Date: Sat, 1 Oct 2005 23:51:07 -0700 (PDT)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: Dad And Me, Part 18

Dad And Me   by Pete Brown.  petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

Read all of Pete's stories in
groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories

Part  18

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.

End Of  Part Eighteen.