Date: Sun, 27 Aug 2006 08:44:22 -0700 (PDT)
From: Hank M <redbeardedsf (at) yahoo (dot) com>
Subject: The Fate of a Poor Man's Son, part 16

THE FATE OF A POOR MAN'S SON, PART 16

By Master Redbeard
A new master - how low can you go?


This story involves erotic situations and actual sexual contact between
males - as well as humiliation, exhibition, and much of the usual stuff for
this genre. If you are not at least 18 years of age (or whatever legal age
is where you are) go away now! If you are offended by the content of this
story go away now! If you are in a jurisdiction in which it is illegal to
read or possess such fiction stories go away now (well, it would be better
if you could get the hell away from that jurisdiction). And if you are
someone who cannot distinguish fantasy from reality, please go away and get
some help.


(Steve Masters is a creation of Pete Brown UK and appears as a special
guest star in this story by permission of Master Brown.)


I welcome reader response (no flames). Include name of the story in title
line. You can reach me at email address below.

Location of previous chapters on SLAVENOW
1. 2652
2. 2659
3. 2660
4. 2663
5. 2666
6. 2668
7. 2670
8. 2698
9. 2707
10. 2737
11. 2738
12. 2742
13. 2840
14. 2841
15. 2843


- - - - - - - - - -

THE FATE OF A POOR MAN'S SON, chapter 16

By Master Redbeard (redbeardedsf at yahoo dot com)


How much should I tell you about my time as a slave for Judge Snow?


There are some slave memoirs that spend paragraphs describing each
individual slash of a 50-stroke whipping. Some slaves and former slaves
seem to enjoy providing the minutest details of the grossest indignities
they suffered. Does it give them a sense of peace to put it on paper? Do
they enjoy the sympathy of others knowing just how much they suffered?
Clearly there are readers who relish each horrific point in these
chronicles.


I shall try to be factual without delving too deeply into that which is
disgusting. Those readers with a more genteel sensibility may wish to skim
past certain paragraphs. Those readers with a fascination for the prurient
can easily envision and elaborate on anything I reference.


Judge Snow lived on the top floor of the tallest residential building in
the town of Winston. He had the entire top floor, not just an
apartment. When I first entered his penthouse I could see for miles from
the windows. I didn't know that would be my last sight of the outdoors for
more than a year.


My cage was on a dolly and was wheeled directly into a large bathroom and
dressing room off the judge's bedroom. Once in this room I was taken out of
the cage I'd occupied since leaving the Winston estate. My handcuffs were
removed. But before I could breathe a sigh of relief a metal cuff was being
soldered onto my left ankle. The sparks burned my flesh but I kept
silent. There were thick rings of a chain attached to the ankle cuff, and
this chain was attached to a wall. The slave cops moved out of the way and
I got my first sight of Judge Snow in his home.


"Stand up, slaveboy," he shouted impatiently. I stumbled to my feet. He
next wanted to see how far I could go with the chain attached to my lower
leg. I was able to move to all the corners of the enclosed room. I was able
to get as far as the door of the room. But beyond the door was a hallway
that led to the judge's bedroom. I could not pass through into that
hallway.


Then I was left alone to contemplate my new home. One wall of the room was
lined with closets. I would soon learn that in addition to the judge's
wardrobe there was also a collapsible lounge chair and a collapsible
whipping frame stored away in the closets. Also there was a hidden washer,
dryer and ironing board that I would be using soon enough.


I looked along the wall where I was chained and saw the toilet. There were
magazines where the toilet paper dispenser should have been. I half smiled
to myself, wondering whether the judge used pages of the magazines in place
of toilet paper. But then I felt a chill as I remembered Captain Winston's
reference to a friend of his who didn't like to waste paper when a
slaveboy's tongue would do the job just as well. I had no doubt the friend
he had referred to was my new master, Judge Snow.


The floor was tiled and cold. I wondered if there would be some bedroll or
at least an old towel that I would use as a surface on which to sleep. I
would soon learn that there would be no bedrolls, no sheets, no blankets
and no pillows. I would sleep curled up on the cold tile floor.


There was no window in the bathroom where I was kept only an artificial
light that stayed on around the clock. I never saw natural light coming
from my master's bedroom down the hall. It didn't take long before I lost
all track of time. Was the judge coming in for his morning shower? Or was
this a late night shower? Once the door of the bathroom was shut, I never
knew whether my master was sleeping or whether he had left the penthouse to
go to work.


Above my chain there was a water dispenser in the shape of a cock. I had to
suck it way down into my throat before it would give any water. There was
also an automatic food dispenser. I thought something was wrong because
each day's portion of slave biscuits was so meager - barely half what I was
used to eating.


Judge Snow saved me from the punishment that would have come had I asked
about the slave biscuits. He walked in one day as I was eating and said, "I
don't have to spend a fortune feeding you, boy. It's not like you're
pulling a plow or doing real work. Besides your diet is supplemented with
protein-rich man cream." I thought about the weak trickle of watery cum
that he produced only occasionally and just kept silent munching on the few
biscuits.


But my new master didn't need any reason to punish me. I would finish all
the laundry, iron everything perfectly, scrub every inch of the room so
that it sparkled, and still the door might open at any time, my master
wielding a strap or a cane or a whip. No reason was ever given. As far as I
could see, the judge believed firmly that a master had a right to whip a
slave and that was all there was to it.


In the many mirrors around the room I saw the way my back was torn up. The
stripes from one whipping never healed before they were ripped up by the
slashes of a caning. The agony of the first two- or three-dozen whippings
soon turned to numbness.


The judge never had interest in dicking my ass, but he had a variety of
dildoes he'd make me stick into myself. Many had irregular surfaces and I
knew my anus was being torn up. But I would bounce on the artificial cocks
as I sucked on my master's fleshy one. Judge Snow was only interested in my
mouth and tongue, but he made ample use of both. He would lie back on a
padded lounge chair that was kept folded in a closet in this room (I was
never allowed on this chair). I would be required to lick every inch of his
body.


I had to learn to praise his corpulent body. As I licked under the folds of
fat that hung from his arms and between the folds of fat around his middle,
I would repeat the phrases he had drilled into my head: "A boy like me
needs the sweat of a real man like you, Judge Snow, so I can grow up big
and strong, sir."


The most repulsive flavors were always between his heavy thighs. I would
lick the gooey sweat from behind his balls and then feel his hand pushing
me lower. I would welcome the inevitable sucking of his cock, since it
would wash away some of the taste of the man's ass. Many times he would
fall asleep while I was sucking. But I knew my role. I kept his cock in my
mouth. At some point he would stir in his sleep and I would feel a warm
stream of piss pouring down my throat. I would gulp it down and an instant
later the judge's snoring would resume its regular pattern.


Meanwhile my body was becoming whiter and softer by the day. Although I
tried to do sit-ups and push-ups, there was nothing to really exercise my
muscles. With so little food I usually felt too weak and lethargic to make
any effort to exercise. I never saw any sun or fresh air. I looked in the
mirrors and saw my sunken eyes and hollow cheeks.


I remembered how I'd lost track of the days at the Winston estate. But at
least I had moved from room to room. At least I spoke to Rye and other
slaves. At least I had seen the outdoors and even spent time working in the
sun.


How long had I been held captive chained to the floor of the judge's
bathroom? How many times had I been required to strain my tongue to try to
push it between the massive cheeks of the man's hairy ass? I gobbled up the
slave chow and licked my fingers for any dust. And yet the rumbling in my
stomach was stilled. Perhaps my stomach had shrunk. I no longer felt the
hunger I'd experienced during my first months in the penthouse.


When the judge was feeling especially frisky or vindictive I would be made
to pull the collapsible whipping frame from the closet and set it up for a
serious punishment session. Judge Snow would watch me firmly attach my
ankles to each lower corner. Then he would pull my arms up and out as far
as they'd go and attach each wrist to an upper corner of the frame. Then he
would go wild whipping my entire back from shoulders to calves.


Then came a particular day. As usual I had no idea whether it was day or
night. I didn't know the day of the week or the month or even the
season. The judge had me firmly tied down to the whipping frame. His
breathing seemed even louder and more labored. Apparently his excitement
was over the purchase of a new whip. It was from China, the whip-thin tail
of some hybrid animal they'd genetically-engineered, and well over six feet
long.


Judge snow had designed the room with tall enough ceilings so he was able
to raise a long whip high over his head and bring it down with a whistling
sound. The first lash of this newest implement felt like it cut straight
down the middle of my back, from my neck to my ass crack. I gasped with a
deep intake of breath.


I felt the second slash and the third slash. I heard the whip begin its
whistling descent for the fourth slash, but then the long animal tail just
fell across my back and I heard a thud. I looked in the mirror and saw
Judge Snow lying on the floor clutching his chest.


"Help me! He-e-e-elp me," the man rasped weakly, gasping for breath. I
couldn't take my eyes off the image in the mirror. The judge was dying on
the floor behind me.


"G-G-God in heaven..." he struggled with the words.


Hearing those words from my cruel master was the final straw. I don't know
where I got the strength to speak in such a strong voice but I called out,
"God in heaven - if there is such an entity - the world is a filthier,
fouler place because Jebediah Snow crawled across it. If there is a heaven
and if there is a God, make this vile creature eat a ton of shit in hell
for every tear shed by a boy he unjustly enslaved."


"No-o-o," the obese man croaked. Now I knew for sure he was dying. He
didn't even rebuke me for speaking out of turn. I knew any slave speaking
to a master as I'd just spoken to mine would be flayed alive and ripped
limb from limb.


The dying man's lips were moving. He was trying to begin his prayer once
again, but I wasn't going to give him a chance. "Jebediah Snow, God decrees
that you will spend eternity in boiling excrement. For each time you signed
an illegal document so some underage boy could be abused, you will...."


Judge Snow was finally able to squeak out the words, "F-f-f-forgive me."


Now I was the one with the cruel laugh, as I snapped, "No! Fuck no! God
won't forgive you! I won't forgive you! Rye and Will won't forgive you!
Some things will never be forgiven."


Through the mirror image I saw a look of absolute terror on my master's
face. Was he struggling for air one last time? Or was he reacting to the
most horrific sight of his life in front of his eyes? His mouth was
stretched open wide. Was he crying out "No" or was that a death rattle?


"That's Satan's asshole you're looking at," I concluded, knowing full well
these were the last words he would hear in his lifetime. "Open wide,
Jebediah."


Given my unused muscles, my malnourishment, and the intense sensations from
the brief whipping I had just experienced, the words I'd spoken used up all
reserves of strength I may have had. And where did I, a slave, get the
nerve to say those words to a master?


I wondered for a moment if there was any chance anyone could have heard me?
Were other slaves in the judge's penthouse? He often fell asleep in this
room with me so nobody would come anytime soon. But the next day or the day
after someone would notice he was missing. Certainly the judge would be
expected in court. But for all I knew this could have been vacation time.


Hanging stretched out by my arms and legs, my body was sagging. I slipped
in and out of consciousness. My limbs were all numb. I didn't know how long
I'd been hanging there. I remembered, when I was in school, reading about
how long a person could survive without water. How long was that? How long
had it already been? And how bad was the smell from Judge Snow's bloated
corpse? I had gotten so used to bad smells serving that awful man, it would
have been a blessing for me to lose my sense of smell altogether.


Looking at my reflection I figured dying might be the best of many bad
options. In time I wasn't certain whether I was alive or dead. Was I
dreaming when I saw myself floating on a cloud? Judge Snow was trying to
climb onto my cloud. I heard the same rattled, "Help me," he had moaned
while dying. I kicked his hands and watched him tumble down and down and
down. The flames rose where he landed. Was that really boiling excrement
down below?


When I heard voices, I figured it was just part of another dream. But then
I felt hands unlatching my wrists and ankles. I blinked my eyes trying to
get my vision clear. People were struggling to carry out the obese body of
the judge on a stretcher. Unlatched from the whipping frame my body fell
across the cold floor.


A deep voice shouted, "Get a slave in here to clean this one up. He's
alive, but just barely."


"Fuck, look at the condition of this piece of slavemeat," another voice
mocked. "He'd be better off dead."


I wanted to say "Sir, yes, sir, that's just what I thought," but by then I
had lost the power of speech. I felt some water splashing on me. I heard
the sound of electric saws cutting through the chains that had held me to
the floor of this room for what turned out to be almost a year and a half.


When I fully regained consciousness I was in a slave cage at the end of a
big room. There were slaves in other cages, but none near me. The sound of
heavy boots came close. I tried to rise to proper slave kneeling position
and wobbled in my efforts. I fell over just as I saw two pairs of black
pants in front of my cage.


"M-masters, f-forgive this slave, masters." Then I struggled back up onto
my knees, my head bowed.


"You've gotta be kidding," a voice with a Southern twang said.


A deep voice replied, "Oh yeah? Take a look at the pictures in this
folder." Was that manly voice the same one I heard when I was rescued from
the whipping frame in the judge's penthouse? "The boy in these pictures is
so fuckin' cute even the straightest guy on earth would want to dick him up
the rear"


"Wait, you don't mean to tell me...?" the Southern twang challenged.


"Yep, that's the same boy. Amazing how some people got no regard for an
investment like that. I could buy him today for less than the price of a
weekend in New York."


The two men started to walk away and I heard the conversation continue:
"I'll bet you could get him for less than the price of a weekday in
Detroit. But it would cost you so much to get him into any kind of decent
shape. And, damn, there's no way you could get his back and ass looking
good again."


"There are new procedures."


"That would cost half a million dollars for skin torn up as bad as his."


Then I heard the deep voice shouting to some person in the distance, "See
that the slave down there gets exercise for the atrophied muscles."


I didn't know what the future would bring. But I was being fed and I was
able to move around my small cage. I was given simple exercise devices - a
wheel that I had to turn with my feet and another I had to turn with my
arms - so that soon I was getting some use back in my sore limbs. Simply
waking up on my thin bedroll with a tattered sheet over me, able to see the
morning light from the windows high up on the wall, I would breathe a sigh
of relief. At least I wasn't still chained to the floor of Judge Snow's
bathroom.


Days passed and I heard the familiar deep voice coming toward me once
more. My cage was opened and I stepped out in slave rest position. As manly
as the voice had sounded, I wasn't prepared for the physical power of the
man who stood in front of me. I caught myself looking at his strong jaw and
thick neck, but then quickly looked back down to the floor. He simply
laughed. But his laugh wasn't cruel or creepy like I'd heard from my
previous masters. It was hearty and strong.


My hands were being cuffed to my collar by slave cops but I was left
standing facing this man. I could read the tag on his black slave officer
uniform: Sgt S. Masters.


"I'm your new owner, boy." These were the first words he spoke to me.


"Master, thank you, master."


"You better thank him, boy." There was that Southern drawl once more. "The
pathetic shape you're in they were embarrassed to even put you in an
auction. You're so underweight they couldn't even get a good price from the
dog food factory."


My new master snapped a leash onto my collar and started leading me through
the room as he said, "Shut up, Benny, the kid's been through enough crap."


We were stopped at the door leading to the parking lot. But it was a casual
exchange with Sgt Masters' supervisor. "This is the phone number of those
lawyers for that Winston character who used to own the boy. I explained to
them that according to the contract they had written up the boy was fully
the property of Judge Snow at the time of the old bastard's death. If
they'd contacted me before your check cleared it might have been
different. But apparently Winston was over in China closing some bullshit
deal for whips made out of hybrid animal tails.


"You should have heard those asshole lawyers going on about how powerful
Captain Winston is in the town of Winston. I told them he could stick all
his power up his ass in that one-horse company town. I work in Capitol City
for the governor. But Steve," the supervisor's voice got quieter as he
handed my master a slip of paper. "If you decide you made a mistake buying
this piece of slaveflesh, this Winston character would probably give you
some cold hard cash for him."


I had to hop quickly to try to keep up with the pace set by the big man
holding my leash. Looking down I had a view of his boulder-like buttocks
and strong thighs. "What a man," I thought to myself. Not only because of
the power in his body. But also there was the way he spoke to his
colleague. My master had actually spoken up in defense of me. "This is the
kind of man I could worship."


Somewhere way back in my mind something rebelled. Worship this man? But I'm
straight. I've only ever done queer sex when I've been ordered by my
masters, or for comfort with other slaves. But I remembered what Sgt
Masters had said about pictures of me - no doubt pictures taken two years
earlier when I was still a free boy and a statewide athletic champion. He
had said, "Even the straightest guy on earth would want to dick this boy up
the rear."


I looked at the powerful arms and shoulders of my new master as he led me
into a cramped cage beside the driver's seat in his Jeep. I thought to
myself, "Even the straightest boy in the world would be willing to worship
this man."


Then I saw the small piece of paper in my master's hand. It had the phone
number for Captain Winston's lawyers. The man's hand crumpled the paper and
tossed it on the ground as he got into his Jeep.


As he was securing the slave cage with seat belts and warming up the engine
I had a chance to look at Sgt Steve Masters' face. I was daydreaming. For
the first time in years I was lost in a daydream. I would be his slave. I
would drink his piss in the morning and then suck his cock. My mouth
salivated and my penis went totally erect as I thought about pleasing my
new master.


Then Master Steve spoke to me: "The plan is to spend a little money and a
lot of time getting you fixed up and then turning a nice profit on
re-selling you, boy." He re-opened the door of the Jeep and then reached
down retrieving the slip of paper that had the phone number for Captain
Winston's lawyers.


My daydream was over. "Yes, Master," I said.