THE LABOURER by Pete Brown. petebrownuk @ yahoo.com
Read all of Pete's stories in groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories
Part 27
Once the family had gone home, things went back much to normal and I resumed my regular schedule of working at college during the week and at Rooney's on the weekends. My luck - our luck - held, and Rooney showed no signs of selling Craig, or even of thinking about selling him. Craig always seemed to be absolutely exhausted, though, and confided that it was a real treat to be able to spend the nights with me on the weekends as he wasn't "called on to fuck all the time."
"I thought you were a real top, Craig!", I joked, but he looked at me seriously.
"It's all right for you, Steve, as you come here and fuck when you want. But it's real hard work to have to do it, night after night, whether you want to, or not. Remember, part of the reason why Mister Rooney keeps me is that I keep the other guys happy.... And he could probably sell me at a good price at my age, with my body, and buy a younger, cheap guy just to do the work. Slave prices are funny, you know - they peak around now for us big, strong tough guys, and as I get older, my price will decline. Sooner or later Mister Rooney will decide it's more cost-effective to sell me. We've got to get ready for that, as we'll never meet again..."
I managed to push these unpleasant thoughts from my mind a lot of the time, but having Craig remind me of them made me really sad. I couldn't get them out of my mind all weekend, and when I went "home" that week, my father was away on a business trip, so Joe and I were alone in the house at night.
I was so miserable that when I finally turned off my PC and went to bed and saw Joe lying there in his bed already, I went over and went to climb in, thinking that a good fuck would cheer me up. To my astonishment, Joe tried to push me out.
"Hey! Come on, Joe, what's the problem? I need a bit of a fuck, that's all."
"No, Steve."
"Look, I'm no going to hurt you or anything. Just a nice, easy, regular fuck - you like that, you know. We've done it lots of times before."
"NO, Steve."
"Hey, don't be so fucking stupid! You used to beg me to fuck you, remember? And now you're saying no?"
"Yes, Steve. I'm saying no. I don't want you to fuck me."
"Why not, why ever not?"
"Because your dad fucks me, Steve."
I remembered as if in a flashback the way that I'd refused to fuck him when my dad had first taken him, and now the little fucker was reversing the positions.
"Joe, it's not up to you. I decide these things, remember? I'm a top, and I decide who gets fucked around here. Now, on your knees, I think...."
"Steve, I said no. Now leave me alone, will you? And get over to your own bed and get to sleep."
"Joe, we can do this two ways: you can co-operate, and I'll enjoy it, and you'll mostly enjoy it. Or I can do it anyway, and then I'll certainly enjoy it, and you probably won't. We're not negotiating here, Joe - you're a young guy, and I'm older, more experienced, stronger, and, what's more, an aggressive top!"
"Get out, Steve!"
Look, I'm not proud of what I did then, but I'm not shamed, either. Even though, afterwards, when Joe was just lying there with tears streaming silently down his face, I did feel a bit of a heel. But look at it from my point of view: I'd fucked him lots of time before, we were both not doing anything else that night, and I needed a good fuck, as I was bored and unhappy. He really had no reason to refuse, had he? And I had after all warned him what would happen if he did, and he chose to ignore me.
And it was good, too, at least for me: somehow, when a guy resists a bit, and shouts and rages at you and tries to hit you and bite you, it all adds to the fun, well, at least I think so. Of course you can't properly lube and stretch the guy, so it's his own fault if it really hurts him, isn't it? I took him pretty brutally and hard and fast, I suppose, and amid all the flailing arms, tossing bodies, and shouting and screaming, I soon shot my load deep into him. Then, afterwards, when I tried to cuddle him a bit, give him a little hug to show him I really still cared for him, he just lay there, rigid and silent, with the tears streaming down his face.
I think my father knew there was something wrong when he got home, but he asked Joe point blank, and Joe said nothing. Well, a guy probably doesn't like to admit that another one is tougher and stronger than he is, does he? But Joe had his own way of getting "revenge", as when he and my father were at dinner that night and I was standing behind my father's chair, waiting to bring in the next dish, Joe aid "Steve, go and fetch me another glass of water." No "please" or anything. Then, as I went past his chair, he slapped my bare butt, not hard, but just enough so that I was really humiliated and pissed off as he was treating me as if he was an owner and I was a slave.
Still, I could survive that sort of thing, and he knew that he'd better watch out in case my father's business took him away again, and so we had a kind of "armed truce", in effect.
We'd always made a bit of a thing of Christmas when I was a kid, and this year my father seemed keen to revive some of the old traditions, so we drove out to a Christmas tree plantation to personally select a tree, as we'd done when we were all kids at home. Personally I thought it was a stupid idea, as we didn't need a tree at all, and as my father made me accompany him and Joe, it was a waste of the time I ought to have been studying - time I'd need to make up later than night. Joe was pretty excited, though, just as I had been at one time, and so I suppose he was just experiencing the sort of stuff that he'd been
deprived of when he was a kid in such a bad home. He and my father almost skipped around the place looking at this tree and that, rejecting one after the other as it was too thick, or too thin, or too "uneven", or too "top heavy", until they finally selected some real brute of a thing. It was me who had to saw it down, of course, and me who had to manhandle it up onto the roof of the car, and me who had to listen to my father's complaints as he alleged I scratched the paint as I was a clumsy oaf. Well, it was scratched just a little, I guess, but if he'd made Joe help me, it would have all been a lot easier.
They sent me to my room to work after I'd hauled the tree in to the hall and then I had to listen to all their excited chatter about "evening it up" as they dressed it with a million lights and all that crap. I don't know why I was so pissed off, actually: I didn't want to help decorate the wretched thing, as it was bad enough having to go and fetch it. But perhaps it was because Joe did, and he and my father seemed to be enjoying doing it together. I was glad to get away to Rooney's that week, I can tell you, but new horrors were waiting for me.
It was Rooney's Contracts' practice at Christmas to go around and carol outside their major clients offices! All of us were dressed in freshly cleaned polos, shorts, and made to polish our work boots to new levels of shininess, then were loaded into the back of the trucks and driven to one office block after the other. As soon as we got there we all had to get out and line up neatly, and then the overseers stood there and conducted us as we carolled merrily. And woe betide any guy who did not sing loudly, and lustily: their canes were always ready to give us a quick stripe on the rump, to make sure we were properly enthusiastic!
"God rest ye merry gentlemen...", we sang. What a stupid fucking song - there was no rest for us men, and there's no god anyway, so the whole things is totally pointless. And when I got "home" I had a generally miserable time - neatly wrapped up for me under the tree was a neat, new tunic from my father - he might have at least bought a couple of sizes bigger; and when I had to serve the special dinner to dad and Joe, they had me wear one of those fancy red pointed hats trimmed with artificial snow "to make it seem like a proper Christmas", as Joe said. Well, they may have been enjoying it all, but I certainly wasn't.
Look, I got through it, OK? I got through the ghastly family celebrations, the holidays, the work, college.... As my time for ending college got near, I'd survived most things - the terrible Thanksgiving when my father decided we should go to Bill's in LA, for example. I don't know whether he knew that slaves were not allowed in the cabin of the plane, but as well as being fucking humiliating to have to be "checked in" as baggage, it was really cramped in the transit cage: they make them a standard size so that they will stack neatly into the special part of the luggage hold reserved for live animal transit, and that was OK for Joe, I suppose. But as they put me in one, I was really crushed as my body is so much bigger, and when they closed the lid down and I heard the latch click, I knew it was going to be pretty uncomfortable as my head was pushed down almost between my knees, which were themselves bent upwards as the things wasn't long enough to start with! But survive it all I did - the constant worries about Craig being sold; having to put up with seeing Joe as my father's favourite, and hearing him fucking the guy most nights; the general hate of my fellow students (although this was toned down a lot as they got used to me, and as Trent was no longer egging them on); and occasionally seeing Rob in his fancy clothes in the papers, with some new achievement (including his second kid!).
As graduation came the Dean indicated that it would be "unfortunate" if I attended the ceremony as so many parents would be very unhappy to know that their sons and daughters had been mixing with a slave during those years. But my father insisted, and I just knew it was so that I would be further humiliated, and I even began to lie awake at night worrying that he'd make me wear the short tunic under the traditional gown and mortarboard! He'd always let me go to college "respectably" dressed (indeed, kind of nerdy, as I've told you), but I began to imagine that he was saving this last humiliation for me.
My father drove me to college that afternoon for the ceremony, and unlike the rest of my fellows who were gong around introducing their parents to each other, we were mostly ignored. It didn't seem to perturb my father, who casually commented that they were mostly "just low-level employees" as well-off people would have sent their sons and daughters to more prestigious colleges, and that he had more money, probably, that the whole lot of them put together. I have to say that I think I could see what he meant - my father was immaculate in his dark Italian suit and expensive silk tie, whereas a lot of the others looked as if they'd bought their "special" clothes from Sears!
The ceremony began, and, as I think they are generally, the Dean made a speech, then started to call out the names of all us graduating students in turn. There was polite applause continuously as the names were called out - everyone claps their own offspring, of course, but at these sorts of occasions I guess there's a "conspiracy" to clap everyone else's, too, so yours will be clapped in turn. When the Dean said "Steven Masters", though, and I got up to mount the stage, the whole room went silent - except for one, loud, steady, handclap. My face reddened and it felt like the longest walk I'd ever taken as I mounted the steps to the stage in that eerie silence broken only by the sound of a single set of clapping hands. Then when I'd received my scroll and turned to leave, I saw that the audience was not really looking at me: they had mostly turned to look at my father, who sat there clapping me, completely unperturbed by the fact that he was the only one, and all eyes were on him.
We didn't stay for the reception afterwards, though - my father muttered something about cheap wine tasting like piss, and said that he needed to go to his office but that he would see me that evening. As there were still five hours of the working day left (the working day for slaves, that is) he therefore dropped me off at Rooney's on his way. Most of the guys would be out working, I knew, but one of the Overseers was there, told me to change into the standard working gear, and to get out and tidy the yard generally.
I worked away, glad that college was at last over, and wondering what was going to happen now - in a way, I hoped my father would hire me back to Mister Rooney permanently, as at least there I had really good buddies, a lot of fantastic sex, and, of course, Craig.
When the trucks began to return for the evening they called to me and said I could stop sweeping and stuff, and I went in to shower and change. It was odd, really ,as the guys were strangely silent, although they were pleased to see me. I was bursting to see Craig, to tell him about my Graduation, and about my hopes for the future, and it was irritating that he was still out with the last crew - until they came back, and there was no Craig.
I began to panic. I grabbed Ted. "Where's Craig? Has he been injured...?"
"No..."
I knew there was something wrong! "Tell me, you fucker!"
"Steve, let go of my arm... You're hurting..."
"So tell me - when did it happen? Is it bad?"
"Steve, he wasn't injured. Mister Rooney sold him. They came and took him away this morning."
It was as if my whole world collapsed. I was standing there with all the other guys around me, talking and so on, but I didn't really hear them. And I didn't really "see" them, either, as the place became almost a blur. My brain was whirring: who had he been sold to? Where had he gone? How could I find out? What could I do? And then the sickening realisation came that there was nothing I could do - the dreadful, terrible thing had happened that we'd feared - this vile system had torn us apart.
It's bad enough when you quarrel and lose a lover. But Craig and I would never see each other again, I knew - somehow I had this terrible premonition that Craig had been shipped right away, sold to a sex place, or something. I stood there, just frozen to the spot, unable to think, unable to move. I was only shocked out of it by the stinging slice of a cane across my butt, and an overseer telling me to "move it" as they had to deliver me back to my home.
I sat in the back of the truck by myself, but, more than that, alone - devastatingly alone. How many times had I sat there with my arm around Craig, feeling his warmth, smelling his male scent, seeing the sexy smile on his face, even when he was dog tired? I was numb with shock, numb with the hurt, and when the truck dropped me off, I trailed miserably up the drive and went around the back to the rear entrance.
My father was in his study, and I knocked and went in.
"Don't disturb me now, Steven, I'm working", he said coolly.
"Please, sir. It's urgent, sir. I need a favour, sir... I've never asked for anything before, sir, I need you to..."
"Steven! I told you not to disturb me! You may speak to me after dinner, but think about your position - a slave does not ask 'favours' of his owner! Now, get out."
The bastard! I bet he knew what was going on - Mister Rooney and he were friends after all this time - and he was deliberately torturing me in this new, subtle way.
In spite of my misery, I had to change into the vile tunic, then went down to dinner and served my father and Joe, who sat there and chatted away as usual. I was so unhappy that I could barely choke down my chow biscuit. Then, after desert, my father poured me a glass of the rather good burgundy he habitually drank with the meal, and pushed it towards me.
"Steven, you've made me a happy man today. I never thought that you would graduate from college, but you have. It took me a lot of effort to get you there, but I believe it was worth it: a good college education is something that will set you in good stead for the rest of your life, and I am proud of you. After that gap from High School, it was hard work to resume studying, I expect, and it ought to show you what you are capable of it you set your mind to it. So let all three of us here raise our glasses and toast 'the future!'"
Joe and he clinked glasses, but I just sat there. Even though I thought it would be wonderful to have a drink as I was of course only allowed water normally, I just couldn't do it. I remembered my father's sustained support of me in the ceremony even when everyone else was silent, and still I couldn't do it. All I could focus on was my loss, of losing Craig.
"Steven, in a way I am disappointed in you", my father went on, seeing how I did not join in. "You ought to be pleased for yourself, for your achievement, as it is a credit to you. But then you always had a stubborn streak, a streak which these years as a slave has evidently not totally eradicated, although I am glad to say that your behaviour these past years has been so far in advance from that which we experienced whilst you were at High School! By rights I ought to take you, push you over the table, and tan your bare butt for this behaviour, which is certainly disrespectful, and verges on the insolent! But perhaps tonight I will be a little tolerant, and, in any case, I have a surprise for you - a graduation present."
"I don't want one...", I muttered, in my misery.
"Steven - follow me!", he commanded, and got to his feet, and strode out of the room, gesturing for me to follow him. I got up, tried as usual to pull my tunic down to cover my dick - it had kind of become a reflex gesture over the years, and I don't know why I bothered anyway, as Joe and my father were both used to seeing me like that, after all. There by the side of the pool was a big box, a very big box, wrapped up in that sort of paper that says "congratulations! Well done! Best wishes!" and all that crap, the whole tied up in silver ribbon, with an enormous bow on top. I just stood there, too miserable to even be bothered to wonder what on earth my father could have bought me, as I had no possessions as a slave.
"Well, aren't you going to open it?", he demanded. Then when I just gave a shrug - it was despair on my part, but he probably saw it as indifference, he came up to me, pushed me down on to one of the pool-side tables, pulled my tunic up so that my butt was exposed, and smacked me, four times, with his bare palms. "If you're going to behave like a petulant, spoiled kid, then you need spanking like one!", he said, curtly. Then before I could protest, "Stand up!", he snapped, and I pulled myself upright. Tears were streaming down my face, not from the pain of the blows, they were nothing compared to what the overseers at Rooney's did; nor from the humiliation of being a thirty year old, being spanked. No, I think the realisation that I was now doomed to be a slave for the rest of my life, without Craig, had finally struck home and I was in black despair.
"Now, for once, do as you're told!", he continued. "Is it so hard for a slave to obey a simple command? Open your present!"
Look, this isn't the way that present giving and receiving ought to be approached, is it? But I had to really make a huge effort to drag myself across to the box, pull the ribbon off it, and start to tear away the paper. As I did, I found bars inside - the bars of a standard slave transit cage, and at first I thought my father had planned another trip for us and that this was to take me to the airport as his luggage once more.
But then... As I tore away more.... There inside I saw something... And as I then tore at it, in a frenzy, it was Craig! He was all cramped and hunched up as I had been, but my fingers fumbled with the lock until it flew open, and he stood up. He stood there, stretching his long limbs with that habitual sexy smile he always wore, until I threw myself at him, threw my arms around him, and began to kiss him passionately.
When I broke for air, I turned around and there was my father, smiling. "Well, Steven, do you like your graduation present...?"
"Sir, yes, sir...." The tears were welling in my eyes now, of joy and happiness. But then I remembered my brothers' conversation those years ago. "Sir, thank you... But it's only postponing it, isn't it?"
"Postponing what?"
"I thought I'd lost Craig today, as he'd been sold, sir. And my brothers say that one day, when you're dead, they'll inherit me... And I guess Craig, now sir. And then they'll sell us off..."
"No they won't Steven. Craig is your slave. You own him."
"Sir, a slave can't own property..."
"Quite right, but you are no longer a slave. I did not tell you before, as it has taken a long time to get the Courts to agree, but the terms of your indenture have been set aside."
"How... I haven't been to Court...?"
"No, of course not. A slave cannot testify in Court, and so your presence was irrelevant. My lawyers have been working on it for a long time, and there was a major crisis as it affects Riker, Morgan and Swaine, the law firm that your friend Rob is a partner in. You see Rob acted for you at your initial voluntary indenture, and even became the trustee of the small number of assets you then owned - your car, a few clothes, pitifully few, really, but nevertheless yours, to be held in trust for you until the indenture was over. But then he acted for Rooney's Contracts in getting your term extended to ten years, and then for life. There's a major principle in law that an attorney having acted for you may not take part in a subsequent case where he is no longer acting in your best interests, and our lawyers argued, successfully at the end of the day, that having you turned into a slave was not in your best interests."
"Riker, Morgan and Swaine argued, however, that for a headstrong young man who had wanted a voluntary indenture, it could be seen that this was actually in your best interests as it was what, deep down, you really wanted and needed. They appealed the Court's decision right up to the State's Supreme Court and it was only yesterday that this Court finally ruled in your favour. A major factor in their decision was the matter of the trusteeship of your few hundred dollars worth of property - irrespective of what might have been in your mind in asking for a voluntary indenture, Rob was in breach of his fiduciary duty to you progressing the extensions and enslavement, and this weighed heavily on the Court's mind."
"Consequently they set aside the first extension which
in turn made the enslavement null and void, as that could only be applicable to a servant serving ten years or more; and as the original five years of indenture are over, you revert to being a free man. The situation for Rob, and for Riker, Morgan and Swaine is however much less happy: Rob acted as a partner of the firm in these actions, and the Courts take a very serious view of law firms who do not act in the best interests of their clients, and an even more serious view of anyone who attempts to tamper with the indenture laws. It is recognised that indenture, and enslavement, is a serious business, as it potentially interferes with our Constitutional rights of freedom, and those who in the past have attempted to unjustly enslave their fellows have been dealt with harshly. In the case of a lawyer attempting to do so, the Court takes an even harsher view."
"Rob has been sentenced to be indentured for ten years, and Riker, Morgan and Swaine have had their licence to practice cancelled. Rob's father in law has been, I understand, ruined, as he and his partners were jointly and severally liable for things like the leases on their downtown office tower, which is now effectively useless, and for damages to their clients whose cases they are pursuing and who will now have to find and brief new lawyers."
"So, Steven, you are a free man. And a free man can own slaves. I bought Craig from Rooney, and thought he would make an ideal graduation present for you - I've never known what to get you for your birthday and so on, but I think I've come up trumps this time!"
"Sir, I don't know what to say..."
"You could try 'thank you', and you could call me 'dad' again...."
"So can I free Craig... And Joe, I suppose ... We were enslaved at the same time, dad?"
"No. Although Craig belongs to you, there's no provision for ever freeing a slave. The law considers that it has to the ultimate absolute punishment, from which no escape is possible. The conditions under which Craig - a criminal - and Joe, a homeless destitute boy, were indentured and then enslaved are totally different. They are, and will remain, slaves."
End Of Part 27 (My thanks to reader "The Captain" for giving me some valuable legal guidance that has helped me construct this chapter. Pete.)