Floor Boys

Floor Boys (Male World Order: part 5)

**This story is a work of fiction and all characters, events, and locations described in it are purely fictional. No resemblance or connection to any living or deceased person or real-world event or location is intended.**

**This story contains descriptions of intergenerational sex and forced labor. If this offends you, do not read further.**

...

"Seriously, Sir, I'm begging you. She will flip out on me if the beef and broccoli aren't in two separate scoops or piles or whatever," said the anxious head-shaved fellow in the white t-shirt and silky white short shorts to the weary-eyed older man behind the counter. "She will LOSE HER SHIT! She will burn down Sutton Place. They can be next to each other, but they can't be mixed."

"All right, all right, get a hold of yourself" replied Seventh Beta Jason Tseng before ducking into the kitchen to clarify the instructions on the order. "It'll be a minute," he said returning. "NEXT!"

The fellow in the white t-shirt and silky white short shorts stepped aside, and another young man in a white t-shirt and silky white short shorts approached the counter.

"Dude, hey, calm down. I don't you or this lady, but what the fuck can she do to YOU? Demote you?" HB9(I) Justin Campbell chuckled. "You new or something?"

"Hello, Sir. I'm here to pick up an order for Trantwell," Justin said, turning to B7 Tseng. Outside, another young man in identical white t-shirt and shorts passed, his shaved scalp catching the late afternoon sun.

Any tourist to the city paying attention could see an army of such boys speed-walking the streets and ducking in and out of restaurants and bodegas and dry cleaning shops, or cycling around laden with parcels. To Manhattanites themselves, they had largely become invisible. Part of the background noise of an already noisy city.

Such white-shorted boys could be found all across the country, in big cites and small towns. Doing domestic work in suburban homes in Indiana or high rise condos in Miami. Meatier ones could be found working on oil rigs or fishing vessels or factories (though often in more substantial uniforms as per OSHA rules -- always pure white -- the color of boyhood). A great many worked on farms. But New York seemed to have gotten a double-helping of these lads in shorts, and in New York they were called "floor boys."

They were indentured servants stuck in a legal limbo between childhood and manhood, in terms as short as six months or as long as twelve years.

Upon graduating high school, Justin's Primary Occupational Masculinity Assessment had determined he was not masculine enough to look after himself -- physically, mentally, or emotionally (among other factors in the score). This had nothing to do with his being an "h-neck" or registered homosexual. Male Assessment considered masculinity profile and Kinsey score to be quite unrelated things. There were perfectly heterosexual boys who scored low on masculinity and complete homosexuals who scored high.

Though Justin Campbell had just turned 19, he was still considered a minor until he was 25. It was believed a seven-year term of work would help ready him for the world. His employer; DrB3 Donovan Trantwell, PhD; was legally Justin's guardian. Trantwell paid the government for Justin's services. It was about half as expensive as hiring a paid servant. The government kept about 10% of it. The rest, plus interest, would be paid out to Justin in a lump sum upon his accession to legal manhood.

Often these arrangements resulted in a strong bond of dominance and submission, and the servants stayed on as paid employees after their term of indenturement was complete. But if Trantwell and Justin decided it was not a permanent fit, Justin would be given free housing for life in a public men's dormitory, provided he remained employed at least 30 hours a week. He also would have the option of residing with immediate family, as long as they did not charge rent. B8 and below were strictly prohibited from paying rent or owning residential property.

...

Upon entering the service door of the spacious 1920s 3-bedroom, Justin removed his shoes and doffed his shirt and shorts, hanging them on a hook by the door. Justin usually remained nude in the apartment, as was established custom for servants when no women were in residence. On rare occasions Dr. Trantwell's mother came to visit, Justin put his shorts and shirt back on. They were designed to be quickly put on and taken off.

Justin was 5'9", and slight of frame. Puberty had brushed past him lightly, leaving only the faintest impression. His genitals were small and compact. He was nearly hairless except for a thin strip of light brown pubic hair arching over the base of his demure cocklet. At 19, he still had no armpit hair. He had an ever-so-slightly feminine curve to his hips and slight plumpness of his chest tissue. It had taken time, but Justin's smooth-shaved scalp had finally evened out with the rest of his skin tone. He had a golden tan complexion, his face sun-kissed with freckles, and his nipples and genitalia were quite brown.

Justin knocked on the bedroom door. Much like a nurse, he opened it before a response could be given. "Sir, Sir, I've got the food you wanted." Crispy Peking duck and a strawberry-vanilla Freezi. The red and white swirls of the icy drink glowed back-and-forth and there was a sparkling effect where they had begun to melt together.

Dr. Trantwell was in bed, unshaven, hair grown out of regs. Gut out of regs. He was wearing an old, stained Columbia sweatshirt and his pajama bottoms were around his thighs. A lemon cigarette was burning in an ashtray by to the bed, next to a nearly empty bottle of Canadian Club.

The good doctor's attentions were focused on the television, which was currently displaying contraband lesbian pornography from the 1990s. Dr. Trantwell had obtained a black-market disc of the internet archives.

"Just put it on the nightstand," Trantwell instructed, without pausing the long, slow strokes of his swollen uncut 8-incher.

Justin noted the blanket already had several semen stains in various stages of the drying process. Trantwell had been at this awhile. He cleared room on the nightstand and put the translucent beige EcoStyrene food containers down. He then took the bamboo-paper bag the food had come in and began to pick up the room.

Trantwell was quite used to Justin and didn't mind the intrusion on his privacy. Justin was a good, submissive boy. Hard working and obedient. The better they are, the less you notice them. As DrB1 Bruce Trantwell, his father, used to say: "the very best servies are invisible altogether."

...

HB9(i) Justin exited the service door and took the trash down the hall to the chute. He didn't bother to dress. Exiting the trash room, he ran into B10 Lincoln Suarez, the paid servie of the apartment next door.

"How's it goin' man?"

"I'm pretty good"

"How's your Thirbida?," Lincoln asked, his Arkansas roots showing. 'Thirbida' originated in New Orleans as a term for "Third Beta" alongside 'Sibida' (B6), 'Vebida' (B7), 'Nybida' (B9), and others. Usage of the terms had spread rapidly through the Southeast and was not considered at all disrespectful there.

In the North, it was more common to just say 'Third' without the beta. On the West Coast, saying 'bee three' was the norm.

However you prefer to say it, Justin's Third Beta was not doing so great.

"He's great!"

"If you've got time off this weekend, there's gonna be a lower-beta POPup Pub in the park, wanna go?"

"Sounds fun, but I'll have to check with my Third."

"All right man, lemme know!," Lincoln started down the hall.

"Say hi to that Firbida of yours!," Justin said, almost pronouncing it correctly.

Justin took a deep sigh upon returning to the apartment. He had just started to get comfortable in his new situation and it all might come tumbling down.

Men under 50 were required to have a masculinity reassessment five years after a divorce if the wife was the plaintiff. It had been just over five years since Maria Trantwell filed for divorce, citing 'dereliction of husbandly duties,' for failure to impregnate her. A medical examination determined she was not at fault in this, and she was granted her divorce.

The decree was dated four years, eleven months, and six days ago.

This very morning, a package containing a red sweatsuit and printed list of instructions had arrived for Dr. Trantwell, from the New York Metropolitan Federal Male Assessment Center.

It's not that Justin was attached to Trantwell. He was not. Justin knew within a week of working for the man that he was an unfit Third Beta. Fat, drunk, slovenly. He had lost his masculinity, and Assessments was going be able to tell. They were never wrong. Justin would not be surprised if the doctor ended up a B9 himself.

Justin, quite selfishly, but not unreasonably, was worried about his own future. Where would he go when Trantwell lost his rank? He had become comfortable in New York, and enjoyed the companionship of the other floor boys. The work was easy. All he did was clean the apartment and run occasional shopping errands. He rarely even have to cook, as Trantwell hardly ate anything other than greasy takeout. Justin could be reassigned anywhere after the doctor's reassessment.

And there was something else.

Justin heard a light tap at the service door.

THAT something else.

...

HB2 Colin Starnes had walked nearly twelve blocks with a raging erection. While society taught heterosexual men not to be embarrassed by such things, etiquette dictated homosexuals be more reticent about it. He was too horny to care. He had to see his boy.

The door opened and there he was, his tanned, lithe, smooth, wisp of a boy. And well, well, well: the gift was already unwrapped.

Without a word, Colin grabbed Justin's hand and led the boy still naked boy through the hall, up the back stairs to the seventh floor and into a custodian's closet. The 42-year-old, 6'4", 250-pound man lifted up the lad half his age and weight and laid him across an old folding table. Right at cock height.

Colin was a muscular man, with pale skin and dark brown hair. He had a thick, well-groomed moustache (a privilege of the upper ranks) over his plump moist lips. His heterochromic eyes were a bright hazel on the left and a deep chocolate brown on the right. Just like Justin, Colin had a large pink 'H' tattooed on throat, courtesy of Uncle Sam. He didn't have much in the way of upper body hair, but his legs were quite furry and his 6", wrist-thick cock was crowned by a dense thicket of pubic hair that trailed up to his navel.

Colin pulled Justin so his ass was just a bit off the edge of the table and dropped to his knees. He dove in and gave the young servant a deep French kiss on the anus. Justin's wonderfully reactive and lively bright pink hole almost seemed to kiss him right back. After a bit of a makeout session down there, Colin moved up and took Justin's tight testicles and soft cock into his mouth and sucked deeply. Justin groaned and the muscles of his legs spasmed a little. He moved up and tasted the delicious saltiness of Justin's stomach and navel before reaching his perky boy tits. He took one deep in his mouth and tweaked the other with his fingers.

Justin, for his part, was in ecstasy. Less than two weeks ago he had been a virgin. And though it was his fourth time now, he still felt that first-time electricity. He felt Colin leave his nipples behind and start to nibble on his neck (careful not to leave a mark), before kissing him deeply and thirstily like a long-distance runner given cold water at the finish line.

But it wasn't the finish line. Colin stripped off his expensive wool sweater and professionally pressed pants, and draped them over the handle of an ancient vacuum cleaner, followed by his silken boxers. He positioned himself between Justin's legs and began playfully smacking Justin's cock and balls with his own cock. It was a little boost to his ego and a big boost to his arousal that just his cockhead alone was the same than Justin's entire set of genitals.

Colin reached up on the shelf above and found the bottle of avocado oil Justin has stashed there. He greased himself and the lad generously. Even when raging erect, Colin's cockhead remained cocooned in his generous doughy foreskin (also a privilege of the upper ranks). Just the very tip peeked out, and he placed that tip against Justin's novice hole.

And gentle.

Slow.

Easy.

"AAAAh."

"You ok, boy?"

"Yeah yeah, don't stop."

Slow.

Slow.

"Ooh fuck oh God"

"Almost there, baby, just relax and breathe."

And POP, there it is.

"Ok?"

"Yuh huh"

His fat glans had breached Justin's pucker, and he began to drive his shaft in. And in. And in.

And out.

And in.

Justin put his fist in his mouth and dug his teeth in to keep from squealing and moaning too loud, in case anyone out there should hear. Colin fucked Justin slow and gentle and tender while Justin's hole gradually adjusted to being stretched out around his girthy cucumber cock. Colin's pale, white skin began to glisten in the hot, unventilated closet.

It took inexperienced Justin a few minutes, but pain slowly melted to pleasure and his whole body relaxed. That was the moment Colin was waiting for. He drove harder and faster and deeper and deeper. As Justin's body became relaxed and pliant, Colin started pounding him out rough and hard to tenderize him further. Colin went from glistening to dripping and his mismatched eyes were rolling back into their sockets. He put Justin's ankles up on his shoulder and reared up on his toes, rutting like a wild stallion until a gush of pearly semen spilled out from Justin's soft gumdrop penis.

"UUUhhhhnnnnn"

He leaned in and kissed Justin tenderly and licked the sweat from his brow. Colin began to pump slower and longer strokes until he felt the ecstatic spasms of his own orgasm and inseminated the boy good and deep.

Colin collapsed on top of Justin, and the two lay on a table with a sticker on the leg reading "MAX WT: 80 LB." Justin was on cloud nine with no worries in the world as Colin nuzzed and cuddled and massaged him.

But in time the worries began to creep back in.

If there was one point they drove home harder and more frequently than any other in the six-week domestic servant course he took, it was that you NEVER discuss private matters of your employer with outsiders.

But Justin was developing feelings for Colin and he sensed Colin was developing feelings for him. The man has a raging libido that made his interest seem purely sexual, but there was a tenderness and genuine affection and care under that. He was going to break rule #1 of a servie.

"Colin, I told you I was here for six more years, it might not be true."

"What? is Doc getting rid of you?"

"Not exactly. He's... he's up for a reassess. He's not gonna make it."

"You so sure about that?"

"He's a B3, and he's too fat to even be a B7. He drinks all day. He's down to teaching just one semester a year. He spends the rest of his time watching TV and..." Justin decided not to mention internet archive disc.

"He might just get sent to fitness camp," Colin tried to sound reassuring, but he was worried too. He had never formally met Dr. Trantwell, but he had bumped into his downstairs neighbor a few times and the man was definitely not a B3 any more.

Colin felt something deep and burning that was not generally familiar to an HB2. He felt fear. He felt fear, he was realizing, because he loved Justin. He loved the hell out him.

There were other complications, obviously.

Justin was 19, but he was not legally an adult until his term of indenturement was over at 25. Which meant that legally he could not consent to being with Colin -- sexually, romantically, or otherwise. He just couldn't see a way through it.

...

Dr. Trantwell was passed out and had pissed the bed, his antique porn still playing. On the screen, two young ladies, known in the 1990s as RaMoana Highcliffe and Szechuan Spice, were frolicking in a jacuzzi between bouts of cunnilingus.

Today, Szechuan Spice was known as Carol-Anna Chung. She was the highly respected 'Venerated-Among-the-Obedient' widow of a Marine Corps officer, mother of an Alpha and a First Beta, grandmother of two Alphas and a First Beta, and her eldest great-grandson had just made B1. The former Sunday school teacher; pillar of the Galveston, Texas community; and star of 68 adult films was turning 103 this year.

He began the process of stripping the bed, Donovan Trantwell still in it. Rolling the doctor this way and that, he managed to get the sheets off. He placed the soiled bedding outside the service door.

Now for the hard part. Justin might look a bit thin and delicate for his age, but he was stronger than appearances would indicate. Since his POMA, his pecs and biceps had started to fill out and his once soft belly had firmed, revealing the faint outline of abs in the right light. He would never be super muscular, but he was not a weakling.

He spun the unconscious Dr. Trantwell around, and put his arms through the man's armpits. It took some effort, but he managed to drag the man out of bed and across the hall to the bathroom. He stripped the man nude and deposited his clothes in the back hall with the bedding.

"Computer, laundry pickup."

Justin rolled an ottoman from the living room to the bathroom and using it as a sort of transfer gurney, he took all his strength and got Trantwell up off the floor and into the tub. He turned on the cold water and sat on the ottoman.

This was not Justin's first rodeo.

Trantwell's eyes started to stir and looked around confused.

"Sir, you just had a little accident and we're getting you all cleaned up." He did not speak as a servant does to a Third Beta. He spoke as a nanny does to a small child.

Trantwell was pitiable. He needed help. More help than Justin was able to provide. Trantwell's mother had tried for a time. During Justin's time here she had got him into a very exclusive rehab program, and coming home he seemed changed for the better -- but the change was short-lived. Then she got him into an outpatient program that produced no results. Goody Trantwell washed her hands of it. She had not been by in months.

"Don't you give a fuck, Sir? Don't you give a single fuck? You're gonna go to reassessment, and they're gonna put you in rehab and then fitness camp and then assess again. Even if they don't knock you all the way down, you're not gonna be a B3 any more. And then they're gonna reassess you a year after that and if you've slipped back there's no second chance again. You'll be a ninth, maybe tenth."

Justin's summary of the situation was fairly accurate. Assessments would be able to track his drinking patterns over the past several months and they would determine if he needed rehab and fitness camp. This would be followed by another reassessment, and yet another a year after that. That's 24 times around the track. Dr. Trantwell would have to retain a rank of at least B5 to keep his PhD, but even B7 seemed optimistic at this point.

...

To the doctor's credit, he did seem to clean up his act a bit in the past couple of weeks before his reassessment. He quit smoking, he cut back on his drinking. He even attempted some speedwalking.

The day came and Donovan Trantwell donned his red sweatsuit. Assessments had sent him just the right size.

"If I don't see you again, just know I've always been happy to have you around. You're a hard worker. A little mouthy sometimes, but you do what you're told. I submitted your annual performance review to Rehabilitative Labor and it's 100% sat across the board," Trantwell reached out to shake Justin's hand.