Date: Mon, 4 Jun 2018 21:57:58 +0000
From: subservient bottom <olderbottom4u@hotmail.com>
Subject: Lawyer Owns Me, part 2

This is a work of fiction. Nothing in it actaully happened. It contains
incidents of unsafe sex which I do not encourage.

Please consider donating to Nifty, which makes stories like this possible.

Chapter 3

It might seem strange that I would subject myself to the humiliation and
degradation inflicted by Mike, but he has such control over me that if I
don't do exactly what he says he could send me to state prison. My
"probation" under Mike's supervision is for seven years. The prison
sentence would be for 25, as I was found guilty of a number of charges –
none of them true.

One condition of my getting probation was to serve a night in jail – so
I would know exactly what I would be facing for 25 years if I stepped out
of line.

Mike drove me to the prison and walked me to the reception area. I was
"processed" given a jailhouse suit and a number. The guard who processed me
grinned at another prisoner – obviously a trustee with duties and
privileges – and said, "Take him to C dash 1"

"But I thought Clarence was Monk's punk, or rather cellmate," the trustee
said.

"Just for tonight we are going to give Mr. Adams here the privilege of
sharing a cell with Monk," the guard said. "It was his lawyer's idea and
Monk agreed."

"Oh kay," the trustee said. He then grinned at me and said, "Right this
way."

I followed him out the door, through a courtyard and to a cell block
building. A guard unlocked the door and we went down the hall to a corner
cell. As we went down the hall, inmates came to the front of their cells to
gawk at me.

"My, he's a fine lookin' piece," one of them said. "If Monk leaves enough
of him, I would love to rent him out. Wonder how much Monk would want."

"He's just here for the night," my guide yelled over his shoulder. "Monk
will probably keep him to himself." Then he turned to me. "That will be
good for you. I think."

Just then we came to the end of hall. There was a very spacious corner
cell. It had obviously been three cells at one time, but the dividing walls
had been removed. In it I saw a flat-screen TV, a barcalounger, a small
refrigerator, a tall locker, a set of weights, a steamer trunk, a shelf
with holding glasses of assorted sizes and a set of bunk beds. In the far
corner were a toilet and sink, and next to that was a porcelain bathtub. It
certainly didn't look like a prison cell.

The other occupant, who I assume was Monk, was nowhere to be seen.

"Monk is getting a massage in the infirmary," my trustee said, then handed
me a set of sheets, a pillow case and some towels. "You have the top
bunk. I suggest you make it. Monk doesn't like things untidy."

He then shut the door, locked it and fairly skipped down the hall. "I think
Monk is going to like this one," I could hear him chortling.

I quickly made my bed then decided to try out the barcalounger. I started
to doze when heard a noise at the door. I looked up and saw a guard opening
the door and a large African-American in a prison suit standing next to him
waiting to be admitted.

"Get the fuck out of my chair," the black man, who I assumed correctly was
Monk. "Only Monk sits in Monk's chair." He grabbed me by the shoulders,
slapped me hard across the face twice and pushed me into the corner. "Go
stand there motherfucker, until I say you can move."

"Everything OK Monk?" said the guard through the door. If I expected any
help from him I was wrong. Monk was clearly in charge.

"Yeah, it's all right. I just have to train this piss ant. "What's your
name, piss ant?" Monk said in my direction.

"Phillip."

"Not anymore it isn't. It's Fuckhead. Got it?

I started to say something when Monk slapped me across the face again,
harder this time.

"Got it?"

"I got it."

"Good. Hop up on your bunk and wait until I call you." He then turned to
the guard. "You can go now. I'm in for now."

Monk sat in the lounger, took out a cellphone (I was told prisoners weren't
allowed to have them. But Monk was no ordinary prisoner).

Then Monk looked at me and said. "I just had a nice relaxing
massage. Massages make me horny. You are going to have to do something
about that and help me cum. Would you rather suck my dick or have me fuck
you in the ass?"

As he was speaking, Monk had taken out his dick. It was enormous. At least
12 inches long and very thick. And it was soft. God knows what it was like
hard I certainly knew that would hurt if it went in my ass, which at that
point was still virgin. I had tried to make the best of a bad situation.

"I would rather suck it," I said meekly.

"That's what I thought you would say. Fuckheads always do. Get down from
there."

I climbed down from the top bunk and stood there, uncertain of what to do
next. It didn't take long to find out. Monk went into the steamer trunk and
took out what looked like a tube of lubricant. He began rubbing some on his
cock.

"Drop your pants, bend over the bed. Get ready to get fucked in the ass."

"But I said I would rather suck."

"I know what the fuck you said, Fuckhead," Monk growled. "I just want to
show you that what you would rather do don't mean shit. The only thing that
matters is what Monk would rather do. And Monk would rather fuck. Now bend
over."

I had no choice. The next thing I felt was Monks fingers massaging my hole
and putting some lube in it.

"Very nice, very tight. Monk is going to enjoy this."

I could feel the head of Monk's huge member trying to make its way into my
hole. The pain was intense. Then he gave a mighty shove and was halfway
in. "Oh, man, that feels good, Fuckhead."

He began to thrust rhythmically, slowly pumping and getting deeper with
each movement. His hands pulled my shoulder toward him so I was almost
standing, his crotch tight against my ass.

 "Fuck him, Monk, go," I heard a voice say. I looked over toward the door
and saw the guard and trustee who had brought me to the cell watching me
get abused.

Without withdrawing his cock he maneuvered me so we were facing the
door. "Look, Fuckhead, you've got an audience," Monk said, then he grabbed
my ear and pulled. "Squeal, while I fuck you. Squeal,"

The guard and inmate howled. "That's it, squeal."

I tried to squeal as best I could "Ennnh"

Monk pulled on my ear again, "Louder."

As I tried it again at the top of my lungs, I could feel Monk cumming, I
thought his seed was going to go through my belly button.

"Yeoww," Monk shouted as he pumped his cum into me. Slowly his cock relaxed
and he backed away. "Go over there and get me a towel, Fuckhead. Then clean
yourself up. God, you're a mess."

I did as he asked, and two witnesses slowly drifted away. "Man, Monk sure
took that pussyboy for a ride."

After we had cleaned up, a bell rang. "Dinner time," Monk said.

We walked down to the end of the hall and across to the dining commons. We
got into the cafeteria line when Monk said, "I'm going to go sit over
there. You bring my tray to me, Fuckhead."

"I can't carry two trays."

"That's right, Fuckhead," he said and suddenly switched to the third
person. "You load up Monk's tray and bring it to him. Then go back and get
yours."

"That means I have to stand in line twice."

"You got it," Monk said over his shoulder as he swaggered to a table and
began a jovial conversation with some fellow inmates.

I dutifully filled a tray with food, that looked barely edible and brought
it to Monk.

"Attaboy, Fuckhead. Now you can go get yours."

I stood in line another ten minutes, collected my tray of food and headed
towards Monk, who was waving me over. He was about halfway through his
dinner, as I put some potatoes on the fork and started to eat. Just then
another fork jabbed my hand. Hard.

"You don't eat until Monk tells you," Monk said. "Monk might still be
hungry and need some of your food."

So that was another indignity I would have to endure. Not only serving Monk
his dinner but turning over whatever he wanted of mine.

It turned out that Monk didn't want any of my food tonight, but by the time
I ate it, the meal was cold. Monk had headed back to the cell, leaving his
dishes for me to bus.

When I got back to the cell Monk was in the barcalounger watching
television and sipping on something sparkling. Then I saw the bottle on the
table beside him and recognized the label. Dom Perignon. God, he is in
prison drinking $200 a bottle champagne. Monk told me to go stand next to
the bed, and he watched and sipped as if I wasn't there.

Then the guard who had been there while I was fucked was suddenly standing
at the door. "Hey, Marty, want a glass. It's pretty good shit," Monk asked,
raising his glass.

"Sure," the guard said. "Can't pass that up."

"Hey, Fuckhead, bring me a glass," Monk said.

I dutifully went to shelf, grabbed a wine glass and brought it to Monk. "He
poured some champagne into the glass and said, "Take it over to Marty. And
don't spill any of it."

I delivered it to the guard who took it from me without comment, then
raised the glass in Monk's direction. "Thanks, Man."

The two began discussing pro football and I went back and stood by the
bed. Finally, Monk, looked at me and said, "Hey, Fuckhead, you want some?"

"That would be nice," I said.

"Then bring me a glass."

Looking forward to how the taste of fine champagne would make my last few
hours in prison tolerable, I wasted little time in fetching a glass and
handing it to Monk.

But when he took the glass, Monk did not reach for the bottle. Instead he
unzipped his pants took out that cock that just a few hours ago had been up
my ass, and started pissing into the glass. When it was almost full Monk
raised it and started to hand it to me. "Here's your Dom Perignon,
Fuckhead. Recycled." He let out a huge laugh and was joined by guard.

"Drink it, Fuckhead. Don't make me have to get up and pour it down your
throat."

I had no choice but take the glass and drink the warm, salty, smelly urine.

"That's it, down the hatch," Monk said, chuckling.

Just as I was finishing my cocktail, a bell rang in the building.

"Light's out Monk," the guard said. "Thanks for the champagne."

"No problem. Fuckhead, go get his glass."

I did, and returned it to the sink. "Wash `em. Then come over to the bunk,"
Mike ordered.

After I cleaned the glasses and headed for the bunk. I saw Monk laying on
the bottom bed on his back, his semi-erect cock in his hand.

"Come give me a good-night blow job," Monk said. "Suck it nice and slow."

I got on the bed between Monk's legs and moved my mouth tentatively toward
his cock, which was semi-erect. I put my lips around the cockhead and began
to suck.

"Ah, that's it Fuckhead. And keep your teeth out of the way, or I'll knock
them out and make your mouth a real pussy."

I moved my mouth slowly down the shaft. Before I got halfway down the tip
was at my throat. I thought I was going to gag.

"Quite a mouthful isn't it, Fuckhead?" Monk said with a laugh. "Now take it
all in and use your tongue."

I tried to get down the shaft, but it was so big that I thought I was going
to choke, I worked my tongue along the sides and moved my mouth up and down
on his shaft.

"Slower, Fuckhead," Monk said. "Keep it slow...ooh"

Monk's cock began to stiffen and he grabbed my head and forced it down. The
cum suddenly shot out in a warm, sticky spurt. I wanted to pull my mouth
away, but Monk held my head firm. "Swallow it, Fuckhead. Take that cum down
your throat. That's good."

Monk released his grip and I finally lifted my head. "That was good,
Fuckhead," Monk said. "You know if I had you for more than a day I'd rent
you out. Some of those guys down the hall would pay quite a bit to have a
bitch like you for awhile. Of course, I would have to knock your teeth out
then. They would want a real pussy mouth."

You can imagine the chilling effect that had on me. That existence would
truly be hell. Not only having to serve Monk, but on a whim any number of
jailhouse perverts.

"Now go uo to your berth and be quiet. I'll call you if I need you."

Fortunately Monk did not need me again, and was still sleeping when the
trustee came to take me away. "Your ride home is here," he said, and as we
walked toward the reception area he gave me grin. "I hope you enjoyed your
stay here."

I later learned that Monk runs a lucrative narcotics business from his jail
cell. His outside gang is so powerful and threatening that virtually the
entire correctional department is under his control. The warden might run
the prison but Monk runs the warden.

Chapter 4

How I came into that world is a tale that defies belief. I was born into a
wealthy family. My father was one of the top criminal lawyers in the state
and later became a judge. He made a fortune with investments, probably
trading favors from the bench for stock tips, but he was so well-respected
nobody raised any eyebrows.

Partially because he spent so much time at work, my father was a distant
parent. He took just a passing interest in my schoolwork and I can't
remember ever playing catch with him in the backyard. He pretty much left
the child rearing to my mother. She had wanted a daughter desperately
(finally got one six years later) and was so disappointed when I arrived
she dressed me in girls' clothing until I was three years old. That could
partially explain my confusion about my own sexuality.

I wasn't really attracted to girls in high school and was a virgin until I
was about 25. I did have some attraction to boys, but never acted on it. My
best friend through high school, Carl Bayless, was an almost constant
companion. I probably had some urges toward him, but they were latent. We
sometimes walked with arms linked, and slept occasionally in one another's
bed. But, again, sexual activity between us was nonexistent.  After
graduation he moved to New York City, worked in the theater and "came out"
publicly. But we had lost contact by then.

While in high school we were bullied somewhat, specifically by Terry
Thompson, who years later would become the town sheriff and play a major
role in my legal troubles. One day he and his pals isolated us on the
playground, slapped us around and threatened to "pants" us in front of all
the girls if we didn't do everything they said from then on. That involved
things like standing in line for a movie, then surrendering our place to
Terry and his girlfriend just as we got to the ticket window.  We also had
to give up some or our lunch if Terry or one of his friends fancied it.

I did have a "date" for the senior prom, primarily because my parents
really wanted me to. It was one of the few times my father took an interest
in my activities. I took a plain girl from the neighborhood, but while the
other couples spent the night loosely "chaperoned" and the El Monte Hotel,
my date and I went to our separate houses. That was basically fine with me.

After high school I spent two years in college and my father's insistence,
but soon was able to parlay my interest in antiques into a lucrative
business. My father was impressed at my taste and judgment, and let me
leave school and start the business. It was an enormous success and I
traveled to various cities around the country picking up hidden gems. Soon
decorators were referring their clients who wanted a "vintage" look to my
store. Collectors, too, were regular customers. I was making a very nice
living.

In my travels I found myself taken to gay bars by a lot of the fellow
dealers. I wasn't really into "picking up" guys then, but I found the
atmosphere much more to my liking than straight bars. I still thought I was
totally straight.

I would have lunch regularly at a diner near the store, and a very pretty
woman named Florence was usually my waitress. Now Florence and I were in
high school at the same time (she was year ahead of me) and she and the
girls she ran around with had no use for me then. But as my business and
bank accounts grew she became increasingly friendly – no coincidence as
I would find out – but I could never work up the nerve to ask her for a
date. Finally she took the initiative. "I get off work at six tonight. How
would you like to come to my place for dinner?" she said. "You won't have
to leave me a tip."

The offer sounded irresistible, and I accepted instantly. "Good," she said,
writing her address on a cocktail napkin. "Come by about seven."

Nervously I made my way to the address she provided, which wasn't that easy
to find. I rang the bell and she answered the door wearing a provocative
low-cut outfit with a very short skirt. I handed her the flowers I had
brought.

"Oh how sweet," she cooed. "Go make yourself a drink. I don't have that
much. I hope you like vodka."

I didn't particularly but managed a few gulps. Dinner itself was OK,
although she obviously was better at serving food than she was at cooking
it. During dinner she made frequent contact, touching my hand for emphasis
and letting in linger a tad too long. And when she leaned over she made
sure I had a good view of her ample breasts.

After dinner she suggested we sit on the coach. We weren't there for long
before she took my hand and put it on her breasts. "You like these?" she
asked seductively. "They are very sensitive."

Then her hands were busy unzipping my fly and toying with my cock, which
was beginning to get hard. She soon had her mouth around it and was giving
me my first blow job. Until that moment the only stimulation my member had
received was from my own hand. It was one of most glorious things I had
ever experienced, and it didn't take long before I started to cum.

"I'm sorry, I'm cumming," I yelled. She was able to pull her mouth off in
time and pumped the cum out of my dick with her hand. "I love you," I said
as my dick was shaking with pleasure.

"I hope you like that, honey," she said sweetly.

We began meeting at her place a few nights a week and my parents began to
notice my absences (I was still living at home). My relationship with
Florence progressed and on about the third date we were in the bedroom
fucking. I even started spending the night, convinced that this love.

One night as we were basking in post coital bliss, she said, "Since we're
in love, why don't we get married?"

It was the first time she raised the issue, but not the last. I really
didn't think I was ready for the commitment that I said I would think about
it. She kept after it, and I was so afraid of losing the first sex partner
and girlfriend I had ever had that I finally agreed.

When we set the date, I was surprised that she didn't want a big, elaborate
wedding. "Just family and a few close friends," she said.

My parents had little to do with planning the ceremony, Florence and her
widowed mother pretty much did everything. My mother and father did offer
to pick up most of the expenses.

 My father wanted Florence to sign a prenuptial agreement to protect my
business and inheritance. That never happened. "Oh, sweetie, that sounds so
nasty," she said when I mentioned it, usually stroking my dick as she
talked. "Don't you trust me? You know that I would never take advantage of
my schnookums."

 Soon she had quit her job and was "helping" me run the business. What
exactly she did I am not sure, other than to talk on her cell phone. That
is until she made a personnel recommendation. "Sweetie," she said. "You
spend so much time working on the books. Your accountant is so slow and I
don't think very good (as if she had any idea what the job entailed). I
have very good friend who is just a genius with numbers. Why don't we have
him do the books."

Old Barney was my father's CPA and had been doing the books for the
business since I opened it. I must admit he was a little slow and getting
up in years so I agreed to talk to her guy, Bruce. And he was very
impressive. He was much more tech-savvy than Barney, whose old-fashioned
adding machine and a pencil were all the tools he used. Bruce talked about
electronic spread sheets and other high tech terms that obviously would
make our operation more efficient. Two other factors worked in his
favor. He knew the antique business almost as well as I did, and he had a
gorgeous smile and beautiful deep blue eyes.

We had been married a year, things going smoothly both at work and in the
bedroom when my father dropped dead of a heart attack on the golf
course. My mother was so devastated that she suffered a fatal stroke two
months later. It was up to me and my sister to take care of the
estate. After the minor assets (paintings, jewelry, my dad's gun
collection) were divided between the two of us, what was left was the
multi-million dollar house and a sizable stock portfolio. In order to make
the disposition easier, my sister took the house, I took the portfolio. In
addition there was a perpetual trust that paid us each a $200,000 annuity
for ten years. At Florence's insistence I turned the management of the
portfolio, and all our personal finances, over to Bruce.

Over the couple of years our sex life started to deteriorate. Flo joined a
couple of "women's clubs" , that included frequent trips, some just for a
day, some overnight. I, too, was traveling a good deal, often accompanied
by Bruce. During lonely nights at home and on the road I began to frequent
gay bars again. Every once in awhile I would run into Bruce, who always
remained a discreet distance but would acknowledge me with a wave and that
gorgeous smile.

Bruce one day came to me with a worried look. While I thought things were
going fine, he said that the business had some cash-flow problems. I said
if it was really a big deal, we could just sell some stocks. But using a
variety of terms I didn't understand he said the tax ramifications would be
severe. He said what we needed was a partner with some cash. And,
(surprise, surprise) he and my wife had someone in mind. They said that
their friend, John, had some disposable cash he wanted to invest, would
take no part in managing the business and take a dividend only after we had
made at least a 20 per cent profit in a year. So I signed away half my
business to someone I didn't really know but who had come highly
recommended.

The new system seemed to working fine for the next few months. Bruce kept
giving me papers to sign ("routine business expenses" he said) but as long
as I was able to put money in my bank account and maintain a steady flow of
customers I was OK with the new system. The only negative was my
relationship with Florence. Our sex life became non-existent, and when we
were home together she was distant. I kept asking her if anything was
wrong, but she always answered with a brief, "Why no, Sweetie."

I began to spend more times in the evening at the gay bars. One night Bruce
walked in and came over to me. "Hey," he said. "I know we have our separate
agendas in here, but a friend of mine has been wanting to meet you. He's
over there at that table, why don't you come over and I'll introduce you."

We went to the table and there sat one of the most gorgeous men I had ever
seen. He was young, but he had to be over 21 or he would not have been
allowed in the bar, or so I thought. "This is Kent," Bruce said. "Kent,
this is the man you have been admiring from afar." I must say I was smitten
instantly, and when Kent motioned that I sit next to him, I went down
instantly.  Bruce sat on the bench next to me and kind of forced me to be
right next to Kent. Not that I minded. The thigh-to-thigh contact was
exciting and I started to get hard. Kent gave me a knowing smile and Bruce
ordered a round of what the called `rattlesnakes."

I wasn't much of a drinker, preferring white wine and champagne to hard
booze, but when Bruce raised his shot glass and said, "Down the hatch", I
followed his lead. The drink tasted good, no alcohol flavor at all, yet the
effect was instantaneous and powerful. It felt great.

By now Kent's hand was on my thigh and soon found my growing hard-on. He
smiled at me, leaned over and gave me a little kiss, Bruce ordered another
round and after that shot I was pretty smashed and losing my
inhibitions. Kent continued his handiwork and by now my boner was fully
formed. I was in heaven.

"Why don't we go to the park," Kent whispered in my ear. "I would like to
get a mouthful of that."

The park he referred to was across the street and a popular place for gay
trysts. Though the activities were technically illegal, the police pretty
much stayed away as long as there was no violence or unruly behavior. Kent
didn't have to ask me twice. Bruce let us out of the booth, winked at me
and said, "See you tomorrow, you dog."

I tried to suppress my grin as Kent took my hand and led me to a little
clearing in the park. "Shouldn't we go to a place more secluded?" I asked

"No this is fine," Kent said, then unzipped my pants and started to
work. Damn, he was good. Better than any blow job Florence had ever given
me. He started by just licking my shaft, then took just the head in his
mouth and worked it with his tongue.

"Oh, God, Kent," I moaned.

Then he took the whole shaft in his mouth and began moving up and down. I
was in ecstasy as this beautiful creature worked my dick. I got harder and
harder and was about to explode his mouth when I heard voices and a
flashlight shined right into my eyes.

"What the fuck is going on here?" I heard the familiar voice of Sheriff
Terry Thompson. "Jeezus, I knew you were a fagott," he said to me. "But now
you are a child molester. You pervert."

Then he looked at Kent. "Did he make you do this boy?"

Kent's reply let me know I was suddenly in a whole lot of trouble. "Yes
sir, he did." Kent replied. "He had a gun and he made me do this to him."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Gun?

"Where is the gun?" said the sheriff, trying to sound skeptical.

"He threw it over there," Kent said, pointing over the sheriff's shoulder.

"Go have a look," Terry said to his deputy.

I knew the search would prove my innocence. Or not.

"Found something, Sheriff," the deputy said. He then came back carrying a
revolver.

"This the gun?" Terry asked Kent.

"I think so Sir," Kent said. I recognized the gun as one of my father's
collection. That's when I figured that I was being set up.

"And how old are you boy? Let me see your ID," Terry said. He didn't wait
for answer but took a look at Kent's driver's license.

"Sixteen," the sherrif said. "Six fucking teen."  Then he turned to his
deputy and pointed at me.

"Cuff him," he said. "You're under arrest for lewd acts with a minor, child
endangerment, kidnapping and indecent exposure."

I was taken to the jailhouse, used the phone call to contact Mike, my
lawyer, who told me he would down to arrange bail in the morning.

It was a sleepless night. I had my own cell, but there were others
incarcerated across the hall and the sheriff made sure they knew what I was
charged with. They leered at me, telling me that if we were in the same
cell they would keep busy, "Think you could handle this" one of them said,
waving his oversized dick. "I know you like young boys, but a man is what
you need to put you in your place."

I met with Mike the following morning in a dingy conference room. "What the
hell were you doing with a kid," Mike said. "I didn't know you were a fag,
much less a child molester."

This didn't strike me as the proper way for a lawyer to talk to his client,
but all I wanted was to get the hell out of there so we could clear this
up. "I was set up," I said. "I didn't bring the gun there. Somebody planted
it."

"I wouldn't bring that up until the trial," Mike said. "Let me go to talk
to the D.A. and we'll try to bail you out."

Mike left me in that dingy room for the better part of an hour, then
returned looking grim. "The D.A. showed me the evidence on this case, which
is pretty strong. Plus they are going to file two unrelated charges. How
long have you been skimming from your company, and why did you lie on your
tax form the last two years? You are being charged with embezzlement,
illegal gambling and income tax fraud. That's quite a package."

It was too much for me. I screamed at the top of my lungs, "NONE OF THAT IS
TRUE!"

"True or not, we are going to have to mount a defense for all of it, unless
I can make a deal with the D.A."

"I am not making any deals," I said.

I probably should have. I agreed to a combined trial in front of a judge
without a jury (another mistake on my part, but Mike said it was the best
way). As for the charges with Kent, I didn't have a chance. All I could do
was deny, and they had evidence: witnesses who saw us leave the bar
together as if I were forcing him, the gun, and Kent himself. They dressed
him an oversized suit, cut his hair and generally changed his appearance so
he looked like an innocent boy rather than the seductive man I saw that
night.

For the financial crimes, the evidence again was solid. It turns out Bruce
had been "cooking the books" making it appear that I had been taking money
and withholding it from my partner. And those slips I signed were really
betting slips with a local bookmaker. And Bruce, who did our taxes the last
couple of years, played fast and loose with the truth, but made it seem
like it was to my benefit.

On top of everything else, Florence filed for divorce, seeking half my
assets. Mike said the best we could do would be to give her my half of the
company and half my annuity, while I kept the house and the bank accounts.

Then she moved in with John, who, I found out, had been fucking her all
along. Plus years later I learned that John had not put a dime into the
company, that Bruce had moved funds from one of my accounts to another to
make it seem like it was fresh money. I basically gave away half my company
and in the divorce Florence got the other half.

But I had more worries. I was found guilty on all counts and was looking at
25 years in prison. But Mike and the prosecutor cooked up a deal that the
judge approved. The jail sentence would be suspended. I would be sentenced
to seven years probation, and at the end of that time would be free of all
charges. But the terms of the probation were severe, as I learned at the
sentencing hearing.

"Your attorney will control all your assests," the judge said. "You will
live under the same roof and he will be responsible for supervising you. As
an officer of the court he is obliged to tell me if YOU STEP SO MUCH AS A
FOOT OUT OF LINE. He has sole discretion. One word from him and your jail
sentence will be enforced. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," I muttered.

"One more thing," the D.A. said. "His attorney and I agreed that the
defendant serve on full day in jail. That way he knows what's in store for
him if he violates any part of his probation."

"So ordered," the judge said.

And the next day I was delivered to Fort Wilson State prison and put into
the cell with Monk. You know how that went.

Mike was waiting when I came to the prison's discharge room.

End of Part 2

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As we drove away Mike suddenly transformed from my lawyer to my master.

"OK, this is the way it's going to be," he said. "You do everything I tell
you, you don't hesitate and you don't question. All it takes is one word
from me and you are back in there (he gestured toward the prison) for 25
years."

I assumed we would staying at Mike's house. But he just drove past it, and
I noticed a For Sale sign on it. He anticipate my question.

"We are going to live at your house," he said. "And since I won't be
needing mine I'm going to sell it."

Well, I thought at least I would be in familiar surroundings. We arrived at
my house, and I immediately headed up to my bedroom. "Not so fast, Faggot,"
Mike said, using the term for the first time. "That's my room now."

It was a three bedroom house, so I shrugged and figured I would get one of
the other bedrooms. I moved toward one of them.

"No, Faggot, I need one these rooms for an office and another for a
guest/playroom. You will live in the basement."

He walked me down to my primitive quarters and laughed. "I think you will
be quite comfortable here," he said. "And take off your clothes. You won't
be needing them. You will find your wardrobe in the chest of drawers. Then
come up and make my lunch. I'm hungry."

Thus did my new life begin.

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