THE BONDED SERVANT

Chapter 9: Redemption

Perhaps you don’t see it coming or argue with friends that “it can’t happen here.” But darker things have occurred in history. As hatred and bigotries rise, freedoms fall away. What we take for granted is lost. This final chapter, inspired by Thomas Lodge’s excellent The Attendant series, brings us to the year 2030 when religious extremists have taken over the government and courts of many states. Once the Supreme Court ruled that there is no right to privacy, the constitutional basis to protect homosexuals evaporated and Bible-belt states began oppressing young gay men. In this story, some states in America looks more like other countries in the world where being gay is a sin and even a crime.

We arrive at the apartment building and the car is parked. My former father opens the door and actually helps me out. He glances at the dark stain on the seat where I sat and seems to blanche a bit, but says nothing. He does support me as we walk to the non-descript building. I am barefoot. He looks down at my bruised toes and actually holds me a bit more gently. Perhaps there is a dawning, an awareness of how I have been brutalized these past months, but he remains silent. Even if he has an inkling of all that he has done to me, that does not stop him from renting me out to the next client.

This has been my life for almost four months, enslaved by a cruel system that stigmatizes young men simply because they are gay, because they want to love and be loved by another man. In this new, terrifying world- well, actually a sick return to some Medieval worldview – being gay is not just a sin, it is an assault on what it means to be human, on what is a real family, a real man. If you won’t produce children, if you spill your seed into another man, then you must be removed from the civilized world as an evil death force. A man who sleeps with another man has lost the right to be called human. In this perverse universe, fucking, debasing, brutalizing, sodomizing a lower-than-the-animals bonded servant is acceptable. Hate the ‘sin,” the good citizens of my state believe, and hate and abuse the “sinner” even more.

When I was a straight college jock, haughty about my great body and thick, eight inch dick that made my girlfriend Paula moan, I never thought much about homosexuality. Obviously, gay guys were not out and, while I had a live-let live point of view, I would not have knowingly associated with someone who was gay. What a jerk I was, arrogant and insensitive to the suffering taking place in my town, how terrifying it must have been to be gay. Well, forced into unwanted sex with perverts, I now know. I only wish I would have been more compassionate. I will never have a chance to repent from my sin of indifference and complicity. I must accept my suffering as punishment. But my suffering won’t redeem me. I am doomed.

So here I am, standing in the street, waiting to be assaulted by yet another man who will pay my former father to rent me out. Whatever is going through his head, this man who once cared for me, taught me to ride and bike, to swim, does not seem to hear or see my pain. Or worse, he sees it, but his hatred and greed are more important than my life, the life of the young straight man who was once his son. I pray that there is some divine justice that will make him pay for what he has done to me.

We reach the apartment building.

Clearly, my former father, who must imagine that there is something terribly wrong in what he is doing, does not know which apartment to ring. In frustration, he hits all the buttons on the intercom. A man answers and instructs my father to let me come up alone (perhaps he was afraid that my former father would recognize him). “Tell your servant to find the door that will be open.” My former dad offered the taser, but the man says no need.

He was right. I have been beaten into an obedient, dumb animal. I will follow what is demanded of me by this final pervert. I will bravely face his every command. I have found an inner strength I thought had evaporated, my resolve. This will be my last day as a bonded servant.

My former father leaves me, indifferent to my pain, without looking back. I am alone, unloved, abandoned, beaten into silence.

I slowly, painfully, walk up three flights (bonded slaves are not allowed to use an elevator unless accompanied by their Master), my body aching, my ass still feeling on fire as I search for the right apartment. I am amazed at my strength, somehow rising in me. I am strong, I have found my courage to act. Yes, I will be a strong man. But not yet.

I find the open door and I walk in, kneeling on the floor and lowering my head in submission, just as I have done for so many men these past months.

But I seem to be alone in this strange, empty apartment. I do wonder what about me allows me to be so humiliated, on my knees as always, an indentured, bonded servant. Was I never brave? Did I always lack courage? I was so filled with fear these months that I lost myself, thrown into a world that made no sense to me.

I remind myself that I have been declared a degenerate by the state and despicable by the man who was once my father and who unknowingly pimps me out. I am a cumdump for the kid brother I saved from the hell that I have been experiencing and for his young friends whom he invites over for the pleasure of blowjobs and humiliation. I barely survived the assault of a dozen sexually frenzied men. Yes, this is who I have become in the almost four months of sexual bondage. I am beaten down, no longer the college jock I once was.

I have lost all hope, I have no future. After this last encounter, I will only need the courage to end it all. And I have found that courage. I will get through the day and that will be the end.

The man must be present somewhere, but he has not spoken. The silence is eerie. I can feel him approaching, the air moving. Well trained by months of being the recipient of the most repulsive sexual perversions, I knew exactly what is expected of me.

He is in front of me, I feel the heat, the slight rustle, but not a sound. Head bowed so as not to engage with my eyes, I reach out to pull down his zipper. He pushes my hands away. I think to myself, this is another sicko who wants me to just use my mouth. I press my face into his crotch. Strangely, he is not hard. This is going to take a lot of work to get him off. I get myself ready for the humiliation, the nauseating bodily fluids he will shoot at me, the abuse. I can take it one last time. I am a man, and after what happened to me this morning assaulted by a dozen men, I can withstand anything.

Yes, soon this will all be over.

Even though I want to die, I still can feel the thrust of fear in my chest. Whoever this man is, he hovers over me in silence. Maybe he will fuck and abuse me as all the others have done. Maybe even strangle me, torture and kill me. At this point in my life, death would be the ultimate relief.

I press my mouth against his crotch. There is a soft bulge, no hardness. I think to myself this really is sadistic, making me just use my mouth. Strange that he is not hard. Yes, he will add to my humiliation by making me work hard to get him off.

I feel his hands on my head. I know, I could feel it, he is going to strangle me. But instead of wrapping his hands around my neck while pressing me against his crotch, he lifts my face. He must be into shaming by making me look at him, I suppose to amplify his superiority and my sense of degradation. I do look up at the man and in an instant, I recognize him. It is Dr. Stein, my pediatrician since the day I was born, the man who took care of me when I had a fever, who nursed me through COVID. He even did my pre-college checkup. Shit, he held my balls in his hands, checked out my oversized penis. He must have loved that big, thick cock and hefty balls. This pervert was my doctor. I wanted to throw up.

The Underground Railroad

The story, my friends, now takes an unexpected twist. I will tell it to you, but you must promise to never ever tell a soul. You are bound to secrecy.

“Benjie?” He looked at me wide-eyed. I was silent. “Benjie, what are you doing here.? You are not gay. Why the pink triangle. I do not understand.”

I stare silently, forbidden to respond as I was trained, commanded never to speak except to say yes Master and thank you.

“Benjie, talk to me. I don’t want sex for God’s sake. I am part of the Underground Railroad.”

I must have looked like an idiot, mouth open in uncomprehending confusion, not really hearing his words. No sex? What did he mean? Why else would I be there? I am trying to process the scene. I am good for nothing else than sucking cock, getting fucked and being debased. On automatic pilot, I lean in once again to stimulate him. He stops me.

“Benjie, just stop it. Do you remember the Underground Railroad before the Civil War? Harriet Tubman. Trying to free slaves. Bringing them to freedom. That is what those of us who hate what is happening are doing. We are the new Underground Railroad, except now we are freeing young gay men from sexual servitude. But Benjie, you are not gay. What’s going on?”

I began to shake, my whole body trembling, as if I were having convulsions, sobbing, silently screaming since no sound came out, as if I were deaf and dumb and blind. I am trying to process his words. Free gay men. Free? What could that mean? The only freedom for me is death.

I grab Dr. Stein’s legs, holding on for dear life. I can’t breathe. I feel as if I am going to faint. My mind is spinning wildly, uncomprehendingly.

Suddenly two sets of arms lift me from either side and hold me, keeping me from falling. I look. It is Tommy and Mark, the two guys from the party at the mansion, the ones who split roasted me in public, destroying my poor ass, but then caring for me and comforting me so gently. They tried to tell me then, at the party, in the mansion, on the way to the car, Tommy whispering in my ear, but I was in too much pain to hear.

My disbelief grew. What was going on?

“Benjie? Hey Doc, we know him. He has the weirdest sad story.”

Dr. Stein gave me a quizzical look and, between sobs, I finally speak out loud as a normal human being. I hear my voice actually form sentences, the voice which for months only emitted moans, forced to shamefully say thank you after being abused. I actually speak and tell my story, from the day I protected my gay brother from being enslaved to getting beaten, branded and tased. I tell him about being forced to eat from the dog bowl and my cruel father pimping me out to men who mauled me, assaulted me, smothered me with cum and piss. I described the party where men fondled my body, cheered as I was spit roasted, leaving me bleeding. I told him how my gay brother made me his sex slave and shared me with his friends, choking me on penises rammed down my throat. My own brother laughing as he makes me swallow his piss. The whips, the bondage, double penetrating me until I was bleeding, the beatings, the humiliation upon humiliation until the person I once was vanished into an unending hell. They see the welts on my body as I tell them of the gang rape I just endured. I died and died again as I told this story.

I saw the horror on Dr. Stein’s face. And then I let loose, sobbing from all the pain I had suffered.

As I begin to crumble on to the floor, Dr. Stein embraces me tightly. Tommy and Mark hold me up as well as all my strength failed me. They are sobbing, too. I remembered that Mark told me that his stories were too terrible to recount. How much had they suffered?

And then, everything unfolded quickly. Dr. Stein maps out the plan. This was a safe house, an empty apartment that the landlady below, a founding member of the Underground Railroad, keeps vacant. He reminds me that my former father would not know which apartment I entered. The good doctor would complain to my former father that I ran off, must have run home.

My doctor very carefully surgically removes the location transmitter that threatened each of us into fearful submission. He explains that they have found the best burglar in the business, an ally, who would hide the transmitters in each of our houses so that we could not be tracked. It would seem as if we were locked in our homes. That would give us time.

We were to go down through the basement to the back alley where a closed moving van loaded with furniture would drive us to a safe house, a farm on the border of a free state. We were to stay under the couches stored in the back of the van until we arrived. Then, we must hide in a safe room until dark. When night falls – Thank God, it would be a moonless night – the couple who owns the farm would walk us through the fields to a stream. Once across the stream, we would see a light that told us we are saved, we would be free.

We are in the van and barely whisper, terrified, the whole way. If we were caught, not only our lives, but that of the driver and maybe all the members of the Underground Railroad would be endangered, probably imprisoned if not killed.

As the hours pass, Tommy quietly, I could barely hear his voice, whispers a piece of their story. They fell in love a few years ago in college and of course kept it secret from their families and friends. They would find isolated places to touch each other, to explore each other’s bodies, to make love.

Mark continued. One night, a policeman found them. He made them suck his cock and then fucked them over the course of more than an hour. They felt relieved, he was gay, too. But then he beat them with his nightstick and, for the sadistic fun of it, tased them as well. How wrong they were. He turned them in, claimed he found these two perverts fucking and to avoid punishment, they tried to seduce him. To offer proof, he made them strip and push semen out of their rectums – the policeman’s cum, but of course, no one would believe them. They were tased again for lying as the police berated them, calling them disgusting, inhuman faggots worthy of death. They feared for their lives.

They were arrested, their parents immediately agreed to send them to the state enforced homosexual rehab where they were tortured to become “real men.” But they both failed the “I am no longer gay” test. They would not renounce their love.

Their parents rejected them, but a man offered to take them in as bonded servants. He is the one who knowingly pimped them out, except when he sexually tortured them, made them perform unspeakable things. But they never abandoned their love for each other.

By then, we all are crying, trying to stifle the sounds of our sobbing. And with that, we went silent. I try to not imagine their experiences. Mine were horrible enough. At least they were together. At least they could love each other. They were heroes of love. But my heart ached from loneliness.

The truck backed into the garage of the farm, pretending to unload as we sneak out and drop into the cellar. Sure enough, that moonless night, the three of us are led across the stream by kind people whom we did not know, but who are willing to put their lives on the line for us. There is a light in the distance and then we are surrounded by so many people, different races, men and women, even some kids. They greet us with hugs and prayers of God Bless. Tommy, Mark and I embrace, sobbing on each other’s shoulders, the nightmare behind us. We are encircled with love as these Underground Railroad heroes sing to us. Can you imagine, they sing to us, an old spiritual? I fall to my knees, hearing the words, a prayer of salvation:

This old freedom train is such a long time in a comin’

There is none who can’t afford it

So just come and climb aboard it,

Singing Freedom,

All about Freedom

All about Freedom Freedom Freedom Freedom

I am a free man.

Epilogue

It is now six months since I was liberated from the hell of bonded servitude. After getting compassionate free medical care and a chance to recuperate, I was encouraged by a wonderful therapist to tell my story. This was not easy. I am a straight young man describing the most horrific sexual assaults, the cage, the dog dish, the piss and cum, the daily humiliation. My acquiescence to my servitude in spite of my size and strength, my total lack of courage to resist, to try any form of self-preservation, haunted me. I know that people would look at me with pity and, I suppose, some would even turn their heads away in disgust, believing I willingly submitted to the suffering and humiliation, that it was my own fault.

But something drove me to be an advocate, a spokesperson, for all those still enslaved in the evil of gay bonded servitude. I was interviewed on all the media, my story repeated on so many social platforms. I was even asked to speak to a Congressional committee investigating sexual abuse. Denunciations rolled in condemning what was done to me, even from states that have banned homosexuality. Perhaps change is possible.

Nights are still frightening. I wake up sobbing, believing I am still in the cage, still being beaten, still having my body owned by men who abuse me, my father tasing me. And I lie in bed awake for hours, afraid of my nightmares.

But I am not deterred.

As a result of my story, my former father has been arrested and charged with multiple counts of sex trafficking. Even the Governor of my former state condemned him, hypocrite that he is (I swear, I recognize him. I am sure that he was one of the men who fondled me at that party in the mansion where I met Tommy and Mark). I will be testifying in court against my former father. If convicted, and I am sure he will be after I testify, he will go to prison for a very long time.

I am allowed by the law to sue my father’s estate in civil court for pimping me out. Luckily, all of the family assets are in his name. He trusted no one. Ironic justice isn’t it, that the money put aside for my brother’s college education, earned through my suffering, will now go to me. But I won’t even need it to pay tuition. Several colleges have offered me full scholarships while accepting all the college credits I had already earned. I will be back to finish school in the fall. I hope to become a doctor as brave as Dr. Stein.

I have not heard a word from my mother. She did not protect me; she abandoned her own child. I suppose she was beaten down by my father, but she is dead to me. She does not even have the courage to divorce him. She has not tried to contact me and is shunned by all who knew her, even those who once applauded my servitude.

My kid brother has written me multiple times and often tries to call. He leaves long messages begging my forgiveness, sobbing words of contrition, explaining how he got caught up in the whole sick bonded servant crap, how he never meant to hurt me, how much he loves me, that he reveres me as his big brother. I assume he also is terrified that I will out him. And with his father in jail and all assets frozen, he must be panicked that he will be penniless, out on the street. Do I feel sorry for him, do I forgive him? Well, I don’t take his calls and have not responded to his begging. But despite all he did to me, he still is my kid brother and so I continue to protect him as I always have. I know what you are thinking, that I am crazy, that I have not overcome that shamed victim’s subservience to my oppressor. You want justice, that James should suffer for his sins, that he should know my pain. Yet even as I remember all that he did to me, I cannot reveal his secret, and won’t do it. Perhaps someday there even will be a reconciliation, but I am not ready for that now.