Date: Sat, 22 Jun 2013 05:33:35 -0700 (PDT) From: Alex O'donnell Subject: Cinderfella (gay, Science Fiction/Authoritarian) 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. Please donate to Nifty. Your contributions keep the archive free. Cinderfella It was the year 2030 when the 13th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution was repealed, allowing legal slavery in the United States once more. America's most downtrodden -- the poor, the homeless, and other undesirables -- gradually disappeared as the government found new homes and new lives for those who were inconvenient. Conservative media outlets praised the new system, which removed undesirables from the public eye and punished those who had rebelled against society, while liberal groups expressed outrage at Congress' actions. The repeal in 2032 of the First Amendment ended formal protest against slavery laws, as journalists were no longer allowed to speak out against official government policies, although anti-slavery protest continued in underground movements and anti-government publications. The government was controlled by two powerful political parties: the more moderate New Republicans and the more conservative Tea Party, and both groups welcomed a return to old-fashioned traditional family values, conservative mores, and clean, Christian living. The two main parties really only disagreed on fiscal policies. It was against this backdrop that my senior year of high school began. I was certainly aware of some of the debate, although I did not actually participate in it. I was too busy with my life (senior year!), and the new laws didn't affect me, although that would soon change. My father had passed away five years earlier, the victim of a car accident, and now my family consisted of just my mother and myself. We did the best we could, but it was hard making ends meet with just my mother's income and my occasional summer job mowing lawns. I didn't realize how bad things had gotten until one day my mom came to me, sat me down, and told me we didn't have enough money to pay the rent. "What do you mean?" I asked. "The money we got from Dad's settlement--" "Has been gone for quite some time," Mom finished, shaking her head sadly. "And my job at the factory just doesn't pay enough to get by any more. Each month, we accumulate more debt than what we bring in. I'm afraid if we're not careful, Richard, I'll be going to Debtor's Prison." "They actually have that?" I asked, completely clueless that the United States had had debtor's prisons since the 1970s, after several Supreme Court rulings had judged the practice constitutional. Mom nodded her head sadly. "They do," she said. We discussed what we could do -- disconnecting the cable TV, finding a smaller apartment, and selling Mom's old jalopy -- but from what Mom was saying, none of it would save enough cash to reduce our debt by very much: we were already only paying for basic cable, and our tiny apartment was already about as low-rent as possible. The car would bring in almost nothing, and then Mom wouldn't even have a way to get to work. It didn't seem like anything could help. We sat for a long time talking. I feel kind of bad about it now, but I was really angry with her for hiding the situation so long from me. I told her she should have told me a long time ago; if I had known, maybe I could have helped out more, or at least spent less money on fashionable clothes, shoes, and electronic gear. I really laid into her, angry at her for covering up our debt, but I was actually more angry about the situation. I think she understood my anger, although I wish now that I hadn't been so argumentative with her. It wasn't her fault. Several days passed, as did my anger, but no solution had presented itself. Then one night, as we were watching television, we happened to see a commercial for debt reduction and bill consolidation. The testimonials from real customers seemed convincing: one guy was able to reduce his debt by $20,000, while some lady had reduced her debt by almost $12,000. It almost seemed too good to be true to me, but Mom was already dialing the 800 number, convinced this company could possibly, hopefully, help us. She spoke on the phone a long time with the debt rep. I heard her tell the guy on the line that we had very few assets and a lot of debt. She explained that it was just her and me in the house, that I had just turned 18 and had been planning to leave home for college in six months, but there was no money for that, and that creditors were closing in. The guy on the phone was really helpful, and set up an appointment the next day, Saturday, for us to come in to their local office to discuss our options. Although I only caught bits of the conversation, the debt representative seemed really respectful and kind, and really semmed genuinely concerned with my family's plight. We went the next morning to the free consultation, really relieved and hopeful that we could avoid bankruptcy or even worse, having Mom go to Debtor's Prison. We took Mom's old beater car to the office, which was in an upscale neighborhood of Milwaukee, where we lived. After a short wait in the lobby, we were ushered into a nice office where we met with Thomas Gundarson, the debt assessor. He introduced himself to both of us in a friendly manner, and chatted with us for a while. He was quite handsome and well-spoken, and there was something about him that immediately put us at ease. He made us both feel, right away, that our worries were over. After a while, he asked us a lot of questions about the amount that was owed (which was $70,000), where we lived, what Mom did for a living, etc. He entered all of the information into his computer as we spoke. It all seemed perfectly normal until Thomas started asking me about how much I weighed, if I'd ever done manual labor before, and how much I bench pressed. "Excuse me, sir," Mom said, "But what do these questions have to do with debt relief?" "Mrs. Johnson," Thomas began, taking off his fashionable glasses and leaning back in his chair as he talked, "Debt Consolidation Incorporated specializes in servitude contracts in order to get families out of debt. You do want to get out of debt, don't you?" "Yes, but... what are you talking about?" My mom said, confused. "Well, typically what happens is that, as in your case, through no fault of their own, a family gets itself into debt. Maybe Dad can't find work, or Mom uses the credit card a bit too much." He smiled. "Eventually, the debt simply overwhelms them. The interest accruing each month is larger than what they can afford to pay back, and creditors begin closing in." Thomas stood up and moved to the front of the desk; he sat down on his desk as he continued to speak casually. "That's where DCI comes in. We offer long-term and short-term servitude contracts." "Servitude contracts?" I asked. "You mean slavery?" Mom and I looked at each other in horror. "Slavery's such a harsh term," Thomas said, shaking his head. "We here at DCI prefer the term 'labor contracting'. And that's really what it is. One or both of you agrees to work off the debt, a contract is drawn up, and in a couple of years, the debt is paid off. It's actually pretty simple." "We could never do that," Mom said, starting to get up from her seat. "I'm not going to enslave myself or my son to get out of debt." "Mrs. Johnson, please sit down and hear me out," Thomas said. "Please." When my mom relented, Thomas continued. "Now I understand your aversion to slavery. Heck, I share your attitude myself. But let's be honest, here: you owe 70 grand to your creditors, and if you're not careful, with the new debtor's laws in place, you could go to debtor's prison for up to a decade. Because Richard here is 18 and is still living in your residence, they may come after him, too. He'll end up in prison, and with his pretty-boy looks and fresh face, he'll end up, quite frankly, some prisoner's bitch. Excuse my language, but I'm trying to save your family from a pretty horrible fate in the penal system." "Has either one of you ever heard of an Indentured Dowry?" We shook our heads. Neither one of us had heard the term before. "It's becoming pretty common here in Wisconsin, actually. Here's how an Indentured Dowry works: Mrs. Johnson, we'd find you a suitable husband. A good, upstanding man of the community who is willing to take on your debt. He'd pay your creditors off and pay all those ugly bills. He'd take care of you, and support you. He'd provide for you and make sure you never again have to work your fingers to the bone in some horrible factory, barely making ends meet." Thomas reached over and took my mom's hand in his as he spoke. "Mrs. Johnson, I know it's been hard for you these last five years, having to raise a son and work at the same time. I've seen women in your plight before. I know how hard you've worked. I know you've struggled. You've made a lot of sacrifices, and you're still barely hanging on. Let DCI find a man who will take care of you, and protect you, the way you deserve." "And what about Richard?" Mom asked, shaking her head, still in disbelief. "Richard would be the dowry," Thomas said. "See, it's like this: In olden times, the bride's family would pay the groom's family for the wedding to take place. It's really no different here. We'd draw up a contract stating that Richard would become an Indentured Servant: for a brief period, usually just a few years, Richard would serve in your home. He'd have to do the cleaning and the laundry, and the gardening for the family, in exchange for the debt relief." "I've seen how slaves are treated," I said angrilly. And I had: even in public places, slaves were beaten and humiliated, treated more like cattle than human beings. One time, in front of my high school, I had seen a slave slapped in the face for disobeying his master. "I'll never agree to be a slave!" "No no no," Thomas said, "You misunderstand! You'd only be an indentured servant. Not a slave. Indentured servants have rights; slaves have none. Sure, you'd have to work for your keep, and serve the master of the house, but it's not slavery. Slaves are permanant wards of their owners. You'd only be under contract for a few years, until the debt is paid off. You'd live in a luxury home, serving kind of like a houseboy, for a man who would care for and protect your family. You'd even learn a trade, so that when you you're emancipated, you'll have a valuable skill to fall back on. Sometimes, a fund is set aside so that when you're emancipated, you can go to a fine college or trade school of your choice. It's really not as bad as it sounds." "Think of it like military service," Thomas said. "Just like in the military, you sign up for a few years' service. You learn discipline, you learn how to follow orders, and then, a few years later, you leave, a more well-rounded person." "Mr. Gundarson, I've seen servants in some of my friends' homes," I said. "They're not treated very well." "Like I said," Thomas responded, shrugging his shoulders, "It's like the military: you serve. Yes, it's strict. Sure, it's a bit embarrassing, having to follow orders. But unlike the military, you'll never be sent into a battlefield, with bullets whizzing around you. You'll never be injured in combat. Your mom will never get a notice saying you've died in combat. It's actually a lot easier than military service, to be quite frank." "Mr. Gundarson," Mom said, rising from her seat, "I'll never enslave my son in order to pay the bills. Good day." Thomas nodded. "I understand, Mrs. Johnson," he said. "If you change your mind, here's my business card." We quickly left the office, Mom simply stewing in anger as we drove home. I felt just as angry. It was quite upsetting to have thought that our troubles might be over, only to find out that the offer was all a cruel joke. When we got home Mom fixed dinner, and over the meal, we talked about ways of saving money. We agreed to cancel the cable TV and the internet service. We'd have a garage sale and get rid of some unwanted junk. We also talked about discontinuing our cell phone service, although we decided to wait on that one. Mom wouldn't be able to pick up extra shifts at work without a phone number. I agreed to get a part-time job to help cover the rent and the bills. Everything would be fine, we assured ourselves. And things *were* just fine. * * * * A few months later, in December, Mom came to my room and sat down on my bed. "Honey, we need to talk," she began. "What about?" I asked. She was holding a piece of paper in her hand; she slowly gave it to me. It was a Notice of Eviction on our little apartment. A tear trickled down my mom's cheek. "I can't do this anymore," she sobbed. "We're going to be homeless." I gave my mom a hug, trying to comfort her and be strong for her as my entire world fell apart. "You're eighteen now," she said. "You should go stay with one of your friends. Johnny, maybe." "They'll track you down, Mom," I argued. "They'll put you in debtor's prison. I won't let that happen." "We don't have a choice, Richard," She said. "We're out of options." "Mom, maybe we should... maybe we should consider that Indentured Service thing." "Oh, honey, don't say that," she said. "I could never agree to such a thing. You'd be practically a slave!" "No, Mom," I said. "You heard Mr. Gundarson. It'd be... It'd be more like military service. And you'd finally have someone to take care of you. A man in your life." Mom kept refusing, but I told her I'd be fine with it. I even nearly convinced myself. Finally, she agreed to call Mr. Gundarson, to find out what might happen if we agreed to an Indentured Dowry. When she reluctantly spoke on the phone with Thomas Gundarson that afternoon, he asked to meet us right away. We went to his office later that afternoon, a little before 4 PM. When we arrived for the second time at the DCI office, Mr. Gundarson greeted us and seated us again in front of his desk. Unlike the previous visit, everything felt really awkward. It was hard to even begin the conversation. Luckily, Thomas saw our unease, and tried to make us feel a little better about being back in his office to talk about the possibility of me getting an indentured servitude contract. "Listen, I know how hard this can be," he explained. "My own brother went through this, too. But now his debts are all paid off, and he's a better man for having served. It's really not that bad." "I don't know," Mom said, shaking her head. "I just hate the idea of forcing my son into servitude." "No one's forcing him," Thomas said. "You both will sign the Indentured Dowry. It's his choice as much as it is yours." "And this man who will marry me?" Mom questioned. "I wanted to re-marry for love." "Mrs. Johnson, I assure you, you will not be forced into a loveless marriage. You choose the man who is right for you. You'll have your pick of the cream of the crop. You'll meet each potential husband, and get to ask him anything you want. You'll get to see the house he lives in, and you'll get to know him before the final contract is signed." Mom sat in her chair for a long time, silently, for a while, before she turned to me and asked me what I thought. "I think we don't have much choice," I said. "Where do we begin?" "Well, I've taken the liberty of drawing up a standard DCI contract," Thomas explained. "This is just the initial contract where you agree to sign up for the program. There *is* a non-negotiable non-refundable $650.00 sign-up fee, but that can be built into the service contract, so you pay no out-of-pocket expenses." "More debt," Mom gasped, horrified at the additional expense. I tried to reassure her (and myself) that an extra $650.00 was nothing when we already owed over $70,000.00. "Alright, then, Mrs. Johnson," Thomas said, "If you're ready, I'll just need your signature on this initial contract." Mom again sat there silently for a good long while before she slowly took the pen and signed that contract. "And now we'll just need your John Hancock, Richard," Thomas said with a wry smile. I signed the paper, feeling like I was signing my life away. After the contract signing, Thomas pushed a button on the desk which summoned an administrative assistant to the room. "Mrs. Johnson," she said, "We're ready for your video shoot." Thomas explained that they'd put together a short dating video so prospective husbands would see her before meeting her. Mom followed the secretary out, complaining that if she'd known about the video, she would have made herself more presentable. "Just like women," Thomas said, shaking his head. "Always worried about appearances. Now let's get you ready for your video shoot, Richard." "My video shoot?" "Of course!" he said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. "Any prospective employer is going to want to see his employee, right?" He got up from his chair, opened a door at the back of the room, and made a gesture for me to come over. "C'mon!" he said. "We don't have all night." I rose from my chair, sort of dumbfounded as to what was expected of me. Thomas ushered me down the hall and to what looked like a small studio: there was all sorts of lighting, a couple of video cameras, and a chair in the middle. "Pull off your shirt and we'll get started," he said, as he walked over to the camera. "My... shirt?" "Yeah," he said, kind of gruffly. "You're going to be an indentured servant. Do you see a lot of slaves or servants wearing clothing?" "No," I said, confused. "Their masters usually keep them naked." "Exactly," Thomas said. "Any prospective Master is going to want to see what you look like without your shirt on, at the very least. So go ahead and shuck that shirt." I pulled off my polo shirt, suddenly feeling self-conscious as Thomas began taping. It felt really weird. "Okay, Richard," Thomas said. "Look into the camera and go ahead and introduce yourself." I awkwardly introduced myself, blathering to the camera about how I was in my senior year of high school, and, when prompted, about my interests, beliefs, and that I was pretty embarrassed about this whole interview. I really don't know what all I said, as it sort of passed like a blur. I do remember being asked about things I don't like, but I don't even remember exactly what I said. I was sort of camera-shy, and was pretty flustered. After a barrage of questions, Thomas poked his head around the camera and said, "Okay, now pull down those pants so we can see your legs." "I... uh... I'm not wearing any underwear," I said, totally embarrassed. "Listen, anyone who employs you as an indentured servant is going to want to see the goods," Thomas said in a bored tone. "You're probably going to spend a good deal of your time naked or nearly so, so just stop with the modesty act and drop trou." I just stood there for a minute, awkwardly looking at the camera as the realization slowly sunk in: he was right. After standing there for a minute longer, I finally fumbled for my belt buckle, undid it, then unzipped my pants. Taking a deep breath, I pulled down my jeans, then straightened up, exposing my lower half to the cameras and studio lights, still barely believing that I was doing what I was doing. But what choice did I have? Thomas asked me a bunch more questions, but I really don't know what they were or how exactly I answered. I was quite embarrassed about being naked on camera. I do know at one point that Thomas asked me to flex my biceps and pecs, and later asked for a "coquettish" look at the camera, then asked me to wink. I did these things halfway in a daze. At last the video shoot was over, and Thomas told me I could dress again. I was quite grateful to do so, and even more relieved to be able to go back to the DCI office. Once back in the office, Thomas had me fill out several surveys and forms, and then sign more paperwork, including a media release form. Finally, Mom came back to the office. I was surprised to see that she had had her hair done and that she was wearing lipstick (Mom never wore lipstick!); she looked like a million bucks, and I told her so. "Oh, thank you, sweetie!" she said, blushing furiously. "The girls gave me a full makeover before my video interview. I think it looks great!" She shook her head, her highlighted blonde curls cascading around her head, making her look more like a model than the careworn, somewhat frowsy mother I was used to. Thomas had her sign a video release form and then he said we were done for the evening. We left the DCI office and headed home. As Mom drove, she nattered on about her makeover: how great she felt, how 'the girls' had had her try on all sorts of outfits, how she'd gotten a mani-pedi, etc. She seemed really happy -- the first time in months I'd seen her truly carefree. I wanted to tell her about the degrading experience I had had in my own video interview, but I was pretty embarrassed about the whole thing, didn't really want to talk about it, and I didn't want to upset her right then, when she was on such a high. We drove home and I said nothing about it. * * * * A couple of days later, we received several old-style Blu-Rays in the mail. The return address was from DCI and the videos were of Mom's prospective suitors. We watched them together, sitting on our threadbare couch, watching them from our battered old second-hand blu-ray player we had. The first disc was labled "Asad Azaria"; the guy appeared to be Middle-Eastern, and his introduction video scared the hell out of me. The interviewer asked him a lot of questions, and Mr. Azaria answered candidly: he said he was quite wealthy and had become used to the finer things in life. He also said any wife he would have would need to obey him and serve him completely. When asked about indentured servants, he stated he would guide them "with an iron fist. It is the only way to deal with servants. They must know who is in charge. They will obey or suffer the consequences." Mom and I were shaken after watching this video; so shaken, in fact, that we almost decided then and there to get out of the program, even if it meant losing the $650.00 DCI filing fee. But we did go ahead and watch the other videos after thinking about losing all that money. The second video wasn't so bad. The guy's name was Jake Head, and judging from the video, he was a tall, handsome man. He introduced himself as a compassionate Christian man in need of a wife for companionship. He said he spent a lot on charity and charitable works. He said the Lord commanded him to "give until it hurts". On the topic of indentured servitude, Mr. Head said it was a "necessary evil" and that "those called to serve should serve with dignity and pride, the way the Lord commands." Neither Mom nor I had ever been particularly religious, and I was a little worried about how religious he was, but this guy at least seemed kind and intelligent. Plus, what we could see of his house looked amazing. We looked through the rest of the videos, but Mom didn't really like the rest of the men: some were too old, some too young, some just seemed really weird. We talked about it for a while after dinner, and I agreed that Mr. Head seemed like a possibility. Later that day, she called DCI and made arrangements with them to meet Mr. Head in person that Friday after work and go out on a date. She met with him again on Saturday morning, and yet again on Sunday afternoon for tea. On Monday morning before school, Mom and I had a chat. She said she was ready to sign the papers. I was really surprised. "So soon?" I asked. "This seems really sudden, Mom." "I know, sweetie," she explained, "But we only have until the end of the month -- nine days -- before we're evicted, and Jake is so kind, and so romantic. I know he's the best choice for me, for both of us. I know you're going to love him, and he'll love you, too." "Did you talk about... me?" I asked. "Yes, and he explained that your indenturement really wouldn't be that bad. Sure, you'll have chores and such, but he promised to be kind to you. I wouldn't have it any other way, sweetie." We talked about it some more over breakfast, Mom at last convincing me that this was the right choice for her, for both of us. I agreed to meet her at the County Courthouse that afternoon. I still felt weird about the whole thing, but it didn't seem like there were many alternatives. And Mom seemed truly happy, for the first time in years. That afternoon, after school, I rode my rusty old bike to the courthouse, hurrying to get there by 3:30. I had to ask for directions in the lobby; the clerk at the desk pointed me in the direction of the Court of Servitude on the third floor. I rushed up two flights of stairs hoping I wasn't late. I finally reached the courtroom door, drenched in sweat. I reached out and grabbed the door handle, then paused. I knew once I passed through those doors, there would be no turning back. I lingered, starting to worry about the future, and how things would be. I actually almost chickened out, but I thought about Mom and realized I'd have to be mature about this turn of events in my life. I steeled my will, renewed my resolve and walked through those doors. Inside, all eyes in the court seemed to turn towards me. I stood stupidly in the entryway for a moment, before I saw Thomas Gunderson gesturing for me to come to him over on the side of the chamber. When I reached him, he said, "You're late, boy. Any later and we'd have to cancel the indenturement." He pushed my sweaty bangs back on my head, smoothing my hair. "You're quite a mess, but we don't have any time to clean you up. Here, sign this paperwork." "What is it?" I asked. I didn't trust this guy after the sleazy way he'd made me feel the other day, when he'd made me strip for the video interview. "It's your indenturement paperwork," he explained. "Read through it so you understand what's expected of you, but don't take too long. The court's only in recess for a few more minutes." As I read through the paperwork, I asked where my mom was. He told me she was getting ready for the ceremony, as he slipped a piece of paper into my pocket. I skimmed the contract as thoroughly as possible, but the contract was huge, and it wasn't easy to concentrate with Mr. Gundarson whispering instructions to me at the same time I was trying to read. Everything seemed in order, as best as I could tell, so I went ahead and signed the contract. Just seconds later, my mom appeared across the courtroom. She was wearing a beautiful white dress, a tall, handsome, well-dressed man at her side. It was Mr. Head. She waved and he nodded to me; at the same time, the Judge entered the court. All were ordered to rise for the honorable judge, as the court proceeding began. The Judge asked Mom and Mr. Head if they intended to be wed. They said they did. "Bring forth the dowry," The judge intoned. It took me a second to realize that he meant me. I approached the bench, feeling a little seedy in my sweaty clothes and uncombed hair, in front of all these people, and the judge, etc. "Richard Johnson, you have agreed to be the bride-price for Mrs. Marcia Johnson, agreeing to serve as the indentured servant for Mr. Jake Head of Connaway Park, and his household. Is this correct?" "Yes, your honor," I said, suddenly squeamish. I felt like every eye in the courtroom was on me. "You may speak your vows to Mr. Head," the Judge said. "Vows..? I..." I looked around. Mr. Head gestured to my shirt-pocket, where Mr. Gundarson had put that piece of paper. I pulled the piece of paper from my shirt pocket, on which had been written the vows that I was apparently expected to read. "I, Richard Johnson..." "Ah, ah, ah! Richard, kneel down," the Judge ordered. All eyes seemed to be on me as I slowly, embarrassed, knelt down in front of the court. My face felt flushed. There were beads of sweat all over my face. The judge gestured for Mr. Head to approach me. He walked over and stood above me; he was dressed in a fine tuxedo. I felt ashamed, kneeling in front of this finely-dressed man while I was wearing a sweat-drenched T-shirt and ripped blue jeans. "Your oath, Richard," the Judge prompted. "I... Richard Johnson..." I read from the card, my voice squeaking, "do solemnly swear to serve as the bride-price for my mother, Mrs. Marsha Johnson. I agree to give up my rights as a free man, contracting to serve Mr. Jake Head as an indentured servant for the standard term. I agree to serve Him and His household to the best of my ability, doing as He wills, loving, honoring, and obeying Him, in sickness and in health, forsaking my own interests and tending to His desires. I also agree to fully comply with all the laws of the State of Wisconsin concerning indentured servitude, so help me God." I felt weird saying these things, but I couldn't very well back out now, could I? Now Mr. Head spoke: "I, Jake Head, do solemnly accept this young man as my wife's dowry, agreeing to care for, guide, and disipline my servant, to treat him with the respect he deserves, to bend him to the will of God, show him mercy when Jesus commands so, and show him the rod of discipline when Satan tempts him. I agree to train him, polish him, and raise him up from the mud. I agree to fully comply with all the rules of the State of Wisconsin concerning indentured servitude, so help me God." "Then", the Judge intoned, "by the power invested in me by the State of Wisconsin, I now pronounce you servant and Master. You may slap the Boy." Mr. Head slapped me quite hard across the face, as the Judge ordered me taken downstairs for processing. I was still recovering from the shock of the slap when two bailiffs grabbed me by the arms, lifted me from my kneeling position, and half-dragged, half-guided me downstairs for processing. I was in shock, and couldn't seem to make my body respond to orders. My life was crumbling around me. To be continued...