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. 6
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, and I hated living in his house. But the situation became much worse when his sons came for a visit.
As I stood up, trying to subtlely adjust my dick in my drawers while pulling up the back of my undershorts, I heard Christopher say, "Looks like Dick liked that paddling, Dad. Look, he actually sprung a boner! Disgusting!"
"Dick, that's nasty," Jake said. "Adjust yourself, boy. No one wants to see that. Honestly!"
I pushed my penis over so that it wasn't so blatantly obvious that I had a hard-on in my undershorts. Then I looked for my tank top; it took me a minute to find it, as it had fallen off the arm of the sofa and had been partially hidden underneath the couch. The seconds that it took me to find it seemed like hours. I quickly pulled it down over my head, finally covering my undershorts and boner.
"He always used to pop boners in high school, too, when he was in the shower with guys," Daniel said. "We all knew he was a faggot. That's when we started calling him Icky Ricky. He's a total pervert, Dad."
"Dick, is this true?" Jake asked.
"I'm NOT a pervert," I answered, angrily. My face was flushed, partially from embarassment and partially because I was so incredibly angry.
I stormed out of the room, furious at Daniel's mockery and even more furious at my so-called stepfather, who had no right to be questioning my sexuality, no right to judge me, and no right to discipline me in the first damn place. I ran downstairs and crawled under the covers of my cot, livid about this whole horrific situation. I couldn't believe how these assholes were treating me. I couldn't believe how degraded and humiliated I felt every day. The fact that this all happened on Christmas Eve made it even worse.
I couldn't imagine a worse holiday than the one I had just had. But it was about to get much worse.
I woke up early the next morning, grabbed my Wednesday clothes, and dressed and groomed myself in the cold greenhouse. I was still angry about last night's debacle, but a night of sleep had helped a little.
I began my morning chores: bringing in the newspaper, taking out last night's trash, folding the dinner linens and putting them in the closet, shoveling the fresh snow off the porch, turning on the heating pad for the driveway so the fresh snow would melt, bringing in more firewood, winding the antique grandfather clock in the upstairs hallway, and then making breakfast.
While I was grating the cheese for the omelets, Mom and Jake came downstairs and then into the kitchen.
"Dick, we need to talk," my stepfather said, solemnly.
"Sir," I said as respectfully as possible, "there's nothing to talk about. I'm not going to apologize for who I am."
Jake walked over to me and turned me toward him. He put his left hand on my shoulder, his right hand tipping my chin back so I was looking him in the eyes.
"Dick," he said, concern etching his face, "We're worried about you. You've been sullen and upset for days. And now Daniel tells us that you're a homosexual. Dick, what's going on with you?"
"Sir," I said, trying to remain respectful while still defending myself, "I've been sullen and upset because I haven't been treated well this week. I've had water sprayed up my nose. I've been forced to dress like a freak. All of my rights have been taken away. I've been slapped... cuffed in the back of my head... called names..."
I trailed off, unable to talk any more. Tears trickled down my cheeks.
"Dick," my stepfather said, "I'm sorry you've got yourself so wound up over this. But what you're describing just comes with the territory, boy. You willingly signed a contract to become an indentured servant. You knew you'd have to serve."
"I didn't know it would be seven years! I didn't know I'd be treated like dirt!"
"Dick," Jake said reproachfully, "You've got a roof over your head, a warm bed to sleep in, plenty of food, and a family who cares about you. I wouldn't call that 'being treated like dirt'. Plenty of people would do anything for that type of security. And all that's asked of you in return is obedience."
"We love you, son," Mom added.
"But your sons treat me like scum," I sobbed.
"Dick, you've just got to develop a thicker skin," Jake said. "Remember: sticks and stones may break your bones, but words will never hurt you."
"But you slap me, and spank me! It hurts! And it's degrading," I insisted.
"Dick, a little discipline never hurt anyone," my stepfather said. "Corporal punishment is effective and does no real damage."
"But Dick, we've got to talk about the real issue, here," he continued. "Daniel says the reason the boys call you Icky Ricky is because you were peeping on them in the showers at school. He says you like to look at other boys. He says you're a pervert. Is this true, Dick? Are you a homo?"
"Sir, I already told you: I'm not a pervert. And my sexual orientation is my business, and no one else's."
"Dick, if you were looking at other boys, and they didn't like it, it's no wonder they don't like you," Jake said.
"Sir, I didn't look at anyone!" I exclaimed. "I never looked at them."
"That's not the story Daniel tells," Jake said. "He says he heard stories that you were doing all sorts of perverted things in school. He says you were touching yourself in the shower. Dick, do you touch yourself, thinking of other boys, or men?"
"Sir, I never touched myself in the shower at school," I said, embarrassed to be having this conversation in front of my mother. Embarrassed to be having this conversation at all.
"But did you ever touch yourself while thinking of other males, Dick?" Jake pressed.
"Sir, that's my business and no one else's," I answered.
"No, Dick," Jake said, shaking his head sadly. "It's our business because we care about you. The Bible tells us that homosexuality is wrong: in Corinthians, Leviticus, Timothy, Romans, Jude, Mark, Genesis, Hebrews, Judges, Kings, and so many of the other books of the Bible. From Corinthians: 'Do not be deceived: the sexually immoral, thieves, drunkards, and men who practice homosexuality, shall not inherit the kingdom of God'."
"When you touch yourself, Dick, you are ignoring the will of the Lord," Jake lectured. "Your risk your immortal soul. Satan is quietly ensnaring you in his trap. You must repent your sins, boy. Promise me you won't touch yourself any more, Dick."
"Sir, please, I --"
"Promise, Dick," Jake pushed. "Promise me that you'll keep your hands off your penis. At least do it out of respect for your mother."
When he put it like that, in front of my mother, what else could I say?
"Okay," I muttered.
"Okay, what?" Jake pushed.
"Okay, I won't... touch my penis," I stammered, completely humiliated to have to say these words in front of my mother.
"Alright, Dick," my stepfather said. "I'm going to hold you to your word. No more touching yourself. You've made a promise to both me and your mother. It's your covenant. I expect you to live up to your word, as the Lord commands. And I'm going to be checking your shorts and your bedsheets on a regular basis. Understood?"
"Yes, sir," I said, reluctantly.
"No touching yourself in the shower. If I see any sign of semen on your shorts, on your bedsheets, or anywhere else, there will be severe consequences. Understood?"
"Yes, Sir," I murmured, wanting to scream.
"We're only doing this because we care about you, Dick," my stepfather reminded me. "I'm going to highlight some Bible passages tonight, and I want you to read them, so you understand the importance of your promise to us."
After breakfast, Mr. Guernsey, the Overseer, arrived. My family left shortly afterward to go to church. My stepfather gave Mr. Guernsey a big long list of chores I was supposed to do while they were gone; the Overseer promised Jake that everything would be done by the time they returned.
Then Mr. Guernsey turned to me and said, "Well, boy, you'd better get started. Time's a-wastin'."
As my family pulled out of the driveway to go to Christmas Church, I began work once more. We mostly worked in the garage, where I scrubbed the motor oil stains on the cement floor, hosed out the two trash cans, hung all the tools up on the pegboard, reorganized the shelves, and put a fresh coat of paint on the walls. Mr. Guernsey cuffed me in the back of the head any time I paused or made a mistake. I quickly learned not to pause or make a mistake.
After the garage was in good shape, Mr. Guernsey had me begin making Christmas dinner. I hated Mr. Guernsey almost as much as I hated my stepfather -- he was a cold, mean man -- but at least I didn't have to listen to lectures from him.
After church services, my family came home. I heard the car doors slam as I cleaned the kitchen table. As the four of them came in through the garage, Jake surprised me, saying, "I'm really impressed on how nice the garage looks! The oil stains are all finally cleaned up, and all the tools are neatly put away. That paint job looks terrific. It looks really nice. Great job, Guernsey!"
The overseer said, "Well, I do my best, Sir."
"You must have really gotten Dick moving, for you to have accomplished that much," Jake said. "I don't know how you do it. Every time I ask Dick to do something, he goes as slowly as possible. What's your secret, Guernsey?"
"Just a firm hand, sir," Mr. Guernsey said.
"Well, as always, I'm impressed."
"Mr. Guernsey," Mom asked, "Won't you stay for Christmas dinner? There's plenty of food here."
"That's mighty Christian of you, Mrs. Head. Don't mind if I do."
And so I served Christmas dinner to the Head family and Mr. Guernsey, only managing to rack up ten demerits that afternoon, for various ineptitudes.
To be continued...