Date: Tue, 11 Oct 2005 05:53:19 -0700 (PDT)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: Dad And Me, Part 21

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

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

Part  21

The Chief of Police was returning a favour to Mr
Hawthorne by giving him advance notice that Charles
had been picked up, and was on his way to central
bookings even as we were speaking.  I said I'd go
straight down there and arrange bail, and though the
guy sounded a bit odd, so I called to Tony and asked
him to send one of our "friends" who also worked in
the bank - Miles, from corporate legal - along in case
I needed help.

We discovered what the problem was as soon as we were
there - Charles had been picked up in a drugs bust!
Look, it always was pretty stupid to do drugs, but it
was just insane now as not only would they ruin your
health (and that's probably why Charles had been
looking so drawn and thin recently), but the penalties
were very severe indeed.  Miles tried to arrange bail,
but drugs offences were not eligible at all, and after
some heated discussion he came back to me.

"You'd better call old man Hawthorne, Steve.  Not only
was the son and heir doing drugs, but he had so much
of it on him that they're doing him for dealing."

"Can't you do something about that?"

"No.  It's a pretty open and shut case - they have a
video of a cop searching Charles, and finding the
stuff.  And Charles doesn't even deny it, but just
kind of smiles at him, and says 'peace'!"

"So can we get him out tomorrow?"

"No, Steve.  That's why you've got to call old man
Hawthorne!  For dealing, there's an automatic penalty:
 enslavement."

"You can't be serious - there must be something we can
do... Call someone, use the bank's muscle..."

"Not now, Steve.  If we'd been able to get at them
before he was booked we might have stood a chance, but
now it's in the system, and the video is filed as
evidence and everything, there's not a chance.  Even
though Mr Hawthorne has a lot of friends in high
places, they'll all be afraid to act now that the
charge is publicly on the books and everything - it
would destroy their careers to be seen to be playing
favourites, if a journalist or someone like that found
out."

"But there must be something...."

"The only thing left is to buy him, I guess!"

"OK, I'll call.... How long do we have?"

"Not long, Steve.  It's mostly an automatic process,
and they don't hang around with enslavement cases,
especially not drug-linked ones.  He'll be in court
any time now, and if no offer is made for him, they'll
just ship him off to the auctions."

"You can offer to the courts to buy a slave?"

"Oh sure - there's a standard price, but not a lot of
people pay it, as especially in drug cases they don't
like the risk, and they always hope anyway that they
can pick the slave up cheaper in the public auction."

"Risk?"

"Yes - rehab is mandatory for drug-related slaves, and
there's a possibility - some may say probability -
that the slave won't survive it.  So why buy him in
the court, when he might die? Or come out with his
bran frazzled, like a vegetable?   And even if he does
survive, the auction price is likely to be low as
he'll be pretty much broken down physically.... So all
in all, there just no percentage in buying in open
court.  We may as well wait..."

"Don't be insane, Miles!  I'll have to buy him, as old
man Hawthorne would never forgive me if he slipped
through and someone else bought him.... And it might
get known that the Hawthorne heir is up for auction,
and they might try to put the squeeze on the old
man....  No, I have to buy him now"

Miles and I sat in court, therefore, and watched as in
just two minutes Charles life was radically altered.
The charge was read out, and the judge asked him if he
denied it.  And when he said "no", that was that!  The
judge banged his gavel, pronounced Charles to be a
slave, and ordered the bailiffs to strip him, as is of
course customary.

I think it was only then that his situation struck
home to Charles, as he stood there vainly trying to
cover his dick and balls with his hands before he was
led away.  He wasn't allowed to stay in the court room
to hear "offers" for him as it was considered bad for
a slave to know how much he was worth, and so he was
"taken down", his nude body looking oddly pale and
frail between the two burly officers.  Then, as if he
was not expecting any replies, the judge offered the
slave for sale - subject to rehabilitation  - and was
about to move on, when Miles interrupted and said that
we would do so.

Fortunately I had enough of my commission saved to pay
the price - it turns out that credit cards were not
acceptable, but they could do an on-line debit
transaction that mostly cleared me out, and then a
printer spat out documentation, and that was  that!  I
was a genuine, certified, paid-up slave owner!

It was the first time that I'd ever dared take people
back to Mr Hawthorne's place, but I called Tony to
meet me there as I thought I might need help with Mr
Hawthorne, and Miles and I took a cab over.  Henry was
at first reluctant to let the two men in!  Well, I
suppose as a loyal slave he was following Mr
Hawthorne's orders - and I was glad that Tony was
there as he needed all his commanding manner to make
Henry cower and cringe:  I doubt that I could have
done it as he was too familiar with me.

Tony, Miles and I sat in Mr Hawthorne's study and put
through a call to Davos, where the conference was
staking place, and it took ages and ages to get
through to Mr Hawthorne - and only then after Tony had
demanded to speak to the bank's country general
manager in Switzerland, who seemed to be acting as
some sort of messenger boy as his CEO was in town.  Mr
Hawthorne was devastated and almost slammed the phone
down, as he barked out orders to get him booked on the
first flight out - he always flew the Atlantic by
normal airline, as he thought the corporate jet was
too cramped, compared with his seats in first class.

So then Miles and Tony and I had nothing to do.  Well,
you can't sit there all night worrying, can you?  So
it wasn't a wholly bad result, as we simply
commandeered one of the luxurious guest suites and
enjoyed our sport there.    The following morning  we
set off for the slave holding facility (which is in a
very unsavoury part of the city), as I thought we
ought to tell Charles what had happened, and I was
glad the other two guys were with me.  At the
reception - which was very shabby, as they evidently
didn't expect owners to visit - we demanded to see
Charles, and  after a lot of grumbling and moaning,
they told us we could, but could not touch him "even
if you wanted to", the surly guard said, as if he knew
something we did not. This was the official
detoxification centre, and physical contact between
owners and slaves wasn't allowed, we were told.

We were all curious about how this detoxification was
to be done, as I'd always understood that weaning guys
off drugs when they were common in the old days was
very hard.  But as these men were only slaves, the
answer was simple:  the ultimate cold turkey!

They showed us into a long dark space, a space that
was lined with cages.  Yes, cages, literally.  Hunched
inside each cage was a naked slave - mostly niggas, of
course, but with the odd whitey or Mexican here and
there as we were in the north where these were a
little more common.  I say "hunched" as the cages were
so small - not above about four feet on a cube.   The
slave could crouch or lie huddled, but not stand up or
lie down fully.  The stench, which hit us as we were
led in,  was dreadful - slaves were not allowed out of
the cages, and they simply had to piss or crap where
they were:  a concrete channel unde the cages was
clearly designed to take effluent away, but they
obviously hadn't hosed it down for some hours.  But
what was worse was the noise:  the poor naked wretches
were weeping and ranting - well, those who were not
catatonic, at least.

We groped our way along to the cage which we thought
had Charles in it - the contorted state of some of the
bodies made it hard, at first, to be certain, and
there he was, lying there all curled up into the
foetal position with drool running out of his mouth as
he muttered and moaned.  "Not good", the guard told
us.  "Not many of them pull out of that state, and
it's the ones howling with the pain in their limbs
from withdrawal who do best."

"Can't we do anything, anything at all?", I asked
Miles, but he shook his head.  "No, Steve.  After all
the problems in the twentieth century and the early
part of this one, they decided to really crack down on
drugs, and this is the result.  People have to be
utterly, completely stupid to even think about taking
them, and the state  has no compassion for those
idiots who give in, or who decided to 'dare' the
system.  Just like slavery itself, there's no reprieve
- once you're in here, you stay here until you're
cured, or you die.   Whilst you and Tony were
finishing off that epic fuck this morning I called one
of my chums who specialises in human rights cases, and
he told me that they've taken it right up to the
Supreme Court, but no one has ever cracked it.  Go
into rehab as a slave, and you die there, or come out
a  'normal' slave.  Get enslaved, and that's it, once
and for all, no hope of remission.  It's tough
justice, but it generally seems to work  there's far
less of a drugs problem now than there ever was
before, and crime generally is right down.... In fact,
the only good jobs for us lawyers now is in commercial
law, negotiating contracts and such like.."

We left in an odd mixture of moods.  Miles and Tony
seemed to think it was OK, and Charles had got what
was coming to him.  I suppose I thought the same,
especially as the guy had been such a pain in the butt
to me, but, on the other hand, it's a shock to see
someone you've known for so long reduced to that
state.  There was worse news yet, though:  when we got
back "home", there was a stack of messages on the
system waiting for an  answer - normally Mr Hawthorne
did this for himself, as the slaves were not allowed
to touch the confidential messages server, and none of
them were for me, of course.  But in these exceptional
times I assumed that they might be from Mr Hawthorne
himself, trying to check up on progress.

As we all now know, of course, they were from the
airline, trying to contact the family of a Mr Charles
Hawthorne II, and when I called them back, I got the
utterly terrible news about the  semi-orbital disaster
that had wiped out the supersonic flight from Geneva
to New York.  Only the very wealthiest could afford to
go sub-orbital, where speed was of the essence, and
after this, and the subsequent chain of disasters
(ultimately traced to a tiny, almost insignificant
design fault), those airlines unlucky enough to have
bought and flown them were almost bankrupt.  But as it
was, the thing was lost without trace, and with it, Mr
Hawthorne!

I watched in amazement as Tony and Miles went into
action - as VPs in the bank they had an "emergency
contact" list of other key executives, and they began
calling to break the news, convening a meeting at the
bank that very afternoon to discuss what should be
done before the markets opened the following morning
and the loss of the Chairman and CEO became known.  I
felt left out of it, totally,  and I didn't know what
my feelings were:  Mr Hawthorne had been a considerate
owner, as these things go, I suppose, but on the other
hand his treatment of me as a free man left much to be
desired.  I kind of grieved, I suppose, but then began
to worry about what would happen to dad as he was,
after all, just property, like Manderleigh itself,
and, indeed, the apartment where I was now sitting.

On Monday morning Tony was not in his office, but we
had no time to think of that - the markets were in
turmoil, and all of us dealers worked flat out to
minimise the potential losses caused by a run on our
stocks as the news about Mr Hawthorne was now out.
Mind you, I did manage to turn a profit, by actually
"out guessing" the market and selling stuff very short
and buying it back later when prices had plummeted
even further.  At four o'clock, though, Tony appeared
with a couple of very high corporate execs, and  we
all sat in his office.

"We've heard a lot about you, Steve", one of them
began.  "You have a bright future here in the bank, I
believe.  Now we just want you to re-sign your
contract of employment... Everything's changed now, as
we'll have a new CEO soon...."

Well it seemed a bit odd.   I didn't understand why I
needed a new contract of employment just because Mr
Hawthorne was dead, - especially as no one else in the
office seemed to be offered one -  and I went to scan
through the documents.  "No need for that, young man",
the suit said.  "Just sign, please....."

I saw Tony looking a bit bashful, as if he was vaguely
ashamed, and when I went to flick over the pages in
spite of the admonition, he seemed to cheer up.  You
learn to read little signals like that as a dealer,
and I remembered the last time I'd been asked to sign
something without looking at it.  So I took the
papers, and very carefully began to read them.

"What's all this clause about assigning all rights to
both tangible and intangible properties to the bank?",
I asked.  "I understand about intellectual discoveries
I might make, and so on, but this looks as if I'm
giving away stuff I actually own - not that that's
much...."

"Oh, no need to worry about that, young man, just
sign, please.."

"Perhaps I'd better have my lawyer read it
through...."

"If you don't trust the bank, young man, perhaps
you're not the kind of person we want working here",
he blustered.  And his whole attitude now shrieked at
me that something was wrong.

"No.  I'll take my time, and read it through, and give
it back to you tomorrow.  I'm a pretty good dealer,
and if the bank doesn't want me, I 'm sure I can take
my services elsewhere.  I'm not a slave, you know!"


"Now look here", he blustered again, "Just sign, young
man!  The bank has been good to you...."

Tony was definitely smiling now, as I think he enjoyed
seeing me assert myself, and, taking my side very
openly now, he said "Steve, why don't you get Miles in
corporate legal to check it out for you?  He probably
writes that sort of stuff all the time, after all...."

So I just walked out, leaving them there, and took the
express elevators up to the corporate executives'
floor (and where the legal department was, of course).
 Miles seemed surprised to see me initially, then,
when I showed him the contract, at first look puzzled,
them amazed, then almost shocked.  "Now I know what
they've all been running around here about all day,
like chickens with their heads cut off", he said,
"and why every time I walked past, they went into a
secret huddle.  I thought we were doing some
ultra-secret deal involving a new Chairman, and, well,
to a certain extent they are..... They didn't want me
to know, as I suppose someone has told them that you
and I are, shall we say, acquainted."

"You see", he went on, "They're asking you to assign
to a small committee of the bank's officers all your
rights to any property you acquire that is related to
the bank - shares, stuff like that."

"Well that seems harmless.... I don't have any."

"Well that's the clever bit, Steve:  I think you do.
Mr Hawthorne is dead, as we know, and I wonder who his
heirs are?"

"Well, Charles, I guess...."

"Exactly so! But he's a slave, Steve, and slaves can't
own property.  And when an owner acquires a slave, he
normally acquires all that slave's property, too!"

"You mean like I was enslaved, as I was considered to
be dad's 'property'?"

"Right again.  You are the owner of Charles, so if
Charles is left stuff by Mr Hawthorne, you get it.  I
wonder how much the old bastard left his son?  Are
there any siblings or anything?"

"Not as far as I know.  It was only ever Charles at
the apartment, and down at Manderleigh....."

I stopped, as the realisation hit me.  "You mean I
might own all of that?"

"Well, expect a fight, Steve.  And it depends on Mr
Hawhorne's will, and whether his attorney was clever
enough to foresee that his might happen and has some
sort of get-out clause in it - you know, 'I leave
everything to my son Charles unless he is prohibited
from inheriting by virtue of insanity or enslavement,
in which case....'."

Look, it gets boring from here on, at least the legal
stuff does.  It took months to resolve, and the bank
used all its financial muscle to try to get Mr
Hawthorne's will set aside, even going so far as to
suggest that "worthy charities" ought to inherit,
rather than "an ex slave".  Miles left the bank and
fought my case - he really seemed to enjoy it, and
there's no way I'd have been able afford that kind of
representation myself - and he had great satisfaction
in being able to point out that there was no such
thing as an "ex slave" as, by definition, slavery was
for life - I'd never been a slave at all!.  "How", he
asked the courts, "could lawyers who were so sloppy
possibly even consider placing the management of so
many assets, assets vital to the well being of the
USA, into some charitable trust?  Surely they'd get
that wrong, too!"

It took more than a year, but I found myself the tenth
or eleventh richest man in the USA!   Mr Hawthorne's
assets were deviously hidden, and it took longer to
unravel them, but by cross-holdings in various
offshore companies, trusts in secretive Switzerland,
and other devices, he even owned some ten percent of
the stock of the bank.  I got particular pleasure from
demanding the right to be on the Board, given the size
of my holding.  Of course there were horrendous
inheritance duties to pay, and very fierce penalties
to the IRS as you might expect - but they were happy
to accept payment, and there was not even a mention of
enslavement!  It was just as I've always thought - the
IRS chases the little guy, like dad, to the limit, but
the big cheats get away with it.

In all that time I'd not been to Manderleigh as Miles
had advised that it was unwise to be seen to be
profiting from the assets, in case it should turn out
that they were taken away from me and then I might get
hit by charges for their "use" in the intervening
period.  That had made staying at the apartment
difficult, too, but when Miles saw I was living in one
of the slave "kennels" he said that I should stay on,
as even if I were ever to be charged rental, it would
be less than I'd have to pay on an apartment.  But
once the courts ruled in my favour and I was
undisputed owner of everything, I knew it was time to
go and sort out dad!

By one of those odd coincidences that seem to happen,
Charles' situation got resolved at much the same time:
 he'd come out of his catatonic state after a month or
so, but when they came to assess his state, before
handing him over to me, they had decided that he was
"fragile" and that if he were released to his owner,
me, there was a high probability that he would simply
run away, or steal, or do anything to get more drugs.
Consequently he'd been moved to a "slave restructuring
facility", as they called it, where he could be made
to work at closely supervised jobs such as assembling
consumer goods whilst he got over his deadly craving.
Now, I was told, he was "ready for collection",  but I
left him there for another week or so, as I thought it
better to go and actually survey my Manderleigh
holdings first.

As a member of the board of the bank I had a right to
use the corporate jet, so once more I left New York on
a Friday afternoon and arrived at Manderleigh in time
for an early dinner.  Tony and Miles had offered to
come down with me, but this was something I thought I
needed to do alone.  On arrival, all was very much as
I remembered it, except that now, of course, the limo
swept up to the vast front doors and I strode up the
steps as owner, rather than being required always to
use the rear entrance.  I sat down in the study,
remembering my other times in here, and one of the
slaves stood hesitantly in the shadows until I
commanded him to bring me a vodka and tonic, and to
summon Stryker to my presence.

Stryker must have been waiting to be called ,as he
appeared even before the drink did!  "You can have my
resignation....", he began.

"No, I need someone to run this place, and you know it
like the back of your hand.  You will stay and carry
on just as before."

"I can't stay here, sir.  You were a slave..... I used
you..."

"I was in fact never a slave, Stryker.  And it was me
who used you, I seem to remember."

"No, I'm quitting.  I need a change."

I stood up and faced him.  He was much broader and
much more muscled than me as he evidently still worked
the weights to excess, but I was perhaps an inch or
two taller than him.  Before he could react, I reached
down and grabbed his dick through the tight shorts he
habitually wore.  My hands closed around the plastic
moulding he used, and I sneered at him "Still trying
to make out you're a proper man, eh, Stryker?  How
will you feel when I let it be known to your new
employers, whoever they are, that their big,
tough-looking slave manager has a tiny weenie, a
shrivelled up little dick that would be better on a
schoolboy?  Do you think anyone would want to employ
someone like that, eh?"

"You wouldn't...."

"Yes, I would.  I need you here, and here you can
stay.  I'll pay you the same as Mr Hawthorne, give you
the same powers to run the place, but there's no
question of you leaving.... Unless you enjoy public
ridicule, that is...."

He looked for a moment as if he would hit me or
something, as I saw his muscled fists clenching and
unclenching as he stood there.  "Come on, Stryker!
Don't be a fool", I added, now more conciliatory.
"You have a good job, and you know that.  Well paid,
lots of power...  You'd find it difficult to get a
better one, anywhere."  I relaxed my grip on his dick
and "shaper", and as he stood there,  I simply opened
his shorts and pushed them down.  He made no move to
stop me, as I usually did this when, as a slave, he'd
planned to use me and I had instead abused him.

It was hard to take hold of his dick, as it was
faintly repulsive lying there in my hand like a dead
slug, but I stroked it into life ,my hand easily
covering all of it.  I held him tight, allowing my
fingers to reach down and cup his raisin-sized balls,
and pulled him over towards the couch and positioned
him to stand behind the back of it.  Now it was easy
to do as I had so many times before and simply grip
his neck and push him, or perhaps it's better to say
"guide" him to bend over it, so that his ass became
accessible to me.  One advantage of all the steroids
and stuff he took was at least that his butt was a
pleasure to behold - huge, strong muscles, curving up
from his thighs to make a most exciting prospect.  He
kept his body shaved to emphasise his musculature, and
in the glow of the fire it was evident too that he
oiled himself to make his skin satin smooth.

The size of a man isn't all that important, I always
find - what matters is who is in control, and even as
a slave, once I'd started I never had any problems in
bending Stryker to my will.  Now, with the added
status of being his employer, and a wealthy man, I
knew he would be even less likely to resist me, and
for a moment I thought that perhaps I should just
leave him there:  it would emphasise to him that I
knew I could take him if I had wanted, but that I'd
chosen not to, and this might humiliate him further.
But my dick was twitching with anticipation - Tony and
Miles were great as fuck buddies, but there's
something very special about using a hard, muscled ass
on a mature man, an ass that's not usually available,
and one where the strength and power of it means that
you're going to have to force the cheeks apart, and
then batter your way in!  By the time I'd finished and
was lying  forward onto his back with my dick still
skewering him after I'd filled him with my cum,  I
knew he was still in my power.

Although draining myself into Stryker had put me into
a good mood, I was still dreading dealing with dad,
and so I postponed it until the following morning - a
good dinner and a good night's sleep would make me
feel better, I thought - and, after all, dad had been
a slave for so long now that another day wouldn't make
much difference.

I asked Stryker to join me for breakfast, and as we
ate I told him that I needed to see Joe, and that I
had some difficult choices to make about his future -
I wasn't sure, for example, that I wanted him living
with me in New York.  Stryker looked uneasy, and when
I finally demanded that hew tell me what the problem
was, he  sounded a bit sheepish.  "Look, sir, you
don't have any experience of managing slaves....
Well... I guess it's more one of being managed in your
case.... Not that I meant to be rude, sir... But you
weren't  a slave anyway, I suppose.... But you only
saw one side of it, and only had your own experience.
I've been in this business a long time, sir, and
manage hundreds of slaves, and see how they behave...
And...."

"Oh get on with it, Stryker!  What's the problem?"

"Sir, your father - or shall we call him Joe - has
been a slave here for a long time now, sir.  And Joe's
the kind of man that was big and tough and powerful in
the outside world - not powerful as you are now sir,
able to order big companies around - but powerful in
the sense that other men didn't argue with him, and
looked up to him.  Well, sir, as often happens, these
men whose whole life depends on them being in
control... well, once they're enslaved, they lose it,
sir.  They become different people.  And they can't go
back, sir..... Joe is a good slave, sir, now...  Once
he was 'broken', sir, his whole view of life, of
himself, of his place in things, changed.  He's a
slave through and through, and there's no way he'll
adjust to life as a free man.... He's a happy slave,
sir, but he'll be miserable as a free man.  He'll no
longer be totally confident of his own abilities, and
he won't be able to cope....  That's what being broken
in to being a proper slave does to you, sir... People
think it's about the pain and suffering the slave's
body receives at the time, but it's the destroying of
the slave's will to be anything other than a slave
that's important, sir.... And there's no way you can
make him a free man again 'inside', whatever you do to
remove his collar..."

Stryker seemed quite agitated as he said all this, and
I understood why when he finished with "So don't blame
me, sir... I had to break Joe, not only because Mr
Hawthorne ordered it, but because I have to be able to
run the place, sir, and you can't run it with slaves
who don't understand that they are slaves...."

I nodded, and what he was saying seemed to accord with
the changes I'd noticed in dad over the years - the
big, super-confident guy who'd I'd always looked up to
was now physically stronger and tougher than he'd ever
been before, but his manner had changed:  he'd become
subservient, and he didn't like it when I was cross
about being ordered around... and he blamed me for my
anger, rather than blaming the system.  He wasn't the
dad I'd known before we were brought here.

I got up from the table and went out on to the
terrace, and there, coming up the lawn, was dad,
harnessed to the mower with the Mexican guy, Juan,
guiding the thing and occasionally flicking at dad's
back with a tawse to "encourage" him.  As he got
closer I could see that even at this early hour dad
was dripping with sweat from his  exertions, and as he
got closer still, I watched as his cinched dick bobbed
up and down, semi-erect, as he toiled away.  As he
toiled away for me now, I suppose.

If I'd acted then, things might have been different.
But as it was, I stood there and said and did nothing.
 I stood and watched dad turn the heavy mower around
and trot off back down the lawn.  As a slave, he
hadn't even looked up to the terrace, where he'd have
seen me, so intent was he on his work.  That wasn't
the dad I knew, the dad who was always interested in
what's going on, and who'd have sneaked a peek up at
the figures of Stryker and me as we stood there,
risking Stryker's anger as he needed to constantly
challenge and test things.    And the moment was gone,
lost for ever - I could hardly do anything when they
reappeared, could I?  I shouldn't have let dad do
another circuit of the lawns as I watched, there was
no excuse for me.  I should have stopped him that
first time, run out and thrown my arms around him.
But I didn't.  And now I knew I never would.

End Of Part Twenty One.