Date: Thu, 4 May 2006 21:49:30 -0700 (PDT)
From: Hank M <redbeardedsf@yahoo.com>
Subject: Taking Wally to Gaytown, part 2

TAKING WALLY TO GAYTOWN, part 2
By Master Redbeard
(redbeardedsf @ yahoo.com)


(This story is inspired by Waddie Greywolf, who was himself inspired by
Richard Davis. Greywolf allowed me to read an advance chapter of a story
that is as-yet unpublished. His story is about a fundamentalist Christian
father in Texas who enslaves his sons. My story about a father and his sons
is very different from Waddie's, but it is based in the same universe and
was inspired by reading Waddie's story.)



(This is a fantasy story set in a world in which slavery exists. This story
includes gay sex, some of which happens between an adult man of 18 and
older men. If any of this is offensive to you or if it's illegal to read
such a story in your jurisdiction, go away now. If you have trouble
differentiating between reality and fantasy, do not read this story - go
get help now.)



The sheriff loaned me all the appropriate chains and cuffs and slave
paraphernalia so I could take Wally to the Gaytown slave hall. I knew these
things were not supposed to leave his jurisdiction, but that's the nice
thing of living in a small town where everyone knows and trusts each
other. I shackled Wally up good and stuffed him in the trunk of my
car. Then I made a quick stop at home, grabbed Wally's duffel bag and
stuffed a bunch of his clothes into it. McGee the slave trader had
suggested I do this, but I didn't understand why. I figured I could always
drop off the duffel bag of stuff to some charity in Capitol City. Seeing
that these were the clothes of a known homosexual, I surely didn't want to
give them to my younger son or distribute them in our town. Out of
consideration to Wally in the trunk I tossed the duffel bag in the back
seat and drove nonstop to Capitol City.


You better believe I was not looking forward to my first visit to
Gaytown. I had never been in the presence of homos - at least not that I
knew of - and being surrounded by a whole community of them was not an
appealing thought to me. But if this was the place for me to get a good
price (and to find a good owner) for my newly enslaved queer son, so be
it. A dad has to do what a dad has to do.


I knew enough to bring Wally in through the back entrance of the slave
hall. He was collared, had handcuffs attached to the collar on the back,
and had an 18-inch chain attaching the shackles on his ankles. Sheriff
Taylor had used a temporary tattoo to place Wally's slave identification
number toward the top of his right pectoral and he had even placed a global
positioning chip behind Wally's left ear. I had also, at the suggestion of
McGee, dressed the boy in a pair of clean white briefs in place of the
standard slave shorts. We got looks from a lot of the men as I led Wally in
by a leash attached to his collar. I wasn't sure if the looks were because
he wasn't properly groomed as a slave or for some other reason.


Just inside the door I was approached by the queerest queer boy I ever did
see. He was nearly my height, but thin as a rail. He held a clipboard up
against his torso with both hands. Instead of standing up straight he was
sort of leaning back a little, as if he was posing for some girly fashion
magazine. His hair was bleached white with a blue streak in it and I swear
he was wearing eyeliner. From a distance he looked like a boy but when he
was near he looked closer to 30. I looked for signs that he was a slave,
but he was not collared and he was fully dressed in tight white slacks and
a shirt that was opened almost all the way down the front showing his
hairless chest.


I had to fight the urge to talk to this boy about Jesus and try to save
him. That wasn't why I was here. And if I looked around the slave hall
there were just too many who needed saving. The effete young man lisped at
me, "My, my, what have we here? And you're new to peddling slaves in
Gaytown, aren't you, sir? I would've remembered a big hunky master like
you." He actually giggled like a schoolgirl.


Bracing myself not to show my revulsion, I quietly said, "I'm just here
this one time to find a buyer for my son."


I swear to you this flitty homo mumbled under his breath, "Fuckin' hot." He
looked up and down Wally and then asked, "This boy is a slave?" I handed
him Wally's enslavement papers. He glanced from the papers to the boy and
then grinned, "And he's 18?" His hand started toying with Wally's balls
through the cotton fabric of the briefs as he continued, "And just
yesterday this was free boy tackle."


Impatient I pulled Wally by the leash, inadvertently choking my son for a
moment. I glared at the skinny fellow and said, "I'd just like to get this
boy prepared for sale and get this whole thing over with. I'd appreciate
your help."


He became businesslike and pointed to different stations and services
around the hall. Most important was the slave preparation area. He told me
there was no charge if I wanted to use the facilities to shave and scrub
and give an enema to my boy. I shuddered and quickly blurted, "I ain't
giving this boy an enema!"


"Well, sir," he became huffy. "This is not a discount slave traders dealing
in broken down mine stock. Our clientele expects that any slaves out on our
floor will be totally cleaned outside and inside. If you prefer we offer
slave service." He went on to rattle off prices for any and every service
you could imagine - not just bathing the slave, shaving his body, giving a
proper slave haircut and giving him an enema, but even clipping his
toenails. Of course the prices were outrageous, but what choice did I have?


The young man minced over to the preparation area and filled out a card for
Wally to have a cleaning, a thorough body shaving, and an enema. I had a
little argument about price when I saw that some big hairy muscled slave in
his 30s was getting shaved. How dare they charge me the same to body shave
Wally's underarms and pubes. I even pulled apart Wally's butt cheeks and,
as I suspected, found not one hair there. The attendant, snippier than
ever, said, "Well, sir, if you'd prefer to shave the boy yourself then
there'd be no charge to you at all." I swear, if it hadn't been that
Wally's balls needed to be shaved I would've taken him up on that. As it
was I put the charges on my credit card.


The effete young man became solicitous again, thanked me for my business,
wished me well in getting a good price for my son, but then under his
breath and cheekiest of all he said, "I just wish I'd been there to see you
take your son's cherry, dad."


I looked up at him furious and said, "I'll have you know that I'm a good
church-going Christian man. I am not a deviant homo like you and your lot!"
I realized I had said that in a loud voice and men all around were now
looking at me. Would they toss me out on my ear?


The young man stood at his full height and pursed his lips as he asked,
"Then why did you come here, sir?"


I pulled myself up to my full height, a few inches taller than him, and
said, "My son happens to be a homo. I love my son and want him to be where
he belongs - as the slave to some... some..." I couldn't find the right
word to use with all of these queers looking at me. I didn't want to insult
them when I was outnumbered.


But then he flitty young attendant got a serious look on his face and said,
"I'm sorry I was out of line, sir. You're a good father." Then he turned on
his heels and left.


I watched as the slaves worked on Wally's slim young body. A slave boy who
looked barely older than Wally did the shaving. As I watched I thought this
might be a good job for Wally. Even though I hadn't seen any hair in
Wally's ass crack, the slave spread my boy's cheeks and ran the razor
neatly up the curve on each side.


Then Wally was handed over to an older slave, a solidly built man, who bent
him over and started greasing his bottom before shoving an enema nozzle up
into my boy. As his butt was being filled, this older slave was whispering
something into Wally's ear. I don't know what it was, but there were tears
coming down Wally's face. Well, I figured it's highly stressful being
enslaved, but I couldn't trouble myself with chatter between slaves. I was
surprised that the older slave went on to give Wally three more enemas
before he was through with the boy. Then Wally was showered with two slave
boys soaping him up, washing him off, and then wiping the water off his
body because there didn't seem to be any towels for the slaves. I was asked
one last time by the slave in charge if I wanted a proper slave haircut for
the boy and, following McGee's advice, I refused. The slave nodded and
said, "Good choice, sir. He'll appeal to the men who have a fetish for free
boys."


A slave directed me to a platform where Wally would be displayed. I could
tell it was not a prime location. I was off toward the back along the side,
not a high traffic area. I knew enough about retail to figure that the best
spots were given to the regular dealers. Wally had on his slave collar and
the white briefs, but his hands were no longer cuffed. I simply had him
hold his hands behind his back in slave rest position. His feet were
shackled and attached to pegs in the floor.


Another attendant came up to me and began asking a series of questions
about Wally, as he wrote things on his clipboard. He examined Wally's
enslavement documents more closely. This attendant was just about as
effeminate as the first one, but he was all business. He turned on his
heels without a word and within five minutes he returned with a neatly
typed out sign that listed all of Wally's vital information: height,
weight, date of birth, date of enslavement - it even listed the fact that
he had not received any formal training and that he was believed to be an
anal virgin.


The attendant had hardly left when I heard a screeching voice. I realized
it was coming from two men nearby who rushed up to Wally. "Oh, sweetie,
this is the one I want." His fingers were quickly pulling at Wally's
nipples and then running down the boy's torso, pushing his underpants to
his thighs. "Isn't this tight little body just divine?"


I looked over the two men. They both were around 35 and were wearing
expensive suits. They might have been executives during the week and they
might well have passed for straight men. But together the two of them were
mincing like schoolgirls and their voices were way too high pitched. The
first who had spoken was blond, but it didn't look like his original hair
color. His dark-haired compatriot was just slightly quieter than the blond
as he inquired, "Just how old is this little twink anyway?"


The two queers looked over the sign and didn't even acknowledge my
presence. "See" the blond squealed, "he's 18, he's legal." By now the blond
was manipulating my boy's penis and getting it erect. Wally squirmed but
did a good job of maintaining his slave rest position.


The dark-haired man was pumping a finger in and out of Wally's ass. "Yes,
honey," he offered. "But look at him. He sure as hell doesn't look 18. What
will the neighbors think?"


"The neighbors will be jealous and beating their dicks raw wishing they
were us and they had a young piece like this to play with and fuck. The
neighbors are all gay and your boss is a screaming old queen," The blond
giggled.


Shaking his head, the dark haired fellow was still squeezing Wally's ass
cheeks as he said, "Yes, but you know my boss is head of the league that's
fighting for tougher laws against underage sex. He's off in Florida right
now fighting the change they made in their laws."


Frustration marked the blond's tone as he said, "Yes but this boy isn't
underage, is he? He is 18 as of today."


"On paper he's 18," the other man snapped. "But take a look at him? Anyone
who sees guys owning a slave boy like this will figure those masters are
hot for kids. With a face like this he could more easily pass for 15, maybe
even 14, than 18. And if he was laying on his tummy with that smooth ass in
the air..." The man shook his head and just stormed off.


The blond called after, "Well, even then he'd still be legal in
Florida. Whether your bleeding-heart, slave-loving boss likes it or not
they're not about to raise the age of consent back up after the boom in
their tourist business." Then he followed quickly after his partner. I went
over and pulled Wally's underpants back into place.


About two minutes later the blond returned, approached me, and handed me a
bidding slip. I opened it and read "$40,000" along with his name and
address. He grinned at me and in a conspiratorial tone he said, "I know a
sweet piece like this will go for way more than $40,000 but I just wanna
piss off my boyfriend by placing a bid on him." He giggled again and
without waiting for a word from me he disappeared into the crowd.


The Gaytown slave hall did not work like an auction house. I would simply
keep Wally on this platform and it was my choice whether to sell him to
anyone who bid on him. Alongside the sign with Wally's vital information
there was a small board that listed the current bid. For more than an hour
it stayed at $40,000 and I was starting to think I should be satisfied with
that amount.


I watched a succession of men come by and look at Wally. Some just glanced
and walked on. Many of them got a good feel of him and were especially
interested in testing his ass. I could see now why the slave hall insisted
on the boy being thoroughly cleaned outside and inside. A few men stopped
and asked questions about the boy. I answered as honestly as I could. Some
eyes lit up when they realized the boy had been enslaved less than a day
earlier. So this was what was meant by men who had a fetish for free
boys. It soon became obvious that the vast majority of men were just window
shopping - they probably couldn't even afford slaves but enjoyed seeing and
touching boys on a Saturday afternoon.


While I saw many men who fit the stereotype of screaming queens, there were
a few who didn't seem queer at all. A serious looking man spent a good deal
of time touching Wally all over. He wore jeans, work boots, and a tight
t-shirt and looked like a construction worker. My first thought was that he
didn't seem gay. My next thought was that he couldn't possibly afford
Wally, but he was spending a lot of time. His hands went down into the
boy's underpants, both front and back. Finally he looked at me, nodded his
head and asked, "You the father?"


I nodded my head in response and he seemed to be studying the sign of vital
information before he continued, "So if you're the dad, how come you
haven't taken the boy up the ass yet?"


"I'm not a homo," I stated plainly. Knowing what the follow up question
would be I added, "I found out that my son here is a queer boy. I believe
selling him in Gaytown as a slave is the best thing for the boy."


He smacked Wally on the butt and ordered, "Bend over, boy." When my son did
as commanded, the man pushed the boy's briefs down to his knees and started
to work one finger in and out of the boy's tight bottom. He was
concentrating on his work and then went to two fingers. The big man smacked
Wally's butt again and said, "Stand up." Then he went around to the front
of my boy and started to stroke his penis and fondle his balls. "Nice
size," the man nodded his head. "Looks especially big on his small
frame. But then again with a lips like these and an ass like this not many
men are gonna care about his dick."


Given how shabbily he was dressed, I was about to ask why he was spending
so much time abusing my son's body if he was not a serious bidder. But then
the man pulled out a card and wrote down a bid. He handed it to me -
$75,000. I looked over the name on the card and he explained, "I'm an agent
for a string of international resorts. We cater to wealthy older gentlemen,
very exclusive and very expensive. We'd probably start your boy off in our
Caribbean location. We might even fudge a little and tell the clients he's
younger than 18." That was the first time I saw this large man crack a
smile. "In the warmer locations you can get away with things like that." He
then pulled Wally's briefs back in place, shook my hand and left.


A few minutes later two men approached - one was around 30 while the other
was a thin white-haired man, very distinguished looking. The younger was
good looking with curly light brown hair and an open face, and he seemed
strangely familiar. He was looking from me to Wally and I saw Wally's eyes
go wide. I saw a smile on this man's face as he approached me and shook my
hand. I stared at him blankly and he said, "You don't remember me?" He went
on, "I'm Ryan Philpott. I was the swimming coach in your son's middle
school."


Coach Philpott? He had left the middle school suddenly during Wally's last
year there. I never knew why and I hadn't heard anything of him since
then. I started putting the pieces together. Coach Philpott together with
this older man here in Gaytown. I didn't want to know the details of why he
had left our town, but I had already figured out what was behind it.


The coach looked me up and down and said, "Fancy seeing you here?"


I immediately got his implication and blurted out, "I'm not a homo. I'm
here for Wally's sake. Wally is as queer as a three-dollar bill and this is
where a boy like that belongs."


Philpott turned to Wally and I swear I saw him licking his lips. "My
favorite swimmer, my pretty little Wally, hot damn." His hand immediately
went to the front of Wally's briefs. He pulled them down and fondled
Wally's now fully-shaved penis and balls as he continued, "Just as hairless
as it was last time I saw it. Only last time I wasn't allowed to play with
it, was I?"


The white-haired gentlemen came up to me and shook my hand. "Nigel
Winterly," he said dryly. Then he turned to watch the coach fondling my
son. The two men smiled at each other. Then Nigel continued, "Ryan is such
a dear boy. I can't deny the lad anything."


Ryan Philpott had gotten behind Wally and was fondling and probably
fingering his butt as he licked my boy's ear. The boy's briefs had once
again slid to his knees. That's when Wally cried out, "Please, coach,
don't. I'm not queer. Please help me. Don't let my dad do this to me." He
was loud enough that there were men all around who turned in our
direction. Many of them started to come near to watch the scene play out.


My son's former swim coach smacked the boy's bottom so fast and hard the
sound reverberated in the room. Then the man looked at me and snapped,
"Well, the sign is certainly true. He certainly isn't trained, is he?" I
shrugged my shoulders and the man continued, "I expect you will give me
permission to paddle the slave for that outburst." Tears were already
filling up Wally's eyes.


An instant later a slave had brought a choice of paddles to Ryan, who
weighed them and opted for a leather paddle rather than a wooden one. He
nodded kindly and said, "I'll go light on the boy as he's new to this."
Wally was bent over and suffered eight hard strokes with the leather
paddle. The man administering the punishment made no attempt to hide the
tent or the stain on the front of his own tan trousers.


The former coach was blatantly touching his penis in his pants as he looked
at me and said, "For the indignity the boy caused me, I'd like to have him
masturbate me. It's standard here at the slave hall. Unlike using his mouth
or his ass it doesn't take anything away from his future buyer."


I was unprepared for the request but I simply nodded my head. As I had no
interest in seeing the man's penis being stroked in public, I moved to the
side. I realized there was quite a crowd gathered around us - apparently
many others were interested in watching Wally stroke the man's exposed
penis. I could tell Coach Philpott's pants were opened and I could see my
son's arm moving in quick rhythmic strokes.


The man leaned his head next to Wally's and was talking into the boy's ear
- but not whispering, talking loud enough for the men surrounding us to
hear. "I used to watch you in your Speedos, boy. Fuckin' cutest boy ass I
ever did see. I used to jerk off thinking about you, Wally, thinking about
what I'd do if I had you naked and all to myself..." There was a gasp and
then he shouted out, "Catch it in your free hand, boy. Don't let any of it
spill." Then I heard a grunt and the men who were watching the scene
cheered. When I turned back I saw that Wally was looking down at his hand
that was filled with gooey ejaculate.


"I know you're new at being a slave, boy, but you should at least know what
to do with sperm. Eat it, Wally," the man said with an evil smirk. The men
watching began to encourage, "Go on, boy, lick it off your hand," while a
group of college guys started chanting, "Eat it. Eat it." Philpott took
hold of Wally's dripping hand and brought it to the boy's mouth. In a
commanding voice he snarled, "Stick out your tongue, Wally." I watched the
horrified look on my son's face as his tongue touched the glop in his
palm. You would have thought the lad was being poisoned. But he obediently
licked his palm clean even as tears flowed freely down his face.


The man who had so recently ejaculated now ran to his older companion like
an eager puppy and the two whispered. Nigel then handed me a card with a
bid on it - the price for Wally was now up to $85,000, this was more than I
earned in two years time.


As I watched Ryan and Nigel walk away I felt a dislike for my son's former
swimming coach. But I also thought it might be a nice home for my newly
enslaved boy - being a servant to a man he had looked up to just five or
six years earlier. I considered the bid and wondered if I should just take
it on the spot.


The crowd of men who had watched the proceedings as if it were a stage show
moved away. Then I became aware of one gentleman who had not moved away
with the rest. He was different from anyone else I had interacted with
since arriving in Gaytown - a tall, dignified man with salt and pepper hair
and beard, he had a commanding presence, was wearing a white suit in a
style that might be called dates and a pair of cowboy boots that must have
cost more than a few month's of my salary. He was about two inches taller
than me and seemed every inch a man's man.


The distinguished gent nodded to me and told me to call him Major. He said
his friends just called him Major and that he hoped he and I would be
friends. He then proceeded to take a silver case from his inside jacket
pocket. I watched as he pulled out a flask and two silver cups. He handed
me one cup and poured from the flask. Then he filled his own cup, tapped it
to mine and said, "My daddy never believed in talking business with a dry
mouth, sir." I then drank down the smoothest whiskey I've ever tasted. He
grinned at me and said, "Twenty-year-old whiskey, sir. A mite older than
the lad over there." I had to laugh along with him. It was the first time
that entire day that I felt totally at ease.


He refilled my cup and started asking me questions but didn't seem
immediately interested in Wally. He was asking about our town, abut my job,
about my family and even about my church. It turns out he was raised
Assembly of God and he commented quietly about having given more than half
the money for his local church to build a new building. He was the sort of
gentleman who didn't boast loudly about what he did, but took a quiet
pride.


When he finally nodded toward Wally he said, "The boy there reminds me
mightily of my favorite grandson, sir. But I must tell you my grandson is
quite a bit younger than this slave boy. By the time men in my family reach
the age of majority they are around my height if not taller."


I must have sounded apologetic as I said, "Well, my dear departed wife, may
the Lord hold her to his bosom, was a small-boned woman, her daddy was not
very tall."


The Major stood up and walked around Wally, but he did not touch the
boy. He looked at me and said, "You say the boy is a homo. But I heard the
boy protesting that he is not. Do you mind, sir?" He stood in front of
Wally and said, "Slave, I give you permission to speak. Are you in fact
homosexual?"


Wally's eyes moved to me. I knew the boy did not want to get punished
again. I softly said, "Go on, boy. Answer the man."


Swallowing hard, the naked slave shook his head and said, "Sir, no sir. I
took a celibacy pledge at our church and I never had sex with anyone."


"That's not what I asked, boy," the Major said firmly but softly. "You can
still be a homo even if you haven't had sex yet. It's a matter of what you
think about when you masturbate, slave boy. Do you have homo desires?"


"Sir, no sir!" Wally said clearly.


The Major remained looking deep into my boy's eyes for a long moment. Then
he turned back to me and asked me to tell him the story of what made me
believe my son was queer. I told him the entire story of finding the
pictures. How some of the pictures even showed boys being dominated by
older men and how some of the snapshots had obviously been taken of his
teammates from the swim team. I then told the man about Wally springing a
full erection when he was stripped naked for enslavement.


The Major nodded his head sagely and said, "Yes, I see how it is." Then
after a silence he continued, "Of course lying is a serious offense for a
slave. But in this case I believe it's a matter of denial. The boy simply
can't admit the truth down to his very core. I would not be harsh with him
on this matter."


The major then took his card from his pocket and wrote something on it. He
handed it to me. He had bid $90,000 to buy Wally. I met his eyes and said,
"I didn't realize you'd be interested in purchasing my son, sir. I mean,
you're not queer like the rest of them here."


He laughed and said, "Not queer? Well, maybe a bit different from many of
the others, but I do enjoy a nice young bit of slave boy tail on occasion."
He continued, "I follow my church's admonition that sex with a male slave
does not constitute the sin of homosexuality. I'll admit to you that I'm
attracted to male flesh, especially something as lovely and firm as your
boy there, but I limit my contacts to slaves.


"Let me add, sir, that I have many dear friends here in Gaytown and in
other places where I have homes who are homo to the core. They have sex
with each other. They have sex with all sorts of free men. I am fond of
many of these friends and I pray for them, sir. But for me, I will assure a
place for myself in heaven - and for my slaves as well - by spilling my
seed only into the bodies of enslaved lads like this one.


"Tonight, I'm having a few friends over to celebrate my 60th birthday. I
came here looking for a boy to be the main attraction at my party. Your son
and I have the same birthday. It seems predestined that I should own this
boy."


I heartily agreed. I told him excitedly about all the things that had
seemed predestined over the previous 24 hours: the fact I found those
pictures one day before Wally turned 18, the fact that there was a slave
hall in Gaytown on the day of Wally's 18th birthday, and now the amazing
fact that the Major was looking for just such a slave boy and that he
shared a birthday with my son. I offered my hand to shake on the deal, but
the Major pulled back and said, "No, no, sir. This is a business
arrangement and you'll just have to see whether I give you the highest
bid."


As if on cue, just as the Major walked away Ryan Philpott and Nigel
Winterly strolled by and raised their bid to $95,000. Not five minutes
later the rugged man representing the resorts came by, chatted me up for a
few minutes and raised his bid to $100,0000. I watched for the Major,
hoping he would return.


(end of part 2 - to be continued)