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.
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 "Achtung Baby", RK, and Alan for the positive feedback and suggestions after Chapter One.
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Cinderfella, pt. 2
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.
After I had signed the contract, I had participated in a humiliating ceremony at the Courthouse where Mr. Head slapped me and then two court bailiffs grabbed me by the arms, lifted me from my kneeling position, and half-dragged, half-guided me downstairs for processing. I was in shock, and couldn't seem to make my body respond to orders. My life was crumbling around me.
I was led downstairs and taken to a cold, bare room in the courthouse basement marked "Processing". The bailiffs shoved me to the cement ground roughly.
"Strip," one of the bailiffs demanded.
I really didn't have much choice in the matter, so, still sprawled on the ground, I awkwardly began removing my sweaty clothes. I pulled off the sweat-stained T-shirt and then stripped out of my blue jeans.
When I hesitated at removing my undershorts, the bailiff said, "Go on. Get 'em off, boy. Time's a-wastin'."
I pulled down my undershorts, feeling embarrassed at being naked in such an open, public area. I covered my groin with my hands until the bailiff ordered me to fold my hands above my head.
"Don't move, boy," he warned. "We've got work to do on you."
Then to the other bailiff, he said, "Grab the electric shears."
To me he said, "We're gonna remove that nasty, dirty hair on your head, boy." He had a half-leering, half hungry smile. He clearly relished the authority he had over me at that moment. I read his name tag; it said "Officer O'Hara". The other bailiff approached me now with the electric shears, turned them on, and slowly began shaving my head. It took a long time; they left nothing up there. Then, when my head was done, they buzzed my armpits and then my pubes.
When all my hair had been removed, Officer O'Hara said, "Fwew! This fucker stinks like the pig he is! Let's get him hosed down."
He grabbed a utility garden hose and turned it on, then walked back over to me and started spraying me with the frigid water. I involuntarily jumped back from the shock of the icy water, and the other bailiff grabbed me by the arms and pushed me back into the stream. I struggled futilely as they hosed me down from head to toe, soaking me thoroughly. The second officer grabbed my arms and twisted them behind my back.
"Calm down, boy," the second officer said, as Officer O'Hara sprayed me in the face and eyes with the frigid water. "There you go... That-a-boy... Just a little more... Be brave... We're almost done... Almost through... Good boy... That's it... Hosing off that nasty grime..."
Officer O'Hara turned the hose to the side of my face now, spraying my left ear with the water, and repeating the process as the second guy still held my arms behind my back. "There we go... Little more... Gotta get that ear all cleaned up... O'Hara, don't forget behind the ear... That's it... Nice, cleansing water..."
"Alright, now we're going to clean out those nostrils," the guy behind me said. "Lean your head back so we can clean them out. Go on, boy. Don't be disobedient. Lean back. That's it."
"Please, I..." I began.
As Officer O'Hara trained the nozzle so the water would go up my nose, I felt the icy water blast into my nostrils. I tried to push my head back up, but Officer O'Hara grabbed me by my forehead and held my head down as they blasted water into my sinuses. Water streamed out of my mouth, and I felt like I was drowning. I heard the guy behind me talking in a calming voice, but I couldn't understand what he was saying. I struggled limply, choking down air in small gasps.
At last they finished, and I leaned forward, water spewing from my nose and mouth as I choked and gasped. I coughed and sputtered for several minutes, my sinuses aching from the cold water. I shivered as the water still cascaded down my body in rivulets.
"All done, boy," the guy behind me said. "Now you're nice and clean, and ready to go home." He let go of me, and I almost toppled over, my sense of balance off momentarily.
"Well, almost ready," Officer O'Hara said. "Just one last thing. Gotta get you collared, boy. Get you some fancy jewelry for your neck."
They fitted me with an iron collar, about three inches wide with four big D-bolts, one on each side. They locked it into place with some sort of allen wrench. Although it was quite heavy, to my relief, it wasn't particularly tight. It just felt very odd on my neck. I felt like an animal in the collar; a caged beast.
"All done, boy," O'Hara said. "Now that wasn't so bad, was it?" O'Hara said with a malicious laugh. I wanted to punch the officer in the face, but I knew I better not.
Still naked, I was loaded into the back of a truck, the doors slammed closed behind me. Exhausted from my ordeal, I shivered on the floor of the truck, feeling outraged, humiliated, and completely degraded as the truck trundled through the city. "How could this happen to me?" I railed silently. This was America. Things like this weren't supposed to happen to regular Americans. But then, I was no longer a regular American. I had signed a contract waiving my rights.
After a couple of hours, which seemed like days, the truck stopped. The guards opened the truck doors and led me into the light. I was ushered out of the van, up the driveway, and through the side door of a rather fancy, well-appointed home. An angry-looking man with hard eyes signed the delivery paperwork, and the truck soon pulled away.
I hid my genitals with my hands.
"Arms to your sides," the man barked. "No need for modesty; I've seen hundreds of servant dicks before."
I put my arms down, uncomfortable under this man's eagle-eyed scrutiny.
"First rule," he said. "You begin each sentence with 'Sir' and end each sentence with 'Sir'. Is that understood, boy?"
"Sir... Yes, I understand, Sir," I said. "Please, Sir, I..."
"Second rule: A servant is seen, not heard. Do I make myself clear?"
"Sir... Um... Yes, sir," I said.
He began reciting a whole laundry-list of rules: I was there to serve Mr. Head and his household. I was Mr. Head's property for the duration of the contract. I would cook, clean, launder, garden, and do anything else required of me, without question, delay, or disobedience. I owned nothing, as an indentured servant cannot, by Wisconsin's slavery laws, own possessions.
I was to treat Mr. Head and his household with reverence and respect, as he was providing for me, caring for me, and had saved me from debtor's prison. I was never to talk back to Mr. Head or anyone in his household. I was not to sit on any of Mr. Head's furniture or use his appliances unless those appliances were a part of my normal work duty, or I was commanded to do so. I was never to idle or malinger over my work.
A tear trickled down my cheek as the rules began to overwhelm me, and as reality set in. I couldn't imagine how I'd be able to live this type of subservient life for several years. I felt in shock by all of the changes in my life.
After listing a bunch more rules, the man introduced himself to me as Mr. Guernsey, the Overseer. He led me further into the house, which was a beautiful Spanish-style villa, immaculately polished, very clean, and tastefully decorated. I had to remind myself that I would be polishing the furniture, cleaning everything, and dusting those tasteful decorations.
"Mr. Head has kindly provided clothing for you to wear, boy, but always remember that it is his clothing, not yours," Overseer Guernsey said. "Mr. Head is a Christian man, and he wants you to feel welcome and comfortable in his home. He has magnanimously decided that you will wear a T-shirt and a pair of shorts for now."
He led me downstairs to the basement, and showed me the linen closet, where my new wardrobe hung on seven hangers in the closet.
"Today is Monday," Mr. Guernsey said. "Take down the Monday hanger and put on your T-shirt and shorts."
I reached into the closet and grabbed the hanger marked with an 'M'. Not that it mattered; it looked like all seven days were the same. I awkwardly dressed in front of the overseer, first pulling on the tighty-whitey style briefs, then the tank top. It was one of those oversized string tanks, with the neck hole cut so low that it didn't really cover up much of my chest. I wondered if I'd really be expected to cook and clean wearing nothing but undershorts and a barely-there shirt.
Once I was "dressed", Mr. Guernsey showed me to the cot I would sleep in, not far from the linen closet in a corner of the basement. Then he took me back upstairs, where he lectured me about all the big preparations that needed to happen before Christmas. My Guernsey explained that my mother and stepfather would be on their honeymoon for the next few days, and I was to make the house ready for them, and their Christmas guests. I was to spend the next few days familiarizing myself with the house and my duties, getting myself prepared for my new life as a servant.
For not the last time, I cursed myself for what I had gotten myself into.
Over the next few days, Mr. Guernsey led me through my new duties. I was shown how to prepare Mr. Head's meals. I was shown where the cleaning supplies were kept. I was reminded time and time again that I needed to show respect and complete obedience to the masters of the household. Mr. Guernsey would smack me in the back of the head if I wasn't paying close enough attention, and warned me that servants who disobeyed could be severely punished with any number of implements.
I had once seen that happen to a servant in my friend Johnny's home. His father had suddenly become terribly angry when the servant had apparently set the dinner table with two dinner forks instead of one dinner fork and one salad fork. In front of everyone, I recalled, Mr. Anderson had berated the serving boy, and then had taken the servant over his knee for a bare-ass paddling.
It had been an eye-opening experience for me, I remembered. It was the first time I had seen a servant disciplined. I remembered being surprised by what I thought of as abuse, happening so openly in the Anderson home, until Mr. Anderson explained that he just ran a "tight ship" and had to use a firm hand from time to time with his staff when necessary.
The way that he explained it, it had sounded reasonable. But now, the thought of being on the receiving side of that paddle frightened me.
My new overseer taught me how to hose myself off in the greenhouse each morning ("Servants are never to use Free Men's showers," Mr. Guernsey reminded me), and how to shave my head, face, and pubes every day ("Mr. Head insists on a well-groomed houseboy," he warned). He instructed me to rise each morning, well before the rest of the household was awake, to groom myself and prepare breakfast so that, when the family awoke, they would rise with the smell of crisp bacon or freshly-cooked sausage wafting to them. I was reminded that Mr. Head subscribed to the Wisconsin Journal-Post-Express, and each morning, the newspaper was to be neatly folded on the table for his reading pleasure.
It was hard to remember everything, but I quickly learned. I had to: Mr. Guernsey was a harsh taskmaster, and if I forgot anything at all, he cuffed me in the back of the head. Each night, I'd huddle in my cot, contemplating running far away. However, through the years I had seen the televised news reports of the harsh punishments meted out to captured runaway slaves, and although I was only a servant, not a true slave, I suspected I'd be better off dead than be a captured runaway. My only option, I resolved, was to speak to Mom as soon as possible, convince her that this wasn't going to work out, and see if we had some way of legally breaking the contract.
At last, the Big Day arrived: the day that my mother and stepfather were due to return home. Mr. Guernsey had me get up extra early to get in some last-minute window-cleaning and floor-polishing. There were hundreds of windows in the house, and I had them all shining by 9 AM. I had just finished putting on the second coat of floor polish in the kitchen when I heard a vehicle pull up into the driveway. I hurried to the front door and opened it, then stood by the door, as I had been instructed to do whenever Mr. Head returned home.
Mr. Head carried Mom across the threshold and into the foyer. I was so happy to see her, but I knew better than to run over and hug her.
As my new stepfather set his bride down, Mom ran to me and embraced me. It felt so good to have her back in my life! Tears ran down my face as I broke down. The last few days had been very hard, but I knew that everything would be alright now. I hugged her tightly, and she hugged me back just as tight.
"Oh, Richard," she said. "I missed you SO MUCH! I'm so happy to see you."
"Me, too, Mom," I said, sobbing happily.
"The islands were terrific, but I'm so glad to be back," Mom said. "Oh, let me look at you! You look so different without any hair!"
As Mom looked me up and down, I was embarrassed to be wearing just underwear in front of her. My tighty whities and skimpy string tank top left little to the imagination, but all she said was "Oh, you look so handsome!"
Now my stepfather approached.
"Dick, so good to have you in my home," he said with a benevolent smile. He was ruggedly handsome, tall with wavy golden hair and his skin a dark, sultry tan. He looked muscular and quite fit. I could see why Mom was attracted to him: he was strikingly beautiful, with an air of confidence about him that is hard to describe. He could have been a model, although my understanding from what Mr. Guernsey had told me, was that he was some sort of lobbyist with the Madison Legislature.
"Sir... thank you, Sir," I said, trying to keep my tone respectful. "You have a wonderful home. But Sir, Mom... I can't stay here. I've made a terrible mistake."
"Nonsense, boy," my stepfather said. "You signed a contract. And a man's only as good as his word."
"I'll find another way, Sir, to pay the dowry back," I said. I turned to Mom. "I promise to find a way," I said.
"No, you agreed to serve in my home," my stepfather said, his voice quite firm.
"But sir..." I began.
"Listen, boy," he said, looking me in the eyes as he spoke. "You swore an oath to serve me and my household. And I'm going to hold you to your word, Dick. The Bible says that a man is only as good as his word. From Numbers, 30:2: 'If a man vow a vow unto the Lord, or swear an oath, he shall not break his word, he shall do according to all that proceedeth out of his mouth.' "
"Now, Dick, I know this is a big change for you. You've been coddled and babied and sheltered your whole life by your mother. But now it's time to do a little growing up, young man."
"But I..." I began.
My stepfather suddenly slapped me hard across the face, and then backhanded me for good measure. I stood there stupidly, in shock at what he had just done. Stars swam before my eyes for a moment.
"I'm truly sorry to have to do that, Dick, but you left me with no option. I've kept my part of the bargain: I've married your mother and erased your family's debts. Now you need to keep your end of the bargain, too, and work off the debt you owe me. Tonight before bed, you will read Numbers, chapter 30, verse 2 one hundred times. Perhaps then it will sink in how important it is that a man keeps his word."
"I know it's not easy adjusting to such a big change," he continued, sounding like Ward Cleaver lecturing Wally on 'Leave it to Beaver', "But you're going to have to adjust quickly, Dick, and accept that your circumstances have changed. The next seven years are going to be quite difficult for both of us otherwise."
Had he just said SEVEN years?! The world started spinning. I stood there in stunned silence as Mom and my stepfather went into the kitchen.
To be continued...