THE LABOURER by Pete Brown. petebrownuk @ yahoo.com
Read all of Pete's stories in groups.yahoo.com/group/petebrownseroticstories
Part 3
Sean didn't hesitate. And he didn't stop at one stroke, either. Three hard, harsh cuts of the cane from his arm raised high in the air and brought down onto the tightly-stretched fabric of my jeans over my butt, as I knelt there fumbling with the paving.
With each one I cried out, and the pain went thorough my body as if I had been scalded. And I heard Sean saying to himself "Fucking cocky bugger... I'll teach him...." as numbers two and three landed. I was almost whimpering as that hot, molten glow spread through my butt, and as Sean was still hovering over me, I scrabbled frantically to lift the remaining heavy paving stones and get them in place - there's just no way that I could have done that without assistance, had I not been "encouraged" like that.
It was almost dark then, and the job was over, and we all dragged our weary selves back towards the truck, and clambered into the back. I couldn't sit there as I had on the outward journey, as my butt was just too tender, and I saw the other guys smiling with amusement as I lay down the middle on my belly - they had hardly been caned at all as Sean had mostly used the tawse on their bare backs, and I supposed that they were anyway used to more discomfort than I was. I mean, no one had ever tanned my hide since I was a little kid, and then dad had only used his bare hand, and not very hard at all as it was more to humiliate me, rather than hurt me.
I was literally stumbling around with tiredness when we got back, as were we all, but the day was not over yet. Even though it had only been used to carry us to and fro, the guys all set to cleaning the truck thoroughly (I wondered how long it took if they'd been using it all day for transporting materials - making them do that in their state of exhaustion seemed downright cruel. But then, I suppose, they needed to be fresh in the morning for a full day's work, so it couldn't be postponed). And they weren't finished then, either - they trooped into the dormitory building where the other ten indentured servants that Mike "owned" were already as we were the last lot back, and stood there at a table just inside the door cleaning and polishing their work boots back to that bright shine I'd so admired in the morning! Only then did I see them start to strip naked, and walk off to the showers.
As I was standing, or rather leaning, as standing seemed to be too much like hard work, and there was a convenient rail to take some of my weight, Mike came up. He clapped me on the back in greeting, and I winced as the action caused my muscles to tighten and the fire in my butt to rekindle. He saw my reaction, and laughed. "Yes, Sean said that he'd 'encouraged' you, when you were pretty much tuckered out. So I guess I win, do I? You did have some hidden reserves, and you did get to use them?"
I smiled ruefully at him. "Yes. I never thought I'd say it, but you're right."
He peeled a load of bills off a big wad that he got out of his back pocket. "Here, Steve.... You did a really good day's work, and I said I'd pay you your normal daily rate.... And I've added ten percent, as I reckon I got at least that much more from you today as your employer usually does! Mind you, I ought to reduce it really, for a cash payment, as I don't suppose you're going to give the IRS their share!"
"You're fucking right! Not after the way I've worked for it! But here....". I peeled a ten off the top of the pile in my hands, and handed it back to Mike. "I always pay up promptly on a bet that's been won fair and square."
"I guess you're in no fit condition to ride that bike of yours back to town", the said jovially. "We thought you might be too exhausted.... But I guess sitting on that saddle wouldn't be too great tonight, would it?"
"No..."
"Want to stay here? You an I could have a few beers, a bite to eat, get better acquainted, if you know what I mean...."
I saw his eyes raking my body as I'd seen so many men do before when we'd met in a bar or something and they wanted to proposition me. But I'm no fag. Don't get me wrong, I've got no problem with guys fucking each other if they want to, but I just don't want to. And over the years I've found it better to get out early if the evening looks as if it's going that way - guys who've bought you a lot of beers and stuff seem to turn nasty if you then turn them down later. Not that that's a problem for me, as I was usually younger, fitter and tougher than those middle-aged men who lusted after me, but, still, I don't really like shouting arguments, and stupid fights. I liked Mike, he was great company, and I wanted him as a buddy, but this wasn't going right, so I smiled and said "That's a great idea, but even with one beer I'd collapse and fall asleep! And I have to be up really early tomorrow morning, as I've got another early start...."
"You sure?"
"Yes... But you said that perhaps I could have a lift back to town, with my bike on the truck?"
He nodded, and went to the door of the dormitory and barked some orders. Four of the indentured servants came out at once, and they must have been in the shower, or in bed, as they were stark naked! It didn't seem to worry them, though, as under his orders they got a big plank of wood to make a ramp, wheeled my bike up long it into the back of the truck, and tied it securely. I couldn't take my eyes off them as they swarmed around the place, their dicks flying wildly, and under the lights that had come on in the yard, I could see the ugly stripes of what must be the marks of the cane across some of their butts!
Mike and I chatted on as they worked away, and arranged to meet the following Thursday in my local bar. Then he said that Sean would have to drive me home as he had a lot of paperwork to get through, and he hollered for Sean, who came out looking as surly as he had all day. I think I was glad that I preferred to ride home stretched out in the back rather than ride up front with Sean because of the pain in my butt, as it was the perfect excuse for not spending time with a guy I'd come to dislike.
Back in my tiny apartment I really was absolutely shattered and totally exhausted, and I was almost stumbling around as I stripped off my clothes. I stank of sweat, and really I should have showered, but I was so far gone that all I wanted to do was collapse into bed. It didn't matter, after all, whether my sheets stank of my man scent, as there was no one to complain about it! But as I was about to lower myself gingerly onto the mattress, I caught sight of my naked body in the mirror - my tanned torso, then the white bit where I had to wear shorts in the summer, and my tanned legs; there was a new addition to the colours of my body now, a very visible new addition: the four angry-loooking red weals across my butt muscles, standing out from the white skin, and looking like tram lines or something in my flesh. I couldn't help but go closer to the mirror and twist around to get as good a look as I could - there was no doubt about what they were: I'd never seen cane marks before, of course, but I'd read some stories on the Internet about the soft white flesh of a woman's backside being marked like that when some dominant guy caned her, and there was just no doubting that this is what they looked like!
Oh fuck, I thought to myself. I wouldn't be able to go swimming for a week at least, as the ends of the marks would extend well beyond my Speedos. And anyway, when I went into the showers.... There would be other guys there who would recognise them, I suppose, and know what had happened to me. As I continued to stare at myself I reached down and touched the marks, very gingerly, and at once a fresh flash of agony shot through me: there was no doubt about it - it was incredibly painful, and I was going to have a difficult day at work tomorrow, even if I wore my baggiest jeans and some old loose flannel boxers. I couldn't help but notice, though, that this looking and touching was having an unexpected effect on me - I'd sprung a boner, and my dick was even harder than usual, and was almost throbbing as if it wanted to be stroked to shooting.
I lay there in bed and jerked away as there was no denying my dick's need for relief - I shot amazingly quickly as my other hand was probing at my butt, and this seemed to intensify the normal sexual rush I felt whenever my hand strayed towards my dick. But afterwards I just couldn't get to sleep, in spite of my incredible tiredness: I just kept thinking about what Mike had said, and how he'd been right. I knew I'd never worked like that, never worn out my muscles as much as I had today, never managed to coax my body into really giving its all. I felt dissatisfied, and thought that all that hard work I'd done, all those hours in the gym, had all been for nothing - a few taps of the cane, and I'd gone way, way beyond anything I'd been able to achieve by myself.
Next day at work was pure hell - every time I bent over, and you bend lot, labouring, believe me), I "knew" about my butt! I mean, you don't usually think about it at all, do you, as it's just "there". But now I was conscious all the time of the shooting pain as my clothes scraped over the weals and the slower burning ache as my injured butt muscles struggled to keep working. And this kept focussing my mind back to what I'd experienced - you don't need to think about what you're doing for most labouring jobs, and in fact it's better if you have an unconscious "rhythm" about repetitive tasks like digging or carrying or shovelling - and the more I thought about it, the more dissatisfied I became with almost all my working life to date. I'd always prided myself on working hard, on using my body to the full, and now I knew this was almost a sham, and I'd been fooling myself.
I got through the day somehow, and struggled home - I'd had to ask one of my work buddies for a ride, as there was no way I could still sit on my bike. As I showered I fingered my butt again, and it seemed to be getting better, but the marks still showed, but perhaps not as angrily. I was dog tired, but my old buddy Rob and I have a regular Monday night session at the local bar and we make it a rule never to postpone it.
Rob's one of my few friends - no, my only friend, I guess, who I still know from High School. I'd lost touch with most of the others when they went off to College, but somehow Rob and I had got together in breaks, and we still liked to meet and discuss this and that, put the world to rights, watch football together, that kind of guy thing. He was doing really well, not that he ever pushed it down my throat - he'd just been made a junior partner in some big law firm in the city and was making a ton of money, and he'd even recently moved to a big new house. I'd gone around there and laid them as new barbecue area as a sort of housewarming present - not that Rob couldn't have afforded to have got a contractor in, but I wanted to do something for him, and there was no way I could afford a fancy housewarming present. That hadn't pleased Karen, his wife, though: I'd overheard her saying as I worked away laying the paving, that now they'd have to invite me to the barbecue the next week! Rob protested and said that he'd have invited me anyway, but Karen really tore into him, saying that she didn't want "my sort" mingling with all their friends!
I don't know why Karen doesn't like me - she never has, not from the first moment. I think it's probably because she knows that Rob secretly admires me, and in spite of all his money, his big house, his BMW, the holidays in St Thomas, and all that other stuff, he's jealous. Jealous because I've got something he hasn't - freedom! He has to go to that office and work away long hours every day, and then worry about how his cases are going, think about what the senior partners are thinking about him, and all that stuff. Whereas I just go to work, then once I quit, it's all over - my time's my own, and I've got nothing to worry about - no work responsibilities, no huge bills, no big mortgage.... I think Karen thinks that I'm a "bad influence" on Rob, that I might tempt him to give it all up and come and work alongside me. Actually, I was surprised that Rob married Karen at all - like me, he was a real stud and played the field, and I didn't think he'd marry until he was in his thirties (as I vaguely thought I might). But he'd met Karen at College, and he father was a partner in his law firm, and they'd got hitched so quickly that I hardly noticed him slipping from being a real bachelor buddy with us spending several nights a week together drinking and whoring, to his boring respectability where he still had Karen's "permission" to have one night a week out without her, although he wasn't allowed to be home late!
Rob's the closest friend I have, and we can talk about everything and anything together. Actually, at High School I think he really wanted us to do more than just hang around and talk - I often caught him looking at me as we changed for sports and stuff, and if I hadn't always turned the conversation, I reckon he might have suggested that we jerk off together. I mean, we were close, really close - I told Rob about the first girl I ever fucked, and he told me all about the ones he did, and stuff like that. But I somehow always knew that he'd like to mess around with me a bit, even though he was basically straight. That night at the bar after we'd talked banalities as we downed two beers, I started to talk about my meeting with Mike and my Sunday, over the third and fourth.
He listened intently - I guess being a lawyer trains you to listen - and then, when I fell silent, he called the waitress to bring us another two beers. "Look, Steve, I've known you a long time, right? And I've never known you like this", he began. "You're not usually this serious about things. And I know you like your body - who wouldn't, you handsome dog! But this desire to drive yourself to the limit... Well, it's not 'natural', is it?"
"Aw, come on, Rob... A man likes to know he's doing the best he possibly can. I bet at that office of yours you work hard..."
"Yes, but you're verging on the obsessional. Look, my advice is to forget it. Keep away from this Mike. Just go on living your life as normal - you enjoy work, you like the gym and the pool, we get together every week, that bike of yours is pretty special...."
"I can't Rob! I want to know my real limits. I need to be pushed - I didn't think I did, as I thought I had control of myself. But now I've found out that I don't...."
"Steve, you're the most 'in control' guy I've ever known! You always know what you want to do, and you do it - all those rows with your dad about College, and not wanting a career, and just wanting a job you didn't need to worry about.... You're in control of your life, Steve, believe me: you've got a whole lot more control than I have, with all the worry, the bills, Karen going on at me...."
"But now I know it's not enough!". At that moment the waitress put our next beers down, I took a bit draught, and went on "I've seriously thought about becoming an indentured servant, and getting Mike to buy my contract, and then I'd really get to know what I was capable of physically... working under the threat of punishment...."
"You can't be serious!"
"Yes I am. If I'd been on my bike today I reckon I'd have driven around until I found a cop, then "challenged" him to a race - they can't resist, if you deliberately overtake them.... A few speeding tickets, which I wouldn't pay.... Then I'd be an indentured servant - one of the other guys at Mike's was there for not paying fines..."
"Don't be such a fucking idiot, Steve! Yes, if you got the tickets, and if you didn't pay, then if the bailiffs couldn't seize enough of your stuff to pay off the fines, you'd be back in court and might well be indentured. But how do you know Mike would buy your contract? It might be sold off to a factory or something, then you'd be inside all day, working a machine, dull, dull, dull..."
"No, Mike would want a big strong guy like me - someone who already knows construction."
"But he might not have the capital available - indentured servants' contracts have to be paid for, you know. And he might get outbid in the auction. Or he might have enough already.... Look, this is just a silly dream you have, I think. You've met him once or twice, he's made a big impression on you, and you've spun this fantasy from there: you'll work away for him, constantly testing yourself... But it might not work out at all, Steve, and then where would you be? Stuck in a factory, never seeing the great outdoors - and you like running, and hiking, and riding your bike...."
I suppose Rob might have been right, but I couldn't leave it alone. I thought and fretted away as I worked, now completely dissatisfied with what I was doing as I knew I could be made to do more. It was a relief when Thursday came, and I was itching to get off the site and get home to shower and change for my rendezvous with Mark at the bar. But, as sod's law would have it, they wanted to finish up that night and it just went on and on... Even though I worked as hard as I could (well, I said to myself bitterly, as hard as I could without the threat of punishment!) I couldn't get away, and it was no consolation when the foreman told us about how much overtime we were getting. So I had to go straight to the bar in my work clothes, stinking of sweat, and all crumpled and dishevelled.
Mark was already there, immaculate as ever, and as we shook hands he called for a beer for me. "You sure do look as if you need it, Steve...."
"Yes, the fucking job ran over. I had to stay... I wanted to get home and shower and change..."
"Well your clean clothes don't look all that different, although they may smell better - when you came to my place last weekend you were still all crumpled."
"Oh, I don't bother ironing work clothes...."
"There, Steve, that's another difference with using indentured servants: most of my reputation now rests on the fact that we do perfect work, to time, and going along with that is the 'image' thing: trucks clean, workers smartly turned out and 'sharp' looking, boots polished, all that sort of stuff."
"Well I could do that, Mark, if you say it's important. And I was going to ask you about that - there's no work booked for Saturday and Sunday, and no one wants me to do a little job on the side... So can I come and work alongside your guys again? Same deal, you just pay me my standard wages, even if we work over? And no ten bucks, though - I know now that you're right about that...."
"No, Steve, I'm sorry..."
"Why? Oh, come on, surely you can use another worker?
Look, I'll even come along and do it for free... I want to use my body and I've got nothing else to do this weekend...."
"No, Steve, I'm sorry. I can't use you. Not this weekend, not ever."
I felt myself getting really angry. I almost shouted at him "Why the fuck not? I work just as hard as all those drug dealers and rapists...."
"Sure you do! I didn't say you didn't. Now, calm down, OK? It's nothing to do with you - I'd gladly use you as an indentured servant, as I could really get the work out of you! No, it's the insurance - all contractors have to have public liability insurance, as you know, and it's a big expense item as if even the tiniest thing goes wrong, someone will sue. And my premiums are prohibitive, as it is, so to try to save money my policy only covers the situations where I'm using my own, genuine, bona-fide workers - indentured servants. I hadn't realised what a risk I was running by allowing you on the site last Sunday until I was talking to my lawyer earlier in the week.... Had there been an accident, I might have been hundreds of thousands of dollars out of pocket personally - and that would have meant bankruptcy.... And, who knows, I might have ended up as an indentured servant myself, and I'm getting a bit old to have to sweat away under the tawse!" He smiled as he said this, because he and I both knew he was still in good shape. He continued "So you see, I just can't take the risk. Sorry."
"Not even if I joined in voluntarily, without being paid? You could say I was just a passer by, or something, if there was a problem..."
"No, Steve. Look, I'm sorry - it seemed to work out well for both of us. But you know what it's like, with all the rules and regulations these days. Now, let's talk about something else, as we can't fix this one...."
Look, Mark's a really interesting guy, and in spite of my disappointment we had a great time talking about the football and stuff. But Friday was really boring at work as I was so dissatisfied, and Saturday and Sunday were hell: I had nothing to do as I wasn't working, and I even rode my bike around the place a bit trying to see where Mark's crews were working - I actually got up really early on Sunday and followed a truck from his place, but it disappeared behind the gates of a big factory complex, and so I was frustrated there, too. I had to spend most of the day at the gym and the pool, and even though I tired myself out, I was kind of seething with frustration inside. And when you're really pissed off with life like that, nothing goes right, does it? The food I bought tasted like crap, there seemed to be no one in the bar who I was interested in talking to, the receptionist at the gym who I could have fucked if I'd made the effort was not on duty that weekend... all in all, it was pretty shitty.
By Monday evening I was not only frustrated, but I was getting kind of fractious - giving the finger to guys who got in my way in the traffic, snapping at the foreman at work, never even saying thank you at the market.... All that sort of stuff. When we met at the bar, Rob could see at once that something was wrong, and said quite sharply "Look, Steve, I have to put up with Karen's surliness a lot of the time... I come here to get away from all of that, old buddy... Now, snap out of it, at least for tonight!"
Well it's not that easy, is it? I tried, but after a few beers I felt that feeling of inner desolation coming over me again, and I went through things with Rob again. Finally, he sighed, and said "I come here to get away from work, Steve! But let me give you a free consultation, some advice from a lawyer, OK? Firstly, you friend Mark's right - if his insurance only covers indentured servants working on the contract, then it would be madness to use you, even voluntarily. If someone tripped over a paving slab you'd laid, or something, and he was sued, his insurers would back out and he would have the liability. And he's right, that would probably mean bankruptcy, and a period of indenture for him!"
"Secondly, don't even think of doing something completely fucking stupid like challenging the cops to get tickets - as I said, you could end up indentured, but at the sale of contracts Mark might get outbid. Or the state might decide to sell a 'parcel' of contracts next week - agreeing to hand over all the new contracts for a fixed price. Or something like that. Sod's law would say that you'd be indentured and then not working for Mark. Not working in any kind of work that you'd want to do, in fact. So forget it, OK?"
I nodded, as I could see the sense in what he was saying, but I had one last go. "But isn't there any way out of this? I'm so frustrated, no, I'm getting depressed. Everything I've thought about work, what makes me a man, seems to have been wrong... I don't know what I'm going to do - there seems to be no point in going on labouring when I know I'm not doing it as well as I could, that there are guys out there who are less strong, less tough, who can be 'encouraged' to produce just as much as I can...."
"If you feel like that about it, there's a sensible solution: give it up. Stop labouring. Get another job."
"But I don't have the qualifications. And I've never wanted to sit in an office, you know that... Remember when we were at High School, and all the rows with my dad?"
"You could still get the qualifications. Didn't your father say he was going to put your college fund in trust for you, in the hope that you'd see sense one day? You could still go - and I think you'd enjoy it. You're not stupid, Steve, you're just as clever as the rest of us, except for this irrational streak of wanting to do physical things. You could go to college now, as a mature student - and think of what fun you'd have: they have fantastic sports facilities, an Olympic pool, and all those young girls who are tired of their hometown boyfriends and who want to try an older, more experienced guy.... Well, there won't be many guys around with more experience than you... It could be a three-year fuckfest!"
We had more beers and carried on talking. When we came to leave, Rob wanted to call a cab as I was way over the limit. "No!", I told him firmly. "This is it, Rob. I'm going to get on my bike and drive past a cop car, weaving around.... Then I'll be indentured for DUI... And you're my lawyer - you fix it: make sure my contract gets sold to Mark!"
"Listen, you fucking idiot, that's the craziest thing I've ever heard. Now listen to your oldest buddy: you are NOT, I repeat NOT, getting on your bike in that state - you might kill somebody, or yourself, or even injure yourself really badly: what would happen to that body of yours if you were in a wheelchair for the rest of your life? And even though I am a pretty good lawyer, I've told you that I can't guarantee what happens to a contract - the state really might have a 'bulk supply contract' in force this month. So forget it, OK?"
I was really petulant now. The alcohol swimming around inside me had made it almost impossible to control the feelings of frustration, hurt, depression and anger that had been building all week. I was gratuitously cruel to Rob, and even as I said it, although it caused me satisfaction at the time, I knew it would hurt him: "Call yourself a lawyer? Call yourself my oldest buddy? You can't even control that bitch of a wife of yours, so I shouldn't have expected that you could do any good for me..."
Rob should have hit me. I'd probably have taken it, and gone down. I mean, buddies can do that, can't they? I knew I'd gone too far, and if he'd just swung at me, I'd have sprawled all over the floor, then he'd have helped me up, and then everything would have been back to normal between us. Instead of that, he didn't even raise his voice or seem to be angry. Calmly and quietly he leaned over the table towards me and said "You really are a complete idiot, Steve. I'll forget what you just said, but I'll stop protecting you."
"Protecting me? Forget it, Rob... You can't even protect yourself from Karen...."
"Listen, you stupid fuck! I have been protecting you.
Protecting you from yourself. That's what lawyers do for clients most of the time, persuade them not to do things that would be stupid or harmful. I've tried to dissuade you from this madness of becoming indentured just so that you can be forced to work hard, but you haven't listened. And I think you'll go out there and do something really fucking stupid, sooner or later, something that might get you indentured, but might equally get you injured, or which might really hurt someone else. I've been holding back about one little-known provision of the Indentured Servants Act, as I knew that if I told you, you'd want to do it. And I don't think it's really right for you, Steve.... You like the idea of being made to use your body to work hard, but I don't think you'll take well to all the other stuff that goes along with it...."
I was astonished. I almost grabbed his lapels and dragged him towards me, I was so eager. "No, tell me!", I demanded.
"Well, you can apply for voluntary indenture. Almost no one does, and most people don't even know you can. You can apply to the court for a period of indenture and they'll order it provided you have someone willing to buy the contract - they have to pay into the court all the money that a 'reasonable person' would consider that you might have earned during your period of indenture so that it can be held in trust for you, as they don't want servants coming out of their indenture and then being destitute. Provided you can find someone like that, you're indentured, and they can use you, or sell your contract, or whatever, just as if you were a criminal sentenced for your crimes."
"Will you do that for me, Rob?"
"Do what?"
"Be the person I can trust. Will you have me as an indentured servant... I know you could probably afford it - you're doing well at work, and when they look at how much I'm earning, it shouldn't be all that much money to have to pay in to the court. And I can trust you to do the right thing - you can sell my contract to Mark, or if he doesn't want to buy it, you can free me...."
"That's the craziest thing I've ever heard... Even if I did it, I don't think you'd like all the other stuff that goes with being an indentured servant..."
"Rob, please. Please. I've never asked you for anything before. You're my oldest buddy. Who else could I get that I could trust to do this for me? And you're a lawyer, too - you understand all the contracts and stuff. Please, Rob, do this for me."
And with a shrug, as if to say "well, I did warn you that there were potential problems", he agreed.
End Of Part 3