My Big Mistake
By Randall Austin
Short Story
This story is erotic fiction meant for mature readers and should only be read by adults over the age of eighteen years old. Please do not use my stories without my permission and please forward all comments to randallaustin2011@hotmail.com
Randall Austin's Archive Group: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Randall_Austin_Stories
When my alcoholic brother Jeb, 10 years older than I was, died at the age of 47 from a failed liver, his entire estate was left to me, as I knew it would be, and it included his three sons. His boys were good boys really; they loved each other and were well behaved. But they were prime material for enslavement, and they and their father knew it. But it never got around to happening because for the last 5 years of his life Jeb couldn't get around to doing much of anything. The moment he woke from sleep he would immediately start drinking.
The boys didn't mind their father's condition, because they knew the slave system would get them sooner or later, and as long as their dad was their legal guardian, they were safe. When their dad finally did die I think they knew that it was over for them. That's why I got the court order for their enslavement and went out to their house (already by then it was my house) with three police officers the very next day after Jeb's death.
It went smoothly enough. They were a little shocked that their favorite uncle was acting so quickly, but I assured them that I wasn't doing it for the money. I explained that it would be for their own good, and my enslavement order guaranteed that they were a unit and could never be separated. That fact alone almost made them happy to be enslaved.
The problem with Jeb's boys was that Bradley, the oldest at 23, had a limp from birth. He was strong, smart and able, but the limp would forever limit his prospects in the job market, and he knew it. His dad could never afford corrective surgery, and his education was limited because his dad had to pull him out of school when he was a freshman because he couldn't afford the tuition. The problem with Keith, 22, was his jug ears. He was a darn good looking fellow, and his big ears made him real cute, but again even the relatively simple corrective surgery was way beyond his dad's means. But he wasn't really hirable with those ears. They drew attention and were distracting for a number of reasons. The youngest, Stuart, 20, was strong, fit, and good looking, but he just never did well in school and dropped out in the 7th grade.
All three boys spent the last 6 years working at Jeb's farm, doing the gardening. Somehow the three of them managed to make a living for themselves and their dad. I explained to them that the spiraling tax rate would make keeping the farm impossible, and they more or less resigned themselves to their fate.
The cops got them stripped and collared in no time, and we took them immediately to Jim Steber to get them branded, because I wanted to be sure to get them over to the `Warehouse' for tomorrow's lot auction. Once a month was when auctions for slaves sold in multiples took place, and I wanted to move them as quickly as possible. I didn't want to have them around for another month of feeding and caring. I also arranged for an early morning appointment at the vet (what we call slave doctors in California) for their required pre-auction physical.
I know it always helps to have a marketing gimmick, so when the cops and I got them back to the farm from their branding, I had the cops leash them up out in the barn, and I set to work on some snazzy little sales gimmick. When I decided on it, I took some cheese and bread and a bag of apples out to the boys to tell about it. I sat down in the hay with them and told them that from now on they were going to be known as the Bongo Brothers. I told them that having names that were related to their physical characteristics would endear them to their owners, and make them likely to find kindly masters. Their new names were Jugs, Gimpy and Mule.
The next morning I gave the boys some undershorts and shirts, and told them that was the usual dress for the slaves traded at the Warehouse. I had the boys get in the back of the pickup, leashed them down, and set off for our first stop, the vet.
When we checked in at the vet's office, the nurse told the boys to remove their underwear and go into the waiting room, so they would be ready for their examination as soon as they were called, as is common practice for slaves. When we got into the waiting room I was upset to see that it was full of naked slaves ahead of us in line. If the prospect of missing the auction didn't give me a headache, the behavior of my boys at seeing so many naked girls certainly did. The three of them erected to the hilt, and trying to stop Mule from openly jacking off was a real chore.
When we were finally called an hour and a half later Dr. Fulton commented, "I knew I'd be seeing these boys one of these days." When he completed the physicals, even without the lab results, the news was not good. Dr. Fulton said the health report was probably going to seriously drop my asking price for the boys. It seemed that Bradley had a heart murmur, not at all life threatening or even necessarily any kind of problem, but its presence in slaves is bad. No one wants to pay top dollar for something that COULD drop dead tomorrow. Keith had asthma, and that could be a big hassle for owners down the line, and Stuart was sterile. In a product whose biggest asset was stud appeal, that was not good news. The boys put their underwear back on and I took them by their leashes to the corner diner and we had a big meal of bean and cheese burritos. I knew we wouldn't be going to the Warehouse today. We had a good time, and the boys were farting left and right even before I got them back in the pickup truck.
It didn't look good for me. Just as the farm and house would cost me a fortune to get fixed up in order to be able to sell, so would the three boys. One solution would be to sell them on the black market, but that could backfire and I could end up getting myself enslaved. And that also meant the boys would be split up, and I preferred not to allow that because of a promise I had made to Jeb.
I finally decided that the only solution was for me to have their enslavement order rescinded, always a risky business. It cost me a lot, but I thought it would make my life easier. Whether or not it did is open to debate.
There is always the danger of a freed slave seeking damages in the courts, for everything from wrongful enslavement to abuse. But finally I just thought the boys were too far out of it in legal matters to even begin to know how to go down that route.
But somehow they managed. The boys took me to court, won the case, and had me enslaved for life. They took over complete ownership of all my assets, and put me to work full time fixing up their farm and house. It was a happy day for them when they paid Mr. Steber to come over to the farm to brand me chained up to my pickup truck.
OK, so I paid a big price for thinking that somehow physical defects indicated limited ability, and a poor academic performance indicated faulty epistemological equipment. But what I still can't figure out is where the boys got all of their business and legal savvy.
The boys have made underwear my official uniform, they've had me fix up a nice little room for myself in the barn, and Jugs, Gimpy, and Mule (they decided to keep the names I came up with for them as tokens of victory) come to me at strange times and make me service them with `hour' long massages, foot lickings, and blow jobs. And about once a week Jugs orders me to spread my hoo-hoo, so he can stick his business up into it. They've named me Bongo, and they have a bongo drum out on the porch, which they beat as their signal for me to report to them.
And I respond immediately when they beat the drum, because they are only too happy to apply the paddle to my behind if I dally. But they have told me that as long as I continue to serve them as nicely as I have so far during my first six months of enslavement, they will not take me out to the Warehouse in order to make a quick buck on me at the `seconds' auction.
The End