Date: Tue, 2 May 2006 22:15:43 -0700 (PDT)
From: Hank M <redbeardedsf@yahoo.com>
Subject: Taking Wally to Gaytown, part 1

TAKING WALLY TO GAYTOWN
By Master Redbeard
(redbeardedsf @ yahoo.com)


(This story is inspired by Waddie Greywolf, who was himself inspired by
Richard Davis. Greywolf allowed me to read an advance chapter of a story
that is as-yet unpublished. His story is about a fundamentalist Christian
father in Texas who enslaves his sons. My story about a father and his sons
is very different from Waddie's, but it is based in the same universe and
was inspired by reading Waddie's story.)

(This is a fantasy story set in a world in which slavery exists. This story
includes gay sex, some of which happens between an adult man of 18 and
older men. If any of this is offensive to you or if it's illegal to read
such a story in your jurisdiction, go away now. If you have trouble
differentiating between reality and fantasy, do not read this story - go
get help now.)

By Master Redbeard


I'm a proud Christian and everything I do is guided by the Lord and my
pastor, Rev. Flick. My church believes that homosexuality is just about the
worst sin. We also believe that slavery is the way God intended the world
to function - some men were meant to be Masters and other men would be
slaves. These two beliefs come together in Rev. Flick's philosophy that
homosexuals were meant to be slaves. I remember when there was a little
talk about Bo Goodwright's son. He had been found in the men's room of the
bus station over at the county seat. I didn't even want to hear any of the
gossip beyond that. I don't want to know what these perverted homos do in
men's rooms. But my old buddy Bo did the right thing: Before the scandal
could even begin, he shipped off his son to a reputable slave trader. With
the help of Rev. Flick, the whole thing was taken care of in a matter of
two days. Now, two years later, Bo, his wife and the three remaining
Goodwright children are treated as respected, decent members of our
community. Nobody even mentions the name of Bo's former son who is now a
slave.


My two sons were always a bit of a disappointment to me. I'm a big
strapping fellow, six-foot-two and 240 pounds. I had been star of the
football team when I was in high school. But I had a weakness for petite
women and the pretty little filly I married came from a small-boned
family. Neither of my boys had topped out beyond five-foot-seven. Their
only sports trophies were in swimming and gymnastics, not the sort of thing
a dad like me likes to boast about.


But I always figured my sons, Wally and Will, were good Christian
boys. They went to church and participated in all the church youth
activities. Wally had signed the celibacy pledge at church as had his
girlfriend, Louanne. I had faith that I had raised good boys. That faith
was shaken in the worst way the week after school let out for the summer.


It was Friday. Will had gone away on a camping trip with his best buddy,
Austin, and Austin's dad Bob, who was one of my oldest pals. As far as I
knew my older boy Wally was out at the community swimming pool with some of
the boys from school. Wally had been accepted at the university and would
be turning 18 the following day. I went into the boys' bedroom looking for
some papers from the university. My boys are pretty messy, typical teenage
boys in that sense. As I tried to figure out where Wally may have put the
papers from the university, I turned to the built-in shelves above my older
son's bed. On the lowest shelf there was a pile of sloppily folded
t-shirts. I recognized some of Wally's favorite t-shirts. Under the shirts,
I saw a pile of papers. I picked up the t-shirts and moved them aside. At
the top of the pile of papers I saw Wally's old chemistry notes. I lifted
up the papers from a random spot in the middle of the pile. As I did so, a
large manila envelope fell to the floor. A bunch of photographs slipped out
of the envelope. I looked down and must have frozen on the spot for at
least five minutes.


There on the floor at my feet were photographs of naked men. Not just naked
men but men performing odious sex acts on each other. I slowly moved to the
floor. I didn't want to touch these disgusting pictures, but I knew that I
must. Gingerly I picked up a few pictures that had clearly been ripped from
magazines. I turned over one of these sheets and saw a picture on the other
side of the page that made my skin run cold. I saw a black man with a white
man beneath him, and the white man was in a position that a good Christian
wife might take for her husband's sake. Now, I'm a strong man. I can
withstand all sorts of pain. But believe me when I say that one glance at
this picture and I bounded from the room feeling ill to my stomach.


In two minutes flat I got and drank a bicarbonate of soda. I didn't dare
leave those pictures lying on the floor. I had no idea when Wally would be
returning home. I braced myself and went back into my sons' bedroom to
force myself to look at more of the pictures. Underneath the pages from
magazines, I found some snapshots that had been taken from an instant
camera. None of the snapshots showed faces, but I saw youthful, slim torsos
with Speedo swimsuits. The swimsuits either showed obscene bulges and
tents, or else they were pulled down to thighs or knees displaying the
private parts of these boys. It was obvious that these pictures had been
taken by my son of some of his cohorts on the school swim team. Nervously I
stuffed some of these in my pocket and looked further.


You may question my veracity if I tell you what I found in some of the
pictures still stuffed in the envelope. There was one picture that showed a
young man, perhaps still a teen, clean shaven and smooth chested, on his
knees with his hands cuffed behind his back. His face was at the crotch of
a large hairy middle-aged man who was clad in black leather. The older
man's penis was fully exposed and rampant and the handcuffed boy was
touching his tongue to the large organ.


Now I consider myself a worldly man - albeit a good Christian one. I know
that slave boys are used in this manner. On occasion I have used a slave
boy's mouth in just such a way. Since I've never had slaves of my own, this
was usually as part of some celebration: a bachelor party, a retirement
party at work. But I saw no slave collar on the boy in the picture. I saw
no slave numbers on his upper chest. I wanted to make sense of this
picture. Even more urgently, I wanted to make sense of why a son of mine
should be looking at a picture like this. Then I became aware that this
page was stuck to the page behind it, which showed the man's penis fully
disappeared into the boy's mouth. When I realized that the pages were
likely stuck together with the remains of my own son's masturbatory session
I tossed the papers out of my hand as if they were on fire. But then I knew
what I had to do. I gritted my teeth, put those pages in my pocket along
with some others I had taken, and put all the other pictures back into the
envelope. I took care to return the envelope and everything on that shelf
just as it had been. I knew Wally would be returning and I didn't want to
raise his suspicions.


I immediately phoned Rev. Flick and told him I had an emergency and had to
speak with him immediately. The good man made the time for me and I was in
his study in less than an hour from the time I had first found the
pictures. He kept his distance from the pictures as if these were the face
of Satan himself. All this time the good reverend kept shaking his head and
muttering, "Oh, Lord, be merciful on the soul of young Wallace. He knows
not what he does." When I finished leafing through the pictures he looked
me in the eye gravely and said, "You know the equation: faggot equals
slave." I slumped into a chair as if all the air had been knocked out of
me. The good reverend began offering some comfort, saying, "I know the loss
of your son will be grievous for you, but consider that this is the best
thing for the boy. You know that studies by our own church have shown that
homos are much happier in slavery. After all, as a slave he will get to
serve. He will get to be used sexually by men and, since he'll be a slave,
this will not be abhorrent to the Lord."


I held up my hand and said, "Reverend, you don't have to convince me. I
know this is the only course of action." Within an hour we had gathered
Sheriff Taylor and Ace Brady in the reverend's study. Ace was a lawyer who
had been doing this sort of thing since I was a boy and a good old boy who
could be trusted to be discreet. As soon as I explained everything to
Taylor and Brady, the sheriff flipped open his cell phone, punched in a
number, and spoke in hushed whispers. He had a troubled look on his face as
he turned to us and said, "That was my son Brad. He told me that he just
left the town pool and that he had seen Wally in the changing room. Do you
gentlemen know what that means?" his voice was full of foreboding. "That
means a known queer has seen my son and probably another dozen of the
flower of young manhood of our town in the altogether! In his homosexual
mind he has filed away pictures of my son and perhaps even your young
gandson, Mr. Brady, to fill his repulsive queer fantasies."


Ace said, "We must rid our community of this scourge as fast as possible."
I nodded my head and Ace made a phone call. He hung up less than a minute
later and said, "This will all be handled today and very discreetly."


I went home and found Wally up in his bedroom listening to some of his
godless music. I thought about the ways in which he was a sensitive boy. He
liked poetry and he cried at movies. Why hadn't I seen before how obviously
homosexual my son was? I also had to admit he was a good-looking boy. He
had let his dark blond hair grow out since the swim team season had
ended. His body was trim and fat free. Yes, he would do well as a
slave. There would certainly be some wealthy homo who would want to own
him.


I asked Wally to come with me to Sheriff Taylor's office. I told him I just
needed to get some papers from the sheriff and wanted his company. He's a
sweet-natured boy and he hopped in my car without question. I walked him
into the sheriff's office with my arm over his shoulder and he greeted the
assembled men with a pleasant smile. The reverend was there, along with Ace
Brady, Sheriff Taylor, and good old Judge Snow - that's who Ace had called
from the reverend's study.


Judge Snow had the papers ready and the sheriff had a slave collar ready. I
held my arm on Wally's shoulder as I began to explain to him. "Son, I know
your secret now. I know that you're a homosexual. Now you know our church's
view on that and you know that I am in total agreement with the
church. Faggot equals slavery."


"Dad, what are you talking about?" Wally asked, his voice rising in
pitch. "I'm not a homosexual. I've never done anything with a guy."


There was outrage in Ace Brady's voice as he said, "And what about those
disgusting pictures? I don't even want to know which of the boys you got to
pull down their swimsuits. But I'll tell you..."


Wally's eyes were wide. "Pictures? What pictures?"


The reverend raised his hands and said, "We don't need to go into the
tawdry details. All we need to do is process the new slave."


Sheriff Taylor stepped forward and snapped, "Remove all articles of
clothing, boy."


Wally turned to me and said, "Dad, no."


I was firm, "Strip for the men, boy. You're officially enslaved now."


His eyes grew fiery as he shouted, "No fucking way!" An instant later my
oldest son lay writhing in pain on the floor, moaning. I hadn't even seen
Sheriff Taylor take out the slave prod and touch it to Wally's body, but I
saw the device now in the sheriff's hand. He spoke quietly, "Watch your
mouth, slave boy. You were given an order. Now on your feet and strip down
bare ass naked, boy."


Wally stumbled to his feet. His hands were shaking and he was looking down
at the ground as he pulled off his t-shirt and let it fall to the floor. He
easily kicked off his sandals. He pulled open his cargo pants and they slid
down his legs. When he was stripped to just his white briefs he looked so
vulnerable. But then I shook my head and reminded myself: This was no
longer my innocent son Wally I was looking at. This was the body of a
homosexual, of a boy who had perverted fantasies about men doing despicable
acts to his young smooth body. I knew that I was a good father. I would see
to it that my boy got his wish come true.


Sheriff Taylor nodded to the boy's underpants and said, "Everything,
boy. Or should I turn up the power on the slave prod." Wally let the briefs
slide down his legs as he held one hand over his exposed genitals. "Hands
behind your head, boy," the sheriff snapped. When Wally complied, he
revealed that his penis was fully erect. It was sticking up at more than a
90-degree angle and there even seemed to be a bead of wetness at the tip.


"Oh, Wally," I shook my head in disgust. "The truth is revealed."


There was a sob in his voice as he turned to me and said, "Da-a-a-ad, it's
just I'm nervous and scared and when I feel that way..."


"Face forward, boy," Reverend Flick shouted.


Wally turned to the good reverend and snapped, "Shut up. I'm trying to talk
to my father."


With that, Sheriff Taylor hit my son so hard that the boy fell back against
me. I pushed him forward into the sheriff's arms. There was no sense in
trying to soften any blows for Wally. He was a slave now and would have to
live with his lot.


The sheriff snapped the slave collar around Wally's neck. "This boy better
learn to call all free men 'Sir,' and he'll need to learn the proper poses
for a slave. My son Brad is president of the Young Slave Handlers
Club. I'll send him over to give the boy some pointers."


Wally whined at me, "No, dad. Brad's a bully and an asshole." I knew that
Brad was the ex-boyfriend of Louanne, the girl Wally had been dating. And I
knew that Wally suspected Brad of slashing the tires on his bicycle. But I
also knew that my son had gone over the line too many times and still had
not accepted his new role as a slave. I grabbed him roughly by the slave
collar and bent him over the sheriff's desk. I raised my hand and began to
spank Wally like he had never been spanked before. My arm was like a
windmill. My son's protests soon faded out to low moans. My hand was
feeling numb from smacking his butt so much. But as my hand became numb, I
felt a throbbing sensation in my penis. I didn't understand why the hard
contact between my palm and my son's hairless cheeks should make my penis
go so stiff and leak juice. I reassured myself that it was just the
adrenaline rush.

Then the good reverend handed me a paddle and I kept going. Suddenly I was
out of breath. My penis was throbbing in my jockstrap. I could feel wetness
spreading on my jockstrap. I had shot my wad right into my jock without
even touching my organ. I was confused and I was embarrassed. I just let my
son's trim body fall to the floor and I fell into a chair to try to hide
the state of my crotch.


The sheriff looked down at my boy and said, "We'll be putting the slave in
the holding cell downstairs, so nobody coming in here will see him." The
reverend quickly added in, "Make sure his hands are cuffed to the collar so
he doesn't abuse himself while down there. His mind should be focused on
service to the Lord."


My boy did not look at me as they lifted him up. He did not raise his face,
but I could see it was tear stained. I watched his slim figure from
behind. His shoulders were impressive but his waist was so narrow for a boy
of 18. His rump, tingling bright crimson from my ministrations, was round
and high, but his hips were slim. I looked at that rump. Whatever vile acts
my son had already performed, I knew that men would be using that young
bottom in the way a decent Christian man used his good wife. And I felt
sure that my son, homo queer that he is, would love every minute of it.


I rushed to the men's room to check out the front of my pants. I wiped my
penis and my jockstrap with some toilet tissue. There was a little wet spot
on the front of my pants. Even though my pants were dark and the wet spot
didn't show up too well, I was worried that the men in the room might
notice. When I rejoined them, Wally was already safely locked up
downstairs. I bid a quick goodbye to the assembled group. My head was down
and I couldn't help but notice that there seemed to be a wet spot on the
front of the sheriff's pants and the good reverend seemed to be adjusting
something that tented the front of his pants. Thinking back on it, I'm sure
the sheriff must have just spilled something and I'm sure Reverend Flick
must have had a pen or something cylindrical sitting awkwardly in his
pocket.


My house was quiet that night, too quiet. My good wife had passed away in
childbirth with Will many years earlier. I realized that this was the first
time since I had been married that I had been totally alone for a night.


The following day I was led down to the basement of the sheriff's
office. There was a small cell inside a windowless gray room. The cell was
6 feet by 6 feet, had a drain in one corner and two bowls in the opposite
corner - one for slave biscuits and one for water. When I entered with
Sheriff Taylor, Wally eagerly stood up. His penis still looked somewhat
stiff but now there was also a patch of dried semen on his belly and his
chest. I shook my head as I saw that. "Wally, your hands are cuffed to your
collar. And yet you managed to shoot your perverted sperm just as an animal
would."


"Dad, it's not what you think," the boy pleaded.


Sheriff Taylor just touched his slave prod and quietly said, "You will
address all free men as 'Sir' or 'Master'. The man who was formerly your
father is not related to any slave."


"M-master," Wally began, "This isn't my cum. This belongs to Brad
Taylor. He tried to make me use my mouth. But he made me..."


"Shut up, boy!" the sheriff barked. "My son ain't no fucking homo! He was
here to give you a little bit of training as a favor. And just like a slave
you're already trying to blame free men for your filthy actions. Now, you
will be punished, boy. But we will save that punishment for later because
we have to get you ready for a visitor now."


Sheriff Taylor released Wally's handcuffs and then turned a water hose on
him. He handed the boy a bar of rough slave soap. I could see Wally
shivering as he scrubbed himself. At least the cold water made his penis
deflate. The sheriff then had Wally demonstrate his understanding of slave
posture: Rest, Attention, Kneel and the others. Then the boy was cuffed
again and returned to his cell while we went upstairs and waited for the
slave trader.


I had met McGee the slave trader before and he was a man I preferred to
avoid. But he was considered knowledgeable, he was local, and he was
willing to come down to look at Wally and give an assessment. McGee was so
fat as to be virtually round. He wore a loud checked suit with a bright
green shirt and matching tie. His clothes were always perfectly pressed and
spotless and yet in the worst taste. His hair was grown long on one side in
an attempt to cover his bald spot. He wore way too much cologne and yet it
was mouthwash he needed most of all.


Wally did a pretty good job of maintaining slave rest position as the
trader's stubby fingers touched him all over. Fingers dug into the sides of
Wally's pectorals and into the backs of his thighs. Clearly McGee knew how
to test a slave's muscles. He began tweaking and twisting Wally's nipples
and to my horror I saw my son's penis once again growing to full
erection. This sight seemed to please McGee.


"How long has this boy been enslaved?" he asked us without looking away
from Wally.


"It would be just over fourteen hours now," I said calculating in my head.


"No training," McGee said loudly, still not looking away from the boy. "He
looks like he could be naturally subservient. But he doesn't know anything
about being a slave. He hasn't even gotten a slave haircut." McGee then
unceremoniously licked one finger and shoved it deep into Wally's anus. The
boy howled so loud it startled me.


Now McGee turned to me as he asked, "Virgin up his butt?"


I was ashamed and looked down at the floor as I replied, "I believe he
is. I can't say for sure the boy has been totally truthful about his sexual
experiences."


McGee grunted, "Feels tight enough that you could tell potential buyers
he's a virgin." Then he withdrew his finger, looked at it and said, "The
kid hasn't even had an enema!" He tried to force his finger into Wally's
mouth but the boy struggled and pulled away. McGee smacked my son across
the face hard and then made the boy lick his digit clean. I saw a twisted
look of revulsion on Wally's face. McGee shook his head and said, "And he
knows nothing of obedience."


The slave trader walked over to Sheriff Taylor and me and said, "It
wouldn't even be worth the mileage for me to take him to the county
seat. The most I could see this boy bringing in at the county seat is
$30,000. That's if you're really lucky. Maybe some housewife thinks he's
cute and decides she wants a small slim young houseboy as an
ornament. Damn, someone like that probably isn't prepared to go much over
$20,000."


I shook my head and said, "This was never about making profits. It turns
out the boy is queer and he needs to be made a slave as that's where queers
belong."


A grin broke across McGee's face as he said, "On the other hand, I know a
place where you could easily get upwards of $80,000, maybe even $100,000
for the boy. And you could get that money today just as he is, without any
training, without even getting him a haircut."


My eyes went wide. "Well that's certainly a different tune, McGee. What are
you talking about?"


"Gaytown," he said. I was too shocked to respond, so McGee continued. "The
Gaytown section of Capitol City. Surely, you've heard of it. There are
plenty of homos who aren't enslaved. And plenty of those homos have a lot
of money. Let's face it, the boy turned 18 today, but he sure looks younger
than that. There are men in Gaytown who would fancy a boy like Wally
here. Because of the type he is, the fact that he hasn't been trained, the
fact that he still looks so much like the free boy he was just yesterday,
would all add to his appeal." Then McGee chuckled as if to some joke he
wasn't sharing with the rest of us.


I snapped, "Never. I would never set foot among those sodomites. It's
enough they have their own neighborhood where they flaunt their
perversions, but a good Christian like me would never..."


McGee held up his hand and said, "Who said you have to go there. I'll take
the boy there and sell him and I'll just take my standard one-third
commission." He was standing behind my boy, pressing his fat body against
Wally's slim naked form. His hand was moving sensually down from Wally's
chest to his stomach. Wally was looking up at me with anguish in his eyes.


The sheriff snapped, "Eyes to the floor, boy." Then he came beside me and
said, "Now hold on. Do you really want to hand one-third of $100,000 to
McGee?"


McGee seemed to be trying to grind himself against Wally's butt, except the
man's big belly was in the way. The trader looked at me and said,
"Especially for you, I'll only take one-fourth of the sale price instead of
my usual one-third!"


I did what I often do in times of doubt - I phoned Reverend Flick. He was a
calm and wise voice. He told me "the sodomites cannot infect a decent
Christian man, so you have nothing to fear."  Then he went on to say that
since acts performed on male slaves did not constitute the sin of
homosexuality, he thought it would be OK for me to take Wally to the slave
hall in Gaytown. He also reminded me that he would expect a special tithe
to the church from the profits I made on selling my son into slavery.


Capitol City was 100 miles away. Their slave hall opened at noon on
Saturdays and it was just 9:30. I could bring Wally there directly. It was
as if it had all been fated by the Lord. The fact I had found those
pictures one day before my son turned 18 and the fact that on the very day
of his birthday there was a slave hall that seemed just perfectly made for
a boy like Wally.


McGee had his fingers toying between Wally's white bottom cheeks. He looked
at me coyly and said, "I'll give you $200 in cash for an hour alone with
this boy in my van." Wally was looking down at the floor and
whimpering. McGee smacked his bottom and said, "C'mon boy, somebody's gonna
be first up yr butthole. And I'm a connoisseur of newly enslaved free
boys."


My patience was running thin with Wally and I said, "Oh stop the dramatics,
you little homo. I know it's what you want." Then I looked at my watch and
added, "Unfortunately, we're cutting our traveling time a little close, so
I miss out on the $200, Mr. McGee, and you miss out on deflowering my son."
Sheriff Taylor also missed out on giving Wally the punishment the boy had
earned. But there was a window of opportunity to get Wally sold that very
day and that had to be the priority.


McGee took it all in stride. He asked if I had any slave shorts for the
boy. When I said I didn't he smirked and said, "Put the kid in a pair of
tighty whities. Don't tell them the boy's a homo. Straight teen in his free
boy underpants - those queers will be throwing money at you."


End of part one - to be continued