Dad And Me by Pete Brown. petebrownuk @ yahoo.com
Read all of Pete's stories in groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories
Part 12
When we got back to the mower shed, dad was standing up, at our cage door, looking anxious. Without a word, Stryker unlocked the door and I went in, and dad threw his arms around me. "Are you OK, son? What did they do to you? "Did the bastards hurt you...?"
"Dad, it's OK..."
"Remember", Stryker broke in "Get some sleep. You both need to work tomorrow. So don't wear yourselves out with talking. I'd hate to have to punish you too much..."
I heard the warning in his words, and as he left, and dad and I settled down onto the mattress, he started again "Steve, did the bastards hurt you..."
"Dad, I told you it was OK. Mr Hawthorne... Well, he kind of played with me...."
"For all this time?"
I decided there were some things sons shouldn't share with their fathers. I'd now found that I enjoyed fucking ass, but, more importantly, I enjoyed being in control, in charge. It's not the sort of thing you can tell your dad, is it? That you like dominating and controlling other guys?
"Dad, don't worry. I'm OK, right? And they didn't hurt me, honest."
"They?"
"Dad, leave it, OK? As Mr Stryker said, we'd better get some sleep... It's grass day tomorrow again."
Stryker had an unpleasant surprise for us the following morning, though. After we'd breakfasted and I'd cleaned the pool, I went back to the mower shed where dad usually sharpened the blades and so on before starting, to find him staring a a new machine: it was like a gang mower, designed to be towed behind one of those mini-tractor things, in that although it was very wide, there was no motor on it.
Stryker strode up, looked at it, and laughed. "You slaves have had it too easy, just steering the motorised mower".
Well, if he thought that, he should try it! It's not just the mowing, it's all the effort in barrowing away the clippings and so on. Dad and me were both pretty tired at the end of mowing days, I can tell you.
"Yes, you've had it too easy. So this is the new mower you'll use from now on - there's no motor, as you can see, as you pull it around." As he said this, he went into the shed, and emerged holding a leather strap, and a chain. "Slip this strap over your shoulders, Joe", he told dad, and after he'd done so, Mr Stryker attached the chain to it, and to the mower.
"Right - there you are - all harnessed up. You can pull the mower, and Steve can steer it. Then when you're exhausted, Steve can pull for a bit! You've got all day, so the sooner you get started, the sooner you'll finish...."
"But Mr Stryker, boss, sir...", dad protested. "Even with the motor mower, it takes all day with me steering and Steve clearing..."
"So you'll just have to work twice as hard, won't you?
But it's autumn now and the grass isn't growing as thickly, so I'm sure you'll manage. Now, fetch your mowing uniforms, and get started!"
It was odd at first, half running, half walking along, steering the mower as I looked at dad in front of me. All I could see was his naked body, his powerful butt and thighs straining as the leather strap bit into his shoulders with the tension on the chain - the mower really was a brute of a thing to pull. And once you'd got it started, you wanted to keep it going as it was just a bit easier that way. The lawns were gently sloping, so you almost had to run as you were going downhill to keep ahead, but on the return uphill, it was doubly difficult. After about half an hour I could see dad was tiring, so as we turned, I let go of the handles and ran up beside him and demanded to pull for a bit.
It was fucking difficult, I can tell you! The leather harness strap cut into my shoulders, and as you needed to go at a fair pace to get a good speed on the mowing blades (which were driven by the wheels on it), I was soon sweating, and shortly after that, began to tire. I think it was the combination of the speed, the need for constant motion, and the sheer hard pulling that made it particularly onerous, and to make matters worse, it was a heavy, humid sort of day and so the grass was wet an there was a terrible tendency to slip with bare feet. After a couple of lengths of the lawn - and the uphill stretch was far, far worse - dad saw I was flagging an insisted on taking over again. But even his power and strength couldn't keep him going for more than another half an hour, and then I again insisted that I take a turn.
By the time we got to the mid-day break we were allowed usually, it was apparent that we were nowhere near half way through the thing, and so there was no chance of finishing that day. Mr Stryker came by, and dad politely explained that we were doing our best, but that there was no way that we could finish as we were so tired and actually going slower now than at the start, and asked to be allowed to use the powered mower again.
"You two are just idle fucking slaves!", Stryker told us. "I don't believe you're putting all the power you have into it. And there's no way you can use the power mower again - Mr Hawthorne says that he finds the concept of squandering the earth's resources to keep his lawns cut to be distasteful, when he has slaves capable of doing the job, slaves that are a renewable resource, unlike gasoline. So stop being so fucking selfish, and think about the future of the planet and not just your own needs. And I'd advise you to get started, rather than sitting there like that: you'll work away until it's finished, even if it's after midnight."
He strode off before we could even dare to argue with him, and it almost made me laugh to think that Mr Hawthorne was worried about the planet - when he flew down here most weekends in his private jet! Dad and I started again, but in the heat of the afternoon it was absolutely awful, and even with our mostly completely naked bodies, we were overheated and overstrained as we toiled away. On the uphill leg dad was really flagging and the pace had dropped right down, so much so that the blades were not cutting the grass properly and were leaving sort of "chopped" marks across the direction of mowing, and Stryker came up and ordered him to stop.
"You need to keep up a good pace, Joe, you know that."
"Yes, boss, but I just can't - I'm completely exhausted."
"You, Steve: take over", Stryker commanded, and very reluctantly, dad handed me the sweat-covered leather harness, which I slipped over myself. It was kind of slithery with sweat now, and the smell of the wet leather was almost overpowering as I pulled it over my head. I was really struggling too - this was the steepest part of the lawn, and my feet could hardly get proper purchase, the thing was so damp. I too began to slow, when suddenly there was a stinging pain from my butt, that caused me to give a shout of surprise, and leap forward. Stryker was walking alongside me holding a light riding crop, and every time my pace faltered, he brought it down on my rump.
In spite of being almost totally exhausted, I managed two more complete circuits under he "tutelage" of Stryker and his crop, until he finally allowed me to stop. My butt was really stinging, and I stood there, rubbing it to try to take away the pain. But there was no rest for us - dad was told to put the harness on, and then Mr Stryker handed me the riding crop!
"Every time Joe falters, just 'encourage' him with this, Steve, hard across that magnificent butt of his, or across his back if you prefer. And if he's very reluctant to carry on working even then, slash out at his thighs and calves - that always gets a slave's attention."
"Please, boss, Mr Stryker, sir, please, no! You can't expect me to whip my dad..."
"You will do as you're ordered, Steve, or else I will order a more severe punishment for him. If he hasn't got the power to do this work, I will have to consider sending him back to the nigga coffles - that usually has the effect of toughening up slaves!"
"Steve, do as you're told", dad cut in. "Please, Steve... You heard Mr Stryker..."
"You're doing Joe a favour, Steve", Stryker added. "Look, I know it sounds harsh at first ,but every human body keeps a reserve of power locked up inside itself - the body doesn't want to release all its energy, and always keeps something in reserve in case there's a last minute catastrophe. Think about it - when the primitives were out hunting lions and stuff, chasing after them, they wouldn't want to use up all their energy in case the lions turned on them and they had to flee for the nearest tree. But being hunters, they'd naturally want to go as far, and as fast, as they could, to avoid the risk of losing their prey. So the body 'learned' to keep something locked away, something not under conscious control, in case it was needed - and evolution reinforced that: the bodies that didn't have this 'emergency reserve' got eaten when there was a big problem! It's obvious, if you think about it - a real example of evolution at work."
He paused for breath and went on "But today you aren't going to be eaten by lions, but you do need to get this work finished, or else you'll get no sleep, and it will be doubly difficult tomorrow. So you need to unlock those reserves stored up inside you, and the only way that can happen is by making your body give it up - and the lash is the only way I know of doing that. So you're going to have to beat your dad, and he's going to have to beat you, so that we get out of you everything we deserve, as your owners. And if you don't, and if you fail to get the work done, then I'll need to assign you to the nigga coffles...."
I knew the absolute horror dad had of being coffled again, and saw the pleading look in his eyes as he looked at me. I thought there was something in what Stryker was saying, and so very reluctantly indeed, I took the crop as he held it out to me.
With Stryker watching, we started out again and after the little rest we'd just had, all was well for about half a circuit. But then dad started to slow down again, and with a terrible trepidation at first, I raised the crop and brought it down onto his bare butt. Dad gave a little lurch, and the mower surged forward again. It got easier and easier, the more I did it - I soon found that I took a certain pride in keeping the mower moving and the grass cleanly cut, and so as soon as there was any sign at all of dad faltering, I lashed out at him. After a time the strikes to his butt seemed to be losing their power to really make him work, and so I did as Mr Stryker had suggested and varied it a bit - it was kind of interesting to see the red stripes appearing across his broad back where the crop hit, and on the uphill parts, I also discovered that the blows across his thighs were the most effective.
The trouble with beating slaves is, though, that after a time it's the law of diminishing returns - you need to beat them harder, for longer, as their bodies adjust to the pain. So it was with dad, and it almost got to the point where I could slash at him no more - my arm was tiring from the effort! So we stopped, and I went up to dad who just stood there, bent over, looking pretty damned miserable.
"My turn again, dad", I told him.
"No, Steve. We need to get this done... Come on, start again, and use the crop harder if I don't respond. It's true what Stryker said - if we don't get some sleep tonight, we won't be any good tomorrow... And I can't risk the coffles..... Especially not for you...."
I moved closer to him, and moved the harness off his shoulders - as I did so, he winced as it slid against the bright red marks where the crop had hit the delicate flesh on his ribs. "No, dad, I can do it..."
"Steve, you can't. You know that. You'll tire after a couple of circuits...."
"Not if you use the crop, dad..."
"No, son, I can't do that..."
"You must. If you don't, Stryker will think we're not working hard enough, and then he'll send you back to the nigga coffles... You don't want that, do you?"
I saw dad thinking. He wrestled with things in his mind. Then, very reluctantly, he said quietly "These bastards, Steve, making a man whip his own son... But you're right...."
"It's OK, dad... And it's no worse than me having to whip you..."
Actually, of course, it's infinitely worse! I'd hated having to keep "encouraging" dad with the crop, but compared with having him do it to me, it was nothing.
I soon began to realise that when Stryker had been demonstrating it to me, he hadn't really been using the crop with full force, but as I slowed and got tired, dad began to really hit me - and, remember, dad's a big, strong guy with a whole lot of power in his arms.
"You want to give up, son?", he'd ask after each circuit. "Come on, you're tiring, let me take over again."
"No, dad", I'd snap back. I don't know why. Was it some sort of perverse pride, that made me want to show him that I was as tough and strong as he was? Or was I worried that he might collapse under the constant strain, if he did too much, and then get sent back to the coffles? Or was it just that all sons unconsciously compete with their fathers, and need to prove to themselves that they're just as good as he is? Whatever it was, I hung in there, doggedly doing much more than I reasonably ought to have: and Stryker was right - there were hidden reserves of energy, strength and determination inside me, and the crop falling on my back, butt and thighs "liberated" it.
We did ultimately finish - much later than usual - but we still had time, just, to drag ourselves to dinner and get fed. We didn't have time to shower or anything, though, so we were made to stand outside the kitchen door, being too covered in grass stains and absolutely filthy, to be allowed in. We were both almost falling over with sheer physical exhaustion, and we couldn't even sink to the ground and squat there on our butts - we were both too sore. So we almost leaned against each other, taking comfort from the warmth of our bodies (it goes cool at that time of year, when the sun goes down). The nigga girls, though, thought it was pretty funny - they usually didn't get to see us in our loincloths, and they came out in a gaggle and stood there telling us what handsome asses we had, even if they were all striped red! I added utter humiliation to my list of other woes.
Look, I don't want to give you the impression it was all tough during those first few months. My body continued to put on muscle as I got older and carried on working hard, and it got easier to share more of the really tough jobs - like the mowing - with dad. And once I'd got used to the idea of being used as a stud, it wasn't all that bad - although I wasn't used all that much. If customers appeared with a nigga girl to be impregnated, Stryker would line up both dad and me for inspection, and other than having to show myself all over to some middle aged guy (and his wife, too, sometimes), I could stand it. Not that they often chose me - it seemed that dad almost always got picked, and sometimes as we lay together at night after one of those sessions, we'd wonder why.
"They like to see your tough, strong body, dad!", I joked. "Once they get a look at your butt, of course they want to see it in action as you fuck the nigga."
"Well what about you, Steve? I'd have thought they'd have been at least as interested in those long legs of yours - and surely they know that young guys like you are at their most fertile, so the chances of you knocking the niggas up first time is much greater..."
We'd laugh then about the guys dad sometimes used to work with, and my classmates on the swimming and track teams, and what they'd say if they saw us totally in the raw, fucking away at niggas as our owners watched.
It was about the only amusement we really had, as I've told you that on Mr Hawthorne's place, slaves were not allowed newspapers, books, TV, radio or any other form of entertainment. Well, not quite the only amusement - the only other thing we had to do in the odd bits of spare time we had at night was to have sex.
Look, what else is a young guy supposed to do? Even before I was enslaved, when I had my own room, my own TV, a PC, everything, I used to spend a lot of time trying to get laid, and when that failed, I'd jerk off. Now all that all the electronic stuff was gone, all that was left was sex, and there was a lot of that about!
Firstly, every weekend, Mr Hawthorne would appear and whether on Friday, Saturday or Sunday night, depending on what else he was doing, whether he had other guests, or whatever, I'd be called in so he could fuck me. I began to almost look forward to these sessions in the calm, dark study, with him passionately kissing me, exciting my body, and then having me either suck him off, or, most often, balance myself on the arms of his big chair, and lower myself down onto his dick. He used to laugh, and say one of the advantages of being a slave owner who owned young energetic slaves was that he could enjoy sex without having to do any of the physical effort himself. Mind you, it's bloody hard work - it seemed to take for ever before he'd cum, and it was as if I was having to do those kind of squats that they do in army training for what seemed like hours.
Then, of course, there was Amos and Andy! Every time they could, they took me off so I could fuck them. And I enjoyed it - two guys in their mid twenties, both with fantastic bodies, who liked sex, and who liked having a guy like me who liked fucking. And occasionally there was Stryker, too - and this was really weird. He'd take me off, supposedly to punish me, he told dad, and then when we were in his living quarters and the door was locked, he'd strip off in front of me and wait until I pointed to his tiny dick and balls and start to tell him he wasn't a real man. It was as if he enjoyed being humiliated, somehow, and soon I discovered that I could command him to do anything I wanted - or anything I could think of!
So I soon had him totally naked, whilst I was in my slave shorts, and would command him to kiss my feet. Then he had to gently take my dick out of my shorts and worship it, by kissing it, and then 'skinning me back, and kissing the raw head again. Amos and Andy told me about tonguing, and I would squat on his face and make him probe my asshole until I felt almost faint with the sensation. And then, of course, I'd fuck him: I soon discovered that it's more fun to fuck a guy when he's lying on his back, as you can rest your weight on his legs as they bend back in front of you. But more importantly, you can see his face, and see the effect your dick is having on him: once I discovered this, I never fucked Stryker any other way, as I used to enjoy varying the pace and length of my thrusts to see the effects on him. And, of course, it's easier to pull out at the last minute and spray your cum all over the guy as he lies there helpless under you - Stryker used to find this particularly humiliating, for some reason, especially when I made him scoop it up off his belly and chest and carefully eat it, before rubbing in the remains as a "body lotion".
And then there was dad. There was always dad. Every night, both of us, together, naked, in a tiny space where there was no avoiding each other. Two virile men with big dicks and powerful sexual urges. At first, as I've told you, we just used to jerk off, separately, each trying his best to ignore the other. But I guess with increasing familiarity, we got careless, and soon our dicks were bumping into each others bodies as we lay there, or we'd accidentally spray each other with our cum if our jerking off was very sexy. And some nights, well, we just needed to be close to another person - I wanted the strength and warmth of dad's body wrapped around mine, keeping me safe from the world as he used to when I was a kid, and as we lay there, face to face, our legs intertwined, well, we couldn't help but be aware of each others dicks and their erect state, could we?
There didn't seem to be any reason not to jerk each other off - well, why not? We both knew each other did it, and we were lying naked next to each other. And it's actually fun, isn't it? And we needed a bit of fun to lighten our sometimes grim lives. I used to really enjoy the feel of dad's big, hard dick, so wonderfully warm, with that velvety softness of the outer skin just begging to be stroked and touched, and he did the same to me. I had to "train" him a bit, mind you: somehow guys without 'skins just don't appreciate how much pleasure there is just in sliding it backwards and forwards over the head!
Once we'd got over our shyness at jerking off together, and once I saw how erotic it was to play with a guys nips, and his ass, I thought I owed it to dad to give him a special treat occasionally, so gradually I began to toy with his body as I jerked him off, and honed my skills so that I could give him as good a time as possible. But then it seemed to me to be a bit unfair, as he was getting more fun than me, and so one night as we were lying together, I gently pulled his head down and whispered to him that I wanted him to tease my nips with his tongue. He seemed shy at first, but I found that provided I persisted, and just kept edging him on to do more and more, I was soon at the point where I could use dad's mouth to bring me to climax. And after that it was a simple matter, relatively speaking, to train him to let me fuck him. Well, I mean, that's what a dick is designed for, isn't it? To fuck? And if there's no one else around, and you're lying naked next to a guy with a great body, why shouldn't you? It doesn't hurt anyone, and it's perfectly natural. As I explained to dad, one night when he'd been expressing doubts, "Look, dad, why do you think an ass is so perfectly sized to take a man's dick? And why do you think it feels so good, to have a dick up your ass? And so amazing to actually fuck an ass? It's just got to be right, if you think about it, or else evolution wouldn't have designed it that way."
"It's not that, Steve.... It's just that, well, you're my son..."
"Look, dad, let's just forget that, shall we? We're both slaves together now, and we've only got each other. So if we want to enjoy sex, it's just you and me, dad. But would it be easier if I called you Joe from now on? Then we'd really be like two guys together, two co-workers - well, slaves - but two equals. Yes, that's what I'll do, Joe. Now, turn over, Joe, on your back, as I need a good fuck...."
Like a lot of men, dad was really easy to manipulate and control, and now having this big, strong "Joe" doing as I commanded made it somehow even more exciting.
Mr Hawthorne spent a lot on entertaining, and as the seasons went on there was always some lavish party or entertainment at Manderleigh. We saw the pumpkins for Thanksgiving, the Christmas tree and decorations, the preparations for the big spring picnic.... But all of this generally passed us slaves by as we were always fed the same, plain fare, and work at Manderleigh went on much the same, day in and day out. Nevertheless these big festival occasions did serve to mark for us the passing of the year, as otherwise it was really easy, with no access to outside sources, to lose track of where we were.
So I knew I'd been a slave for about eighteen months, and I could see the changes in myself: my late adolescent body was now taller and stronger and more muscular, much more muscular. I'd lost the "boyish" look and was now a real man, admittedly one who now truly looked like a slave, as I was deeply tanned all over in a way that no free man would ever now be, and, of course, I now had a real man's attitude to life: I just lived to work, and to fuck. It was a kind of carefree life, too, in a way - provided Joe and I really put our backs into it, we weren't punished too much and with time, we'd even toughened up to the extent that the mowing, whilst still the worse chore we had to do, was at least tolerable. And in exchange for this we were fed regularly, and had no worries - no bills, no SATS at school, no thoughts of saving for college or whether I'd be bright enough to get a scholarship.... No nothing. And I suppose this was the worse aspect of it all - I just got totally out of practice at thinking - without books or anything, and living in very confined circumstances, there's' not a lot to think about. Indeed, one day I found some papers as I was carrying out the heavy trash cans to near where the municipal slaves came to make the collection, and found that I could barely read them: I had to pick out individual words, very slowly, rather than being able to scan a page and read it almost at once, as I used to. This really worried me, and then I realised I was losing other things, too - I lay there in the middle of the night one night trying to do mental arithmetic, and failing. Joe woke up as I tossed and turned and realised I was worried about something, and when I told him I couldn't any longer multiply two two-digit numbers together in my head, he just laughed.
"If that's all that's worrying you, Steve, stop it! I could never do that even when we were free. So stop worrying and get to sleep - do you want to fuck?"
That was so typical of dad - he was what you call a real "man's man", working hard, drinking beer, laughing a lot, always on the look out for a fuck, but never really thinking about stuff, or stretching himself mentally. I was different, though, and even though I was a real jock, and liked fucking as much as the next guy, I enjoyed reading, and talking, and thinking, too. Perhaps that's what slavery does to you - turns you into a kind of "super blue collar worker", only thinking about the physical things, and not caring about the finer things in life. I just turned over, and lay there, utterly dispirited - is this what being a slave was really like, being turned into some sort of almost mindless vegetable, fit only for hard work and fucking?
Little did I know that all this was about to change.
End Of Part 12