Date: Tue, 2 Jul 2013 04:42:42 -0700 (PDT)
From: Alex O'donnell <alexodonnell99@yahoo.com>
Subject: Cinderfella, pt 6

The following story is an erotic fantasy story meant for mature readers and
should only be read by adults over the age of eighteen years old. It
involves depictions of sex.  If this subject matter offends, then stop
reading this page now.

This story is a work of fiction and is not intended to depict any living
person. Do not read this story if you live in an area where it is illegal
to do so.

This work is copyright by the author and commercial use is prohibited
without permission. The author would appreciate your comments, pro and con,
including constructive criticism, and suggestions. My thanks to Shawn,
Mitchell, Alan and Crockshucker for the positive feedback and
suggestions. Your encouragement keeps this story going.

Please donate to Nifty. Your contributions keep the archive free.


Cinderfella, pt. 6


It was the year 2030 when the repeal of the 13th Amendment to the
U.S. Constitution changed my life. Diminishing incomes meant my mother was
no longer able to pay the bills, and I had willingly signed a contract
indenturing myself to my new stepfather, a man named Jake Head. Jake was a
total jerk, and I hated living in his house. But the situation became much
worse when his sons came for a visit.


* * * *


As I stood up, trying to subtlely adjust my dick in my drawers while
pulling up the back of my undershorts, I heard Christopher say, "Looks like
Dick liked that paddling, Dad. Look, he actually sprung a boner!
Disgusting!"

"Dick, that's nasty," Jake said. "Adjust yourself, boy. No one wants to see
that. Honestly!"

I pushed my penis over so that it wasn't so blatantly obvious that I had a
hard-on in my undershorts. Then I looked for my tank top; it took me a
minute to find it, as it had fallen off the arm of the sofa and had been
partially hidden underneath the couch. The seconds that it took me to find
it seemed like hours. I quickly pulled it down over my head, finally
covering my undershorts and boner.

"He always used to pop boners in high school, too, when he was in the
shower with guys," Daniel said. "We all knew he was a faggot. That's when
we started calling him Icky Ricky. He's a total pervert, Dad."

"Dick, is this true?" Jake asked.

"I'm NOT a pervert," I answered, angrily. My face was flushed, partially
from embarassment and partially because I was so incredibly angry.

I stormed out of the room, furious at Daniel's mockery and even more
furious at my so-called stepfather, who had no right to be questioning my
sexuality, no right to judge me, and no right to discipline me in the first
damn place. I ran downstairs and crawled under the covers of my cot, livid
about this whole horrific situation. I couldn't believe how these assholes
were treating me. I couldn't believe how degraded and humiliated I felt
every day. The fact that this all happened on Christmas Eve made it even
worse.

I couldn't imagine a worse holiday than the one I had just had. But it was
about to get much worse.


* * * *

I woke up early the next morning, grabbed my Wednesday clothes, and dressed
and groomed myself in the cold greenhouse. I was still angry about last
night's debacle, but a night of sleep had helped a little.

I began my morning chores: bringing in the newspaper, taking out last
night's trash, folding the dinner linens and putting them in the closet,
shoveling the fresh snow off the porch, turning on the heating pad for the
driveway so the fresh snow would melt, bringing in more firewood, winding
the antique grandfather clock in the upstairs hallway, and then making
breakfast.

While I was grating the cheese for the omelets, Mom and Jake came
downstairs and then into the kitchen.

"Dick, we need to talk," my stepfather said, solemnly.

"Sir," I said as respectfully as possible, "there's nothing to talk
about. I'm not going to apologize for who I am."

Jake walked over to me and turned me toward him. He put his left hand on my
shoulder, his right hand tipping my chin back so I was looking him in the
eyes.

"Dick," he said, concern etching his face, "We're worried about you. You've
been sullen and upset for days. And now Daniel tells us that you're a
homosexual. Dick, what's going on with you?"

"Sir," I said, trying to remain respectful while still defending myself,
"I've been sullen and upset because I haven't been treated well this
week. I've had water sprayed up my nose. I've been forced to dress like a
freak. All of my rights have been taken away. I've been slapped... cuffed
in the back of my head... called names..."

I trailed off, unable to talk any more. Tears trickled down my cheeks.

"Dick," my stepfather said, "I'm sorry you've got yourself so wound up over
this. But what you're describing just comes with the territory, boy. You
willingly signed a contract to become an indentured servant. You knew you'd
have to serve."

"I didn't know it would be seven years! I didn't know I'd be treated like
dirt!"

"Dick," Jake said reproachfully, "You've got a roof over your head, a warm
bed to sleep in, plenty of food, and a family who cares about you. I
wouldn't call that 'being treated like dirt'. Plenty of people would do
anything for that type of security. And all that's asked of you in return
is obedience."

"We love you, son," Mom added.

"But your sons treat me like scum," I sobbed.

"Dick, you've just got to develop a thicker skin," Jake said. "Remember:
sticks and stones may break your bones, but words will never hurt you."

"But you slap me, and spank me! It hurts! And it's degrading," I insisted.

"Dick, a little discipline never hurt anyone," my stepfather
said. "Corporal punishment is effective and does no real damage."

"But Dick, we've got to talk about the real issue, here," he
continued. "Daniel says the reason the boys call you Icky Ricky is because
you were peeping on them in the showers at school. He says you like to look
at other boys. He says you're a pervert. Is this true, Dick? Are you a
homo?"

"Sir, I already told you: I'm not a pervert. And my sexual orientation is
my business, and no one else's."

"Dick, if you were looking at other boys, and they didn't like it, it's no
wonder they don't like you," Jake said.

"Sir, I didn't look at anyone!" I exclaimed. "I never looked at them."

"That's not the story Daniel tells," Jake said. "He says he heard stories
that you were doing all sorts of perverted things in school. He says you
were touching yourself in the shower. Dick, do you touch yourself, thinking
of other boys, or men?"

"Sir, I never touched myself in the shower at school," I said, embarrassed
to be having this conversation in front of my mother. Embarrassed to be
having this conversation at all.

"But did you ever touch yourself while thinking of other males, Dick?" Jake
pressed.

"Sir, that's my business and no one else's," I answered.

"No, Dick," Jake said, shaking his head sadly. "It's our business because
we care about you. The Bible tells us that homosexuality is wrong: in
Corinthians, Leviticus, Timothy, Romans, Jude, Mark, Genesis, Hebrews,
Judges, Kings, and so many of the other books of the Bible. From
Corinthians: 'Do not be deceived: the sexually immoral, thieves, drunkards,
and men who practice homosexuality, shall not inherit the kingdom of God'."

"When you touch yourself, Dick, you are ignoring the will of the Lord,"
Jake lectured. "Your risk your immortal soul. Satan is quietly ensnaring
you in his trap. You must repent your sins, boy. Promise me you won't touch
yourself any more, Dick."

"Sir, please, I --"

"Promise, Dick," Jake pushed. "Promise me that you'll keep your hands off
your penis. At least do it out of respect for your mother."

When he put it like that, in front of my mother, what else could I say?

"Okay," I muttered.

"Okay, what?" Jake pushed.

"Okay, I won't... touch my penis," I stammered, completely humiliated to
have to say these words in front of my mother.

"Alright, Dick," my stepfather said. "I'm going to hold you to your
word. No more touching yourself. You've made a promise to both me and your
mother. It's your covenant. I expect you to live up to your word, as the
Lord commands. And I'm going to be checking your shorts and your bedsheets
on a regular basis. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," I said, reluctantly.

"No touching yourself in the shower. If I see any sign of semen on your
shorts, on your bedsheets, or anywhere else, there will be severe
consequences. Understood?"

"Yes, Sir," I murmured, wanting to scream.

"We're only doing this because we care about you, Dick," my stepfather
reminded me. "I'm going to highlight some Bible passages tonight, and I
want you to read them, so you understand the importance of your promise to
us."


* * * *

After breakfast, Mr. Guernsey, the Overseer, arrived. My family left
shortly afterward to go to church. My stepfather gave Mr. Guernsey a big
long list of chores I was supposed to do while they were gone; the Overseer
promised Jake that everything would be done by the time they returned.

Then Mr. Guernsey turned to me and said, "Well, boy, you'd better get
started. Time's a-wastin'."

As my family pulled out of the driveway to go to Christmas Church, I began
work once more. We mostly worked in the garage, where I scrubbed the motor
oil stains on the cement floor, hosed out the two trash cans, hung all the
tools up on the pegboard, reorganized the shelves, and put a fresh coat of
paint on the walls. Mr. Guernsey cuffed me in the back of the head any time
I paused or made a mistake. I quickly learned not to pause or make a
mistake.

After the garage was in good shape, Mr. Guernsey had me begin making
Christmas dinner. I hated Mr. Guernsey almost as much as I hated my
stepfather -- he was a cold, mean man -- but at least I didn't have to
listen to lectures from him.

After church services, my family came home. I heard the car doors slam as I
cleaned the kitchen table. As the four of them came in through the garage,
Jake surprised me, saying, "I'm really impressed on how nice the garage
looks! The oil stains are all finally cleaned up, and all the tools are
neatly put away. That paint job looks terrific. It looks really nice. Great
job, Guernsey!"

The overseer said, "Well, I do my best, Sir."

"You must have really gotten Dick moving, for you to have accomplished that
much," Jake said. "I don't know how you do it. Every time *I* ask Dick to
do something, he goes as slowly as possible. What's your secret, Guernsey?"

"Just a firm hand, sir," Mr. Guernsey said.

"Well, as always, I'm impressed."

"Mr. Guernsey," Mom asked, "Won't you stay for Christmas dinner? There's
plenty of food here."

"That's mighty Christian of you, Mrs. Head. Don't mind if I do."

And so I served Christmas dinner to the Head family and Mr. Guernsey, only
managing to rack up ten demerits that afternoon, for various ineptitudes.



To be continued...