Mister Red

Grandpa's Boys

We had always been wealthy and respected with a fabulous estate in Westchester just north of New York City. We had more than 20 slaves on the property, counting the household staff, the ponies, the grounds slaves, and the body slaves for my parents and for us boys. I'd been raised to understand that both sides of my family had been great supporters of the reintroduction of slavery some 80 years earlier; and one of my great grandfathers was chief investor of the first slave emporium in New York.

I always knew I wanted a career in slave management and my prep school had the best program in slave management. Even though I was just a freshman I was already vice president of the Young Whipmasters Club.

But everything was turned upside down when I was woken in the middle of the night by a frantic phone call from my mother. "Get your things together. You have to get home immediately." I was groggy and tried to make sense of what she was saying. It was the first week of the new semester and I was concerned about missing my classes the following day. But the next thing I knew this normally calm woman was screaming over the phone. When I finally made sense of it I tossed some things into a bag and called for a car to take me back to our Westchester estate.

It turns out my father had been arrested for fraud and the trial would take place immediately. These days the justice system worked quickly and I knew that my father could well be convicted before the week was over. If that happened then all his property and assets would be confiscated by the state. The fear that gripped me was more than just losing my home and cushy lifestyle – it was the prospect of losing my freedom. As everyone understands, any dependent claimed on income taxes was considered an asset. This meant that I could be enslaved along with my brothers.

The sun was just up when I arrived at our estate and found everything in an uproar. There was not even a slave to open the door for me. And when I came into the main parlor there were state assessors buzzing around, each one writing on pads and snapping photos. It was easy to identify the assessors, all of them male, all of them wearing off-the-rack grey suits in cheap fabric. My mother was doing her best to remain calm and self-possessed through it all, but as I approached her the flash of a camera went off in my face. Behind me I heard a deep voice ask, "And this is the oldest son, Mrs. Reventlow?"

My mother did not reply to the rude inquiry but pulled me by the arm toward the back of the house. It was eerie to enter the deserted kitchen. I had never seen this part of the house without any slaves present. But as I looked through the windows I got the next shock. There was a line-up of every one of our household slaves and they were all totally nude. Of course I had seen slaves nude for punishment, on sales floors, and even doing certain tasks. But this wasn't the south where slaves were commonly nude out in public. There was a line of male slaves to the left and females to the right, each with assessors moving down the line, writing details and snapping photos. I remembered from slave studies class that when possible heterosexual assessors were assigned to the female slaves and gay ones would evaluate the male slaves. Our professor also joked that it was typical for gay assessors to rush and get their hands on the most prime pieces of male flesh.

I suddenly realized I had forgotten about my body slave and I remarked to my mother, "Spiffy is still in the slave quarters at my dorm."

"No doubt these vultures will snatch him up if they haven't already," she replied. Just then an older man with a grey moustache who I would learn was the chief assessor came through ushering my two youngest brothers before him. In a friendly voice he was saying, "Just step out there and we'll get you stripped and evaluated in no time at all."

My mother reared back like a lioness protecting her young and pronounced this man's actions 'quite premature'. He was gracious and diplomatic, saying, "I am treating these free boys with the respect due to them, madam. But it's a matter of course that we need to have all of Mr. Reventlow's assets valued just in case."

Her arms wrapped around each of the twins' shoulders, she quietly replied, "These two have always been claimed on my tax returns. The oldest three are on my husband's returns." My mother came from old wealth – the kind of family where nobody had held an actual job for generations. This meant she had never been dependent on my father and therefore would not face any risk of enslavement herself. This was the first time I was learning that two of my four brothers were not listed as dependents by my father, and therefore would also not face the risk of enslavement.

The chief assessor cocked his head in my direction. My mother faced me as well and said, "You'd best go with this horrid little man, dear." Then turning to the man she had just offended, she snapped, "But get this over with quickly. My sons will need to accompany me to an important business meeting."

I wanted to ask my mother to make some other provisions and spare me the indignity of having to strip in front of all of our slaves. But she was already gone in search of my other two brothers. So I followed the man out to the back of the house where our naked slaves were all standing, legs spread, hands behind their heads. I was placed at the end of the line of male slaves. When I turned to my right I recognized the wispy dark-haired lad as one I had thrashed for insolence on my last visit home. He turned quickly to look at me and I detected a sly expression on his face. The boy deserved another thrashing but was probably made bold by my own awkward situation.

Just then a tall gaunt assessor took his place in front of the dark-haired slaveboy and reached for the naked youth's balls. I knew that this was a standard part of assessment, weighing a slave's balls and confirming that they're real. Then the bony fingers slid onto the slave's penis and began manipulating. In a quiet bored voice the emaciated-looking man commanded, "Put your palm under the head to catch any runoff and any ejaculate."

As I unbuttoned my shirt, my two brothers were brought to stand beside me. The assessor with the bushy grey moustache was now facing the three of us free boys. As if by rote he rattled off, "I acknowledge that the three of you are free boys and not enslaved. But it is the responsibility of my office to evaluate you for potential sale and therefore you must obey commands and understand that I am authorized to deal with any act of willfull disobedience as if you were errant identures." With that he held up a tawse and a slave prod and had an evil look on his face. In a quieter voice he chuckled, "You boys might as well get used to it now."

Beside me was my brother Tommy, one year younger than me, shorter but with a solid stocky athlete's body. And to his side was Cory, one year after Tommy, slim and pale with more delicate features. My parents were always telling me that as the oldest I had to act strong and stoic to set a model for my brothers. So I took a deep breath, pulled off my shirt, and seeing nowhere to place it simply let it drop to the ground. Glancing slightly to the left I saw both of my brothers moving in slow motion as they stripped to the waist.

I unsnapped the buttons on my jeans and pushed them down my legs, then struggled to untangle them from my feet. All this time I was aware of the senior assessor watching my every move. As I reached into the waistband of my briefs I turned to look back at the windows to the kitchen curious whether my mother was still in that room looking out at us. Before I could even see, I felt a sharp jab on my chest and howled as I grabbed my nipple in pain. There were chuckles coming from the assessors down the line. When I spun back I even saw a rueful look on the face of the arrogant slave beside me. The grey-moustached assessor was holding his prod which had just touched my right nipple. "Eyes forward," he said in a harsh monotone.

Back at school I had been prodded on the arm as part of our slavehandlers' club initiation, and I felt the electric slave prod again as part of last semester's intro to slave science class. But it is quite different to be taken by surprise and quite different to feel the pulse of the electric prod rush through my nipple. My mouth opened about to tell this little man that his aggression toward me had been out of line, but something in his eyes warned me to stay silent. I pushed down my briefs and stepped out of them. I stood nude beside all our naked male slaves. To my left I was aware of Tommy peeling down his briefs. Cory seemed to be pausing but out of the corner of my eye I saw the assessor raise his prod and heard him say, "I have a request to get done with you boys quickly. Don't make me have to encourage you further." Cory's briefs slid down his legs.

It felt surreal standing naked in front of the obviously queer assessor. His eyes twinkled as his hands kneaded at my arms then my shoulders. His fingers seemed to tickle the flesh and then dig into my pectorals. One side of my chest was still tingling from the recent strike of his electric prod. He pressed a fingernail into that nipple and I began to raise a hand instinctively wanting to push him away. But as soon as I raised my hand I felt the tawse slash against my other nipple. "It would be best for both of us to have you put your hands behind your head, boy." He had some nerve calling me 'boy', but this was not a time to debate. I took the slave display posture and saw that my two brothers followed suit.

The man's fingers lewdly groped my rock-hard belly, then moved down to my thighs squeezing and kneading. There was a sly grin on his face as he said, "Turn around and then bend, hands gripping ankles." I did as he commanded and then felt his fingers slide between my legs and tickle the back of my balls. "Legs wider, boy." I did what I could in that awkward position and instantly felt a thick finger go up my butthole. I exhaled sharply, the sensation being so new to me. It seemed he was spending an inordinate amount of time feeling around inside me and then working a second finger in beside the first.

Just this last semester I had learned the basics of slave assessment and was even required to use my fingers to rate the tightness of slaveboy rectums. I had found this part of the curriculum distasteful and hadn't done too well on coming up with the correct ratings. But even in my class I hadn't needed to have my fingers inside the slaves for as long as this man was fingering me.

When he pulled his fingers out of me he smacked my bottom and said, "Turn around." I stood at full height but then pulled back as the man's fingers moved toward my mouth. He must have remembered at that moment that I was still free because he paused, shook his head and then brought his fingers into the mouth of the dark-haired slave beside me, having that boy lick them clean.

Next I felt the grey-haired assessor's hands grasping my balls. He seemed to be mumbling to himself as he said, "I usually don't get to handle free boys like this." My balls were being bounced on his palm and then I felt his fingers slide onto my penis. He was manipulating me, trying to get me erect but I only felt my rod shrinking. This was the first time any male had touched my penis and I didn't like it. "Put your palm below the head to catch any run-off."

I closed my eyes and tried to imagine that it was a female hand trying to arouse me. But just then I heard my mother's voice cut the air. "That will not be necessary."

"But, madam, knowing this boy's fertility will make a big difference on ultimate value."

"My husband's holdings are so extensive that an extra $100,000 more or less won't even be noticed. You don't need all this information today. And I need these three dressed so they can accompany me to an urgent business meeting."

It fell to my mother to drive the limo since we had no use of any of the slaves. I sat beside her and my four brothers were in the back seat. She began in blunt enough fashion, saying, "Most likely within three days Jeremy, Tommy and Cory would be stripped, collared and heading for the auction block. Your father's trial begins at noon today. Therefore there are papers prepared that need to be signed before the judge bangs his gavel at your father's trial."

My parents were the kind of people always prepared for contingencies. Like most families of wealth there were papers in the wall safe that declared each of their children as property. I knew what my mother was leading up to. She announced, "I have made arrangements to sell the three of you into five-year indenture contracts. With those contracts signed before your father's trial begins the court cannot touch you."

Tommy began protesting in the willful way he had. But mother cut him short with, "I'll leave the choice to you: five years indentured to someone your mother knows and trusts? or lifetime enslavement that begins with you naked on a platform at the public slave halls?" I heard chuckling from the twins.

"But, mother," I asked, "who is buying us?" I knew that slaves could not be sold to blood relatives. I also knew that our current attorney general was cracking down on sham enslavements. His office was especially diligent investigating sales of boys from wealthy families. Mother was certainly aware of all of this. Rather than answer she snapped, "I will not be accused of doing a sham enslavement." My other brothers kept peppering her with questions but she was not going to provide any additional information.

We were heading north into the rolling hills of central New York. Mother seemed to know the route, but wasn't giving us any further information. It didn't matter. I couldn't think of anyone we knew who lived up in this direction. Finally we passed through a village, then travelled along a quiet country lane and came to the grand gates of what appeared to be a massive estate.

A young male slave pulled open the heavy gate. I couldn't help noticing that the slaveboy was nude and that his penis had been banded so that it stood out prominently from his body. I wondered whether this boy was being kept nude as punishment. Or was it possible that this was a master who believed in slave nudity? I remembered the way I'd felt just a few hours earlier when I was naked and handled by that grey-haired assessor. Then again nudity is hardly the worst part of being a slave.

As we all got out of the limo, I saw a large man step out of the front doors of the mansion. This is when I stopped in my tracks with a sense of dread. I recognized this heavyset old man as Grandpa Jay. He wasn't actually our grandfather. He had married our maternal grandmother after our mother was already a grown woman – and as such he was not a blood relative. Mother thought the world of the charming old man. But I had a different view of him.

I remembered Grandpa Jay's visit to our home three years earlier. He had seemed an odd duck then, but I was used to eccentricities of the rich. Mom had warned me that the old man liked to get the best of people, and told me I shouldn't let him get 'under my skin'. But the more time I spent around him, the creepier I felt.

He was always looking at me in the strangest way, a wry half-smile on his face, and he would often reach out and run his large hand up and down my exposed arm, or caress the back of my neck. When I told him I was too big to sit on his lap, he simply laughed and said he was a big man with a big lap. I was saved that indignity when my brother Cory eagerly hopped up on grandpa's lap and snuggled up to his large frame. I watched as grandpa's hand crept up the back of Cory's shirt and my younger brother giggled, seeming to enjoy the experience. But when my father was around, grandpa was much more reserved and kept his hands to himself.

At one point I was in my shower when the door to my bathroom suddenly opened. I figured it was my body slave Spiffy and was prepared to yell at him for the intrusion. But instead there was Grandpa Jay and he was staring right at me. I stood as if on display in the glass-enclosed shower stall. Naturally my hands immediately moved down to cover my penis. An instant later I turned my back so that he only had a rear view of my nakedness.

"Did you want something from me, grandpa?" I asked nervously.

He gave out a throaty chuckle and said, "You know, it's gone right out of my head." I looked over my shoulder and he was just staring. I reached around and brushed my bare buttcheeks, wondering if there was something on them because that was where he was looking. His hand was in his pants pocket as if fishing around for something. Then he just smiled at me enigmatically and withdrew from the bathroom.

A few minutes later when I finished my shower I called for Spiffy. He was always so responsive and swift it seemed odd that I had to call a second time. After calling the slave's name a third time I grabbed a towel, wrapped it haphazardly around myself and stormed into my bedroom. Before I could start berating him, I saw the slaveboy on his knees in front of Grandpa Jay. The large old man had his feet planted wide and his erection plunged deep in Spiffy's throat. His big hammy hands were holding onto the boy's ears and he was riding his hips in a piston-like fashion forwards and then back. He was fucking my body slave in the mouth right in front of me.

But the old man was nonplussed. Without missing a beat he grinned at me and said, "You can take your turn soon as I'm finished, lad." He seemed to be staring right at me as he got a beatific look on his face then slammed his hips forward and gave a powerful groan. I could see Spiffy's adam's apple moving up and down and it was clear the slaveboy was swallowing the old man's load. This was a sight I had never before seen and my grandfather seemed as if he was putting on a show for me. He quietly instructed the kneeling slave to lick him clean and when he withdrew his tool from the lad's lips it was as if he wanted to display the erect cock in front of me. I of course turned around but got so flustered I dropped my towel. I bent to pick it up, not wanting to wait for my body slave and it was at this point that Grandpa Jay said, "You can take your turn now, Jeremy."

I held the towel clumsily in front of me, not even covering my rear, as I stammered, "I d-don't do that sort of thing, grandfather. I'm not… ummm, I mean, I don't… I only like girls, grandfather. And I thought… I mean, I didn't know Spiffy liked to…"

The old man had put away his penis but I could still see the outline in his trousers and he still seemed to be adjusting it as he said, "Nonsense, a gentleman understands that sex with a slaveboy is very different from sex between two free men." I nodded my head. I had certainly heard that adage. "And as to what the slaveboy likes or wants," he added with a sniff, "there's no relevance at all. A slaveboy is there to serve his master and any body slave worth money must learn to take a big cock down his throat and up his bum."

He slowly made his way out of the room but seemed to keep his eyes on me. Once he had circled me and was at the door I realized he once more had a view of my exposed bottom. I must have been bright red with embarrassment. It was only when I became aware that Spiffy was pulling up his slave shorts and putting on his tunic that I realized the slaveboy had been stripped bare while servicing our houseguest's cock. I was cross with the lad as he brought me my clothes and helped me prepare for the day. But I realized I was actually cross with myself for the way I had let grandpa get me flustered.

My other incident with Grandpa Jay happened at the swimming pool. I had been swimming laps and then laid out beside the pool to dry off and sun myself. I was stretched on a chaise laying on my tummy and flipping through an e-magazine on my reader when the large old man suddenly plopped down beside me. He seemed to be looking at me for a long moment before he snidely remarked, "It's a good thing you're a rich boy, Jeremy. There's a lot of men who'd like to see a bottom like yours in a slave showroom."

Automatically my bottom cheeks clenched together in the blue speedos I wore. Of course I knew what he was talking about. A common taunt in the locker room might be something like, "Your ass is so round the Gaytown slave mall keeps phoning your dad." My classmates and I would say such things back before we even understood them. When I was told that some masters did their slaveboys 'anally' I pretended to know what it meant. It was only when I heard older boys talk about slaveboys getting 'dicked up the rear end' that I finally put the pieces together. And when I put those pieces together I shuddered with horror at the very thought of it.

But out there by the pool I didn't want to let Grandpa Jay get the best of me. I tried to act casual as I said, "Even if I was in a slave showroom I'm not gay, grandpa."

He let out a hearty laugh. "Where's the fun in an owner using a gay boy as a pleasure slave, silly lad? The power is in having a slaveboy submit, the thrill of making a straight boy worship his master's cock."

I looked back at my e-magazine but couldn't focus. I mumbled, "Well besides doesn't a boy have to be older for an owner to make full use of…"

In a quiet, conspiratorial voice Grandpa leaned toward me and said, "You should keep up with the news, lad. They've lowered the age for full use in Florida, and they say California is next. There are boys your age being stripped on the auction block right now from Miami to Tallahassee." Then his large hand patted my bottom twice as he added, "But I doubt any are as adorable as you are, heheheh."

I grabbed my towel and stumbled to my feet. I hurriedly mumbled something about needing to get inside.

The following day Grandpa Jay was gone without even saying goodbye. My father was not much for heart-to-heart talks but he called me into his study. He seemed troubled by something and it took a while before he finally looked me in the face and cleared his throat.

"I'm telling you this because you're the oldest boy, Jeremy. I politely asked your Grandfather Jay to leave late last night. It seems he had gone into Cory's room and was… tucking your younger brother into bed when I stepped into the room." He took a long pause as if deciding just how to word the next bit of the story.

"Jeremy, you are aware that there are men who… ummm, prefer the company of other men… I mean the intimate closeness of other men. You know what I'm talking about, lad?"

"You mean gays?"

He continued as if he hadn't heard me. "I know that in school they have taught you about… well, taught you that there are certain of those men who don't so much like other men, they like… well, younger… I mean, boys like you and your brothers?" His tone went up as if speaking a question, but I remained silent.

My father suddenly became all businesslike again as he continued, "I'm telling you this because, as the oldest, you need to protect your younger brothers from… well, you understand me, don't you, Jeremy?"

I nodded my head. My father seemed to be acknowledging the thing I had sensed: that Grandpa Jay was a perv. In my mind I was replaying the way the old man had looked at my exposed bottom and a shiver ran through me.

"Now, not a word of this to your mother. Your mother idolizes her stepfather and she would find any talk like this quite distasteful." Looking up at me as if annoyed that I was still standing there, he snapped, "Do you have any questions, Jeremy?"

"Father, yes… about the use of slaveboys, sir? Men who do things with slaveboys… I mean, sexual things…"

"That's different, lad. A master may use a slaveboy's mouth just as he may use a…" The man seemed to be stuck for an analogy. But he waved his hand and said, "That's quite different from homosexuality. And you may also be aware that it is traditional for a master to mount a new slaveboy as naturally as he would paddle him to help the slave learn his place."

I was trying to form my next question. But my father waved his hand for me to leave. The conversation had gone on quite long enough.

During the following year I did some research into Grandpa Jay. I learned that there had been a notorious case in which the old man was accused of improper activity with the young sons of a neighbor. At the same time this case was hanging over his head, Jay married an attractive widow with one grown daughter – that was when he became my mother's stepfather. In the most casual way I asked my mother about this, saying I had accidentally come across information about a legal case against Grandpa Jay. She was livid about the mere mention of this incident in her stepfather's life. It was clear she considered him completely innocent. But I knew better.

And now, knowing that I was about to become his property, I froze on the spot as I met the gaze of the obese old man. So this was the buyer she completely trusted with her sons. This was the master my brothers and I would all have to obey.

Another man stepped out of the door of the mansion and stood beside Grandpa Jay. This man was in a tan uniform that looked quite official. He was not quite as big and not quite as old as Grandpa but he was cut from the same cloth. For a moment my mother looked taken aback but Grandpa cheerily introduced his good buddy Sheriff Red, the head of local law enforcement. "He's here in his official capacity to guarantee that this is no sham enslavement. You can understand how that's for the best."

Mother gathered her wits and acknowledged both of the big men. Sheriff Red ambled toward me and my brothers with a thin-lipped smile as he grunted, "Fine pieces of slave flesh here. I'll see these boys are stripped and processed just as they should be."

I noticed the sheriff had one hand in his pants pocket and he seemed to be adjusting a sizeable erection as he looked me up and down and then turned his attention to my younger brothers.

To be continued?