This is a multi-chapter queer M/M erotica containing incest, non-consensual interactions, and authoritarianism. It is a dark fantasy for consenting adults only.
Praise, useful criticism, and proof of enjoyment is welcome at [email protected]
100% human effort, fuck AI. My failures and frustrations as an author are my own.
Sunday started differently. Socks, jock, no coffee. He sat at the table until Dad got up. He'd heard him on the phone all last evening, door closed, talking about who knows what. His pathetic loser pervert son, a cheap Faggot, now rightfully a slave. Maybe this was for the best.
"Son, you stink. Get a shower."
He complied, eager for a task that spoke to normalcy. Off came the jock, in went his dirty body, and the scrubbing began. Then the stroking. Suddenly the bathroom door opened and a hairy hand brusquely yanked the shower curtain open. "No privacy, Clay. That's the book." Clay's half-hard soaped up prick flagged as Dad looked on curiously. "Not when you piss, not when you shit. Door open." Humiliation mounted.
Clay finished his shower wank anyway after Dad had safely moved on. His gobbets of cum slithered down the drain.
There was still more to lose. The laptop was wiped and taken away. His spare set of keys to the car was confiscated. His textbooks and homework was packed into a box and taken to the basement. Posters on the wall taken down. His room got ever more bare.
He tried to relax by reading a book but everything was just so strange.
Dad asked him to make lunch today. He did his best, trying to wing it all without being able to look anything up. Everything was unreal, time was a smear.
Dad ordered pizza for dinner. Clay flinched when the doorbell rang, curling into a corner. They sat and watched TV as the evening landed, trying to focus on anything other than the hideous reality. Clay crawled into his father's arms, trying to will his cock to stop pulsing against his will.
-----------------
On Monday Dad had to face the world and go back to work. Their only method of communication was the watch, which could only contact Clay's father. As Dad drove off, he was finally alone. Everything was off. He couldn't leave the house, pick up a phone, explain to his friends what a mistake this all was. He could do nothing but wank, watch TV, idly tidy up things, and stare as his bare walls wishing it could all go back to the way it was.
Time was brutal. And then: someone at the door! Clay peered out of the window: a delivery man had rang the doorbell, his ass stretching out his uniform shorts. Clay reached for the lock but then caught himself, realizing that he was practically naked. He couldn't possibly be seen in a slave uniform like this. It wasn't proper!
The doorbell rang again, insistently. The man's bicep was visible through the glass, swollen in his shirt. Clay... could. He could do this. He opened the door and watched the man's eyes rake over his body and then suddenly glaze over. "Sign this for your Master." Clay blanched, said a thanks, and hurriedly closed the door to hide his shame.
The box was heavy. Master? Master!? Who was his "Master"?
Oh... no. Dad.
Later that evening the contents were revealed. Dad looked distraught as he pulled out the approved sunproof laborer's outfit and the slip-on shoes that his son would wear indefinitely. Clay's kicks went in the trash. That was it - his attire was that of a slave.
Later they talked about his day at work. His coworkers would soon get word that Sam's son had been discovered as a Faggot, and the conversations would be mournful and supportive (to his face, at least). But for now it was his personal Hell. His beautiful vivacious jock son was now just a lump sitting at home. His pride and joy was being turned into a common serving bitch. What a fucking waste. What a fucking... disappointment.
The next day brought new rules.
Father had set Clay's watch to go off at 6:00 A.M. Dad needed all the help he could get for his stressful job, and Clay needed to be up in the morning to make breakfast and clean up the kitchen mess. And so the watch merrily buzzed and chimed until Clay was upright, bleary, and disoriented. Once again the reality of his new life crashed down on him and he walked to the bathroom to take a miserable piss.
The coffee pot burbled. Clay looked at it longingly. The eggs cooked up, Clay pushed them sadly around in the pan. Dad came down and helped himself then bounced right back up from the table.
"Son, I need you to get some things done around here. I can't have you moping around the house all day. Understand?" Clay did. This was, after all, what he was good for.
The kitchen was tidied, another load of laundry cycled, and Clay idly tidied and vacuumed. The house wasn't a disaster but it was never particularly dialed-in, particularly with a single parent living with a self-absorbed jock. Clay went down to the basement to lift, then made himself a lunch.
Lounging on the sofa he thought back to the deliveryman yesterday, imagining what fun they could have next time. He stroked out his prick while dreaming of thick loads, scented pubes, hard nipples, probing fingers, filthy tongues... God he hoped another package would arrive soon. His load blasted out into his other hand. He wiped it all up with his black jock and tossed it in the hamper, choosing another to wear for the rest of the day.
Time dragged. Dad finally pulled in and decompressed for a few minutes alone before coming back downstairs. "How was your day, son?" Clay was thrilled to have someone to interact with and rattled off the few chores and events of the day.
Strangely, Dad looked irritated. No, more than irritated. "So.. you cleaned up the kitchen a bit and vacuumed? That's it?"
"Uh, yeah. Is that okay?" Clay grew nervous.
"Well... son... look at this house. Look at this damn house. You were home all day and all you got done was some little bullshit? Stand up."
Clay gulped. "Look at the crap on the corners of the floor. Does that look clean? Look at the dust on this furniture." Dad grabbed Clay by the arm and started leading him around the house. "The lawn needs mowing. You were home all day. This has been your responsibility for years. That didn't change!"
He was really starting to get pissed. For quite a while he dragged Clay by his ear through the house pointing out all of the things left undone.
"I'm sorry Dad, I'm really sorry. I'll do better."
"Yeah you will. And you're starting now. Clean the bathrooms. Now. I'll inspect when you say you're done."
Clay was shocked. No TV? No dinner? No cuddling on the sofa? Shit. His cock lurched as he slinked off, apologetic.
He cleaned those bathrooms all throughout the evening. Tub, tiles, backsplashes, toilets. He'd never had to clean anyone's bathroom but his own, but now he was on his hands and knees scrubbing the piss and pubes off of his own father's private toilet. This was humiliating. This was scut work better fit for a common slave. This was... ordered.
Finally he rinsed out the bucket and sheepishly walked down to his father who was sitting darkly with his glass of whiskey.
"Dad, I think they're good."
His father wordlessly walked towards his bathroom, Clay padding along behind. His eyes darted around the much nicer bathroom and returned to rest on his son's. "It's better. There's still a lot of shit you didn't take care of. These towels aren't folded nicely or lined up. There's crud all underneath the cabinet. The mirrors have streaks." Clay followed Dad's accusatory finger, seeing all of the details he'd missed.
"Go to bed. Tomorrow you do it again."
Dad walked off coldly. Clay was baffled. "Are... we having dinner?"
"I am. You're not. GO TO BED."
And that was that. Clay lay on his bed looking up at the bare ceiling the rest of the night, stomach rumbling.
What was happening?
The next day confirmed that stricter Dad was the new normal. Early morning alarm, shit with the door open, quick shower, breakfast made, Dad reclusive. He finally arrived at the table and ate in silence.
"Clean this pigsty and mow the lawn. I'll be back home for lunch." Dad abruptly stood up from the table and headed out.
That was that. Kitchen was cleaned, bedrooms were re-ordered, and then Clay put on his work uniform for the first time to go out and mow the lawn. It was humiliating: thin gray drawstring pants without any pockets, a light long-sleeved shirt to match, and a sun hat. He looked like one of the slaves you see working the fields. Humiliating. For the first time since his conviction he stepped outside of the door to meet the mounting sun.
As he wheeled the mower out of the garage he immediately spotted the neighbor across the canal. Fuck. They lived in a rural area with almost no neighbors and of course right there was the one person who could see into their yard and get in their business. He fired up the mower in hopes that he could avoid being noticed.
The neighbor looked up and offered a jovial wave but quickly dropped his hand, staring. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Why had he stupidly made eye contact? Please don't let him figure it out. Maybe he'd just think he was a rental servant.
Nope.
Mr. Pruitt dropped what he was doing and made his way towards the fence. Clay stopped the mower and dreaded the interaction, eyes down.
"Hey there, uhhhh.. Clay? That you, son?" Clay shrank to nothing and offered a quiet "Hey Mr. Pruitt."
Pruitt sized him up in the awful silence. "You got a new look there?" Clay's throat constricted, offering a tiny nod.
More hideous silence passed. Finally Mr. Pruitt made a small cough. "Oh Clay... have you been turned into one of them?" Clay shut down. "Oh son, I'm so sorry. Uh. Oh man. Yer uh, dad knows, right? Sam knows about this?"
"Yes sir."
"Well... that's something. You were such a good kid. I'm sorry to see this happen. You tell your Dad I'm thinking of him, yeah?" Clay glumly assented.
Then the hook was set: "So what're you doing son?" Clay indicated the mower and finally found the courage to look into Mr. Pruitt's eyes. They were... calculating. Less friendly than he'd ever seen them. "Well ah, you are home all day, aren'tcha son?" Of course he was.
"Why don't you get that thing warmed up and take care of my lawn for me? She's getting real hairy and I haven't had the time."
Clay gulped. Mr. Pruitt had a huge plot of land! Not all of it was grass, but it wasn't nothing.
"Ah, I think I need to uh... take care of my dad's... house."
"But you said you're home all day, right?"
"...yessir."
"Then you have time. Wheel that thing over now. I'll get you some gas if you're low. Alright?"
Clay looked pleadingly into his eyes. Finding no exit he relented: "Okay. Sure thing Mr. Pruitt."
"You call me Sir while you're helping me out. Understand?"
"Yes Sir."
Fuck.
Over two hours later the mow job was still going on. Pruitt had kept checking in on him, offering helpful advice about exactly how he wanted his lawn mowed. Then the edger came out with careful instructions on how it was to be employed. Clay's outfit was covered in grass flecks, his clogs stained green. Sweat dampened his outfit until it clung to every line of his muscular body. Mr. Pruitt suddenly had particular standards for his lawn that had never been in evidence before.
Finally Clay had reached his limit. He put down the edger and knocked on the door to summon his nonconsensual employer. "Mr.... um, Sir. May I have some water?" Pruitt pointed to the spigot alongside the garage. "You know how it works."
Humiliated Clay walked over to the spigot and bent down to drink tap water while on his hands and knees. His mouth awkwardly tried to capture the stream of water as he sated his escalating thirst. Once he closed the spigot he looked up to see Mr. Pruitt standing almost directly above him, leering. "Alright. Get back to it."
What choice did he have? The grass got cut, the edges got trimmed, the clippings got bagged, the brush got cut back, the twigs got collected, and then when it all looked great there were still a few sedges growing in on the ragged landscaping that needed hand-plucking. Clay sweated. His jock grew damp, chilling his balls. Sweat poured down his face. Mud and grit collected on his neck as his hair grew moist and unbearably hot under the hat.
Finally, finally, Mr. Pruitt was satisfied. "Good work boy. Tell your papa I said hello."
Clay was wiped out. He wheeled the mower back to their lot and took in a huge breath before starting it up again and working on his original task.
He'd not gotten ten minutes in before Dad's car came driving up the road. FUCK.
Dad was obviously upset about something. He didn't come out to greet Clay. Instead he waited inside until the lawn was finally done and everything was looking good. Clay stumbled into the mud room, filthy from head to toe, and went to go greet his master. I mean father!
Dad was finished with lunch, plates and pots and crumbs everywhere. "Boy. Where were you?" Trick question, he had seen him mowing outside. "I was mowing the lawn, Dad, like you asked."
Sam reached down to the chair behind him and held up Clay's black jock strap, fished from the hamper. "I told you to mow the lawn this morning when I left and get this place in order. I get home and you've barely done a goddamned thing. And what's this? Clay was baffled as to where this was going. "My uh, jock... sir?"
"Don't play stupid boy, what's ON IT?" Dad didn't talk to him like this. What was going on? Clay looked closer at the jockstrap and suddenly realized: a huge load of his crusted cum was splattered all over the dark fabric, clear as day. Dad toggled into a mode Clay had rarely experienced: "I asked you to do one goddamned thing for me and you're sitting here jerking your fuckin' willy like some fucking monkey? This is bullshit!"
"But dad! Mr. Pruitt aske-" Dad interjected immediately, cutting off Clay's retort.
"What were you fucking jerking it to that old piece of shit? WITH that piece of shit?" He was so pissed.
"No Dad listen! Listen! He asked me to help!"
"I'm your goddamn father. You do what *I* say when *I* say it. I don't give a shit who asks you for what, you're MY son first."
Dad stormed off, out of the house. Clay was bereft. What did he do wrong? He was just trying to... obey? Wasn't he?
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
