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. Do not read this story if you live in an area where it is illegal to do so.
This work is copyright by the author and commercial use is prohibited without permission. The author would appreciate your comments, pro and con, including constructive criticism, and suggestions. My thanks to Allen, Alan, Mike, RK, Chuck and Donna for the feedback and story suggestions. Your encouragement, ideas, and even criticism keep this story going.
For those of you who have been asking about the roots of this story, some parts of this twisted tale are autobiographical in nature, including 'Johnny Jet', the authoritarian head of household (the author's uncle), strict discipline and Bible teachings, Chem lab, the unsympathetic teacher, gym class (a future segment), Daniel and Christopher, abject poverty, Midwestern life, and the flaky mother. The BDSM is entirely fictional.
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Cinderfella, pt. 8
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, as were his sons, and I hated living in his house. Every day seemed worse than the one before.
The next few days flew by, as Jake had me busy getting the house 'ship-shape' as well as having me make all the preparations for the catering. Everything had to be perfect, Jake kept reminding me, since only the members of Wisconsin's elite upper crust would be attending this party.
New fine linens were ordered, and fine silverware. Jake also ordered my new servant's uniform from the DCI catalog. "You'll look quite dashing in your uniform, Dick," he told me. I was just glad I wouldn't be serving guests while wearing just my underclothes.
Every morning, my routine was the same: groom myself in the greenhouse, morning chores, then fix breakfast for Mom, Jake, and my stepbrothers, if they woke up in time for breakfast. They were on vacation from college, and liked sleeping in late. On Sunday, Mr. Guernsey came to the house to oversee my work while the Head family went to church. I hated Sunday. I really hated Sunday.
Not that the rest of the week was much better: from sun-up to sundown, my days were busy, filled with work and constant reminders from Jake that I needed to work harder, faster, longer, better. He was never quite pleased with my work, and I was constantly racking up demerits for the smallest errors: oversalting the eggs at breakfast, failing to dust under the old antique books in the library, or leaving small waterspots in the sink. Every night, I paid for these errors with a bare-assed paddling; these sessions were humiliating and painful. Every night, I promised my stepfather that I would try harder, hoping that I wouldn't slip up.
At last, the big day came, and I spent the morning flying through my chores as quickly as possible. There would be over fifty guests at the dinner party, so I had a lot of food prep to do, and not much time in which to get it done.
As I put the goose in the oven, Mom and Jake sleepily came downstairs. They sat down at the kitchen table as I began preparing their breakfast.
"When a man sits at his table, Dick, he expects to be served his food," Jake said. "I see you're just now starting breakfast. The food should hit the table when I sit down."
"I'm sorry, Sir," I said. "It will be ready in just a minute or two."
"Dick, that isn't the point," Jake said testily. "I wish you would pay a little more attention to meal planning."
"Sir, I'm very sorry," I said. "I had to put the goose in the oven for the party tonight."
"Dick, if you had gotten up a half hour earlier, you would have had plenty of time to get the goose started," my stepfather corrected me. "And breakfast would have been ready when I sat down. We wouldn't be having this conversation."
"Jake," Mom said, "Richard is trying really hard. But he's got a lot more work this morning."
"Marsha, we talked about this. I'm not going to coddle the boy," Jake said. "It's not my fault if Dick is having difficulties getting his chores done on time. He should learn to plan appropriately."
"And Marsha," he continued, "I wish you wouldn't question me in front of the boy. He's got to know that we're both on the same page."
"Alright, Jake," Mom sighed. "Whatever you think is best."
I served them breakfast a few minutes later. As I spooned some scrambled eggs onto his plate, Jake said to me, "I'm giving you two demerits, boy."
Just then, Daniel came downstairs. I rushed to fix his breakfast quickly, since I didn't want to earn additional demerits. Jake noticed, and said to Mom, "See, Marsha? The boy's learning already."
After breakfast, I spent most of the day in the kitchen preparing for the dinner party. I did, however, take some time out to scrub the hardwood floor in the foyer and vacuum the carpets in the parlor, the living room, and the study, so that wherever the guests went, the house would be super-clean. I did my best to make the lower level of the house look immaculate.
At almost 5 PM, I was getting really nervous. Jake had impressed upon me time and time again over the last few days that everything needed to go perfectly, but I had never served at a dinner party before. I really didn't know what to expect. Just then, Jake came into the kitchen, carrying what looked like dry cleaning.
"Alright, Dick," he said, showing me the hanger. "Here's your uniform for tonight. Go ahead and get out of those clothes so you can get dressed."
I stood there, confused. Did he want me to get undressed here in the kitchen?
"Come on, Dick, we don't have all day," Jake said sternly. "The guests will be arriving shortly, and I want you looking sharp for the party."
I hesitated, then pulled my tank top up over my head. It felt weird to be almost naked in the kitchen.
"Shorts, too, Dick," Jake said.
Reluctantly, I pulled down my briefs, embarrassed to be standing naked in the kitchen, where anyone could walk in at any moment.
"Don't just leave your clothes on the kitchen floor, boy," Jake said. "Stick them in the laundry chute."
I did as my stepfather ordered, walking over to the laundry chute and tossing my underclothes in.
Then Jake handed me the hanger, and I opened the dry cleaning bag. I pulled the serving jacket over my head and buttoned up the front, relieved to not be naked in the kitchen anymore. The jacket was white with black trim around the edges, very starched. It resembled a chef's uniform, with two rows of shiny black buttons down the front. Yet it hung down almost halfway to my knees.
"Now the bowtie," Jake said.
I took out the bowtie, unsure of how to proceed. I was already wearing a heavy, three-inch metal collar around my neck.
"Sir, how do I put this on?" I said.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," my stepfather sighed. "Put the string through the D-rings in your collar."
I struggled to put the tie on, since I couldn't actually see the rings in my collar. Jake helped me loop the collar of the bowtie through the four iron rings in my collar, and then fastened the bowtie in the front.
"There you go, boy," he said. "Looking very sharp. Now the hat."
I took the hat out of the plastic bag. It was white, but otherwise looked like one of those bellhop hats you see worn by the staff at fancy hotels in movies. It was round, but flat on the top, with a short bill in the front. It had two black stripes that ran across the front of the cap, and two shiny black buttons on the sides that held the black chinstrap in place. I put the cap on, and Jake adjusted it, then fastened the chinstrap in place.
"Dick, you look so sharp," Jake said. "You're going to make quite an impression on my guests tonight."
"Thank you, sir," I said, reaching into the plastic bag for the rest of the uniform. To my confusion, there was nothing else in the bag.
"Sir," I said, "The pants are missing."
"Don't be a nincompoop, Dick," he said chidingly. "Servants don't wear trousers with this uniform. Now let's go out to the foyer so your Mom and stepbrothers can see how sharp you look."
"But sir," I protested. "I'm half-naked. I can't go to the party like this."
"Dick, this is how contract servants dress for dinner parties," he insisted.
"Please don't make me go out like this, Sir," I begged.
"Boy, I've had just about enough out of you," Jake snapped. "Your mother and I picked out the finest, nicest servant uniform in the whole catalog. This uniform wasn't cheap. Now you are going to go out to the foyer with a smile on your face, or I'll pull that jacket off of you and you can serve my party guests in the buff."
I hesitated for a moment, as it sunk in that he was serious in his threat to have me go out there and serve his guests completely naked.
Reluctantly, I slowly walked out of the kitchen in my costume, hoping no one could see my penis or testicles hanging below the bottom of my jacket. Behind me, Jake reminded me to put a big smile on my face. "Smile, boy," he said. "Big smile for the party."
I walked down the hallway and into the foyer, where the rest of my stepfamily was standing on the staircase. They were all dressed to the nines in beautiful, obviously expensive, designer clothes. Mom was wearing a lovely cocktail dress, while Christopher and Daniel were wearing sharp-looking suits.
"Lookin' sharp, there, Icky Ricky," Christopher said sarcastically. "Where'd you get that monkey suit?"
"You can take my luggage up to my room now," Daniel laughed.
I blushed at their mocking words.
"Boys, behave yourselves," my stepfather said. "You know your mother and I don't approve of you calling Dick 'Icky Ricky'. It's not very nice."
"Weren't there some dress slacks with that outfit?" Mom asked Jake.
"No, sweetie," Jake explained. "Servantwear like this doesn't come with full-length trousers. Doesn't Dick look sharp, though?"
"He sure does," Mom said, as the doorbell rang.
Everyone stood there for a moment. Then Jake looked over at me. "Door's not going to answer itself, boy," he said.
Again, I hesitated. I couldn't believe I was expected to answer the door in this ridiculous get-up.
The doorbell rang again, and I could see my stepfather already getting impatient. I knew better than to push it any further.
Reluctantly, wanting to die, I hustled over to the door and opened it, plastering a stupid servant smile on my face. "Welcome to the Head residence," I said, reciting the speech I had been told to memorize. "Please, come in. May I take your coats?"
The first group of guests came in; they were a good-looking couple, obviously well-to-do, with a servant trailing behind them. The servant was dressed somewhat like me, but instead of white, he was dressed in navy blue livery, with a dark blue cap that had a goofy yellow tassel on the top. He looked like a doorman who had misplaced his trousers. It was a relief to not be the only goofily-dressed person in the house.
The man and woman handed me their coats and her stole, and I carefully hung them on the hangers in the entryway closet.
"Jake, it's good to see you," the man said to my stepfather. He was middle-aged, but still quite handsome. "Been enjoying the time off work, I bet." He laughed.
"I sure have," my stepfather said, stepping forward to shake the man's hand. "Tom, I'd like to introduce you to my family. This is my new wife, Marsha, and my sons, Christopher and Daniel. Everybody, this is my boss, Tom Christiansen, and his wife Amy."
Mrs. Christiansen looked young enough to be Mr. Christiansen's daughter, I noticed.
"And who's your new boy, Jake?" Mr. Christiansen asked.
"That's my new step-servant," Jake replied. "His name is Dick."
Mr. Christiansen said to me, "Come over here, boy, and let me get a look at you."
I slowly walked over to the man, just as Mrs. Christiansen asked Mom for a tour of the house. As the women left, Mr. Christiansen looked me over.
"What'd he say your name was, boy?" Mr. Christiansen asked me.
"Dick, Sir," I said. "Well, it's Richard, really." Now Jake had me calling myself 'Dick', a name I truly despised.
"Dick, eh?" he said. "Boy looks healthy enough. Open your mouth, boy. Let's get a good look at those pearly whites."
I obliged, and then Mr. Christiansen did something I did not expect: he stuck his fingers into my mouth, examining my teeth and tongue. He probed all over inside my mouth with his big fingers, squeezing my tongue, pushing all four fingers deep into my mouth, and examining my gums.
"Good teeth. Pink gums," he remarked, adding, "Fresh-looking face, too. He'll make a fine serving-boy, given the proper training."
I felt violated, having this man's fingers in my mouth. He was a perfect stranger. How dare he put his fingers in my mouth like that?! And yet, as angry and shocked as I was, I knew I had to keep quiet. Jake, I was sure, wouldn't appreciate me angering his boss.
Then Mr. Christiansen withdrew his fingers and began patting me all over, gripping first my shoulders, then down my arms, then patting my chest and abdomen. "Boy looks like he could be muscled out and made labor-ready, if you decide to use him for field labor," he remarked. He stepped back, ordering me to turn around. I had little choice but to obey.
"The bellhop outfit is a nice touch, Jake," Mr. Christiansen said. "Let's see what it's covering." He lifted up the back of my jacket; I felt a draft as cooler air hit my bare buns. Everyone in the room could see my rear end on full display. I nearly died of humiliation, color rising in my face.
"Fine ass on this one," Mr. Christiansen said, groping my bare bottom. "Good, firm ass-cheeks."
Lord knows what would have been next. Luckily, I was saved when the doorbell rang.
"Excuse me, Mr. Christiansen, Sir," I said, meekly. "I must answer the door."
I tugged the back of my bellhop jacket down as politely but firmly as possible, and, with as much dignity as I could muster, I answered the door. "Welcome to the Head residence," I said. "Please, come in. May I take your coats?"
The two girls I had addressed stepped into the house. They were both beautiful: one with rosebud lips and honey-colored hair; the other a dark-haired beauty with wide eyebrows and eyes that seemed spaced just a bit too far apart.
The young ladies handed me their coats, then walked further into the foyer.
"Who's the new drudge?" the one with honey-colored hair asked Daniel as she walked over to my stepbrother and kissed him.
"Mmmm... so good to see you, Mindy," my stepbrother said. "This pathetic excuse for a human being is my new step-servant, Icky Ricky. Icky Ricky, this is my girlfriend, Mindy Van Lanningham, of the Madison Van Lanninghams."
"Pleased to meet you, good Miss," I said, as I had been taught to say to a Free Woman.
Mindy turned away from me, already bored with the conversation. She whispered in Daniel's ear, her hand brushing his puffed-out chest as she spoke.
"Jacuzzi's in the back," he whispered with a grin, as he took her hand in his. They turned from me and headed out to the pool area.
Meanwhile, the brunette with the widely-spaced eyes walked over to Christopher, who was sipping a martini at the wet bar. I realized she must be Christopher's girlfriend. Even though I was gay, I could tell she was one very hot dish. She had curves in all the places men like. Well, all normal men.
'Normal men'. Listen to me! After only nine days of living with these horrible people, I was already starting to believe their macho 'we're normal, you're a freak' bullshit! I was already starting to think like them: that straight men were 'normal', while I was a total gay, uncool dufus. I had to remind myself that there was nothing wrong with who I was. Part of me even believed myself. But most of me felt like the words I was saying were hollow.
The doorbell rang. I rushed to answer it. It was, unsurprisingly, more glamorous people too haughty to even notice a servant reciting his 'welcome spiel'. They tossed their coats at me, and I hung them up carefully in the coat closet.
The fourth ring of the doorbell; again I ran to answer it. It was an old man, his wife, and their entourage. Something about his face seemed so familiar. I started my welcome spiel, but the old man interrupted me.
"Just take our coats, boy," he intoned.
That voice. I recognized that voice! It was like a slap across the face. Like a splash of cold water up the nose. I suddenly realized that this was the Judge who had presided over my court case. The man who had pronounced me my own stepfather's servant. The man who had ordered my stepfather to slap me; the man who, with one swing of his gavel, had taken away my freedom, my dignity, my entire life.
"What's the matter with you, boy?" the Judge snapped. "Don't just stand there lollygagging. Take our coats."
"Yes, Sir," I said, pulling myself out of my thoughts. "Sorry, Sir." I took their coats, and the coats of those behind them: four well-dressed men and what looked like a butler. But the butler was wearing a ball gag in his mouth. I hadn't seen that before, and had to remind myself not to gawk.
I walked to the coat closet, my arms overloaded with coats, thoughts swimming in my head. I almost dropped a coat, which would definitely have landed me in the doghouse again.
I chided myself for my carelessness: my mind was on things other than my work, which was a sin. The words of 1 Timothy 4:15 came to me: "Meditate only upon thy chores; give thyself wholly to them; that thy profiting may appear to all." I thought, too, of Proverbs 25:28: "He that hath no rule over his own thoughts is like a city that is broken down, and without walls."
Again I suddenly realized that I had begun thinking of myself as a disobedient servant who needed to be punished: the sinful servant that my stepfather was constantly having to admonish. I had begun to believe his bullshit, buying into his Biblical garbage. What was happening to me?!
To be continued...