Date: Sun, 11 Feb 2007 17:51:20 -0800 (PST)
From: Hank M <redbeardedsf (at) yahoo (dot) com>
Subject: Cyril's Graduation Present, part one

This story is a take-off on one of the first stories posted on SlaveNow,
entitled The Graduate by George Edington. It's stayed in my imagination
where I've considered how I would adapt and expand upon the scenario.

If you're not an adult, if you're offended by gay sex, and if it's illegal
to read an erotic story where you're located, go away now! This fiction
story takes place in a world where enslavement - to serve the wealthy, keep
the wheels of commerce turning and especially for sexual uses - is legal
and commonplace. While there are references at the start of the story to
the narrator's growing up years, there is no sex with anyone below the age
of 18. For (positive) feedback or thoughts:
recbeardedsf at y a h o o dot c o m.


CYRIL'S GRADUATION PRESENT
CHAPTER 1


Cyril always wanted to be buddies with me. From early on in elementary
school he wanted to hang out with me, wanted to partner with me on school
projects and wanted me to visit his house. There were a few problems with
this: First, I was a very popular kid, good at sports, with a lot of
friends: and second Cyril was a complete wimp, a loser, and a real
sissy. But it's the third complication that was the real problem: My dad
worked for Cyril's dad.


"Oh isn't it great Wally - Cyril's dad wants you to come over for a
playdate!" I heaved a heavy sigh. Didn't my father realize I was too old
for "playdates" and didn't he also understand that I oouldn't stand hanging
out with Cyril?


"Look, son," he got serious. "Cyril doesn't have your people skills. He
doesn't make friends as easily as you do. If all the kids at school really
do think you're so cool, wouldn't it be nice to use some of your coolness
to help Cyril get more friends?" I couldn't believe how parents could say
the dumbest things!


But I came to understand that it wasn't just a matter of being nice to
Cyril, just as it wasn't just a matter of Mr. Fife being my dad's
boss. Mr. Fife owned Fife Industries and he was the richest man in our
county. Everyone said "Yes" to Mr. Fife and smiled a lot in his
presence. He could make my dad's life easier or he could make my dad
unemployed. So I tried to help out my dad by being nice to Cyril.


Hanging out with Cyril wasn't all so bad. The Fifes lived on a grand
estate. There was every toy and game imaginable, land as far as the eye
could see, and slaves to serve our every need. And Cyril always seemed to
want to please me. "Pick what flavor ice cream sundae you want and a slave
will have it for you in under six minutes." What kid wouldn't enjoy that?


But at the same time Cyril was a drip. We had all that land to ride bikes,
but he couldn't ride his very fast and wasn't able to take turns or hills
very well. He had all those electronic gadgets, but he was a poor sport who
wasn't very good at any of the games. And as I grew older there was
something else that made me increasingly uncomfortable around Cyril. He had
always been a "sissy" but I was starting to reach an age where I understood
the implications of that label.


My favorite thing at the estate was to use the heated swimming pools (with
waterfalls and waterslides). For years I didn't pay much attention to the
fact I was changing clothes and showering with Cyril. But then, one day, I
was showering beside him and suddenly was aware of this hungry look on his
face and the unmistakable fact that he was excited. I grabbed for my towel
and stumbled into my clothes at record speed.


I started making excuses not to swim at the Fife estate. Finally I blurted
out to my dad, "Can't you tell that Cyril is a big sissy!" My dad got very
stern and lectured me about calling people names (especially people who
were related to the owner of the company he worked for). So the next day I
was back swimming with Cyril. But this time I wore my swimsuit under my
jeans and simply pulled my jeans back on at the end of the visit.


On my following visit, Mr. Fife himself came to the pool to watch us. He
took me aside to have a serious chat about the need to completely wash off
the pool chemicals in the shower. He said he was worried I might get a skin
rash and sue him. He cheerfully called out, "It's especially important to
wash off the most tender parts, so be sure to remove your swimsuit when you
shower with Cyril." I saw the grin on Cyril's face. Damn, was his father
helping out his son's homo lusts?


I wrapped a towel around me before peeling off my swimsuit. I had to remove
the towel to shower but I did so with my back turned to Cyril and in less
than a minute I had the towel around my middle once more. Undaunted and out
of the blue, Cyril asked whether mine got stiff like his did. I just
mumbled that I didn't like to talk about things like that and did my best
not to look in his direction.


When my dad hit me with the "good news" that I was invited for a sleepover
with Cyril I got as serious as I could and told my dad that I wasn't trying
to call anyone names but that Cyril was clearly "one of those gays." My dad
was flustered and just left without saying a word.


The next night my dad tossed a book on my bed. It was a book he had given
me the year before about the changes that happen in a boy's body. He had it
open to a certain page that explained it was natural for boys to experiment
with each other. It even said mutual masturbation was healthy for boys as
they were maturing and developing, and that it shouldn't be considered
gay. Before I could respond my dad had left my room. Damn, now my dad also
seemed to want to help out Cyril's pervy interest in me. What could I do
but prepare for my sleepover at the Fife estate.


I slept over there a total of three weekends. I refused to play strip
poker. I refused to play truth or dare. I refused to cooperate when Cyril
produced a cloth tape measure. And I refused to answer the extremely
intimate questions that Cyril kept asking me. On the third sleepover, Cyril
stopped being subtle. He came right out and offered me a blowjob. He tried
to talk me into it. I refused and went to sleep with two pairs of
underpants under my pajamas.


But then something happened at school that threw everything into
disarray. I had never told any of the guys at school that I slept over with
Cyril. But apparently Cyril started boasting to the other kids what good
friends we were and how I had slept in his room three times so far. I was
stunned into silence when Bobby Malone yelled across the schoolyard, "Hey,
I hear Cyril's been sucking your dick every weekend!" That was immediately
followed by, "Look at Wally's face. Oh man, it's true!"


After that Cyril believed that I was the one who spread the rumor about him
being a cocksucker when in fact I had never even told anyone about spending
the night. Cyril didn't help the rumors much when he decided to prove them
true for a succession of boys at the back of the locker room. It was soon
after that Cyril moved to another school two states away. I was told that
he had gone to live with his Uncle Nigel who had a big mansion on a
lake. Fine. I figured Cyril was out of my life.


At the start of the next summer my dad and I were invited to the Fife
estate for a barbecue and a swimming party. It also turned out to be a
reunion with Cyril and a chance to meet his uncle. I couldn't believe it
but Uncle Nigel was an even bigger sissy than Cyril. When I first met the
older man he grinned to his nephew and said, "He's as cute as you said he
was." I turned red and spent the rest of the day either in the pool or at
my dad's side, seeking safety from being perved on. What I hadn't counted
on was that my dad was trying to get in good with Nigel Fife, who was part
owner (but a silent partner) in Fife Industries.


I planned all along to change back into my clothes alongside my dad. So
when my dad headed for the changing room I followed quickly behind him. But
then Nigel and Cyril were right behind us. My dad was a typical guy nearing
40 - he was husky with a hairy body and the start of a gut. Nigel Fife was
probably the same age, but trying to look younger with a gym-workout body
and too much of a tan. Everyone else in the changing room stripped naked
while I put a towel around my waist before peeling off my swimsuit.


Nigel asked my dad "Is there something wrong with the boy that he's so
modest?" My dad pulled the towel from me so that I had to walk to the
shower exposed to the perving eyes of Cyril and his uncle. My dad was
acting casual, but I think he was also kind of uncomfortable with the
situation: Cyril's tool was pointing up to his belly and Nigel's kept
lengthening as he looked over me and my dad and kept touching himself. But
in spite of all that my dad reacted enthusiastically when I was invited to
spend two weeks visiting at Nigel's Fife's mansion on the lake. When my dad
was out of earshot, Nigel whispered to me, "You'll certainly have a chance
to get over your modesty. We don't wear any swimsuits there."


That night marked the biggest and loudest fight I ever had with my dad. I
remember screaming at him, "Maybe you just wanna strip me naked and have me
delivered to one of those all-gay settlements!" My dad countered with, "And
if I lose my job because of pissing off the Fife family, I'd probably have
to sell you for enslavement and you'd end up in one of those gay
settlements for good!" Oh man! That sure hit me between the eyes.


I guess the kids I was friends with were typical of seventh grade boys in
the things we would say to each other. "Hey I hear your dad got a good
price and is shipping you off to Eureka!" (Everyone knew that was the
independent gay nation formed on the central California coast.) Or "I saw
the slave delivery van at your house with a box marked to go to Gaytown"
(the Florida all-gay metropolitan area). At one point a bunch of us were
mesmerized by stories from Bobby Malone's cousin (his dad was a big-time
slave trader) as he told us how much profit his dad made when he found the
kind of boy that would appeal to the gays. What kind of boy was that?
Bobby's cousin pointed to me: "All-American boy, a cute boyish face on a
slim athlete's body." I laughed loudest of all but a chill went through me.


But this argument was the first time my dad had ever used the word
"enslavement" when talking about me. That led to a series of
nightmares. Well, can you blame me? I was just a few weeks into my teen
years and anxious about why I was still bald under my armpits and in my
briefs. My nudity in front of the obviously gay Nigel Fife was traumatic
enough. Now I found myself waking up in a cold sweat after dreaming about
my final article of clothing being tugged down to my feet in front of a
crowd of hundreds of sex-crazed lusting Nigel Fifes!


It was obvious I couldn't refuse to go on the visit to the lake. I couldn't
talk my father out of sending me. But I also was absolutely determined not
to go. How determined? The day before my departure I took a shrimp cocktail
out of the refrigerator, kept it outside in the sun all afternoon and then
forced myself to eat it. I became so violently ill I was hospitalized for
more than a week. Cyril and Nigel visited me in the hospital on their way
out of town, but I was too weak to talk.


After that I always made sure my summers were booked with some sort of
sports program or classes, which would preclude any chance of my going out
of town.


- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -


(FOUR-AND-A-HALF YEARS LATER)


I enjoyed my senior year of high school. I was still popular and I knew I
was good looking. My hopes for an athletic scholarship were dashed though
as I never got much taller than I was at age fourteen, and I topped out at
5'6" and 135 pounds. I occasionally saw Cyril but usually in the company of
both of our dads. I did my best to be friendly to him and never mentioned
anything from our past.


I found out that Cyril would be going to Bush University the following
year. It was my dream to attend that school and I had been accepted. But
without a scholarship the fees and tuition would bankrupt my family. I
actually tried to drop hints that my dad might enslave one of my younger
brothers to pay for my college education, and did so in a light and joking
way. My dad stayed just as light and joking when he remarked, "Wally,
you're the best looking of my three sons. If I'm going to get a decent
price for anyone in this house it would be you." That made me drop the
subject fast.


My dad did mention that Mr. Fife had granted some scholarships to the
children of favored employees and remarked that I should make a point to
visit his office when Mr. Fife was around. I did exactly that after school
one day and tried to act surprised that Mr. Fife was in my dad's
office. The boss was older than most of my friend's dads. He was a
heavyset, gray-haired man in his 50s. He seemed especially pleased to see
me that day and extended an invitation to a graduation party he was
planning for Cyril the following month. That gave me the ideal chance to
mention that I had been accepted to Bush, the same as Cyril. "I'm not sure
whether I could go there because of finances. But it sure would be fun to
be reunited with good old Cyril at the same school." (I was laying on the
lies pretty thick.)


That prompted Mr. Fife to ask my dad whether he could take me along on his
shopping trip to help choose Cyril's graduation present. My dad and I were
both enthusiastic and I hurried after Mr. Fife. In the elevator the older
man looked me over and asked whether I was already 18. My birthday was just
the previous week. He nodded and said that slave traders could be fussy
about not letting anyone under 18 in their showrooms, and with my short
height and boyish looks he just wanted to be sure.


I hadn't realized we would be going to look at slaves. Our family had just
one faithful slave, Nippy, who took care of everything around our
house. Nippy had been with us since I was a small child, so I'd never had
occasion to check the stock in a slave showroom.


Of course we were ushered into the most luxurious private showroom at our
local Bodoni & Felch branch. Mr. Fife explained to the unctuous salesman
that he wanted a body slave for his son to take away to college, a boy who
was smart enough to care for his young master's needs, capable of sexually
servicing a male, and nice-looking enough to be a status symbol at the
snooty university. Three young hunks were ushered into our presence, each
in slave display position: hands behind their heads, legs spread apart,
chests out and heads bowed. Their sheer white slave shorts were pushed down
revealing their totally shaved cocks, which grew to full erections on a
voice command from Mr. Fife. (Apparently being able to get erect on command
was part of slave training.)


Mr. Fife first examined a tall, well-built boy with black hair and a deep
complexion - likely Latino of some kind. He rubbed the boy's nipples and
hefted his balls. Then he ordered the boy to turn and bend over. Mr. Fife
shoved his index finger the full distance up the boy's rectum and there was
no reaction from the slave. "How long have you been enslaved, boy?" the
gruff man asked. The boy respectfully replied that he had been born at a
slave breeding facility in Puerto Rico. Mr. Fife turned to the B&F salesman
and said, "I don't want any bred slaves." As the Latino boy was led off,
the older man turned to me and said, "Those breeding farms turn out
hundreds with the same sire. I don't want my son finding that there are
four other slaves on his campus identical to his own."


The man was pontificating now. "Plus, there's some fun missing with a bred
slave. With a boy who's been enslaved, there's the fun of breaking him in,
turning him from free boy to a piece of property to be used." There was
something almost frightening about the way the man was talking.


He decided the second slave was too muscular, too much larger than Cyril
for his son to use him comfortably. Mr. Fife then turned to me in the most
casual way and asked, "Do you have an appreciation for a good piece of
slave flesh?"


"Well, sir, I can appreciate a fine slave like I appreciate a fine car. But
I couldn't afford either one." I figured that was a safe answer.


Mr. Fife laughed and asked directly, "What I mean is, do you enjoy using a
slaveboy's mouth and ass?"


I knew that it was standard for men to use young male slaves for their
pleasure. And I knew that society considered it appropriate for a straight
man, married, totally heterosexual, to dip his prick into a handsome
slaveboy. But I just shrugged my shoulders and said, "I suppose I just
can't get over the fact that it's a guy and I'm just not turned on to guys
in the least."


The man raised his eyebrows and said, "Well, Cyril has been raised as a
proper gentleman. And a proper gentleman appreciates the exquisite
pleasures that can be had at the hands and mouth and nether regions of a
cute enslaved boy." I accepted his implication that I had not been raised
as a proper gentleman, and resisted the temptation to tell him about all
the boys at school who had used Cyril's mouth for their own pleasure.


Mr. Fife looked over the third boy and declared him "too willowy." The man
turned to me and said, "You know that Cyril has a nasty temper at times?" I
remembered that Cyril used to throw tantrums in sixth grade, but was now
glad I hadn't had much contact with him during his high school
years. Mr. Fife gripped the thin boy's bony ass and said, "Cyril really
enjoys working over a slaveboy with a paddle or a strap. This boy would
crumble at the first barrage of blows."


While we waited for the next group of slaveboys to be brought in for
display, Mr. Fife told me a story about one of his household slaves. "That
boy gave an exasperated look in response to one of Cyril's commands. He
didn't think Cyril saw it, but he did. Cyril gave one glance to me and I
nodded. You see, since all those slaves are my property, he needs to ask my
permission before administering any serious punishment. That's why having
his own slave will be such a nice thing for my son. But, anyway, Cyril laid
into that boy, first with a cane, then with a belt - very impressive
patterns across the slave's back and ass and legs. And I can assure you
that particular slave now has the most servile and humble attitude around
his betters."


I kept my opinions to myself. I had never seen my father administer more
than three whacks to our household slave, and they were never very
rough. Perhaps Mr. Fife was thinking he knew what was on my mind because he
remarked, "You do know that Cyril has been working out with weights for the
last few years? He has much more power in his arms and his torso than he
did back in seventh grade."


The next group of slaveboys entered and Mr. Fife examined them
thoroughly. He dismissed the first for being too old and the second one for
being too perfectly handsome. The third boy was Chinese and Mr. Fife seemed
pleased with his body. He snapped his fingers and the boy fell to his
knees. Then Mr. Fife pulled his already-erect penis out of his expensive
pants. I looked away awkwardly. I had no interest in seeing an old man's
erection. But I couldn't help looking back when I realized the Chinese boy
was deep throating my dad's boss right in front of me.


When he saw me looking, Mr. Fife stopped the pistoning of his hips and
asked, "Would you like to have a go at his throat, boy? He's very good." I
just shook my head in the negative. The business executive, pulled his
still-engorged cock out of the slave's mouth and didn't care that I could
see this part of his anatomy as he tucked it back into his pants. "I'm
going to save my load in case there's another boy I want to try out."


Mr. Fife kept coming back to the subject of my unwillingness to use a
slaveboy's mouth. "This is an erotically charged atmosphere. And the
management certainly doesn't mind. They want these boys to get experience
sucking cocks." I told him, as nicely as I could, that the very idea of sex
with another male was a complete turn-off to me.


In the third group of slaves we saw, Mr. Fife dismissed the first one for
being too gay. "I don't want a slave that might fall in love with Cyril."
The second slave was sent out because his ass was too flat. The final boy
was a redhead, short with a wrestler's build. Once again, Mr. Fife pulled
his erection from his suit pants and stuffed it down this slave's
throat. This time the man grunted and hunched over the kneeling slave and I
knew he was ejaculating. I could see the redheaded boy's neck swallowing
and wondered how much the old guy had shot.


Mr. Fife took fact sheets about the Chinese boy and the redhead, but he
didn't seem too enthusiastic about either of them. He thanked me for
joining him, told me I had brightened up his afternoon, and reminded me to
attend Cyril's upcoming graduation party. I asked him what he was going to
do about Cyril's graduation present and he got a strange look on his face
before he said, "I have some ideas. I'll have to look into some
possibilities."


PART TWO COMING SOON