Date: Fri, 10 Jun 2005 23:48:45 -0700 (PDT)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: The Labourer, Part 27

THE LABOURER  by Pete Brown.  petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

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

Part 27

Once the family had gone home, things went back much
to normal and I resumed my regular schedule of working
at college during the week and at  Rooney's on the
weekends.  My luck - our luck - held, and Rooney
showed no signs of selling Craig, or even of thinking
about selling him. Craig always seemed to be
absolutely exhausted, though, and confided that it was
a real treat to be able to spend the nights with me on
the weekends as he wasn't "called on to fuck all the
time."

"I thought you were a real top, Craig!", I joked, but
he looked at me seriously.

"It's all right for you, Steve, as you come here and
fuck when you want.  But it's real hard work to have
to do it, night after night, whether you want to, or
not.  Remember, part of the reason why Mister Rooney
keeps me is that I keep the other guys happy.... And
he could probably sell me at a good price at my age,
with my body, and buy a younger, cheap guy just to do
the work.  Slave prices are funny, you know - they
peak around now for us big, strong tough guys, and as
I get older, my price will decline.  Sooner or later
Mister Rooney will decide it's more cost-effective to
sell me.  We've got to get ready for that, as we'll
never meet again..."

I managed to push these unpleasant thoughts from my
mind a lot of the time, but having Craig remind me of
them made me really sad.  I couldn't get them out of
my mind all weekend, and when I went "home" that week,
my father was away on a business trip, so Joe and I
were alone in the house at night.

I was so miserable that when I finally turned off my
PC and went to bed and saw Joe lying there in his bed
already, I went over and went to climb in, thinking
that a good fuck would cheer me up.  To my
astonishment, Joe tried to push me out.

"Hey!  Come on, Joe, what's the problem?  I need a bit
of a fuck, that's all."

"No, Steve."

"Look, I'm no going to hurt you or anything.  Just a
nice, easy, regular fuck - you like that, you know.
We've done it lots of times before."

"NO, Steve."

"Hey, don't be so fucking stupid!  You used to beg me
to fuck you, remember?  And now you're saying no?"

"Yes, Steve.  I'm saying no. I don't want you to fuck
me."

"Why not, why ever not?"

"Because your dad fucks me, Steve."

I remembered as if in a flashback the way that I'd
refused to fuck him when my dad had first taken him,
and now the little fucker was reversing the positions.

"Joe, it's not up to you.  I decide these things,
remember?  I'm a top, and I decide who gets fucked
around here.  Now, on your knees, I think...."

"Steve, I said no.  Now leave me alone, will you?  And
get over to your own bed and get to sleep."

"Joe, we can do this two ways:  you can co-operate,
and I'll enjoy it, and you'll mostly enjoy it.  Or I
can do it anyway, and then I'll certainly enjoy it,
and you probably won't.  We're not negotiating here,
Joe -  you're a young guy, and I'm older, more
experienced, stronger, and, what's more, an aggressive
top!"

"Get out, Steve!"

Look, I'm not proud of what I did then, but I'm not
shamed, either.  Even though, afterwards, when Joe was
just lying there with tears streaming silently down
his face, I did feel a bit of a heel.  But look at it
from my point of view:  I'd fucked him lots of time
before, we were both not doing anything else that
night, and I needed a good fuck, as I was bored and
unhappy.  He really had no reason to refuse, had he?
And I had after all warned him what would happen if he
did, and he chose to ignore me.

And it was good, too, at least for me:  somehow, when
a guy resists a bit, and shouts and rages at you and
tries to hit you  and bite you, it all adds to the
fun, well, at least I think so.  Of course you can't
properly lube and stretch the guy, so it's his own
fault if it really hurts him, isn't it?  I took him
pretty brutally and hard and fast, I suppose, and amid
all the flailing arms, tossing bodies, and shouting
and screaming, I soon shot my load deep into him.
Then, afterwards, when I tried to cuddle him a bit,
give him a little hug to show him I really still cared
for him, he just lay there, rigid and silent, with the
tears streaming down his face.

I think my father knew there was something wrong when
he got home, but he asked Joe point blank, and Joe
said nothing.  Well, a guy probably doesn't like to
admit that another one is tougher and stronger than he
is, does he?  But Joe had his own way of getting
"revenge", as when he and my father were at dinner
that night and I was standing behind my father's
chair, waiting to bring in the next dish, Joe aid
"Steve, go and fetch me another glass of water."  No
"please" or anything.  Then, as I went past his chair,
he slapped my bare butt, not hard, but just enough so
that I was really humiliated and pissed off as he was
treating me as if he was an owner and I was a slave.

Still, I could survive that sort of thing, and he knew
that he'd better watch out in case my father's
business took him away again, and so we had a kind of
"armed truce", in effect.

We'd always made a bit of a thing of Christmas when I
was a kid, and this year my father seemed keen to
revive some of the old traditions, so we drove out to
a Christmas tree plantation to personally select a
tree, as we'd done when we were all kids at home.
Personally I thought it was a stupid idea, as we
didn't need a tree at all, and as my father made me
accompany him and Joe, it was a waste of the time I
ought to have been studying - time I'd need to make up
later than night.  Joe was pretty excited, though,
just as I had been at one time, and so I suppose he
was just experiencing the sort of stuff that he'd been
 deprived of when he was a kid in such a bad home.  He
and my father almost skipped around the place looking
at this tree and that, rejecting one after the other
as it was too thick, or too thin, or too "uneven", or
too "top heavy", until they finally selected some real
brute of a thing.  It was me who had to saw it down,
of course, and me who had to manhandle it up onto the
roof of the car, and me who had to listen to my
father's complaints as he alleged I scratched the
paint as I was a clumsy oaf.   Well, it was scratched
just a little, I guess, but if he'd made Joe help me,
it would have all been a lot easier.

They sent me to my room to work after I'd hauled the
tree in to the hall and then I had to listen to all
their excited chatter about "evening it up" as they
dressed it with a million lights and all that crap. I
don't know why I was so pissed off, actually:  I
didn't want to help decorate the wretched thing, as it
was bad enough having to go and fetch it.  But perhaps
it was because Joe did, and he and my father seemed to
be enjoying doing it together. I was glad to get away
to Rooney's that week, I can tell you, but new horrors
were waiting for me.

It was Rooney's Contracts' practice at Christmas to go
around and carol outside their major clients offices!
All of us were dressed in freshly cleaned polos,
shorts, and made to polish our work boots to new
levels of shininess, then were loaded into the back of
the trucks and driven to one office block after the
other.  As soon as we got there we all had to get out
and line up neatly, and then the overseers stood there
and conducted us as we carolled merrily.  And woe
betide any guy who did not sing loudly, and lustily:
their canes were always ready to give us a quick
stripe on the rump, to make sure we were properly
enthusiastic!

"God rest ye merry gentlemen...", we sang.  What a
stupid fucking song - there was no rest for us men,
and there's no god anyway, so the whole things is
totally pointless.  And when I got "home" I had a
generally miserable time -  neatly wrapped up for me
under the tree was a neat, new tunic from my father -
he might have at least bought a couple of sizes
bigger; and when I had to serve the special dinner to
dad and Joe, they had me wear one of those fancy red
pointed hats trimmed with artificial snow "to make it
seem like a proper Christmas", as Joe said.  Well,
they may have been enjoying it all, but I certainly
wasn't.

Look, I got through it, OK?   I got through the
ghastly family celebrations, the holidays, the work,
college.... As my time for ending college got near,
I'd survived most things - the terrible Thanksgiving
when my father decided we should go to Bill's in LA,
for example.  I don't know whether he knew that slaves
were not allowed in the cabin of the plane, but  as
well as being fucking humiliating to have to be
"checked in" as baggage, it was really cramped in the
transit cage:  they make them a standard size so that
they will stack neatly into the special part of the
luggage hold reserved for live animal transit, and
that was OK for Joe, I suppose.  But as they put me in
one, I was really crushed as my body is so much
bigger, and when they closed the lid down and I heard
the latch click, I knew it was going to be pretty
uncomfortable as my head was pushed down almost
between my knees, which were themselves bent upwards
as the things wasn't long enough to start with!  But
survive it all I did - the constant worries about
Craig being sold;  having to put up with seeing Joe as
my father's favourite, and hearing him fucking the guy
most nights; the general hate of my fellow students
(although this was toned down a lot as they got used
to me, and as Trent was no longer egging them on); and
occasionally seeing Rob in his fancy clothes in the
papers, with some new achievement (including his
second kid!).

As graduation came the Dean indicated that it would be
"unfortunate" if  I attended the ceremony as so many
parents would be very unhappy to know that their sons
and daughters had been mixing with a slave during
those years.  But my father insisted, and I just knew
it was so that I would be further humiliated, and I
even began to lie awake at night worrying that he'd
make me wear the short tunic under the traditional
gown and mortarboard!  He'd always let me go to
college "respectably" dressed (indeed, kind of nerdy,
as I've told you), but I began to imagine that he was
saving this last humiliation for me.

My father drove me to college that afternoon for the
ceremony, and unlike the rest of my fellows who were
gong around introducing their parents to each other,
we were mostly ignored.  It didn't seem to perturb my
father, who casually commented that they were mostly
"just low-level employees" as well-off people would
have sent their sons and daughters to more prestigious
colleges, and that he had more money, probably, that
the whole lot of them put together.  I have to say
that I think I could see what he meant - my father was
immaculate in his dark Italian suit and expensive silk
tie, whereas a lot of the others looked as if they'd
bought their "special" clothes from Sears!

The ceremony began, and, as I think they are
generally, the Dean made a speech, then started to
call out the names of all us graduating students in
turn.  There was polite applause continuously as the
names were called out - everyone claps their own
offspring, of course, but at these sorts of occasions
I guess there's a "conspiracy" to clap everyone
else's, too, so yours will be clapped in turn.  When
the Dean said "Steven Masters", though, and I got up
to mount the stage, the whole room went silent -
except for one, loud, steady, handclap.  My face
reddened and it felt like the longest walk I'd ever
taken as I mounted the steps to the stage in that
eerie silence broken only by the sound of a single set
of clapping hands. Then when I'd received my scroll
and turned to leave, I saw that the audience was not
really looking at me:  they had mostly turned to look
at my father, who sat there clapping me, completely
unperturbed by the fact that he was the only one, and
all eyes were on him.

We didn't stay for the reception afterwards, though -
my father muttered something about cheap wine tasting
like piss, and said that he needed to go to his office
but that he would see me that evening.  As there were
still five hours of the working day left (the working
day for slaves, that is) he therefore dropped me off
at Rooney's on his way.    Most of the guys would be
out working, I knew, but one of the Overseers was
there, told me to change into the standard working
gear, and to get out and tidy the yard generally.

I worked away, glad that college was at last over, and
wondering what was going to happen now - in a way, I
hoped my father would hire me back to Mister Rooney
permanently, as at least there I had really good
buddies, a lot of fantastic sex, and, of course,
Craig.

When the trucks began to return for the evening they
called to me and said I could stop sweeping and stuff,
and I went in to shower and change.  It was odd,
really ,as the guys were strangely silent, although
they were pleased to see me.  I was bursting to see
Craig, to tell him about my Graduation, and about my
hopes for the future, and it was irritating that he
was still out with the last crew - until they came
back, and there was no Craig.

I began to panic.  I grabbed Ted.  "Where's Craig?
Has he been injured...?"

"No..."

I knew there was something wrong!  "Tell me, you
fucker!"

"Steve, let go of my arm... You're hurting..."

"So tell me - when did it happen?  Is it bad?"

"Steve, he wasn't injured.  Mister Rooney sold him.
They came and took him away this morning."

It was as if my whole world collapsed.  I was standing
there with all the other guys around me, talking and
so on, but I didn't really hear them.  And I didn't
really "see" them, either, as the place became almost
a blur.  My brain was whirring:  who had he been sold
to?  Where had he gone?  How could I find out?  What
could I do?   And then the sickening realisation came
that there was nothing I could do - the dreadful,
terrible thing had happened that we'd feared - this
vile system had torn us apart.

It's bad enough when you quarrel and lose a lover.
But Craig and I would never see each other again, I
knew - somehow I had this terrible premonition that
Craig had been shipped right away, sold to a sex
place, or something.  I stood there, just frozen to
the spot, unable to think, unable to move.   I was
only shocked out of it by the stinging slice of a cane
across my butt, and an overseer telling me to "move
it" as they had to deliver me back to my home.

I sat in the back of the truck by myself, but, more
than that, alone - devastatingly alone.  How many
times had I sat there with my arm around Craig,
feeling his warmth, smelling his male scent, seeing
the sexy smile on his face, even when he was dog
tired?  I was numb with shock, numb with the hurt, and
when the truck dropped me off, I trailed miserably up
the drive and went around the back to the rear
entrance.

My father was in his study, and I knocked and went in.
 "Don't disturb me now, Steven, I'm working", he said
coolly.

"Please, sir.  It's urgent, sir.  I need a favour,
sir... I've never asked for anything before, sir, I
need you to..."

"Steven!  I told you not to disturb me!  You may speak
to me after dinner, but think about your position - a
slave does not ask 'favours' of his owner!  Now, get
out."

The bastard!  I bet he knew what was going on - Mister
Rooney and he were friends after all this time - and
he was deliberately torturing me in this new, subtle
way.

In spite of my misery, I had to change into the vile
tunic, then went down to dinner and served my father
and Joe, who sat there and chatted away as usual.  I
was so unhappy that I could barely choke down my chow
biscuit.  Then, after desert, my father poured me a
glass of the rather good burgundy he habitually drank
with the meal, and pushed it towards me.

"Steven, you've made me a happy man today.  I never
thought that you would graduate from college, but you
have.  It took me a lot of effort to get you there,
but I believe it was worth it:  a good college
education is something that will set you in good stead
for the rest of your life, and I am proud of you.
After that gap from High School, it was hard work to
resume studying, I expect, and it ought to show you
what you are capable of it you set your mind to it.
So let all three of us here raise our glasses and
toast 'the future!'"

Joe and he clinked glasses, but I just sat there.
Even though I thought it would be wonderful to have a
drink as I was of course only allowed water normally,
I just couldn't do it.  I remembered my father's
sustained support of me in the ceremony even when
everyone else was silent, and still I couldn't do it.
All I could focus on was my loss, of losing Craig.

"Steven, in a way I am disappointed in you", my father
went on, seeing how I did not join in.  "You ought to
be pleased for yourself, for your achievement, as it
is a credit to you.  But then you always had a
stubborn streak, a streak which these years as a slave
has evidently not totally eradicated, although I am
glad to say that your behaviour these past years has
been so far in advance from that which we experienced
whilst you were at High School!  By rights I ought to
take you, push you over the table, and tan your bare
butt for this behaviour, which is certainly
disrespectful, and verges on the insolent!  But
perhaps tonight I will be a little tolerant, and, in
any case, I have a surprise for you - a graduation
present."

"I don't want one...", I muttered, in my misery.

"Steven - follow me!", he commanded, and got to his
feet, and strode out of the room, gesturing for me to
follow him.  I got up, tried as usual to pull my tunic
down to cover my dick - it had kind of become a reflex
gesture over the years, and I don't know why I
bothered anyway, as Joe and my father were both used
to seeing me like that, after all.    There by the
side of the pool was a big box, a very big box,
wrapped up in that sort of paper that says
"congratulations!  Well done!  Best wishes!" and all
that crap, the whole tied up in silver ribbon, with an
enormous bow on top.  I just stood there, too
miserable to even be bothered to wonder what on earth
my father could have bought me, as I had no
possessions as a slave.

"Well, aren't you going to open it?", he demanded.
Then when I just gave a shrug - it was despair on my
part, but he probably saw it as indifference, he came
up to me, pushed me down on to one of the pool-side
tables, pulled my tunic up so that my butt was
exposed, and smacked me, four times, with his bare
palms.
"If you're going to behave like a petulant, spoiled
kid, then you need spanking like one!", he said,
curtly.  Then before I could protest, "Stand up!", he
snapped, and I pulled myself upright.  Tears were
streaming down my face, not from the pain of the
blows, they were nothing compared to what the
overseers at Rooney's did;  nor from the humiliation
of being a thirty year old, being spanked.  No, I
think the realisation that I was now doomed to be a
slave for the rest of my life, without Craig, had
finally struck home and I was in black despair.

"Now, for once, do as you're told!", he continued.
"Is it so hard for a slave to obey a simple command?
Open your present!"

Look, this isn't the way that present giving and
receiving ought to be approached, is it?  But I had to
really make a huge effort to drag myself across to the
box, pull the ribbon off it, and start to tear away
the paper.  As I did, I found bars inside - the bars
of a standard slave transit cage, and at first I
thought my father had planned another trip for us and
that this was to take me to the airport as his luggage
once more.

But then... As I tore away more.... There inside I saw
something... And as I then tore at it, in a frenzy, it
was Craig!  He was all cramped and hunched up as I had
been, but my fingers fumbled with the lock until it
flew open, and he stood up.  He stood there,
stretching his long limbs with that habitual sexy
smile he always wore, until I threw myself at him,
threw my arms around him, and began to kiss him
passionately.

When I broke for air, I turned around and there was my
father, smiling.  "Well, Steven, do you like your
graduation present...?"

"Sir, yes, sir...."  The tears were welling in my eyes
now, of joy and happiness. But then I remembered my
brothers' conversation those years ago.  "Sir, thank
you... But it's only postponing it, isn't it?"

"Postponing what?"

"I thought I'd lost Craig today, as he'd been sold,
sir.  And my brothers say that one day, when you're
dead, they'll inherit me... And I guess Craig, now
sir.  And then they'll sell us off..."

"No they won't Steven.  Craig is your slave.  You own
him."

"Sir, a slave can't own property..."

"Quite right, but you are no longer a slave.  I did
not tell you before, as it has taken a long time to
get the Courts to agree, but the terms of your
indenture have been set aside."

"How... I haven't been to Court...?"

"No, of course not.  A slave cannot testify in Court,
and so your presence was irrelevant.  My lawyers have
been working on it for a long time, and there was a
major crisis as it affects Riker, Morgan and Swaine,
the law firm that your friend Rob is a partner in.
You see Rob acted for you at your initial voluntary
indenture, and even became the trustee of the small
number of assets you then owned - your car, a few
clothes, pitifully few, really, but nevertheless
yours, to be held in trust for you until the indenture
was over.  But then he acted for Rooney's Contracts in
getting your term extended to ten years, and then for
life.  There's a major principle in law that an
attorney having acted for you may not take part in a
subsequent case where he is no longer acting in your
best interests, and our lawyers argued, successfully
at the end of the day, that having you turned into a
slave was not in your best interests."

"Riker, Morgan and Swaine argued, however, that for a
headstrong young man who had wanted a voluntary
indenture, it could be seen that this was actually in
your best interests as it was what, deep down, you
really wanted and needed. They appealed the Court's
decision right up to the State's Supreme Court and it
was only yesterday that this Court finally ruled in
your favour.  A major factor in their decision was the
matter of the trusteeship of your few hundred dollars
worth of property - irrespective of what might have
been in your mind in asking for a voluntary indenture,
Rob was in breach of his fiduciary duty to you
progressing the extensions and enslavement, and this
weighed heavily on the Court's mind."

"Consequently they set aside the first extension which
 in turn made the enslavement null and void, as that
could only be applicable to a servant serving ten
years or more; and as the original five years of
indenture are over, you revert to being a free man.
The situation for Rob, and for Riker, Morgan and
Swaine is however much less happy:  Rob acted as a
partner of the firm in these actions, and the Courts
take a very serious view of law firms who do not act
in the best interests of their clients, and an even
more serious view of anyone who attempts to tamper
with the indenture laws.  It is recognised that
indenture, and enslavement, is a serious business, as
it potentially interferes with our Constitutional
rights of freedom, and those who in the past have
attempted to unjustly enslave their fellows have been
dealt with harshly.  In the case of a lawyer
attempting to do so, the Court takes an even harsher
view."

"Rob has been sentenced to be indentured for ten
years, and Riker, Morgan and Swaine have had their
licence to practice cancelled.  Rob's father in law
has been, I understand, ruined, as he and his partners
were jointly and severally liable for things like the
leases on their downtown office tower, which is now
effectively useless, and for damages to their clients
whose cases they are pursuing and who will now have to
find and brief new lawyers."

"So, Steven, you are a free man.  And a free man can
own slaves.  I bought Craig from Rooney, and thought
he would make an ideal graduation present for you -
I've never known what to get you for your birthday and
so on, but  I think I've come up trumps this time!"

"Sir, I don't know what to say..."

"You could try 'thank you', and you could call me
'dad' again...."

"So can I free Craig... And Joe, I suppose ... We were
enslaved at the same time, dad?"

"No.  Although Craig belongs to you, there's no
provision for ever freeing a slave.  The law considers
that it has to the ultimate absolute punishment, from
which no escape is possible.  The conditions under
which Craig - a criminal - and Joe, a homeless
destitute boy, were indentured and then enslaved are
totally different.  They are, and will remain,
slaves."

End Of Part 27
(My thanks to reader "The Captain" for giving me some
valuable legal guidance that has helped me construct
this chapter. Pete.)