By Joshua Ryan
So I spent a lot of days sweeping the drive and swabbing the terrace and crawling around getting all the dirt out of the travertine in the foyer, and lots more days hefting 65-percent-polyester-35-percent-cotton workie uniforms out of the washing machines. Not much to say about that. But I do want to talk about a special feature of this phase of my career, which was getting to leave the estate from time to time.
It was sort of like when I was in the coffle—they’d take us out for road work, but afterwards they’d bring us right back to the fences and the razor wire. This time, I was the most expendable part of the crew, so I was the one that was “permitted to accompany” Mr. Meyers and Marky on their shopping trips to town. Marky drove the SUV, and Mr. Meyers rode shotgun, and I was the package-carrier that rode in the back. Marky was a hot young workie and Mr. Meyers — who the workies called Mr. Nance, or just Nance, or Nancy — was always making comments that Marky was careful not to pick up on.
Continue reading The WORC Program – Part 15
By Rubbered Prisoner
What is the Rubbered Prisoner?
The Rubbered Prisoner is a well-proportioned, muscular, 5-foot-10-inch, 25-year-old white male whose function in life is to earn enough money so he can be housed in an isolated small rural bricked facility where he can be tortured in rubber by the regimen of a distant individual except for 8 hours 30 minutes he is allowed to see through his eyes and type on a computer for a long-term substance living he has.
This is the job he has posting accounts receivables for a remote computerized client. At least 10 hours of the prisoner’s time (not necessarily continuous) must be where sleep is possible but not necessarily anything close to comfortable or continuous.
Continue reading Rubbered Prisoner and the Controlling Master
By Joshua Ryan
I thought maybe the workies in Grounds would resent me for going up the ladder like that, but all they said was stuff like “Wish I could go with you — not!” and “Enjoy all the fags up at the House, mofo!” The only resentment I saw was when I passed Benson coming out of the house servants’ barracks and heading for Grounds. We were both carrying our boxes of gear, but I was happy and he was mad. At me.
So now I guessed I’d be seeing Mike and Jerry every day — which was completely gross, right? I mean, it even made me sick to my stomach that I was looking forward to a thing like that. But how could I get back to real life if they didn’t help me? And why would they want to help me if they didn’t remember me? And how would they remember me if they never even saw me? And maybe they’d satisfied their sadism and wanted to get this shit over with, finally.
Continue reading The WORC Program – Part 14
By Joshua Ryan
Here’s the way the place was organized. Jerry had a big “staff.” At the top was this Meyers guy, Steven Meyers — MISTER Meyers, the “personal assistant.” He wasn’t a workie. Maybe he should have been, but he wasn’t. I saw him from a distance, and I knew he was a faggot. The kind of faggot I’d been. Only I guess he needed a job. He slept in the House.
Everybody else was a workie. There were three types of workie.
First: House Staff. They were the head servant, Cicero, and the cook, Sacky. Cicero lived in the House, up in the attic. Sacky lived in the barracks, but he kept whatever hours were needed to satisfy the owner. He was the way we got all those great leftovers, and things that weren’t leftovers.
Continue reading The WORC Program – Part 13
By Joshua Ryan
Boss Web put a leash on my collar and led me to the office. Mr. Williams was waiting outside, and so was a truck with a cage on it.
Boss said, “This is the workie they want at the House, right? Name is Butch.”
“Right. Butch,” Mr. Williams said. “Ethan will take him up.”
Boss walked away. I stowed my gear in the back of the truck and scrambled into the cage, still wearing the leash. Ethan locked me inside. Fifteen minutes after all this started, I was saying goodbye to the world of coffles.
I guess it was about a mile to the House on the dirt farm road. I was craning my neck, trying to see ahead, especially when the truck went around a curve. I wished I’d taken some of Jerry’s invitations to see the House, back when I was free. But I never wanted to spend any time with Jerry. Maybe if I’d been a little nicer to him … Before we got to the House we had to get through a concrete wall with a steel fence on top, and rolls of razor wire on top of that. OK, that’s the way it was, all around the Farms. Everything was secured. But then we were through the gate, and there it was, rising above a grove of trees — an elegant colonial house with red brick walls and white columns and white window frames and four huge chimneys. Yes! That’s it! That’s the House!
Continue reading The WORC Program – Part 12
By Joshua Ryan
What kind of lover did he make? What kind of lover did I make? What do I know? I’m just a stupid workie. We were a thousand times better than Mike and me — how’s that for an evaluation? Because Ace was totally solid. Whatever we were doing, he was totally there. He never talked; he just did it. If I shied away from him, he did something else. Then he came back. He also had a way of waiting for me to do something, then going all in on it himself. If we were doing something, we had to do it together. He had to do it, and I had to do it. That was his idea. So we did.
I always knew what was going on in the barracks. I knew there was sex. Everybody knew. There had to be. But I didn’t hear any talk — any except jokes about what’s always “gonna” happen, where everybody accuses everybody of everything. But when I got up to take a piss at night, I always noticed there was a bunk that wasn’t filled, and another bunk that looked heavier than normal. I didn’t go looking for evidence, but Boss Web’s rack was always way heavy, and everybody knew it was Chico, the little Mex dude. I would’ve liked to fuck him myself.
Continue reading The WORC Program – Part 11
It’s past two o’clock in the morning in a quiet upscale neighborhood. Two disguised men have crossed a lawn belonging to one of the larger homes at the end of the street’s cul-de-sac. Using a suction cup and glass cutter, they break into one of the side windows of the darkened house.
They look like classic burglars. Dressed in blue jeans and long sleeve shirts, they’re wearing latex gloves with black neoprene ski masks disguising their faces. One is tall and broad shouldered. The other is average height and slim. Both of them are wearing light backpacks.
The thieves make their way through the rooms with flashlights, assuming no one is home. They’d be casing out this house. When they reach the living room, however, they notice evidence to the contrary. The TV is still on with a PlayStation console connected to it and the game menu on the screen. The fresh smell of pizza and weed is in the air as they notice a pizza box on the coffee table next to a bong.
They’re not alone after all. But they’re prepared for such contingencies as they remove duct tape and several plastic zip tie cables from their backpacks.
Continue reading Robbed and Humiliated
“Probably” I said looking at his angry face.
I continued to look at him, red faced and pacing the room.
“What the fuck were you thinking?” Greg thumped the table with a tight fist, sat down and then slumped forward with his head in his hands.
“I was thinking of the weeks living with you whining and pleading about wanting a no safe word scene.”
“I could have died in that bloody cellar. You….”
“Oh stop being so dramatic Greg. Of course you couldn’t have died in there. I spent over 9 hours watching you bitch and moan. Do you really think I didn’t know what was happening to you?”
“You’re a bloody sadist”
Continue reading It’s Not Over Till I Say So – Part 02