The following story is an erotic fantasy story meant for mature readers and should only be read by adults over the age of eighteen years old. It involves depictions of sex. If this subject matter offends, then stop reading this page now.
This story is a work of fiction and is not intended to depict any living person. Do not read this story if you live in an area where it is illegal to do so. The author does not condone the actions in this story.
This work is copyright by the author and commercial use is prohibited without permission. The author would appreciate your comments, pro and con, including constructive criticism, and suggestions. My thanks to Mike, Jacob, Seraph and Elvis.
I guess I write slowly. For those of you impatiently waiting for me to write more, you're welcome to check out "The Ultimate Muscle Hunk Challenge", a 23-part story in "Athletics" that I wrote last year, which may help pass the time. It's not the same type of story, but some of you may like it.
Please donate to Nifty. Your contributions keep the archive free.
Cinderfella, part 12
It was the year 2030 when the repeal of the 13th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution changed my life. Diminishing incomes meant my mother was no longer able to pay the bills, and I had willingly signed a contract indenturing myself to my new stepfather, a man named Jake Head. Jake was a total jerk, as were his sons, and I hated every moment living in his house. Every day seemed worse than the one before. But the day I was told that I'd be staying with my stepbrothers was completely miserable.
As I lay naked in the trunk of my stepbrothers' vehicle, I felt the car pull into a driveway, then stop. I heard the passengers get out of the car, and the car doors being closed. Then I heard muffled voices for a while.
At last, I heard the trunk door pop, and sunlight suddenly illuminated the interior. I observed someone lifting the door up; it was Daniel.
I hated both of my stepbrothers, with their designer clothes, their gelled-up golden hair, and their bullying attitudes. But of the two, I hated Daniel more. It wasn't because Christopher was kinder or less demeaning; they were both horrible, awful people. Maybe it was Daniel's preppy popped collar or his high-priced sunglasses that he wore even at night. They added an extra layer of douchiness.
Then again, Christopher's fashion choices weren't much better: he wore tight shirts half-open with the shirt sleeves rolled up to above his biceps, even in winter. It was clear he was a ladies' man, and liked to show off his studly body to the opposite sex. I had to admit, as much as I hated him as a person and as a step-brother, he did have a very hot body. His big biceps were really impressive.
"Come on out, twinkletoes," Daniel said, mockingly, as Christopher walked up beside him.
I started to crawl out of the vehicle, still clutching my aching crotch protectively. It wasn't easy to get out of the trunk. Car trunks just aren't designed for people to ride in them, particularly the one I was in. The bottom edge of the trunk was high, making it difficult to get out while in a seated position. I stumbled out, still holding my bruised genitals in my left hand.
"Let's see the damage," Daniel said, brushing my hands away from my crotch.
Christopher let out a low whistle. "Dude, his balls are all swollen," he said. "They look pretty beat up."
"Serves him right for making those cops so mad," Daniel said. "Did you see that one cop make him walk like a duck up and down the road? That shit was hilarious. They don't normally do that."
"Why'd you make them so angry?" Christopher asked me.
"Sir, I didn't," I said. "The one officer found a beer can in the trunk."
"Well, then, you shouldn't have been drinking," Daniel said. "Jesus Fucking Christ, buttmunch. Even you should be smarter than that. Now let's get inside; it's too cold out here to chat."
He grabbed me roughly by the ear and hauled me down the driveway. As we walked up the stairs, I saw the chapterhouse, with a big sign in Greek letters on it: Zeta Omicron Omicron. I was embarrassed to be marched into this fine house, naked as a jaybird.
They led me inside, and then across the room and down some stairs into the basement. Christopher tossed a shirt at me and said, "Here's your new uniform, boy."
I was happy to have any clothing at all, and I gratefully pulled the shirt over my head. It felt good to be wearing clothes again. As it turned out, it was less of a shirt and more of a burlap sack fashioned into a shirt: a hole had been cut into the top and on each side. My head went into the hole in the top, and my arms out the holes in each side. The sack only came down halfway to my knees. It was brown, with blue Greek letters, Zeta Omicron Omicron, painted roughly on the front.
"So here's the deal, buttmunch," Daniel said. "Last Fall, I didn't get in to Zeta. But enough of the brothers left in December, that they're opening the fraternity to new pledges this semester. As my servant, you're gonna fill in for me, as my pledge surrogate."
"But Sir," I protested, "I don't even know what to do."
"Just do as you're fuckin' told," Daniel said, poking his finger in my face. "As long as you do everything you're told to do, I'll get in to Zeta. If I don't get in a second time, I'm going to be very pissed off. You don't want to make me pissed off, do you, asswipe?"
"No, Sir," I said.
"Good. Remember that," he said. "Or you'll wish those cops had taken you to jail instead."
The next few days were absolute hell, as I learned how to be 'Pledge Scum' for Zeta Omicron Omicron. I scrubbed the frathouse floors on my hands and knees until the floors shone, I cleaned all the brothers' bedrooms from top to bottom, I prepared their meals, and I obeyed the fraternity members' every command.
When a fraternity brother asked me how low I was, I told them I was the lowest scum on Earth, as I had been told to say. When I was told I was a bunghole, a douchebag, a prick, or whatever else they decided I was, I quickly agreed. I had to carry Christopher's books to class each morning, and be waiting for him in the afternoon when his classes were over. I had to iron and set out his clothes, and take whatever humiliating insults he gave me.
My only solace was that Daniel didn't live in the frat house. I was his pledge surrogate, his stand-in so that he didn't have to pledge. And yet, it was Christopher and his asshole buddies who I was actually serving.
As I was scrubbing the floor with my toothbrush on the third morning, Christopher regaled his frat brothers with stories of how he had tormented me in high school.
"This one time," Christopher began, "We were shooting spitwads at Icky Ricky from our table. We had made pea shooters from our pens and blew out wads of spit-soaked paper at him. I kept hitting him in the back of the head. A couple of pieces landed in his food. He just sat there and took it, for the longest time. Then he spazzed out and started yelling at us. It was hilarious."
"Do you remember that, Icky Ricky?" he duginto me. "Do you remember when you spazzed out on us for shooting spitwads at you?"
"Yes Sir," I said, as I scrubbed the floor, my head down.
"After that, Icky Ricky stopped eating lunch," Christopher gloated. "We were pretty glad because we didn't have to endure his faggot looks at us anymore. Except in gym class. He kept looking at our dicks in the shower."
"That's sick!" Mike, the head of the chapter house opined.
"Yeah, he'd even beat off in the shower after looking at us," Christopher said. "That's why we named him 'Icky Ricky'. Isn't that right, faggot?" he asked me.
"Yes Sir," I lied. It wasn't true: I had never jacked off in the showers at school, nor had I ever look at my classmates in the showers. I was gay, but I never had done that. Not at school. But I knew better than to contradict a Free Man, especially as one as malevolent as my so-called stepbrother. If I disagreed with him, it just made it worse; I knew this from years of dealing with him.
"What a homo!" Doug, another frat brother said. Doug was the letterman whose jacket I had accidentally touched at the New Years Eve party. Like Christopher, Doug was a star wrestler at the university. They were co-captains of the wrestling team. "How'd you get him to stop staring at you?"
"Well, here's what we did: one day, when Icky Ricky had already gone up to the gym, we broke into his gym locker, took out his school clothes, and then we tossed them into the toilet. I took a good long whiz on his shirt and pants, and the other guys followed suit. Then we went up to the gym and pretended like nothing had happened. It was almost impossible to keep a straight face during gym class!"
The four other frat brothers standing in the room erupted in laughter.
"But then it got better," Christopher continued. "When Icky Ricky went back to his locker after class, he found his locker open and his clothes floating in the toilet. The coach helped him fish his clothes out, and he had to wear his gym clothes for the rest of the day. It was hilarious."
"Dude, that was pretty harsh," one of the guys said.
"Yeah, but it solved the problem," Christopher said. "He got the message, and he stopped looking at our dicks in the shower."
As I scrubbed the floor, I was so angry. I hadn't known, until now, that Christopher had been in the group that had thrown my clothes in the men's room toilet in high school. It hurt like a fresh wound. Like it had just happened.
But more than that: because I had never known that my locker had actually been broken into, the coach had lectured ME about making sure my locker was locked. In front of a bunch of guys in the gym class, he had yelled at me that it was partially my fault, for not keeping my locker locked. And I had Believed it: I had believed that I was at fault for forgetting to lock the locker door. I still felt that pain and humiliation. And Christopher hadn't said one word. He hadn't 'fessed up that day to breaking into my locker. He let that coach yell at me for something he did.
He was a coward.
And now he goaded me with that story, claiming it had stopped me from looking at his dick. I didn't know he had thrown my clothes into the toilet, so how would that have stopped me from looking at his dick? He was a liar, in addition to being a coward.
At that moment, I cracked. I launched myself at Christopher's smirking, gloating, handsome face, knowing I had no chance at really hurting him. Knowing I was just going to land myself in hot water. I didn't care anymore; I had tried to play their game by their rules, and I couldn't take it one more second.
I jumped up and punched him as hard as I could (which wasn't very hard), then went for his throat. I took him by surprise, and managed to wring his liar neck for a few seconds. But college wrestlers have thick necks and strong hands, and it only took him a few moments to pull my fingers away from his neck. He punched me in the jaw, and I went down like a pile of bricks.
Christopher jumped on me, pulling my arms back behind me painfully. As we struggled on the floor, he got me into a wrestling hold called a Full Nelson, a painful hold that made it impossible for me to fight. His fingers soon were interlocked behind my neck, and he held my face down to the floor. I struggled uselessly for a few moments, as I slowly realized it was over. I couldn't win in a physical confrontation against my step-brother. I would never win against him.
As he held me down, he made me apologize to him for my outburst. I didn't want to, but his grip hurt. Reluctantly, I apologized. Then he made me apologize to each of his frat brothers for "the scene" I had caused. I apologized to each of them.
My stepbrother let me go, as I lay on the floor, exhausted. He got up and dusted himself off.
"I thought you knew better than to attack a Free Man, asswipe," he said to me. "As a contract laborer, your ONLY duty is to serve. You swore to serve my family. I could turn you in to the authorities. I have four eye witnesses, asshole."
I knew his threat wasn't idle. He would turn me in if I didn't obey him.
"You're a servant, dickhead. If you're convicted of attacking a Free Man, you'll never get out of prison. You know what they do to servants in prison? It ain't pretty."
I knew. I had heard the rumors. Although it had once been different, the prison systems in America were now all run by private, for-profit companies. Once someone was unlucky enough to land in prison, he never got out, and there was little government oversight.
"Rather than turning you in for the oath-breaker you are, I'm just going to punish you... THIS time," Christopher said. "I hope your punishment will remind you of your place. After that little altercation, my nice dress shoes are all scuffed up and dirty. Come over here and polish them."
Slowly, reluctantly, I rose to my hands and knees. I found my toothbrush and crawled over to Christopher.
"No, no, no. Don't use that dirty toothbrush, boy," he said. "The bristles are too hard. They'll damage the leather. Just use your tongue."
I couldn't believe I was being ordered to lick my stepbrother's shoes. But I knew I had little choice.
As I lowered my head and began licking Christopher's leather shoes, I wondered if things would ever get better for me. If I was Cinderfella, where was my goddamn Prince?
To be continued...