Date: Fri, 27 May 2005 09:40:25 -0700 (PDT)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: The Labourer, Part 18

THE LABOURER  by Pete Brown.  petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

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

Part 18

My discrete tattoo in my armpit with my servant's
identification number was not in fact altered, but the
State had decided that those of us who were indentured
permanently ought to be more prominently marked so
that there could never be any doubt as to our status
when we appeared on the streets.  Consequently the
Court bailiff shepherded all three of us down to an
area below the court house where we were told to sit
on a hard wooden bench in what amounted to a corridor,
and to remain silent.

Joey looked ashen, and as we sat there pressed himself
against me, and I put an arm around his shoulders to
try to comfort him.  Craig seemed to be putting a
brave face on it, and just sat there as if he didn't
have a care in the world - but surely he was concerned
that he'd never now be free?  Inside, my own feelings
swung between downright hatred for Rob and the way
that he'd betrayed me, to stark despair at the though
of remaining a servant all my life.  When I'd started
all of this, I'd relished the thought of five years of
tough, totally demanding hard work, so that I could
see the effects on my body when I was driven past my
normal limits.  I'd kind of looked forward to resuming
"normal" life when I was thirty, now a hardened, honed
man who knew his limits and the things of which he was
ultimately capable - now all I could look forward to
was this life of unremitting toil for ever, and the
thought that Mister Rooney could use me sexually in
whatever way he chose, whenever he chose.  I now began
to understand the true hopelessness and desolation of
slavery - for that was, I realised, what I now was:  a
slave in everything but name.  I had no control over
my life, I had no control over my sexuality, my
contract could be bought and sold as my owner pleased,
I could be punished almost as my owner chose, and,
worst of all, this situation would last for my entire
life.

Sure, our society no longer allowed slavery, and there
were rules and regulations governing the way that
indentured servants could be treated to make sure it
was "humane" and that they were not damaged
permanently.  But, as I'd seen, the longer the period
of indenture, the harsher the punishments that an
indenture owner could hand out, and the more effective
control the owner had over the servant.  I shuddered
to think of what Mister Rooney could now demand of me,
and what he could ordered done to me, on a whim:
what now distinguished me from those slaves of the
nineteenth century who were sold, forced to labour
whenever and wherever their masters required, were
used sexually  at their master's pleasure, were
punished for any transgression of their master's
orders, and had absolutely no hope of becoming "free"
again?  None, as far as I could see - a lifetime
indentured servant was no more, no less, than  a
slave.  Mister Rooney owned me in just the same was as
those masters of old had owned their niggers, and I
was no better than they.  In fact I was worse off - no
white man like me could have been a slave then, but I
was now.

I felt my anger rising, and if there was anything  I
could have done to break out, to escape, I would have.
 But the area under the Court was "secure", designed
to hold prisoners awaiting trial, and the only exits
were through barred doors with bailiffs on the other
side.  And I knew it was useless to rage and shout, as
not only would the bailiffs punish me now, but Mister
Rooney would certainly do so as he was a firm believer
that his servants must at all times be respectful and
act appropriately:  I still shuddered inwardly as I
thought of the way that he could order me to be
whipped, and there was no way that I could bring
myself to even contemplate actions that might result
in such a punishment again.

They took us one at a time, and after Joey emerged,
almost crying, I knew what my fate was going to be.
Even so, as I knelt there feeling the insistent sharp
pricking of the tattooist's needle, I was almost
raging inside - even if one day I did regain my
freedom, everyone would now know that I was a freed
slave.  My servant ID number, followed by a "P" for
permanent, was not shining blackly in very big
characters from high on the back of  my neck, way
above the collar line, and it could only be concealed
by growing my hair very unfashionably long.

It seemed that being marked so very visibly affected
Craig, too, as his normal air of pretending not to
care about what was happening seemed to have
evaporated and he was grim-faced.  "The other servants
will start calling us slaves, Steve", he said.  "And
they'll expect us to treat them as if they are
superior to us as one day they will be free men again,
whereas we never will be now."  No amount of words
from me could convince him that when our hard dicks
thrust into them they would know who was boss, and I
began to feel rather sad for Craig, as being in
control was such an important part of his life.

Mister Rooney was smiling when we were at last taken
up from under the Court and out of the building, and
he told Craig and me that we were now far, far more
valuable that we had been only an hour before.  He was
almost chortling when he described how much more a
permanent indenture contract was worth on the open
market than a limited-time one.  "It's like a lease,
compared to freehold", he suggested.  "With a lease
the value is constantly diminishing as you use it up,
but freehold, where you have use of it in perpetuity,
never loses its value and rises steadily in line with
the market."  I really didn't like being thought of in
pure economic terms like this.

As we were standing there in the bright sunlight and
were just about to climb into the back of Mister
Rooney's truck, I heard a single word, but in a tone
so familiar that it made my whole insides lurch.
"Steve?"

I turned around and there was my father, in his
conservative business clothes.  "Yes, dad....", I
muttered.  Since the big bust-up over my refusal to go
to college, and my leaving home under a cloud, neither
my father nor any of my close family had ever made any
attempt to contact me.  It was only later, very much
later, that I realised how very hurtful this had been
to them all, and how they could not bring themselves
to offer even an olive twig, let alone a branch, to
resolve matters.  But then, neither could I - I don't
forgive easily, and had not particularly felt the need
to beg forgiveness from them!

"Please, sir!  I must insist that you do not speak to
my slaves without first asking my permission!", Mister
Rooney interrupted.  I saw a look of distaste flicker
across my father's face, the look I knew of old that
he reserved for those he considered inferior, or
engaged in sharp or unsavoury practices, or both:  a
look he normally managed to keep well concealed, as in
business he always emphasised how important it was
never to let the other side know your true feelings.

My father raised an eyebrow quizzically to Mister
Rooney, then seeing the large tattoo on the back of
Craig's neck, and remembering Mister Rooney's use of
the colloquial "slave" term to describe us, he quickly
gathered what was the situation.   I heard him
apologise to Mister Rooney for his inadvertent breach
of the normal rules of polite society, then watched as
he drew Mister Rooney to one side for a private
conversation.  I was expecting him to come back and at
least bring me up to date with family news, but as the
two men finished talking, my father strode off in his
normal purposeful way.  I wanted to run after him,
call out, have some interchange with this man with
whom I had fallen out all those years ago when I
refused to go to college, but Mister Rooney was
ordering us into the truck, and I did not dare
disobey.

There were two surprises as we toiled away that day:
firstly, Joey was assigned to work with us.  He had to
do the normal work on the site that day, and as he was
not used to the continuous hard work, the tawse and
cane was used liberally on his bare back and across
his work shorts as he vainly struggled to keep up with
the rest of us.  As we sat in the truck going back to
the  barracks, he was nearly at the end of his
physical endurance as his speech was almost incoherent
and his whole body just slumped.  I remembered how
even I had felt after being tawsed and caned to "give
my all" on my first day, and I had been much more fit
and powerful than Joey, so I knew just how he must be
feeling.

"Is it like this every day, Steve?", he managed to get
out.  "Mister Rooney says I'm a proper worker now, not
a house servant any longer.  He wants to toughen me up
and build me up, for sale in about six months."

"Yes, Joey.  It's always hard.  Even I still get caned
most days.  But you'll get used to it.  Just do the
best you can, and use the pain from the cane to keep
your body going - it's the only way to get through the
day.  But why has Mister Rooney decided to act now?"

"Well I'm almost seventeen, Steve, and he wants me
'muscled up' and sold before I'm eighteen - he says a
handsome young guy like me will almost certainly sell
into the sex trade, especially as I'm now a 'slave' so
they can do a lot more to me, things that wouldn't be
allowed to indentured servants on short terms, like
nipple torture.  And a lot of men like the idea of
using a very young guy, and the attraction goes off as
I get older.  But he's also bought another indentured
servant - he went to a sale yesterday -  another young
guy who, like me, was basically picked up by the
authorities just after his sixteenth birthday.  He had
been in trouble before but they couldn't do anything
about it until he was sixteen, and then he could be
indentured:  just like me, really.  Mister Rooney said
he couldn't afford to have two of us young guys
shaving your balls and being his toy in bed, so it was
time for me to 'join the real world', as he put it."

He seemed almost tearful at his prospects, but there's
no point in lying about something like that, is there?
 I could see he needed some sort of comfort, so I said
"Still, of you're one of us workers now, you need a
proper name - I'll call you Joe from now on:  Joey's a
kid's name, and you're certainly no longer a kid."

He seemed to buck up almost immediately, and when we
got back to the barracks and some of the other guys
started to call out to Joey to go and suck them off or
soap them or whatever, I heard him retort "Fuck you!
I'm a worker too, now, and it's 'Joe' from now on,
understand?  And if you want your balls shaving, do it
yourself!"

My second surprise came shortly after, though, as when
I'd finished my chow and was about to turn in - and
could see Joe hovering, waiting to leap in beside me -
Ryan came to the door of the dorm and called for me to
get dressed and meet Mister Rooney in the yard
outside.  I have to say that I was trembling a bit -
was he taking me off to be sold  immediately?  I
thought of saying goodbye to Joe, and perhaps to
Craig, too, but there was not time, and I was soon
sitting in the back of a pickup speeding through the
warm evening air.

We drove for some time, and as we did the surroundings
became more and more familiar.  And then with a shock
I saw that were in my own street, and then driving up
the long drive to our house.  Mister Rooney parked,
barked at me to get out and then to "mind your
behaviour, Steve!  Remember, you're a slave now, and I
have an even wider range of punishments.  Just obey me
fully and instantly, whatever happens."

My father himself opened the door, and led us into
that room with which  I was so familiar:  the family
room where I'd spent so much time when I lived at
home, and where my father and I had spent so many
happy hours before our disagreement over college, and
his insistence that my plan to work for myself was
complete nonsense.  The same big, overstuffed couches
were there, the same big TV, the fireplace where, even
on this warm night, the log fire that my father so
liked was flickering.  There were newspapers and
magazines strewn causally around as there always had
been as my father believed that a young man needed to
understand the world, and on the coffee tale there was
a glass of my father's favourite bourbon, the ice
cubes still visible.  All was calm, all was peaceful -
this is the world I'd grown up in, a very different
world from the one I now found myself in, through no
fault of my own.  Well, I suppose at one level it was
my fault - had I listened to my father and gone to
college, Rob would not have been able to lead me into
slavery.  But then, it's the nature of things, for
young men to disagree with their fathers, isn't it?

Mister Rooney motioned for me to stand by the side of
the fireplace, and almost unconsciously I dropped into
the "waiting" posture, with my legs apart,  my hands
clasped behind my back, and my head bowed.  I heard my
father offer Mister Rooney a drink, but when he added
"...and for you, Steve?", Mister Rooney at once cut
in.  "Thank you, Mister Masters, but Steve's my
permanent indentured servant now - or shall we say
'slave' to use the common parlance - and I don't let
him eat or drink except at proper feeding times, as
it's bad for discipline."

"Sorry, Rooney", my father replied.  "These things are
important, I can see that.  And I suppose we wouldn't
all be here tonight if I'd ever exercised proper
control over Steve!  But he was always such as good
boy, hard working at school, good athlete, on the
football team - until he started chasing girls and it
all fell apart.  Then it was too late, I guess:  I was
busy with my business, and by the time I'd noticed it
happening, Steve had developed this wilful, stubborn
streak.... and refused to do as I wanted, wouldn't go
to college, and then when I insisted, he simply walked
out and went to work construction.  I had a hard time
at the Club, I can tell you, when all my colleagues
were discussing their sons' achievements, and all I
could say was that my son seemed to be doing OK as a
labourer!"

"Yes", Mister Rooney added.  "Discipline is vital.
When he first came to me Steve was wild -  underneath
there was a rebellious streak, however much he said he
wanted to work.  But the methods we use, the physical
coercion, culminating in a proper whipping, have
driven it out.  He's now a compliant, hard working,
totally obedient slave."

"You beat him, Rooney?"

"Yes, of course.  At the end of the day, that's what
men finally understand.  The body learns that a master
exerts his control through pain and punishment.  Of
course we have to be harsh, as men these days are not
taught to obey by their parents, so we're starting
from a very low base..."  He faltered as he said this,
and hastily went on "Of course, Mister Masters, I'm
not criticising you in this..."

"No, Rooney, I take your point.  I was too lenient
with Steve."

"Quite so.  Most parents don't thrash their sons these
days - if Steve had been beaten really hard when he
was twelve or so, or when he first started to jerk
off, he'd have understood who was in charge, and you
wouldn't have had all that argument as he was leaving
school."

"I believe you're right.  Still, it's too late for
that now.  You can't re-write history..."

"No, Mister Masters, but you can start again."

"How so?"

"I sense you are unhappy at what has happened to
Steve, or, rather, you blame yourself.  Perhaps you
need to exorcise your guilt.... Do something you
should have done years ago."

"Such as?"

"Why don't you give Steve now the spanking that you
should have given him years ago?   Exorcise the
memories of where you went wrong.... a good physical
thrashing could make you feel much better
emotionally..."

"But Steve..."

"Never mind him!  He's used to taking much harsher
punishment than, with respect, you're capable of
meting out.  You won't hurt him permanently, however
much he might complain as you're actually doing
it...."  As he said this, as if to prevent further
discussion, Mister Rooney turned to me and snapped
"Get naked, Steve.  You can leave your boots on,
though."

A wave of panic swept through me.  I felt my heart
racing.  It wasn't the thought of being punished by my
father, as I knew Mister Rooney was right and a man of
my father's age just couldn't permanently hurt me....
Not that my father was not fit and strong, in much
better shape than most men in their early fifties, but
it's just a matter of practice:  if you're not used to
using a cane or whip, you just can't do it properly
first time around.   No, what was causing me to start
sweating and my breathing to become laboured was the
thought of stripping in front of my father - I mean,
it was all right when I was a kid, but once I got to
nine or ten, I'd always thereafter shut the bathroom
door when I was showering,  changed on the beach with
a towel wrapped around me, and so on.  It was OK to be
naked in front of the guys at school or at the gym as
we showered after working out, but not in front of my
father at home.

I stood there, hesitating, and Mister Rooney snapped
"You heard my order, boy!  Unclothe!  Now!"

There was nothing for it, as I knew Mister Rooney
would punish me afterwards if I did not obey.  So I
pulled my polo up over my head, folded it neatly, and
put it down on the coffee table.  Then, my fingers
almost trembling, but with my face definitely
blushing, I undid the buttons on my shorts, and let
them slide down my legs.  I hated it as I had to stand
there on one foot at a time getting them over my boots
- we all wore wide-legged shorts as Mister Rooney
considered it was healthier for us when we were
working as it would help the sweat to evaporate - so
there was no actual problem,  But, as you know,
standing there on one foot trying to get your shorts
over the other, you kind of sway around, and your dick
and balls hang there, very visible indeed.

But I did it eventually, and stood there again in the
normal position.  But now it wasn't just the
subservience of it that I felt, but the shame:  the
shame of a grown man, a big, virile man who had sex
whenever he wanted, having to stand there nude in
front of my father, just like a haughty school kid.

"He's changed...", my father said conversationally to
Mister Rooney.  "He looks different somehow..."

"Oh yes, well all men look better when their pubic
hair is clipped neatly and their balls are shaved.
All my servants are like that, as it's better for
them:  in the hot weather, it helps to keep them cool
as it's easier for them to sweat."

"No, Rooney, its' not that - once he started to get to
be mature, Steve never showed himself to me so I don't
know what his pubic hair would look like anyway!"

"Oh, then, it's probably that I had him cut. I don't
like my servants to keep themselves concealed with a
'skin, so I generally have it removed."  He looked at
me now and went on "It was when you were whipped,
wasn't it, Steve?"

Blushing even harder now, I could only mumble "Yes,
sir."

"You had him cut?  Circumcised?  And you had him
whipped?  One of those proper whippings I've read
about in the newspapers...?"

"Yes.  I couldn't properly tame him any other way.
Once a man learns that you have the power over him to
the extent that you can order his 'skin to be lopped
off, it changes him, makes him realise that he's no
longer in charge of his own body.  And it's the same
with whipping - there's an excellent whipmaster in
this area, guaranteed to focus a man's mind in future
on the requirements of his owner.  But there's no
permanent harm done - well, at least there's no
putting back his 'skin, but between you and me, I
think his dick is enhanced by 'skinning:  before, you
just couldn't see the size of the head properly.  He's
much sleeker, somehow, more ready for action...."

"As I said, Rooney, Steve never displayed himself like
that once he started to mature, so I have no real
comparison.  But I can agree with you now that he has
nothing to be ashamed of - most men would die for a
body like his, and for a penis and testicles on that
scale."

I could hardly believe that my father was talking
about me like this, and my embarrassment and shame
deepened.  It's bad enough when two men start to
discuss you as if you're some prize piece of meat at
the best of times, but when it's your father, it's
terrible.

Rooney was still talking, however.  "I can understand
your concern about the punishment, too, as some of
those whippings can be brutal, but I don't want my
assets permanently damaged and so the most you can
determine now is a few hard ridges in his muscles
where damage has been encysted by his body - here, let
me show you."

As he said this, Mister Rooney got to his feet,
followed by my father.  I felt Mister Rooney's hands
running over my naked back, and he said casually
"There - here's one.  This is what I mean - you can
just still determine the line of the whip across his
back.  But, as you can see, there's nothing visible on
the surface:  only his lovers will really ever know,
and those of us who are interested in his body, of
course."

Look, it was bad enough having Mister Rooney's hands
running over my bare skin like that and giving a
commentary on me, but when My father's smooth, strong
fingers began to trail down my back, I thought I was
going to die of shame.  And dad didn't stop there,
either - his hands ran over the taught skin on my
butt, then it was as if he was "cupping" the muscles
there in his palms.

"My god, Rooney, it must have been some whipping - the
boy's backside is crossed with those things!"

"Oh no, not really, Mister Masters.  Some of it is the
current canings - we have to keep him working hard,
you know.  But are you going to punish him now for all
the anguish he caused you?  It would be best, you
know:  resolve all those conflicts you had with him,
once and for all."

"Are you certain, Rooney?"

"Oh yes.  Go ahead, it  can't hurt - well, it will
probably hut him, in one sense, but it can only do you
good.  Go and sit on the couch over there, and get
comfortable."

I watched as my father went and sat down,
straight-backed, his knees close together in front of
him.  He looked really uncomfortable, and I could see
he was sweating slightly.  Mister Rooney turned to me,
and said quietly "Right, Steve!  This is what your
father should have done to you years ago.  Get across
his knees, so he can spank you."

"Please, mister Rooney..."

"Do as you're told!  Or else your father's hand will
not be the only thing hitting your disobedient rump
tonight!"

Hating it, my head hung with embarrassment and shame,
I almost shuffled across the room, as slowly as I
could.  Even so,  I was acutely conscious of my dick
bobbing up and down.  I stood in front of my father,
and Mister Rooney snapped "Do as you're told!", once
more.  There was nothing  I could do - I bent down,
then with my hands pressing the floor on one side and
my booted feet firmly planted on the other, I lowered
my body across my father's knees.  I felt the rough
tweed of his expensive causal pants almost scratching
my belly and my dick as I lay there, and then he began
to hit me.

Look, I know it was nothing, really.  A man just can't
hit your butt hard enough with his open palm to really
hurt you.  There's  slight stinging as the blow lands
and that very satisfying "slap" sound, but it's not
like receiving a cane stroke, or even a paddle.  But
as my father's blows rained down on my naked butt, I
felt like crying, crying not just with the utter
humiliation of my condition, but because this was my
father doing this to me.  I was a grown man, and now
my dad was taking his bare hand to my butt.

I lost count, but I don't suppose it was more than ten
or twelve blows - as I said, it hurts the hand of the
guy who's doing it almost as much as the guy whose
butt is receiving it.  I scrambled to my feet, and now
my humiliation was even worse, as I was erect:  not
just one of those half erections, but a real, solid,
dick right up in the air, throbbing with the blood
engorging it, kind of erections.  Mister Rooney saw
this, and I could see my father's eyes riveted on it,
too.  To break the silence rather than to spare my
acute embarrassment, Mister Rooney said "Turn around,
Steve, and let's see how your punishment went."

At least I now had my back to them, but my dick just
wouldn't lie down.  I heard Mister Rooney pointing out
the red patches on my butt now, and laughing quietly.
But then his tone changed.  "Oh no, Mister Masters!
Steve has soiled those pants of yours. That's the
trouble with these virile young men."

In horror I glanced down and saw Mister Rooney
pointing at a wet patch on my father's pants, right in
the crotch.  It must have been pre-cum leaking out
from me, as my erection was so strong..  Now I felt
even more embarrassed and ashamed, if that was
possible.  Not only had I been spanked on my bare
butt, but it had excited me sexually, to the extent
that I was still standing there with a huge boner, and
I'd started to cum over my dad!

"Get down and clean it off, Steve!", Mister Rooney
ordered.  And when I just stood there, staring at him
blankly, he snapped "On your knees, and clean up our
father's clothes with your tongue."

My father looked a little surprised, but perhaps he
was by now in awe of Mister Rooney himself, as he said
nothing.  My dick bobbed up and down, and I felt sure
I must be leaking more pre-cum, as I took a couple of
steps forward and gingerly knelt between my father's
legs.  Resting my hands lightly on his knees for
support, I lowered my head, and started to lick gently
at the wet patch on the fabric.   My father's pants
had that special smell of the vibrant, citrus smell of
his expensive toiletries that I remembered from
childhood - he'd never changed the after shave and
soaps he used, which were specially blended for him
and which brought back memories of when I'd sat on his
lap as a kid whilst he read me bedtime stories.  But
now, overlaid on that, was another smell, a smell with
which I'd become so familiar:  that special male smell
which men have in their pubic regions.   And as I
desperately licked and lapped, I began to realise to
my acute discomfort something else - mine was not the
only dick that was firmly erect, as through the fabric
of his pants I could distinctly feel my father's dick
straining upwards for release.

I don't think that licking at my father's pants really
did any good at all in terms of removing my pre-cum
from them, and in retrospect it seems as if Mister
Rooney was just emphasising to me how much I was in
his power, and how relationships between my father and
me had changed:  no longer was I the rebellious man
who defied his father and refused to go to college;
now I was the naughty child once more, who could be
spanked on his naked butt, then made to lick
humiliatingly at his father's clothes.

After a couple of minutes Mister Rooney ordered me to
my feet, then said curtly "We don't want to see that
dick of yours raging upwards like that!  Go over and
face into the corner, and when you're there jerk
yourself off - your father and I have important
business to discuss.

Look, it's just awful.  I suppose I was almost used to
jerking of in front of other guys now, as we did it
all the time in the barracks, but those guys were my
fellow servants and we were all living together.  But
being made to do it, in front of other guys, when one
of them was my father, was totally shaming.  You
shouldn't order a man to jerk off in front of you,
should you?  Now even when he's facing away from you -
in fact, that's almost worse:  I knew Mister Rooney
and my father were watching my body and my red butt as
I jerked away, and as I started to cum, I did at least
have the presence of mind to catch it in my other
hand:  if I hadn't, I can' imagine what Mister Rooney
would have ordered me to do.  But then what?  I could
hardly stand there holding a palm full of cum could I?
 As carefully as I could I raised my hand to my mouth
and licked it clean, but, if anything, my blushes of
embarrassment must have deepened as I knew they could
see my arm move, and I felt sure the bright red colour
suffusing my neck and shoulders must now match the red
of my butt!

Mister Rooney and my father sat there, talking away,
but in low voices so that as I was facing away from
them, I could not hear what they were saying.  At
last, though, Mister Rooney called to me, and feeling
very ridiculous as  my heavy work boots somehow
emphasised my nakedness, I walked back towards the
couch.

"Pick up your clothes, Steve!", Mister Rooney ordered,
"And get out to the truck."

I did as I was told, and was expecting my father to
say something, or to shake my hand in farewell.  Then
I started to blush again, as if he did this, he'd need
to take the hand which I had just used to jerk off
with, or the one that I'd caught the cum in.  But
fortunately he seemed to ignore me, and I walked out
of the door and out to the truck.  I hesitated about
dressing again, as Mister Rooney had not given me any
instructions, but as the night was now cooling a
little, I thought I dared risk it and pulled on my
shorts and polo.

Mister Rooney allowed me to sit in the front of the
truck as he drove us back to base, but he didn't
speak, and so neither could I.  As I crawled into my
bed that night I was very confused, and strangely
upset, about what had gone on at my old home.  Why had
my father not done something to properly acknowledge
me when we left?  I felt somehow desolate and
confused, thinking that after the humiliation I'd
suffered he'd somehow abandoned me.

End Of Part 18