THE BONDED SERVANT

Chapter 8: My Descent Into Hell

Perhaps you don’t see it coming or argue with friends that “it can’t happen here.” But darker things have occurred in history. Freedoms fall away and hatred and bigotries rise. This story, inspired by Thomas Lodge’s excellent The Attendant series, brings us to the year 2030 when very religious extremists have taken over the government and courts of many states. In many ways, America is becoming like many other countries in the world where being gay is a sin and even a crime.

Today, just days before my 21^st birthday and the threat of lifetime enslavement by my former family, it seems I have two jobs. One will be this morning at 8 and the second later in the afternoon. My father, who I no longer can call my father, will pick me up at one after I have served lunch and take me to the second job, collecting my wages which will be taken from me and put into James’ college fund. He is pretty elated, renting me out double in one day. Pretty sick, my suffering will underwrite the brother whose life I saved.

It seems that “Job” for bonded servants is a euphemism in our town for being pimped out to horny men who are thrilled to have an obedient subhuman pink triangle faggot to do with what they want. I have been introduced to whips and handcuffs, electric shock nipple clamps and objects I do not even know rammed up my butt – which the men tend to call my pussy. All this somehow continues below the radar in this Bible-thumping city.

How did this happen? I wanted to protect my kid brother from being enslaved as a dangerous pervert, for in our state, homosexuality is punishable by prison or, if you are “lucky,” someone will take you in as a bonded servant. I know that years ago, slavery was abolished and homosexuality was no longer punishable with prison, but that now seems long ago, a brief moment when the world seemed to be more civilized. Our state has brought us back to a time of religious zealotry when gay was worse than murder.

In my case, my father made me his bonded servant, which kept me out of prison, and now I serve him and my tuned-out mother as well as my sadistic kid brother who uses me as a cum dump. I loved him and protected him – that’s why I am enslaved rather than my brother who is the gay one in the family – and yet it seems he always resented me, even hated me. I still cannot believe that, but after he pissed in my mouth and eyes, laughing the whole time, and made me crawl behind him like an animal, any connection I imagined we still had evaporated. That truly broke my heart as I am completely abandoned in the world.

My now former father thinks that I clean and scrub and do laundry in people’s houses when, in fact, he is unknowingly pimping me out to perverts. Or. maybe it is not so unknowing anymore. But could a father really subject his flesh and blood to such humiliating suffering?

I am six feet, a once upon a time college stud who now spends his days being sprayed with cum and piss. Yes, our morally upright, church loving, patriotic town brands gay men with the pink triangle of shame and a transmitter locator embedded in their arms. I guess in the minds of our good citizens, if you turn your cheek the other way and don’t look, fucking and sexually abusing a gay bonded servant does not count as homosexuality. If you tried this abusive crap on a woman, you would be hauled off to prison, if not lynched. But we who are branded are no longer seen as human, so anything goes for these God-fearing people! Try to make sense of that one.

That is my life, even though I must be the straightest bonded servant in town. But it will soon be over. I am turning 21 when I either agree to be a bonded servant for life – a euphemism for slavery -or get thrown into the street to be arrested for vagrancy and indecency. I have decided to take a third path, one of my own choosing. I will be brave and strong enough to end the hell into which I have been tossed.

In the back seat of the car (I am not allowed in front or to drive as that would infer that I am a real man), listening as always to my former father’s invective, my brain is dulled. His words no longer bother me, they flow over and are gone. I have heard him describe me with hatred for months and his words mean nothing since my ego and sense of self have long vanished.

We arrive at a building site with hard hat laborers hauling material into an unfinished building. My father checks the address, confirming that I really was hired to work at a construction site. He sticks his head out the window and yells out to the man who seems to be in charge: “I am here to deliver your bonded servant, where is he supposed to work?”

“You can drop him off here and I will show him where the job is.” My father is dubious and demands to be paid upfront. He offers the taser, but the boss says “No need.” Money changes hands, my father is satisfied, and he drives off. Leaving me alone in the yard among hard looking men. I feel confused, anxious, maybe even panicked, but after all I have endured, what worse could happen?

The boss comes over as I go down on my knees, head bowed, dressed in my embarrassing outfit of black tee shit, pink bow tie and black biker pants. Oh, and of course the pink triangle. “Faggot” he spits out, “Follow me. Your work is inside.” I walk behind him and see the men stop, some staring, some smirking, some eyeing me from head to toe. Inside, in an unfinished back room, there is some furniture – a table with building plans, some chairs, bookshelves with ledgers, a computer set up, and a cheap bed and mattress. Nothing here really to clean.

The man roughly growls and tells me to strip and lie down flat on the bed. The panic in me rises. Still, I can handle this. I guess the boss needs some relief. I slowly undress. I am no longer embarrassed. Yes, my body still has the jock look with hard pecs and a penis large even when flaccid, but that is of no interest to the man as he rubs his bulge. I know the look.

“You are a fucking faggot” spitting the first word of my description to be clear, “and you know what fucking faggots do, they get fucked.” Lying on the bed naked except for my stupid pink bow tie, I watch the boss unzip his fly. I look around and see that a number of the men have come into the room. I feel sick, I am alone, unprotected, defenseless.

The boss orders me on my knees and whips out his uncut cock. Well trained these past months, I know what to do, I am licking, kissing, drinking up the precum, slurping on his balls. He slaps me and orders me to suck. It is easy for me now as he drives his steel hard cock into my mouth and I massage his meat with my throat muscles. I can do this. I am well qualified. Shame has been fucked out of me. I am performing before an audience. Confirming for all to see that I am nothing but a cock whore.

There is no foreplay here or even any words. My head is held tight as the boss cums hard down my throat. As always, I stick my tongue out to show him, but he slaps my face. “that is disgusting, just swallow, you idiot.” And I gulp down the slime, head bowed. I thank him as I am always told to do, but he just pushes me down on my back.

As I turn my head, I see the other men moving in, unzipping their work clothes, cocks coming out, all sizes and shapes and colors. I lie there looking around at hungry men and feel the terror rising.

The boss turns away and leaves with the chilling words to the workers gathered around me, “The faggot is all yours for two hours. Consider this bonus pay for the week.” The men descend on me.

Two hours! Yes, for the next two hours, I am thrown into an unimaginable hell. My ass – they yell at me to spread my cheeks and show them my pink pussy – is constantly gripped and manhandled. Someone rams his hard cock into me, no prep, no loosening me up. I would scream but another shoves his cock in my mouth, actually strangling me with his hands, pummeling my throat from inside and out. My air is cut off. I am being spat on, my body is burning, spanked. slapped. Now I am beyond terrified.

I feel cum shooting in my ass – well, I know because he screams that he is cumming in my hot pussy. I hear laughter, but my eyes are shut. Then another and another. I am being assaulted in a frenzy of sweat and cum and fucking. I am dragged to the edge so that my head is facing backwards, upside down, making it so easy to force a cock down my throat, choking me as I swallow cum.

I am lifted in the air, gripped by two men, and pushed down on a hard cock. He is thick and deep in me. He commands me to move and, obedient as I have been trained to be, I gyrate my hips cowgirl style as I rise up and down.

“Look at the faggot go, what a pervert.” “She’s loving it. See how her pussy is sucking it in.” She? Pussy? I am sexually assaulted and they call me the pervert? The world is so fucked up.

I am pushed down from cowgirl onto the body of the guy who is fucking me, my mouth against his neck. It would be intimate if not for the violence and if I were gay and wanted to make love with a man. But of course this is the farthest thing from making love and certainly not with a guy. I feel someone jump hard on my back, flattening me, biting my neck, like a lion attacking its prey, going for the jugular. I cry out, wounded as he breaks the skin, and then my ass is being torn apart as I realize he is stabbing at my asshole with his hard dick. To my horror, I am being double penetrated. I scream as the guy forces his way in, but am silenced as my mouth is now stuffed with cock. I am being strangled, no breath. The pain is searing, the cum of so many men and I imagine my blood the only lubricants.

Are they crazy? Homosexuality is forbidden and these guys are rubbing their cocks against each other in my ass. Where are the police? Yes, I am sure that I am bleeding, the pain is tearing through me.

Two hours of sodomy by men so hungry for an orgasm that they are pushing each other aside to get their dicks into my mouth or my ass, smashing their hairy ass holes on my face demanding that I rim them clean with my tongue. To prove their masculinity and that I am not human, they punch and slap me, calling me a depraved queer, a disgusting faggot, a cumsucking bitch. It is as if the evilest instincts of man rain down on me. I am tossed around like a rag doll.

I stopped counting, cum and blood dripping out of me, my face plastered with sperm and spit and dirt, welts on my body blossoming from where I was hit and kicked. My balls ached from being squeezed and twisted. My nipples raw. Can you imagine, I am not even crying. I am dazed, catatonic, paralyzed by fear and pain. I am writhing naked like a captive animal in a cage filled with wild predator beasts.

And then, it is quiet enough to just hear the heavy breathing. I pray that this hell is over. They must be ashamed, seeing what they have done to another human being. But then, I am not seen as human.

It is not over.

I am on my back, surrounded, men panting, fire in their eyes. From each side, men pull back my legs and, one after another, without sounds other than moans and grunts of success, I am penetrated as if I am a ritual sacrifice that each man must perform. It is brutal, so much cum mixed with blood flowing out of me. Yes, it is so clear to me, I am the virgin sacrifice, like a sacramental gift to some primitive god. The bed is an altar. My legs are lowered and I lie splayed, my arms outstretched. I lift my neck as I await what will be the knife that will slit my throat as a final offering.

But that does not happen. Instead, with the seed of a dozen men inside my body, I am surrounded, and in eerie silence, they begin to urinate on me, flooding my face and mouth, eyes and ears, my shriveled cock, my bruised balls. It is an act of penitence. I am the lamb, beaten and bloody, and they the sinners who seek some demented blessing through my suffering; they must believe that they will receive a purifying absolution. The golden flow of urine on my body is the purification of their souls.

I am dying. Yes, I must be dying, finally. My soul is leaving me. I know it because my life flashes before me or, at least, these last months of suffering. I see and hear and feel all that has been done to me, my former father tasing me as I writhe on the floor, my evil brother and his friends humiliating me as their cocks punch down my throat, my silent mother abandoning me. Day after day, week after week, men after men making me do things that are beyond human comprehension. A town that turns on its sons with a hatred so deep that it knows no pity, no compassion. I am fading. I am floating in a sea of calm as I feel myself giving up my soul.

It does not happen.

I am dragged back into life when I hear the boss yell “Enough” and suddenly, as I open my eyes, the men are gone. There is silence. I do not, cannot, move. He drags me outside on the gravel of the construction site, pebbles cutting into me. And then the water jet hits me, freezing cold water from the hose, spraying me down, washing away the cum and spit, the blood and urine. Nothing gentle about this. I am hosed like an animal in the zoo, like a penned hog before slaughter. I have been brutally brought back to life.

“Get dressed faggot and get your ugly ass out of here.” He throws me a towel and my clothes and somehow, I painfully dry off and somehow pull on my black tee shirt with the pink triangle and my black biker shorts. The stupid pink bowtie is stained and wet. I slowly stand, barely, and, barefoot, numbly stumble toward the exit. I see the workers who assaulted me avert their eyes as they see me staggering. Now they feel guilt. Now.

I get to the front of the building where my former father awaits me. I see by his look that he is shocked. “What have you done to my servant? What did you have him do? He is a mess” he calls out to the boss. The boss shrugs and tells my former father that construction is hard work. And then he walks away.

I crawl into the backseat. My father, the man who has brought me so much suffering, has a shocked look on his face. He starts to drive and gently asks if I am thirsty. He has not spoken to me in such a voice for almost four months. He hands me his water bottle and tells me to drink. That is his sole act of charity. He drives me to the next job.

The rest of the way, he is silent. My enflamed body hurts, the bruises throb, the welts blossoming red and purple, but somehow, my mind is calm and resolute. I have faced death and it came to me as a blessing, a gift, my soul like flowing water. Somewhere deep inside, beneath the pain, the humiliation and degradation of these past four months, I feel free. I am finding the courage to act, one final act in which I will regain self-respect. I am a man, a brave and strong man, not a bonded servant. I will finally act and flame out like a man.

Soon this will all be over.

Of course, I would love your comments and thoughts. More important, as you watch and listen to those who threaten us, demeaning us for being gay (whether out or closeted as I am), I hope that you take the story seriously. I wrote this story to remind us that we take for granted, we can lose if we do not fight.