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.
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Cinderfella, pt. 3
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, then my hair was removed and I was shipped out to my stepfather's luxury home. Days spent laboring under my new overseer had convinced me that servant life was intolerable, but my stepfather didn't see it that way. After lecturing me on keeping my word, he had slapped me quite hard.
"I'm truly sorry to have slapped you, Dick, but you left me with no option," my stepfather said, his voice taking a hard yet fatherly tone. "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 about 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, for better or worse, 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. As they walked to the kitchen, my mind was screaming "SEVEN FUCKING YEARS?! I didn't sign up for that! No fucking way!!!"
"Jake, honey, did you really have to slap him so hard?" I heard my mom say, in the next room. She sounded concerned.
"Well, Marsha, he's got to learn sometime," Mr. Head said. "He's supposed to be a grown man, and here he is, trying to get out of a legally binding contract. I'm just really disappointed in him, more than anything else. I know you raised him to keep his word."
"He's just getting used to his new life," Mom said. "It must be so hard for him."
"Hard or not," he said, "He's going to have to quickly learn that he's no longer in charge. He gave up his rights as a Free Man. The sooner he learns that lesson, the better."
"I feel so guilty," Mom whispered. "I helped cause this situation. If only..."
"Marsha, don't feel that way," he replied. "You can't second-guess yourself. Hindsight is always 20/20. You did your best for him. That's all you could have done. He's undertaken a burden. Now let him do what he set out to do. It will help him grow into a better man, I promise you."
I walked into the kitchen, observing my stepfather and mother, their arms wrapped around one another as they turned to look at me. My stepfather walked over to me and put both of his large hands on my shoulders. With his strong hands, he grasped my shoulders tightly. He bent his head down to look into my eyes.
"I know we've gotten off to a rocky start, Dick, but I promise you, things will get easier," he said. "You'll adjust. You just have to learn to accept your new role in the family. The role God chose for you. You'll see."
"Sir, please..." I began. "I didn't know I was signing up for a seven-year contract. The guy at DCI told me --"
"Seven-year contracts are just standard practice, Dick," he interrupted. "Indentured servitude has always been a seven year contract. Ask anyone. The only time it's less is when there are two indenturees. Now, let's have no more arguing, okay? I'm hungry, I bet your mom is, too, and it's time for breakfast."
He walked over to the kitchen table and sat down next to Mom, wrapping his arm around her again. They looked at each other as he rubbed her back gently. I hated this man already.
"Bacon and eggs, boy," my stepfather ordered. "Bread lightly toasted. And orange juice."
HATE!
"Apple juice for me, please, honey," Mom said.
I stood there stupidly for a minute, marvelling at the craziness my life had become, before walking over slowly to the fridge. There were a thousand thoughts swimming in my head as I dumbly began preparing their breakfast. I was so angry, and so confused. I didn't know what to do. I felt lost. Then I just started... going through the motions.
My stepfather had one of those two-door refrigerators; the kind you see in designer magazines and in movies. The kind I had sometimes seen in upscale houses belonging to some of my friends. We had never had that, even when my father was alive. We always had one of those old-fashioned retro-style fridges that honestly weren't so much retro as they were ancient.
Everything in this man's kitchen was state-of-the-art, stainless steel, and super efficient, from the stove with the built-in griddle to the upscale three-basin kitchen sink. I donned an apron before pulling food out of the upscale, hoity-toity fridge. I chopped vegetables for the scrambled eggs at the la-di-da fine-grained granite-topped kitchen island as I listened to them reminisce about their honeymoon. I put bread in the snobby eight-slot uber-toaster as I listened to them giggle about skinnydipping at the beach at night.
It was obvious that Mom was infatuated with this man, and that he was quickly starting to influence her. I realized I'd have to get her alone, without him standing there arguing with me, in order to talk her out of this whole batshit insane idea.
I started planning, chopping loudly as I diced vegetables, wishing the vegetables were my stepfather's stupid head. Behind me, the toast started burning, and I had to make a fresh batch (I knew better than to serve my stepfather slightly burnt toast; he'd probably make me read a Bible verse about how burning toast was sinful).
When the meal was ready, I served them both on the fine breakfast china, as I had been trained to do by Mr. Guernsey, the Overseer. I served them with a smile, as I had been trained to do by Guernsey. But I was just biding my time, waiting to get Mom alone so we could talk and then get the Hell out of there.
They ate their food as they talked about the beach, while I ate some scraps at the kitchen counter, as I had been trained to do. Mr. Guernsey had been quite insistent that a servant was never to sit down in front of Free Men. A servant knew his place. A servant showed Free Men respect. All that garbage.
I did the washing-up as my mother and stepfather giggled and flirted with one another as they ate the breakfast that I had served them. When they were done, my stepfather rose from the table and walked over to the kitchen sink. He bent down and opened the cupboard, pulling out the garbage pail.
He took out the pieces of burnt toast and then looked at me with a disappointed look in his eyes.
"I thought I smelled burnt toast," he said, shaking his head. "Dick, this is entirely unacceptable. You're going to have to pay more attention when you cook breakfast. I can't afford to throw out food. The Lord commands that we do not waste what we were given to eat. John 6:12 says, 'And when the disciples had eaten their fill, Jesus said unto them, "Gather up the leftover fragments, that nothing may be lost"'.
"I'm sorry Sir,"I said, hoping to sound genuine. But inside, I was seething. This man had the audacity to make me serve him breakfast, and then complain about a few burnt pieces of toast?! My little mistake hadn't cost him hardly anything, he lives in a frikkin' multi-million dollar home, and he brings up the cost of burnt toast?! Urgh!!!
"I'm issuing you two demerits for your bone-headed blunder, Dick," he said. "I understand that mistakes will happen. We're all human. But you need to pay closer attention to what you're doing. Do you understand?" He grasped me by my shoulder and squeezed it firmly.
How I yearned to knock his hand off of me and tell him where he could stick his sinful burnt toast! Instead, I merely nodded my head and meekly replied, "Yes, Sir. I'm sorry. It won't happen again, Sir."
"I hope not, Dick," he lectured. "Those demerits add up fast." He yammered on for a while about the evils of wasted food, how starving children in poor countries could have eaten that bread, and how important it was that I always paid attention to what I was doing, no matter what. He gently scolded me for being a "dunderhead" and reminded me that the cost of whatever food I wasted would be coming out of what I already owed him.
I couldn't wait to talk with Mom alone!
The rest of the day went about the same. It quickly became clear that there was no pleasing this man. Everything I did elicited some sort of admonishment or lecture, as he patiently and laboriously explained to me what I had done wrong: lunch was served on the wrong china, the dessert pie was overly tart, and I apparently wasn't moving fast enough when I took out the trash, causing too much cold air into the house when I had opened the door to the garage. Each of these things earned me two demerits. I gritted my teeth as I listened to him explain to me that these foolish mistakes couldn't be repeated.
"Sir, I'm sorry," I said each time, trying to sound genuine. But by the end of the day, I was frustrated and worn out. I almost missed Mr. Guernsey's cuffs to the back of my head. Anything was better than listening to my new stepfather's constant lectures, criticism over the smallest problems, and continuous Bible-thumping.
Finally, after dinner, Jake had adjudged it time for the family to get ready for bed. He and Mom went upstairs to get into their pajamas while I cleaned up the dinner mess. I hadn't yet had a chance to speak with Mom privately, but I was pretty confident that I could get her alone sometime before bed, and talk with her about this awful situation. I knew if I could just talk with her alone, that we'd talk and she'd realize we needed to leave as soon as possible, contract or no contract.
Then my stepfather came down the staircase, wearing a pair of blue boxers. He was shirtless, and my jaw dropped as I saw him barechested for the first time. It was hard not to ogle him. He was built like a Greek god, with powerful shoulders, huge, muscular arms, and thick, rounded pecs. His washboard abs looked like they were sculpted from stone. His thighs, only partially covered by the blue boxers, were thick and muscular. They looked like they could crack walnuts.
I nearly dropped the mug that I had been putting away when I saw my hunky, hateful stepfather amble into the kitchen. Luckily, I managed to not drop the cup.
"Alright, Dick," he said. "By my count, you've received eight demerits today. Go get the paddle so we can start working those off."
To be continued...