Date: Wed, 20 Apr 2005 21:29:02 -0700 (PDT)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: The Labourer, Part  2

THE LABOURER  by Pete Brown.  petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

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

Part 2

When I finally said goodnight to Mike after a couple
more beers, it was just as well that I'd left the bike
at home as I was almost staggering along the sidewalk.
 It wasn't just the beer - it was the excitement, the
thrill of what we'd agreed:  I was going to have a
real test at last, pitting my strength and ability to
work against guys who would be beaten if they failed!
 I could barely wait to get into my room, and it was
hard to get my jeans off as my erection was so hard -
the more I thought about it, guys working because they
feared physical punishment, the more excited I got.  I
hardly had to touch my dick before the pre-cum was
flowing, and as I sprawled on my couch imagining what
it would be like to be made to really work, my dick
and balls were positively aching as they wanted to
shoot so much.  I deliberately kept my hands off my
dick and watched as it jerked up and down all by
itself as I let my brain imagine what it would be like
to be in competition with a big tough guy like me, and
know that if you failed to beat me, you would fele a
cane, or a tawse.  What the fuck was a tawse, I
wondered.  And what must these whippings be like, that
an indentured servant never had more than one because
they were so terrifying that he would do anything to
avoid a second?

Of course I couldn't keep my hands away for long, as
you'd expect, but the moment I stroked my 'skin off
and on the head once or twice, I shot, and shot big
time!   I didn't even have time to pull my dick hard
up and point it along my belly, and so right over the
carpet, half way to the TV, there was my cum
glittering under the lights.

As I lay there panting and letting my heart slow -
it's funny, isn't it: however fit you are, your body
always goes into overdrive when there's sex in the
air?  I just lay there, enjoying that incredible
feeling that sweeps over you after you've cum, and
wondered about what Mike had said.  Was he
bullshitting me, with all this talk of secret reserves
of power and energy?  I'd not heard of this theory
before, but it did seem to be very plausible - I mean,
the human brain is  funny thing, isn't it?  And there
are millions of years of human evolution where it
could have worked out sensible strategies like that to
protect hunters and the like.  And the more I thought
about it, the more obvious it seemed - presumably the
best hunters, the strongest guys, would learn to keep
more in reserve, so they'd be less likely to get
caught unawares by wild beasts, and so more likely
they would be to be able to breed, and so natural
selection would favour keeping reserves.... And so
really tough fit guys, like me, would probably end up
with really huge reserves of power and energy that we
never even guessed we had.  I was really turned on by
this - as I've told you, for a long time I'd been
frustrated at my inability to really drag the last few
percent out of my body, and now Mike had revealed that
that was just a drop in the ocean, the tiny bit I
couldn't will myself to give up.  Waiting underneath
was this huge extra reserve that In eeded to be forced
to give up!   In spite of having only just shot a few
minutes before, my dick stiffened again, and I lay
there, jerking away at myself and groaning out loud at
the thought of what I could make my body do when I was
up against some of Mike's guys in a real challenge
match.

I could hardly wait for Sunday to come.  I phoned Mike
on Saturday afternoon when I'd finished a small job
and had a pocket full of dollars, and verified that
the contest was still on.  "Oh yes, Steve - that ten
dollars of yours is going to be the easiest money I've
made this year!"

He gave me his address, which was on one of the minor
roads out of town, and then I asked him what time I
should be there.  "Dawn, Steve!  My guys start work as
soon as it's light enough.  So you be here real early
- it's about half an hour to the work site, and you
can travel with them and the overseer in my truck -
you'll be too tired to ride that bike of yours at the
end of the day, and if we transport you, we can also
give you a bed for the night as I think you'll need
it."

What should I do for the rest of the day then?  I
thought that perhaps I shouldn't go to the gym as I
ought to "save" myself for the contest the next day.
But on the other hand, perhaps I ought to remain in
the absolute peak of condition, and as I'd only worked
half a day, I ought to really work my body for the
other half.  In the end, the lure of the pool was too
great, and I kind of compromised, just swimming for a
couple of hours as an "endurance" test, rather than
ploughing up and down very fast as I usually did to
burn energy quickly.

I got the usual admiring looks from the people who
always hung around the pool edge, or lolled against
the sides in the water, as I swam steadily up and
down.  Then as I strutted back towards the locker
room, I knew that all eyes were on my body, especially
as I was one of the few guys there who wore Speedos -
even other dedicated swimmers at that place tended to
wear baggy swimming shorts, but I don't see the point:
 you don't want all the "drag" against the water, do
you?  And, anyway, if you've got a nice body, you
oughtn't to be ashamed of letting others see it.  Mind
you, it can be tough - one or two of the women sitting
there were pretty cool, and I could feel my dick
struggling against the tight stretchy fabric, but
there was nothing I could do about it - In ever took a
towel into the pool area, and you can hardly cover
yourself with your hands without drawing even more
attention to your dick, can you?

One of the receptionists who I'd fucked a few times
over the years was going off duty as I left, and she
chatted inconsequentially to me for a few minutes.  If
I could have been bothered I just knew that I could
have gone back to her place and put it in her again,
and she was an OK  kind of fuck, never whining and
demanding, and knowing that she was there to satisfy
my needs, so it was an attractive option.  But fucking
really does take it out of you, doesn't it?  And I had
this idea that I'd "save" myself for the struggle the
next day - if your balls are all charged up, your
whole body's in tension, operating at a higher level,
isn't it?  I thought it would be good to lay off sex,
and not even jerk myself off that night, so that I
would be at my absolute peak.

The only problem with deciding to abstain from even
jerking off is that it's almost impossible to sleep!
I lay there in my bed that night, my dick hard and
throbbing, and I just knew it was wondering why it
wasn't getting its normal night time massage.  I
usually jerk off when I get into bed, as otherwise I
find that my dick stays too hard, and as I roll over,
it can hurt.  I've never been one of those guys to
sleep in boxers or sweat pants or anything -  I like
to feel my naked skin against naked skin, and so
there's nothing to protect my dick, and , anyway, it's
a good excuse to do something I enjoy.  It makes for a
bit more work, I suppose - I hate jerking off into
toilet tissue, and in bed I usually just let it fly.
By the end of the week the sheets are pretty stiff
with dried cum, and on occasions when I've brought a
woman back to my place instead of going to hers, she's
professed to be pretty revolted by this evidence of my
masculinity.  And it's harder in the shower in the
morning as the cum tends to stick in your pubes and
the hair on your belly and thighs as you roll over,
and you know how difficult it can be to get those odd
strands of dried cum out of your pubes.  Still, it's a
small price to pay for the sheer enjoyment of it.

In the end, I gave up and jerked off as usual.  I
thought it was better to get a good night's sleep,
which wasn't going to happen with my balls full of
cum, and after I'd  thrashed around for what seemed
like hours, I reached down and gave my dick the
treatment it deserves.

The alarm woke me up in the middle of a fantastic
erotic dream, and I realised that I was in danger of
being late - usually I wake up with no problem, and
it's unusual for the alarm to go off.  I decided I
didn't even have time to get rid of my morning
erection, so I pissed with some difficulty, threw
myself into the shower with no time to tease the
threads of cum from my pubes, and pulled on my normal
crumpled T and jeans - as I've said, they're clean,
but ironing is for wimps.  Gulping down a big carton
of orange juice, I pulled on my leathers and went and
got astride my bike and roared off towards Mike's
place - at that time of the morning I didn't even
worry about the possibility of cops, so I let it rip
and had that fantastic feeling as the needle went up
to a hundred - it's almost as good as sex, a I expect
you know.

I'd never ventured out of town in that direction
before, so it was a bit of a shock as I approached
Mike's place.  You normally expect contractors' yards
to be pretty untidy places, don't you, with machinery
all around, odd piles of aggregate, rather scruffy
offices in portable building, and all that kind of
thing.   But this was different - it was immaculate!
A huge sign at the roadside said "Rooney's Contracts -
All kinds of construction and site works.  Please come
in and discuss your requirements."  There was a neat
white picket fence stretching up both sides of a long
drive, which was itself weed-free and had neatly
clipped grass verges, and as I parked my bike at the
entrance to what seemed to be a proper brick-built
office block, there was the normal stuff around that
you expect, but it was all neat:  paving slabs piled
up geometrically, sand and aggregate neatly corralled
into bins, and not a bit of litter anywhere.

I could hear a lot of male voices, and before I could
go up the steps to the entrance, Mike appeared from
around the side of the building.  "Steve, welcome
aboard!  I was beginning to think you'd chickened
out..."

"No way, Mike!  That ten dollars....!"

He laughed, asked me if I'd breakfasted, and I said
yes, as I thought the OJ counted.  "Come on then, and
I'll introduce you to my overseer, Sean.  I'll be
along later to see how you're getting on, but Sean
will take you all to the site, tell you what to do,
and get you started.  Now, I think we said you'd leave
your bike here, then, when you're totally exhausted
and utterly worked out tonight, we can arrange for you
to b given a lift home with it in one of my trucks."

"No need, Mike.  I've never got to that state before,
and I don't expect to start now..."

"Well I can see that ten dollars is in my pocket
already, Steve, if that's the attitude you're taking.
I thought you were intent on exploring how far you
could push that body of yours."

"Yes, sure, I am.  But no one has ever worked me to a
standstill before, and I'm not expecting it to happen
today, either."

"So just so there's no misunderstanding, Steve, the
rules we agreed are that you join my crew to work on
this contract I have today, and I pay you a normal
day's wages, right?"

"Yes, plus the ten dollars I'll win..."

"...plus the ten dollars you'll win IF you work as
hard as my crew does.  So you have to start when they
do, and work on until they finish.  And you only take
a break when they do, and there's no sneaking away for
a little rest, no leaning on your shovel..."

"N, of course not!  But how will you know that your
guys are working as hard as I am?  I mean, I'm a big
guy, so if I shovel something, I take a full shovel.
And if I carry stuff - paving slabs and stuff like
that - then my load will be bigger than theirs."

"You're making a lot of assumptions there, Steve!
Sean keeps a really sharp eye on our guys, as you'll
see, and he'll make sure they all have full shovels,
and all the loads they carry will really strain them.
I pay Sean by results, and he knows how keenly I cost
our projects and how little time he has to get them
finished.  So he in turn really 'encourages' the
indentured servants to get on with it, as you'll
observe.  Now, do you work in those leathers, or do
you want to leave them here with your bike?"

There was no point in taking my leathers with me as I
only wore them when I was riding, so I took off the
jacket, then bent down to unzip the sides of the legs
so I could get them off over my heavy work boots.  I'm
not sure, but I thought I got a mildly disapproving
look as my crumpled T was revealed, and I suspect that
my scuffed, dirt-stained boots didn't meet with Mike's
approval either.

I draped my leathers over my bike, and Mike led me
back the way he'd come, around the building. My jaw
almost dropped open in amazement - it was like some
sort of army parade ground around there!  Not only was
the absolutely immaculately clean and neat appearance
of the place maintained, but Mike's three trucks were
all lined up in a neat row, all perfectly clean and
shining with polish - I mean, a contractor's truck is
meant to be a bit bashed around, and coated with dust,
isn't it?   But it was the workers who made the
biggest impression - for one thing, they were lined up
in a straight line, all fifteen of them - guys in
construction usually sit or lean, or stand around
shooting the breeze when they're waiting for something
to happen.   But these were all quiet, and were all
standing in the same way:  feet a little apart, hands
clasped behind their backs, and heads bowed.  They
were all dressed identically, too - no crumpled T and
jeans, but smart dark green polos saying "Rooney's
Contracts", and dark grey chino shorts (a lot shorter
than most men would wear nowadays, being well above
the knees, but interesting as they showed their strong
muscular thighs).  Their black work boots were all
polished, too, and I wondered how long they'd taken to
get all prepared like this - it was as if they were
off to some army parade, rather than going to work
construction!

As I looked down the row I saw they were all lean and
fit-looking - no excess weight here, and their ages
must have ranged from nineteen or so up to about
thirty five.

"This is my crew, Steve", Mike said.  "Fifteen of the
best pieces of servanthood that my money can buy.
Now, I want to be scrupulously fair to you, so I don't
want you to think that I've picked out a specially
tough, hard working set - why don't you choose five
guys you'd like to pit yourself against today?"

"No, Mike - then you'd think I'd deliberately picked
the runts....  Not that there are any who look like
that really, but you know what  I mean."

"OK", he said, laughing. "So we'll just pick out each
third man - all of them do the same kind of grunt
work, so we don't need to select for special
skills...."  He turned away, and barked an order, and
every third man stepped smartly two paces forward,
then stood there again, heads still bowed, hands still
clasped behind their back.

Another guy then appeared, coming out of the building.
 "Steve, this is Sean... Sean, Steve."

We looked at each other, but Mike was between us and
we didn't stretch out to shake hands..  He was an
ordinary looking guy, nothing special, not tall, not
short, not particularly tough looking, but with a trim
fit kind of appearance generally.  He was wearing a
Rooney's Contracts polo like the other men, but he had
smart tan chinos on, and regular shoes, rather than
heavy work boots. I wondered how this guy was going to
control those five tough-looking workers, to make sure
that they did as Mike said they did, and worked to the
limits of their ability.

"So finish the contract at the Harrison place", Mike
told him.  "And you remember how we discussed the
little bet I had with Steve here?  With as sixth
person in the crew, it ought to be easy."

"Yes,  Mike.... But I can't drive this one..."

"No, but he wants to work!  He thinks he's going to
prove something to me, and to himself.... And I
mentioned the ten bucks to you, didn't I?  Well, in
addition to your normal bonus, there's an extra fifty
for you if Steve here loses is ten to me."

Well, I knew that Mike hadn't been doing it for the
paltry ten dollar bet, but now I had proof positive.
I extended my hand to Sean now,  and said "Glad to be
working with you today - just treat me like any one of
the other guys...."

To my surprise he didn't reach out his hand to shake
mine, but looked mildly displeased.  "As I think
you'll find out, you'll be glad that I won't be doing
that to you.   Now, we're ready - you can ride in the
back with the crew."  He turned away, and shouted
"Load up.  Quickly now, let's be on our way."

It was a fairly standard open-backed pick-up, and we
piled in and sat there on the metal deck, three to a
side.  Like the outside, this working area of the
truck was immaculate, too - it looked as if it had
been scrubbed  clean:  a working truck for a
contractor usually gets all sorts of crap thrown in
it, and it really takes a beating, whereas this one
could almost have just come out of the showroom.  It
was odd, though - when we normally went out on a job,
we usually managed to squeeze into the proper seats at
the front of the truck, and you usually only saw big
loads of Mexicans and illegal field workers being
carried around in the back of trucks like this.  I'd
kind of thought that a group of regular workers, white
guys like us, wouldn't go around  in the back, just as
if we were some sort of lower order.

I'm not very good on names, so I didn't immediately
remember those of the five guys, but they seemed
pleasant enough.  They didn't say all that much as we
sped through the suburbs that were just waking up, so
I asked them how they got to be indentured servants.
I was pretty shocked,  I can tell you - one was a
convicted drug dealer, another had been convicted of
statutory rape (although he was quick to point out
that the bitch had consented, then changed her mind
when her folks found them screwing), the third was
there for taking part in an armed robbery, but the
last two were different:  one had failed to pay his
taxes on time, and the other for persistent lateness
in paying speeding fines!  It had never occurred to me
that they'd gone that far - when my father had
discussed this whole thing with me and gone on about
emptying the prisons, I'd kind of thought that it was
just the serious crimes that they were talking about.
But being indentured for late payment of speeding
fines - well, fuck me, it was lucky that I wasn't
there, as I do get a fair few tickets with my bike!

When I asked them how Mike was to work for, they all
fell strangely silent, though.  Finally one of them
said  quietly, as if he was choosing his words very
carefully "I suppose we can't complain.  We get fed.
The bunkhouse is OK."

"Is that all?  Wouldn't you rather be working out in
the open air, than locked up in jail?  I'd have
thought that being an indentured servant and getting a
lot of good healthy exercise was a pretty good
deal.... I'd always thought of jail as pretty
terrible."

The guy looked at me again, and just shrugged.  I
tried to ask more about what was wrong with being an
indentured servant, but they all seemed strangely
reluctant to speak, and we sped along in silence for
the rest of the trip.

The Harrison place turned out to be one of those huge
mansions that rich city slickers buy for week-ending
In the countryside.  There was a pair of big iron
gates, a wide drive sweeping through immaculate lawns
up to a huge white mansion, and at the rear separate
blocks, all freshly painted and done in "colonial"
style housed stables, a pool house, and a huge sports
and entertainment complex.  Everything was fresh and
neat, and there were miles of white picket fences, and
acres of hard landscaping made up of paving and
gravel.   It seemed that we had been extending this
paved area to enclose new tennis courts that had been
recently built, and stacked around were piles of
paving slabs,  and bags of cement, sand, and
aggregate.

I was surprised when Sean told me that my first job
was to mix concrete, manually.  It turned out that the
Harrisons didn't like noise to disturb their place, so
having a mechanical mixer churning away was absolutely
not the thing.  So one of the indentured servants and
I were tasked to stand there and mix it by hand - I'm
sure you've seen it done:  four shovels of aggregate,
to two of sand, and one of cement powder, then turn it
all over, folding it well together to mix it all up,
make a well in the centre and pour in water, then fold
and mix again.  Then, when it's properly melded
together, you shovel it up into a barrow to be wheeled
away to act as the foundations for the slabs, and you
start all over.  Normally, as I say, you use a
mechanical mixer for anything over just a couple of
mixes, as it's really hard work - you're bent over the
heap of stuff so your back starts to ache, and once
you've added the water, each shovel full is really
heavy.  And you have to co-ordinate your action with
the other guy, as both your shovels are active and you
need to get up a good rhythm.

After we'd done a couple of barrowsfull, which another
of the guys wheeled away immediately, I stood up and
stretched, and wiped the sweat off my face.  My fellow
worker carried on shovelling, though, and I felt that
I was somehow letting him down, so I got stuck back in
immediately.  But after six loads, I was really hot -
my T was soaked, and I needed a break, so after we'd
filled the barrow and before we started taking the
next shovelsfull from the heaps of aggregate and sand,
I rested on my shovel for a moment.  Sean came by at
that moment, and without hesitation he struck out at
my companion with a leather strap thing - a tawse, as
I learned subsequently.    "Fucking keep working!" He
snarled.

"Sorry, sir", the man replied, and bend down at once
to start again.

"Hey....", I snapped.  "We're ahead.... We only
stopped for a moment."

"Shut your fucking mouth!  I control the indentured
servants here, and this is the way they are handled:
they work, or they get punished.  But weren't you
meant to be working alongside them, keeping up.....?"

I glared at him, and started work again.

And so we went on, through most of the morning.  As
the sun got hotter Sean came along and told the guy to
take off his polo, and I gladly pulled off my T too,
as it was by now so wet that it was chafing me.  And
then it was as if Sean just occasionally lashed out at
the guy's bare shoulders and back as he came past as
if it was fun - but each time he did,  I couldn't help
but notice that the work pace quickened slightly.

Usually when you're working away there's a radio
playing, and you anyway get to exchange a few words
with your co-workers, but all that time that we toiled
away mixing the cement, not a work was spoken, except
by Sean occasionally to urge us on.  I was really glad
when after a couple of hours he came up with another
one of the servants and told him to start mixing, then
called me to follow him.

"You're not used to the constant work, and the pace",
he told me.  "I can see that - I used to be a foreman
on a normal site until Mister Rooney employed me to
control the indentured servants.  I can see that if
you stayed on that mixing much longer, you wouldn't be
able to keep up."

"Sure I could...."

"No you couldn't.  Until you're used to being 'driven'
with the tawse and cane, you'd start to slow down, and
even if there was no obvious break in your working,
you'd start to produce less.  So now I'm going to put
you on laying the slabs - have you ever done that
before?"

"Yes, sure...."

"Well, remember that as well as doing it fast, it's
got to be done well.  Mister Rooney sells a quality
product, so no skimping, no cutting corners - a
complete professional quality job is what we're
after."

The men laying the slabs had to carry them from the
pile at the edge of the drive, and these were not the
small ones that are relatively easy - in keeping with
the scale of the Harrison place, they'd selected the
big, over-size slabs, which were a real struggle for
one guy to carry and which usually you asked for help
with.   But not here - you carried them alone, and at
a fast pace.  I really had to struggle to keep up with
the others, who almost ran along, because of course
the ever-watchful Sean was there to "encourage" them
with the tawse on their bare skin if they slackened.
And the laying of the slabs was difficult too - you
had to be on your hands and knees to get the precise
alignment that was insisted on, to make all the joint
lines perfectly straight, and then you were working at
a real mechanical disadvantage as you struggled with
the heavy things.

Sean used a different method of "encouraging" the men
on this task - any sign of slowing, or any failure of
the standard of perfection in alignment, and he used a
long, flexible cane to slash viciously at the butts of
the guys as they knelt there.  I couldn't help
noticing that the shorts they wore seemed to be the
only things they had on, as when the fabric stretched
over their muscles, it was clear that there was
nothing underneath them - no visible line of briefs or
anything.  Judging by how their bodies jerked forward
involuntarily when the cane struck, I guessed it must
hurt and sting terribly.

I was really glad when it was time for a break at
lunchtime - the sun was fiercely hot by now and I was
pretty tired.  Normally we went off-site to a fast
food place or somewhere like that to get something to
eat, but Sean did not offer this and I wondered what I
was going to do.   He tossed grey-looking bars of
something to the other guys, then saw me looking, and
said "We don't go off-site here.  And all that fast
food is bad for you.  If you've got no lunch, you can
have one of these chow bars."

"Thanks....", I said, and he tossed one to me.  It
felt vaguely slippery in my hands, was an unappetising
grey colour, and seemed to be made of little bobbles
of unidentifiable stuff bound together somehow.  He
saw me looking at it, and gave a half smile.  "That's
a bar of finest chow - Mister Rooney doesn't skimp on
feeding the indentured servants, as he wants to keep
up the work rate.  So none of the cheap rubbish - this
is top quality:   perfectly balanced meat and
vegetables, with all the energy, vitamins, minerals
and stuff a working man needs."

I bit down on it, taking a chunk off the corner, and
munched at it experimentally.  It tasted foul - well,
not so much foul, as strange:  kind of sour, stale,
and both tough and slimy at the same time.  I almost
spat it out.

"You'll get used to the taste", Sean added as he saw
my expression.  "They don't add artificial colours or
flavourings or anything, as it's meant to be healthy.
Just the meat scrapings and offal from the abattoirs
that they can't use elsewhere, mixed in with vegetable
waste from the food processors.  Lots of fat of
course, which is why it's slippery, but that's a good
source of energy.  And lots of roughage from the
vegetable skins, husks and other crap."

I almost choked as he said this, but the other guys
were devouring theirs hungrily so I guess it must be
OK.  And I knew I needed the energy - I was really
tired, verging on the exhausted, already, and without
something to eat I knew I wouldn't get through the
afternoon.

Lunch didn't take a long time, though, and as soon as
the chow bars were gone and we'd all slaked our thirst
with copious quantities of water from a bucket, it was
back to work.  By five In the afternoon I was
completely done in.  I'd lost, I knew.  The other guys
looked really tired, too, but with Sean's tawse and
cane always hovering over them, there was no way they
could stop, or even slow down.  I desperately tried to
keep up with them, as my pride wouldn't let me say
"enough", but I could see that I might be affecting
their work rate and was worried that my actions were
resulting in them getting even more punishment from
Sean.

I'm not a quitter, though.  And I couldn't bear the
thought of having to admit to Mike that he might be
right!  So I struggled on, and could see Sean getting
more and more frustrated as the pace of work
inevitably slowed when I had to do things together
with the other guys.  I remembered that Mike had said
he had a bonus riding on getting this job finished
today, and as the light began to fade, he seemed to
get more and more agitated.  I was losing it rapidly,
and as I was putting one slab of the last rows of
slabs in place I dropped it, and it cracked.  Without
thinking, as if by reflex, Sean struck out at me, his
cane falling hard, squarely across my butt.

I screamed out, and my whole body spasmed, but as I
recovered I found that, as if by some miracle, I had
the power again to lift the broken pieces and fit in a
replacement that was handed anxiously to me by another
of the guys.  The stinging pain from that swipe of the
cane lasted for what must have been at least ten
minutes, to be replaced by a warm, dull ache that
spread all through me;  and as I worked on, my mind
now focussed on this rather than on the sheer feelings
of acute weariness that had been obsessing me as all
my other muscles pleaded with my body to quit.    And
when it was almost dark, and I needed just to do four
more slabs, but there seemed to be no way that I could
manage it, I looked up at Sean and spat out through
gritted teeth  "hit me!".

End Of Part 2