Date: Thu, 22 Sep 2005 03:06:29 -0700 (PDT)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: Dad And Me, Part 13

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

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

Part  13

It was late spring and as usual, as I did every
morning, as I'd done hundreds of times before since I
was enslaved and brought here, I went into the pool
enclosure and dropped my shorts, and began the chore
of sweeping the pool.  It was a slightly cool morning
and the steam was rising from the heated water (Mr
Hawthorne kept it usable the whole year around, even
though no one ever used it at all!), and my skin was
slightly pimpled from the chill.  It's funny, but
after a time you get used to going around wearing, at
most, shorts, and days when you'd have been pulling on
a sweater and stuff now just seemed almost "normal".

I worked away, as usual thinking how fucking unfair it
was that I wasn't allowed in the water - it was as
ever crystal clear and inviting, and I used to really
enjoy swimming when I'd been at school but when I'd
first come to Manderleigh Mr Stryker had told me that
it was absolutely forbidden to slaves to swim in the
pool, as free men might think it was "tainted".  So
even though no free men ever did swim in it - or, if
they did, it was so rare and at times when Joe and me
were working on the other side of the grounds -  I had
never had the sheer joy of racing up and down it's
long lanes, really using my body in a way that I'd
used to relish.  I had, after all, been on the
swimming team, and had even thought I might get some
sort of athletic scholarship on the basis of it, if my
academic grades were not good enough.  Then, as I
sometimes did, I fell to musing about whether I could
still swim, or would it be like all the  "book
learning" I had, and be gradually slipping away
through lack of use?

So deep in thought was I that I failed to hear the
gate open, and so when a voice called out "Who the
fuck are you, in our pool?" I almost dropped the
sweeper in surprise.  I turned around and there was a
guy about my own age, I'd judge, standing there in a
baggy T and the kind of long shorts that free men
wore, and carrying a towel.

"I'm Steve, sir, a slave here..."

"Oh, you're Steve, are you?  Well, you don't look like
a slave - except for that collar, I suppose.  You
haven't got a tattoo or anything..."

I turned my wrist out towards him, so he could see the
big black numbers on the underside, and he nodded.
"Yes, my dad told me about you last night, you and
your dad are both slaves here, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"So what did you do, to get enslaved?  Drugs?  DUI?
Fuck some underage girl?"

"None of that, sir.  I didn't do anything.  I was
sixteen when dad was enslaved, too old for child
protection, and not old enough to be classed as adult,
so I was enslaved too as his 'property'."

"Tough.  But finish up here - I need to practice.
There's a big swim meet when I go back."

I started to coil the hose and put away the tools, and
as  Idid so he pulled off his T, and dropped his
shorts to reveal a proper "swimmer's" costume of black
Speedo.  He walked purposefully to the end of the
pool, then executed a perfect entrance, and began
swimming strongly the length of it.

I carried on working, taking a kind of professional
interest in his swimming as I used to be really good
at it myself, but after four lengths he hauled himself
out and began to roughly towel himself off.  "That was
good", he told me. "A man needs a good exercise in the
morning, and I need to keep in shape..."

I couldn't stop myself.  "Sure", I blurted out, "But
that's no kind of exercise for a real swimmer. I
thought you had a big meet, soon..", and realising I'd
been really presumptuous, and he might order me to be
punished, I added a "...sir."

"I suppose you're right, but just doing lengths is so
fucking boring.   At school we train as a team, and
it's a whole lot easier with some competition."

"Yes, I always found that.  Swimming with my team
mates was the best kind of practice."

"You swim, then?"

"Not since I was enslaved."

"So you've never used this pool?"

I shook my head.

"Why not?"

"Slaves aren't allowed in the pool, sir.  They say it
taints the water."

"Come and swim with me now."

"But sir, I'll be punished if Mr Stryker finds
out...."

"Listen, you fucking slave - what's your name again?"

"Steve, sir."

"Well, Steve, I'm Charles Hawthorne, Charles Hawthorne
III to be exact.  My dad owns this place, and employs
Stryker.  And one day I'll own it, and you, too, I
suppose... Now, fucking well do as you're told, or you
surely will be punished!"

We strode towards the end, and I followed him.  We
stood there, and he said "OK, ten lengths.  And make
sure yo try.. If I don't think you've been trying,
I'll get Stryker to cane you.  So on three... One,
two...."

As he said the two, he dived in, and so  I was already
at a disadvantage.  But as I dived and the water
closed over me, man, did it feel good.  I slipped into
the strong crawl without even thinking about it, and
raced after him down the pool.  And when we turned -
me a fraction after him - I found here were some
advantages to being a slave:  I'd always had strong
lungs and powerful legs, but now I kicked against the
end wall and had enough "puff" to keep streamlined
under the water for about a quarter of the length of
the pool.  By the end of the first two lengths I was
ahead of him, and by the time we'd done ten, I was
standing at the end, waiting for him to catch up.

He put his arms around me as swimmers do after a good
race, and even held out his hand - I forgot what this
was all about or a moment or two, then remembered, and
shook his with mine.  We pulled ourselves out of the
water and sat on the edge, feet dangling in, both
still breathing hard.

"Pretty good, Steve!  But once I get my form back, it
will be tougher for you... Or should I say 'harder'?"
As he said this, he gestured down at my dick,
grinning:  after that time in the water it was rock
hard, pointing towards the sky.  I know some guys
shrivel up in the pool, but for me it's always been
different - it always gives me a hard-on, and often at
swim meets I'd be almost too embarrassed to get out of
the water, thinking that the whole place would see my
dick straining against my Speedos.

"Same time tomorrow, then", he said, as he pulled
himself to his feet, and went to towel himself off
again.  I watched with envy as he then stretched out
on one of the loungers, in a patch of the early
morning sun, as he probably had nothing else to do
that day, whereas for dad and me there would be the
usual work down in the vegetable plot, and Stryker had
told us to be at the studding barn that afternoon.
Life did seem to be so fucking unfair - my dad had
cheated the IRS out of a few hundred dollars, and here
I was, a slave.  I bet his dad, and that bank he was
the president of, cheated the IRS out of millions
every year, and here he was, relaxing in the sunshine.

That afternoon, as Amos and Andy were cleaning Joe and
me ready for studding, I asked them about the kid.
They were a mine of information - he was Mr
Hawthorne's only son, almost eighteen (so he was about
the same age as me, as I'd surmised), and he'd spent
the last two years living with his divorced mother in
Europe somewhere.  Now he was back in the USA, as his
father wanted him to do US exams and get into one of
the ivy league colleges.  "He lives in Manhattan, with
Mr Hawthorne, but I heard them say that he'd be coming
down here every weekend with his old man as Mr
Hawthorne didn't want to leave him alone in the city",
Amos said.  "Mr Hawthorne said he didn't want Charles
to be 'corrupted' by the wicked folk in New York, but
if you ask me...."

"No one was asking you, Amos!", Mr Stryker thundered
out.  "And I want to hear no more of this
tittle-tattle.  Slaves who are allowed in the house
should not listen in to private conversations that
their owners are having.  If I hear you do that once
more, I'll have you flogged.  Or perhaps we could have
your vocal chords cut...."

I was used to the ritual of the studding shed now, and
waited patiently as I was cuffed and collared, then
waited submissively as my arms were pushed up my back
and chained to the collar.  The blindfold held no
terrors for me now, either, and, if anything, I
preferred not to have to look at the nigga women I was
made to fuck:  there was nothing wrong with the actual
sensation, but, quite frankly, I'd got to the point
where I preferred to look at men, men with good hard
bodies, as I fucked them.  I  suppose I was living out
that old maxim that "women are for breeding but men
are for delight".  In any case, though, there was not
much I could do about it, was there?  I was a slave,
and I now knew that I had to do what I was commanded
or else punishment would surely follow.

In some ways it was good to be studding alongside dad
- I mean, a guy likes to do things with the father,
doesn't he?  And it added a certain interest for the
clients in that we'd both be offered for him to
choose, if there was only one nigga to be fucked.  It
always amazed me, though, that I was rarely chosen in
these circumstances, as they always seemed to go for
dad.  He and I used to talk about this sometimes at
night, and we had various theories.  He thought it was
because he was "proven" - they could see that he could
breed as I was living proof of it, and they could even
see, in me, the results of that breeding.  On the
other hand, he said, if they bought me, they were
buying into an unknown future.  Sure, I produced lots
of cum - generally we'd been fucking when we had these
conversations so there was plenty of proof of that -
but how could they be sure  I was fertile?  And, if I
was, suppose I harboured some dreadful genetic
inheritance?  "But Joe,", I argued, "I'm sure they've
thought of that - before they put either of us out to
stud they probably ran all kinds of tests to make sure
we were both proper breeding material.."

"Yes, I suppose so, Steve.  It's odd, isn't it - when
I bred you, I just did it.  Anyone who can find a
woman to fuck can just breed if they want to.  But if
you want to do any kind of fancy thing, like
artificial insemination, even if it's your own wife,
they make you go through all kinds of fancy tests to
make sure you'll be a 'proper' father."

"Well, Joe, you sure are a proper father", I replied,
laughing, and giving his balls a friendly, gentle
squeeze.  "You've given me a proper inheritance..."

"Yes, Steve.  You've really grown into a man to be
proud of.  Mind you, we have a good healthy life here,
lots of proper food, exercise, no stress...."

"Joe, are you trying to make out it's OK to be
slaves?"

"No, Steve... But it isn't all bad...."

My happy mood vanished as he said this, as, frankly, I
didn't think it was OK to be a slave, however "good"
the life was supposed to be.  Sure, I had lots of good
sex, but I knew I was losing a whole lot of other
things:  I wondered if I could still remember how to
read, for example!  I turned over and tried to sleep,
but dad knew instinctively that I was upset.  "Steve",
he whispered "Look, son, I'm sorry... You know
that..."

"Don't keep telling me that!  Being sorry doesn't
help, and you know that as well as I do.  It's your
fault I'm a slave, not a free man."  The moment I'd
said it, I knew I was wrong.  It was true, of course,
but sometimes you shouldn't tell the truth, especially
not to your nearest and dearest, should you?  It's
better to let things be.  But there's no way of taking
back words once you've spoken them, is there?  I
wished I could, but I couldn't.  So dad and I went to
sleep unhappy.

Whilst we were lying there, though, Mr Stryker poked
his head in through the door of the mowing shed and
shouted "Steve, you're to be at the pool at five in
the morning - young master Charles wants to swim
again, and he's got to catch the plane back to New
York with Mr Hawthorne:  they have to be there for Mr
Hawthorne's meetings.  Be sure not to be late...."

He didn't tell me how I was supposed to know it was
five, so I had a really restless night - not only was
I upset at what I'd said to dad, but with a deadline
like that, sleep was impossible.  So I was out by the
pool really early - much too early - and it was really
chilly in the pre-dawn as I stood there.  I started to
shiver, and wrapped my arms around myself to try to
keep warm, and then looked down at the water, steaming
away.  There was no one else around, and, anyway, I
was there to swim, wasn't ?  So what would be the harm
in actually just doing a few "warm up" lengths -
lengths that really would "warm" me, I hoped?

I dropped my shorts and dove in, did a coupe of
strenuous lengths, and then, revelling in the
sensation of the water on my body, flipped over onto
my back and just gently lay there ,doing the minimum
arm and leg movements to keep me afloat.  Suddenly
there was  shout, a shout of annoyance, which I didn't
hear properly as my ears were mostly submerged.  There
on the side of the pool was My Stryker, looking angry,
very angry indeed!

"You fucking slave!", he screamed at me as he saw he
had my attention.  "You know it's forbidden for slaves
to use the pool.  Now, get out, get out at once,"

I did a couple of quick strokes to the edge, hauled
myself out, and stood there naked in front of him,
feeling he water running off my body.  I felt
instantly chill, as the water evaporated in the cool
morning air, and began to shiver slightly.

"You've been told often enough, Steve, that you're
forbidden to use the pool.  Now, bend over that
lounger....."

"But boss, please, I was only waiting for master
Charles.... I was cold, and...."

"Shut the fuck up!  I don't want to hear excuses!
It's simple enough even for a slave to understand,
surely:  slaves do not swim in the pool, unless they
are specifically ordered to.  I'm not surprised you're
trembling - you've been warned that you'll be punished
for breaking the rules, and you've become altogether
too 'uppity' recently anyway... So now's the time for
me to show you that slaves here at Manderleigh obey,
or take the consequences.  Now, bend over that
lounger...."

I lay there, really shivering now, and feeling the
remains of the pool water run down my belly and onto
my dick, and then drip to the ground.   It must have
looked as if I couldn't contain my piss, as I was so
terrified.  I heard Stryker before I felt the pain -
there was a terrible hissing noise in the air, and
then my world exploded as he used a cane  to slash
viciously across my butt.  I screamed with the sheer
unexpectedness of it,  and then the initial harsh
stinging was replaced with that awful after-sensation
as a hot, angry warmth from the blow spread through my
muscles.    He slashed at me again, and again, and the
pain got worse and worse - you expect it to get duller
and duller as your nerve endings get used to it, but
in my experience it just gets worse and worse.  And
then, with a sickening precision, he moved on down
over my tightly-stretched thighs, adding a whole new
dimension to what I was feeling.

I don't know how long it would have gone on for, and I
don't think that swimming in the fucking pool merited
this level of punishment anyway - so perhaps Stryker
was working out some of his own shame at having me
know about his "little secret" - very "little" secret.
 I thought at first that he'd just give me the
traditional six stripes, but it went on and on, until
a voice called out "What the fuck are you doing,
Stryker?"

"Just punishing this slave, Mr Charles.  He was in the
pool, without permission...."

"But you've beaten him almost raw... Look at the mess
you've made of his butt... And his thighs...."

"He's an uppity slave, sir, and sometimes a slave
needs reminding of what he is, and deserves a more
severe beating to compensate for all the little things
he thinks he got away with.  That's the way slaves
are, sir, sly.... They take liberties when they think
you are not watching them, and this slave is one of
the worst at that as he hasn't still really adjusted
to being a slave.  So when I caught him in this act of
disobedience, I decided to punish him for all the
others I didn't see."

"That's nonsense, Stryker!  You punish him for things
you saw him do, and for things you didn't see him
do.... It sounds really unfair, to me."

"Sir, with respect, you know nothing about the
management of slaves.  I can assure you that they all
take liberties, all try to shirk work, to cut corners,
to cheat your father out of what is rightfully his.
Believe me, sir, I've been managing slaves for many
years now, and they're all the same, every one of
them. And Steve here needs reminding every now and
then that he's just a slave, however he got to be one
- he keeps saying  'it wasn't his fault', but that
makes no difference:  a slave is a slave, and if their
defiance and wilfulness isn't beaten out of them, our
whole system would collapse."

"But Stryker..."

"No, sir.  You'll have to defer to me on this one.
Your father employs me to manage the slaves, and until
he tells me otherwise, that's exactly what I will do."

With that, Stryker turned and stalked off.  Charles
looked at me as I gingerly stood upright.  "Steve, are
you OK?"

"No, not really... I can hardly move for the pain."

"I guess you'd rather not swim, then?"

"Yes, sir, thank you... It would really hurt... I
don't know how I'm going to get through work today, as
it is...."

He turned to go, then looked back at me.  "Oh, I've
just remembered:  I won't have time to practice
tonight as my girl friend's coming over, so now's the
only chance I've got today.  You keep telling me about
the importance of regular practice, so I do need a
good workout."

He looked at me again, as if waiting for something,
waiting for me to say something.  Surely he didn't
expect me to offer to swim anyway, in spite of the
eating I'd just had?  But he did!   "So you're going
to have to swim, Steve.  Sorry about that, but you're
a slave, and you know that an owner's needs come
first, don't you?"

I could hardly believe my ears.  A moment ago he'd
been arguing with Stryker, almost taking my side.
Then he'd said he knew I must be hurting... And now he
was ordering me to do something I'd told him was
really, really painful for me!  I felt my temper
flaring, and I wanted to tell him that he was just a
rich, spoiled, brat, that he had no concern for
others, that he couldn't know anything about the
suffering of others, that... I almost burst out in
anger, but then I realised it was no use - he just
didn't see the world my way at all - I was just a
slave, and I only existed to serve his needs, and my
problems were of absolutely no consequence to him.  He
wasn't necessarily cruel or anything, he just didn't
have the frame of reference for his thinking that
allowed him to see that slaves were humans, too,
humans with feelings, with bodies, with needs.. Humans
who could hurt, .. No, to him I was something totally
different, some sort of sub-human, an animal who could
think, and reason, but still an animal,, nevertheless.

I winced with the pain from my battered butt and
thighs as I made my way towards the end of the pool,
and Charles dropped his shorts and settled himself
into his Speedos.  "You know, Steve", he said
conversationally, as if it was the most normal thing
in the world, "You must like being punished:  you've
got a massive erection even before we get into the
pool.  I've read that men who are whipped and stuff
almost always shoot their loads, but I always thought
it was just fiction - and here you are, like that,
after Stryker has just warmed your ass a bit...."

"It was more than 'warm my ass'....", I muttered
gruffly, sounding really pissed off.

"Hey, Steve, enough of that!  I can see what Stryker
means about you perhaps being a bit 'uppity'.  It
seems to me that you do need a bit of attitude
readjustment, and so perhaps that beating was no bad
thing.  Anyway, let's not delay any more, I've got a
plane to catch.  So, on three... One, two...."

This time I was ready for him.  I was sick and tired
of him going off at two, to give himself an advantage,
so as he counted the two, I summoned all my courage to
force my body to dive, and hit the water and started
to swim.  The water felt good on my butt, but  I was
in agony at having to drive my body as my skin flexed
and tensioned over the stripes from the beating.  I
got to the other end, though, and sensed there was
something wrong, so I stopped.  He was still standing
there, at the far end.  "You fucking cheat!", he
screamed at me.  "If Stryker was here I'd order you to
be flogged again. What do you think you're doing,
trying to  get an advantage like that?"

I hauled myself out of the water and jogged down the
pool side to him.  "Listen", I said, bluntly "You
always go off on two.  That's the only reason you're
ever ahead of me. So today I decided to even things up
a bit...."

I saw him blush, and knew that he knew that I was
right.  But then his temper blazed, and he went to the
pool-side phone and pressed something, and a couple of
minutes later Stryker was back.  "You're right, Mr
Stryker - I'm sorry to have doubted you", I heard him
say.  "This slave really is uppity.  He' just been
really rude to me, and tried to cheat me....  I can
see you're right, now - he is too damned uppity, and
he needs a lesson.  I don't think you caned him hard
enough....  Give him a few more strokes."

"Certainly, sir.  But now I look at him, I can see his
butt and thighs are pretty well beaten already, and
I'm concerned that if I do more, he may not be able to
stud tomorrow."

"That's not my problem Stryker!  He needs punishing.
And if he can't stud, there's always his father, after
all.."

"But sir, I think your father would be upset if we
weren't able to offer the normal service:  we offer
visiting owners and their bitches a choice, remember."

"Stryker, I couldn't give a fuck about the service we
offer - this slave needs punishing, now do it!"

"May I suggest, then, that we do it on the front of
his thighs, and his belly?  We don't usually punish
slaves here like that, s it's so painful and your
father generally considers it inhumane..."

"Fuck that, Stryker!  So it hurts more to cane the
front of the thighs, and the belly?"

"Oh yes, sir..."

"Well do it, then.  Steve deserves it, and when I come
back next week, perhaps he'll remember, and behave a
proper slave's attitude in future.  You know what they
say, 'spare the rod and spoil the slave'...."

I saw a evil smile on Stryker's face as he commanded
me to lie on the lounger again, but this time on my
back.  It really hurt as I lay there, as the beating
he'd already given me had made me so tender and sore
that it was almost agony to lie like that.  But it was
as nothing to what I experienced as he began to strike
out at my thighs - there's almost no muscle on the
front, of course, nothing to protect your bones from
the cut of the cane, and each time I was struck I
couldn't help but howl with  the almost indescribable
pain that was produced.  But after eight strokes, he
stopped, and I heard myself sobbing - yes, that's what
I was doing:  I was no longer screaming with the  pain
he'd caused, but my whole being was taken up with this
crushing, overwhelming hurt, and this was causing me
to lose control completely and just lie there giving
great racking sobs that shook my whole body.

I was dimly aware of Stryker and Charles looking at
me, and then I saw Stryker raise the cane again.    I
guessed what was coming, and braced my stomach muscles
for the blow.  Was this the right thing to do?  I
don't know - is it better to be caned across taut,
muscles, or let the cane fall onto a softer,
unprepared area?  But this was like nothing I'd
experienced before, and my sobs were simply beaten out
of me - my lungs felt as if they were in spasm, and
could no longer drive any air out to make any noise at
all.

There are only so many blows you can get in on the
belly, though, and even Stryker had to stop relatively
quickly  I was aware of Charles' eyes shining with
excitement as he peered down at the quivering mass of
punished flesh I'd become, and he clutched at
Stryker's biceps, and said excitedly "More, more..."

"I'd better stop now, Mr Charles.... I don't want to
damage an internal organs with more blows.  And if I
go higher up the body with this cane, which is the
standard punishment one I always carry, I'm in danger
of cracking one or more of his ribs.  If you need him
punished more, I can of course always go an fetch a
thinner, more springy one, one that would sting more,
without the weight..."

"Oh, well, I suppose you know best.  I doubted you
once about the management of salves  today, until he
showed me how uppity he was, so I'd better defer to
you on this, too.  I'll be back next week, and if his
general manner hasn't improved , perhaps you'd give me
lessons with that.  Now I'd better run - this has
taken as lot of time, and if I keep dad waiting, he'll
be really cross...."

He pulled on his shorts and strode off, and Stryker
stood over me once more.  "Now, Steve, perhaps you'll
learn.  Don't get uppity, don't think you can treat
free men as if hey were fellow slaves.  Just because
Mr Charles lets you swim with him, it doesn't mean
that he's your buddy.  And just because you and I
have.... have fun... It doesn't mean that you get
special rights and privileges.  Do you understand?"

"Yes, boss", I muttered, having to force the words
out.   I now knew that Stryker had used this incident
to really punish me as he'd have difficulty in doing
normally - I did, after all, generally work very hard
indeed, and everyone knew it.  He couldn't justify
that sort of beating on the basis that I was failing
to work, and someone might ask him why one of the most
expensive slaves on the place was battered and beaten.
 And he certainly couldn't say it was because he
didn't really like me dominating him and fucking him,
when, by tradition and custom, overseers were meant to
fuck slaves, not the other way around.  So he'd used
this trivial incident with Charles to revenge himself,
exert himself, give himself a sexual charge?  I didn't
really know, but I knew that I'd better be careful in
future, and give him absolutely no excuse for hitting
me again as next time he might not stop and might
leave me permanently damaged or scarred.

I could see that life was going to be much more
difficult in future:  up until now I suppose I had
never really thought about my life being "worry free",
but  I generally hadn't worried too much about being
punished as both dad and me just stuck at whatever we
were told to do, and the light slashes we got when we
were mowing or doing something difficult were not
really punishments, but were designed to "encourage"
us in our work.  But now I began to realise what a
dangerous game I was splaying, in dominating Stryker
in the privacy of his apartment.  I would really have
to take care in future.


End Of Part Thirteen