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 27

When we got back to the apartment I had a few quiet words with my nigga butler Henry and told him to show Jeff to the spare slave kennel on the lower floor where I had used to live, and to make sure that he was s shown the communal showers and so on.

"We'll dine as soon as you're ready", I said to Jeff, and turned and went into my study to pick up any last minute business of the day.

A very few minutes later Jeff burst in, and stood there, fuming with rage. "I'm not sleeping there..."

"Why not? It's warm, dry, and better than sleeping on the streets.... No danger of the cops picking you up and sending you for enslavement."

"I'd already be like a fucking slave! Your nigga even called it a 'kennel'!"

I pretended to be outraged, and turned on Henry, who had followed Jeff into the room. "Did you show Master Jeff down to the slave kennels?"

"Yes, Master", he said, his voice puzzled as this is of course what I'd ordered.

"You stupid fucking slave! How dare you even think Master Jeff is like a slave! Take him up to one of the spare bedrooms - the green room, I think."

I saw Jeff looking oddly at me, not sure about what was going on. I knew, though - he'd passed a test that I'd failed when Mr Hawthorne had brought me to the apartment - I should have protested and argued, and not have allowed myself to be treated like some sort of quasi-slave. Jeff clearly had more spirit, or more sense of his own self-worth. I thought for an instant, and decided to make it clear to him that I was not part of the "plot" to treat him like a slave.

"Henry, you deserve punishment!", I snapped at him. "Bend over the back of the couch."

Henry looked really surprised, as I never routinely punished him as I relied on him for the smooth running of the household, and he knew that in this case the punishment was entirely unjustified anyway. But that's not really important, is it? I mean, an owner can punish a slave when he chooses, even if the slave has done nothing wrong: that's the nature of the owner/slave relationship.

Even though he was my butler, around the house Henry only wore the tunic that all the house slaves wore, although his was a little longer than most as I didn't particularly want to see an old dick flashing at me as he went about his business, unlike the waiters where I thought the occasional sight of their dicks added that little something to the enjoyment of the meal. It was easy therefore for me just to pull up the tunic to expose his butt as he stood there, bent over, and I picked up the punishment cane and gave it an experimental swish through the air (I keep a medium weight punishment cane in every room in case a slave needs disciplining. A thin one is of course much more painful, but I don't like to break the skin of the butt of an indoor slave as it makes such a mess on the carpets). The next minute Henry was howling as I gave him two swift strokes, both of which landed nice and square across his muscles.

Jeff looked really horrified, but I said simply "Henry, show Master Jeff to his proper room now.", and to Jeff "...and hurry up, as I'm hungry."

Look, I know you'll all think me harsh, but I was pursuing a plan to get Jeff to understand that I was the boss around here - it ought to have been apparent, given that I owned the place, and that I'd rescued him from slavery, but I was sure that he did not truly accept this yet. I doubted that he would cane a slave as I had just done, and wanted him to see that I was capable of dishing out real punishment if necessary. It's a pity that Henry had to suffer, I suppose, but there you are, and please do remember that he's only a slave!

I turned to my PC and flicked into the house security display - as in most expensive apartments, all the rooms have concealed surveillance so that the owners can keep an eye on what the slaves are doing - and selected the green bedroom (so called because the silk wallpaper is a pale eau-de-nil colour - nothing garish, of course!). Jeff had stripped off and was entering the shower, and I watched as he almost jumped out of his skin as the slave entered: I suppose those who are not accustomed to it find the seemingly mysterious presence of slaves whenever you need them somewhat disconcerting, but there's no secret really - just motion sensors in places like bathrooms, to alert the slave to the presence of a master who may need service.

Jeff looked really uneasy as the young nigga deftly pulled his tunic over his head and went to help Jeff by getting into the shower so he could soap him and shampoo his hair, and Jeff pushed the slave out. The young nigga - slaves in bathrooms and so on are generally under twenty three so that they are fresh and attractive - seemed not to understand why Jeff was bothered by his presence as he knew that he was perfectly clean and wholesome (Henry required all the bath slaves to shower themselves at least six or seven times a day so that they should always be sweet-smelling and fresh when called in to service), so he just stood there. And then when Jeff finally did come out of the shower and the slave tried to wrap him in one of the luxurious fluffy white bath wraps so that he could dry Jeff, Jeff again rebuffed him.

I watched as Jeff rummaged in his bag to find clean boxers - he wasn't shy about being naked in front of the slave, as I supposed he was used to dressing with a lot of other men - and so it was clear that it was the thought of the young nigga touching him that had bothered him. He pulled them on, and a fresh pair of jeans, and a T, then stood there rummaging again to find a pair of socks. I couldn't help but like the way his jeans emphasised the curve of his butt and his narrow waist, and somehow I find the sight of men wriggling their toes in a thick pile carpet to be strangely sensual. Just as Jeff was leaving he asked the slave if there was a Laundromat or something around as he'd used the last of his clean clothes, and the slave again looked startled. He told Jeff that of course he was there to deal with all that sort of thing, and told Jeff that all would be fresh and clean when he was back from dinner.

I saw Jeff give a little shrug and then leave the room, and I quickly switched the display back to my e-mail, so that as Jeff entered, I was working. I kept him standing there by the door for some moments, knowing that it was making him feel awkward as he didn't know whether to interrupt me, but then I turned and faced him having sent off a note.

"You must be hungry! I doubt they fed you, down in the cells...."

"Yes.... Sir." He sounded hesitant, but at least he'd used a "sir".

I nodded, and led the way into the dining room and at once the waiters pulled away our chairs so that we could sit comfortably. "It's only a simple pheasant ragout - the birds are shot at Manderleigh and freighted up here", I explained. "I don't usually bother with anything to start unless I'm entertaining formally, and dessert is always fruit, again grown properly at Manderleigh, for maximum flavour. But there's as much of it as you want, and if you have specific likes or dislikes, just tell the slaves and they can make arrangements to serve whatever you want."

Jeff nodded, and I went on "Wine? This is a rather good Crozes Hermitage that I import from the chateau of a special client in France...."

I poured him a glass, and he sat there, looking at it suspiciously. I raised my glass and said casually "So here's to a happy working relationship...."

He raised his glass and took a sip of the wine, that didn't seem to be to his taste.

I had a mouthful of mine - the wonderful complex flavours were perfect - and said "Are you OK? It looked as if there was something wrong with the wine, but mine's perfect. Perhaps your glass was not clean.... Here, pass it to me, and if the slaves have fucked up again, we'll cane them before the meal is served."

I sipped at his glass, looked curiously at him and said "No, this is perfect! Don't you like it?"

"I'm not much of a one for wine, sir. Especially not red wine.", he said almost shyly, his head slightly bowed and his eyes on the table. "It's mostly beer in the service... Or sometimes if ladies are present, a Chardonnay."

"Ah yes, I suppose so. Still, New York is a little more sophisticated. Will you stay with the Crozes Hermitage then, or would you prefer something less complex... I'm sure we have most things in the cellars. Just name what you'd like."

I doubted he could, of course, and he shuffled a little uneasily as he finally muttered "Perhaps I could just stick to beer?"

"Bud, Miller, something imported from Belgium, or Germany.... Just tell the slave and if it's not in the cellar it can be sent out for."

I was pleased to be able to demonstrate the superiority of my style of living, and when the thick heavy casserole appeared, served with freshly made tagiatelle, he picked at it nervously. "Manderleigh is famed for the quality of the shooting", I told him.

"Mind you, I don't indulge in the sport myself, so it's mostly the neighbours who use my covers and drives and I just take some of the bag. I rarely entertain except in restaurants, and so I only have a small part of the bag - the slaves all eat chow, of course."

He continued to pick at the rich savoury mixture nervously, and I increased his discomfort deliberately by adding "Of course they shoot the pheasant in the traditional way, and although the slaves who prepare the food are supposed to get all the shot out, do be careful. I've tried one stroke of the cane for every piece of lead I find in game, but even so, every now and then, a piece slips through."

I have to say that the conversation wasn't great - he hardly initiated any topics throughout the meal. He must have been hungry, though, as he willingly had a second big plateful of the delicious stew, and almost emptied the fruit bowl afterwards. And all the time I noticed him looking uneasily at the four young slaves who were waiters - they're fine-looking niggas, of course, as they're on public display, and were just wearing the normal short, loose tunic that all house slaves wore. As is the fashion, their tunics were cut especially short so that unless they were absolutely motionless their dicks and balls were exposed - they say it's so that diners can be certain that the slaves are shaved totally clean (as those who are waiters and who work in the kitchens in my apartment are), and thus not likely to drop pubic hairs into the food!

He continued to look uneasy as we sat with coffee (another European habit which I find most civilised, to end the meal this way). Finally, he began "Sir, I don't like the slave in the bathroom...."

"Oh, they kind of rotate. I doubt you'll get the same one tonight. But if he displeases you in some way, just tell Henry to have him punished."

"No... I mean.... Well, he tried to get into the shower with me, and wanted to wash my body and shampoo my hair..."

"That's what bath slaves do. You're not embarrassed about your body, are you? I thought you guys in the forces all lived in barracks, shared showers, that sort of stuff...."

"No, sir, it's not that. It's just... Well, sir, I'm not used to being touched by other men in the showers.

Of course we showered together in the barracks, but you don't wash your buddies..."

"Oh, I see. I'll tell Henry to change the slave roster and make sure that your bath slaves are women. Some men are funny like that."

"No, sir..."

"I won't hear of it. Consider it done. And you are of course free to use them any way you want - we select the bath slaves, and indeed all the domestic servants, to be easy on the eye and really young and biddable."

"Oh no, sir..."

"Hey, Jeff, is there something wrong with you? I thought you were a real fit, virile kind of guy... Don't you like to fuck?"

"Yes, of course...."

"Didn't they have slaves in your barracks? Were you expected to go with your buddies?"

"NO! No, sir. You don't fuck with your buddies!"

"Just a bit of jerking off, then? Surely a bunch of fit guys living together would do that?"

"No, sir! I mean, we all jerked off, of course, as you'd expect, but by ourselves, at night, in our bunks. You didn't jerk off with the other guys. Fucking was for the weekends and on leave...."

"So you had a girlfriend, then? What happened?"

"No, sir. It's not like that in the special forces. It's difficult, as you're always being sent on missions..."

"So no girl friends... So it was a guy, or one of your buddies?"

He blushed, and went on "No, it's not like that... Around the base there were lots of women who would kind of... 'oblige'.... for a few bucks."

"Ah, so you're used to using prostitutes! Well it's much more civilised here! You can fuck whenever you like - that's what the slaves are for, and it's free."

As I said this, I got up from the table, to clearly indicate that the topic was closed. Poor Jeff looked really uncomfortable, and I could see that he just wasn't used to this openness in discussing sex. Or perhaps it was that my plan to make him feel inferior was working - I'd deliberately given him unusual food and fine wine which he'd have had little experience of, and I suspected that the surroundings in the vast apartment, with all the slaves, was far beyond his normal expectations.

"Anyway", I continued. "I'm going to turn in now. Make yourself at home - use the TV or tell the slaves to run you something in the cinema. And, of course, have a good night's sleep - fuck any of the slave you want, they kind of expect it. I suppose you're tired after today - all that worry about ending up like these poor niggas here - but I'd like to go for a run tomorrow morning, early. They'll call you in plenty of time."

I'm a bit of a morning person, so it's not hard for me to get up early - it's almost as if I have an in-built alarm clock, as the moment I need to, my eyes flick open and I'm wide awake, ready to go. It's hard on the slaves as I spring out of bed, as I hate just lying there, and I want to have all my clothes and stuff immediately ready. The young nigger on duty outside my door that night must have fallen asleep, but as I was in a good mood I didn't call for Henry to punish him, but he was still sort of rubbing his eyes and trying not to yawn as he handed me my jock, running shorts and T, then knelt to help me into my running shoes and tie the laces.

Down in the entrance hall Jeff looked tired, too. Was he an "evening" person, I wondered, or had he just sat there half the night watching porn on the TV? Or had he taken one of the niggas to his bed, perhaps? In any case he was hardly dressed for a run - he was in jeans and a T - and I told him so: I wanted to run hard and far, and jeans just wouldn't do.

"Well, sir, that's all I've got.... You know, sleeping rough... most of my gear was sold to help make ends meet, or lost..."

"Well we can fix that later today, as you can go shopping. But for now, you'd better borrow some shorts...."

I snapped at the slaves standing around to go and fetch a pair of shorts, and they came back with a pair of the standard slave ones. I'd kind of imagined they might race to my room and get a pair of mine, which were of a decent, "free man's" length, and was about to admonish them when the thought occurred to me that getting Jeff to wear "slave" shorts, cut short, as was usual for slaves, might further my plan to control him.

He looked at the things as the slave held them out, and was about to protest, but I said "Come on, man.... I haven't all that much time, as I've got an early morning meeting...."

He looked around, his eyes seeming almost panicky, and I wondered if he thought of going back to his room to change. But instead he gave a little shrug, and dropped his jeans right there. Well, I suppose it's only like changing in front of your buddy at a sports club or something, and it's not as if he was naked underneath - I was pleased to see that he had a good plain white "sports" jock, and as he bent to pull up the shorts, I got that interesting view of his butt nicely framed by the waistband and elastic straps around his thighs. And when he'd pulled up the silky shorts, he looked even better: his strong muscular thighs seemed to strain the thin material, and from the back you could almost discern the dark shadow of his ass crack.

He tugged at the shorts a it, as if that might make them bigger, somehow, but slave shorts are, as you know, cut so that they emphasise the contours of the slave's body, so it was no use. He couldn't pull the waist up any higher as they were designed to be low-slung, so there was no way of bridging the gap between it and the bottom of his T - there was that lovely stripe of his hard belly just in view. In spite of his jock, his bulge at the front told of his above average endowment, and, as I've told you, the very short legs revealed his thighs to perfection - although this was somewhat spoiled by the fact that his tan line started just at the knee, leaving a rather unpleasant white area above it: I wondered how I was going to persuade him to get a good all-over tan, as I rather dislike the "white band" effect on a man around his middle, especially when it goes right down the thighs. I mean, a stark white areas where there's been a very small Speedo is OK, perhaps even enhancing the look of the guy, and I also like a body that's white all over that shows its owner never goes into the sun: it's just the wide band that some men have that I find less than aesthetically satisfying.

We set out then, and to the world in general it might have looked at first sight as if I was a rich owner with a personal trainer slave, and it was probably only when they got closer and saw that he wasn't collared that they'd realise that Jeff was a free man, In spite of wearing "slave" clothes. But once we got into the exercise seriously, they would have not been fooled!

Look, I was still fit, as these things go, for a guy who was mostly in the office. But nothing like in as good condition as I used to be when I was a slave at Manderleigh. So after a few blocks, when we crossed into the park, I was beginning to feel my breathing labouring a bit: this was no "jog", mind, but a serious, fast "run". I slowed, and at once Jeff showed his true nature, running back to me, going behind me, and then shouting at me to "get a move on, you lazy fucker! Are you a man, or a wimp?". I realised that this is how he'd have treated the new recruits, and somehow his whole stance, his tone, and the words he used just brooked no argument: in spite of the stitch I was developing in my side, and my pounding heart, I picked up my pace again.

We ran on and on, far further than I had intended, all the time Jeff shouting and swearing at me to keep the pace up, in a way that no personal trainer slave would dare to do. And then, mercifully, he allowed us to stop - but only so that we could do press-ups - I watched him doing them "properly" as I struggled, but then he noticed me "cheating" by bending my body and he began to scream at me to keep straight. I was glad it was over, but he didn't allow any rest - we were off again, running, until we came to one of those frame things they have at places around the park, and I had to do "chin raises" on them until it felt as if my ribs and biceps were going to break.

He let me have a rest then, and I sat there on a bench, head sunk between my knees. He remained standing, vaguely in motion, shifting from foot to foot, as if to emphasise that he was in good shape still, and with a touch of a smile he muttered "Not bad, sir... There's not a lot of guys your age could do that... I thought I ought to give you a tough time the first time out, so I could see how you really could cope... We can go slower on the way back."

I realised then that Jeff's tongue lashing was on exactly the same principle as the tawse and cane we used at Manderleigh to "encourage" the slaves to give that little extra: in the world of the free men, in the forces, they couldn't get that final few percent by physical means, so used the verbal abuse and natural desire of a man to not appear to be a wimp to achieve the same thing! How alike the treatment of slaves and the treatment of soldiers must be, I mused, and wondered how I could use this insight to my further advantage in "breaking" Jeff.

Although he said we could go at a slower pace as we went back to the apartment, I'm not that sort of person, as you know. So I raced ahead of Jeff, which caused him to catch up, and then I had to go faster, as if I was determined to beat him. And then I couldn't slow down, could I? It was fortunate, I suppose, that we could take a more direct route, and by the time we got back to the door of our building, I was almost at the point of collapse!

As the slave washed and shampooed me in the shower I could feel my limbs trembling from the effort they'd made, and even though I usually found this particular slave enticing and sometimes had him suck me off as I stood there under the warm water, this morning I was just too tired! The slaves helped me dress, and I think I was somewhat irritated when I went into the dining room to see Jeff already there, looking totally relaxed and not at all strained: he was wolfing down a huge pile of sausage, bacon, eggs, hash browns and pancakes, and when I took my customary bowl of fruit, he grinned and said "You can stop all that now, sir.... If you're going to exercise properly, you can eat properly: as much as you like. When your body's properly fit, you won't put on any fat, however much you eat!"

As he said that, he slapped his belly so that the hard sound rang around the room. I don't know if he was trying to make me feel deliberately bad about the shape I was in, but I couldn't let him get away with it, could I? "Oh, sure. Now, I'm off to the office. I may want to work out at lunch time, or when I've finished my meetings this afternoon, so be available there. And go out and but some proper workout clothes this morning: I don't want people to think that it's a slave who's exercising with me! That's what you look like, you know, unless you dress properly." He just nodded - the bastard evidently was so sure of his status and image that he didn't care about being mistaken for a slave!

I have to say that the exercise did me good! It never got any easier, though, as each day Jeff just went further and further when we ran, or did more press-ups, or more chin-stretches... It seemed as if his muscled, almost wiry body was tireless. I added in a big daily swim to my routine - I could always do it between the end of my last meeting of the day and any evening engagement I needed to do - although it was difficult, with Jeff watching, to keep my brand concealed as we changed afterwards. As it was, I hated having to wear big, baggy swimming shorts to cover my butt and thighs completely, when Jeff had sensibly bough "proper" exercise Speedos. Still, try as he might, he couldn't beat me in the pool: all those years at school in the swimming team had left me with a proper technique (and now I had a strong desire to show him that he might be fit and tough, but not as fit and tough as me!).

So determined was I to get back into proper shape that we stayed in New York on the weekends and I spent a lot of time with Jeff running in the park, exercising in the gym in the apartment, and swimming in the pool at the bank. I watched him in his room from time to time, and saw that he lost his shighness about having slaves help him, and then, one evening, when we'd gone up relatively early and he was lying on his bed flicking TV channels (a part of the security display showed me what he was watching in a small window on my screen), he fixed on one of the porno channels and as some guy sweated and grunted as he attempted to satisfy two vilely overdeveloped women, he began to jerk off as he lay there. I watched with interest as he slid his 'skin on and off his dick head, and adjusted the remote on the camera in his room to zoom in on it as best I could. He seemed to be on the point of shooting, when the microphone picked up him saying "oh fuck it....", then he rolled half over on to his side and pressed the button to summon a slave.

I suppose that if you like women, she wasn't bad looking: Jeff said something to her and as she pulled her tunic up over her head you could see her breasts were firm and strong, not like the repulsive things on the TV. And then the next minute he was fucking her - doggy fashion, and I wished there had been enough cameras in the room to have been ale to focus in on his ass as he pounded away, accompanied by the sounds of passion coming still from the TV.

He looked embarrassed, or ashamed, when he'd shot, and sent the slave away and settled down to sleep, and when we met for our usual morning exercise he seemed kind of sheepish - although I of course did not even make any allusion to his having "used" a slave, as there was no way I could have that information without revealing the cameras. But after that first time it seemed to get easier and easier for him: he summoned a slave the next night, too, and then it as if he couldn't take a shower, or change clothes, without taking a few moments out to plunge his dick into some nigga bitch or other from the staff.

I'd been so busy getting into shape that I'd rather neglected Tony and Miles, and one afternoon my secretary asked me if I was available that evening as they'd called to say they wanted to get together. I told her to get them on a conference call - one of the advantages of being the chief honcho is that no one in the bank is ever "unavailable" or "in a meeting" when you want to speak to them - and explained that I'd like to spend an evening with them, but I wanted to keep an eye on Jeff and so our usual sexual frolics were out, as he wasn't yet "ready".

"Oh", Miles commented, "So you think you will get him to the point of riding his ass, do you?"

"Of course, Miles. You can get up any guy's ass with proper preparation and planning...."

"Is that a bet, Steve?", Tony cut in. "Are you forgetting all your training when you worked for me as a trader? What's the odds, man?"

"One hundred percent! I'm just not sure of the timing. But every man secretly wants to know what sex with another man is like - even someone like Jeff, who has been fucking the female slaves like sex is about to go out of fashion! It's just that he's not ready for it.... Yet."

"So you'll put money on it?" Tony was an inveterate gambler, and I did sometimes wonder whether his business dealings were truly sound. But on the other hand the audit and compliance officers had never found anything to complain about, so he must know what's he was doing.

I nodded, and he said "Five hundred, then.... Five hundred says you won't fuck this Jeff within a year."

It wasn't the money that made me hesitate - it meant nothing to me, after all, and we only bet like this as it was kind of "convention". But both Tony and Miles saw my slight hesitation, and at once Tony said "Ah! Not so sure, are you, Steve?"

"Yes, of course.... But the timing..."

"Timing's everything, Steve!", Miles cut in. "You know that - all the agreements the bank makes are always time sensitive. Are you saying you're not confident?"

"No, of course not...."

"And there's another thing", Miles continued. "Performance! It's important that the parties to a contract can always determine that proper performance has taken place. It's no good you just betting with Tony that you'll fuck this Jeff within one year from today.... We'll need to be certain, and we can hardly send in a 'due diligence' team to check it out, can we?"

"You're right, Miles", Tony added. "Trust a lawyer to be concerned about the contracts! But there's an easy way, if Steve is so confident he can so it. You are certain, aren't you, Steve?"

Look, I wasn't going to back down, was I? So I smiled and said "Tony, you might bullshit when you're setting up deals, but you know me: I'm always certain I can do what I say. So of course I'm sure I can do it. It's a pleasure to be able to take your five hundred off you - you might as well pay me now."

Even in the small screen on my phone I could see that smile flicker across Tony's face, that smile I'd seen so many times before when he knew he'd won a tough deal and the opponent had committed some error that handed the spoils to Tony. He was too good a negotiator to show this openly, and the smile never lasted more than an instant, and was probably indiscernible to those who had not worked with him, but I knew there was a killer shot about to land! "So, Steve, why don't you arrange to bring him to one of our little evenings together... Three's fun, but if he's as handsome as you say, and his body is as fantastic, four would be even better!"

"Hey, no... That's complicating it too much...."

"Oh come on, Steve. If you've fucked him, and it's a 'proper' fuck, not just a casual one-off when you got him drunk and pushed him over the arm of the couch or something, then he'd be happy to come along and join in, surely. It's every guy's dream, to have totally uninhibited sex with a fun group of others.... Or are you not sure you can really show him that he's a proper man and that he needs real sex, not just the breeding he's doing now?"

"OK, you're on, Tony!" The bastard had trapped me, and I smiled inwardly: he was a good man to head up our trading divisions.

"Look, Steve, I know you wouldn't think of doing it, but we must be careful of a switch", Miles now joined in, having seen how Tony had manoeuvred me. "So I think you'd better bring this Jeff along tonight - you need a bit of a break, and to spend some time with your buddies. That way we can meet him, feast our eyes on him, and dream about him until you bring it off. So let's just have a poker evening - he must play, surely, having been in the forces?"

"I guess so. I'll ask."

"OK, Steve... My place, eight o'clock?"

"Sure, Tony", I relied, and broke the connection. This could be interesting.

End Of Part Twenty Seven.