The following story is an erotic fantasy tale 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 Donna, Em, Dean, Roberto, Mike, Neal, Mat, and Vision. Again, special thanks to Alan for all his suggestions.
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 17
Hi. I'm Dick, and I'm a cocksucking drudge. It hasn't been easy, coming to terms with who I am, but I'm slowly making progress.
See, a few months back, I had signed indenturement forms, signing away my life for the next seven years in exchange for debt relief from the bills my mother and I had accrued. I was to become an Indentured Servant, and my mom married my Master, Mr. Jake Head. I soon learned he was a hard man, difficult -- almost impossible -- to please.
It was hard, at first, learning how to become a good servant. One who obeys unquestioningly, and follows the will of the Lord. But I've slowly come to accept my fate, for the most part. Sometimes, that rebellious streak in me still shows itself, and when it does, I am punished.
After weeks of pain and humiliation, I had slowly fallen into a daily routine: wake up before dawn, then begin my morning chores: bring in the newspaper, take out last night's trash, fold the dinner linens and put them in the closet, shovel the fresh snow off the porch and sidewalk, turn on the heating pad for the driveway, bring in more firewood, wind the antique grandfather clock in the upstairs hallway, polish my Stepmaster's shoes, do a 1-hour morning workout in the weight room, and then make breakfast. After my stepfather and mother had eaten breakfast, my stepfather and I headed to the greenhouse at the rear of the mansion and I was allowed to ask my stepfather to let me out of my 'Glass Slipper', the chastity device that kept me 'honest'.
"Oh, alright, Dick," my Step-master would say, reluctance in his voice as he took the gold chain with the key off from around his thick, muscular neck. Then he'd pull down my undershorts and then reach down and unlock the little gold padlock, releasing my penis from its glass cage.
Then, he'd watch as I hosed myself off on the cold cement floor of the greenhouse, making sure that when I washed my genitals, I wasn't playing with myself. Then, when I was through with my "shower", he would hand me a tube of lubricant so I could stuff myself back into the tight "Glass Slipper'.
At first, it had been difficult getting my prick into the chastity device. But, over weeks, I had learned how to be efficient. It took me much less time, now, since I now just jammed it in as quickly as possible.
Then, my Step-master would admonish me for taking so long as he locked my penis into the device once more, and I'd apologize for wasting his time.
"Dick," he'd say, "we've talked about this, haven't we? The Bible tells us not to waste time: 'Look carefully how you walk, making the best use of time, because the days are evil'."
I'd apologize for my dunderheadedness, and then he'd sigh.
"Alright, boy. I'm going to take a shower while you finish up."
Then he'd head upstairs to shower, and I would then shave, since my Step-master expected me to keep my head bald and my face and body cleanshaven. When I was done, I'd go get dressed in clean white undershorts and a thin white tank top, then kneel by the front door, assuming position #50. I'd hold his briefcase until he came downstairs in his business suit. He always looked crisp and well-dressed, from his short-cropped, wavy golden hair tinged with just a bit of gray at his temples, down to his spit-polished Imperial brand shoes.
"Here, let me take that," he'd say, reaching out to take his briefcase. I'd hand it to him with a 'thank you', and he would then hand me the list of chores for the day, admonishing me to make sure to get everything done before he got home, or I'd earn myself demerits. Jake was a perfectionist, and if I made any mistakes, I knew I'd hear about it later. And then receive punishment that night.
Then, he'd pat me on the shoulder or rub my bald head, and then tell me to "be a good boy" as he headed out the door for work. I saw little of my mother during the day, since I had plenty of chores to keep me busy, and my mother now avoided me. I'm sure she felt guilty about the changes in my life, but she had adamantly refused to involve herself in my affairs after the family therapist, Mr. Davidson, had advised her not to get involved. If I came in to clean a room that she happened to occupy, she'd leave me to clean it. Often, during the day, she would go play Bridge or Pinochle with the ladies at the country club.
After my stepfather left for work in the morning, I would eat the breakfast scraps (whatever was left on the breakfast plates) and then start cleaning the house. The mansion we lived in was large, and I knew my Step-master would check my work when he got home. There would be Hell to pay if the plants weren't watered, the pool was dirty, the carpets weren't vacuumed, or the furniturewas dusty.
The only days this routine varied were Saturday and Sunday. On Saturdays, my Stepfather and mother would sleep in; on Sundays, before dawn broke, I would sneak out of the house with an empty measuring cup, and sneakily go next door to meet my only friend, Ofjoseph.
Sunday mornings were wonderful. Every Sunday morning, Ofjoseph was always in the garage, lifting weights. He was heavily muscled, with a rock-hard body built by years of training. Like me, Ofjoseph was a contact laborer, sworn to serve his Masters. In Ofjoseph's case, this was a man named Joseph Van Camp and his wife, Greta Van Camp. As Ofjoseph and I got to know each other better, he had shared with me some details about his life.
Master Van Camp, Ofjoseph told me, was cruel; a hateful old man who thrashed Ofjoseph for the slightest offence. Mrs. Van Camp, the lady of the house, used Ofjoseph as her sex toy. She liked her servants well built and heavily muscled, and Ofjoseph was expected to pleasure her in the bedroom. This only made the impotent Mr. Van Camp more jealous, since he could no longer fuck his own wife, and he often took his anger out on Ofjoseph, whipping his servant for any perceived mistake. Ofjoseph's back was covered in scars; seeing them, I didn't doubt that Master Van Camp wasn't every bit as cruel as Ofjoseph said he was.
Slowly, over the weeks, I confided with Ofjoseph about my own crappy home life. At first, I didn't say much, but eventually, it all spilled out. I had to talk to someone.
I told Ofjoseph about the Indenturement Dowry that had changed my life: the seven-year contract that I was expected to fulfill, the paddlings, beltings, and strappings I was forced to endure, and the horrible times that my awful step-brothers would come down from Milwaukee and treat me like shit. I told him about having to service my step-brothers and their horrible friends. I told him about how strict my stepfather was. I even told him about my humiliating Glass Slipper.
Ofjoseph was sympathetic; he was a good listener. He gave me advice, and he calmed me when I fell into despair. There wasn't much he could do to help me, but just having one person who would listen to my complaints made things a little bit more bearable. I'd like to think I helped Ofjoseph, too.
At times, though, I felt Ofjoseph getting impatient with my complaints about my servitude. He had this unspoken attitude, sometimes, that although I had it a 'little rough', it was nowhere near as bad as his life. And maybe he was right: no one ever whipped me. But didn't I deserve to talk about my own problems, too?
At the end of each of my Sunday morning visits, I would kneel down in front of Ofjoseph and pleasure his lovestick. He enjoyed the attention, and he always complimented me; he never treated me like a 'faggot slut' the way my step-brothers did when they used my mouth. He always told me what a good job I did, and stroked my bald head or my face softly as I sucked his big cock.
Then, when we were through, I would creep back to my Step-master's house, with a cup of sugar in my hand. It was my alibi in case I was caught walking back from the neighbors' house. Luckily, everyone slept in late on Sunday.
One day, in mid-February, Jake walked over to where I was kneeling by the front door. "Dick, my boy, I have some exciting news."
"What is it, Sir?" I asked.
"I was calculating finances last night, and do you know it's been nearly two months since you started serving? That means you're almost one fortieth of the way done with your servitude contract already. Isn't that encouraging news?"
"Yes, Sir," I said, although it didn't actually sound all that encouraging to me. '1/40th of the way done' just made me more depressed.
"And don't forget that this morning, Mr. Davidson is coming over for another therapy session. You liked Mr. Davidson, didn't you, Dick?"
"Yes, Sir," I lied. I actually hated that guy. He had just made things worse: the Glass Slipper and the Wisconsin Servants' Guide, which had had brought over, had made my life a living Hell. He was supposedly a therapist, but he worked for DCI, the company that had handled my indenturement. Wasn't that some kind of conflict of interest?
"Alright, then," Jake said. "Go on and get the place straightened up. I won't have visitors looking at a messy house. Go on, boy. Chop chop."
Dreading Mr. Davidson's visit, I began cleaning.
Shortly before 11, the doorbell rang. I rushed to answer it, butterflies in my stomach as I opened the door.
There on the doorstep was Mr. Davidson, along with another man who looked vaguely familiar. It took me a moment to realize that it was Thomas Gundarson, the man at Debt Consolidation Incorporated who had drawn up my Indenturement contract. It was the man who had convinced me to sign this horrible servitude contract in the first place!
I wanted to kill him. I wanted to fling myself at him and strangle him, punch him in his handsome face, throttle him until he begged for mercy. He had lied to me. He had told me I'd only have to serve for a few years, not seven. He had told me that serving was like military service. He had convinced me that it wouldn't be so bad.
But instead of strangling him, I invited them in, saying, "Welcome to the Head residence, Sirs. Please, may I take your coats?" I hated myself, but I knew I didn't have the spine to do anything violent.
They handed me their coats as they stepped into the foyer.
"Well, well. Richard Johnson, what a pleasant surprise," Mr. Gundarson said. "It's so good to see you, boy! How do you like your new life? Pretty nice house, eh?"
"Tom, the boy's official name now is Dick Head," Mr. Davidson said. "Please call him by that name so you don't confuse him. You know how easily confused simple-minded Contract Laborers can get."
'Dick Head'?! That wasn't my name!
"Sir, please, I apologize," I said. "I don't mean to contradict a Free Man, kind Sir, but my last name is actually 'Johnson', not 'Head'. My step-family's last name is Head, though."
"Oh, Dick," Mr. Davidson said, looking dismayed. "Didn't you know? Didn't anyone tell you?"
"Tell me what, Sir?"
"Here in Wisconsin, contract laborers lose their original last names when they sign their contracts. It's a State Law. Your last name has been 'Head' since December of last year."
"'Dick Head'?" Thomas Gundarson laughed. "That's kind of funny."
I didn't think it was funny at all. That name was absolutely humiliating. My face turned beet red as I slowly realized that people actually thought my name was 'Dick Head'.
God damn it! Even my fucking NAME was a joke! Couldn't I ever catch a break?! Why did God do these things to me?! Couldn't He have at least left me with the dignity of my name?!
"Sir, there must be some mistake," I began, shaking my head. "That can't be my name."
"Well, it is," Mr. Davidson said. "You're listed now in the Servant Registry as 'Sv. Dick Head, indentured servant of Mr. Jake Head, Connaway Park, Wisconsin'."
Just then, my stepfather came into the foyer. "Hey, Charlie!" he said. "It's good to see you again."
Jake and Mr. Davidson shook hands, and then Mr. Davidson introduced my stepfather to Mr. Gundarson.
"Jake, this is Mr. Thomas Gundarson, one of my associates at DCI," Mr. Davidson said. "Thomas, this is Mr. Jake Head, Dick's Step-master."
"Please, call me Tom," Mr. Gundarson said, as he shook hands with my stepfather.
"Alright, Tom," Jake said. "And you can call me Jake. Come in, come in."
My stepfather turned to me and said, "Don't be a dunderhead, Dick. Hold the parlor door open for Mr. Gunderson and Mr. Davidson."
I obeyed, feeling like an idiot as I trotted over to the parlor door to open it for the men.
As the three men walked into the parlor, Mr. Gundarson said, "You have a truly lovely home, Jake. Dick is truly blessed to be able to live in such a fine house."
"Thank you, Tom," Jake said. "I take pride in what I've been able to achieve with this house. Sorry about the mess. I was hoping Dick would have this place cleaned up a bit more before you arrived."
"Oh, it seems quite clean to me," Tom said. "It's clear you keep your step-servant in line; that's commendable. I don't know if you know this or not, Jake, but I was actually Dick's recruiter at DCI Financial Services back in December. From what I recall, the boy was completely undisciplined. He slouched in the chair in my office, he kept interrupting, and he was just in general an unruly teenager. I'm glad to see you're slowly whipping the lad into shape."
"Yeah, we have a six-month plan to get Dick into peak physical condition," Jake said. "I've got him working out every morning, hoping to bulk him up a bit."
"I think he's looking better already," Mr. Davidson said. "And with better conditioning comes better self esteem. Shall we get started?"
"Please, have a seat," Jake said, as everyone (except me) sat down on the sofa or an armchair. I wasn't allowed on the furniture.
"Dick, why don't you go ahead and kneel down right here," Mr. Davidson suggested. "He's allowed on the carpet, isn't he?" he asked my stepfather.
"Oh, yes, Dick can kneel on the carpet. He won't make a mess," Jake said. "Go on, boy," he said to me.
I knelt down on the carpet.
"Jake, after last month's therapy session, how did things go? Did you see an improvement in Dick's demeanor? Was he happier? Or was he more depressed?" Mr. Davidson asked, as he reached into his briefcase for a pad of paper.
"He actually seemed more depressed," Jake said. "He kept complaining about how tight his Glass Slipper was until I finally had enough and told him that if he didn't stop complaining about it, I'd take him out back to the woodshed. That got his attention."
"And so just being super-firm with him did the trick?" Mr. Davidson probed, as he took notes.
"Yeah. Charlie, I hadn't realized how often I had given in, whenever Dick complained about some small thing," Jake said. "Once Dick realized that I wasn't going to relent, his whining stopped. And having Marsha finally back me up on my decisions really helped, too. She told Dick flat out that she wasn't going to get involved, and that any dispute between him and myself would have to be settled between the two of us."
"We in the Psychotherapy field call that 'Setting Boundaries'," Mr. Davidson said. "It's hard, at first, sticking to your decision, no matter what. But it's healthy, and ultimately, Dick will eventually thank you for being firm with him, and setting those boundaries."
"By the way, where is Marsha?" Mr. Davidson asked.
"She had an appointment at the doctor's office," Jake said. "One of those pre-natal visits they like to have pregnant women do. When we discovered the scheduling conflict with this appointment, she wanted to reschedule Dick's therapy session, but I told her Dick's mental health is just too important to postpone. I told her she should go ahead and have her appointment, and I'd take care of Dick's therapy session."
"It's wonderful that you care so much about your step-drudge's health," Mr. Davidson said, as he turned to me. "I hope you realize how lucky you are, young man, that you have a step-master who cares that much about you."
"Yes, Sir," I said. "I'm very lucky." But I sure didn't FEEL lucky.
"Now, one of the suggestions I had made when I was here last month was that everyone should call Dick 'Dick'," Mr. Davidson said. "I had observed that everyone was calling the boy a different name, which had to be confusing for him. How has that suggestion worked out?"
"Well, both my wife and I have stuck to calling him Dick, but my sons still insist on calling him other names. I asked Daniel to please call him 'Dick' because I felt that 'Icky Ricky' wasn't a very nice name."
"What did Daniel say to that?"
"He said to me: 'See, Dad, I would use the name Dick if he fully accepted being our servant and started doing his best, but that's not the case. He lies, gets in trouble with law enforcement, and constantly tries to avoid doing his chores as well as expected. Worst of all, he mopes around the house, acting as if doing a little cooking and cleaning is some horrible punishment. Until he changes his attitude for at least 6 months, I will use the name Icky Ricky and I hope everyone in the family will use it, too.'"
"When he put it that way, I did see Daniel's point," Jake continued. "So I haven't pushed him any further to call his stepbrother Dick. And, ultimately, boys will be boys; better to just let it settle out by itself than force the issue. But it was hard for Marsha, hearing her son being called 'Icky Ricky' all this month. I explained to her that it really just depends on Dick, and his attitude. Once he starts coming around, there won't be any reason for Daniel to still call him Icky Ricky."
"And what about Christopher?"
"Christopher still calls Dick 'Knob', but I haven't really taken the issue up with him; since 'knob' means 'dick', he isn't really breaking the agreement in a meaningful way."
"Good, good," Mr. Davidson said, as he took notes. "Now, you mentioned that Dick had gotten in trouble with law enforcement. That's something I'd like to explore."
"Charlie, I don't know where to begin," Jake said, exasperation in his voice. "I had to find out from the boys that Dick had been detained by the Milwaukee Police Department for public intoxication. They apparently found empty beer cans in the trunk that Dick uses, and he was unsteady on his feet. As you can imagine, I was pretty disappointed in Dick. Not so much for the mistake, although that was bad enough. But for lying to me afterwards about it, claiming he wasn't drunk, or that the beer wasn't his, et cetera."
"I hope you showed Dick the error of his ways," Mr. Davidson said.
"Oh, I did," Jake replied. "No dinner that night, and no breakfast the following morning, either. Then we took a short visit to the woodshed. Dick really doesn't like the woodshed, but even he admitted he had seriously messed up and deserved the trip. I was glad, though, that he finally took ownership of his misbehavior."
"So what I'm hearing is that, through a little tough love and a firm hand, Dick is slowly learning to become responsible for his mistakes," Mr. Davidson observed.
"Slowly, yes," Jake agreed.
Mr. Davidson jotted down a few more notes on his pad.
"And what about the bulking up that I suggested?" Mr. Davidson inquired. "Working out and looking better will help Dick's self esteem, improving his attitude. Has he been working out?"
"Dick's been working out each morning for the last 30 days," Jake said. "He's made some progress, although he's got a long way to go before he's there."
"Let's see how you're doing on the bulking up, Dick," Mr. Davidson said. "Go ahead and stand up and take off your shirt."
I stood up, then slowly pulled my tank top up and over my head. Mr. Davidson stood up and pulled a fabric measuring tape out of his pocket; then he began measuring around my biceps.
"Flex those biceps, Dick," Mr. Davidson ordered.
I flexed first my right bicep and then my left, as Mr. Davidson took measurements and wrote them down.
"14 inches... Now let's get the chest," he said, as he wrapped the measuring tape across my pecs.
"Dick's chest is 38 inches," he observed, as he made note of the number.
Then he measured my waist, neck, wrists, forearms, thighs and calves, which were 28 inches, 13.5 inches, 6 inches, 11 inches, 21 inches, and 13 inches, respectively.
"Dick, have you been working on your neck like I suggested?" Mr. Davidson asked, disapproval in his voice.
"No, Sir," I said. "I don't have that neck harness thing."
"Now, I don't want to hear any excuses, Dick," Mr. Davidson said. "I expect to see better results next month, understand?"
"Yes, Sir," I said.
"I suppose we could get Dick a neck harness," Jake said. "It would have to come out of the money that Dick owes me, but if it would help Dick's self esteem, I think it's a sacrifice we can make."
"You hear that, Dick?" Mr. Davidson asked. "Your stepfather is going to make a purchase on your behalf. How nice is that?"
"It's very nice, Sir," I said. "Thank you, Sir."
"Alright, now let's get those shorts off so we can get the rest of your measurements," Mr. Davidson said.
I looked at my stepfather, and he nodded. "Go on, boy," he said.
Slowly, I lowered my undershorts to my knees.
"No, go ahead and pull your shorts off completely," Mr. Davidson said. "You probably won't be needing them for the next couple of hours anyway."
I pulled my undershorts down, embarrassed to be naked in front of these three fully clothed men.
"Whoa! Is that one of those new Glass Slippers?" Mr. Gundarson said, as he got his first look at my crotch. He has sat quietly on the sofa for the last half hour, without saying much, but now he stood up and walked over to where I was standing with Mr. Davidson. "I haven't actually seen a contract laborer wearing one of those. Jesus Christ, that looks tight."
"It's gotta be tight if it's to prevent an erection, Tom," Mr. Davidson explained. "Gotta prevent the blood flow down there. That's why Dick's wearing a Size Zero."
"Size Zero?!" Mr. Gundarson laughed. "That's hilarious!"
"Yeah, Dick here is pretty small, as you can see," Mr. Davidson said, as he grabbed my Glass Slipper and held it up. "I'm actually wondering now if we couldn't possibly get him into one of the micro sizes."
"Please, Sir," I said. "It's already too tight as it is."
"Quiet, Dick," Jake said. "Don't contradict your therapist. He knows what's best for you."
"Have you noticed any signs of extreme discomfort?" Mr. Davidson asked my stepfather.
"No. The first couple of days, Dick complained a lot, but he's settled down since then," Jake replied.
"Good, good," Mr. Davidson said. "Now let's get Dick's cockblock off so we can get the rest of his measurements."
Jake took the golden chain off from around his neck, and taking the key in his hand, unlocked the little gold padlock that was fastened to the front of my crotch. The titanium chain then unwrapped behind my balls, and the glass tube could be safely removed. It slid off, releasing my penis from the tight confines of the tube.
Mr. Davidson took this opportunity to measure the length, width, and circumference of my flaccid penis, then measured my balls. After that, he surprised me when he grasped my penis and began tugging on it. "Okay, boy," he said. "Let's get you erect so we can get that last set of measurements."
He stroked my cockshaft with his hand, playing with my dick as it began to lengthen. Having this man touch me was a huge turn-on, and I quickly boned up. He stroked my shaft with his strong fingers, making me gasp as he fondled my prick. He massaged the head of my dick, rubbing it with his fingers. He fingered the top side, then with his thumb, he stroked the sensitive area underneath. I was soon fully hard.
Mr. Davidson continued to rub my shaft, stroking my hard-on gently yet firmly. Then he wrapped his fingers around my dick and began beating me off with his right hand, while his left hand alternately massaged my balls and stimulated my cockhead.
He jerked me off for a little while, until pre-cum started leaking out of my piss slit.
"Now let's get the circumference measurement," he said, as he wrapped the measuring tape around the middle of my cockshaft.
"4.8 inches... bit on the small side," he observed, as he wrote the measurement down.
Then he measured the length of my penis, finding it to be a bit over 5 inches.
"A bit small, but not nearly as small as I expected based on his flaccid penile size," he observed. "Alright, Dick. We're all finished with your measurements. Let's get your Glass Slipper back on."
"Sir, please," I begged. "Finish me off."
"That won't be necessary, Dick," Mr. Davidson said. "I just needed the measurements, not a semen sample."
It took a while for my erection to subside, and then for me to be able to stuff myself back into the tight Glass Slipper, but once I was stuffed back in, Jake took the key and secured me inside the diabolical device. He put the chain back around his neck.
"Now, it's likely that Dick will experience some epididymal hypertension, since he didn't achieve release," Mr. Davidson said.
"Charlie, speak English," Jake said, shaking his head.
"I mean he'll probably get blue balls since he didn't ejaculate," Mr. Davidson explained. "He'll probably complain about some discomfort; this is natural, and should be ignored. If the pain continues for a long time, have Dick lift some very heavy weights; this will help the 'blue ball' condition by stimulating the cremaster muscle."
Jake nodded. "I appreciate the advice, Charlie. It seems like you have all the answers."
"Well, I don't have ALL the answers," Mr. Davidson said. "In fact, that's why I brought Tom with me."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, Tom here, as you know, is a DCI recruiter. He gets young men to sign up for Indentured Servitude. And he does a damn good job, I might add. But that wasn't his first Contract Labor job."
"Yeah, as Charlie says, before I worked for DCI, I was stationed down in Biloxi, Mississippi, working on government-contract servant discipline techniques," Mr. Gundarson said. "I know Mississippi has a reputation for extremely harsh Contract Labor laws, but they actually have a pretty good program down there in Mississippi."
"Oh, I've heard that's true," Jake said. "My oldest son, Adam, has a job down there in Greenville, Mississippi, doing Front Line Slaver work. He said it's tough work, but it's really rewarding. And the government contracts pay really well."
"They sure do," Mr. Gundarson said with a laugh. "Unfortunately, the slaver base down there closed down. That was around the time that the northern states slowly began to legalize slavery, after seeing the huge economic gains from reintroduced slavery in the South. A couple years ago, I ended up in Milwaukee, working for DCI. It's been a really good, rewarding experience. I've been able to convince several hundred young men that their best prospects for the future are to temporarily relinquish their Free Men rights and sign up for DCI contracts. I've saved them from years of hard labor in debtor's prison."
"I can imagine it feels pretty rewarding to be able to salvage a young man's life like that," Jake said.
"Well, you've saved one young man from that fate yourself," Mr. Gundarson pointed out. "Anyway, Charlie asked me to come up here and give you advice on servant training techniques and devices. I hope you don't think it forward of me that I brought up several devices that I think could help you."
"Oh, no! Not at all," Jake said. "By all means, let's see what you brought."
"The first things I wanted to show you are these DCI patented Servant Control Shorts," Mr. Gundarson said, as he took a pair of undershorts out of his briefcase. "These are very popular right now among Contract holders who allow their servants to wear briefs. By the way, can I ask you why you decided to allow Dick to wear a tank top and undershorts? Most Masters don't allow their servants to wear much clothing."
"It was a decision my wife and I made together," Jake said. "When we first met, she told me that she refused to have Dick paraded around naked, and that was one of her main objections to the Indenturement Contract. But once I promised her that I'd allow Dick to wear a shirt and a pair of shorts, she was greatly relieved."
"I see," Mr. Gundarson laughed. "So it was one of those 'appease the wife' things. Say no more. My wife's the same way. Still, at some point, you may want to revisit the issue, now that she knows that her son's Indenturement isn't so bad."
"Anyway, let's have Dick try on these Control Shorts and I'll show you their features."
Jake nodded, and Mr. Gundarson handed the undershorts to me. Grateful to have any clothing to wear, I put them on.
"Dick, go ahead and turn around. That's it. Now bend over."
Reluctantly, I bent down.
"As you can see, these Control Shorts are made of a slightly thinner, more sheer fabric than regular cotton briefs. But their main feature is the fly opening in the rear, for easy access. Let me ask you: do you use Dick?"
"What do you mean?" Jake asked.
"I mean do you fuck him?"
"Good heavens, no!" Jake exclaimed. "The Bible says it's wrong for one man to lie down with another."
"Right, but you don't have to lie down to fuck him," Mr. Gundarson pointed out. "You can screw him while you're standing up, and he's bent down like this. The Control Shorts make it easy to bone your servant, on the fly. You can even do it discretely in public, if you're careful."
"I'm not interested in fornication with Dick," Jake said, shaking his head. "I have a wife."
"Oh, I have a wife, too," Mr. Gundarson said. "But when she's on the rag, or has a headache, I need something real tight to blow my wad into. I'll go down to DCI's receiving warehouse, find me a new recruit, and then fuck the drudge's ass, or bone his virgin throat."
"But I'm straight, Tom," Jake said. "I'm not into that."
"Oh, I'm straight, too," Mr. Gundarson replied. "Straight as an arrow, believe me. I don't like faggots at all. But the feeling of power I get, when I'm fucking some loser servant's throat, is beyond belief. The best sex ever. Seriously. Don't knock it 'til you've tried it."
"I'll take it under advisement," Jake said stiffly.
"Anyway, the Control Shorts have another use," Mr. Gundarson said. "Go ahead and stick your hand down into that back fly panel and I'll demonstrate."
Jake did as Tom suggested, pushing his hand into the rear flap of the Control Shorts I was wearing. My heart skipped a beat as I felt my stepfather's right hand touching my butt.
"Now reach down between Dick's legs and firmly grasp his ballsack," Mr. Gundarson said.
I felt Jake's hand as it slowly made its way to my balls. Then, I felt his fingers slowly encircle my ballsack at the top, where my nuts joined my body. I felt his fingers close around my scrotum as he grasped me by my balls.
"Now, make sure you have a firm grip on his cojones," Mr. Gundarson said. "You got a good grip?"
"Yeah," Jake replied.
Mr. Gundarson squatted down in front of me, looked me in the eyes, and said, "Alright, now, Dick. This is going to be painful. Get ready!"
"Jake, go ahead and squeeze Dick's balls."
"How hard am I supposed to squeeze?" Jake asked.
"Pretty hard," Mr. Gundarson said. "The goal is to make his eyes roll back in his head."
Jake squeezed my balls, tightening his grip on my balls like a vice.
"Urrrrgghhh!" I moaned; I was in a great deal of discomfort.
"Quiet, boy," Mr. Gundarson said. "You're not in any real pain, just yet."
"Jake, squeeze harder."
"How much harder?"
"Much harder," Mr. Gundarson replied. "Remember, it's hard to do much permanent damage down there, so really go to town. Squeeze hard!"
Jake followed Mr. Gundarson's advice, and squeezed my balls hard. I let out a louder moan.
"Boy, I thought I told you to shut the fuck up," Mr. Gundarson snapped at me. "We've barely gotten started."
"Should I keep going?" Jake asked Tom. "Did his eyes roll back in his head, yet?"
"No sign of rolled-back eyes," Mr. Gundarson replied. "This time, really smash those nuts in your fist. Make your boy beg for mercy."
Jake obliged, squeezing my balls in his iron fist, causing me to scream. I started feeling nauseous, as bile filled my mouth.
"Now we need a pacifier," Mr. Gundarson said, as he stood up and then whipped his dick out of his pants. Then, to my surprise, he pushed his cock into my open mouth. "Suck on this, boy. I bet it will make you forget that pain."
Above me, I heard my stepfather ask, "Tom, what on earth are you doing?"
"Just giving the boy something to keep his mind occupied," Mr. Gundarson answered.
To be continued...