Date: Mon, 19 Sep 2005 14:36:30 -0700 (PDT)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: Dad And Me, Part 12

Dad And Me   by Pete Brown.  petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

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

Part  12

When we got back to the mower shed, dad was standing
up, at our cage door, looking anxious.  Without a
word, Stryker unlocked the door and I went in, and dad
threw his arms around me.  "Are you OK, son?  What did
they do to you?  "Did the bastards hurt you...?"

"Dad, it's OK..."

"Remember", Stryker broke in "Get some sleep.  You
both need to work tomorrow.  So don't wear yourselves
out with talking.   I'd hate to have to punish you too
much..."

I heard the warning in his words, and as he left, and
dad and I settled down onto the mattress, he started
again "Steve, did the bastards hurt you..."

"Dad, I told you it was OK.  Mr Hawthorne... Well, he
kind of played with me...."

"For all this time?"

I decided there were some things sons shouldn't share
with their fathers.  I'd now found that I enjoyed
fucking ass, but, more importantly, I enjoyed being in
control, in charge.  It's not the sort of thing you
can tell your dad, is it?  That you like dominating
and controlling other guys?

"Dad, don't worry.  I'm OK, right?  And they didn't
hurt me, honest."

"They?"

"Dad, leave it, OK?  As Mr Stryker said, we'd better
get some sleep... It's grass day tomorrow again."

Stryker had an unpleasant surprise for us the
following morning, though.  After we'd breakfasted and
I'd cleaned the pool, I went back to the mower shed
where dad usually sharpened the blades and so on
before starting, to find him staring a a new machine:
it was like a gang mower, designed to be towed behind
one of those mini-tractor things, in that although it
was very wide, there was no motor on it.

Stryker strode up, looked at it, and laughed.  "You
slaves have had it too easy, just steering the
motorised mower".

Well, if he thought that, he should try it!  It's not
just the mowing, it's all the effort in barrowing away
the clippings and so on.  Dad and me were both pretty
tired at the end of mowing days, I can tell you.

"Yes, you've had it too easy.  So this is the new
mower you'll use from now on - there's no motor, as
you can see, as you pull it around."  As he said this,
he went into the shed, and emerged holding a leather
strap, and a chain.  "Slip this strap over your
shoulders, Joe", he told dad, and after he'd done so,
Mr Stryker attached the chain to it, and to the mower.

"Right - there you are - all harnessed up.  You can
pull the mower, and Steve can steer it.  Then when
you're exhausted, Steve can pull for a bit!  You've
got all day, so the sooner you get started, the sooner
you'll finish...."

"But Mr Stryker, boss, sir...", dad protested.  "Even
with the motor mower, it takes all day with me
steering and Steve clearing..."

"So you'll just have to work twice as hard, won't you?
 But it's autumn now and the grass isn't growing as
thickly, so I'm sure you'll manage.  Now, fetch your
mowing uniforms, and get started!"

It was odd at first, half running, half walking along,
steering the mower as I looked at dad in front of me.
All I could see was his naked body, his powerful butt
and thighs straining as the leather strap bit into his
shoulders with the tension on the chain - the mower
really was a brute of a thing to pull.  And once you'd
got it started, you wanted to keep it going as it was
just a bit easier that way.  The lawns were gently
sloping, so you almost had to run as you were going
downhill to keep ahead, but on the return uphill, it
was doubly difficult.  After about half an hour I
could see dad was tiring, so as we turned, I let go of
the handles and ran up beside him and demanded to pull
for a bit.

It was fucking difficult,  I can tell you!  The
leather harness strap cut into my shoulders, and as
you needed to go at a fair pace to get a good speed on
the mowing blades (which were driven by the wheels on
it), I was soon sweating, and shortly after that,
began to tire. I think it was the combination of the
speed, the need for constant motion, and the sheer
hard pulling that made it particularly onerous, and to
make matters worse,  it was a heavy, humid sort of day
and so the grass was wet an there was a terrible
tendency to slip with bare feet.  After a couple of
lengths of the lawn - and the uphill stretch was far,
far worse - dad saw I was flagging an insisted on
taking over again.  But even his power and strength
couldn't keep him going for more than another half an
hour, and then I again insisted that I take a turn.

By the time we got to the mid-day break we were
allowed usually, it was apparent that we were nowhere
near half way through the thing, and so there was no
chance of finishing that day.  Mr Stryker came by, and
dad politely explained that we were doing our best,
but that there was no way that we could finish as we
were so tired and actually going slower now than at
the start, and asked to be allowed to use the powered
mower again.

"You two are just idle fucking slaves!", Stryker told
us. "I don't believe you're putting all the power you
have into it.  And there's no way you can use the
power mower again - Mr Hawthorne says that he finds
the concept of squandering the earth's resources to
keep his lawns cut to be distasteful, when he has
slaves capable of doing the job, slaves that are a
renewable resource, unlike gasoline.  So stop being so
fucking selfish, and think about the future of the
planet and not just your own needs. And I'd advise you
to get started, rather than sitting there like that:
you'll work away until it's finished, even if it's
after midnight."

He strode off before we could even dare to argue with
him, and it almost made me laugh to think that Mr
Hawthorne was worried about the planet - when he flew
down here most weekends in his private jet! Dad and I
started again, but in the heat of the afternoon it was
absolutely awful, and even with our mostly completely
naked bodies, we were overheated and overstrained as
we toiled away.  On the uphill leg dad was really
flagging and the pace had dropped right down, so much
so that the blades were not cutting the grass properly
and were leaving sort of "chopped" marks across the
direction of mowing, and Stryker came up and ordered
him to stop.

"You need to keep up a good pace, Joe, you know that."

"Yes, boss, but I just can't - I'm completely
exhausted."

"You, Steve:  take over", Stryker commanded, and very
reluctantly, dad handed me the sweat-covered leather
harness, which I slipped over myself.  It was kind of
slithery with sweat now, and the smell of the wet
leather was almost overpowering as I pulled it over my
head.  I was really struggling too - this was the
steepest part of the lawn, and my feet could hardly
get proper purchase, the thing was so damp.  I too
began to slow,  when suddenly there was a stinging
pain from my butt, that caused me to give a shout of
surprise, and leap forward.   Stryker was walking
alongside me holding a light riding crop, and every
time my pace faltered, he brought it down on my rump.

In spite of being almost totally exhausted, I managed
two more complete circuits under he "tutelage" of
Stryker and his crop, until he finally allowed me to
stop.  My butt was really stinging, and I stood there,
rubbing it to try to take away the pain.  But there
was no rest for us - dad was told to put the harness
on, and then Mr Stryker handed me the riding crop!

"Every time Joe falters, just 'encourage' him with
this, Steve, hard across that magnificent butt of his,
or across his back if you prefer.  And if he's very
reluctant to carry on working even then, slash out at
his thighs and calves - that always gets a slave's
attention."

"Please, boss, Mr Stryker, sir, please, no!  You can't
expect me to whip my dad..."

"You will do as you're ordered, Steve, or else I will
order a more severe punishment for him.  If he hasn't
got the power to do this work, I will have to consider
sending him back to the nigga coffles - that usually
has the effect of toughening up slaves!"

"Steve, do as you're told", dad cut in.  "Please,
Steve... You heard Mr Stryker..."

"You're doing Joe a favour, Steve", Stryker added.
"Look, I know it sounds harsh at first ,but every
human body keeps a reserve of power locked up inside
itself - the body doesn't want to release all its
energy, and always keeps something in reserve in case
there's a last minute catastrophe.  Think about it -
when the primitives were out hunting lions and stuff,
chasing after them, they wouldn't want to use up all
their energy in case the lions turned on them and they
had to flee for the nearest tree.  But being hunters,
they'd naturally want to go as far, and as fast, as
they could, to avoid the risk of losing their prey.
So the body 'learned' to keep something locked away,
something not under conscious control, in case it was
needed - and evolution reinforced that:  the bodies
that didn't have this 'emergency reserve' got eaten
when there was a big problem!  It's obvious, if you
think about it - a real example of evolution at work."

He paused for breath and went on "But today you aren't
going to be eaten by lions, but you do need to get
this work finished, or else you'll get no sleep, and
it will be doubly difficult tomorrow.  So you need to
unlock those reserves stored up inside you, and the
only way that can happen is by making your body give
it up - and the lash is the only way I know of doing
that. So you're going to have to beat your dad, and
he's going to have to beat you, so that we get out of
you everything we deserve, as your owners.  And if you
don't, and if you fail to get the work done, then I'll
need to assign you to the nigga coffles...."

I knew the absolute horror dad had of being coffled
again, and saw the pleading look in his eyes as he
looked at me.  I thought there was something in what
Stryker was saying, and so very reluctantly indeed, I
took the crop as he held it out to me.

With Stryker watching, we started out again and after
the little rest we'd just had, all was well for about
half a circuit.  But then dad started to slow down
again, and with a terrible trepidation at first, I
raised the crop and brought it down onto his bare
butt.  Dad gave a little lurch, and the mower surged
forward again.  It got easier and easier, the more I
did it - I soon found that I took a certain pride in
keeping the mower moving and the grass cleanly cut,
and so as soon as there was any sign at all of dad
faltering, I lashed out at him.  After a time the
strikes to his butt seemed to be losing their power to
really make him work, and so I did as Mr Stryker had
suggested and varied it a bit - it was kind of
interesting to see the red stripes appearing across
his broad back where the crop hit, and on the uphill
parts, I also discovered that the blows across his
thighs were the most effective.

The trouble with beating slaves is, though, that after
a time it's the law of diminishing returns - you need
to beat them harder, for longer, as their bodies
adjust to the pain.  So it was with dad, and it almost
got to the point where I could slash at him no more -
my arm was tiring from the effort!  So we stopped, and
I went up to dad who just stood there, bent over,
looking pretty damned miserable.

"My turn again, dad", I told him.

"No, Steve.  We need to get this done... Come on,
start again, and use the crop harder if I don't
respond.  It's true what Stryker said - if we don't
get some sleep tonight, we won't be any good
tomorrow... And I can't risk the coffles.....
Especially not for you...."

I moved closer to him, and moved the harness off his
shoulders - as I did so, he winced as it slid against
the bright red marks where the crop had hit the
delicate flesh on his ribs.  "No, dad, I can do it..."

"Steve, you can't.  You know that.  You'll tire after
a couple of circuits...."

"Not if you use the crop, dad..."

"No, son, I can't do that..."

"You must.  If you don't, Stryker will think we're not
working hard enough, and then he'll send you back to
the nigga coffles... You don't want that, do you?"

I saw dad thinking.  He wrestled with things in his
mind.  Then, very reluctantly, he said quietly "These
bastards, Steve, making a man whip his own son... But
you're right...."

"It's OK, dad... And it's no worse than me having to
whip you..."

Actually, of course, it's infinitely worse!  I'd hated
having to keep "encouraging" dad with the crop, but
compared with having him do it to me, it was nothing.
 I soon began to realise that when Stryker had been
demonstrating it to me, he hadn't really been using
the crop with full force, but as I slowed and got
tired, dad began to really hit me - and, remember,
dad's a big, strong guy with a whole lot of power in
his arms.

"You want to give up, son?", he'd ask after each
circuit.  "Come on, you're tiring, let me take over
again."

"No, dad", I'd snap back.  I don't know why.  Was it
some sort of perverse pride, that made me want to show
him that I was as tough and strong as he was?  Or was
I worried that he might collapse under the constant
strain, if he did too much, and then get sent back to
the coffles?  Or was it just that all sons
unconsciously compete with their fathers, and need to
prove to themselves that they're just as good as he
is? Whatever it was, I hung in there, doggedly doing
much more than I reasonably ought to have:  and
Stryker was right - there were hidden reserves of
energy, strength and determination inside me, and the
crop falling on my back, butt and thighs "liberated"
it.

We did ultimately finish - much later than usual - but
we still had time, just, to drag ourselves to dinner
and get fed.  We didn't have time to shower or
anything, though, so we were made to stand outside the
kitchen door, being too covered in grass stains and
absolutely filthy, to be allowed in.   We were both
almost falling over with sheer physical exhaustion,
and we couldn't even sink to the ground and squat
there on our butts - we were both too sore.  So we
almost leaned against each other, taking comfort from
the warmth of our bodies (it goes cool at that time of
year, when the sun goes down).  The nigga girls,
though, thought it was pretty funny - they usually
didn't get to see us in our loincloths, and they came
out in a gaggle and stood there telling us what
handsome asses we had, even if they were all striped
red!  I added utter humiliation to my list of other
woes.

Look, I don't want to give you the impression it was
all tough during those first few months.  My body
continued to put on muscle as I got older and carried
on working hard, and it got easier to share more of
the really tough jobs - like the mowing - with dad.
And once I'd got used to the idea of being used as a
stud, it wasn't all that bad - although I wasn't used
all that much.  If customers appeared with a nigga
girl to be impregnated, Stryker would line up both dad
and me for inspection, and other than having to show
myself all over to some middle aged guy (and his wife,
too, sometimes), I could stand it.  Not that they
often chose me - it seemed that dad almost always got
picked, and sometimes as we lay together at night
after one of those sessions, we'd wonder why.

"They like to see your tough, strong body, dad!", I
joked. "Once they get a look at your butt, of course
they want to see it in action as you fuck the nigga."

"Well what about you, Steve?  I'd have thought they'd
have been at least as interested in those long legs of
yours - and surely they know that young guys like you
are at their most fertile, so the chances of you
knocking the niggas up first time is much greater..."

We'd laugh then about the guys dad sometimes used to
work with, and my classmates on the swimming and track
teams, and what they'd say if they saw us totally in
the raw, fucking away at niggas as our owners watched.
 It was about the only amusement we really had, as
I've told you that on Mr Hawthorne's place, slaves
were not allowed newspapers, books, TV, radio or any
other form of entertainment.  Well, not quite the only
amusement - the only other thing we had to do in the
odd bits of spare time we had at night was to have
sex.

Look, what else is a young guy supposed to do?  Even
before I was enslaved, when I had my own room, my own
TV, a PC, everything, I used to spend a lot of time
trying to get laid, and when that failed, I'd jerk
off.  Now all that all the electronic stuff was gone,
all that was left was sex,  and there was a lot of
that about!

Firstly, every weekend, Mr Hawthorne would appear and
whether on  Friday, Saturday or Sunday night,
depending on what else he was doing, whether he had
other guests, or whatever, I'd be called in so he
could fuck me.  I began to almost look forward to
these sessions in the calm, dark study, with him
passionately kissing me, exciting my body, and then
having me either suck him off, or, most often, balance
myself on the arms of his big chair, and lower myself
down onto his dick.  He used to laugh, and say one of
the advantages of being a slave owner who owned young
energetic slaves was that he could enjoy sex without
having to do any of the physical effort himself.  Mind
you, it's bloody hard work - it seemed to take for
ever before he'd cum, and it was as if I was having to
do those kind of squats that they do in army training
for what seemed like hours.

Then, of course, there was Amos and Andy!  Every time
they could, they took me off so I  could fuck them.
And I enjoyed it - two guys in their mid twenties,
both with fantastic bodies, who liked sex, and who
liked having a guy like me who liked fucking.  And
occasionally there was Stryker, too - and this was
really weird.  He'd take me off,  supposedly to punish
me, he told dad, and then when we were in his living
quarters and the door was locked, he'd strip off in
front of me and wait until I pointed to his tiny dick
and balls and start to tell him he wasn't a real man.
It was as if he enjoyed being humiliated, somehow, and
soon I discovered that I could command him to do
anything  I wanted - or anything I could think of!

So I soon had him totally naked, whilst I was in my
slave shorts, and would command him to kiss my feet.
Then he had to gently take my dick out of my shorts
and worship it, by kissing it, and then 'skinning me
back, and kissing the raw head again.  Amos and Andy
told me about tonguing, and I would squat on his face
and make him probe my asshole until I felt almost
faint with the sensation.  And then, of course, I'd
fuck him:  I soon discovered that it's more fun to
fuck a guy when he's lying on his back, as you can
rest your weight on his legs as they bend back in
front of you.  But more importantly, you can see his
face, and see the effect your dick is having on him:
once I discovered this, I never fucked Stryker any
other way, as I used to enjoy varying the pace and
length of my thrusts to see the effects on him.  And,
of course, it's easier to pull out at the last minute
and spray your cum all over the guy as he lies there
helpless under you - Stryker used to find this
particularly humiliating, for some reason, especially
when I made him scoop it up off his belly and chest
and carefully eat it, before rubbing in the remains as
a "body lotion".

And then there was dad.  There was always dad.  Every
night, both of us, together, naked, in a tiny space
where there was no avoiding each other.  Two virile
men with big dicks and powerful sexual urges.  At
first, as I've told you, we just used to jerk off,
separately, each trying his best to ignore the other.
But I guess with increasing familiarity, we got
careless, and soon our dicks were bumping into each
others bodies as we lay there, or we'd accidentally
spray each other with our cum if our jerking off was
very sexy.  And some nights, well, we just needed to
be close to another person - I wanted the strength and
warmth of dad's body wrapped around mine, keeping me
safe from the world as he used to when  I was a kid,
and as we lay there, face to face, our legs
intertwined, well, we couldn't help but be aware of
each others dicks and their erect state, could we?

There didn't seem to be any reason not to jerk each
other off - well, why not?  We both knew each other
did it, and we were lying naked next to each other.
And it's actually fun, isn't it? And we needed a bit
of fun to lighten our sometimes grim lives.  I used to
really enjoy the feel of dad's big, hard dick, so
wonderfully warm, with that velvety softness of the
outer skin just begging to be stroked and touched, and
he did the same to me.  I had to "train" him a bit,
mind you:  somehow guys without 'skins just don't
appreciate how much pleasure there is just in sliding
it backwards and forwards over the head!

Once we'd got over our shyness at jerking off
together, and once I saw how erotic it was to play
with a guys nips, and his ass, I thought I owed it to
dad to give him a special treat occasionally, so
gradually I began to toy with his body as I jerked him
off, and honed my skills so that I could give him as
good a time as possible.  But then it seemed to me to
be a bit unfair, as he was getting more fun than me,
and so one night as we were lying together, I gently
pulled his head down and whispered to him that I
wanted him to tease my nips with his tongue.  He
seemed shy at first, but I found that provided I
persisted, and just kept edging him on to do more and
more, I was soon at the point where I could use dad's
mouth to bring me to climax.  And after that it was a
simple matter, relatively speaking, to train him to
let me fuck him.  Well, I mean, that's what a dick is
designed for, isn't it?  To fuck?  And if there's no
one else around, and you're lying naked next to a guy
with a great body, why shouldn't you?  It doesn't hurt
anyone, and it's perfectly natural.  As I explained to
dad, one night when he'd been expressing doubts,
"Look, dad, why do you think an ass is so perfectly
sized to take a man's dick?  And why do you think it
feels so good, to have a dick up your ass?  And so
amazing to actually fuck an ass? It's just got to be
right, if you think about it, or else evolution
wouldn't have designed it that way."

"It's not that, Steve.... It's just that, well, you're
my son..."

"Look, dad, let's just forget that, shall we?  We're
both slaves together now,  and we've only got each
other.  So if we want to enjoy sex, it's just you and
me, dad.  But would it be easier if I called you Joe
from now on?  Then we'd really be like two guys
together, two co-workers - well, slaves - but two
equals.  Yes, that's what I'll do, Joe.  Now, turn
over, Joe, on your back, as I need a good fuck...."

Like a lot of men, dad was really easy to manipulate
and control, and now having this big, strong "Joe"
doing as I commanded made it somehow even more
exciting.

______________________________

Mr Hawthorne spent a lot on entertaining, and as the
seasons went on there was always some lavish party or
entertainment at Manderleigh.  We saw the pumpkins for
Thanksgiving, the Christmas tree and decorations, the
preparations for the big spring picnic.... But all of
this generally passed us slaves by as we were always
fed the same, plain fare, and work at Manderleigh went
on much the same, day in and day out.  Nevertheless
these big festival occasions did serve to mark for us
the passing of the year, as otherwise it was really
easy, with no access to outside sources, to lose track
of where we were.

So I knew I'd been a slave for about eighteen months,
and I could see the changes in myself:  my late
adolescent body was now taller and stronger and more
muscular, much more muscular. I'd lost the "boyish"
look and was now a real man, admittedly one who now
truly looked like a slave, as I was deeply tanned all
over in a way that no free man would ever now be, and,
of course, I now had a real man's attitude to life:  I
just lived to work, and to fuck.  It was a kind of
carefree life, too, in a way - provided Joe and I
really put our backs into it, we weren't punished too
much and with time, we'd even toughened up to the
extent that the mowing, whilst still the worse chore
we had to do, was at least tolerable.  And in exchange
for this we were fed regularly, and had no worries -
no bills, no SATS at school, no thoughts of saving for
college or whether I'd be bright enough to get a
scholarship.... No nothing.  And I suppose this was
the worse aspect of it all - I just got totally out of
practice at thinking -  without books or anything, and
living in very confined circumstances, there's' not a
lot to think about. Indeed, one day I found some
papers as I was carrying out the heavy trash cans to
near where the municipal slaves came to make the
collection, and found that I could barely read them: I
had to pick out individual words, very slowly, rather
than being able to scan a page and read it almost at
once, as I used to.  This really worried me, and then
I realised I was losing other things, too - I lay
there in the middle of the night one night trying to
do mental arithmetic, and failing.  Joe woke up as I
tossed and turned and realised I was worried about
something, and when I told him I couldn't any longer
multiply two two-digit numbers together in my head, he
just laughed.

"If that's all that's worrying you, Steve, stop it! I
could never do that even when we were free. So stop
worrying and get to sleep - do you want to fuck?"

That was so typical of dad - he was what you call a
real "man's man", working hard, drinking beer,
laughing a lot, always on the look out for a fuck, but
never really thinking about stuff, or stretching
himself mentally.  I was different, though, and even
though I was a real jock, and liked fucking as much as
the next guy, I enjoyed reading, and talking, and
thinking, too.  Perhaps that's what slavery does to
you - turns you into a kind of "super blue collar
worker", only thinking about the physical things, and
not caring about the finer things in life.  I just
turned over, and lay there, utterly dispirited - is
this what being a slave was really like, being turned
into some sort of almost mindless vegetable, fit only
for hard work and fucking?

Little did I know that all this was about to change.

End Of Part 12