Date: Sat, 28 May 2005 09:17:55 -0700 (PDT)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: The Labourer, Part 19

THE LABOURER  by Pete Brown.  petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

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

Part 19

It must have been three weeks before my life changed,
abruptly.  Instead of setting out for a site one day,
Mister Rooney again drove me out alone, and I realised
we were heading for my old home.  He told me to wait
by the truck as he went into the house, and my father
and he emerged sometime later, shaking hands.

"I've sold your lifetime indenture, Steve", Mister
Rooney informed me.  "You are now your father's slave.
 But he has signed a contract with me to employ you
every weekend, and to provide certain services to him
- particularly in regard to continuing your training
as a loyal slave, and  disciplining you as required to
ensure that you perform properly.  You'll be spending
the weeks here, but each weekend you will return to
Rooney's Contracts for manual labour.  At the same
time, your father can request me to focus on some
aspect of you that requires improvement, or
punishment."

"Yes, Steve", my father cut in. "I realise now that I
was not sufficiently stern with you in your formative
years, and this is going to be corrected.  As my slave
here, you will obey me in all things, and work hard as
I direct.  I will not hesitate to use Mister Rooney's
services to have any failure on your part punished,
and punished harshly.  Do I make myself clear?"

I looked at him, somewhat surprised, as my father was
generally a rather liberal man.  "Yes, dad", I said
quietly.

"That's the first change, Steve!", he snapped.  "I
think it's important for you to remember that although
I am your father, you are actually my slave!  I have
bought your lifetime's indenture from Mister Rooney,
for a considerable sum, I may add, and I expect your
total obedience and respect.  Consequently for the
avoidance of doubt and to make sure that you
understand your position, it is appropriate that you
refer to me at all times as 'sir'.  Is that clear?"

I began to feel astonished.  "Yes.... Sir....", I
replied hesitantly.

"Good!  Now, strip off those clothes ,as they belong
to Mister Rooney and form no part of our contract, and
we'll get on."

He looked at me and I realised he was serious - he
wanted me to strip in front of him, out there on the
steps.  As I hesitated, Mister Rooney handed my father
a cane, one of the standard ones that he and the
overseers used all the time.  "If I were you, Mister
Masters, I would show the slave that you are serious
in requiring his complete obedience at all times.  You
should start off your ownership in the way you wish to
continue."

"Quite, Rooney.  As ever, you have some sensible
advice - I can see this slave owning is just a little
more complex than I thought."

As he spoke, my father grabbed my firmly by the left
biceps, pushed me towards the hood of Mister Rooney's
truck, and pushed at me to indicate that I was to bend
over it.  Then as I stood there in total astonishment,
he laid three strokes of the cane across my butt.  He
was breathing heavily as he stopped (it can't have
been the physical effort of three strokes, so it must
have been that he was excited), and said calmly "Now,
Steve, every time you disobey me, or fail to obey me
rapidly and completely, I will punish you.  I told you
to remove your clothes - and those boots - so they can
be returned to Mister Rooney.  Now do so, at once."

As I pulled the polo over my head, Mister Rooney added
"And Steve, if you were still my slave, you'd have
earned another stroke just then.  Your owner gave you
an order, and you failed to acknowledge it.  Whatever
happened to 'sir, yes, sir'?"

As I fumbled with the buttons on my shorts I muttered
"Sir, sorry, sir", then began to mentally curse myself
for not taking my boots off first!  I had to hop
around again, then stand there on one foot with the
other hitched up to my knee, as I unlaced and pulled
off the heavy boots.  And all the time my father and
Mister Rooney were watching me.

"He's a fine specimen of a man", Mister Rooney said.
"A credit to his breeding, if I may say so! Of course,
he's been really working hard, and his musculature
development is probably now at a peak.  Still,
provided you don't feed him too much, and don't allow
him to drink alcohol or sugary, fizzy drinks, the
labour at the weekends will probably mostly maintain
it.  But whilst I think about it, what are you going
to allow him to do about sex?"

"Allow him to do about sex?"  My father sounded almost
like an echo.

"Well, Steve is twenty six, and exceptionally virile -
look at the dick on him, and the way his balls are
filled with cum.  You saw on our first visit how he's
close to cumming a lot of the time!  What kind of sex
do you intend to allow him to have, as I will need to
implement the same regime at the weekends?"

"How do you mean... I wouldn't like women in his
room...."

Mister Rooney laughed.  "Oh no, certainly not!  It's
not good for indentured servants who are living
together to have women available to them - too much
arguing and jealousy about 'who goes first'.  In any
case, Steve here has a taste for men, not women, as
you probably know. No, I mean you could demand that he
be celibate - but then there would be rather a lot of
mess occasionally as he had wet dreams.  Or you could
allow him to jerk off on certain days, as you ordain,
or you could allow him to jerk off whenever he wanted,
which for Steve is about twice a day, I believe.  I
take it there are no other indentured servants who
live here?"

"He likes men?  Well, he has changed!  But no, there's
no one else here.  I have contractors come in for the
grounds, and the cleaning.  And there's an old cook
who I employ, but she lives with her family on the
other side of town."

"Well then I would not advise you allowing any other
indentured servant to visit Steve, or for him to visit
them:  you don't want strange men around your house at
night, or for Steve to be roaming off to other owners'
houses:  I think it's generally not good for
discipline.  But at the weekends, in the barracks...."

"But I thought you told me that you only had
indentures on males, Rooney."

"I do.  But perhaps when he was living at home before,
Steve had not properly matured and was still chasing
women?  Now he's a tough, aggressive dominant top.
I'd be grateful if you'd allow him to have sex with my
other servants, as it helps to keep them calm and
satisfied, and without Steve's dick my other top guy
will have a hard time servicing them all..."

I was blushing with shame and embarrassment now, as my
father asked quietly "You mean Steve goes with men?"
I don't know whether it was because he was asking
about me going with men, or whether it was just that I
wasn't used even to the concept of my father
discussing how often, or with whom, I had sex.  When I
was at home before it was "don't ask, don't tell", in
relation to all the women I had.

"Of course.  And as an owner of an indentured servant,
you should be grateful:  firstly, it keeps him calm
and content;  and secondly there's no possibility of
acrimonious law suits developing:  I once had one of
my servants get a kitchen maid from the premises next
to us pregnant.  Goodness knows how they managed it,
as I lock my servants in at night and they're fully
occupied during the day.  And he ran a tight ship,
too.  Anyway, they did, and when the baby was born it
was quite apparent it was sired by one of my servants,
as the man in question was a big, buck black and the
baby was a 'breed.  The man promptly sued me for the
costs incurred in being deprived of the services of
his maid for about six months, as I had failed to
exercise proper control over one of my servants.  But
with Steve here preferring men, there's no problem."

"Very well, he can have sex when he's at your
barracks, but I may sometimes request that it be
withheld, as a punishment."

"And are you going to allow him to jerk off during the
week, Mister Masters?  My experience with men like
Steve is that even when you give them the most clear,
definitive orders to leave their dicks alone, they
persist in jerking off once the lights are out and
they think you can't see or hear them!  If he's to
remain celibate during the week, I strongly advise you
buying a penis cage from one of the specialist
suppliers, and keeping it rigidly attached and the key
under your strict control.  Look....", Mister Rooney
gestured at me.  "He's even getting an erection now,
just with thinking about sex!  If you don't want him
playing with himself all the time, I strongly
recommend some form of restraint..."

"Oh, I think Steve probably takes after me!", my
father said, laughing slightly.  "Like father, like
son, you know.  I think it would be unnecessarily
cruel to forbid him sex during the week."  He looked
at me, and went on "So, Steve, you can jerk off
whenever you want when you're in your room, but I want
no mess!  No disgusting pieces of toilet tissue on the
floor, no cum stained boxer shorts, or sheets.... Not
like when you were living here before.  Do you
understand?"

I could hardly believe it - all those years when I'd
been going what all adolescents do, thinking I'd kept
it secret, and my father had known all the time.  I
stood there almost stunned, then, remembering what I'd
been told, said "Sir, yes, sir.  Thank you, sir."

"See", Rooney commented.  "He's getting the idea
already.  Doesn't it make you feel good, to have an
obedient servant, or, as in this case, slave?"

"Indeed, Rooney -  that's more respect I've had from
Steve than I've had in all the previous twenty six
years!"

Both men shook hands then, and as Mister Rooney went
to get into his truck, my father turned to me.
"Right, Steve.  You'll be sleeping and working in your
old room during the week, and as you heard, at
Rooney's over the weekend.  Follow me."

He turned and went into the house, and I followed him.
 It felt so odd to be in the nude in the entrance hall
- I'd never done it before - and it felt really
strange to pad up the thickly carpeted stairs in my
bare feet, my dick bobbing up and down as I did so.
We halted on the wide landing, and my father said "I
shall expect you to come in through the rear entrance,
of course, as it's not fitting for a slave to use the
front door.  And if I send you to bed, you are to
remain in your room until it is time for breakfast, is
that understood? - there's to be no sneaking out, no
climbing down from your bedroom window, as you used to
when we'd 'grounded' you."

"Sir, yes, sir", I muttered, wishing this was all
over, and I could again put some clothes on.  Standing
there naked being lectured by my father was not funny!
 And at the same time  I began to realise how little
I'd really got away with when I was growing up - all
that stuff I did to sneak out, to jerk off.... He'd
known all the time, as most parents do, I suppose, and
had just silently laughed at my antics.

We went on down the long bedroom corridor, and my
father threw open the door to my room.  But what a
change:  when I last lived at home the walls had been
plastered with posters of almost naked women -
something of which my father had disapproved, but
which I'd insisted on.  Now they were bare, except for
a big notice board on which there was a sheet headed
"Demerits".  And my big double bed, where I'd had so
much fun at odd times when my parents were out and I'd
taken one of my women back, had been replaced by a
narrow bunk, just like I had at Rooney's Contracts.
As I watched, he opened my closet and pointed to the
short row of things hanging there.  "Right, dress, and
come down to my study so  I can explain your new life
to you."

He turned and went out ,and I looked almost with
horror at the stuff hanging there.  I was definitely a
boxers, jeans, sweats and sneakers kind of guy.  But
in my closet there were just two pairs of neatly
pressed chinos, some tiny white cotton briefs, and two
of those incredibly "preppy" short-sleeved cotton
shirts in a discrete pattern.  Complementing all of
this was a pair of shiny brown lace-up leather shoes,
and some pale tan socks!

I pulled this stuff on, realising that it was the
first time for a year, almost ,that I'd worn long
pants - all my thighs and calves really felt strange,
as the chinos confined them.  But when I looked at
myself in the mirror, the whole effect wasn't as dorky
as I'd imagined it would be - the tight chinos kind of
emphasised my butt and there was that satisfying bulge
at the front, and my biceps and pecs strained against
the cotton of the shirt, showing my excellent
development.

I strode down the stairs, and halted at the door of my
father's study.  I used to go in there all the time as
a kid, to see what he was doing, and then as a
teenager I used to use it as a place where I could
phone from without the rest of the house hearing.  But
what now - the door was closed.  Should I just walk
in, or what?  I suppose it was all different now, as I
knocked, then waited.

My father called for me to come in, and I opened the
door into the familiar room.  My father was sitting
behind his desk, and I went to sit down on one of the
easy chairs nearby as I had done so many times before.
 "No, Steven",  my father said, as  the words came out
something almost snapped inside me - my parents always
called me Steven, just as they called my brothers
Michael and William, and it was only our friends who
called us Steve, Mike and Bill.  This usage took me
right back, so that I almost felt like a kid again.
"I think you should always treat me with respect as
otherwise it will be harder to maintain the proper
master - slave relationship.  So when  I call you in
here to give you orders or to review your progress,
you will remain standing unless I give you permission
to sit.  And don't slouch!  You always did just let
that body of yours droop.  When I saw you at Mister
Rooney's you had a smart, obedient posture - you will
use that in front of me.  Is that understood?"

Blushing a little, I moved into the subservient
posture with my head down.  Strangely, clasping my
hands behind my back and standing there like that in
front of him was somehow comforting. "Sir, yes, sir",
I answered.

 "Good, Steven.  It may seem harsh to you, but I think
 I failed you as a father by being too lenient with
you when you were growing up.  Your brothers were no
problem - they buckled down to work, got good grades,
sailed through college, and are now both high up in
their professions, making a lot of money.  But you
were different - I don't think I spotted in time that
if wee gave you an inch, you took a mile.  Before I
realised my mistake, you were so self confident and
wilful that there was no controlling you, and even
worse, you refused to listen to good advice.  So you
did badly at school, and refused to go to college -
but then I hoped you'd see sense as you matured, but
no, you just wanted to drift along, with no
responsibilities, doing labouring jobs and whoring
around the place.  Well, I have not given up on you,
Steven.  I'm going to try again.  Only this time, with
my rules."

He paused for breath a moment, and went on "You are
going to college.  Not the prestigious place that you
could have gone to, like your brothers - I had all the
funds in place to pay for it, you know.  But the local
State college.  I have had to make special
arrangements to get you in, even so, and called in
many favours.  They don't really like taking
indentured servants, as it can cause problems with the
other students, so you will need to be sensitive and
careful.  You will work there all week, and work
diligently and hard:  I expect straight A grades, and
never to receive a bad report of you - I've asked the
principal to carefully monitor you, and to tell me
instantly if there are any concerns.  Failure to
obtain straight As will result in instant punishment,
from me:  Rooney has given me a list of suitable canes
and tawses to buy, and I am having a punishment horse
delivered tomorrow."

"On Friday evenings you will wait at college until one
of Rooney's trucks collects you, then you will work
for him on Saturday and Sunday, being delivered back
here on Sunday night so that you can prepare for the
next day's classes.  At all times you will keep your
room impeccably neat and tidy.  You will wash and iron
your clothes, and I require you to be neatly turned
out at all times, with none of those sloppy sweat
shirts and torn jeans that you used to effect.  You
will be quiet around the house, not eat and drink
anything unless it is given to you, not turn on the TV
without permission, and you will certainly not demand
to watch the football if I have selected a movie, as
you used to.  Is all this clear?"

"Sir, yes, sir", I said, feeling thoroughly miserable.

"Steven, I know it may sound harsh to you, but this is
for your own good.  A man needs a proper education
these days, and I am determined that you will get one.
 I have selected your classes for you - you will study
the classics of English literature, get a good
grounding in mathematics and science, and will take an
extra class in comparative religions."

"Sir!", I burst out.  "Religions, sir?  That's
rubbish.  You always told all of us that all religion
is just superstition, designed to keep the poor and
ignorant  in their places, that Jesus and Mohammed and
all those people ranked with the tooth fairy and Santa
Claus in being there to please children and the simple
minded..."

"Silence!  You have just demonstrated why I have
selected this class for you.  You are wilful and
headstrong, always interrupting your elders and
betters.  So I am going to make you take this class,
complete rubbish though it is.  I understand that it's
taught by a fundamentalist preacher, who always starts
with a prayer to give thanks to the lord... He doesn't
do comparative religion as a serious study at all, but
it's just a further excuse to ram Christian myths down
unsuspecting throats.  But it will be good for you -
you will simmer and seethe the entire time, and will
have to writhe essays that you know are complete
rubbish.  And you will need to do these things so that
he will give you an A grade, otherwise I will punish
you.  Making you spend time every week doing something
totally pointless, something which we all know is
total rubbish, will help to calm and tame you."

I went to protest again, but just knew it was no good.
 "Now, get off to bed, as you need to be up early
tomorrow.  It's five miles to the college, and you
will walk there, as an aid to keeping you fit."

As I lay in my single bed in my old room, I didn't
really know what to think.  I missed all the sounds of
the other guys in the barracks around me, and I
desperately wanted to fuck someone - anyone - to
release some of the tension building up in me and to
demonstrate my power over them.  There was no one
around, of course, so I just jerked off, and
remembering what my father had said I was careful to
catch my cum before it went all over the sheets, and
didn't let the toilet tissue fall to the floor.  All
might I tossed and turned, and didn't sleep well at
all.  As you do, I fell into a deep sleep just before
dawn, and I failed to hear the alarm, and was woken
very abruptly:  my father had ripped the covers off
me, was standing there looking at my naked body with
my morning hard-on, and had just slashed a tawse
across my bare butt as I lay there!

I jumped out of bed, and stood shamefully in front of
him, my dick waving up and down in front of me.  "I
always wanted to do that, Steven!", my father said,
smiling.  "All those morning when it didn't matter how
many times you were called, you remained in bed until
the last moment.  Now, if you fail to get up at the
proper time, you will be tawsed or caned by me, just
like that.  Is that clear?"

"Sir, yes, sir", I mumbled.  And I knew his methods
were starting to work:  It wasn't the pain of the
tawse on my butt - I was used to that - but the
humiliation of having my father seeing me like this
that I was determined to avoid in future.

"Right.  So shower, shave and dress, and join me in
the dining room in fifteen minutes."

My father turned and left, and I went and pissed, ran
the shower, and wondered whether I'd got time to jerk
off, decided I hadn't, as I'd better not be late, and
went through the normal morning things.  The dining
room was empty, so I sat at my usual place, and I
could smell the appetising odour of bacon and eggs
coming from the kitchen:  perhaps this wasn't going to
be so bad after all, as I did like my food!

Just at that moment my father came in, and I said "Hi,
dad...", just as I used to in the old days.

"Steven, I think you have forgotten that I require
respect at all times.  Firstly, you will stand up when
I enter the room, as I am your owner, remember?  And
secondly, you will always address me as 'sir'.
Always, is that clear?"

I pushed back my chair and got to my feet, and
muttered in a rather rebellious tone "Sir, yes, sir."

"And change your attitude!  In the hall I've put a
chart on the wall, and every time I hear a sullen or
rebellious tone in your voice, I will make a mark on
it.  And for every five marks, you will be caned.  Is
that clear?  For your own good, I am determined to
effect change in you."

I tried hard, and the "Sir, yes, sir", came out
neutral, I think.

At that moment the door to the kitchen opened and Mrs
Sheffield, the lady who had cooked for us ever since
my mother died, bustled in with a big plate of ham,
eggs and hash browns that my father habitually ate at
that meal.  There was the tantalising odour of freshly
brewed coffee.

"What will you have, master Steven?", she asked me
cheerily, and I was about to say "A huge plate of
everything", when my father cut in "Mrs Sheffield, I
have explained to you that this is no longer my son
Steven, but the permanent indentured servant, or
slave, Steve, that I have bought.  As such, you will
not ask him for his preferences, and I have told you
that his invariable diet is the bars of chow that are
stacked in those boxes in the utility area, and fresh
fruit.  He drinks only water, not the bottles of
designer water I keep for my guests in the fridge, but
ordinary water, straight from the tap."

"Oh, but Mister Masters, that seems to hard... It's so
good to see him back home... I can easily cook him..."

"No, Mrs Sheffield.  You are extremely hard working
and generous, but this is in Steven's best interests.
He needs to learn discipline, and to appreciate what
he has lost in life.  You are not helping him by
treating him as the prodigal son, and indeed, you may
be setting back the programme I have in mind for
turning him into a proper young man.  You do see that,
don't you?"

"Oh Mister Masters, you did explain it to me, and I
hope you're right.... Steven was always the one with a
nice personality, always had a civil word for me, not
like your other sons, I may say, who just ignored me.
I hated it when he went wrong.... If I can help you
get him back on the right road, I will..."  As she
said this, Mrs Sheffield looked flushed and harassed,
and almost ran out of the room.  I felt so terrible -
it had never occurred to me to be particularly nice to
her as she unfailingly served all of us with delicious
meals, but even so, she had remembered me more than my
brothers.  Still, I do have a nice personality, and
I'm never gratuitously rude to people, so perhaps it
paid off.

I sat there in silence, my mouth watering as I could
see and smell my father's breakfast, until Mrs
Sheffield returned with mine - one of the standard
chow bars, but neatly placed on our china plates.
Still, she had excelled herself in the fresh fruit
area, as there were strawberries, melon, peaches, and
fresh pineapple, all beautifully prepared, and in huge
quantity.  I had a feeling that the household expenses
were going to rise dramatically as Mrs Sheffield
scoured the shelves in the market for the only stuff
she was allowed to prepare for me!

As I walked to the college campus I saw car loads of
kids roaring past me as it was the first day of the
new academic year, and when I got there, there was the
usual rush of things to do:  registering, signing up
for classes (my father had given me a neatly printed
list of those he had researched), and so on.  I felt
really stupid, alone, and out of it all - most of the
otters were kids fresh from school, and I was so much
older.  And in their normal college kit, they were
casually different from my formal shirt and chinos.
A lot of them knew each other, too, as they came from
the same schools and were already in little cliques.

 I was standing in line to sign up for the classes
when a voice suddenly said "Out of my way, slave
boy!".  I turned around, and there was a young punk,
swaggeringly arrogant, surrounded by a small group of
buddies.  "Didn't you hear me?", he demanded, and
then, playing to his audience, "They let in this
indentured servant - my dad told me about it - but
look at the tattoo on his neck.  He isn't just an
indentured servant, he's permanent - he's a slave.  At
home our servants know their place, but this one
doesn't seem to, standing there in front of us!  I
said out of the way, slave!"

He went to push at me, and I almost hit him!  I was
older, much, much bigger physically and very, very
strong. But fortunately something held me back -
perhaps he was trying to provoke me, and I guess that
had I even so much as touched him, there would have
been a huge row.

I stepped back, and he smirked "Mind your manners,
slave boy!  When you get an order, don't you
acknowledge it?"

One of the girls in the group chimed in "Oh leave him
alone, Trent!  There's no point in bullying a slave!
I think it's good that his owner wants him to be
educated.... And he's easy on the eyes, too -
something for us girls to look at in class, rather
than you weedy specimens."

In one way I was grateful, as it kind of defused the
situation when a couple of the other girls chimed in
saying that they liked seeing a real hunk of a man for
a change, but it's not very good, is it, when you
can't stand up for yourself?

"Here", she went on, touching my arm,  "You stand by
me.  We'll queue together.  What's your name, boy?"

"Steve, ma'am".

I don't know what  I was thinking.  Now a young girl
was looking after me!  At one time I'd have been
making the running, sizing her up as suitable fuck
material.  And now all I wanted to do was ram my dick
up the arrogant ass of that Trent, to really show him
who ought to be in charge.

End Of Part 19