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, although some elements are autobiographical in nature. 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 J.J., Mat, Em, Seraph, James, Raph, Magknee, Alan, Mike, Neal, Vision, Thor, Lawrence, Mitchell, Trevor, Donna, Larry, and anyone I might have missed, for the feedback, story ideas, and nice comments.
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.
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Cinderfella, part 20
I woke up the following morning with an urgent need to pee. I ran up to the privy in the greenhouse and took a piss. True to Mr. Gundarson's prediction, it hurt to pee. Mr. Gundarson had used the rubber hose directly on my piss slit, and that area was still sore and swollen (as were the rest of my genitals). It burned.
I moaned, unable to stop the "Mississippi Burning". Mr. Gundarson had wanted the Mississippi Burning to serve as a reminder to me to pee in the toilet; instead, it just reminded me to hate Mr. Gundarson.
Then, I began my morning chores, completed my exercise routine, groomed myself, and prepared breakfast for the step-family. Every movement was painful, as my swollen balls moved from side to side, brushing up against my legs.
I was at work in the kitchen when Jake entered. "Good morning, boy," he said. "Good to see you up and working hard at your chores. I imagine you slept very well last night."
"No, Sir," I said. "I did not. It's hard to sleep when your entire body is swollen or covered in bruises."
"Dick, you're exaggerating," Jake said to me. "You are quite aware that your physical punishments were limited to discipline on your genitals and anus. And while that might have been a little unpleasant, it's a far cry from having bruises 'all over'."
"Easy for you to say," I snapped. "It didn't happen to you!" I knew I was on thin ice, but I had been pushed to my breaking point after yesterday.
"Dick, I don't think I appreciate your tone," my stepfather said. "You will apologize to me immediately for your uncivil comment."
"...I'm sorry, Sir," I managed, hating myself for backing down, but realizing that a confrontation would only get me into more hot water.
"And Dick, I don't think I have to remind you, but you needn't disturb your mother with any mention of your training yesterday. You are progressing nicely and I will keep her informed of your progress."
"Yes, Sir," I said.
"You look very sharp in your new control shorts this morning. I think they fit you quite well."
"Thank you, Sir," I said.
"Now about your chores, Dick," he continued. "With Spring having started, I'll need you to mow the lawn today. The grass is already four inches high. Tomorrow you can rake up the dead leaves in the garden. Understood?"
"Yes, Sir," I said.
"In fact, Dick, now that it's warmer, it will probably be a bit uncomfortable to wear a shirt while you labor during the heat of the day. You probably won't need to wear a shirt for the next four months or so, until it cools off again. You can still wear the control shorts, but you can leave the shirts in your closet, unless it's very chilly outside."
"Yes, Sir," I said.
He looked at me expectantly.
"Do I need to take this shirt off now?" I asked.
"Yes, Dick. Right this minute. Go ahead and strip off your shirt. You'll be too hot mowing the lawn today otherwise. It's expected to get into the high 70s today."
Obediently, I pulled my tank top up and over my head. I put it into the laundry chute, and went back to making breakfast, now in just my tighty whitey control shorts. It felt weird, like I was on public display. The control shorts were made of a thinner material than my normal briefs, and they were smaller, too, with the waistband riding lower on my hips, and the leg holes cut a little higher on the sides. Of course, they also had an access panel in the rear, which could be used for disciplinary actions.
Jake handed me an apron, which I gratefully donned.
"Dick, I can see you've really bulked up quite a bit over the past month or so. Mr. Davidson's workout regime has really helped. I want you to send him a nice thank-you card for his ideas and suggestions."
"Yes, Sir," I muttered.
"In fact, I think Mr. Gundarson deserves a thank-you card as well."
"Sir, please don't make me send that man a thank-you card," I said, turning to my Stepfather.
"Dick, a thank-you card shows gratitude for what someone's done for you. Mr. Gundarson is the man who recruited you. Without him, you wouldn't be living in this fine home, in a nice neighborhood, with your family. You owe him a big debt."
"He made me eat dog shit!" I shouted. "He put electrodes in my ass and shocked me with them!"
"Dick, that never happened," Jake replied. "You were to carry the turds in your mouth, not swallow them. If you actually ate dog feces, that was your own choice. You're exaggerating your punishment, yet again."
"I'm not!"
"Yes, you are, Dick. Now settle down, or I'll be forced to punish you again. And I'll remind you about God's commandment not to swear. The words 'shit' and 'ass' are not to be uttered. Do you understand me, Dick?"
"Yes, Sir," I managed.
Just then, Mom came in the kitchen.
"Good morning!" she sang.
"Good morning, sweetie," Jake said, kissing her on the lips. "Did you sleep well?"
"Oh, no, I was up half the night," she said. "You men can't imagine how difficult it is to sleep when you have to pee every half hour."
"I'm sorry, bunny," he said, taking her hand in his. "You know I'd have this baby for you if I could."
She kissed his fingers.
"Honey... Where's your wedding ring?" she asked him.
"I... I don't... know," he said, looking down at his hand. "I thought I was wearing it. It must... I guess I left it in the parlor."
He went to fetch it, but came back a few minutes later.
"Dick, did you happen to see where I put my wedding ring yesterday?"
"Sir, I believe it was in the parlor but I'm not sure I saw it anywhere this morning," I lied. It felt so satisfying to see my stepfather at a loss for once. It was a small, petty revenge, but he deserved this and so much more.
Jake replied, "Yes, that's what I thought, but I can't seem to find it. Hopefully it will turn up. When you clean the parlor today, be sure to look for it."
"Yes, Sir."
Later that day, when I was serving lunch to my mother and Jake, who had stayed home from work, Mom told me that Jake had a big surprise.
"Dick, your Mother wants to leave on Friday morning to visit her sister again before the doctor stops any travel during her pregnancy. So I have decided that you and I should go on a nice fishing trip for the weekend. It will give you some time to relax, and also give us some good bonding time together."
"Doesn't that sound wonderful, Dick?" Mom asked me, giving Jake a big kiss. "You are a very lucky boy to have a stepfather like Jake."
"A fishing trip?"
"Yes Dick, I am already planning lots of activities for us to do while on our big expedition. I think you're really going to enjoy it, boy."
"Thank you, Sir," I said, not knowing what to make of this. I still hated him, but maybe he was feeling guilty about yesterday.
That afternoon, I mowed the lawn in just my undershorts. It was embarrassing, but not nearly as humiliating as anything I was forced to do the previous day. Still, I felt exposed wearing so little, as I did the yard work. Free People walked by on the sidewalk, or drove past in their vehicles while I mowed the front lawn. My skimpy briefs left little to the imagination. Every time a car drove by, or someone jogged past the house, my face burned red.
The back yard was less embarrassing. Hidden by the fences and the shrubbery, no one could see me, so I could focus on the job. When I was halfway through the back yard, Jake brought out a glass of water for me to drink. I wondered again if he was finally starting to feel guilty about what they'd made me do yesterday, and what they'd put me through.
"Dick, you've done a fine job on the yard so far," he said. "You missed a spot between the two lilac bushes on the side of the house, but otherwise, you've done well on this task. I'm proud of you."
"Thank you, Sir," I said, drinking the water.
"When you're finished, put the lawnmower away in the woodshed, then come inside."
"Yes, Sir," I said, as he headed indoors.
When the lawn was completely mowed, and the small strip by the bushes was dealt with, I put the lawnmower away and went inside. Jake was still looking for his wedding band, and he had me clean the parlor from top to bottom looking for the ring. I thought about maybe "discovering" the ring in the register, but I couldn't actually see it in the floor duct. How far down had it gone? Besides, I really wanted Jake to stew in his juices a while longer.
As I dusted the furniture, Jake reminded me not to forget to clean the picture frame with my picture in it.
"In fact, boy, go ahead and clean it right now," Jake demanded.
I walked over to the picture frame and took that hateful thing off the mantlepiece. The frame was emblematic of everything I hated about living in the Head household. I felt tricked by my stepfather into having the photos taken in the first place. He had told me that I wouldn't have to be in the family photo, and then made me pose for these embarrassing shots.
The frame was a triptych, with three horrible pictures of me in one frame. The first was a head shot of me, a stupid expression on my face, my mouth hanging open goofily. The photographer had asked me a question, and had snapped the photo just as I was replying, resulting in a photo where I looked like a stupid half-wit with my mouth half-open. I hated this picture with a passion.
But if the first picture was bad, the second photo was horrible. I was kneeling on the ground, my head bent in supplication, my hands folded in prayer, like an obedient, faithful servant. The photographer had had me pose this way, insisting that it was a popular pose for contract laborers.
The third photo was the worst of them all. In the third photo, like the second, I was kneeling. However, the photographer had had me remove my shirt, and had fastened a dog leash to my collar. Behind me, my stepfather held the leash, pulling my head back. My penis hung partially out of the fly in the front of my undershorts, which I hadn't realized when the photo was taken.
I tried not to look at the pictures as I began dusting off the picture frame, but it was hard not to see them.
"No, Dick. Don't use that dust cloth. Mr. Davidson suggested that you clean it in an unusual way, so you'd never forget to clean it every single day. So I want you to clean the picture frame with your tongue. That way, you'll never forget to clean it."
Was he serious? A glance at my stepfather told me he was.
After hesitating, I did as I was told, licking the picture frame with my tongue. I licked the top side, and then down the right side. I tried to get in the crevaces, too, because I knew Jake would check how clean it was. Then I licked the bottom of the frame, and then the left side. I tried to make it as dust-free as possible.
"Don't forget the glass," Jake said. "And don't leave any streaks, boy."
As I licked the glass, Jake said, "That's it, boy. Lick it clean. You're going to do this every day for the next six months, so you never forget. Do you understand?"
"Yef, Fir," I said, while still licking the glass. How I hated that man!
Days passed, and on Friday morning, Mom went to Aunt Irene's house. As soon as she left, Jake had me pack his suitcase, and then we were off to Crystal Lake. I sat in the far back of Jake's Jeep, and was actually able to enjoy the view of the scenery as Jake drove through the woods. It was so much better than traveling in the trunk of Christopher's vehicle. For a little while, I actually enjoyed myself. My body had slowly healed over the last few days, and I felt pretty good. Getting away from my horrible work routine, getting out of that house, really made me feel better. After maybe an hour and a half, we arrived at a beautiful, rustic cabin on a private lake, far from civilization.
As we parked near the cabin, I thought that maybe this would be a relaxing weekend. These thoughts died when we walked inside, and Judge Ramsey and Tom Christiansen, my stepfather's boss, were inside waiting for us.
"Jake, so good to see you," Judge Ramsey said. "Thank you for inviting me up to Tom's cabin; it's quite lovely up here."
"Sir... what's going on?" I asked Jake.
"Dick, do you have a confession you'd like to make?" Jake asked, looking at me shrewdly.
"What... what do you mean?"
"I mean you need to come clean and confess your crimes, Dick."
"Sir... what crimes?" I stammered. "I haven't committed a crime."
"That's one," he said.
"One what?" I asked.
"One lie," he said. He looked angry. Really angry. Like 'how a hawk looks at a mouse' angry.
He reached up to his neck and pulled the gold chain out from inside his shirt. The key to my chastity device dangled from the bottom, along with something else. It was a gold ring. Jake's wedding ring.
"Care to explain how my wedding band found its way into the heating duct in the parlor?" he demanded.
"I... I don't know," I lied. "It must have... fallen off the table..." I stammered.
"That's two," he said.
"Sir, I really don't know," I protested.
"That's three," he said. "I always knew you were a liar; this just proves it. So before you dig yourself in any deeper, let me explain. You may not be aware, but I have a surveillance system set up in my house. I can monitor anything you do in my house. When I discovered my ring was missing, I went to my office and I checked the recording. It took me a couple of hours to find the right spot on the tape. Although the image was very dark, I could see you stumbling into the parlor at 3 AM. I'd recognize your bald head and jughead ears anywhere, even in a darkened room."
"I couldn't tell what you had in your hand, but I could see you tossed something on the ground. I went back to the parlor and looked around on the floor. Then I looked into the floor vent. Imagine my surprise when I popped the cover and there was my ring!"
"Sir," I began.
"Shut it!" he said, slapping me in the face. "Haven't you lied enough already?"
"Once I found the ring, I asked you to clean the parlor, hoping you'd come clean about the whole sordid affair. I would have punished you, but you still could have escaped a severe beating. If only you had confessed, and begged for forgiveness. Instead, you chose to continue your charade. So, I called my boss, Tom, here, and he advised me to plan a 'punishment weekend' to set you straight; he even volunteered the use of his cabin out here in the woods. And I invited him to join us."
"Then I called Judge Ramsey, and he kindly agreed to loan me his horsewhip for the weekend, provided he was present to make sure it was used judiciously. And of course, I gratefully accepted."
I dropped to my knees and begged for leniency. "Sir, please, I'm really sorry I lied," I stammered. "I know you must --"
"Quiet!" Jake shouted. "You had DAYS to confess your crimes and ask for forgiveness. The time for that has passed. You chose to pile on lie after lie. You chose to steal my ring. You made your mother think I was careless about my wedding ring. You tried to break us apart. But I've got news for you, Dick: that's never going to happen. She worships me. And she knows now that you are a liar who would do anything, including thievery, to cause strife in our happy home. She watched the recording, Dick. She knows you are a thief and a liar."
He bent down towards me and said, "She told me this morning that she doesn't want to have anything to do with you. She signed paperwork this morning granting me full custody to you, and extending your service to ten years. And Judge Ramsey, here, issued the writ."
He stood up slowly, as his eyes pierced into me. "You're mine, bitch!"
Judge Ramsey and Mr. Christiansen each grabbed one of my ears and marched me out behind the house to a whipping post.
"This is for your own good, boy," Judge Ramsey said. "Don't fight it. Accept your fate. You must be punished for your transgressions."
"Let's get these shorts off you, boy," Mr. Christiansen said, and as they hauled me up to the post, he stripped off my briefs.
I was cuffed to the post, my arms stretched above my head.
"Bit warm out here," Jake said, as he pulled off his polo. His thick, muscular torso was revealed: his slab-like pecs, his washboard abs, his powerful arms, and his sculpted obliques confronted me. He was so handsome; if only he didn't hate me! He tossed his shirt to the side as Judge Ramsey handed him the whip.
Oh. My. God. I trembled as I got a look at that thing. Even coiled up, it looked nasty. Painful. I couldn't stop shaking. This wouldn't be like the belt or even the strop. This would hurt much, much more.
"Let me know when you're ready, boy," Jake said.
I would never be ready for that thing.
"Sir, please, I'm so sorry for my sin," I said. "Please, don't whip me."
"Your apology means nothing, Dick," he said. "Absolutely nothing. You waited until you were caught in a web of lies before admitting your guilt. Now you will be punished severely. Let this serve as a lesson to you: I know all. I see all. You cannot keep secrets from me, Dick. Don't even try. In time, you will fully submit to me; but until you do, you will continue to be punished."
"Let me know when you're ready, Dick," he repeated.
Shit. He was going to make me say it. He was actually going to make me say the words. And if I didn't say them, he would just become more angry. And the punishment would be even worse. I made up my mind.
"I'm ready, Sir," I lied.
"Ready for what, boy?"
"Ready for the lash, Sir."
"Then let's get started," he said with a cruel smile.
It hurt. It hurt more than anything in my life. I can't describe the pain properly in words. There are no words for it. Where the lashes landed I felt like I was on fire. As I bucked and screamed, my stepmaster lectured me on obedience and discipline. He explained to me that horsewhipping is reserved for thieves; by stealing his ring and hiding it, I was only causing myself pain in the long run. He spouted Bible passages to me, but I was so frenzied that I couldn't tell you what they were. I was wracked with pain at every lash.
While Jake whipped me, Judge Ramsey encouraged him to lash me harder, but Jake needed no encouragement. Jake was furious after I had lied to him for four days, and he took every bit of that out on me. He quickly worked up a sweat, and his big muscles soon obtained a sheen of perspiration.
I don't know how long my whipping lasted. It seemed like hours, but it may have been far less than that. I don't remember parts. I may have blacked out for some of it. I do remember Mr. Christiansen uncuffing me at the end, as I crumpled to the ground.
"He's broken, Jake," Judge Ramsey said. "You did it. You broke the bitch."
"Nah, he's not broken, yet," Mr. Christiansen said. "There's one thing left. You know you gotta do it, Jake. Gotta finish the job. Prove to your bitch once and for all who the Man is. You've gotta mount him."
As I lay there, quivering in a ball, I felt my stepfather behind me. He took me by my shoulders and pushed my chest flat up against the ground, straightening my body. He pushed my legs up underneath me, and then I felt his big, muscular hands on my butt, as I felt his body on top of mine. As I felt his big dong rubbing up against my ass.
His fucktool pushed hard into my asshole. At first, his big dong wouldn't go in, but he lubed my ass with his precum for a long time, rubbing his giant prick up and down my boyhole. He gradually worked his fuckstick into me, pushing deeper and deeper into my virgin hole.
"Fuck that pussy," Tom said. "Push your cock all the way in, Jake!"
Jake pushed himself in further, as I moaned underneath him.
"All the way, Jake!" Tom said. "You gotta go all the way! Bone that bitch! Bone her hard!"
Jake pushed himself further and further into me, until he was all the way in. I felt split in half. But the pain was so severe that I was unable to move; my moans were the only thing I could manage. I could barely breathe.
"That's it, Jake," Tom said. "Now teach that faggot a fuckin' lesson the bitch will never forget!"
Jake began fucking me, his turgid male organ starting to piston in and out of my virginal ass.
"You could have just served me faithfully, bitch," he grunted. "Instead, you constantly disobeyed me. You sinned against God. You sinned against your family. You're an ungrateful little cunt! You brought this on yourself!"
Judge Ramsey and Mr. Christiansen watched as Jake brutally pounded into me, in and out.
"Make that slut squirm, Jake," Judge Ramsey said. "Only way the bitch'll learn."
"Use that faggot whore," Mr. Christiansen said. "Teach him who is the Master. Teach him who's the bitch!"
Over and over, Jake slammed his dick inside of me, withdrawing only to repeat the process. In and out, over and over, the weight of his muscular body pushing me down to the ground. As he slammed into me, fucking me hard, he grunted, calling me a slew of names: whore, pansy, faggot, slut, sissy, cumdump, cocksucker, cumdrinker, spooge swallower, dicklicker, homo, queer, fruit, nancy-boy, fairy, shirt-lifter, bitch, cunt, and others I can't remember.
At some point, something inside my psyche broke. A part of me died during that fucking. Part of my willpower vanished. I slowly came to realize that my Stepmaster would do as he wanted with me. I had no choice in the matter. He would always get his way in the end, whether I protested or not. And I finally accepted it. I accepted the fact that I was a submissive faggot whore. I accepted the knowledge that I should be used by Free Men. I accepted the fact that this was my life. I accepted the fact that this was what was best for me.
It wasn't too long after that when Jake's body began to shake and buck as his giant dong began to spew its big load of cum deep into my buttfucked bowels. I felt my Stepmaster's man juice fire deep inside my plundered ass.
As he pulled his cock out of my ass, Jake snarled, "What do you say, bitch?"
"Thank you, Sir," I said. And I meant it.
Then Mr. Christiansen took my Stepmaster's place on top of me.
"Show me a good time, faggot," he said, as he sunk his bone into my now non-virginal ass.
Over the rest of the weekend, my Stepfather, Mr. Christiansen, and Judge Ramsey had their way with me many more times. They fucked me, they used my mouth, and they had me give them handjobs when they tired of fucking my face and ass. By the end of the weekend, I coudn't walk straight and my jaw ached. I had been used in every room of the cabin, as well as the back yard, the front yard, on the hood of the Jeep, and off in the forest. I had been fucked doggy style, missionary style, and piledriver position. At no time was my Glass Slipper removed.
It sounds crazy, and I know some of you readers will think this is fucked up, but I had come to enjoy being used. I liked being their faggot whore. I felt fulfilled when they were using me. I realized that my purpose in life as a faggot indentured servant was to service Free Men. And their duty was to use me for the bitch I am.
On Sunday evening, my Stepmaster and I packed his bags and headed back to his house. It was hard to even sit down.
That very night, Ofjoseph came for me.
He knocked softly but urgently on the little basement window above my cot, and I disobediently snuck out to see what the commotion was.
"I've been trying to get ahold of you for days!" he whispered. "Where were you?!"
"Fishing trip," I said. "But you can't be here. There are cameras everywhere."
Ofjoseph looked alarmed. "We leave at exactly midnight, Richard. A car will pull up to my driveway. It will only be there for a minute. Don't be late."
With that, he was off, and I went back inside. I was scared. Things were happening too fast. I wasn't even sure I wanted to go anymore. I had just discovered my purpose in life. I had just discovered I didn't need to be free in order to be happy. I could be happy while serving my betters. My Masters.
But as I looked down at my bruised and battered body, I wondered if that was really true. Could I be happy while covered in bruises and lash-marks? Could I truly be content to live in a home where I was constantly beaten? True, the beatings were mostly justified; I knew I deserved them for being disobedient. But wouldn't I be happier being a Free Man again? Not that I deserved happiness...
I was torn as I sat on my cot, thinking about the choice before me.
It wasn't until 11:30 that I actually made up my mind. There was nothing to do but wait. I didn't have anything to pack, since I owned nothing. Even my toothbrush wasn't really mine; it was just available for me to use. At 11:55, I snuck upstairs, and padded quietly down the hallway and through the kitchen. I wondered briefly if my Stepmaster was monitoring me, even now, and the thought terrified me. But I remembered that he'd said he watched the video from his office, and he was still (hopefully) upstairs asleep in bed.
I crept out the back door, saying a quick prayer to God to help me. I wasn't sure if I believed in God anymore, but it couldn't hurt, I reasoned. Then I quietly snuck around the back side of the house. It was pitch black out; not even the streetlight was on. The stars shone brightly above me. I could see Orion. As I walked towards the curb, I saw a black van pull up to the fenceline between my stepfather's property and the Van Camps' land.
Then I spotted Ofjoseph. He had been sitting up against the fence, but was now rising. I saw his dark, bulky silhouette as he walked up to the vehicle. A door on the side slid silently open, and he got in.
I was frightened, now, as I realized this was my one chance to regain my freedom. It dawned on me that if this didn't go well, I probably would never get another chance. It was now or never.
I ran for the van, just as it was starting to pull away. Luckily, they saw me, and Ofjoseph made them stop the van. The door slid open silently, and I jumped inside. I was terrified.
There were two women inside the van. I hadn't expected that. (I won't reveal more than that about them, for privacy reasons). The one in the back seat ran a scanner over my body, as Ofjoseph took my hand in his. Even in the dark, he looked as scared as I felt. What was that beeping sound?
"He's chipped," the scanner woman said.
Chipped? What did that mean?
"Have you had any surgery since you were enslaved?"
"I... no..." I said, confusedly.
The woman ran her scanner over my iron collar, but it didn't beep.
"Check his shorts," the woman in the front said. The scanner woman ran her scanner over my briefs, and it beeped again.
"Get 'em off," the woman said.
Ofjoseph helped me quickly pull down my undershorts, and she checked them. But then she saw my Glass Slipper, and when she ran the scanner over it, it beeped.
"The chip's in his chastity device," she said, frowning. "We may have to let this one go."
"No!" Ofjoseph said. "If you abandon him now, he's as good as dead. There are cameras at his house. Even if he were to find his way back, he would be discovered. You can't ditch him now."
"Well, then, we've got to get this thing off of him," the woman said.
As we drove north, they tried bobby pins, safety pins, and a lock pick set, to no avail. The lock on the Glass Slipper was pretty solid. Finally, they decided to break the chain with a pair of metal cutters. This part made me extremely nervous. The bolt cutters had to be squeezed in, right up against my scrotum, and I feared one wrong move, or a slight bump in the road, would neuter me.
At last, Ofjoseph broke the chain with the bolt cutters, and I gratefully slid the glass tube off my compressed penis. Ofjoseph grabbed the infernal device and hurled it out of the window just as we entered the Windsor city limits, a little ways north of Madison.
The woman in the front seat passed a plastic bag to her friend in the back, and the second woman opened it and handed us some clothes, which we put on. The turtleneck shirt Ofjoseph was given was tiny on him; it hardly contained his bulky torso; the jeans didn't fit at all. His thighs were too big.
As I pulled the other turtleneck over my head, I noticed that it, too, was unusually tight.
"You guys are really big," the woman observed.
"We were bulked up," Ofjoseph said, adjusting my turtleneck collar so that my iron collar was hidden by the collar of the shirt.
The jeans and shoes fit me okay; the last item in the bag was a baseball cap, which would hide my bald head. It felt weird to be fully dressed, and in the actual passenger seat of a vehicle, instead of the trunk. I almost felt like a human being again.
A few hours later, we passed through Duluth, and then three hours later, we hit the U.S.-Canada border. At the border crossing, the officer on duty didn't even check our papers. The woman in the front seat said something to him, and he waved us on.
And then we were free.
We stopped for the night in a little hamlet called Neebing. The following day, we drove to Thunder Bay, where our servitude collars were at last removed. Then and only then did we feel truly free.
Ofjoseph, whose real name was Aaron, and I started our lives anew in Canada. Many people helped us. Some worked for the Underground Railroad; others were just friendly Canadians who had heard about our plight. Slavery and indentured servitude were banned in Canada, but that didn't mean we were completely safe. New identities were constructed for us, and we built new lives north of the border. We settled in Thunder Bay and eventually became Canadian citizens. We spent years in therapy.
Almost a year after my ordeal, I began writing a book. At first, it was just a few chapters. But eventually, it became a long, drawn-out story. I started with the story of the death of my father, and my family's extreme poverty, and how a company advertizing "debt relief" changed my life forever. It is the story you have been reading.
A few people read my story, and encouraged me to publish it. They told me I had writing talent, and that it was a story worth being told. I was surprised to quickly find a major book publisher who was interested in the story, and soon "I Was A Teenage Slave: The Shackling of Richard Johnson" showed up on the CBC and "Globe and Mail" bestsellers lists. (I wanted to use the title "Cinderfella", but the editors told me that title sounded too much like a Medieval fairy tale).
The book was well-received by critics, although I was accused by some of exaggerating details. One critic even accused me of fabricating the beatings in order to generate bigger sales ("No one could handle 100 strokes from a razor strop!" he wrote). I was initially horrified by these types of comments, but on further reflection, I had to admit that parts of my story did seem over the top. Could I honestly blame people for not believing my story when I could hardly believe it had happened myself? And I was there!
The fallout from the book was much, much bigger than I had anticipated, and eventually resulted in scrutiny of Contract Labor practices in the United States, both internationally and within the U.S.. Several television and netfeed exposes followed, revealing the abuses of the system -- like dishonest recruiters, lax regulation, and conflicts of interest-- to a wider audience. I'm proud to say that my book helped restart an anti-slavery movement that had stalled for a long time in the States. It helped bring Contract Labor into the forefront of political discussion once more.
Five years after I left the States, Wisconsin outlawed Contract Labor and Indenturement Dowries. The bill that killed Slavery there, I'm both embarrassed and pleased to say, was called Richard's Law. The evil companies that had profited from contract labor withered away. And the slave lobbyists lost their lucrative careers.
It was ten years before I ventured back into the United States. Aaron and I drove down from our house in Thunder Bay one day, almost on a whim. I think we were both pretty nervous when we drove into Connaway Park, where we had served. Aaron drove up to 211 Pine Street and parked. There were butterflies in my stomach.
"You sure you want to do this?" he asked me, not for the first time.
I nodded. I felt like I had to do it.
I got out of the car and walked up to the front door. I noticed the house badly needed painting. The yard was unkempt. There was a 'For Sale' sign in the yard. I wondered what had happened to the Rockwells.
I rang the doorbell. A short while later, an older woman answered it. It took me a moment to recognize her. Her face had aged, but she had the same eyes.
"Dick...?" she asked. "Is that really you?"
She went to hug me, but I pulled away from her.
"Don't touch me," I said to her. "You're not my mother anymore. You turned your back on me when I needed you the most. You abandoned me, and left me in the care of a madman. I'm not here to see you. I'm here to see Jake Head."
I saw tears in her eyes, but I didn't care. I stood there waiting, until she nodded her head and then made a motion for me to come inside.
Inside, I was taken back. Everything looked the same, but worn, now: the staircase that led up to the grandfather clock in the upper hallway, the parquet floors that I had scrubbed with my toothbrush, the hateful doorknob on the door of the coat closet. THAT doorknob!
Just then, an old man rolled into the foyer in a wheelchair. It was Jake. But he was OLD! And no longer handsome. He had rheumy eyes.
"Dick...?" he asked. "Son?"
"Don't call me that," I snapped. "I was NEVER your son. And my name was never Dick. My. Name. Is. Richard!"
I turned away from this man and stepped into the parlor. I took my picture down off the mantle and stuffed it in my jacket; then I went back into the foyer to confront them.
"You don't get to have a picture of me on your mantle," I said to them. "We aren't family, as you made abundantly clear years ago."
"D... Richard, I'm really sorry you're upset," Jake began. "I'm... I'm sorry we hurt you."
"It's too late for 'Sorry', Jake," I said. "You had years to ask for forgiveness. You spanked me, you belted me, you whipped me. You shocked me with electrodes and made me put dogshit in my mouth. You used me and treated me like dirt beneath your heel. You kicked me in the groin until I passed out from the pain. You let your sons, your friends, and your boss do even worse things to me. And you made me feel like I deserved all of it."
"You aren't a Christian, Jake, even though you call yourself one. Jesus said "Whatever you want men to do to you, do also to them." You forgot about the Golden Rule. And I'm quite certain that if there is a God, you will burn in Hell."
I turned around and walked away. I walked out the door and never looked back. I felt really good as I walked back to the car and got in. I took the knife out of my pocket and set it down next to Aaron.
"You didn't use it," he said, sounding unsurprised.
"I didn't need to. Their lives are already miserable."
Aaron started the car and we drove away.
And we lived Happily Ever After.
THE END
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For those of you who wanted Richard to have a traditional fairy tale happy ending, the above is for you. However, for those of you who requested a different type of ending, you may continue to read the story, which will continue with Chapter 21. Do not read further if you want a 'happy ending' storyline for Richard. Thanks for reading!