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Well, as it happens, things quietened down a bit. Dad and I just worked away, now always totally naked, as if we were niggas. And they changed e “rules”, too, so that we weren’t even allowed in the house: we had to wait at the rear door for one of the nigga maids to bring our food out, then stand or crouch there whilst we ate it – irrespective of whether we were being scorched by the sun, or drowned in the rain. Neither Mr Hawthorne nor Charles asked to use us again, and so other than Amos and Andy, and the occasional time when I went to fuck Mr Stryker, dad and me were left very much alone.
They even found another slave to clean the pool, too – at twenty four it seemed I was now considered to be too old – or perhaps Mr Hawthorne thought that my tattooed and ringed body might put off the occasional guests who might want to use the pool. Anyway, they bought a young Mexican lad as an additional house slave, and in the mornings we’d now see him standing there cleaning out the pool – unlike us, he lived in the house proper, in the salve dormitory on the top floor, and didn’t have to lie on that same small mattress next o the mowers that dad and I had shared for so many years.
My only break from the dreary routine of constant manual labour was the studding sessions. And here there was a change: almost invariably I was now chosen as the first stud, and if there was only one bitch, dad was made to stand there and listen to me as I did the business, as I had watched him so many times in the past. Inevitably dad got very frustrated by this, as unlike me he actually enjoyed fucking women. After one of those sessions he’d sometimes lie there and complain at night about how unfair it was: he, who didn’t mind doing it, and even enjoyed it, no longer had the opportunity, whereas I, who basically hated it, was always made to perform.
“Oh, quit moaning, dad”, I said one night, when he’d gone on and on about my performance that afternoon. “Why don’t you just jerk yourself off, then we could both get some sleep. I’m sick of hearing your complaints about the lack of fucking: you’re getting old now, dad, and you shouldn’t be thinking about that stuff all the time.”
“I’m not old, Steve. I’m not even fifty yet!”, dad snapped back “And if I wasn’t a slave, I’d still be playing the field….”
“Don’t kid yourself! You’d either be married again, and then she wouldn’t be opening her legs every night to you, I bet. Or else you’d be one of those sad guys hanging around the singles bars watching all the young guys like me picking up the women. It’s a young guys’ game, dad – you’re lucky to get any studding at all, if you ask me. That dick of yours gets a whole lot more use here than it would if you were still free.”
“Steve, you’re talking a load of shit! I used to be attractive to women. They used to get the hots for me… If I wasn’t a slave, I’d be having a great time….”
“But you are a slave, dad. That’s the reality. And no one wants to use an older slave for studding when there’s young, fresh meat like me available. You’d better get used to it, if you ask me – no one has used you for a couple of weeks now, and Stryker has noticed. I wouldn’t be surprised if he stopped even sending you to the studding barn – you could just get on with the work, whilst I do the business! “
“Hey, that’s not fair….”
I was getting pissed off by now as I was tired from working all day, and from having to stud in the middle of it – sex is tiring, after all. So without thinking I just snapped back “Well the whole thing is a bit unfair, isn’t it? It’s unfair that I’m a slave, and that they didn’t just take you. It was you who committed the crime, if you remember!”
“You young puppy! Stop throwing that at me every time we have an argument.”
“Well, it’s true, isn’t it?”
Look, I was to blame. It wasn’t really fair to keep throwing this at dad. He thought he was doing the right thing by doing the little “odd jobs” and not telling the IRS, as he wanted me to go to college. He couldn’t have foreseen the effects of their crazy laws, and it’s those fat-assed congressmen who I ought to have been blaming. But dad was cross now, and he almost shouted “Look, Steve….”
“Dad, can it, will you? I’m worn out. Unlike you, I’ve been fucking this afternoon, and it makes me tired….”
Dad went to give me a slap, just as he used to when I was a kid and he thought I’d been rude and needed disciplining. And even though it was only a light blow and didn’t hurt me, I struck him back – look, it wasn’t a hard punch I gave him, but even so, I know I shouldn’t have done it. Bu there comes a time, doesn’t there, when as a man you instinctively fight back when someone attacks you? I mean, it’s just human nature, it’s built-in from millions of years of evolution.
Well, perhaps dad had the same things built-in – not surprising, as we shared the same genes, after all, as he immediately struck me again. And then we were fighting – really fighting – hurling punches at each other, grappling each others bodies, shouting out and calling each other names…. And yet, surprisingly, neither of us got really hurt: perhaps that same conditioning that made us both fight automatically also prevented fathers and sons from doing serious damage to each other!
When you’ve got two very fit, very tough opponents, ultimately the one who’s going to win is the one with more strength and weight, and that was dad. He’d always bee n bigger-boned and had more “meat” on him than me, and whereas I could work at least as hard as him in tasks that needed endurance (like pulling the mowers to cut the grass), he always had the edge when it came to sheer strength (for example when we had to move the huge boulders around when we were ordered to rebuild the big ornamental rockery). And now this superior raw strength came to dad’s aid, and after a few minutes dad was once again sitting astride my chest, my arms were pinioned to the ground as his knees were digging painfully into my biceps, and his dick was hovering over my mouth.
We were both breathing hard from our exertions, and I looked up at dad, who seemed to have a look of triumph on his face as he stared down at me. “So, Steve, say you’re sorry….” He told me.
“No. I’m not sorry. It was true…” “You young fucker, say you’re sorry… Kids shouldn’t insult their parents…”
“Fuck you, dad!”
“Steve, I’m warning you…. “
“Fuck you, dad! What are you going to do? Make me suck that dick of yours again? I might as well, I suppose, as that’s the only time it’s going to get any use in future, other than from our hand… “
Dad looked completely furious now. As ever, I’d got carried away by the sheer excitement of goading someone on – I can’t resist it, there’s something that makes me want to get the last words out. As he glared at me I wished I could have taken those words back, but you can’t do that, can you, as we all know?
“Not, quite, Steve….”, dad said, now sounding icily calm, an with surprising agility, that agility that the very fit can manage even when they’ve got a heavy, muscular body, he was off me. Before I could react, he’d thrown himself down beside me, had dragged my arm up and put his around my, flipped me over on to my belly, and then had his arms under mine, his hands crossed behind my neck, so I was in a kind of strangle hold. I began to shout out, and thrash my legs around, but it was no good – dad was more powerful, and I could feel his massive thighs and calves kind of wrapping them selves around mine. His dick was stabbing at my butt, and as it did so dad gave a grunt of satisfaction.
“Dad, no!”, I cried. But somehow this only seemed to excite and inflame him, as his dick stabbed at me again, causing him to cry out once more. I could feel his dick head pushing at my sphincter, and I tried to clamp my legs shut and hold my hole closed, but against a determined guy, it’s no use, is it? Dad’s dick stabbed at me, and when it felt the resistance I was putting up, dad kind of pulled his hips back a little, then slammed forward, causing penetration.
I screamed. I mean, it doesn’t mater how tough you are, if you have a dick really forced in to you, it hurts. And dad didn’t stop – he forced himself right home so that I could feel the hot slickness of his body right up against my butt and my thighs. He lay there on top of me, my body still locked in his strangle hold, and there was a completely triumphant note in his voice as I heard him say “Perhaps my dick will get some use after all, Steve….”
“Dad, please, don’t….”
“Say you’re sorry, Steve. Apologise.”
“No, dad. You were in the wrong. You know that…..”
Oh why didn’t I keep my mouth shut? Where’s the harm in just mouthing a few words that you don’t mean in a situation like this? But that’s not me, I suppose. I always push it, push it too far, generally.
“You asked for this, Steve….”, dad muttered, and then he began to fuck me. And this was no slow, gentle fuck that guys do for their mutual pleasure. No, this was a savage, fast, hard, brutal fuck, as dad’s dick repeatedly slammed in and out of me in short, vicious strokes. In the background somewhere I could hear myself screaming, but my whole brain seemed focussed on what was happening to me: the pain of the dick, the weight of his body against mine, the heat, the sweat that was pouring off both of us…. And yet there was something else going on, too: I felt somehow good to have this big, powerful man take total control of me like this. I couldn’t move my upper body because of his strangle hold, my legs were trapped under his, and I was skewered by his dick – and yet, somehow it felt good, felt right. When dad gave a great cry and stopped moving, remaining buried in me, I just lay there, feeling my heart racing and knowing that something special had happened to me.
After what seemed like hours as we lay there locked together, dad gently pulled out of me. He rolled me onto my side and lay facing me. “Steve, I’m sorry….” He whispered. “I shouldn’t have done that…”
“It’s OK, dad.”
“No, it’s not OK, I shouldn’t have done that….”
“Dad, I shouldn’t have provoked you. It’s my fault, dad.”
He put his arms around me and pulled me close, and I loved the feeling of safety and security of having dad’s big strong body wrapped around mine. Although my ass was sore as hell, it was worth it. I could feel dad’s hot breath on my face as we lay there together, and it was somehow so sensual. My hand strayed up his body and I gently cupped his nip in the palm of my hand, and the way it erected and scratched gently at my tender skin there only added to my feeling of being totally secure, totally safe. Almost without knowing it I kissed dad, and as his lips parted, my tongue thrust itself in. Dad responded, and kissed me passionately back, and then there was no stopping us: our bodies still holding each other we kissed, stroked each others tits, intertwined our legs and thrashed them around so that our dicks and balls kept teasing each other, whilst all the time giving sighs and gasps of pleasure. You probably know how it is when you’re with a guy you really like – you don’t really say things that make any kind of sense, but all the time you’re both muttering and murmuring stuff, silly stuff, really, I suppose. But it makes the other guy feel great, doesn’t it?
After a time that seemed to stretch for ages, our passion subsided and we just lay there, kind of smiling, almost laughing at each other.
“Steve, I don’t know what to say…”
“Hey, dad, don’t say anything. I’m sorry, dad… You are a stud, a real stud…..”
We laughed again, and everything seemed to be OK between us.
So that was our life – dad did indeed get dropped from the studding barn, unless there were a lot of nigga bitches to be covered, but made up for it by fucking me, every night. Well, we were together, after all, and where’s the harm in a couple of guys screwing? After a week or so, though, on days when I hadn’t studded, I was so horny that after he’d finished, I rolled him over onto is back, lifted his legs up onto my shoulders, and as I watched him, began to fuck him gently. He protested at first, but I told him “fair’s fair”, and that if he wanted to go on fucking me, he’d have to take my dick as I liked fucking, too.
“But Steve, it’s not right….”, he stated.
“Anymore than it’s right for you to fuck me, dad? Look, lets’ not go there, shall we? Any argument you can make for me not giving you dick, I can switch around for you not using yours on me! So why don’t we both agree that we both like fucking, we both like fucking guys, and the only available guy for fucking is each other?”
He grinned at me. “You’d have done well at college, Steve, with arguments like that. Now, get your mouth around my dick… That’s the only thing that will keep you quiet.”
So life wasn’t so bad. No, it wasn’t bad at all. I had a good healthy job, one without stress, and plenty of sex, and with a guy I really liked, with a fantastic body. Mind you, I got to hate the studding more and more – for one thing, if I had to cover a couple of bitches in an afternoon it really tired me out and I just didn’t have the enthusiasm for doing what I wanted later on – taking dad’s ass again. And for another, I began to hate the fact that every now and then one of the owners who’d brought his nigga along would want to use me: as I lay there buried inside the bitch once I’d shot, I came to dread hearing the rustle of clothes behind me, the chink of a belt strap as it was undone, and the feel of a man’s pants against my thighs as he got ready to fuck me. I just wanted dad, just him, and I hated all these other men who thought they had the right to use me, as I was a slave.
Charles was a problem, too. When he came down on the weekends he always now selected either dad or me, and occasionally both of us, for a “session” up in his rooms. Whereas Mr Hawthorne had been gentle with me and I’d enjoyed his kissing and the way he used me to bring him off, it seemed that Charles could only be satisfied if he could force us in some way. So most often dad and I ended up securely strapped down on our bellies on a punishment horse, and Charles would then invariably start the session with a few strokes of the tawse to our backs, butts and thighs. If we didn’t respond well enough to this, in his opinion, he’d move on to give us cane strokes across our butts – not so that the flesh was broken, as he presumably didn’t want to damage our potential for work, but hard enough to leave raised red welts that throbbed painfully all the next day. Only after he’d done that to both of us would he start to decide which one to fuck, and he’d always begin by asking us to choose!
It didn’t matter how many times I told dad not to play this stupid game, dad would always plead “Take me, please, sir. Leave Steve alone….”, and that gave Charles the opportunity to taunt dad, to pretend to fuck him, then to rub his dick up and down my ass crack, all the time asking dad if that was OK, and so on. Dad really was stupid, and should just have kept quiet, as I did when Charles asked me if he should fuck me, or dad. There was nothing we could do, as one of us was going to take his dick, but it seemed to me that there was no reason for increasing his enjoyment by indulging him in his silly head games.
I suppose we would have gone on like this “for ever”, or until dad got so old that he could no longer work and was sold off, until a quite extraordinary thing happened at one studding session. Both dad and I had been called in as there was a big party of local ladies and gentlemen coming to enjoy an afternoon’s sport, together with six bitches to be covered. I was well into my second one (after allowing me to rest after the first, whilst the ladies and gentlemen went for a stroll in the grounds), when a voice I vaguely recognised said to Mr Hawthorne “It’s remarkable, that you have both the father and son again….”
“How so? I bought them as a pair, as they were both enslaved at the same time…”
“Yes, but how did the son re-offend? Did he do something foolish?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, I don’t understand you…”
“I was the Assistant DA then, and this pair were one of my first cases. The father was plainly guilty of fraud, of course, and I didn’t have to argue all that hard to ensure that the court imposed the maximum punishment – enslavement. But then it was odd – there was an anomaly in the laws, so that the son was more than sixteen and therefore not entitled to child protection, but less than eighteen, so he was not legally an adult…. And so I asked for, and got, an enslavement order against him, too, as part of his father’s estate.”
“Yes, I understand that. I bought them shortly afterwards, when they both came up for auction. A father and son pair is rare, after all, and personally I find the prospect rather exciting…”
“Yes, I can see that. But after the son was freed, how did you manage to get him as a slave again? Did he go off the rails, and commit some crime with enslavement as a penalty, or did he follow in his father’s footsteps and try to defraud the people on tax, once he started working?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am…. You’ve lost me! All this talk of ‘freedom’ – he was enslaved, and once a slave, always a slave, as I understand the law.”
“Quite so. It’s fundamental that enslavement has to be the ultimate punishment. Society, and the slave himself, needs to understand that we won’t tolerate certain kinds of behaviour, and so once the penalty of enslavement is handed out, it’s irrevocable. There has never been a freeing of a slave, or a reduction in sentence: enslavement is just that, the slave is a slave, for life. But in this case the argument was different – the law was proven to be wrong, and so the son should never have been enslaved in the first instance. As I recall, the court effectively rolled back the calendar, and re-did the trial of the son, and as the law had been clarified and he was still a minor under 18, he was to be put into the care of the State’s Child Services Division until his eighteenth birthday, when he’d be given the usual support to start his own life….. So I’m assuming that at some point after that he committed a rime, or something, and became enslaved ‘properly’, and then you bought him,…”
“No, that’s not what happened. I bought him originally, and he’s remained my slave ever since. And a very satisfactory one he’s been: he was a little immature at sixteen, but he’s grown into a fine specimen of a man, as I think you’ll agree…”
“Yes. But those tattoos, brands, rings….”
“All common, for a slave here at Manderleigh. Look at the father….”
“They may be common for a slave, My Hawthorne, but on a free man they would be, to say the least, unusual….”
“But he’s not a free man….”
“Well allow me to call the office and check whether my recollection of the case is accurate – I’m fairy certain it is, as it was one of my first cases, and I felt somewhat aggrieved when all the effort I’d put into getting the son enslaved was set aside.”
I could hardly believe my ears at all of this, and my heart raced with excitement. But nothing happened immediately, and I had to go through the hated studding of the third bitch that afternoon anyway. I was bursting to tell dad about what I’d heard as we were led out of the studding shed, but Mr Stryker was there and he ordered dad back to work, and told me to report to Amos and Andy to be cleaned up.
Before the studding they’d given me a pretty good going over, of course, and so I only really needed a shower. But, thorough as ever, they insisted on working on me, having another shave of me to make sure I was totally smooth, and teasing and snipping at the odd hairs on my pubes which they aid were “stray”. Personally, I think they just liked handling my tackle, but I was used to it by now, and didn’t complain. Mr Stryker called me in then and told me to follow him to Mr Hawthorne’s study, and I began t o get excited: there must be something in what this woman had said. But, on the other hand, the cautious side of me responded, maybe he just wants to use you again, as he once did, before deciding I was “repulsive”.
We went in after knocking, and there, behind the desk, sat Mr Hawthorne. The lady, who I now recognised after all these years as being the bitch who’d demanded the enslavement of dad and me, was introduced as the State’s Attorney General, and two men in dark suits who sat to one side were “partners in a local respected law firm.”
“Steve”, Mr Hawthorne started. “I’ve got good news for you. You are no longer a slave. Some mix-up at the time of our original trial meant that a change in the law was not properly communicated…. You ought not to have been enslaved at all, and should not have been working here all these years….”
“I’m not a slave?”
“No, Steve. You’re as free as I am, or these gentlemen here…..”
Almost instantly I felt embarrassed – here I was , totally naked, wearing a slave collar, a snout ring, a genital cinch, with a brand on my butt…. It was OK for a slave to appear like that, but not a free man….
“So give me some clothes, then!”, I almost shouted.
“Now, Steve, calm yourself…. Clothes have to be paid for, you know. Only slaves get their uniforms provided….”
“Well I think you owe me! Eight years work…..”
“Yes, Steve. I think we do. But I need you to sign these papers, acknowledging your freedom. Are you happy to do that?”
“Sure, of course…”
Mr Hawthorne pushed an official-looking document at me over his desk. “Just sign this, then….”, he said cheerily. I looked down at it, and couldn’t understand it at all – after all this time never being allowed to read anything, I’d finally lost the ability totally. I stood there, staring at it blankly.
“Here, Steve”, Mr Hawthorne said, indicating a line at the bottom of the page with his finger. Can you still write?”
I took a ball point he offered me, and it felt really odd in my hand. But even though I couldn’t read, the ingrained habits of the first sixteen years of my life seemed to be there, as I managed to scrawl a passable “Steve Masters” where he indicated. Mr Hawthorne then signed, with a flourish, and then passed the document to the woman. “Finally, madam Attorney General, if you’d sign, on behalf of the State….?” She did, and Mr Hawthorne then turned to the two suits. “Gentlemen, if you’d be so good as to witness this document – and just so there should be no doubt, in case the matter ever comes to court, perhaps you’d endorse your witness signatures with a little additional phrase – something like ‘We attest that we saw absolutely no coercion or threats of any kind used on any of the signatories to this document. All those we observed did so entirely voluntarily, and freely’.”
The men nodded, and sat there for a moment, scrawling away. Mr Hawthorne then took the document, moved a picture aside to reveal a safe, and locked the document inside it before replacing the picture carefully.
“Clothes?” I demanded again. “I’m a free man, remember? Get me some clothes, please.”
“Now Steve, remain calm”, Mr Hawthorne said again. “All in good time….”
“All in good time? You’ve had me as an illegal slave here for eight years! You’ve done all this stuff to my body… Get me some fucking clothes, and get them now! You’ve got enough problems, as it is, without annoying me any more.”
Mr Hawthorne picked up his phone and spoke briefly, and a moment later the door opened and Stryker came in clutching one of the loose kind of tabards that the house slaves wore at formal dinners – I slipped it over my head, but was still aware now that I was still exposed, as there were the two openings right down both sides, and the thing was only long enough to cover my balls. The cinching anyway pushed my dick out at the hem, and I knew that if I went erect, I’d probably be totally exposed.
“I said clothes”, I repeated. “Not this. I still look like a slave!”
“Steve, there isn’t anything here to fit you. We’ll need to send out to a store, and that costs money….”
“Well I must have a lot! Eight years wages at least. Then compensation for holding me illegally. Damages, for the way you’ve had me branded and tattooed and for the loss of my ‘skin…. I’d have thought I’d be looking at several million. And that’s before I sue the State for its fuck up in not making sure I was treated properly, as they had a duty of care to a minor who was left without parents…. So just lend me some, will you? I might even look more favourably on the suit I’ll bring….”
Mr Hawthorne and the woman just looked at each other, and smiled. Then he leaned forward, and said gently “No, Steve, you won’t be bringing any case against me. Or the State. Or, if you do, it will be thrown out!”
“Don’t be stupid! I’ve got a an open and shut case. The State was negligent, and you compounded the negligence….”
“That’s all probably true, Steve, but you signed a waiver a few moments ago, setting aside your rights to sue us in the courts. You agreed that it was an honest mistake, from which you did not wish to profit….”
“No I didn’t…. You said I needed to sign it to set me free….”
“No, Steve. I asked you to sign it, and you did. You should have read it, thoroughly. It says, in simple language so that lawyers can’t argue that you did not understand it, that you freely and totally waive all rights to compensation or payment for the period when you were inadvertently treated as a slave.”
“Give it me back…. Yo forced me to sign it…”
“No, Steve. It’s safely locked away, as you saw. And we took the precaution of getting these two eminent attorneys, attorneys who are not connected with either the affairs of Manderleigh, or the State, to witness your signature. The moment you try to press charges, or claim damages, we’ll produce that document and your lawyers will immediately advise you to drop it.”
“You cheated me….”
“Steve, this is the real world. I have a duty to protect Manderleigh, and my fortune, and Charles’ inheritance. And the Attorney General has a duty to look after the State’s interests. We’re just doing what’s prudent, in the circumstances.” He paused for a moment, and then went on, “But I do remember, Steve, that you were a little ‘special’ for me for some of your time here, and in consideration of that, I’m prepared to give you some help, on an ex-gratia basis, of course, without admitting any liability…”
“Fuck you!”, I shouted, losing my temper as usual. “I’m out of here…. I’ll make my own way. I don’t need handouts. I’ll find a lawyer who’ll take the case….”
“Young man”, one of the suits interrupted. “I think Mr Hawthorne ha made you a most generous offer. If you were a client of mine, I’d strongly advise you to accept it. You have, I assure you, now got no possibility of bringing claims against the State, or Mr Hawthorne. And what other assets do you have?”
“None, of course, they’ve kept me as a slave here for eight years….”
“Quite so! So you have no fixed abode, no money, no job, and….”, he paused and smiled a little, “…almost no clothes. I have to advise you that if you leave here dressed like that, without money, and with no papers, no residence, no stable employment, you would be liable to be arrested. And when they brought you to Court, you’d be judged to be a common vagrant…. for which the penalty would be enslavement!”
My mouth must have dropped open in horror, as the other suit cut in “What my colleague is saying is true. The courts take a very harsh view of young men roaming the countryside without proper roots, or a job, or money…. And under the slavery acts, there’s a presumption that any man without money or a job would become a charge on the State, and that therefore it’s better to enslave him, rather than risk him costing the State money in welfare and so on.”
I was dumbfounded, but was inclined to believe these guys, who looked respectable. I just stood there, and Mr Hawthorne spoke again “Now, Steve, if you’ve calmed down, I’ll repeat my offer – I’ll help you, on a limited basis, for a short time. I’ll help you get a job, not that that will be easy, as you have no academic qualifications to show future employers.”
“I can always work as a labourer, as dad did, before he was enslaved. You’ve taught me to work hard, at least, and I’ve got a strong body…”
“That’s not so easy now, Steve. Most labouring is done by the big contracting companies nowadays, who use slaves, as you’d expect. Almost all the workers in factories are slaves, too. So your only job prospects are in an office – and all employers these days need you to have graduated from High School at least, and preferably to have gone to college… Still, we can see what’s available, and until then, you can live here.”
“And what about dad?”
“Oh, Joe. Well… Nothing. He’s a slave. Properly a slave. He’ll remain a slave here, until I decide to sell him. Nothing about your unfortunate incident changes that, does it? You can hardly expect me to make special arrangements to treat one slave here differently from all the others, or even to give up a valuable asset. And, of course, even if he were free, there would be the same problems: no work for men without qualifications, especially if they are convicted felons – the crime for which he was sentenced, fraud, I seem to remember, would still be on the books. Would you employ a fraudster in your office?”
I knew he was right, of course. And I knew, deep down, that anyway dad had really sunk into slavery. He’d got a slave mentality now, was used to obeying, understood that he was totally subservient to their wishes.
“So can I please have some proper clothes anyway?”, I asked, holding out my hand to Mr Hawthorne, ready to shake, showing him that I agreed with him, and was grateful.
To be continued …
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