Date: Sun, 14 Jul 2013 02:01:11 -0700 (PDT)
From: Alex O'donnell <alexodonnell99@yahoo.com>
Subject: Cinderfella, part 9

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 Donna, Em,
Alan, Mike, Larry, Raj, and Thor for the feedback and story suggestions.
Your encouragement, ideas, and even criticism keep this story going.

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Cinderfella, part 9


The doorbell rang again. I hurried over to answer it. I plastered that
stupid servant smile on my face, hating myself for doing so.

"Welcome to the Head residence," I said, reciting my spiel. "Please, come
in. May I take your coats?"

It was a family, with several children. As they handed their coats to me, I
heard the youngest child ask, "Why is that man not wearing no pants,
Mommy?"

"That's not a man, Timmy," she replied. "That's an indentured servant. They
usually don't wear pants."

The party passed me, as the next group reached the threshold. This was a
group of young men. Several were wearing maroon lettermen's jackets.

"Is this the Head house?" one of the handsome, dark-haired men asked me.

"Yes, Sir," I said.

"We're here for Chris' party," he said.

"May I take your coats?" I asked.

"Are you fuckin' retarded?" the guy asked, looking at me like I was crazy
to ask. "NO ONE touches these jackets. Least of all some fuckin' queer-ass
houseboy."

"Sorry, Sir," I said, caught off guard by his sudden mercurial anger.

"You got THAT right," he said, as he shoved past me. As he did so, I
started to drop the previous party's coats. I managed to catch myself, but
I did drop one jacket on the floor.

As I bent to pick it up, Jake seemed to appear from nowhere. He grabbed me
by my ear and frog-marched me over to the coat closet.

"Dick, what the HELL are you doing?" he snarled, his face just inches from
mine. "Can't you do anything right?"

"I'm sorry, Sir," I whispered. "But that guy shoved me, and--"

"Are you blaming a Free Man for your incompetence?" he spat. He was still
holding on to my ear, twisting it painfully, his face red with anger. "You
should know better than to touch a Letterman's jacket."

"I didn't touch it," I protested. "I swear!"

"Don't lie to me, Dick," he said, slapping my face. "I saw you touch his
jacket when he pushed past you."

"But I didn't mean to!" I cried.

He slapped me across the face again, and then a third time. Hard.

"I'm sorry, Sir," I said, blinking back tears.

"Ten demerits," he said. "Five for disrespecting my guests, and five for
the lie. 'Thou shalt not lie', Dick. Now go into the kitchen and finish the
catering."

He let go of my ear and shoved my head towards the kitchen.

As I fled to the kitchen, I heard Mr. Christiansen say, "Problem with your
servant, Jake?"

"I've got it handled, Tom," Jake replied.

"You spoil him," Mr. Christiansen said. "That boy simply lacks
discipline. Nothing a good horsewhipping wouldn't solve. Brings a boy in
line, right quick."

I shuddered at his cruel words as I entered the kitchen.

* * * *

I finished the food preparations as quickly as possible, still trembling. I
tried to keep my mind on the task at hand, like the Good Book says, but my
mind kept flashing back to the image of Jake's face, flush with anger, and
Mr. Christiansen's advice about whipping me. Would Jake ever do that to me?
The mere thought of such a cruel punishment made me tremble like a leaf,
and it made my stomach very upset.

As I checked the slowly browning goose in the oven, I saw Jake lead several
guests into the living room and turn on the TV. To my horror, I saw him pop
in the Blu-Ray disc of my DCI video; the one where I had reluctantly
disrobed for the camera.

I was humiliated as I watched myself on the big-screen TV.

"Hi. I'm Richard Johnson," I watched myself say on the TV screen. "I'm
eighteen years old and a senior at Tubman High School." To my surprise, the
music that was playing in the background sounded like sleazy dating video
music. That hadn't been playing when I shot the video!

The 'video me' looked coquettishly at the camera as I stood there talking
about my interests. I was shirtless. "I like hiking and working out," I
said.

There was a close-up of me licking my lips, as I said, "I'm not wearing any
underwear."

The camera panned out to reveal that I was fully naked. I stood there
flexing my biceps and pecs for the camera, unashamed at my complete
nudity. Then I flexed my abs.

The camera panned across my naked body in slow motion as the sleazy date
music continued to play in the background.

This was followed by another close-up shot as I said, "I hope we can meet
soon."

Then a shot of me winking at the camera, as the video faded out.

The video had obviously been heavily edited. I was very sure that I hadn't
licked my lips when I had explained to the guy at DCI that I wasn't wearing
any underwear. And most of the video, I recalled, had been shot when I was
still wearing pants, but you couldn't tell that from the video. It looked
like I had done the entire video shoot naked.

"The boy appears to have been under the impression that he'd be performing
sexual favors to earn his keep," the Judge said to Jake.

"Indeed," I heard my stepfather say. "The boy is, unfortunately, quite a
homo. A big part of the reason I accepted the servitude dowry was so I
could try to save him. But Dick is just... so rebellious."

"He just needs the fear of God put into him," Mr. Christiansen said, as the
Judge agreed. "The boy's had time to adjust, now. I think it's time you
show him the whip."

"Well, I promised Marsha I'd keep the punishments humane," Jake said,
shaking his head slowly. "She'd probably be pretty upset if I used a whip
on the boy."

"No need to use a whip," one of the handsome, well-dressed men sitting on
the couch said. "I just use a cane on my Offred's backside. He hates it,
but it helps keeps him in line. Always works like a charm." He laughed.

"A cane is fine for minor discipline issues, Fred," the Judge said. "But in
my experience, a good horsewhipping is what will keep a servant obedient
for quite a while. In fact, it virtually eliminates the need for any
corporal punishment for several months. And a servant who doesn't need
punished for several months is a happy servant. It's actually MORE humane
than beating him daily. I always advise contract-holders who come into my
courtroom to keep their servants happy by keeping a good whip on hand, and
using it judiciously, and frequently."

"I hadn't thought about it like that, Judge Ramsey," Jake said.

"Please, Jake, call me Andrew," the Judge said.

"Alright, then, Andrew. I'm just concerned about my wife," Jake said. "I'm
not sure she'd see it the same way."

"Let us talk with her, then," Judge Ramsey said. "I've got fifteen years of
experience on the bench, and a few words from me might help convince her
that that's what your boy needs. Cigar?"

Judge Ramsey passed out cigars as the men lit them up and began smoking.

I returned to work, frightened by the words of these men.


* * * *

After I had served dinner, Jake had me serve drinks at the bar. I did the
best I could, but I had never tended bar before. I could tell my stepfather
wasn't pleased with me from the expression on his face, but he didn't
assign me any additional demerits for the mistakes I made, thank God.

When I went to go back to the dining room to bus the table,
Mr. Christiansen grabbed me around the waist and pulled me back against the
bar. "Here, boy," he said. "Where you going so fast? I wanna talk to you."

I could smell the scotch on his breath.

"Sir, I'm sorry," I said. "I have to clean up the dining room."

"Oh, that can wait, I think," he said. "Let's talk, Dick." I felt his hand
on my thigh.

"Your legs are so smooth, boy. Do you shave your legs, Dick?"

"No, Sir," I said.

"So your lack of hair on your legs is natural, then?" he pressed.

"Yes, Sir," I said.

He slid his hand up further, underneath my dorky dress jacket, running his
lecherous hand up my thigh.

"This natural, too, boy?" he asked, as he cupped my balls. I nearly jumped
out of my skin.

"No, Sir," I said. "I have to keep my pubic hairs shaved. But Sir, I--"

"Feels real smooth, boy," he observed, as he ran his hands over my
testicles, then my penis. He rubbed my cock up and down as he winked at
me. "Your Master keeps you nice and smooth, the way a servant-boy SHOULD be
kept."

I was humiliated to be felt up by Mr. Christiansen around so many people,
right there at the bar. But I knew I couldn't make a scene. I was
trembling, now, as he felt me up. My penis involuntarily began to stiffen
as he fondled me brazenly, oblivious guests all around us at the bar.

"You make my Free Man dick hard, boy, wearing that slutty uniform," he
whispered in my ear. "Are you a slut, boy?"

"...Nnnno, Sir," I said, trying to retain my composure. I was frightened by
this man. He was so intense.

"Don't lie to me, boy," Mr. Christiansen said, his handsome face just
inches from mine. "I saw you in that sleazy video, showing off your servile
body to the camera. You're a total slut, aren't you?"

"Nnno, Sir," I protested.

"Don't contradict me, boy," he whispered angrily in my ear, as he pawed at
my penis and balls with one hand, while grabbing my butt with the other. He
seemed to have four hands, and they were everywhere. "I know what you
crave, slut. And I'm going to give it to you."

He pushed me up against the bar, bending me over the counter, and sending
one of the beer glasses flying in the process. The back of my fancy dress
jacket rode up, revealing my butt-cheeks as Mr. Christiansen spooned up
behind me. My thoughts were confused and conflicted: I was humiliated to be
bent over like this in front of dozens of people. I was incredibly angry at
Mr. Christiansen. I was scared. And yet, a part of me wanted this. A part
of me wanted to please Mr. Christiansen. He was so handsome, so in
charge. It sounds twisted, but somehow, I wanted this man to like me. I
wanted him to use me, if that's what he wanted.

Mr. Christiansen pushed my arms up behind my back, pinning me down to the
bar. I felt his hardness against my backside as he whispered profanities in
my ear, telling me I was a "fucking cockslut", telling me he knew I wanted
his dick inside me. His words embarrassed and upset me, but... and I'm
ashamed to admit this... he wasn't altogether wrong.

Then I heard Jake ask, "Tom, what are you doing?"

Tom quickly pulled himself off of me.

"Look at the mess the boy made," Mr. Christiansen said, gesturing to the
broken glass on the counter. "He got scotch on my jacket. I was punishing
him for his ineptitude."

It was a lie, but it was a lie my stepfather easily believed: that I was
inept and needed to be punished. In his mind, I couldn't do anything
right. I was a perpetual fuck-up in need of constant correction.

"I'm so sorry, Tom," I heard Jake say. "Rest assured, the boy will be
punished after the party."

"Why wait?" Mr. Christiansen suggested. "We can do it right now."

"I suppose I could go get the paddle..." Jake said.

"Nevermind that," Mr. Christiansen said. "I'll just use my belt."

I heard Mr. Christiansen removing his belt as my stepfather's midsection
came into my view. He had walked back behind the counter, and now stood in
front of me.

"Dick, I want you to take your punishment like a man," he said. "No crying
out. I don't want you to disturb my guests. Understood?"

"Yes, Sir," I mumbled, hoping that I could avoid creating a spectacle and
somehow please this man.

As Mr. Christiansen laid into me with his belt, I tried to hold in my cries
of pain. I tried to 'be a man', the way I was ordered to be. But his belt
stung quite badly, and even early on, I couldn't help letting out several
yelps. Jake held my head down against the countertop, muffling the sound of
my hollering, but I knew I was causing a scene.

Several onlookers had gathered around the bar, judging from the comments I
heard.

"That's it, Mr. Christiansen. Really let Icky Ricky have it!" I heard one
of my stepbrothers say. "Don't forget to do his legs."

Mr. Christiansen obliged, strapping me hard against my legs; first the
right, then the left. Then the right, followed by another to the right. I
wasn't expecting one to the right again, and nearly lifted myself off the
table when I jerked upright.

"Wow, look at that drudge buck!" someone observed.

Indeed, if I hadn't been pinned to the countertop, and my face hadn't been
held down to the counter, I would have bucked up off the bar. But my
stepfather held my head firmly against the counter, calmly reciting Bible
verses to me in a patient yet condescending tone.

WHAP!

"Heed the words of Hebrews 12:11, Dick." Jake said. "'For the moment all
discipline seems painful rather than pleasant, but later it yields the
fruit of righteousness to those who have been trained'."

WHAP!

"Listen to the wise words of Proverbs, boy," Jake commanded. "13:4: 'The
soul of the sluggard gets nothing, while the soul of the diligent is richly
supplied'."

WHAP!

"Disgrace comes to he who ignores instruction, but whoever heeds rebuke is
honored."

WHAP! WHAP! WHAP!


When it was finally through, I was allowed up off the countertop. I tried
to dry my tears surreptitiously, but quite a crowd had gathered around me
by this time. Then Jake grabbed me and led me by my ears to the closet
door.

"Boy, kneel down in front of that door," he commanded.

When I had done so, he said, "Now I want you to put that doorknob in your
mouth."

I hesitated because I didn't understand what he meant.

"Wrap your mouth around the doorknob, Dick," he snapped impatiently.

It was awkward, and hard to do because even kneeling down, I had to bend
forward a bit to get my mouth level with the knob, but I managed at last to
get my mouth around the doorknob. The metallic taste was quite unpleasant.

"Dick, I want you to stay here in 'Time Out' for a half an hour," my
stepfather said. "You couldn't keep your mouth shut during your punishment,
but now you're going to learn. Keep that doorknob in your mouth at all
times and think about what you've done. Think about the words of Proverbs:
'Whoever silences his words has knowledge.'"

I obediently kept that fucking doorknob in my mouth for a half an hour, my
jaw aching by the end; my jaw muscles were nearly as sore as my
backside. While I knelt there stupidly, party guests milled around me,
paying little heed to the servant being punished. By the time I was allowed
to get up, at around 9 PM, many of the guests were ready to leave, and I
had to give them their coats.

Judge Ramsey, Mrs. Ramsey, and my mother were laughing as they came out of
the hallway, the two ladies arm in arm.

"Marsha, you have a simply lovely home," Mrs. Ramsey was saying. "I do hope
we can do lunch soon."

"I'd love that, Mary," Mom said. "How about next week?"

"Sounds wonderful," Mrs. Ramsey laughed. "I'll call you tomorrow."

"And Marsha, dear, don't forget what we told you about how to keep your
staff happy," she continued.

"I'll think about it," Mom said.

"Our coats, boy," Judge Ramsey said to me brusquely.

I hustled to get them their coats.

One by one, the groups of guests (and their servants) filed out of the
house. College jocks, businessmen, and politicians exited. Finally,
everyone had left. As Mom, Jake, and Christopher headed sleepily upstairs
for bed, I began the clean-up.  It took me most of the night.


To be continued...