Date: Sun, 27 Aug 2006 08:44:22 -0700 (PDT) From: Hank M Subject: The Fate of a Poor Man's Son, part 16 THE FATE OF A POOR MAN'S SON, PART 16 By Master Redbeard A new master - how low can you go? This story involves erotic situations and actual sexual contact between males - as well as humiliation, exhibition, and much of the usual stuff for this genre. If you are not at least 18 years of age (or whatever legal age is where you are) go away now! If you are offended by the content of this story go away now! If you are in a jurisdiction in which it is illegal to read or possess such fiction stories go away now (well, it would be better if you could get the hell away from that jurisdiction). And if you are someone who cannot distinguish fantasy from reality, please go away and get some help. (Steve Masters is a creation of Pete Brown UK and appears as a special guest star in this story by permission of Master Brown.) I welcome reader response (no flames). Include name of the story in title line. You can reach me at email address below. Location of previous chapters on SLAVENOW 1. 2652 2. 2659 3. 2660 4. 2663 5. 2666 6. 2668 7. 2670 8. 2698 9. 2707 10. 2737 11. 2738 12. 2742 13. 2840 14. 2841 15. 2843 - - - - - - - - - - THE FATE OF A POOR MAN'S SON, chapter 16 By Master Redbeard (redbeardedsf at yahoo dot com) How much should I tell you about my time as a slave for Judge Snow? There are some slave memoirs that spend paragraphs describing each individual slash of a 50-stroke whipping. Some slaves and former slaves seem to enjoy providing the minutest details of the grossest indignities they suffered. Does it give them a sense of peace to put it on paper? Do they enjoy the sympathy of others knowing just how much they suffered? Clearly there are readers who relish each horrific point in these chronicles. I shall try to be factual without delving too deeply into that which is disgusting. Those readers with a more genteel sensibility may wish to skim past certain paragraphs. Those readers with a fascination for the prurient can easily envision and elaborate on anything I reference. Judge Snow lived on the top floor of the tallest residential building in the town of Winston. He had the entire top floor, not just an apartment. When I first entered his penthouse I could see for miles from the windows. I didn't know that would be my last sight of the outdoors for more than a year. My cage was on a dolly and was wheeled directly into a large bathroom and dressing room off the judge's bedroom. Once in this room I was taken out of the cage I'd occupied since leaving the Winston estate. My handcuffs were removed. But before I could breathe a sigh of relief a metal cuff was being soldered onto my left ankle. The sparks burned my flesh but I kept silent. There were thick rings of a chain attached to the ankle cuff, and this chain was attached to a wall. The slave cops moved out of the way and I got my first sight of Judge Snow in his home. "Stand up, slaveboy," he shouted impatiently. I stumbled to my feet. He next wanted to see how far I could go with the chain attached to my lower leg. I was able to move to all the corners of the enclosed room. I was able to get as far as the door of the room. But beyond the door was a hallway that led to the judge's bedroom. I could not pass through into that hallway. Then I was left alone to contemplate my new home. One wall of the room was lined with closets. I would soon learn that in addition to the judge's wardrobe there was also a collapsible lounge chair and a collapsible whipping frame stored away in the closets. Also there was a hidden washer, dryer and ironing board that I would be using soon enough. I looked along the wall where I was chained and saw the toilet. There were magazines where the toilet paper dispenser should have been. I half smiled to myself, wondering whether the judge used pages of the magazines in place of toilet paper. But then I felt a chill as I remembered Captain Winston's reference to a friend of his who didn't like to waste paper when a slaveboy's tongue would do the job just as well. I had no doubt the friend he had referred to was my new master, Judge Snow. The floor was tiled and cold. I wondered if there would be some bedroll or at least an old towel that I would use as a surface on which to sleep. I would soon learn that there would be no bedrolls, no sheets, no blankets and no pillows. I would sleep curled up on the cold tile floor. There was no window in the bathroom where I was kept only an artificial light that stayed on around the clock. I never saw natural light coming from my master's bedroom down the hall. It didn't take long before I lost all track of time. Was the judge coming in for his morning shower? Or was this a late night shower? Once the door of the bathroom was shut, I never knew whether my master was sleeping or whether he had left the penthouse to go to work. Above my chain there was a water dispenser in the shape of a cock. I had to suck it way down into my throat before it would give any water. There was also an automatic food dispenser. I thought something was wrong because each day's portion of slave biscuits was so meager - barely half what I was used to eating. Judge Snow saved me from the punishment that would have come had I asked about the slave biscuits. He walked in one day as I was eating and said, "I don't have to spend a fortune feeding you, boy. It's not like you're pulling a plow or doing real work. Besides your diet is supplemented with protein-rich man cream." I thought about the weak trickle of watery cum that he produced only occasionally and just kept silent munching on the few biscuits. But my new master didn't need any reason to punish me. I would finish all the laundry, iron everything perfectly, scrub every inch of the room so that it sparkled, and still the door might open at any time, my master wielding a strap or a cane or a whip. No reason was ever given. As far as I could see, the judge believed firmly that a master had a right to whip a slave and that was all there was to it. In the many mirrors around the room I saw the way my back was torn up. The stripes from one whipping never healed before they were ripped up by the slashes of a caning. The agony of the first two- or three-dozen whippings soon turned to numbness. The judge never had interest in dicking my ass, but he had a variety of dildoes he'd make me stick into myself. Many had irregular surfaces and I knew my anus was being torn up. But I would bounce on the artificial cocks as I sucked on my master's fleshy one. Judge Snow was only interested in my mouth and tongue, but he made ample use of both. He would lie back on a padded lounge chair that was kept folded in a closet in this room (I was never allowed on this chair). I would be required to lick every inch of his body. I had to learn to praise his corpulent body. As I licked under the folds of fat that hung from his arms and between the folds of fat around his middle, I would repeat the phrases he had drilled into my head: "A boy like me needs the sweat of a real man like you, Judge Snow, so I can grow up big and strong, sir." The most repulsive flavors were always between his heavy thighs. I would lick the gooey sweat from behind his balls and then feel his hand pushing me lower. I would welcome the inevitable sucking of his cock, since it would wash away some of the taste of the man's ass. Many times he would fall asleep while I was sucking. But I knew my role. I kept his cock in my mouth. At some point he would stir in his sleep and I would feel a warm stream of piss pouring down my throat. I would gulp it down and an instant later the judge's snoring would resume its regular pattern. Meanwhile my body was becoming whiter and softer by the day. Although I tried to do sit-ups and push-ups, there was nothing to really exercise my muscles. With so little food I usually felt too weak and lethargic to make any effort to exercise. I never saw any sun or fresh air. I looked in the mirrors and saw my sunken eyes and hollow cheeks. I remembered how I'd lost track of the days at the Winston estate. But at least I had moved from room to room. At least I spoke to Rye and other slaves. At least I had seen the outdoors and even spent time working in the sun. How long had I been held captive chained to the floor of the judge's bathroom? How many times had I been required to strain my tongue to try to push it between the massive cheeks of the man's hairy ass? I gobbled up the slave chow and licked my fingers for any dust. And yet the rumbling in my stomach was stilled. Perhaps my stomach had shrunk. I no longer felt the hunger I'd experienced during my first months in the penthouse. When the judge was feeling especially frisky or vindictive I would be made to pull the collapsible whipping frame from the closet and set it up for a serious punishment session. Judge Snow would watch me firmly attach my ankles to each lower corner. Then he would pull my arms up and out as far as they'd go and attach each wrist to an upper corner of the frame. Then he would go wild whipping my entire back from shoulders to calves. Then came a particular day. As usual I had no idea whether it was day or night. I didn't know the day of the week or the month or even the season. The judge had me firmly tied down to the whipping frame. His breathing seemed even louder and more labored. Apparently his excitement was over the purchase of a new whip. It was from China, the whip-thin tail of some hybrid animal they'd genetically-engineered, and well over six feet long. Judge snow had designed the room with tall enough ceilings so he was able to raise a long whip high over his head and bring it down with a whistling sound. The first lash of this newest implement felt like it cut straight down the middle of my back, from my neck to my ass crack. I gasped with a deep intake of breath. I felt the second slash and the third slash. I heard the whip begin its whistling descent for the fourth slash, but then the long animal tail just fell across my back and I heard a thud. I looked in the mirror and saw Judge Snow lying on the floor clutching his chest. "Help me! He-e-e-elp me," the man rasped weakly, gasping for breath. I couldn't take my eyes off the image in the mirror. The judge was dying on the floor behind me. "G-G-God in heaven..." he struggled with the words. Hearing those words from my cruel master was the final straw. I don't know where I got the strength to speak in such a strong voice but I called out, "God in heaven - if there is such an entity - the world is a filthier, fouler place because Jebediah Snow crawled across it. If there is a heaven and if there is a God, make this vile creature eat a ton of shit in hell for every tear shed by a boy he unjustly enslaved." "No-o-o," the obese man croaked. Now I knew for sure he was dying. He didn't even rebuke me for speaking out of turn. I knew any slave speaking to a master as I'd just spoken to mine would be flayed alive and ripped limb from limb. The dying man's lips were moving. He was trying to begin his prayer once again, but I wasn't going to give him a chance. "Jebediah Snow, God decrees that you will spend eternity in boiling excrement. For each time you signed an illegal document so some underage boy could be abused, you will...." Judge Snow was finally able to squeak out the words, "F-f-f-forgive me." Now I was the one with the cruel laugh, as I snapped, "No! Fuck no! God won't forgive you! I won't forgive you! Rye and Will won't forgive you! Some things will never be forgiven." Through the mirror image I saw a look of absolute terror on my master's face. Was he struggling for air one last time? Or was he reacting to the most horrific sight of his life in front of his eyes? His mouth was stretched open wide. Was he crying out "No" or was that a death rattle? "That's Satan's asshole you're looking at," I concluded, knowing full well these were the last words he would hear in his lifetime. "Open wide, Jebediah." Given my unused muscles, my malnourishment, and the intense sensations from the brief whipping I had just experienced, the words I'd spoken used up all reserves of strength I may have had. And where did I, a slave, get the nerve to say those words to a master? I wondered for a moment if there was any chance anyone could have heard me? Were other slaves in the judge's penthouse? He often fell asleep in this room with me so nobody would come anytime soon. But the next day or the day after someone would notice he was missing. Certainly the judge would be expected in court. But for all I knew this could have been vacation time. Hanging stretched out by my arms and legs, my body was sagging. I slipped in and out of consciousness. My limbs were all numb. I didn't know how long I'd been hanging there. I remembered, when I was in school, reading about how long a person could survive without water. How long was that? How long had it already been? And how bad was the smell from Judge Snow's bloated corpse? I had gotten so used to bad smells serving that awful man, it would have been a blessing for me to lose my sense of smell altogether. Looking at my reflection I figured dying might be the best of many bad options. In time I wasn't certain whether I was alive or dead. Was I dreaming when I saw myself floating on a cloud? Judge Snow was trying to climb onto my cloud. I heard the same rattled, "Help me," he had moaned while dying. I kicked his hands and watched him tumble down and down and down. The flames rose where he landed. Was that really boiling excrement down below? When I heard voices, I figured it was just part of another dream. But then I felt hands unlatching my wrists and ankles. I blinked my eyes trying to get my vision clear. People were struggling to carry out the obese body of the judge on a stretcher. Unlatched from the whipping frame my body fell across the cold floor. A deep voice shouted, "Get a slave in here to clean this one up. He's alive, but just barely." "Fuck, look at the condition of this piece of slavemeat," another voice mocked. "He'd be better off dead." I wanted to say "Sir, yes, sir, that's just what I thought," but by then I had lost the power of speech. I felt some water splashing on me. I heard the sound of electric saws cutting through the chains that had held me to the floor of this room for what turned out to be almost a year and a half. When I fully regained consciousness I was in a slave cage at the end of a big room. There were slaves in other cages, but none near me. The sound of heavy boots came close. I tried to rise to proper slave kneeling position and wobbled in my efforts. I fell over just as I saw two pairs of black pants in front of my cage. "M-masters, f-forgive this slave, masters." Then I struggled back up onto my knees, my head bowed. "You've gotta be kidding," a voice with a Southern twang said. A deep voice replied, "Oh yeah? Take a look at the pictures in this folder." Was that manly voice the same one I heard when I was rescued from the whipping frame in the judge's penthouse? "The boy in these pictures is so fuckin' cute even the straightest guy on earth would want to dick him up the rear" "Wait, you don't mean to tell me...?" the Southern twang challenged. "Yep, that's the same boy. Amazing how some people got no regard for an investment like that. I could buy him today for less than the price of a weekend in New York." The two men started to walk away and I heard the conversation continue: "I'll bet you could get him for less than the price of a weekday in Detroit. But it would cost you so much to get him into any kind of decent shape. And, damn, there's no way you could get his back and ass looking good again." "There are new procedures." "That would cost half a million dollars for skin torn up as bad as his." Then I heard the deep voice shouting to some person in the distance, "See that the slave down there gets exercise for the atrophied muscles." I didn't know what the future would bring. But I was being fed and I was able to move around my small cage. I was given simple exercise devices - a wheel that I had to turn with my feet and another I had to turn with my arms - so that soon I was getting some use back in my sore limbs. Simply waking up on my thin bedroll with a tattered sheet over me, able to see the morning light from the windows high up on the wall, I would breathe a sigh of relief. At least I wasn't still chained to the floor of Judge Snow's bathroom. Days passed and I heard the familiar deep voice coming toward me once more. My cage was opened and I stepped out in slave rest position. As manly as the voice had sounded, I wasn't prepared for the physical power of the man who stood in front of me. I caught myself looking at his strong jaw and thick neck, but then quickly looked back down to the floor. He simply laughed. But his laugh wasn't cruel or creepy like I'd heard from my previous masters. It was hearty and strong. My hands were being cuffed to my collar by slave cops but I was left standing facing this man. I could read the tag on his black slave officer uniform: Sgt S. Masters. "I'm your new owner, boy." These were the first words he spoke to me. "Master, thank you, master." "You better thank him, boy." There was that Southern drawl once more. "The pathetic shape you're in they were embarrassed to even put you in an auction. You're so underweight they couldn't even get a good price from the dog food factory." My new master snapped a leash onto my collar and started leading me through the room as he said, "Shut up, Benny, the kid's been through enough crap." We were stopped at the door leading to the parking lot. But it was a casual exchange with Sgt Masters' supervisor. "This is the phone number of those lawyers for that Winston character who used to own the boy. I explained to them that according to the contract they had written up the boy was fully the property of Judge Snow at the time of the old bastard's death. If they'd contacted me before your check cleared it might have been different. But apparently Winston was over in China closing some bullshit deal for whips made out of hybrid animal tails. "You should have heard those asshole lawyers going on about how powerful Captain Winston is in the town of Winston. I told them he could stick all his power up his ass in that one-horse company town. I work in Capitol City for the governor. But Steve," the supervisor's voice got quieter as he handed my master a slip of paper. "If you decide you made a mistake buying this piece of slaveflesh, this Winston character would probably give you some cold hard cash for him." I had to hop quickly to try to keep up with the pace set by the big man holding my leash. Looking down I had a view of his boulder-like buttocks and strong thighs. "What a man," I thought to myself. Not only because of the power in his body. But also there was the way he spoke to his colleague. My master had actually spoken up in defense of me. "This is the kind of man I could worship." Somewhere way back in my mind something rebelled. Worship this man? But I'm straight. I've only ever done queer sex when I've been ordered by my masters, or for comfort with other slaves. But I remembered what Sgt Masters had said about pictures of me - no doubt pictures taken two years earlier when I was still a free boy and a statewide athletic champion. He had said, "Even the straightest guy on earth would want to dick this boy up the rear." I looked at the powerful arms and shoulders of my new master as he led me into a cramped cage beside the driver's seat in his Jeep. I thought to myself, "Even the straightest boy in the world would be willing to worship this man." Then I saw the small piece of paper in my master's hand. It had the phone number for Captain Winston's lawyers. The man's hand crumpled the paper and tossed it on the ground as he got into his Jeep. As he was securing the slave cage with seat belts and warming up the engine I had a chance to look at Sgt Steve Masters' face. I was daydreaming. For the first time in years I was lost in a daydream. I would be his slave. I would drink his piss in the morning and then suck his cock. My mouth salivated and my penis went totally erect as I thought about pleasing my new master. Then Master Steve spoke to me: "The plan is to spend a little money and a lot of time getting you fixed up and then turning a nice profit on re-selling you, boy." He re-opened the door of the Jeep and then reached down retrieving the slip of paper that had the phone number for Captain Winston's lawyers. My daydream was over. "Yes, Master," I said.