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Cinderfella, pt. 5
It was the year 2030 when the repeal of the 13th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution changed my life. Diminishing incomes meant my mother was no longer able to pay the bills, and I had willingly signed a contract indenturing myself to my new stepfather, a man named Jake Head. Jake was a total jerk, and I hated living in his house. But the situation became much worse when his sons came for a visit.
"Don't I know you?" one of Jake's sons said, looking at me closer. "Wait a minute. Of course I do. I'd recognize that ugly face anywhere. You're 'Icky Ricky'!"
"Dude, no way!" the other one said. "That kid was a fuckin' faggot!"
"No, it's him," the first one said. "Look at those big jughead ears. Looks like fuckin' Dopey. Even without the hair, I can tell it's him."
The words 'Icky Ricky' had suddenly flashed me back to my freshman year of high school, when I had been continually bullied by several jock upperclassmen. Every day, they had made my school life a living hell. It was only when they finally graduated that high school had become bearable for me.
Now, as I looked at them, I recognized them. And my heart sank as I realized these two assholes who had tormented me for so long were now my stepbrothers. Shit!
"Dude, it IS Icky Ricky!" the other guy said.
"Boys, watch your language around your mother," my stepfather said. "And try to treat Dick here with some respect. He's your step-servant, not a field slave."
"Sorry, Dad," Christopher said. "I just can't believe it. I sat one table away from Icky Ricky at lunch for two years."
It was true: during high school, he and his jock buddies had all sat a nearby table, throwing spitwads and garbage at me during lunch. They made comments and humiliated me every day until eventually I had given up eating lunch at all. During lunch hour, I would go hide in the restroom, feeling like a complete coward and loser. But I couldn't face them. Mom had always wondered why I had such an appetite at dinner: Christopher Head and his asshole buddies were the reason.
"That's nothing!" Daniel said. "Icky Ricky was my lab partner in Chemistry class."
Daniel had tormented me even more than Christopher had. He had been my assigned Chem partner, and unlike Christopher, I couldn't get away from him. Every day in class, while he sat next to me, he would call me names and treat me like shit. The other students had joined in at times, but he was the main instigator. Several times in private, I had asked the teacher to please reassign me to a different lab partner, but the teacher, Mr. Grimes, had just told me to "suck it up".
I can't tell you how awful I felt right then, standing in front of two of my high school tormenters. I felt like I was a freshman again, reliving that nightmare. But it was even worse, now: these young men were successful, well-dressed, and wealthy, and I was this dopey-looking, bald-pated, jug-eared indentured servant loser standing there in my underwear on Christmas Eve.
"So you three already know each other!" Jake said. "That's great. It will be much less awkward for everyone that way. Now let's go to the dining room and get something to eat. I'm famished!"
Everyone agreed with that suggestion, and headed for the dining room. I trailed behind. I didn't want to eat dinner with these two assholes who had already made two years of my life so miserable. And I didn't want to eat with my bastard stepfather, who constantly criticized and humiliated me. Part of me wanted to go hide in the restroom, as I had done in high school.
Instead, I followed them into the dining room, which I had just cleaned and festively decorated for the holiday earlier that day. The table was decorated with folded green and red napkins. I had carefully set the table, making sure to set out all the forks, knives, and spoons correctly.
Mom, Jake, Christopher and Daniel each grabbed their seats at the table, everyone saying how hungry they were.
"The table looks wonderful, Richard," Mom complimented me.
"It really does," my stepfather agreed. "Wait. Where are the lobster picks?"
"sir, I... Lobster pick?"
"Yes, the lobster picks, Dick. Where are they? I distinctly told you we'd be having lobster tonight. And I saw you boiling the lobster myself. But how can we eat our lobster without lobster picks?" He looked at me like I was an idiot.
"Sir, please... I don't even know what a lobster pick is," I admitted.
Daniel smirked.
My stepfather gave me a disappointed look. "They're the long, narrow forks in the fork drawer. Go get us some."
I ran off to the kitchen find some lobster picks, returning a few minutes later. As I handed them to Jake, he said, "Two demerits, boy."
I shuddered, thinking of last night's paddling.
"I'm sorry, Sir," I said. "I didn't..."
"'Sorry' doesn't get back the time we just wasted," Jake said testily. "Honestly, Dick, I thought you could at least get the table settings correct without me having to supervise. You're going to have to get with the program, the sooner the better."
"I'm really sorry, Sir," I stammered.
"Yes, I heard you the first time, boy," he snapped. "The question is, when will you stop being so goddamned incompetent?"
"Jake," Mom said, her voice full of rapprochement. "He didn't know. Our family's never had money; he's probably never heard of a lobster pick before, and..."
"Marsha, you've got to stop making excuses for the boy," he said.
He turned back to me and said, "Nevermind, just bring us our salads."
I brought out the salads while they said grace as a family, holding each other's hands across the table. Then they began eating as the four of them chatted merrily. I ate my salad at the kitchen counter, as befitting someone of my station, keeping my ears open in case they needed anything. I knew I better not slip up any more tonight. I hoped I wouldn't. I knew I probably would. Why did my stepfather have to be such a perfectionist? Wasn't I already serving him to the best of my abilities?! Just thinking about it made me lose my appetite.
Later, after I brought out the main course, Mom mentioned how chilly it was in the dining room.
"That's because the fire's gone down too low," Jake said. "Dick, be a good boy and go get some more logs for the fireplace. There's a big pile of logs on the back deck."
"Yes Sir," I said, as obediently as possible. I went out the back door to quickly grab a few logs for the fire. The wooden deck was very cold on my bare feet.
As I rounded the corner, I saw my new family through the picture window. They looked so much like a Norman Rockwell painting, sitting there eating and chatting merrily, their golden hair shining in the lamplight. Mom laughed at something Jake said. With her fancy new clothes and make-up, she looked as much a part of the Head family as the rest of them.
I felt like such an outsider, watching them from out on the deck. I didn't have their golden hair or Norman Rockwell looks. I wasn't successful or athletic. I was their step-servant, nothing more.
I brought in the firewood, listening to my stepfather complain about how long it took to bring in a few pieces of wood.
After dinner, everyone went into the living room to open Christmas presents. They all oohed and ahhed appreciatively as they opened their gifts. Christopher was especially pleased when he opened the package containing his new PlayStation 9; as much delighted as when Daniel opened up his new XBox Seven. Mom seemed thrilled with her new designer handbag and pashmina, while Jake loved his new power tools. Every present seemed so perfect, like in a Hollywood movie.
I stood in the background, trying not to look envious at all the fantastic gifts everyone was receiving. I'm pretty sure I wasn't entirely successful.
When all the presents were opened, Mom turned around and beckoned to me. She whispered, "There's still one present left, Richard. Go get it. Go on, sweetie."
"Thank you, Mom," I said, glad that she still cared about me, even if I wasn't 'Norman Rockwell' material.
I went over to the tree and picked up the last present, which had been nearly hidden under all the discarded wrapping paper from the other presents. I unwrapped it slowly, savoring the moment. It was only one gift, but it was mine.
It was a nice pair of jeans and a polo shirt. I looked at Mom with tears in my eyes, gratitude welling in my heart. I'd actually have something to wear on special occasions.
"Thank you, Mom," I said. I couldn't say anything else. The words wouldn't come.
"I'm really sorry, Dick," my stepfather said. "But you can't keep that gift. Indentured servants aren't allowed to own any possessions in the state of Wisconsin."
"But Jake..." Mom began.
"I'm sorry, Marsha," he said, firmly. "I really wish you had asked me about this purchase before you made it. Unfortunately, Dick can't keep it. It's just not legal."
Jake gently but firmly took the box from my hands and slowly passed it over to his sons. "Do either of you want a nice pair of jeans or a polo?" he asked.
"I'll take the jeans," Christopher said.
"I'll take the polo, I guess," Daniel shrugged. "It's not really my style, but I suppose I can donate it to the Poorhouse tomorrow."
"That's my boy," Jake said, beaming with pride. "Always thinking of others. I raised you well, son." He patted Daniel on the shoulder.
Then he turned to me and said, "Dick, I really am sorry about the present. I didn't know your mom was going to get you a gift. But as an indenturee, you just cannot legally own things. You're contracted labor, not a Free Man. The laws are very clear. I hope you understand, boy."
"Yes, Sir," I said, fighting back tears. The last thing I wanted to do was cry in front of these people. I excused myself to go to the downstairs restroom.
When I got back from the restroom, Daniel was telling a funny anecdote.
"Here he is!" he said. "Get over here, you big knucklehead. I was just telling Dad and Mom about all the fun we used to have in high schhol. Remember that game we used to play in high school, called 'Johnny Jet'? You remember that game, right, Dick?"
'Oh, God. Not Johnny Jet,' I thought to myself. I hated that 'game'.
"What is 'Johnny Jet', son?" Jake asked. "I've never heard of it."
"Dick and I used to play it all the time, didn't we, Dick?" Daniel said with a laugh. "I'll demonstrate, just for old time's sake. See, one player steps behind the other. Like this."
He stepped behind me.
"Then, Player One grabs Player Two by the ears, like so."
He grabbed my by my ears, twisting them painfully as he did so.
"Gotta get a really good grip on them," Daniel explained. "Luckily, that's easy, what with Dick's big ole Dumbo ears. Then, you say, 'Johnny Jet, Johnny Jet!' as you guide him around the room making airplane noises."
He demonstrated, quickly pulling me around the room by the ears, jerking my head to the left, then to the right, then back to the left as he went. Then he pulled my ears up so I was standing on my tiptoes as he made me run backwards. Then he went low to the ground as he 'lowered the plane'. All this time, he made airplane noises as he pulled me around the room by my ears.
The really bad part came next, as he made the 'machine gun turret' noise, shaking my ears vigorously as he did so. My head was shaking so violently that I couldn't see straight.
I heard the room crack up in laughter as he demonstrated this horrible 'game'.
"Please, you're hurting my ears!" I yelled.
"Oh, relax, you big baby," Christopher said. "He was just demonstrating."
"And that's how 'Johnny Jet' is played," Daniel said, as he let go of my ears.
"I don't get it," Mom said. "It doesn't seem like a lot of fun for Player Two."
"Oh, you can always switch," Daniel assured her.
Not that I had actually ever had a chance to be Player One.
"Well gang, I think Dick's had enough fun and games for one night," Jake said. "It's about time for bed, and he still has to clean up the kitchen and finish his chores."
"I can help him, Dad," Christopher volunteered.
"Oh, no, Chris," my stepfather replied. "I wouldn't hear of it. You boys are guests in our home. And I wouldn't want Dick to get too used to having help around the house. When you boys go back to Milwaukee, he won't have any help. No, let Dick handle the clean-up; that's the arrangement that he, your mother and I agreed upon."
And so I went to the kitchen and began the evening kitchen clean-up while the family went upstairs to get ready for bed.
Just as I was finishing up the dishes, Jake came downstairs, his hunky, muscular frame descending the staircase slowly. My stepfather was barechested again, but tonight instead of the blue boxers, he was wearing a pair of white athletic shorts that left little to the imagination. The legs were cut just below the crotch, showcasing his thick, muscular thighs. It was hard not to gawk at his nearly naked, ripped body.
"Time to work off those demerits, Dick," he said, gripping my shoulder firmly. Then he steered me into the living room and again had me get the paddle from the mantle. This time, however, he sat down on an armless chair in front of the fireplace.
After I fetched him the paddle, he had me lean down across his lap. The position was really awkward.
"Spread your legs, boy," he said.
I spread my legs as best I could. I was now arched over his lap, with my ass at the highest point, and my arms and legs below on each side.
Then my stepfather pulled off my string T-shirt and yanked down the back of my undershorts.
"Five swats per demerit, boy," he grunted. "That's ten swats tonight. Don't forget to count."
"Yes, Sir," I said.
Then I heard a noise. A creak from the staircase.
"What's going on, Dad?" Christopher said, walking into the room.
'Oh, God,' I thought. 'Can this day get any worse?'
"Oh, I'm just instilling a little discipline in Dick, here," Jake said. "We've got to work off his demerits from today, you see."
"Neat!" Christopher said. "May I watch?"
"Of course, Chris," my asshole stepfather said. "Pull up a chair, son. This could prove instructive for you as well."
As Christopher sat down in a nearby chair, Jake explained to me in a patient but firm voice that although I was reluctant to get my ass paddled, "you need discipline in your life, boy," he said. "As the Good Book says in Hebrews, chapter 12, verse 11: 'All discipline seems painful rather than pleasant, but it yields the peaceful fruit of righteousness to those who have been trained by it.'"
"You see, Dick," he continued, "God rewards those who serve faithfully, and punishes those who show sloth. In time, you will come to understand that. You must never idle when given work. You must serve faithfully, for that is the road to the kingdom of heaven. You must anticipate what your Master wants from you, before it is even commanded. And you must be thankful for your punishments, for they are instruction. Do you understand me, Dick?"
"Yes, Sir," I said, trying to sound contrite.
"Good, Dick," he said. "I want you to count each stroke. And I want you to thank me, as well."
Thank him? For beating me?! I wanted to scream.
"Yes, Sir," I said, miserably.
Just then, he brought the paddle down hard. SMACK! I wasn't expecting it that soon, and he caught me off guard.
"Uhhh! One, Sir! Thank you, Sir," I managed.
SMACK!
"Owww! Two, Sir. Thank you, Sir," I said through gritted teeth.
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!
Again and again, the paddle came down, ten blows altogether. By the end of the ten blows, I was howling, tears streaming down my face.
"Alright, boy. Get up," he said.
But just like last night, when I went to get up, I had a raging hard-on tenting the front of my undershorts.
As I stood up, trying to subtlely adjust my dick in my drawers while pulling up the back of my undershorts, I heard Christopher say, "Looks like Dick liked that paddling, Dad. Look, he actually sprung a boner! Disgusting!"
To be continued...