By Joshua Ryan

I woke up the next day, and I was still a workie. The other workies knew what I used to be. My former friends knew what I was now. But nothing had changed. Nobody actually cared. After all, I was just a workie. I was a workie the day before; I was a workie now; I would always be a workie. Unless this was all a fuckin nightmare, and I was about to wake up. Or unless Mike and Jerry were gettin their rocks off, shaming me and hazing me, and when they got through, they would throw me out. That was my only hope.

I went back to washing the floors and scrubbing the toilets, and the other workies went back to whatever. Marky and Mr. Meyers took me on their little trips into town. I got better at slogging workie suits from the washer to the dryer. The nights got cold, and the boss brought out a stack of colorful quilts for us to use on our beds. I was ready to puke, it was so faggy. I slept under my ratty old workie blanket, and froze.

But Christmas was coming, which meant that the house workies spent a lot of time on ladders, decorating stuff. There was an enormous tree and lots of lights, and even a little string of lights on the barracks. The workies argued about how good our Christmas rations would be. Coming from the coffle, it seemed weird to me that there’d be all this special food for the workies. It was like those quilts and that Paris poster. But everyone seemed to be excited. I had something to celebrate — I was still alive. But I wasn’t excited.

Mike and Jerry invited some of their friends — just ten or twelve of their closest, dearest friends — to come to the house on Christmas morning. They gathered around the tree. I stood in the hall to take their coats as they came in. Billy Rubin and his boyfriend laughingly discussed whether you should say Merry Christmas to a workie. Billy thought you should; the boyfriend thought you had to ask its owner. “Then it isn’t worth the trouble,” Billy said. Just then Holman Carter showed up with his boyfriend. He was a new one; I didn’t know his name. “I guess it depends on whether you’d say Merry Christmas to your dog,” Holman suggested. “Why, I did that, just this morning,” the boyfriend said. “I said Merry Christmas to the dog.” He peered at my shirt. “Butch! That’s a funny name for a dog! Merry Christmas, Butch!” “Merry Christmas,” I said. “Sir.” “So this is the one you used to know,” the boyfriend said. “Yup,” Holman said. It was just like the Thanksgiving party, except that now I didn’t need to explain things to the other workies.

After the guests had all arrived, I passed among them with mimosas on a tray. A workie suit doesn’t really fit in with a room full of $2000 sports attire, especially on Christmas, but no one minded taking their drinks from me. “Ummmm,” Cameron Draper purred. “THIS one’s come a long way. Last time I was looking at the wardrobe. This time I’m looking at the way he fills it out.” His boyfriend came up closer. “Jerry’s so cheap!” he said. “Why can’t he give it a uniform that fits?” “I think it fits fine!” Cameron said. “Nobody would believe this hulk was little Carson Robertson. UNLESS I take a picture! Hold still, Butch!” He held up his phone and took a picture of me. Then he had his boyfriend take a picture of me standing next to him, holding my tray. “I can’t wait to send this to everybody,” Cameron said. “But what shall I CALL it? Maybe — Makin It Pay, the Workie Way?”

“I’ve got another idea,” Greg Addison said. “How about, All the Monkeys Aren’t in the Zoo?” I guess nobody hates you so much as a guy who’s poured out his miserable secrets to you.

“Pardon me?” Billy’s boyfriend asked. He was the youngest one in the group.

“It’s a song,” Greg replied. “About monkeys. But of course, this isn’t a monkey. This is a workie. Isn’t that right …Butch?”

“Yes sir. I am a workie, sir.” I was choking, but I had to say it or get dragged out of the house and lose any chance I had of getting out of that monkey suit. Yeah, I was thinking about that again.

“It’s a good thing,” Holman said, “that Mike and Jerry decided to buy him and take care of him. Awfully kind of them, considering.”

“Oh, I dunno,” Cameron replied. “With a body like that, this one could get a pretty good price. Good, but still affordable …. ”

“But not by us,” his boyfriend said.

“Just making a comment!” Cameron said.

“Yeah, the muscles turned out pretty well,” Greg said. “And of course, you don’t need to worry about a brain. A workie doesn’t need one, and this unit never had one to begin with.” They all laughed happily. “As for the body …. Next time I want another refrigerator,” he added, “I’ll know where to come.” They thought that was even funnier.

“But look,” Cameron said. “Isn’t that Frank Corelli? Where DID he get that new …escort?” They all went off to see. Cicero signaled me to stand on the side with my mimosa tray. It was time for Jerry’s short speech of welcome to “my oldest and dearest friends, and their much younger friends.” Everyone laughed and applauded. Then he passed out gifts while Mike passed out eggnog from a tray that Punt brought in. Stray drunks came my way for more mimosas. One of them put his hand around my biceps and said, “I like you lots better than I used to …. Butch. Know what I mean?” I had to stand at attention and say, “Yes sir. Thank you sir.” His hand had gotten to my ass when his boyfriend dragged him away.

Finally the guests moved into the dining room, where Sacky served eggs benedict and Cicero poured champagne. I took my tray back to the kitchen, then returned to the living room to clean up the wrapping paper and the glasses that everybody had left lying around. Lunch was long, but when they started to leave I hurried to the door to help them with their coats. Most were so drunk that they felt good about just finding the door, but some of them couldn’t forget that Carson Robertson was now Butch the workie. It always made them happy. “Carson …I mean Butch! That outfit of yours – it’ll be a fashion CRAZE! WHERE can I get one?” Guys that used to consider Carson an arrogant, pampered twink now said “Bye bye, big boy!”, just so I’d have to say, “Goodbye, sir,” while I opened the door for them. Greg took his coat, looked me over, and said, “You’re exactly where you ought to be.”

After the last guest left, Mike and Jerry went upstairs, where Jody could be seen waiting for them at the top. He must have been sleeping off a particularly athletic Christmas Eve, because he’d spent zero time helping the (other) servants with the party. Then I had dishes to do, so it was a long day before I got back to the barracks. A bottle was going around, and it was rum. Either Jerry or Sacky had come through with three bottles. Buck was already drunk, and he said, “I’m sorry, Butch. I didn’t trust you. I shoulda trusted you.” And he cried. None of the others cried, but they all told me they trusted me now. So I took a swig and tried to get happy about being alive in this horrible dump.

An hour or so later, Cicero came to the door. Everybody got up from the table. It wasn’t every day that Cicero walked back to the barracks. Turned out, he was there for me. “You’re comin back to the House,” he said. “They want to see you upstairs.” He clipped a leash to my collar and led me out. Everybody had his mouth open, staring. Nobody had seen a leash since they arrived on one of them.

OK, so before then, I had never been allowed upstairs, where the bedrooms were, but that’s where Cicero led me. I couldn’t help thinking, maybe this is the moment when my life gets turned around!

Cicero knocked discreetly at a door, and Jerry opened it. “Leashed?” he asked. “Yes sir,” Cicero replied, in a hurt tone, like “Don’t I always do what you tell me, sir?”   “Give me the leash,” Jerry said. “That’s all for now.” Cicero bowed and left. Jerry led me by the leash into the middle of the room.

If I had still been Carson Robertson, I would have thought, I don’t like Jerry, but this is a good looking room — who’s the decorator? Big windows, beautiful four-poster bed, shining mahogany desk, Persian carpet over a hardwood floor. It was huge, and it was beautiful. The other thing I was thinking was, this room would take a long time for me to clean. From that point of view, not beautiful at all.

Jerry pulled me into the center of the room and took the leash off my collar. “Attention, boy,” he said, and I came to attention. Mike was relaxing in an arm chair, off to one side. They’d been drinking, but they weren’t drunk. As far as I knew, they never really got drunk.

“Mr. Thomasen and I have a bet,” Jerry continued. “He’s betting that you’ve learned to be a better cocksucker now than you were before you decided to become a workie. I’m betting that you haven’t learned a thing. There’s only one way to settle it. Get down on your knees.”

“Yes sir,” I said, automatically. While I was dropping, Mike rose out of his chair, walked over, and took his pants down. “Go for it,” he said.

His dick was about half hard when I started working it. I wish I could say I remembered what it had felt like or tasted like before I became a workie, but a lot had happened since then.

“Here,” Jerry said. “I want to win fairly and squarely. Let me help you.” He pushed my face away and started stroking Mike’s cock. When it was hard enough, Mike pushed it back in my mouth. He fucked my face for a while; then Jerry helped again. During the second face fucking, Mike finally came. “Swallow it,” he said. I did.

“So,” Jerry said, “what’s the verdict? Better or worse?”

“He’s better,” Mike said. “Not by much, though. As you could see.”

“But you win,” Jerry said, planting a big kiss on Mike’s lips. I was still kneeling on the floor. “But give me a couple minutes. I’d like to test it myself. Open up. boy.”

I opened up, and instantly his dick was inside me. He face fucked me savagely, all out, holding my head and fucking raping my mouth. When he came I thought I was gonna choke to death. “Lick it all off now,” he said. I licked.

“You see,” Mike said. “He HAS improved.”

“No,” Jerry said. “I was doing all the work. But you know, maybe I’ve identified the problem. Stand up, boy.”

My knees were so sore — everything was so sore — I was happy to do that. Then Jerry grabbed my crotch. “Yep,” he said. “That’s the problem. This workie’s not even hard. How do you expect him to do a good job when he’s not even a man?”

“I see your point,” Mike said. “OK, I’ll call Cicero.”

Cicero came back and put on my leash and led me out of the room. As we were leaving, I heard Jerry say, “Get Jody back in here.”

To be continued …

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