly advise you buying a penis cage from one of the specialist suppliers, and keeping it rigidly attached and the key under your strict control. Look....", Mister Rooney gestured at me. "He's even getting an erection now, just with thinking about sex! If you don't want him playing with himself all the time, I strongly recommend some form of restraint..."
"Oh, I think Steve probably takes after me!", my father said, laughing slightly. "Like father, like son, you know. I think it would be unnecessarily cruel to forbid him sex during the week." He looked at me, and went on "So, Steve, you can jerk off whenever you want when you're in your room, but I want no mess! No disgusting pieces of toilet tissue on the floor, no cum stained boxer shorts, or sheets.... Not like when you were living here before. Do you understand?"
I could hardly believe it - all those years when I'd been going what all adolescents do, thinking I'd kept it secret, and my father had known all the time. I stood there almost stunned, then, remembering what I'd been told, said "Sir, yes, sir. Thank you, sir."
"See", Rooney commented. "He's getting the idea already. Doesn't it make you feel good, to have an obedient servant, or, as in this case, slave?"
"Indeed, Rooney - that's more respect I've had from Steve than I've had in all the previous twenty six years!"
Both men shook hands then, and as Mister Rooney went to get into his truck, my father turned to me. "Right, Steve. You'll be sleeping and working in your old room during the week, and as you heard, at Rooney's over the weekend. Follow me."
He turned and went into the house, and I followed him.
It felt so odd to be in the nude in the entrance hall - I'd never done it before - and it felt really strange to pad up the thickly carpeted stairs in my bare feet, my dick bobbing up and down as I did so. We halted on the wide landing, and my father said "I shall expect you to come in through the rear entrance, of course, as it's not fitting for a slave to use the front door. And if I send you to bed, you are to remain in your room until it is time for breakfast, is that understood? - there's to be no sneaking out, no climbing down from your bedroom window, as you used to when we'd 'grounded' you."
"Sir, yes, sir", I muttered, wishing this was all over, and I could again put some clothes on. Standing there naked being lectured by my father was not funny!
And at the same time I began to realise how little I'd really got away with when I was growing up - all that stuff I did to sneak out, to jerk off.... He'd known all the time, as most parents do, I suppose, and had just silently laughed at my antics.
We went on down the long bedroom corridor, and my father threw open the door to my room. But what a change: when I last lived at home the walls had been plastered with posters of almost naked women - something of which my father had disapproved, but which I'd insisted on. Now they were bare, except for a big notice board on which there was a sheet headed "Demerits". And my big double bed, where I'd had so much fun at odd times when my parents were out and I'd taken one of my women back, had been replaced by a narrow bunk, just like I had at Rooney's Contracts. As I watched, he opened my closet and pointed to the short row of things hanging there. "Right, dress, and come down to my study so I can explain your new life to you."
He turned and went out ,and I looked almost with horror at the stuff hanging there. I was definitely a boxers, jeans, sweats and sneakers kind of guy. But in my closet there were just two pairs of neatly pressed chinos, some tiny white cotton briefs, and two of those incredibly "preppy" short-sleeved cotton shirts in a discrete pattern. Complementing all of this was a pair of shiny brown lace-up leather shoes, and some pale tan socks!
I pulled this stuff on, realising that it was the first time for a year, almost ,that I'd worn long pants - all my thighs and calves really felt strange, as the chinos confined them. But when I looked at myself in the mirror, the whole effect wasn't as dorky as I'd imagined it would be - the tight chinos kind of emphasised my butt and there was that satisfying bulge at the front, and my biceps and pecs strained against the cotton of the shirt, showing my excellent development.
I strode down the stairs, and halted at the door of my father's study. I used to go in there all the time as a kid, to see what he was doing, and then as a teenager I used to use it as a place where I could phone from without the rest of the house hearing. But what now - the door was closed. Should I just walk in, or what? I suppose it was all different now, as I knocked, then waited.
My father called for me to come in, and I opened the door into the familiar room. My father was sitting behind his desk, and I went to sit down on one of the easy chairs nearby as I had done so many times before.
"No, Steven", my father said, as the words came out something almost snapped inside me - my parents always called me Steven, just as they called my brothers Michael and William, and it was only our friends who called us Steve, Mike and Bill. This usage took me right back, so that I almost felt like a kid again. "I think you should always treat me with respect as otherwise it will be harder to maintain the proper master - slave relationship. So when I call you in here to give you orders or to review your progress, you will remain standing unless I give you permission to sit. And don't slouch! You always did just let that body of yours droop. When I saw you at Mister Rooney's you had a smart, obedient posture - you will use that in front of me. Is that understood?"
Blushing a little, I moved into the subservient posture with my head down. Strangely, clasping my hands behind my back and standing there like that in front of him was somehow comforting. "Sir, yes, sir", I answered.
"Good, Steven. It may seem harsh to you, but I think
I failed you as a father by being too lenient with you when you were growing up. Your brothers were no problem - they buckled down to work, got good grades, sailed through college, and are now both high up in their professions, making a lot of money. But you were different - I don't think I spotted in time that if wee gave you an inch, you took a mile. Before I realised my mistake, you were so self confident and wilful that there was no controlling you, and even worse, you refused to listen to good advice. So you did badly at school, and refused to go to college - but then I hoped you'd see sense as you matured, but no, you just wanted to drift along, with no responsibilities, doing labouring jobs and whoring around the place. Well, I have not given up on you, Steven. I'm going to try again. Only this time, with my rules."
He paused for breath a moment, and went on "You are going to college. Not the prestigious place that you could have gone to, like your brothers - I had all the funds in place to pay for it, you know. But the local State college. I have had to make special arrangements to get you in, even so, and called in many favours. They don't really like taking indentured servants, as it can cause problems with the other students, so you will need to be sensitive and careful. You will work there all week, and work diligently and hard: I expect straight A grades, and never to receive a bad report of you - I've asked the principal to carefully monitor you, and to tell me instantly if there are any concerns. Failure to obtain straight As will result in instant punishment, from me: Rooney has given me a list of suitable canes and tawses to buy, and I am having a punishment horse delivered tomorrow."
"On Friday evenings you will wait at college until one of Rooney's trucks collects you, then you will work for him on Saturday and Sunday, being delivered back here on Sunday night so that you can prepare for the next day's classes. At all times you will keep your room impeccably neat and tidy. You will wash and iron your clothes, and I require you to be neatly turned out at all times, with none of those sloppy sweat shirts and torn jeans that you used to effect. You will be quiet around the house, not eat and drink anything unless it is given to you, not turn on the TV without permission, and you will certainly not demand to watch the football if I have selected a movie, as you used to. Is all this clear?"
"Sir, yes, sir", I said, feeling thoroughly miserable.
"Steven, I know it may sound harsh to you, but this is for your own good. A man needs a proper education these days, and I am determined that you will get one.
I have selected your classes for you - you will study the classics of English literature, get a good grounding in mathematics and science, and will take an extra class in comparative religions."
"Sir!", I burst out. "Religions, sir? That's rubbish. You always told all of us that all religion is just superstition, designed to keep the poor and ignorant in their places, that Jesus and Mohammed and all those people ranked with the tooth fairy and Santa Claus in being there to please children and the simple minded..."
"Silence! You have just demonstrated why I have selected this class for you. You are wilful and headstrong, always interrupting your elders and betters. So I am going to make you take this class, complete rubbish though it is. I understand that it's taught by a fundamentalist preacher, who always starts with a prayer to give thanks to the lord... He doesn't do comparative religion as a serious study at all, but it's just a further excuse to ram Christian myths down unsuspecting throats. But it will be good for you - you will simmer and seethe the entire time, and will have to writhe essays that you know are complete rubbish. And you will need to do these things so that he will give you an A grade, otherwise I will punish you. Making you spend time every week doing something totally pointless, something which we all know is total rubbish, will help to calm and tame you."
I went to protest again, but just knew it was no good.
"Now, get off to bed, as you need to be up early tomorrow. It's five miles to the college, and you will walk there, as an aid to keeping you fit."
As I lay in my single bed in my old room, I didn't really know what to think. I missed all the sounds of the other guys in the barracks around me, and I desperately wanted to fuck someone - anyone - to release some of the tension building up in me and to demonstrate my power over them. There was no one around, of course, so I just jerked off, and remembering what my father had said I was careful to catch my cum before it went all over the sheets, and didn't let the toilet tissue fall to the floor. All might I tossed and turned, and didn't sleep well at all. As you do, I fell into a deep sleep just before dawn, and I failed to hear the alarm, and was woken very abruptly: my father had ripped the covers off me, was standing there looking at my naked body with my morning hard-on, and had just slashed a tawse across my bare butt as I lay there!
I jumped out of bed, and stood shamefully in front of him, my dick waving up and down in front of me. "I always wanted to do that, Steven!", my father said, smiling. "All those morning when it didn't matter how many times you were called, you remained in bed until the last moment. Now, if you fail to get up at the proper time, you will be tawsed or caned by me, just like that. Is that clear?"
"Sir, yes, sir", I mumbled. And I knew his methods were starting to work: It wasn't the pain of the tawse on my butt - I was used to that - but the humiliation of having my father seeing me like this that I was determined to avoid in future.
"Right. So shower, shave and dress, and join me in the dining room in fifteen minutes."
My father turned and left, and I went and pissed, ran the shower, and wondered whether I'd got time to jerk off, decided I hadn't, as I'd better not be late, and went through the normal morning things. The dining room was empty, so I sat at my usual place, and I could smell the appetising odour of bacon and eggs coming from the kitchen: perhaps this wasn't going to be so bad after all, as I did like my food!
Just at that moment my father came in, and I said "Hi, dad...", just as I used to in the old days.
"Steven, I think you have forgotten that I require respect at all times. Firstly, you will stand up when I enter the room, as I am your owner, remember? And secondly, you will always address me as 'sir'. Always, is that clear?"
I pushed back my chair and got to my feet, and muttered in a rather rebellious tone "Sir, yes, sir."
"And change your attitude! In the hall I've put a chart on the wall, and every time I hear a sullen or rebellious tone in your voice, I will make a mark on it. And for every five marks, you will be caned. Is that clear? For your own good, I am determined to effect change in you."
I tried hard, and the "Sir, yes, sir", came out neutral, I think.
At that moment the door to the kitchen opened and Mrs Sheffield, the lady who had cooked for us ever since my mother died, bustled in with a big plate of ham, eggs and hash browns that my father habitually ate at that meal. There was the tantalising odour of freshly brewed coffee.
"What will you have, master Steven?", she asked me cheerily, and I was about to say "A huge plate of everything", when my father cut in "Mrs Sheffield, I have explained to you that this is no longer my son Steven, but the permanent indentured servant, or slave, Steve, that I have bought. As such, you will not ask him for his preferences, and I have told you that his invariable diet is the bars of chow that are stacked in those boxes in the utility area, and fresh fruit. He drinks only water, not the bottles of designer water I keep for my guests in the fridge, but ordinary water, straight from the tap."
"Oh, but Mister Masters, that seems to hard... It's so good to see him back home... I can easily cook him..."
"No, Mrs Sheffield. You are extremely hard working and generous, but this is in Steven's best interests. He needs to learn discipline, and to appreciate what he has lost in life. You are not helping him by treating him as the prodigal son, and indeed, you may be setting back the programme I have in mind for turning him into a proper young man. You do see that, don't you?"
"Oh Mister Masters, you did explain it to me, and I hope you're right.... Steven was always the one with a nice personality, always had a civil word for me, not like your other sons, I may say, who just ignored me. I hated it when he went wrong.... If I can help you get him back on the right road, I will..." As she said this, Mrs Sheffield looked flushed and harassed, and almost ran out of the room. I felt so terrible - it had never occurred to me to be particularly nice to her as she unfailingly served all of us with delicious meals, but even so, she had remembered me more than my brothers. Still, I do have a nice personality, and I'm never gratuitously rude to people, so perhaps it paid off.
I sat there in silence, my mouth watering as I could see and smell my father's breakfast, until Mrs Sheffield returned with mine - one of the standard chow bars, but neatly placed on our china plates. Still, she had excelled herself in the fresh fruit area, as there were strawberries, melon, peaches, and fresh pineapple, all beautifully prepared, and in huge quantity. I had a feeling that the household expenses were going to rise dramatically as Mrs Sheffield scoured the shelves in the market for the only stuff she was allowed to prepare for me!
As I walked to the college campus I saw car loads of kids roaring past me as it was the first day of the new academic year, and when I got there, there was the usual rush of things to do: registering, signing up for classes (my father had given me a neatly printed list of those he had researched), and so on. I felt really stupid, alone, and out of it all - most of the otters were kids fresh from school, and I was so much older. And in their normal college kit, they were casually different from my formal shirt and chinos. A lot of them knew each other, too, as they came from the same schools and were already in little cliques.
I was standing in line to sign up for the classes when a voice suddenly said "Out of my way, slave boy!". I turned around, and there was a young punk, swaggeringly arrogant, surrounded by a small group of buddies. "Didn't you hear me?", he demanded, and then, playing to his audience, "They let in this indentured servant - my dad told me about it - but look at the tattoo on his neck. He isn't just an indentured servant, he's permanent - he's a slave. At home our servants know their place, but this one doesn't seem to, standing there in front of us! I said out of the way, slave!"
He went to push at me, and I almost hit him! I was older, much, much bigger physically and very, very strong. But fortunately something held me back - perhaps he was trying to provoke me, and I guess that had I even so much as touched him, there would have been a huge row.
I stepped back, and he smirked "Mind your manners, slave boy! When you get an order, don't you acknowledge it?"
One of the girls in the group chimed in "Oh leave him alone, Trent! There's no point in bullying a slave! I think it's good that his owner wants him to be educated.... And he's easy on the eyes, too - something for us girls to look at in class, rather than you weedy specimens."
In one way I was grateful, as it kind of defused the situation when a couple of the other girls chimed in saying that they liked seeing a real hunk of a man for a change, but it's not very good, is it, when you can't stand up for yourself?
"Here", she went on, touching my arm, "You stand by me. We'll queue together. What's your name, boy?"
"Steve, ma'am".
I don't know what I was thinking. Now a young girl was looking after me! At one time I'd have been making the running, sizing her up as suitable fuck material. And now all I wanted to do was ram my dick up the arrogant ass of that Trent, to really show him who ought to be in charge.
End Of Part 19