Dad and Me

Dad And Me by Pete Brown petebrownuk @ yahoo.com

Read all of Pete's stories at groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories

Part 26

I suppose I should have built on what I'd started with dad. God knows that weekend had cost me enough emotional effort to gear up to it, and then to basically break down like that. And it was just so draining - for a couple of days after I felt so tired, so utterly worn out.

Tony, Miles and me managed to get together on the Wednesday of the week after, and that revived me a bit - well, I did enjoy Tony's hairy body, and having Miles there with his lovely long limbs just adds o the fun. Mind you, I was tired, and after I'd fucked him I just lay there next to Tony, with Miles on his other side, panting slightly as my heart and breathing recovered.

"You're silent today...", Tony said. "You're usually kind of exuberant afterwards, laughing...."

"Oh, I'm just tired...."

Miles cut in then, in his usual laconic way. "Oh leave Steve alone, Tony - he's tired. And who wouldn't be, fucking you, when he's getting so out of condition? All that slapping as his belly hits your butt.... I remember when he was all toned and tough...."

"Hey, Miles, cut it out... I'm in good shape...."

I said it bravely, but I knew it wasn't true. All those business lunches and formal dinners. And I'd mostly given up exercise, no longer ever ran, used the limo instead of walking, and didn't even go in "my" pool at the bank. I glanced at Miles, and there he was, thing as a rake: he had the best deal of all - the right parents! He could sit on a couch all day and gorge himself with food, and Miles would never gain an ounce. And Tony, well, although he was generally "beefy" his job was so stressful that he hardly had time to at anyway, and what he did eat, he burned off in nervous energy. But me: well, I just react well to stress, letting it slide over me, so I need to exercise, and exercise hard, to keep in shape.

"Oh come on, Steve! Tony and I can both see that you've put on weight. You used to have a fantastic body, and now we can't see your ribs! We're worried about you, Steve: you're still only a young guy, and you ought to be taking care of yourself. At least when you were a slave you had a long life to look forward to with all that manual labour you did. You need to exercise more - you used to like swimming, didn't you?"

"Hey, Miles, it's OK. I'll take a vacation ,and restart some exercise..."

Tony cut in then. "Steve, Miles and I are your buddies. We care about you. And we all know you're not going to take a vacation - not a proper long one. You need to work out regularly, anyway.... There's the pool at the bank - you could have everyone turned out of it for an hour whenever you wanted..."

"Guys, thanks... But the problem is that the exercise is no fun. When I was a slave I had no choice - I either worked, or was tawsed or caned. But just exercising on a machine, it's plain boring!"

"Get one of those personal trainers", Miles advised. "They're cheap enough and there are specialised dealers - I've seen their ads - who will even rent you a personal trainer. They own him, keep him kennelled, fed, all that stuff - so it's painless for you. Just pay the weekly rental, and the slave is there whenever you want him to guide your workouts, go running, whatever."

"Miles, if it were that easy, don't you think I'd have done it already? I hired one a few weeks ago just to see what it was like, and it looked promising at first: the slave was big and tough-looking, in superb physical shape, and he had been taught how to advise guys on exercise and did all the right stuff about warming up and so on. But then, when I started to flag, all he could do was encourage me to continue - but as he was only a slave, that's all he could do as he couldn't order me to go on, or drag me along, or whatever. And as you guys know, I'm used to being in control, and so I soon had him just doing what I wanted - which wasn't proper exercise at all! I tried another one, and another, but they're all the same: they have to make sure they have properly 'broken' slaves because a lot of these personal trainers are hired by women."

I stopped here, and smiled, and went on "I actually felt sorry for the guys - underneath their shorts they're locked into some kind of penis sheath made of steel, fastened to their balls with a ring: when we were showering afterwards they look really odd, but they said it's so that there can be no question of impropriety with lady clients. They can piss, and the tubes are wide enough so they can have a hard on, but there's no way they can fuck, or even jerk themselves off. Still, that's all window dressing, really - they were all so servile that they wouldn't touch a free person anyway. And that's no good when the slave has to give orders, had to be obeyed."

"So it looks as if the only exercise you get is sex....", Miles said, reaching over Tony's body to play with my nip....."

Look, I did know I had a problem, and I knew I ought to do something about it. But it's like a lot of things, isn't it: you don't actually need to do anything "immediately", and so more important things keep coming up. And of course with all the slaves around in the apartment and at Manderleigh, the sort of stuff that would worry an ordinary guy, like his pants getting too tight, never even impinged on my senses: my clothes were let out, or replaced, automatically.

Still, I did hate the layer of fat that was on my belly and around my waist, and sometimes I'd stand in the bathroom and look at my body in the big mirror and really hate it - especially when I looked at the body of the bath slave lurking in the background. They're always chosen to be easy on the eye anyway, and I guessed that when not "on duty" in the bathroom they are made to work out really hard to keep them looking good.

I'd taken particular care to cultivate the acquaintance of the Police Commissioner having seen how he'd gone out of his way to help Mr Hwawthorne by giving him notice of Charles' arrest, and had made sure that the bank was a lavish and frequent donor to the police benevolent fund and a major sponsor of their annual fund-raising ball. This had led me to be invited by him to sit on a panel of "concerned citizens" to act as a channel of communication between the police and the community, and although I was not particularly interested in this I'd done it as one of the "civic" things that senior people in the bank did.

After all, most of the tedious work of reviewing papers and such like was done by underlings who just gave me a brief précis of what was expected when one of the occasional meetings was due, and it did enable me to meet other influential people and be "in the know" when major initiatives were planned which might affect the bank, or where there might be the possibility of business.

After one such meeting the Commissioner was eager to show us the new downtown headquarters, and most of the other Committee members declined. I was vaguely curious - I don't know why - and as I was anyway trying to get closer to the man, agreed to go on a tour. We saw the squad rooms, the high-tech incident control room, and all that stuff, then he asked if I was interested in seeing the holding cells. I nodded, and we went a couple of levels below ground, where the atmosphere changed abruptly from the modern airy brightness of the areas where the police worked, to grey poured cement walls down here where the prisoners were.

"Of course we don't have many real criminals here", he told me. "It's mostly just a holding tank before those who committed a crime after the courts are closed are kept until the next morning."

It certainly looked bleak enough - the cells were more like the slave cages we used at Manderleigh, being just over six feet long, about the same wide, with a solid bunk (devoid of covering) along the back wall.

"Much better than the old place", the Commissioner told me. "It's been designed so that the men brought here start to get a feeling for what's going to happen to them - we bring the vagrants, the unemployed, the petty criminals down here, and they're almost all going to be enslaved when they're taken to court the next day, so it's as well that they start to get used to life as a slave." He paused and went on "Are you familiar with the mechanics of slavery, Mr Masters?"

"Oh yes - down at my plantation I have several hundred, and we keep them in humane, clean surroundings like this. Mind you, we'd normally put at least two slaves in a cell like this: the close contact that is unavoidable in such a confined space makes them more aware of their bodies, and generally more 'biddable' when they're taken out and cleaned up for work."

The man nodded, and our conversation would I am sure have been interesting had it not been for a lot of shouting and cursing that started. We both looked around, and saw four big cops manhandling a brawny white guy towards one of the cells - he was shouting and cursing, and kicking out at the cops until, that is, one of them touched him with a slave prod! He at once collapsed and they dropped him, letting him writhe there on the floor, as you'd imagine would happen if you've any familiarity with the way that we deal with totally unruly slaves.

The Police Commissioner coughed and looked a little embarrassed. "Mr Masters... Perhaps you could overlook this..."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"The prisoner, Mr Masters. As you saw, he was verging on the violent, and my men were obviously concerned for their safety...."

"Yes, of course. Perfectly natural."

"But one of them used a slave prod, sir, as perhaps you observed? The problem is that city ordinances forbid the prodding of men, sir - slave prods are just that, only to be used on slaves. This man will be a slave tomorrow, sir, as he's been taken in as a vagrant, and has absolutely no money and so will not be able to show 'visible means of support'. But, technically, he's still free, and as such cannot be prodded."

"Oh no problem, Commissioner! Your secret's safe with me." This was good - he now owed me a favour. But I remembered Billy's story about nearly being enslaved as he was out of money and so on before Tony found him, and went on "This man - this soon to be slave - what's he done, then?"

"Oh nothing, except run out of money, be unemployed, and have no place to stay! It was a response to all the vagrants and panhandlers who used to plague the city: once the new ordinance came in saying that anyone without money, a job or a home was automatically a vagrant and therefore of no use to society and could therefore be enslaved, the streets became a lot pleasanter! Mind you, I do sometimes feel sorry for some of these men - some of them served their country well...."

"How so?"

"Well, Mr Masters, perhaps you don't realise it, but one way of securing the future for a young man who can't afford college is to go into the army. In general, it used to be possible to enlistt more or less for life, but now it's mostly 'twenty years and you're out' as there's enough young, fit men coming along behind and no point in keeping those who are ageing. It's fine, a good system, as most enlisted men learn some sort of trade and can get employment at the end of their service. But some men, of course, are trained to do what fighting men are supposed to do: fight! Marines, Seals, Special Forces.... Those kind of people. The outlook for them at the end of their period of enlistment is pretty bleak - they get a leaving bounty, of course, but most of them are unused to civilian life so they soon squander it on women and drink. And then they think it will be easier to find work in the city.... And the rest is obvious."

He shouted a few sentences to the men who had by now picked up the still-twitching body of the man from the floor and thrown him into one of the tiny cells, they replied, and he looked at me and went on "Yes, as I thought - a man with spirit like that to take on four of my men, warders specially trained in subduing prisoners - he put up a good fight, didn't he? Well, he's fairly typical of the sort of man I was talking about: thirty nine years old, they say, and discharged honourably two months ago. He was in some sort of Special Forces group, and so all he knows is fighting, and there was never any possibility of him finding work here - but he did get lots of opportunities to spend his money. And now he'll be enslaved tomorrow - and I expect he'll fetch a good price, as he's got a good body."

"But who would buy a potentially violent slave like that?"

"Oh, anyone who likes danger! Some rich men - I'm sure that doesn't include you, sir - would have him closely chained and then 'break' him at their leisure.

Or, of course, he could be 'calmed' - that's the polite term for castration - and turned into a pleasure slave with hard, strong ass muscles like that. Or he could simply be permanently cuffed to a delivery dray - that's becoming more popular as a response to the pollution n the city - the driver would soon tame him with constant whipping, and he couldn't escape...."

I thought for a moment then asked the Commissioner if I could have a few words alone with the prisoner. He shrugged, and suggested that I met him back in his office for a drink before I left, and turned and headed towards the elevators. I walked along and stood outside the cell holding the guy, and looked in.

"Those bastards....", he muttered. "They used a slave prod on me! That's not legal! You saw it, didn't you? Will you testify against them, or are you a cop, too?"

"No, I'm not a cop. And I suppose I could testify to what I saw... But it won't do you any good, you know."

"How so?"

"By the time your case against those cops could get to court you'll be a slave. And slaves can't use the courts - they have no rights, after all, so why do they need access to the courts?"

"But if I bring an action against them, it will show they acted illegally... They can't make me a slave..."

"Hey, buddy, you must be living in the past! You've seen too many of those cop shows from earlier on in the century where if the cops didn't exactly follow procedure and process, the evidence was ruled inadmissible, or the case was thrown out. We're more advanced now: the courts just look at what the 'real' facts of the case are. And irrespective of whether those cops prodded you or not, the facts are that you're broke, unemployed, and homeless. Am I right?"

"Well, yes, but...."

"No 'buts'.... The simple facts will do., Once the court hears that in the morning you'll be enslaved, and that's that."

"But it's so fucking unfair...."

"What's unfair about it? It applies to everyone. The law's clear and simple...."

"But I've served my country, served it well, and they're going to make me a slave.... Please, sir, are you a lawyer or something, in that fancy suit and everything? Isn't there something you can do?"

"Well, what skills do you have? I might be able to find you a job...."

"I can fight! That's what I'm trained to do."

"There's not much call for that here in New York! Can't you do anything else... Don't they always say the forces turn out plumbers, and electricians, and electronics specialists, and supply chain managers, and...."

"Sure, but I never did any of that stuff. I was a fighter...."

"And now you're pretty damned useless, then! So I guess there's no hope for you."

I felt sorry for him, actually. He was a few years older than me, but in great shape: he radiated a sense of physical strength, and every move he made as he anguished about his fate showed his taut muscles moving enticingly under his clothes. He looked fearless, fit and trim, and ready to take on anything that life would throw at him - except slavery, I guess.

"You're pretty fit looking....", I continued.

"Yes, sir. I was a physical combat instructor for the last two years in the forces. Training all the young recruits.... You have to be fit for that."

"So why don't you get a job as a personal trainer, or something? That's a skill you have..."

"I tried! But most of the work in that line is done by slaves, so the money is dreadful, even if you can find someone who wants a free man as a trainer - barely enough to live on - and... Well, I was with an agency, but there were complaints.... And they took me off their books."

"Complaints?"

"I was too tough, they said. Well, I was used to giving the recruits a tough time.... And I guess I just didn't think about what a free man wants from a trainer..."

I remembered how unsatisfactory it had been for me to use a slave as a trainer as they were too timid, and maybe, I thought, this what I needed - a really good, tough trainer who would take me on in some sort of tussle. I was used to dealing with powerful men now after I'd got used to the power struggles that went on in the bank, and he'd find it hard to intimidate me!

"Strip off, and let me take a good look at you."

"What?"

"You heard - get naked, so I can see you properly. I might find you a job, but only if your body pleases me."

"Fuck you! I don't strip for fags..."

I just laughed at his pathetic insult. "Listen, boy, and listen well. Tomorrow they'll take you up into the courtroom, and the prosecutor will say that you're unemployed, homeless, and broke. The judge will ask you if it's true, and you'll have to tell him yes. And then he'll sentence you to enslavement. It's a simple as that - it takes all of two minutes. It gets interesting then, though - at least for the crowds who throng the courts early in the morning to watch the enslavements. They strip you, there and then, in the courtroom - you're a slave now, remember, and a slave has no need of clothes. They like to show you that your status has changed irrevocably by parading you around the court room, with everyone getting a good, long look at you, as they take you to the collaring station. You have to bend right over - no hiding your ass or dick or anything - whilst the machine fastens a collar on you. And then its back around the room to be taken out."

"So you might want to consider stripping for me now, as I could always get a good look at you tomorrow. Of course, you'd be a slave then, not a free man...."

He looked at me, and was clearly wavering. So I went on "Then, of course, you'd be straight off to the public auction rooms. Have you ever been to a slave auction, boy?"

He shook his head.

"Well, it's interesting. Interesting, that is, for the potential buyers, but I guess it's a bit tougher for the slaves. They cuff your wrists to your collar, behind your head, to make your body 'accessible'. Then they simply chain you by one ankle to the floor in the display hall, along with all the other slaves, and leave you there for the buyers to come along and take a good, long look. You're still naked, of course, as the buyers need to be able to see all of you... And they don't just look, you know: they want to inspect you properly - feel your muscles, erect your dick to see how big it really is, stick a finger up your ass to see if it's good and tight...."

"No... Surely...."

"Yes! Of course they do. How else can a prospective owner get the true measure of a slave? Now, do you want to go through all of that? I can always go along to the auction, you know, and see what I want to see there.... I can always buy you if you please me, after all. But you could avoid all this if I decided to employ you: which would you rather be? Employee, or slave?"

Slowly, looking confused, he undid his shirt and dropped it to the floor. Then he undid the fly on his jeans and let them fall to his ankles, to stand there in front of me in grey cotton briefs. He looked very promising - really hard, lean muscle with a pleasing thatch of hair on his chest and a nice treasure trial running down his flat belly over a good inverted navel to disappear into those briefs.

"Were you shy about your body in the forces? I thought you guys slept in barracks, showered together...."

"No, of course not shy..."

"And I don't think you've got anything to be shy about. So get those briefs off! When I said 'get naked' I meant just that..."

He was going to argue, but thought better of it. He looked somehow defeated as he pushed his briefs down to join his jeans around his ankles. A really nice dick, uncut, was revealed - but with a 'skin that only just fitted over the head so that there was no unsightly 'loose' bit dangling at the front. He didn't shave his pubes, which were a riot of curly black hair stretching from thigh to thigh, and I could barely see his balls as they were not shaved. He saw me looking intently at him, and blushed slightly.

"Turn around!", I commanded, and he rotated his body, slowly and awkwardly, as you do when your clothes are around your ankles like that. I liked what I saw, though - wide shoulders, narrow waist, a nice butt and big, long thighs.

"Turn back!" I said, quietly, and when he was once more facing me, added "Show me your head."

"What?"

"Your dick head - show it to me. Skin back..."

"Fuck you!"

"Suit yourself! I'll swing by the auction rooms tomorrow afternoon, and then when you're standing there, completely helpless, I'll get one of the slaves to come over and 'skin you back. Or perhaps I might even do it myself." As I said this, I turned and began to walk away.

"Please, sir.... Wait....", he called, and I turned and sauntered back, having established my superiority.

Glaring at me now, and really going a little red in the face, he reached down and took his dick in his left hand and used his thumb to draw back his 'skin to reveal a nice fat dick head, a good deep colour, with that sheen of sweat and stuff on it that uncut guys always have. At least it wasn't oversized in relation to the shaft, or too small. I wondered how I'd persuade him to lose that 'skin once he was working for me! But perhaps it wouldn't be too difficult - this getting a free man to act as if he was a slave was actually quite interesting: I was used, of course, to having my subordinates at the bank to obey me, but there were limits. As Tony was always telling me, most of the men at the bank were skilled and could leave and get jobs elsewhere, and that's what ultimately differentiated them from slaves who had to stay, whatever they were ordered to do. It would be an amusing challenge to get this man to work for me, but then to act mostly like a slave, and the more I thought about it, the more interesting it seemed. Mind you, he had been in the forces for twenty years, and that preconditions a man to obeying orders, so perhaps all that was necessary was for him to accept me as his superior officer. And there again, no one with a really 'free spirit' would join the forces in the first place, would they, knowing that they were going to be under 'discipline' and 'command' all their lives?

"Nice body!", I said. "You can put it away now. I've seen enough."

He started to dress, and as he did so, I went on "So do you want a job? I'm looking for a personal trainer. As you know, the pay's not good at the best of times, and I can see no reason for paying over the odds - in fact, given the present circumstances, I guess you'd probably be willing to work for the absolute minimum wage?"

"Well a job would fix one thing. But I'd need an advance as I've got no money now. And if you paid me too little, I couldn't afford a place to live..."

"You don't negotiate very well - you're just pointing out your problems! Perhaps it would be easier if we just let the enslavement go through, and then I bought you. That way I'd know exactly what I was letting myself in for - I'd pay upfront for all the training."

"No, please... Please.... Hey, I don't know what to call you..."

"Oh, 'Sir', will do! Or Mr Masters. And what's your name?"

"Wright, Sir. Look, please, give me a break, will you? I think you'd get a better job of personal training done from a free man than from a slave...."

"No, what's your name? What am I gong to call you?"

"Jeff... And you?"

"Listen, Jeff, to you I'm 'sir' or 'Mr Masters' - that way we keep a proper distance between employer and employee. I'll pay you the national minimum wage, for thirty five hours a week. And you can stay in my apartment, temporarily - it's big enough. I'll expect you to train with me whenever I need it - early morning, late evening, or sometimes during the day if I have a break in my meetings, and all weekend, of course, so you'll be kind of 'on call' permanently, but you only get paid thirty five hours... No time off at all, really - although you could study or something when I don't need you. Is that understood?"

"I guess I don't have much choice, do I... Sir?"

He looked as if he was smiling, faintly, and I think he knew the score: he was desperate, and I'd shafted him, but he had no choice. "No, Jeff, I guess you haven't. Now, I'll go and talk to my friend the Commissioner, and I guess you can come home with me after that - I take it you've got no stuff to collect from anywhere, as you were picked up as destitute."

Before he had a chance to answer, I turned and walked away. It's not good to have long conversations with slaves - or servants.

The Commissioner was agreeable to releasing Jeff as it meant that there was less paperwork for his men to do, and so after we'd had a drink together and he'd escorted me to the lobby, Jeff was waiting there. I was pleased to see he got to his feet respectfully as I approached.

I nodded to him, shook hands with the Commissioner and walked towards the entrance door, with Jeff following, as a servant should. I stood in front of the door, and waited for him to open it for me, and then strode down the steps. The chauffeur - a slave, as you'd expect - held the door open for me and I told Jeff to scoot around the other side and get in too (after all, you don't want to slide across the seat, do you?).

The chauffeur ran around and got in, and we purred off uptown, with Jeff sitting there looking a bit uneasy.

"You're a rich guy, sir...?"

"Yes, of course. How else do you think I could afford to employ a full time personal trainer?"

"But you've got slaves?"

"Yes, lots of them. Only ten or so at the apartment, but on my plantation, several hundred."

"I don't really agree with it..."

"Agree with what? Agree with me owning slaves? What business is it of yours how I spend my money?"

"I mean with slavery..."

"Well, tough! It's up to you, you're a free man and entitled to your opinion. If you ever earn enough to be able to afford a slave, you can exercise your choice and not buy one, or you can buy one and free him, or do what ever you like. But slavery is a fact of life, and has been for a long time now - the country couldn't run without them."

"But it's not tight, I might have become a slave..."

"Well that's true. And you still might, if you get unemployed again. But the slavery of free men is getting less and less of a problem: most slaves these days are bred - you'll be coming down to my plantation, Manderleigh, and 'studding', which is what we call putting a buck to a bitch, is one of the entertainments. Probably the only entertainment down there in the country! And a slave that's bred doesn't find it a problem at all - he grows up knowing he's a slave, and he's usually bred for a purpose: big tough bucks for the fields, or for drayage; neat little ones for around the house; ones with nice bodies for pleasure. They're bred for a purpose, born to it, and accept it. Within a couple of generations we probably will see the end of enslavement - it's just too hard to 'break' a free man and turn him into a truly obedient slave: all they're good for is for being coffled to labour in the fields, or chained to a factory bench, or something."

"But it's not right..."

"Hey, Jeff, I employ you as a trainer, not as some sort of preacher, OK?"

"Yes, sir", he said, somewhat icily, and sat there looking out of the window. This was going to be interesting!

End Of Part Twenty Six.