This story is published as an ebook and is no longer available, but I'll leave the first chapter up.
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This story is definitely 18+. There will be smut, though not as much as you might expect. There will be non-con, rape, physical and mental torture, extreme humiliation, domination and slavery. But there also will be romance, true love, loyalty and sincere friendship. There will be fiendish plots, betrayals and cruel destinies. But there also will be sweet revenge and healing redemption. And lots and lots of angst.
I will try to take you on a roller coaster from the smutty to the mushy. I will try to rip your guts out, but also your heart. I definitely want to make you cry, but I also hope to make you laugh once in a while. Sometimes I will paint you scenes of a very graphical nature but there will be occasions that I will bring you to the very edge and leave it to your imagination to finish what, anyway, couldn't be stopped anymore. I want to touch your most sexual organ: your brain. What you do with your other sexual organs is of course your own affair.
I am a kind person, so I will not brutally rape your mind from the very beginning. The first four, five chapters are relatively mild. Gradually however, the mood will darken and at a certain point events will take a sharp, nasty turn. You will need a strong stomach.
The story is set in a slightly alternative reality. Most of it you will recognize but a few things are different and those I have to explain at some length. Bear with me. Of course, feel free, if you must, to scan the chapters for smuttiness. But I suggest that your overall experience will be more rewarding if you let me lead you by the hand. Details and scenes that seem irrelevant might have their importance later on.
So, gentle reader, you can consider yourself to be duly warned. If I have succeeded in tickling your curiosity I invite you to read the first chapter.
A Dish Served Cold
Chapter 1: A Narrow Escape
I suppose that if I want to tell you how I came to know the Ridges and how that acquaintance almost cost me my family's fortune and very nearly got me enslaved, I'd better begin with a curious incident that happened just before my fifteenth birthday.
After my father's death my mother had to take responsibility for the family fortune. She had inherited quite a bit as the sole heiress of a successful chain of shops. Upon the death of her father she had sold the lot and let the family's attorneys invest the proceeds. My father had kept an eye on the investments and my mother was quite happy to let him. After all, she was the dreamy, unpractical type. But when my father died she had to take matters in hand and who would have guessed that this fragile, poetic soul was also a shrewd investor with a razor sharp financial mind. We had done quite well, thank you very much, and our assets, which were already substantial to begin with, steadily grew from year to year.
When I was almost fifteen my mother decided that it was time I began to learn the basics of the management of our investments and assets.
"I will not always be around, you know," she said. "But we will ease you gently into this, my dear. To begin with, let's have you simply tag along when I visit Singer & Singer."
Singer & Singer were our attorneys. Harold Singer being the elder, venerable head of the firm and Geoffrey Singer being his son and presumptive successor. Needless to say those visits to dusty offices in an old but magnificent building were utterly boring to a fourteen year old boy. Neither did I learn much as most of the crucial discussions went on between my mother and Mr. Singer senior behind closed doors in his private office. I guess my mother simply wanted me to get familiar with the firm and vice versa. Most of the time I had to wait in Geoffrey Singer's office, bored beyond words.
It must have been on the third or fourth visit that it happened. While I was patiently waiting for my mother to come back, sitting quietly in a club chair for visitors, I studied Geoffrey Singer who was reading some papers at his desk. Without being downright ugly, he also couldn't be called very attractive. He was in his early twenties, I guessed, and had a slender, wiry body. What most attracted my attention were is big hands with long, bony fingers. His face was sharp and so was his nose, which he from time to time nervously rubbed with his left index finger. He wore gold rimmed glasses that made him look older than he actually was. His straight hair was short and sort of salt and pepper colored. All in all he looked somewhat like a giant mouse. Definitely not my type. Besides the fact that for me, at fourteen years, everybody above twenty seemed positively ancient.
He must have felt me staring at him, because suddenly he looked at me.
"Andrew, would you like something to read? A comic maybe?"
"Sure," I said. Anything to pass the time. Well, not anything.
"Come with me," he said and he opened a door that led to a room full of racks and shelves. Clearly the archive of Singer & Singer or at least that of Singer junior. The room smelled even dustier than the rest of the office. On the far side stood a little table with a chair and a reading light. Geoffrey reached into a box on one of the shelves and retrieved a few magazines which he put upon the table. He opened one of them. I still stood in the entrance of the room.
"Come, take a look and see if you find it to your taste," he said while he flicked on the reading light. He turned around and began rummaging in another box. I went to the little table and leaned over to take a closer look.
"What the fuck." On the pages before me were several pictures of two naked guys, in the most lurid positions, fucking each other. OK, although I wasn't prepared to admit it at that age, I knew I liked guys. But not these kind of guys, with muscles like wrestlers and at least thirty. Shocked I started to back away from the table, but I bumped into Geoffrey who was suddenly, without me having heard a thing, right behind me.
"You like that, don't you, you little pervert. I bet you and your little friends have many times played dirty games like that." His voice sounded deeper than usual and somehow, well, moist I suppose, as if there was too much saliva in his mouth.
It was September but it was still very warm, so I wore only a t-shirt over my jeans. With one sudden movement his left hand reached under my shirt and, while keeping me firm against his breast, with his thumb he began to massage my nipple. His right hand opened the top button of my jeans, forced itself in my briefs, wriggling the zipper open, and pulled both down simultaneously. My briefs stuck around my knees but my jeans fell to my ankles. He cupped my balls with his hands, squeezed them slightly which made me bend forward, more from surprise than from pain, and then he grabbed my dick.
"Hey," I yelled, "cut that out. Let go of me."
"Shh," he hissed in my ear, "you know you want this, you little bitch."
Yes, from Sean Denham, my best friend on whom I had a crush maybe. Not from some unsavory guy ten years my senior. I tried to wrestle myself free, but the only effect it had was that he pressed me harder against his now heavily heaving breast. He began stroking my cock and to my horror I, it, responded. I didn't want this and I felt, besides being totally humiliated and violated, betrayed by my own body.
"See," he whispered hoarsely, "I knew that you were just a horny little boy."
By now tears came to my eyes and at the same time I tried, vainly I might add, to suppress a soft, whimpering moaning. Nobody had seen me naked, not even my mother, since I was eight or nine and here I stood, with my ass bared and a virtual stranger fondling my most intimate parts. Helpless. This couldn't get any worse, could it? But of course it could. How he did it, I don't know, but in a second he had removed his left hand from my breast, opened his pants, pulled his dick out and placed his arm and hand back around me to restrain me. It went all so quickly that I hadn't had time to take the opportunity to wrestle myself out of his grasp. I felt him trying to press his cock between my butt cheeks, at the same time bending me toward the table. It was all I could do to push back with my arms against the table to prevent him from bending me over completely. If he succeeded in doing so, my entrance would be wide open. I knew I wouldn't be able to resist for very long. I panicked at the humiliating thought that not only he would make me come but he would have his dick inside me while doing so.
"This can't be happening," I thought feverishly. "This can't be happening, this can't happen... This will not happen."
Out of sheer desperation and with all the strength I could muster I stood as upright as I possibly could.
"I'll have you enslaved for this" I raged. "Take your filthy paws off me, you disgusting animal. Do you know what my mother will do when I tell her you raped me? Can you even begin to imagine how many lawyers she will hire to make sure you get convicted and permanently enslaved? You know the punishment for rape of a minor. Do you realize just how much justice the Ashton fortune can buy...?"
I was out of breath, but it worked. He let go of my dick and released me of the strangling hold in which he had kept me. I slowly turned around and glared at him with a hate so strong as only the young can emanate. All blood had drained from his face. He had put his member back in his pants already, I noticed.
"I'm sorry," he said. "Please, don't tell your mother. I really thought you wanted this..."
"What made you believe I wanted to be raped by a dirty beast? When did I say that I wanted this? How could I have wanted this? Have you looked in a mirror lately?" I spat at him.
"You're right. Of course, you're right. I don't know what came over me... O, please, please... I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..." he whimpered.
He knelt before me and pulled first my briefs and then my jeans up. He tried to pull up the zipper, but was far too nervous and had to give up. He stood up, took a step back, looked at me an began to cry. I must have looked exactly the part of a molested boy. Hair disheveled, jeans rumpled, unzipped and unbuttoned, t-shirt creased, panting, wild eyed. Seeing me, he understood there was not the slightest possibility of him denying anything I would choose to accuse him of. He knew his life as he had known it would be over if a fourteen year old boy should but speak one word. As a man of the law he knew everything there was to know about Indentured Service, as it was known in official documents, or slavery, as it was known by the people.
I took a few deep breaths and leaned against the table behind me to steady myself. Sure, I was still mad, enraged even and if I could have crushed him then and there like a bug, I would have. But I also felt other emotions welling up. Triumph was one of them. I had controlled a desperate situation by mere words, just the right words, true, but only words nevertheless and it was I who had somehow found them. Power was another. I held the fate of a grown man in my fourteen year old hands, a man who stood before me trembling and crying, waiting what the verdict, my verdict would be.
"Please, button up your jeans... comb your hair... before they... before your mother comes back... I beg you, don't tell... I promise, it will not happen again... but please, please..."
"Shut up already," I barked and began to straighten my clothes as good as I could. My comb had fallen out of my back pocket, together with my wallet. Geoffrey saw me looking for them and picked them up from the floor. He silently handed them over to me. After I had brought some semblance of order to my hair, I left the room and sat again in one of the club chairs for visitors. Geoffrey sank behind his desk. It seemed as if he wanted to say something but then thought better of it. He rearranged some papers without really seeing what he was doing, adjusted his glasses and rubbed his nose. He took a deep breath, gathered all his courage and opened his mouth.
"Rest assured," I said gruffly before he could utter a word, "I won't tell."
He sighed, sat a little bit straighter and cleared his throat.
"Thank you," he said in his normal voice as if I had just handed him a cup of coffee instead of his life. "I assure you, you won't regret this."
After what seemed an eternity my mother and Singer senior finally came back, still discussing some finer points of an investment.
"You seem a bit ruffled, my dear," she said.
"Ah, you know me, mother," I replied noncommittally and smiled at her.
I heard a barely audible sigh of relief from the direction of Geoffrey's desk.
"You're awfully quiet, dear," my mother said in the car on the way home.
"O, I'm just a little bit tired, that's all," I answered.
In fact I was mulling over the events of that afternoon. Why hadn't I told on Geoffrey? What had tipped the scales? Well, I was not too sure. I truly pitied the guy. It couldn't be easy being him, what with his looks and his craving for young boys. And like my mother always said: "Nobody deserves to be made a slave. I don't care what they're supposed to have done. It not only degrades the victim, it also degrades us as a society". I tended to agree with her. If you think that was noble of me, I'm afraid I have to disappoint you. There was also a considerable measure of self preservation involved. I would have had to recount the whole sordid affair in embarrassing intimate details to the police and almost certainly repeat it again publicly in court. The story would have been all over the papers. Who needed this kind of notoriety? School was hard enough without being known as the boy who almost got fucked in the ass. No, thank you very much, it was enough that Geoffrey had believed I was prepared to involve the authorities.
Thoughts of an altogether different nature raged also through my mind. Until today I had paid little attention to my looks. It had come as a surprise to me that my appearance could drive somebody so far as to lose control and throw all caution to the wind. As distasteful as the whole episode had been, it was also kind of flattering in a weird, twisted way. Maybe, I thought, I can make Sean Denham see what Geoffrey Singer had seen.
Sean would meet with far less resistance. None, in fact.