Date: Sat, 7 Apr 2012 23:13:48 -0700
From: Randall Austin <randallaustin2011@hotmail.com>
Subject: My Big Mistake

My Big Mistake

By Randall Austin

Short Story

This story is erotic fiction meant for mature readers and should only be
read by adults over the age of eighteen years old. Please do not use my
stories without my permission and please forward all comments to
randallaustin2011@hotmail.com

Randall Austin's Archive Group:
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Randall_Austin_Stories

When my alcoholic brother Jeb, 10 years older than I was,
died at the age of 47 from a failed liver, his entire
estate was left to me, as I knew it would be, and it
included his three sons.  His boys were good boys
really; they loved each other and were well behaved. But
they were prime material for enslavement, and they and
their father knew it.  But it never got around to
happening because for the last 5 years of his life Jeb
couldn't get around to doing much of anything.  The
moment he woke from sleep he would immediately start
drinking.

The boys didn't mind their father's condition, because
they knew the slave system would get them sooner or
later, and as long as their dad was their legal
guardian, they were safe.  When their dad finally did
die I think they knew that it was over for them.
That's why I got the court order for their enslavement
and went out to their house (already by then it was my
house) with three police officers the very next day
after Jeb's death.

It went smoothly enough.  They were a little shocked
that their favorite uncle was acting so quickly, but I
assured them that I wasn't doing it for the money.  I
explained that it would be for their own good, and my
enslavement order guaranteed that they were a unit and
could never be separated.  That fact alone almost made
them happy to be enslaved.

The problem with Jeb's boys was that Bradley, the
oldest at 23, had a limp from birth.  He was strong,
smart and able, but the limp would forever limit his
prospects in the job market, and he knew it.  His dad
could never afford corrective surgery, and his
education was limited because his dad had to pull him
out of school when he was a freshman because he
couldn't afford the tuition.  The problem with Keith,
22, was his jug ears.  He was a darn good looking
fellow, and his big ears made him real cute, but again
even the relatively simple corrective surgery was way
beyond his dad's means.  But he wasn't really hirable
with those ears.  They drew attention and were
distracting for a number of reasons.  The youngest,
Stuart, 20, was strong, fit, and good looking, but he
just never did well in school and dropped out in the
7th grade.

All three boys spent the last 6 years working at Jeb's
farm, doing the gardening.  Somehow the three of them
managed to make a living for themselves and their dad.
I explained to them that the spiraling tax rate would
make keeping the farm impossible, and they more or
less resigned themselves to their fate.

The cops got them stripped and collared in no time,
and we took them immediately to Jim Steber to get
them branded, because I wanted to be sure to get them
over to the `Warehouse' for tomorrow's lot auction.
Once a month was when auctions for slaves sold in
multiples took place, and I wanted to move them as
quickly as possible.  I didn't want to have
them around for another month of feeding and caring.
I also arranged for an early morning appointment at
the vet (what we call slave doctors in California) for
their required pre-auction physical.

I know it always helps to have a marketing gimmick, so
when the cops and I got them back to the farm from
their branding, I had the cops leash them up out in
the barn, and I set to work on some snazzy little
sales gimmick.  When I decided on it, I took some
cheese and bread and a bag of apples out to the boys
to tell about it.  I sat down in the hay with them and
told them that from now on they were going to be known
as the Bongo Brothers.  I told them that having names that
were related to their physical characteristics would
endear them to their owners, and make them
likely to find kindly masters.  Their new names were
Jugs, Gimpy and Mule.

The next morning I gave the boys some undershorts and
shirts, and told them that was the usual dress
for the slaves traded at the Warehouse.  I had
the boys get in the back of the pickup, leashed them
down, and set off for our first stop, the vet.

When we checked in at the vet's office, the nurse told
the boys to remove their underwear and go into the
waiting room, so they would be ready for their
examination as soon as they were called, as is common
practice for slaves.  When we got into the waiting
room I was upset to see that it was full of naked
slaves ahead of us in line.  If the prospect of
missing the auction didn't give me a headache, the
behavior of my boys at seeing so many naked girls
certainly did.  The three of them erected to the hilt,
and trying to stop Mule from openly jacking off was a
real chore.

When we were finally called an hour and a half later
Dr. Fulton commented, "I knew I'd be seeing these boys
one of these days."  When he completed the physicals,
even without the lab results, the news was not good.
Dr. Fulton said the health report was probably going
to seriously drop my asking price for the boys.  It
seemed that Bradley had a heart murmur, not at all
life threatening or even necessarily any kind of
problem, but its presence in slaves is bad.  No one
wants to pay top dollar for something that COULD drop
dead tomorrow.  Keith had asthma, and that could be a
big hassle for owners down the line, and Stuart was
sterile.  In a product whose biggest asset was stud
appeal, that was not good news.
The boys put their underwear back on and I took them
by their leashes to the corner diner and we had a big
meal of bean and cheese burritos.  I knew we wouldn't
be going to the Warehouse today.  We had a good time,
and the boys were farting left and right even before I
got them back in the pickup truck.

It didn't look good for me.  Just as the farm and
house would cost me a fortune to get fixed up in order
to be able to sell, so would the three boys.  One
solution would be to sell them on the black market,
but that could backfire and I could end up getting
myself enslaved.  And that also meant the boys would
be split up, and I preferred not to allow that because
of a promise I had made to Jeb.

I finally decided that the only solution was for me to
have their enslavement order rescinded, always a risky
business.  It cost me a lot, but I thought it would
make my life easier.  Whether or not it did is open to
debate.

There is always the danger of a freed slave seeking
damages in the courts, for everything from wrongful
enslavement to abuse.  But finally I just thought the
boys were too far out of it in legal matters to even
begin to know how to go down that route.

But somehow they managed.  The boys took me to court,
won the case, and had me enslaved for life.  They took
over complete ownership of all my assets, and put me
to work full time fixing up their farm and house.  It
was a happy day for them when they paid Mr. Steber to
come over to the farm to brand me chained up to my
pickup truck.

OK, so I paid a big price for thinking that somehow
physical defects indicated limited ability, and a poor
academic performance indicated faulty epistemological
equipment.  But what I still can't figure out is where
the boys got all of their business and legal savvy.

The boys have made underwear my official uniform,
they've had me fix up a nice little room for myself in the
barn, and Jugs, Gimpy, and Mule (they decided to keep
the names I came up with for them as tokens of
victory) come to me at strange times and make me
service them with `hour' long massages, foot lickings,
and blow jobs.  And about once a week Jugs orders me
to spread my hoo-hoo, so he can stick his business up
into it. They've named me Bongo, and they have a bongo
drum out on the porch, which they beat as their signal
for me to report to them.

And I respond immediately when they beat the drum,
because they are only too happy to apply the paddle to
my behind if I dally.  But they have told me that as
long as I continue to serve them as nicely as I have
so far during my first six months of enslavement,
they will not take me out to the Warehouse in order to
make a quick buck on me at the `seconds' auction.

The End