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.
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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 21
Those of you who wanted Richard to have a traditional fairy tale happy ending, where he and his friends live happily ever after, and only the bad guys suffer, please stop reading after Chapter 20. This chapter is only meant to be read by those of you who requested a different type of ending; one that doesn't have the 'traditional' sappy ending we're all used to seeing at the end of modern fairy tales.
You've been warned! Please do not flame me for 'ruining the story' by continuing it. You could have stopped at #20, but you actively chose to continue reading. Stop now if you hated the things that happened in the first 20 chapters. I don't want to hear it. You made your bed; now lie in it. :)
If you keep scrolling, you WILL be reading something you may not like.
This is your last chance. Stop reading now if you have any doubts.
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All was going really well: I had finally confronted my Stepfather and my mother for what they had put me through. I finally felt whole, in a way I hadn't felt since I signed that awful DCI contract. I finally felt like I could move on with my life.
And then I woke up.
I cried like a baby when I realized it had been a dream. Ofjoseph hadn't rescued me. We hadn't been saved by two Canadian women. I was still wearing my iron collar and my horrible Control Shorts. I was laying on a hard cot in the hallway of the basement. The room I slept in was not a bedroom.
I felt ashamed of my tears, but I just couldn't stop. In the dream, I had been free. But I obviously wasn't free.
The dream had felt so real. And yet, on closer inspection, the whole thing was kind of ridiculous. Random women from Canada suddenly show up and rescue us, with bolt cutters that they conveniently brought with them? We get to Canada unchallenged, and the border guards just wave us through without question? Fifteen years later, I show up on my Stepfather's doorstep, and he suddenly asks for forgiveness? Yeah, right! A book I write becomes a bestseller overnight, and I singlehandedly bring down Contract Labor laws as word spreads of my abuse? What about the child my mom would have had by then? Where was he, in my dream? Why wouldn't Ofjoseph have confronted the Van Camps next door? The whole dream fantasy was as flimsy as a house of cards: pull one, and the rest of the fantasy comes tumbling down.
Ultimately, it was a stupid dream, I realized, nothing more than that. But I had wanted it to be real so badly that even a poorly-constructed fantasy seemed more "real" than reality. I realized at that moment that it was "time to put away childish things", as my Stepmaster had told me. I needed to accept my responsibilities: the duties I had agreed to carry out.
My name had been Richard Johnson. I had liked to read and play soccer. I had hoped to be an architect some day, or a nature photographer like Ansel Adams. But these things were behind me, now. I was Dick Head, the faggot step-drudge to Mr. Jake Head. My duty was to serve my Master.
If only Jake liked me! Or at least tolerated me. But he hated me; not that I could blame him. I hated myself. I wished I was still Richard. The guy who had ridden a rusty old bike to high school and wore ripped jeans everywhere. How had I sunk so low in only four months?
It was easy to blame Jake or his sons for where I was at, but it slowly dawned on me that I had no one to blame but myself. If I hadn't been so fruity, they would have liked me. Maybe even grown to love me, like a real family member. And if I had served them better, they surely wouldn't have despised me the way they so obviously did. It was my fault, I knew.
And why did I have to fuck everything up stealing Jake's wedding ring? What a stupid thing to do! And cowardly. I needed to make amends. Not that I deserved forgiveness, after the stunt I had pulled. Jake was right to discipline me. Maybe some of the punishments were over the top, but much of it was well-deserved, I now realized.
The rest of that week, Jake barely spoke to me, except to snap at me when I'd make a mistake. I could tell he was still furious with me about the wedding band, even after I had worked off the demerits.
On Thursday evening, when Jake came home from work, I dropped to my knees and begged him for forgiveness. I said, "Sir, please forgive me for my thievery. I know I really messed up and hurt my family. I know I don't deserve your forgiveness, but I can't stand to see you so angry still. What can I do, Sir, to have you forgive me?"
"Dick, your mother and I are both deeply disappointed in you," he said. "I think you've had enough punishment, but your mother thinks that a couple of days of punishment is not enough for what is in actuality a felony. We've even argued about it. Do you see, Dick? Even after your punishment, you're still causing strife amongst your family."
"Sir, I'm so, so sorry," I said. "I didn't know the damage it would cause."
"No, Dick," my Stepmaster replied. "You DID know the damage it would cause. And yet you did it anyway."
"I... I'm sorry, Sir."
"You keep saying that like it's going to change something," Jake said, exasperation in his voice. "You just don't get it. Try to get it through that thick skull of yours. It's not about your need for forgiveness. It's about other people's feelings. Now go take out the trash, and be quick about it, or you won't have time to wash the dishes before you work off your nightly demerits."
"Yes, Sir," I said somberly, as I pulled the trash bag out of the garbage pail. I tied the bag and took it outside, to the curb. In the evening light, I could see the Van Camps' garage door open, light spilling out. I wondered how Ofjoseph's plan to leave was progressing. I promised myself I'd sneak out at dawn tomorrow morning to see him. I knew it was wrong, but I had to see him.
When I came back inside, Jake told me he wanted me to speak to his church's minister, Pastor White, about my sins. "After church services on Sunday, I've asked him to come speak with you," he said. "He'll talk with you about the difference between right and wrong. Maybe eventually, it will sink in."
"Yes, Sir," I said, feeling like a complete loser.
The following morning, I snuck out of the house, my empty measuring cup in hand. To my relief, the light from the garage was on again, and the door was ajar. I crept over to the door, then wandered inside. I could see Ofjoseph doing bench presses in the back of the garage, so I walked up to where he was working out.
I was stunned, though, to discover that this man wasn't Ofjoseph. Like Ofjoseph, he was dark of hair and had an impressive physique, but this man was much younger. Maybe as young as me.
"Can I help you?" he asked. His tone seemed so formal.
"I... I'm looking for Ofjoseph," I stammered.
"I'm Ofjoseph," he said.
"Oh. I... I mean the other Ofjoseph."
"There's only one Ofjoseph here, and that's me," he said. Did I detect a hint of coolness in his voice?
Damnit! I realized right then that Ofjoseph had either run away or had been sent down South. Either way, I was shit out of luck. And he was GONE! My only friend. I had to blink back tears; I was pretty shocked. He had told me he was going to let me know when he was leaving, but he hadn't. Had he abandoned me? Or had the awful Van Camps shipped him down south before he had expected it? I said a silent prayer that he had made it to Canada, unharmed.
Then I began to wonder if he hadn't tried to reach me while I was on the "fishing trip" at "Uncle" Tom's cabin. What if he'd waited for me, and had ended up waiting too long, because of me?
I stood there dumbly as these thoughts filled my head. Finally, the new guy cleared his throat.
"So, any reason you're holding an empty cup?" he asked.
"I... I just came over to borrow a cup of sugar," I lied. "For my Stepmaster's pie tonight."
"I don't have any sugar to spare," Ofjoseph said, coldly. "Good day, boy."
The way he said it was so dismissive. Full of contempt. He wasn't just being formal; I got the feeling he was one of those indentured servants who were True Believers. One of those ones you have to watch out for. They curried favor with their Masters and betrayed their fellow laborers.
A chill ran down my spine as I excused myself, and he went back to working out.
I said another quick prayer for the real Ofjoseph as I stumbled back to my Stepmaster's house. I couldn't stop crying. It was so scary; just the idea that a human being could be replaced like that. Just put someone in his place, and call the new guy Ofjoseph, too.
And there was absolutely nothing I could do.
How could this happen? How fucked up was a system where a person could just disappear, completely replaced by someone else?
I spent several nights sleepless, the small amounts of sleep I was able to get haunted by thoughts of Ofjoseph. I hoped he was well.
April 7th was my birthday, and boy, was it awful. Christopher and Daniel came down so we could celebrate it. My Stepmaster made me put on that horrible servant's uniform before he left. Unbeknownst to me, the boys had invited lots of people to the party, and neither my mother nor my Stepmaster were going to be present at the party. They had gone to Green Bay for the day.
When the doorbell rang, Christopher said, "Go get the door, boy! Go get it!" doing his best impression of a Master talking to his dog.
That cracked Daniel up. He whistled, like how you whistle to a hound.
I answered the door. To my dismay, it was two of Christopher's good friends from back in high school: Travis Martin and Shane Hutchins. Shane had been the quarterback at our school; he had been the typical conceited jock in high school, and it seemed like he hadn't changed a bit. He was this huge, muscular, beefy lunk who towered over me. Behind him, Travis stood. He was quite a bit smaller, but still bigger than me.
"Icky Ricky!" Shane exclaimed when I answered the door. "I heard you were a drudge now! You gonna invite us in, or leave us on the doorstep?"
"Please, come in, Sirs," I said, reluctantly, opening the door wider so they could both come in.
"Chris! Good to see you, man!" Travis said, as he caught sight of my stepbrother in the foyer. As Daniel came into the entryway, the four of them shook hands and exchanged greetings.
"So good to see you guys!" Shane said to Daniel and Christopher. "How long's it been?"
"I think two years," Daniel said. "Anyway, you remember my step-bitch, Icky Ricky, right?"
"Oh, do I remember!" Shane laughed. "Remember when we broke into his locker and dumped his gym clothes in the toilet? And then HE got in trouble with the coach for not locking his locker properly?"
"That was a riot!" Travis said. "How about the time I hocked a loogie on the back of his t-shirt, and he didn't notice until halfway through gym class? I had to actually walk up and tell him, 'Dude, someone spit on you. Clean yourself up, man!'"
Everyone laughed.
Travis turned to me and asked, "Do you remember that, faggot?"
"Yes, Sir," I mumbled.
"I thought you would," he said, sounding satisfied.
Just then, the doorbell rang. I answered it; it was Daniel's old friends Otis Butters, Steven Wadsworth, and Jason Harrison. Otis had been another guy on the football team; unlike Shane, he wasn't handsome or particularly tall: he was just bulky. Jason was a blond-haired adonis who had treated me like shit. Steven was one of the few hispanics in our school; he had spent one day in Math class slapping me in the back of my head over and over, until I got up and left class, fed up with his abuse. When I came back, after class, someone (or several people) had written "Fagit!" (sic) and "Gay" all over my school books and notebooks, with a pink pen, and my homework was missing.
These guys had all constantly tormented me in high school, making my life a living Hell. And now they were back for one last round. I wanted to bolt out of the room right then. But there were more guys still knocking on the door; Christopher had made sure to invite them all: Mike Vanderbilt, who had once farted right in my face as I sat at my desk in Life Sciences class; Brandon Knight, who had sucker-punched me behind the auto shop for "eyeballing his package"; Brent Turlington, who had mocked me for wearing a purple shirt once; Terry Belvidere, who had pantsed me right in the school hallway, while the assistant principal looked on and did absolutely nothing; and many more. And as each of these bullies came in, the sight of their handsome, haughty faces reminded me of how awful my first two years of high school had been. None of the people coming into my stepfather's house were my friends; I didn't even recognize a few of the people coming through the door.
The final person at the door, however, surprised me. It was my friend, Johnny. One of my only friends during my school years.
"Richard? Is... is that you?" he asked. I knew with my bald head and servant's uniform, I didn't look much like his former friend.
"Yes, it's me, Johnny," I said, embarrassed to have my friend see me this way. "...Thank you for coming, I guess."
He nodded, as he walked in. "I heard... I heard about your indenturement, man. Are you... okay?"
"No," I said. I wasn't going to lie. He deserved the truth.
"Hey, it's Johnny Miller!" Christopher said. "So good of you to come up here for my step-bitch's birthday party. Come on in!" He went over and shook Johnny's hand.
To my dismay, Christopher struck up a conversation with Johnny, telling him how glad he was to have him there. They had never been friends, but Christopher was treating Johnny like a long-lost best friend. Johnny looked torn; here was this handsome, confident, cocky jock treating him like an old friend. And I, his real friend, was now the lowest of the low: a contract laborer in a goofy bellhop uniform. He knew he should be loyal to me. But who would willingly remain friends with servant scum?
"Dickhead here looks pretty sharp here in his servant uniform, eh, Johnny?" Christopher goaded, as he straightened my bowtie. The bastard was a master at goading me.
"Heh. Yeah," Johnny said, noncommittally.
"Did you know servants don't wear underwear under their serving jackets, Johnny? That's so their asses can be paddled when they underperform. Knob here is freeballing it."
"Yeah, we have a servant at my house, too," Johnny said. "I've paddled his ass a few times when he's disobeyed. You gotta bring them in line when they disobey."
"Exactly!" Christopher said. "People don't understand that. They think being a Master is so easy. They don't realize how tough it is, having to discipline your drudge all the time. But you and I understand that, don't we, Johnny?"
"Yeah, it's hard work," Johnny said.
"Knob here is particularly disobedient," Christopher said. "Even after four months of servitude, he still disobeys. Johnny, how do you get your servant in line at home?"
"We use a hairbrush on him when he's done wrong."
"And that really works?" Christopher asked him. "Hmmm... you know, Knob, we may have to try that out on you."
I just stood there stupidly, as Christopher and Johnny exchanged servant discipline techniques. Pretty soon, Johnny had warmed up to Christopher, telling him all about how he 'brought his servant in line'. As they shared stories, I slowly realized it: I couldn't really blame Johnny, but it made me very sad to realize I was losing my best friend.
"Gentlemen, let's head into the dining room for some refreshments," Daniel suggested, and the guys began filing into the dining room. He ordered me to begin serving everyone beers. After I had gotten every man his first round, Christopher and Daniel brought out the cake.
It was decorated with pink frosting, and on the top, in pink swirls, it said, "Happy Birthday Dick Head!"
Everyone began singing "Happy Birthday":
Happy birthday to you Happy birthday to you Happy birthday dear dickhead Happy birthday toooo youuuu!
"Now make a wish and blow out the candles, faggot!" Daniel said.
I wished I was dead.
Then, when I went to blow out the candles, Christopher cruelly pushed my face down into the cake. My face was covered in frosting. His prank was apparently hilarious, as everyone erupted in laughter. Even Johnny.
I tried wiping the frosting off with my hands, smearing it further as it dripped down onto my uniform.
"You lost your hat, bitch," Shane said. "It's on the floor. Pick it up."
I had to go under the table to retrieve my bellhop hat from the floor. The front of the cap had cake frosting on it, and I tried to clean it off without smearing the icing into the fabric, to no avail.
Travis walked up to me and said, "Jesus Christ, asshole, your face is covered in frosting! Clean yourself up, cocksucker!"
"Sir, permission to run to the kitchen to clean myself up?" I begged Christopher.
"No time for that, Knob!" Christopher said. "We've got a birthday spanking to deliver!"
With that, Shane and Jason pulled off my servant's jacket, and then grabbed me by my upper arms, bending me down over the dining room table. Daniel brought in the spreader bar and put it under the table. Then Shane and Jason fastened my wrists into the holes on the ends of the spreader bar, securing me to the table. I was now positioned so my upper body was spread out on the table, my arms fastened to the sides.
"Before we begin Knob's birthday spanking, I think we need one more thing," Christopher said, as he went around to the front of the table. He started pulling on it, and after a few tugs, it was clear that the table was one of those ones that separates, so an extension can be added in the middle. Instead of adding a section, though, Christopher kept pulling, until the front half of the table came completely off the back.
Since my upper torso was flat up against the table, I would have toppled forward onto the floor. Luckily, I was able to throw my right leg forward and caught myself, using my right leg as a tripod.
"Alright, dickhead. You're gonna have to take your birthday spankings while balancing yourself on the table. If you topple over, we start over. Understood, cunt?"
"Yes, Sir," I mumbled, completely defeated.
"Alright, who wants to go first, guys?"
Shane was the first volunteer. "Let me take the first swing at that turkey," he said, moving around the table, into a position behind me.
"Don't forget the paddle," Christopher said, handing him a paddle I couldn't see. "Now let's get Knob's Control Shorts off so we can see what we're doing."
He grabbed the back of my undershorts and pulled them down, exposing my rear end. He pulled them down further, until they were just above my knees. Because my right leg was bent forward, it was awkward getting my undershorts completely pulled off, but eventually, it was done.
"Now, be sure to swing hard, or it doesn't count," Christopher said.
"Oh, I'll swing hard," Shane assured him. "This fucker's definitely gonna feel it!"
As the first smack landed, I suspected they were probably using one of those big Zeta Omicron fraternity paddles, with holes drilled into the paddle. Christopher and Daniel must have brought it down from the University. It really stung!
As the blow landed, the crowd shouted, "ONE!" The blow was hard enough that I struggled to maintain my balance, and for a second, it seemed as though I might topple over on the first swing. But I managed to push myself back into position, using my right leg for balance.
Then Jason stepped forward. The blond adonis, one of my most hated tormentors back in high school, looked at me with a self-satisfied smirk before he stepped behind me. I heard the sound of the paddle slicing the air before it landed.
When the blow landed, the crowd cheered, "TWO!" Jason put a little English into the swing, curving the paddle mid-swing so that, although the blow was aimed at my right butt-cheek, it ended up hitting both cheeks in succession. The blow pushed me forward, and I again had to catch myself from falling forward and face-planting into the floor.
Travis volunteered for the third swing. I knew it was going to be a hard one. "THREE!" the guys cried out, as he nailed my ass with the paddle. Again, I nearly toppled over.
Otis landed the fourth swing, and then Steven the fifth, Mike number six, and then Brent, Terry, and Brandon. The rest of the guys lined up for the remaining swings. Although the pain was excruciating, the worst part was trying to keep from toppling over onto my face. After every blow of the paddle, I rocked forward, and had to catch myself with my leg. By the 18th blow, I could barely keep upright.
Then Daniel handed the paddle to Johnny.
To my dismay, Johnny didn't refuse the paddle. I watched him take it in his hands as he slowly walked towards the table. Then he stepped behind me and delivered the 19th swing. But it was very light.
"Johnny, Johnny, Johnny," Christopher scoffed, "That swing didn't count. That was barely a swing. Try again."
The second swing was much harder, but according to Christopher, Johnny was "still holding back because he used to be your friend. You're not a drudgelover, are you, Johnny?"
"Hell no!" Johnny said.
"I think you are," Christopher goaded. "I think you'd like to give Knob here a big, wet, sloppy kiss. Wouldn't you?"
"No I wouldn't," Johnny said. "I hate servants. I beat my father's servant almost every day."
"Then what's stopping you from hitting Knob here?"
"Nothing."
"Look, I know the bitch was your friend once, but he's an indentured servant now," Christopher said. "He's not your friend anymore. You're better than him. You're a Free Man. He's servant scum. Swat him HARD! This time, make the faggot howl. Make us proud, Johnny!"
I heard the paddle whistling through the air, and I knew this time it was really going to be a hard one. When the blow landed, I did howl. Oh, how I howled! And almost lost my balance.
"And one to grow on!" Johnny growled, as he swung the paddle down again.
Shit! The blow landed so hard I think my eyes almost popped out of my head. And then I started to topple over yet again, only this time, I just couldn't recover. Slowly, inexorably, I teetered forward, losing my balance as I fell forward. I slammed into the floor, landing with a jar, my face saved a bruising only because the edge of the table hit the ground instead of my chin. Still, the fall was a shock, and knocked the wind out of me.
Toppling over put me ass-up in the air, which the party guests found hilarious. My reddened ass was on display for all to see now.
"Knob, you little whore!" Christopher said, mockingly. "Is this an invitation for us to use your slutty servant boy-hole? Can't you homos leave anything to the imagination?"
"He wants it, I say we give it to him," Jason said, unbuckling his belt and pulling down his zipper. He whipped out his big dick and asked me, "You want this big rod up your ass, bitch?"
"...Yes, Sir," I admitted, hating myself for answering in the affirmative.
I knew what I had admitted to was so messed up, but I didn't care anymore. Nothing I could say would stop them from doing what they wanted to me, anyway. And Jason was a blond god: a hunky, towheaded stud. I truly DID want his big dick up inside me. I wanted to please him. I wanted him to like me.
Several guys gasped at my admission, but Jason wasn't surprised.
"I knew you were a faggot from the minute I laid eyes on you, years ago," he said. "You queers sicken me. But I'm not about to turn away some free pussy. You're one lucky pansy, you know that?"
"Yes, Sir," I said.
"Beg me," he demanded.
Oh, God. He was going to force me to degrade myself even further in front of these guys.
"Please, Sir," I said, trying to please him. "Please use my pussy. Push that big cock into me."
"Alright, slut," he said, shaking his head. "But I should warn you, bitch: I've got a pretty big dick."
He walked around behind the table, and I couldn't see him anymore. But I soon felt his hands on my ass as he began spreading my ass cheeks with his fingers. And then I felt something at my backdoor: his hard prick, probing at my anus. He was doing this in front of all the party guests, with everyone watching.
The penetration itself was pretty painful, but once he was inside, it actually felt pretty good: he wasn't as big as my Stepmaster, so it didn't feel like I was being split open. Although there was some pain, it also felt pleasurable. If I had been able to, I would have gotten an erection, but the Glass Slipper kept me chaste.
Jason thrust himself inside me for a good long while; he was quite a stud, and he had amazing endurance and longevity. I don't know how long it took for him to approach climax, but most of the guys were on their third beer by the time he erupted.
"Uhg... ugh... ugh..." he grunted, as he slammed his pelvic region into my backside. His thick cock impaled my ass, in and out, until at last he blew his load.
"Ugh! Ugh! Shit! Fuck! I'm fuckin' cumming!" he gasped, as he blew his wad inside my ass.
As he pulled out of my ass, I didn't get much chance to recover; someone else had already taken Jason's place, lining up his cock to fuck me. I don't even know who it was.
Christopher and Shane then lifted the front of the table back up. I saw Shane unbuttoning his button-fly jeans as he pulled out his big 7-inch boner. He was soon feeding me his cock, at the same time that someone took me again from the rear. Then someone wrapped my left hand around his cock and ordered me to give him a handjob. Since my wrist was still fastened to the manacle of the spreader bar, my hand movement was limited, but I did the best I could; soon, someone joined in from the other side, and my right hand was pressed into service as well.
"Let's see if we can fit a second cock in Knob's mouth," Christopher said, as he pushed his big hard-on into my mouth alongside Shane's.
It had been hard enough to orally pleasure Shane's dick; the second cock filled my mouth to the breaking point, stretching my lips and jaw almost to bursting.
"Yep! Knob's mouth pussy will accommodate two dicks," Christopher observed. "Suck hard, slut!"
"Mmmmffggh!" I cried, hoping someone would pull out. But the two dicks only pushed further in, jamming my mouth with man-cock.
At the same time, someone was skewering me from behind, jamming his log into my ass repeatedly. And two guys, Steven and Terry, were encouraging me to stroke their boners faster.
"Stroke faster, bitch," Steven said.
"Gentlemen, we have ourselves a five-dick whore!" Christopher yelled, as everyone laughed. Well, almost everyone. I had my hands (and ass, and mouth) full as it was.
The rest of the evening, truth to tell, was a blur. I don't remember who all blew a load into my hand, mouth, or ass, but most of the guys in the room gave me at least two loads as they rotated shifts. Blond god Jason gave me at least four loads, I think.
The worst part was the look of disgust that Johnny gave me as he boned my throat, calling me every name in the book: fag, slut, cumdumpster, etc. I'll never forget it. Our friendship was officially over that night, I knew. He would never be friends with a faggot whore like me.
The rest of the night passed in a haze, as I serviced my betters repeatedly, until the wee hours of dawn.
The following morning, Jake found me, still fastened to the table, kneeling in a pool of congealed semen that had leaked out of my ass. My mouth and hands, and even my back, were covered in dry or drying cum. Even my bald head was cummy, the result of Jason, Shane and Travis unloading their final spunks on the top of my head.
I was sore and tired as my Stepmaster released me from the table, gingerly helping me up as he avoided touching me anywhere that looked slimy or crusty.
He helped me to the privy in the greenhouse, where I squatted down and peed into the prison-style stainless steel toilet. Then he guided me outside and hosed me down with the garden hose. The cold water felt good on my sore muscles. My legs and arms, my back and chest, and all of my joints, felt extremely tender. He unlocked my Glass Slipper, and hosed off my penis, too, when I pulled the Slipper off my dick.
Then he told me to bend over, and he hosed out my pussy. The water up my ass felt icy, but I held still as he hosed me out, cum dripping down my legs. Eventually, I was judged clean. At least, physically, I was clean.
Morally, however, I was nasty as sin, as Jake explained to me, locking me back into the Slipper.
"Dick, I can almost tolerate your need for cock. After all, it seems to serve its purpose, and you've kept me entertained when your mother would not. But I cannot understand why you wouldn't even bother to clean yourself up after a night of debauchery," he said. "This is one more reason why I hate homosexuality: the lack of shame you homos show about basic hygiene. Honestly, Dick; that mess in the dining room is disgusting. You should be ashamed of yourself."
"What about Christopher?" I demanded. "What about Daniel? They participated in that orgy, too!"
"Dick, both Chris and Daniel are upstairs in bed, not laying in pools of other men's semen, or you better believe I'd be tanning their hides right now," Jake said. "I hope you enjoyed your birthday party, young man, because you're going to clean the dining room from top to bottom today. I'll be checking with a blacklight, so you'd better be sure to clean everything with bleach. And I mean everything. If I find any trace of last night's activities, you're in for 30 demerits."
"Yes, Sir," I mumbled. 30 demerits was 150 strokes; something I couldn't possibly handle. I knew I'd have to scrub a very long time to remove any trace of sex from the dining room.
"And that table had better not be broken, boy, or that'll come out of your indenturement account. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, Sir," I repeated. It didn't seem fair that Christopher and Daniel had planned this party, and I was the only one to suffer the consequences, as usual. I couldn't take it anymore. I began to cry.
"Oh, Lord, here come the waterworks again," Jake sighed. "What the Hell is wrong now?"
"I'm sorry, Sir," I sniffed, embarrassed to be weeping in front of this man who hated me so much, but unable to stop. "I'm just... I'm sorry I messed up again. But it doesn't seem right, you guys using me, and then punishing me for being used!"
"Dick, I'm not punishing you for being used," Jake said, exasperation in his voice. "I'm simply telling you to clean up the mess you made, or I will punish you! I don't know how much more fair-minded I can be!"
"You hate me!" I cried. "You'd do anything to punish me further!"
"Dick, that's simply not true," Jake said, reproachfully.
"Yes it is!" I insisted. "If you don't hate me, why'd you extend my sentence by three years?"
"I didn't extend your 'sentence' by three years, Dick," Jake snapped. "I had your 'service' extended by three years because you committed a felony. I was well within my rights to do so, and a well-respected judge agreed with me. If the law didn't agree with me, your contract wouldn't have been extended. And, to be quite frank, if you didn't want to do the time, you shouldn't have committed the crime."
"But it's ten years!" I bawled.
"Dick, I know it seems like a long time, but the years will fly by," Jake said. "Trust me. Before you know it, you'll be free."
"I can't do ten years, Sir," I said. "Please, I beg of you. Shorten the sentence. I'll do anything. Please. Please."
I got down on my hands and knees, groveling before him. "Please, reduce my sentence, Sir," I repeated. "I'll do anything you want. Just name it."
"Well, Dick... There IS one way to reduce your service," Jake allowed.
My heart jumped into my throat as he spoke. Was he actually relenting on something?
"It could be done... But it's a lot of work. I'm not sure you're up to it, boy."
"Please, what is it, Sir?"
"Well, as you know, your contract was to pay off $70,000 over a seven-year period. That works out to $1.71 per work hour; good wages for a servant! But I could hire you out for almost three times that amount, and your debt would be paid off almost four times as fast. Instead of ten years of service, you could be done in a little over three years."
Three years sounded like heaven to my ears, but I was skeptical, after everything that had happened.
"I don't understand, Sir," I said. "Who would you contract me out to? Who would buy my services?"
"Well, let's be honest. You have very few marketable skills, Dick," my Stepmaster said. "And to be quite truthful, you're a high school dropout with very few prospects for the future. I really should probably just forget about trying to hire you out."
"No! Sir! Please," I begged. "I really can't handle ten years of... service. Please. Tell me more about this other way."
"It's pretty simple, really," Jake replied. "Instead of working for me, most of the day, you'd work for someone else. I'd contract you out. You'd still have chores to do here around the house, in the early mornings and at night, but during the day, you'd be paid a handsome five bucks per hour to do work. It would mostly be drudge-work; nothing fancy, since you have no real skills outside of sucking men's penises. But that money would go towards your debt, and you'd have it paid off much more quickly."
"Sir, please, consider hiring me out," I said. I was skeptical about this 'hiring out' business, but I just couldn't bear the thought of the ten-year sentence. I had to get myself out of this situation as quickly as possible!
"I don't know, Dick," he said. "It's not easy, working from sun-up to sun-down, first for one Master, then for another."
"Sir, I'm willing to try," I said.
"Well, that's not good enough," Jake said. "If I'm going to hire you out, I'd need assurances from you that you'd do more than just 'try'. After all, my reputation is the one that's at stake. If you mess up, it would look bad on me. My reputation in the community is important. My name means something in Madison."
"Please, Sir," I begged. "Give me a chance. I'll do more than try."
"Oh... alright," he said reluctantly, with a sigh. "I'm willing to give it a shot. But I'm warning you: It won't be easy."
"I understand, Sir," I said, happy for the first time in a long time. I was so relieved. "Thank you, Sir."
Just then, the doorbell rang.
"That must be Pastor White," Jake said. "Go run and put on some shorts. I'll get the door, just this one time. Then join us in the parlor."
"Yes, Sir," I said.
I ran down to the basement and put on a pair of the Control Shorts, then raced back upstairs to meet this minister. I felt weird about meeting this man in just my undershorts.
As I entered the room, Pastor White smiled at me. He was an older man, graying at the temples. He wore a simple black shirt with a white clerical collar.
"Come forward, Dick," he said to me. "Kneel down. That a boy."
"Your stepfather tells me you've been quite a handful, son," he said. "He says you're disobedient. He says you've taken to lying and thievery, of late. What's going on, son?"
Slowly, awkwardly, I confessed my sins to the pastor. I explained about my situation: that I was a newly indentured servant, that the changes had affected my better judgment, and that I had, indeed, trespassed against my stepfather. That I had stolen his wedding ring, and then lied for days about it. My face burned red as I admitted my sins, but I knew I had to confess.
"Dick, you've violated at least three of the Ten Commandments. 'Honor thy father and mother', 'Thou shalt not steal', and 'Thou shalt not lie'. These commandments come from God Himself. Dick, have you been saved?" Pastor White asked me.
"I... I guess not, Sir," I admitted. "I used to go to church once in a while when I was a Free Man. But I haven't been to church in a year. Could I... Could I go to your church, Sir?"
"Well, no," the Pastor replied. "It's not legal for a contract laborer to attend a Free Man's congregation. Free Men aren't supposed to fraternize with servants and slaves. But that doesn't mean you can't take part in some outside church activities. You see, Dick, God has a plan for you, whether you know it or not. God loves you, despite your many sins."
"Thank you, Sir," I said, grateful to this man for his kind words.
"The fact of the matter, Pastor," Jake said, "is that Dick is an unrepentant homosexual. I'm afraid no amount of outside church activities will cure him of his sins."
"Well, homosexuality is a grievous sin, Jake, but don't be too hasty to judge Dick's sins as too great to overcome. Only God Himself can cast judgment on Dick's soul. I believe Dick can be healed, through prayer and good deeds. If he does many good deeds, eventually, his sins will be outweighed by the good he's done."
"Dick, how would you feel about joining the church's youth group?" he asked me. "We do a lot of good for the community: we have a monthly food drive for the poor, we have an annual raffle for charity, and we do a yearly Easter pageant. I think it's about time we put those muscles of yours to work, don't you, boy?"
"Sir, could I join the youth group?" I asked my stepfather. It sounded like something I might have enjoyed in my previous life: helping people. Before I became a step-servant.
"Alright, Dick," my stepfather said. "But it can't interfere with your chores. Dinner still has to be on the table by 5:30 every night."
"Yes, Sir," I said.
"Good boy!" Pastor White beamed. "We meet on Wednesday nights. you can join us after your dinner hour."
"Thank you, Sir," I said, grateful to be allowed any activity not servant-related.
As Pastor White rose, he said, "Always remember, Dick: God has a plan for you. Even the greatest sinner can be saved. Even the lowest servants can be raised up, through God's love."
It was a very comforting thought.
The next few days dragged by, as I eagerly anticipated Wednesday night. Finally, on Wednesday night, after I had served dinner, and Mom and Jake ate, I scarfed down the scraps and quickly washed the dishes. I know it sounds kind of silly, but I was really looking forward to this youth group thing. In my old life, church activities had been pretty low on my list of priorities. But being allowed to participate in something completely normal, not servant-related, really appealed to me.
After asking permission to excuse myself, and Jake granting permission, I practically flew out the door. I ran down the street, within a few blocks reaching the church, which fronted a hill. I slowed down and half jogged, half walked to the back door. I suddenly felt nervous. What if they didn't like me? What if I didn't fit in because I was a servant? I felt embarrassed to be walking into the church, even the back door, in just a pair of undershorts.
The back door of the church led into the basement, where I could see lots of people around my age working on some big project: sawing, painting, sewing fabric. They looked friendly enough.
I bit the bullet and asked one of the guys, "Excuse me, exalted Sir, I'm here to see Pastor White."
He pointed over to the office, where I could see Pastor White. I thanked the Free Man for his time and went to the office.
"Dick, I'm so glad you made it," Pastor White said, smiling at me. He had such a warm smile. "Let me show you around."
As we walked out of his office, he handed me a long brown apron, which I gratefully donned.
"You'll have to wear this, since you'll be working around young ladies," he explained.
"Sir, what is all this?" I asked.
"This is the set for the Easter play," he explained. "It's going to be quite a spectacle this year. This is our eleventh year; the kids have really outdone themselves, don't you think?"
It was honestly hard to tell what anything was, but it certainly looked massive. There were maybe 30 young men and women involved, all told, working on various projects. Most of the people were obviously Free Men, but I did see two young guys dressed like me, shirtless but wearing brown aprons.
"Let me introduce you to everyone," he said, and we walked up to a group of Free Men and Women.
"Constance, Mark, Alexander, this is Dick Head. He's volunteered to help us with the Easter Pageant."
"It is a pleasure to meet you all, exalted Sirs and Miss," I said.
Constance and Alexander smiled at me, but Mark gave me one of those dark looks I had come to associate with Free Men who didn't like servants.
"Welcome aboard, Dick," Alexander said. "We're going to need someone with your muscles to get this project put together. We only have a week left."
"What do you bench, boy?" Mark asked.
"225, Sir," I said. I guess it was obvious I had been lifting weights for a while. Physically, I was quite big, now. But inside, I felt very small. Especially around alpha male Free Men with chips on their shoulders. The ones who didn't like "my kind".
Then Pastor White led me to the two guys dressed in brown aprons. They were busy building what looked like a cavern out of chicken wire and papier mache.
"Dick, I'd like you to meet Ofglen and Poopy. They're two of our more dedicated indentured servants; they're here every week, and they've done a really good job. Ofglen, Poopy, this is Dick Head. He's volunteered to help us out at the last minute."
"We're really glad to have you, Dick," Ofglen said. "As you can see, we're a bit behind schedule. One more set of arms would be really useful about now."
The servant named 'Poopy' gave a 'thumbs up' sign, as he smiled at me.
"Poopy can't speak," Pastor White explained. "He has no vocal cords after he committed a grave sin against his Master a few years back. But he says 'Welcome to the team!'"
"Well, I'll leave you boys to it," Pastor White said, smiling at me. His smile felt good; no one ever smiled at me anymore, unless they were laughing at me. "Dick, if you have any problems, please don't hesitate to ask for help."
Then he began circulating the room, helping one group of girls with advice about the costumes they were sewing, then directing some other youths as they were painting the backdrop. You could tell he was a stickler for authenticity: everything had to be just right.
"Pastor White is really wonderful," Ofglen said. "I think you'll really like it here. Almost everyone is really kind. Will you please grab that bucket, Dick? We need to make some more papier mache."
I helped Ofglen and Poopy make more papier mache, in the process learning how to make and mold the plaster-like material. It was a lot of fun, and for a little while, I could almost forget that I was a mere contract laborer. Ofglen taught me a lot about the construction technique, and I helped him build a big ball out of chicken wire. The ball would become a boulder that would go over the cave entrance in the play. We got ourselves really messy making the boulder, but it was fun.
A little while later, something happened which wasn't fun at all: Mark and this other young Free Man walked up to us. They had those 'tough guy' faces, looking at us sternly. I recognized that look from my step-brothers; I could tell already they wanted to have a little fun at our expense. We tried to stay on task, keep working, but Mark grabbed Poopy's apron and jerked it up. Poopy wasn't wearing anything under his apron. Not even undershorts.
"Jesus Christ, why the Hell are you naked, Poopy?" Mark asked. "Don't you know there are young ladies present? What if they see your junk?"
Poopy didn't answer, of course. He just stood there, his head bowed down respectfully. I could see he was ashamed; his face started getting red.
"Answer me, boy," Mark said. "What's the matter? Cat got your tongue?"
Poopy blushed further as they laughed at Mark's 'joke'.
"Sir, I don't mean to be disrespectful, but we're just trying to build the set," I said. "Please, Sir, just let us continue."
Mark looked like he was going to snap at me, but luckily, at just that moment, a bell rang. With one last threatening look, the two Free Men turned around and walked toward the office.
"It's time for rehearsal," Ofglen explained. "Come on."
Poopy gave me a grateful look and another 'thumbs up' sign.
I walked with Poopy and Ofglen to side of the basement where the office was. Pastor White was passing out scripts to all the Free Men and Women.
"Where's Ofmichael?" Pastor White asked. "Where's our Dismas?"
"He didn't show up AGAIN," Mark said. "That's the third week in a row. Honestly, I swear these fuckin' servants are totally unreliable."
"Hmmm... Dick, would you be our stand-in for Dismas tonight?" Pastor White asked me.
"Sir, I don't know anything about acting," I said.
"You'll only have two lines, Dick," Pastor White explained. "When I scratch my nose, you say, 'Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.' When I tug on my earlobe, you say, 'We are thieves, but this man has done nothing criminal.' Got it?"
"Yes, Sir," I said, relieved that the two lines were so short.
The group rehearsed for maybe a half an hour, speaking lines from part of the script with one another. We just stood around and spoke lines. When my parts came up, I said them, just as Pastor White told me to. When Pastor White scratched his nose, I said, "Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom." When he tugged on his earlobe, I said, "We are thieves, but this man has done nothing criminal."
He praised me for my delivery. "Dick, that was quite good. You have some acting talent. I always strive for realism when we do these plays, and your delivery was quite good.
I smiled at his kind words. "Thank you, Sir."
Ofglen had quite a large part. To my surprise, I had discovered he was playing the part of Jesus of Nazareth.
"It is a great honor," he said, smiling at me. "It is a constant reminder to me that even a humble servant like myself can be given a great honor."
After rehearsal, the youth group activities came to an end, and everyone headed home. Ofglen, Poopy, and I put our brown aprons on hooks and then headed outside. Poopy was completely naked; Ofglen, like me, was dressed in Control Shorts. Like me, Ofglen was quite fit, especially his rock-hard washboard abs.
Outside, the stars shone overhead, twinkling merrily. I could see Orion far above me.
We walked together for a short while, before Poopy turned off on a side street. Ofglen apparently lived very close to where I lived, on Connaway Street.
"I feel really bad for Poopy," I said. "Losing your vocal cords must be pretty awful."
"Yes. But he should never have done what he did," Ofglen said. "His Master was merciful, and only took his voice. By law, he could have done much more."
"What did he do, Ofglen?"
"Poopy plotted treason against his Master," Ofglen said. "I don't know the details, but apparently, it was bad. When his Master found out, he had him taken to the Clinic and had it done."
"How awful!" I said.
"It is not ours to judge his punishment," Ofglen said. "Only ours to learn from his mistakes, and thus avoid such punishments ourselves. Well, this is where I turn off."
"Thank you, Ofglen," I said. "It was very nice to meet you."
"And it was nice to meet you as well, Dick," he said, as he walked down the street.
I hurried down the block to my house, since I knew I still had evening chores to complete.
I told my mother and Stepmaster the following morning, over their breakfast, that Pastor White had asked me to be a stand-in at the rehearsal. Mom said, "Oh, that sounds wonderful, dear. What part did you play?"
"I played Dismas," I said. "I never heard of him before. It was just two lines."
"Ah, the Penitent Thief," Jake said. "How appropriate. Dick, did you know you were playing a thief when you accepted the role? I'm sure you'll bring a sense of realism to the part, having been down that road yourself."
Why did he have to bring my thievery up again?! I had already apologized profusely, and had been punished severely. Couldn't he let it rest? At the same time I was thinking this, I also realized I deserved for it to be brought up again and again. I knew I needed the reminder, so that it never happened again. I had committed a crime, and I needed the reminder of my sins.
"Sir, I was just standing in for someone else, because he was absent," I said.
"Well, as long as it doesn't interfere with your chores, you can keep going to the youth group," he said, permissively. "Playing a penitent thief might just teach you a valuable lesson about the difference between right and wrong."
"Thank you, Sir," I said. "It won't interfere with my work, Sir."
"Speaking of chores, Dick, I spoke on the phone with Mr. Witt down at Witt Farms. He said they have an opening for a farm hand, and they're interested in hiring a strong young man for the position. The job pays five bucks an hour, just as I suspected. He'd like us to come over there next week to meet you and see if you'd be a good fit for Witt Farms."
"Thank you, Sir," I said. "Does this mean that the length of my contract would be reduced?"
"Yes, boy. Let me grab my figures," he said, as he walked over to the counter, and picked up a pad of paper. "At $5.00 per hour, 49 hours per week, plus your regular contract wages of $1.71 per hour for 25 hours per week, you'd earn $14,963 per year. You'd have a $70,000 debt paid off in just over four and a half years."
"Oh thank God," I said. "Thank you for arranging this, Sir."
"Well, it all depends now on if you get the job, boy. Look sharp during the interview. Don't give Mr. Witt any reason not to hire you. Don't make him angry; do exactly as you're told, without question. Mr. Witt's a busy man; he doesn't want to have his time wasted."
"Yes Sir," I said.
"Alright, you can clean our plates now," Jake said.
I took the dishes, ate the scraps, and washed them quickly.
For the next week and a half, I busied myself at the church a couple of hours each night, getting ready for the play. On Saturday night, Ofglen, Poopy, and I moved the stage and the set pieces outdoors and rolled them up the hill on dollies. It was tough work, but it felt rewarding. The servant who was supposed to play Dismas had stopped showing up, so Pastor White asked me to permanently take on the role in the play. I was glad to help Pastor White out, and accepted the part, after checking that it would be okay with my Stepfather. Thankfully, he agreed.
Pastor White explained that he wanted everything to be as realistic as possible. He said the audience wouldn't enjoy the play as much if the play looked inauthentic. He stressed the fact that costuming, set decoration, and acting all had to be just right. I promised to try my best.
At last, it was Easter Sunday, the day of the big Easter Pageant. I fixed my Stepfamily Sunday breakfast super-early so I would have time to get ready for the play. I had to be at the church by 8. I hosed myself off with the garden hose in the greenhouse, and Jake unlocked the Glass Slipper. It felt good to be out of that awful thing! It was so confining and tight.
To my surprise, after my "shower", Jake said, "Dick, if you promise not to touch yourself, you don't have to wear the Glass Slipper today. It's Easter, after all: the Lord's Day."
"Thank you, Sir," I said, gratefully. "I promise I won't touch myself." I never HAD touched myself, but I knew he would never believe me.
"Good boy," he said. "Now you go down to the church, and we'll be down to watch the play after breakfast."
I went downstairs and put on a clean pair of Control Shorts; then I went back up and jogged down to the church. Everyone was running around, getting last-minute preparations made.
Just then, Alexander, one of the more friendly Free Men I'd met, walked up to me. He was quite young, looking to me no more than 15 or 16 years old. He was wearing part of a Roman centurion costume, the big, fringed helmet in his hand.
"There you are, Dick!" he said. "I've been looking all over for you. I was worried you might not show up."
"No, Sir," I said, feeling strange at calling someone younger than myself 'Sir'. "I wouldn't back out now. I'm happy to be involved in the youth group."
"Here's your costume," he said, handing me a loincloth. "Mrs. White just finished making the servants' costumes last night."
I took the loincloth; it looked... small.
"No, ninny," he said, as I started to put it on. "It's got to look authentic. Take off those Control Shorts. Pastor White wants as much historical accuracy as possible."
I felt a little weird about disrobing right there, in the middle of the church basement, with so many people milling around us, but I didn't seem to have a choice. I didn't know if they had dressing rooms, but it didn't seem like they did. I wrapped the loincloth around my waist, then pulled the Control Shorts down and off my legs. There didn't appear to be a locker in which to put my shorts, so I set them on a nearby chair.
Just then, Ofglen walked up with another servant, who I had not yet met. Ofglen introduced me to Ofmartin, who would be playing some character named Gestas. As Ofmartin greeted me, he pulled off his brown work apron, unashamed of his nudity, and donned his loincloth. Ofglen was already dressed as Jesus of Nazareth, and he looked the part: he wore a full-length Arabian-style robe, and he'd been allowed to grow a beard. A long, brown wig completed the transformation. He looked like Jesus.
Pastor White motioned for everyone to gather 'round. He gave the group a pep-talk, reminding us to remain in character no matter what. "That especially goes for you three," he said to Ofglen, Ofmartin, and me. "All eyes will be on you three for several hours, so it's important that you always stay in character."
"Yes, Sir," we said.
"Alright, folks. Go out there and break a leg!"
Ofmartin laughed and elbowed me in the ribs. "Good one, right?" he said.
"Yeah," I said, not sure what he was talking about.
Then everyone filed outside and took our places at the base of the hill. I was surprised to see such a big crowd. It seemed as though the entire church congregation was there, all dressed in their finest. I spotted my step-family in the crowd: Mom, Jake, Christopher, and Daniel. Mom was wearing a pink dress and a matching hat. Jake and my step-brothers were wearing suits. Mom had a worried expression on her face; she was obviously worried I'd forget my lines. Jake was smiling at me, for the first time in weeks.
It was so nice that they were supportive of my youth group activities. I actually felt touched; not only had they come out to watch me in the play, but they actually were supporting me.
Christopher had a weird shit-eating grin on his face. I wondered briefly what that was all about, but the play was starting.
Young men dressed as heralds came out, saying "Harken, for our governor, Pontius Pilate, speaks!"
"Bring forth the prisoners," the youth playing Pontius Pilate said.
Ofglen, Ofmichael and I were herded forward by the "centurions".
"Jesus of Nazareth, do you not hear the things they testify against You? Are You the King of the Jews?"
"It is as you say," Ofglen said, holding up his hand in a holy gesture.
The actor playing Pilate addressed the crowd. "Because of the feast day, I will release one prisoner. Whom do you want me to release to you? Barabbas, or Jesus who is called Christ?"
The crowd of Easter-goers called out, "Release Barabbas!"
Then "Pilate" said, "What then shall I do with Jesus?"
The crowd called out, "Let Him be crucified!"
"What evil has He done?"
"Let Him be crucified!" the Easter crowd hollered again.
"Very well," Pilate said, "I am innocent of the blood of this just Person. I wash my hands of this. Let the prisoners be scourged and crucified."
Then the "centurions" grabbed us roughly, and threw us to the ground. They began beating us with whips and chains. But they weren't acting, and they weren't wielding props! Mark and Alexander, dressed as Roman centurions, took turns covering my back with welts. I shouted and screamed. First Alexander would hit me with the whip, then Mark would lash me with a chain.
"Stop! Stop!" I screamed. But they continued to lash me repeatedly. After about a minute of beating, they dragged me back to my feet.
"Strip the prisoners," one centurion said, and our loincloths were ripped off. A crown of thorns was placed on Ofglen's head. Then we were handed wooden crosses, and forced to carry them up the hill. I've never been so frightened in my life. The "centurions" spat on us and whipped us as we dragged the heavy crosses up around the hill. Someone helped Ofglen carry his cross for a while, but no such help came my way.
"This is for thievery!" Mark said, as he whipped me again.
"Thou shalt not steal!" Alexander cried, as he lashed me with a chain.
And when we came out to the top of the hill, they had us lay down on our crosses, and tied us to them. Mark smiled down at me as he tied my legs to the wooden cross. He was enjoying this!
Then they slowly raised the crosses into place, into the holes in the wooden stage that Ofglen, Poopy, and I had pulled up to the top of the hill the previous night. And there we hung, like sides of beef.
I looked out into the crowd, and saw my Stepfamily. Mom and Jake looked like they were beaming with pride.
"Make us proud, boy!" Jake said. "You can do it!"
I saw Pastor White step forward, out of the crowd. He smoothed his hair. Then Ofmartin said, "Are you not the Messiah, Jesus? Save yourself and us."
Pastor White tugged on his earlobe, the sign for me to say my line. Holy fuck! He wanted me to say my line while I hung from a fucking crucifix!
Part of me railed inside. It wasn't fair! How dare they do this to me!? I am a human being! I do not deserve this! The other part of me, the larger part, realized there was nothing I could do.
"Have you no fear of God?" I asked. "We have been condemned justly, for we are thieves, but this man has done nothing criminal."
Pastor White scratched his nose.
I said, "Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom."
Then Ofglen said, "Amen I say to you: today you will be with me in Paradise."
The pastor then stepped forward and announced to the crowd: "Ladies and gentlemen, we will take a break now. There's punch and cookies on the front lawn, and in one hour, we'll have the Easter Egg hunt."
The crowd headed to the front of the property, as Pastor White looked up at me. "You're doing great, boy," he said, patting me on the foot, just below my rope bindings.
"Sir, please let me down, now."
"Oh, no," he said. "We can't do that until after 3 o'clock," he said. "This play must be as authentic as possible. Just as the Lord suffered on the Cross for His sins."
"Sir, please," I begged.
"Dick, relax," he said. "It's not so bad. You don't see Ofglen or Ofmartin complaining, do you?"
"Just release yourself, Dick," Ofglen said. "Let go of yourself. Embrace the pain."
"I don't want to embrace the pain," I said, tears trickling down my cheeks. "I want to go home."
"It is a great honor to serve our congregation, Dick," Ofglen said. "Serve honorably, so we may enter the kingdom of Heaven."
Pastor White went off to entertain his congregation. Slowly, I resigned myself to my fate. What choice did I have?
We hung there for hours. The ropes that bound me to the cross were tight, and dug into my arms and my legs. The hot sun blazed overhead, burning my skin. Sweat dripped into my eyes, but I couldn't wipe it away, because my arms were tied to the cross. My body became shiny with perspiration as sweat coated me, stinging my wounds. My arms became sore and then numb as my body inexorably pulled downward on the cross.
"This is what Jesus felt before He died," I realized.
The pain became excruciating. I moaned in agony. Most of the pain was in my arms, although my back and my ankles felt like they were on fire. Sometimes, I heard Ofmartin groan, too. But I never heard Ofglen complain. Like mine, sweat trickled down his body, and blood still trickled down his back. But it was as if the pain did not touch him.
"It is a great honor," he whispered, over and over.
Below us, down the hill, young children and their parents gathered for the Easter Egg hunt. The children ran around the lawn, searching for their eggs as we hung from our crosses. Occasionally, a child would look and point at us, apparently asking why we were hanging here. It was too far to hear what they asked. Their parents explained, I guess. Later, the Easter Bunny made an appearance.
I railed again, against the injustice. Why were Free Men allowed to do these things to us? How could they live with themselves?!
But deep inside, I knew the answer. They did these things because it was the right thing to do. They only did as God had commanded. The Bible tells us what is right and what is wrong. Homosexuality is wrong. Thievery is wrong. Lying is wrong. I had committed these sins, and was now being punished for my transgressions.
"I deserve this punishment," I thought to myself. "I have been condemned justly, for I am a thief. I am a homo. I am a liar."
It took me a long time, but I began to embrace the pain. I let go of myself.
"Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom."
"Today you will be with me in paradise," Ofglen said.
Had I spoken aloud?
Later, I began hallucinating. I saw visions of Jesus smiling down at me from Heaven.
"My God! My God! Why have you forsaken me?" I heard Jesus say. Or was it Ofglen? The play. It was a play.
And then, I felt great pain, as someone hit me in the thighs with something heavy. A wooden board. I screamed and screamed as the pain ripped through me. And then Ofmartin screamed, as the centurions his him across the thighs with the same board.
I don't know exactly how long we were up there. It had started to become difficult to breathe. At some point, we were taken down from the cross. It was in the afternoon, I think. Ofglen's body was taken to the cave we had built. The centurions lowered my cross and untied the ropes. I was so stiff I couldn't move, and was barely aware of what was going around me. They dragged me down the back side of the hill and around the side to the front, into the back of the church.
I lay there, on the basement floor, as Pastor White knelt down beside me.
"You did great, Dick," he whispered, as he wiped my brow with a cool cloth.
"...Sir, I'm... s-s-so s-s-sorry for my sins," I stammered.
"Shhh. I know you are, Dick," he said, as he pressed a bottle of water to my lips, and dribbled a bit of water between my lips.
"The Lord forgives you, boy. But now you are reborn, and you must try harder to be a good servant, so that you do not fall into Satan's trap once more."
"T-h-hank you, Sir," I said, grateful at his kindness.
"Lay here and recover," he said, not unkindly. "I must tend Ofmartin, now."
My arms were too sore to move them, but after a while, I was able to move my legs a bit, even bend them somewhat, if I did it slowly, gingerly. The circulation slowly grew better in my limbs as regular bloodflow returned. I could see big bruises already forming on my thighs where a centurion had hit me with a board, but thankfully, my legs did not appear to be broken. My feet and ankles were swollen; the ropes had bitten into the skin. My feet tingled as proper bloodflow returned to them.
I don't remember how long it was, but Ofmartin and I lay there for a long while, slowly recovering, as Pastor White gave us water; first one, and then the other. And then the stage crew came in, and slowly helped us to our feet, cleaned our wounds, dressed us in our brown aprons, and then sat us in the corner.
And then, a little later, the costumed performers came inside: the centurions and the weeping women, and Pilate. And a Free Man dressed as Jesus, with a halo around his head, and a tablet with the Ten Commandments in his hands. Everyone was talking, excited about how well the play had gone; I heard applause from outside.
"Great work, everyone," Pastor White said. "Especially our Mary Magdalene! There wasn't a dry eye when you wept over the body of Jesus. Wonderful work, Mary Sue!"
The girl named Mary Sue blushed as Pastor White complimented her work.
"Jakob, really nice job playing Pilate! I could feel how torn your character was; that's the hallmark of great acting. And Mark! When you swung that two-by-four at the thieves' legs, I really believed you'd busted them up. Well done!"
"Thank you, Pastor," Mark said. "I tried my best."
"Alexander, Thomas, David, great job scourging the prisoners. And Seth, wonderful job playing the resurrected Jesus; I felt truly moved by your performance."
The guy holding the tablets took a bow, as his fellow performers clapped.
"And I'd like to take a moment to thank the three people who worked the hardest: our three costume designers, Marie Mitchell, Dawn Richardson and my wife, Louise White. Let's give these ladies a big hand; they made everything look as authentic as possible."
Everyone clapped.
"Alright, thanks everyone. Hopefully, we'll see you all next year. Have a good evening!"
The performers began to disperse, as my Stepmaster entered the basement.
"There you are, Dick!" he said. "Don't just sit there. We've got to get home so you can make dinner."
"I'm sorry, Sir," I said, as I struggled to get to my feet. I could move my arms just a little, now, but every movement of them made me wince.
"Dick, that's not my apron, is it? It probably belongs to the church. Take it off and give it to the staff so we can get going."
"Yes, Sir," I said, as I reluctantly took off the work apron.
"Dick, where are your shorts?"
I walked over to the chair where I had set them, but they were gone!
"Sir, I can't find them," I admitted.
"Dick, this is the second pair of shorts you've 'lost' in the last four months," Jake said, obviously peeved. "You need to find them, right now, young man, or I'm issuing you five demerits."
I looked everywhere, but I couldn't find them. Someone had taken them.
The look of disappointment on my Stepmaster's face was nearly as bad as the thrashing I received, as punishment for the missing shorts. And the cost of the missing shorts was added to my indenturement debt.
Later that week, once I had fully recovered from Sunday, we went out to Witt Farms. The property was just a few minutes drive from my Stepmaster's house, and so we drove out there, in my Stepmaster's Jeep. The property looked really lovely, with gardens and beautifully sculpted terraces overlooking a sparkling blue lake. It would be a pleasure to work out here!
Once we arrived, an older man came out to greet us. He was apparently just a butler; he led us around the side of the house to the patio, where we met Mr. Witt, who was sunning himself in a patio chair. He was a large man, shirtless and well-tanned. He was just as well-built as my Stepmaster, except he had a 'roid gut: you know, the type of abdomen you'd see on old-timey pictures of Dorian Yates or Jay Cutler.
When he stood up, his jeans rode so low on his hips I could actually see about an inch of his penis above the waist of his pants. I couldn't help but stare.
"Head, you old dog! he said, walking up and shaking my Stepmaster's hand, "How are you these days?"
"Just fine, Witt, just fine," Jake replied. "This is the drudge I was talking to you about. My step-drudge, Dick Head."
Mr. Witt looked over at me with a stern, evaluating look. He was tall; he towered over me. His big muscles were quite intimidating.
"You say the boy's name is Dickhead?" Mr. Witt said, still eyeing me.
"Yes. Dick Head."
"Flex your biceps, boy," he said to me.
I flexed my arms. Then he had me flex my pecs, and then my back, and then he checked my teeth.
"Boy's too weak, Head," he said, shaking his head. "I'm looking for a bigger drudge. Bulk this one up for another six months, Jake, and then come see me again. I need a servant who can plow fields, not a fuckin' houseboy."
"He's stronger than he looks, Witt," Jake said. "He may be a limp-wristed pansy, but give him a chance: he's been bulking up. Try him out. He might surprise you."
"Alright. I'll give your bitch a one-day tryout. If he's able to plow that field from end to end, I'll hire him."
Mr. Witt grabbed me by my iron collar and tugged me towards the plow. On the ground, in front of the plow, there was a long wooden beam.
"Get that yoke up on your shoulders, boy," Mr. Witt ordered.
"But Sir," I said, "I thought I'd be pushing the plow."
"Shut the fuck up! You're not pushing it. You're gonna be pulling it. Now get that yoke up on your fuckin' shoulders."
I lifted the beam up onto my shoulders. It was quite heavy. Then Mr. Witt fastened a U-shaped piece under my neck to the yoke.
"Arms up, bitch!" he yelled.
I lifted both of my arms up and then he fastened my right wrist to the bottom side of the beam. Then he repeated the binding on the opposite side, so that my left arm was now also bound to the beam. He then fastened a short chain from the wooden beam to my collar. My upper body was now trussed to the wooden beam. Then he pulled down my undershorts, and left them lying on the ground.
"Open your fucking mouth, cunt," he commanded. And when I did so, he pushed a long metal bar crosswise into my mouth. It stretched my lips back painfully as he pulled the attached leather straps back, and tied them behind my head, where my neck and head joined. Then he pushed my forehead back as far as it would go, and looped the straps into my collar and then fastened the ends of the straps to the beam on my shoulders. My head was pulled back so far that my neck was strained backwards, with my face pointing skyward. I couldn't even see the ground!
I started to panic. This wasn't what I signed up for: I had agreed to be a farm hand. But Mr. Witt was trussing me up like I was a beast of burden! I cried out as best I could.
"Calm down, bitch," he said, stroking my forehead like I was a horse. "That's just a bit in your mouth. It's just there to guide you right or left, go or stop."
Then he fastened the ends of the yoke to the front of the plow, and fastened reins to each side of the bit in my mouth.
"When I pull left, go to the left, bitch," he said. "When I pull right, go to the right. When I pull back on both reins, stop. When I use the whip, go faster. You understand me, cunt?"
"Yef, Fir," I said, unable to say it more clearly, due to the metal bit in my mouth.
"And no breaks until the work is completely done. Do I make myself clear, faggot?"
"Yef, Fir."
"Let's get more thing straight, dickhead: I don't cotton to drudges calling me 'Sir'. That term lacks the proper respect due to me. You call me 'Master'. You hear me, dickhead?"
"Yef, Maffeh," I said.
"Good. That will be your only warning, cunt."
With that, he stepped back to the plow, took a dressage whip, and applied it across my bare backside. I jerked forward, trying to escape the lash, and in doing so, pulled the plow forward. The plow was quite heavy, but I found that pulling it was doable, if I put my whole body behind it. The worst part, apart from the whip of course, was that horrible bit. I couldn't close my mouth, and I was soon drooling from the corners of my mouth, where the bit held my mouth open. I drooled all down the sides of my mouth, and down my neck. It was humiliating.
The other awful aspect of the bit was having my head pulled back so far. With the bridle fastened so tightly to the back of my collar, my neck was craned painfully backwards, with almost no room to move my head. My neck muscles strained with every movement. And with my wrists fastened to the crossbeam, I couldn't even use my arms for leverage. My legs, back, shoulders, and neck bore the entire workload.
I spent several hours laboring, the hot sun now fully overhead, as sweat poured down my body. The plow became heavier with each new furrow-row. My side ached from the exertion. Welts covered my back; Master Witt used the whip frequently, and every lash elicited a howl from me, and, sometimes, a laugh from him.
With my head and neck craned back so far, it was impossible for me to see where I was going. I had to rely on Master Witt pulling the reins right or left to tell me where to go. When he wanted me to go right, he'd jerk on the right rein and say "Gee, boy!". When he wanted me to go left, he'd yank on the left rein and say "Haw, boy!". If I slowed down, even for a moment, he'd lash me with that infernal whip. When I had to pee, I pissed on the ground as I pulled the plow; the piss drained out of the Glass Slipper onto the ground. There were no breaks, no moments of rest. It was hell on earth.
I pulled the plow all day, my body pushed to its limits (and beyond) by Master Witt's cruel lash. I panted and gasped and nearly passed out near the end. But Master Witt showed me no mercy, and I could not stop until I had finished.
At long last, I pulled the plow to the end of the last furrow. My chest heaving, I dropped to my knees, panting heavily.
Master Witt walked up to where I was kneeling. "You done good, bitch. But tomorrow'll be much harder. I went easy on you, since it's your first day. But no more coddling, after today."
"Wa-ah, Maffah. Wa-ah!" I cried, begging this horrible man for water.
"You want something to drink, asswipe?" he asked.
"Yef, eefe, Maffah," I said through the bit.
Then he unzipped the fly of his jeans and took a piss on my face. "Open your mouth, bitch," he commanded. "Or you won't get a drink."
Reluctantly, I... opened my mouth. I drank his piss. I didn't like it, but it was piss or nothing. His pee was strong and unpleasant.
When it was done, Master Witt zipped back up, and then walked back to the plow; he unfastened the ropes holding the plow to the yoke. Then he shook the reins and guided me to the stables. On the way there, I did an incredibly stupid thing: I turned to the side and bent down to retrieve the Control Shorts.
My Stepmaster had spent the last few days lecturing me about my supreme stupidity in losing my shorts on Sunday, and when I saw the new pair laying there next to the freshly plowed field, it was just an automatic thing. I did it without even thinking. Unfortunately, this greatly displeased Master Witt.
"What the FUCK do you think you're doing, assmunch!?" he hollered at me, furious that I went off course. He pulled the reins back, hard, in doing so yanking me upright. "You don't decide where to go! I am the Master! You are my bitch!"
He lashed me with the whip repeatedly, as I writhed in pain. Then he flicked the reins again. He led me into the stables, and from there into the first stall, and, to my horror, fastened my collar to a chain that was bolted to the floor. I was still fastened to that hellish yoke, the crossbeam still weighing down my shoulders, my arms still tied to the ends of the yoke, making it difficult for me to breathe right.
I watched, numb, as Master Witt pulled out his cell phone and made a video call to my Stepmaster. I hadn't noticed when Jake had left.
"Head. Witt here. I think your bitch might work out after all. Too weak, but I'm slowly whipping the pussy out of him. It could work. In fact, how much would you consider selling the remainder of your drudge's contract for?"
"Well, that's a good question," my Stepmaster replied. "Hmmm... Dick still owes me $67,700.00. To keep the house and property in good condition, we'd need to hire a maid or get another servant, which would set me back another 20 grand. But Dick has sentimental value, too: he was once my wife's son, before I had a district judge remove his birth certificate from the Wisconsin state database, earlier this month. I think the wife's still fairly attached to him, at least on some level. It would take a lot of cash to heal that kind of wound."
"'Sentimental' my ass! Cut the bullshit, Head, and give me a number, you old dog."
"A hundred thousand," my Stepmaster said.
"Your bitch isn't worth half that much."
"Oh, he's worth it to us! Or pretty close. Would you take 90,000?"
"...80's about the highest I can go. The faggot's not even fully trained."
"85?"
Master Witt scratched his chin for a moment. "83, and you throw in your slut's accessories."
"Sold!" Jake said. "I'll have to talk it over with the wife, but I think I can get her on board, with a little coaxing. Once I sweet-talk her into realizing it's high time Dick finally left the nest, she'll agree, I think."
"Maybe a mink coat will ease her pain," Master Witt suggested. "In my experience, broads always like furs."
"Nah, she'll want a long trip somewhere. A month-long trip to Cancun, maybe. It'll keep her mind occupied for a while. By the time we get back, she'll be about ready to have our baby, and by the time she has a new kid, she'll all but forget that fuckin' turd."
"How far along is your wife, Head?"
"Four months. We're having a boy. I talked her into naming him 'Richard'. He'll be the son she never had. A real son; not a faggot cocksucker. A do-over."
Tears streamed down my face as I listened to this conversation. Had my Stepfather just SOLD my contract to this horrible man?! And was I being completely replaced by Jake and my mother's new baby? Did I even officially exist anymore? I crumpled to the ground in despair and exhaustion, the yoke digging into my shoulders as I did so. I didn't care; I was unsure if I could go on living any longer.
Note: This chapter concludes the original "Cinderfella" storyline, but another author may continue with a spin-off. Thank you everyone for your encouragement and commentary during the writing of this story. Your encouragement and ideas kept this story going.
This story was meant, in part, as a commentary about our society. Open questions: Why does society allow stepfathers to treat their stepchildren, especially boys, so poorly? Why do mothers tolerate it? And yet, so often they do. This story used a common fairy tale plotline and reversed the traditional gender roles of "Cinderella": males became females, and females became male. But in doing so, the humiliation and abuse suffered by the protagonist could be multiplied greatly, even in the beginning of the story. What role does society's "toughening up" of young men play in abuse, and why do we tolerate things being done to boys that would never be tolerated for girls? The abuse of the White House Boys, in Florida, for example, was state-supported abuse.