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"Y'all take off that little jacket and lay on your belly," the sheriff said, pointing to his bed, where a thick pillow rested in the middle. He hated being fucked regardless, but this was the most painful. In the past, the sheriff had used it for punishment.
Yarrow was panicked at the thought of the pain to be delivered by the sheriff, and searched his mind for what he had done wrong that night. He had complied with the son's every order, and with the sheriff's reminder to offer thanks. He had offered no resistance when the sheriff's hands explored his tight buttocks on the way into the lake house, and didn't talk back when they had explained that he would be required to cater to every whim.
He took the position he had been told, lying spreadeagled on the bed as the sheriff removed his hat and gun belt. He felt the Man's rough hands methodically explore his thighs. As the sheriff massaged his butt, Yarrow arched to receive them, as he had once been taught. He felt the concealed zipper in the back of the breeches being lowered, and the buttons at the back of his briefs being undone.
"Y'all put on some muscle while you were at that military school," the sheriff said, in a low and lust-filled voice. "And y'all grew a little hair. We'll have to take care of that tomorrow. Hair's for Men, not you."
The unseen but familiar hands moved upward to his torso and back, feeling and stroking.
"Oh yeah, little Clifty, y'all are one fine one," the sheriff said. "Real, real fine little fella there."
Yarrow had always been self-conscious of his stature. As a young boy, he had bristled when others belittled and mocked him for his size, and he hated being called "little" anything. It was far worse in a situation like this, where his submission seemed to confirm everything that the taunting and teasing had ever suggested, and more. The sheriff rose and went to the bathroom attached to the room, which was usually occupied by his parents. The prospect of being painfully fucked in his parents' bed increased his humiliation. A cabinet door opened and closed, and the sheriff returned. He felt rough fingers reach inside and spread slippery lotion on his rectum. Then they were inside of him, stretching and readying him.
"Fine, fine little Clifty," the sheriff said. "I'm gonna teach my boy some manners tonight."
He felt sharp pain as the sheriff entered. He knew how big the Man's dick was from before, but a year's absence and his efforts to forget had put the memory far in the back of his mind. Now it came rushing back as his rectum stretched. Yarrow tried to concentrate on relaxing the muscle, but it was little help as the sheriff moved in. Soon, he was pumping deeper and deeper in slow but relentless thrusts, each deeper than the last. He noticed that the pillow he rested on was hard. He felt the scratchiness of the wool blanket through his riding shirt, and tried to focus on it to help distract him from the pain of the sheriff's assault.
The sheriff's full weight was pressed against his back now, and the Man's legs straddled his thighs as the pumping continued. He lay with his head pointed in one direction, and the sheriff's lips were pressed close to the ear that faced the ceiling. He could feel the Man's warm breath, and saw his face out of the corner of his eyes. The sheriff's jaw was set hard, his eyes shining with lust and impunity.
"If y'all think that military college makes you a Man, you better think again," the sheriff said, in a whisper both brutal and seductive. "Y'all come anywhere near my county, you belong to me. And y'all right in the middle of my county for the next two and a half months, little Clifty."
To emphasize the point, the sheriff grasped Yarrow's face, his thumb on one cheek and his fingers on the other, his palm a couple of inches from his mouth.
"Am I makin' myself understood?" he said, adding a thrust deeper inside.
"Yes sir," Clifton replied, groaning.
"I don't know what y'all think that military school will do for you, but in this house there's two Men," he said. "And y'all will call both of those Men 'sir,' you hear?"
"Yes, sir," he gasped.
"And y'all gonna keep your nose out of the air when you do it," the sheriff said. "Y'all are gonna lose that high and mighty attitude, or I swear this will be the easiest fuckin' y'all gonna get all summer."
"Yes sir," Clifton said.
The screwing was now slow and deep, the pain almost unbearable. The sheriff let go of the boy's jaw and laid his hand flat on the mattress next to his mouth. He withdrew for a short while to let Yarrow catch his breath, and to give his rectum a rest.
"That's a boy," he sheriff said, his voice a whisper with a hint of a certain sort of affection. Then he was back inside, but it was easier.
"Now y'all just lick my hand, little Clifty," the sheriff whispered, his lips brushing against his ear as he pumped gently. Yarrow hesitated at the unfamiliar command, and the sheriff encouraged him. "Come on, little fella, y'all just lick the Man's hand."
He obeyed, and moved his tongue slowly onto the back of the sheriff's hand, feeling the veins and the hair.
"Now that's a boy, good little Clifty boy," the sheriff said, his voice tenderly mocking the subjugated cadet writhing beneath him. Before long, the licking was matching the sheriff's rhythm, and Yarrow could feel the stiff member stimulating his insides. His submission was absolute, the humiliation complete.
"That's right," the sheriff said, breathing heavily now. "Now little Clifty's learnin' his good manners, ain't he?"
"Yes sir," he replied, softly. As he kept on licking the Man's hand, Yarrow noticed tiny details: the crisply starched shirt cuff, the way the sheriff had clipped his nails, the length and thickness of his fingers.
"That's right," the sheriff whispered over and over as his speed and depth increased. Yarrow was breathing harder too, and licking faster. Finally, as if all at once, the sheriff groaned and thrust all the way in. Yarrow's pain and stimulation mixed, and he felt his insides turn to jelly and liquid being forced out of his penis. At last, it was over, but the sheriff didn't withdraw or move, laying on top of him and breathing.
"Hey Caleb, I just wanted to tell y'all to have a great trip, especially to Covington," he heard himself saying. As ordered by the sheriff, Clifton had called his family early on the morning after the dinner at the country club to smooth things over and erase the last night's rudeness to everyone. As the sheriff stood listening on the other line in the living room, he had thanked his father for the summer arrangements, including the job at the jail, and assured his mother that he would stay away from the local girls and attend church every Sunday.
And then he'd asked if he could talk to his younger brother. That was the most humiliating part of the call; he knew that Caleb had regarded him as a phony throughout high school, and that the looks he got at last night's dinner made clear that the opinion had only strengthened. But here he was, kowtowing to his younger brother, inwardly cringing at he did so.
"Thanks, brother Clifton!" he heard Caleb say. "I'm sure I'll like it. Our daddy's told me that they make a Man out of everyone who comes in, and that sergeants are Men among Men," his brother said, his tone one of mocking nearly to the point of ridicule. "You must be a big Man there!"
"Caleb, I got plenty to live up to in the Manhood department before I can be anything like that," he replied to his brother's teasing. "But you'll do great. When you get there, just stand up straight and call everyone y'all meet 'Sir' and don't give anyone cause to have doubts."
The call was finally finished.
"Y'all did mighty good there, Clifty," he heard the sheriff say, as he hung up the extension and walked toward the kitchen. "Caleb's a fine young Man, and he'll be a credit to that military school."
"Thank you, sir, and I'm sure he will be," he said, working hard to conceal the sinking feeling in his gut. "I'm glad y'all had me make the call. I was out of line last night, sir."
To the unknowing outsider, Southern manners were impeccable, and in fact served to smooth over the rougher edges of daily life under a courtly gloss, casting a pleasant glow over everyday interactions. Yet, to those born and raised in the Arkansas where Clifton Yarrow was reared, those same manners were a double-edged sword, establishing and enforcing a hierarchy as intricate and oppressive as anything in feudal Japan or Europe. Having benefited from that code all his life, Yarrow was now brutally aware of how the sheriff and his son were using it to reduce and humiliate him at every moment.
It went without saying that blacks were at the bottom. A Negro adult –- and in Arkansas, the word "Negro" was rarely heard –- could never contradict let alone dispute a white person of any age. Grown black males, no matter what their abilities, experience, or station, were required by custom to remove their hat in the presence of a white adult. If meeting on the street, a black pedestrian of either sex would step off the sidewalk and wait for the white Man or woman to pass. Yet whites were constrained as well, required to avoid direct humiliation or harassment of blacks who followed the rules, as they always did.
There was less varnish among the whites themselves. A lower-status white Man, like a mechanic or a laborer in one of the town's lumber mills, called white Men of higher station 'sir,' while being addressed by their first names just as blacks were. Upper-class whites often addressed them brusquely, expecting deference, good cheer, and compliance, with even the slightest accommodation greeted with a patronizing and exaggerated appreciation as if to express surprise that an inferior could comprehend a simple request.
Whites of equal station could be brutally candid with each other, so long as it was out of the earshot of polite society. Children were required to defer to all adults, and lower-status children deferred to upper-status ones, as did whites in service occupations. Clifton had deftly taken advantage of these and similar customs to avoid sanction for his deviousness in high school. As long as he stayed away from his tormentors, he could adopt a privileged insolence, and in fact was expected to on account of his father's high military rank and family status.
Yarrow had looked forward to his return that summer, expecting to bask in the privileges he had grown up with. Indeed, before his parents dropped their devastating bombshell, he had gladly accepted the status that accrued to him, and which had been accentuated by his attendance at the military academy. But all of it had crashed around his ears the night before, and lay in tatters now. He was vividly aware of the markers, an especially humiliating example being how his younger brother had acted both the night before and on the telephone.
In the code that was part of Yarrow's very marrow, his brother should have worshipped him from the minute he returned from the military academy rather than barely acknowledging his presence. At the country club, he should have been fawning all over him, not ignoring his presence at first while talking to the sheriff's son. Caleb's barely concealed smirks at the dinner table were disdainful and disrespectful, and his brother's use of his formal name –- Clifton –- rather than the more adult "Cliff" used by everyone else he'd met on his return, was almost a spit in the face.
Worse even than what the sheriff had done the night before was his instruction the next morning to make amends. To twist the knife further, the sheriff had told Clifton to politely contradict anyone who called him a Man, even his own brother. To top it off, that morning the sheriff had told him to deal with him and his son in the way that the country club staff treated its members. Think of the waiter last night, the sheriff had said. Those were the "manners" he'd be expected to display while back home, and it was completely humiliating.
The country club's obsequious young white waiters were picked carefully. They were "cracker" youths, paid quite handsomely by local standards. Many had emerged with a recommendation to a state college and enough money to attend. Impeccably groomed, they were expected to eagerly carter to the slightest whim of any member or guest with a smile. When not serving diners they worked as golf caddies, swimming pool attendants, car valets, and groundskeepers. Anything less than pure servility was punished by abrupt dismissal, while good behavior received exaggerated praise.
The country club servants were boyishly handsome males on the brink of virility, yet while on duty it was as if their Manhood was locked safely away in the local bank vault. They were treated as children and expected to behave as such, but without the release of play time. Even an off-premises misstep could rate a dismissal. The country club's squeaky-clean image had to be maintained at all times. For the young servants it was an opportunity of a lifetime, but came at the cost of bowing and scraping not just to members of the club, but to children and wives and friends. As a result, they were widely sneered at by their jealous peers around town, excluded from the social strata of their birth.
Perhaps the worst aspect was that none of the rules were open to discussion, much less dispute. These were "southern manners," and in the exaggerated form expressed by the country club servants, they harkened back to a much earlier time. Black people could no longer be enslaved, but young white country club employees could be counted on to perform a credible imitation.
Everyone rose early. The sheriff needed to be at the jail by 7 a.m., and his son was due by 10. There was breakfast to make and eat, and a patrol car to be washed.
"Okay, so let's get 'er done, Clifton," the sheriff's son ordered. "You take the front and I'll take the back, and then we'll work on the roof."
They scrubbed furiously, and a half-hour later they were finished.
"Now you take the roof and the lights up top, and I'll dry 'er off and start waxin' it," he said. Another half hour passed, and the car's sides and hood were waxed, and the top washed and dried. By 8:30, the car was gleaming and the two of them were drenched in sweat.
"Good job, Clifton!" the sheriff's son declared. "Y'all finish up while I get cleaned up and suited up."
"Yes sir!" Yarrow said, authentically astonished and grateful for the help. The young Man disappeared, and Clifton finished, wiping small bits of wax away, imagining that maybe things wouldn't be as bad as he had feared. Another half-hour later, his old classmate stood by the car.
"This is good for the rush job it was," he said. "Y'all will have more time for the truck, so you can be more careful with that."
Without casting any blame, the young Man pointed out flaws in the job. There were bugs still clinging to chrome, some smudges on the windows where wax hadn't been completely removed. The car's tires hadn't been cleaned, and gravel was embedded in the treads.
"All that's got to be perfect on the truck," he said. "Time to shower off, then we go up to the cabin and I'll show you more."
Clifton had worn a set of loose coveralls and tennis shoes from the country club while working on the truck, while Zeke had been clad only in a pair of cutoff military fatigues and a pair of combat boots handed down by his father, the sheriff, who had served in the world war with Clifton's father. Yarrow had been unable to ignore his former's classmate's body. He had grown a couple inches and gained at least 25 pounds of muscle, straining the fabric of the shorts. Hair had spread across his chest, and downward from his navel.
There was an outdoor shower next to the garage where they had worked on the car, and as they stood together under the twin streams, Yarrow inwardly compared Zeke's robust Manhood to his scrawny and nearly hairless body. Other than faint wisps of hair near his nipples and in his armpits, and on his pubic bone, he was naked as a baby. His face was more cute than handsome, more that of a high school boy than a military Man. In bare feet, the young deputy stood seven or eight inches taller than he did.
The worst news was lower down. In the cool sprinkle of the shower, Clifton's penis was barely two inches long, his hairless balls barely the size of peach pits. Zeke's equipment was surrounded by lush hair, his flaccid penis thick and five or more inches long, his scrotum tight and approaching the size of a fist.
Zeke caught Clifton looking, and smiled.
"Pa told me to remind y'all to take off your hair between your neck and your ankles except for your arms," he said, with a crooked grin. "Look on the bright side of it, Clifty. At least y'all won't be spendin' too much time at it, will ya?"
"No sir," he replied quietly. "I won't, sir."
As they entered the house, Zeke naked except for his boots and Clifton back in coveralls and carrying the deputy's shorts to be laundered later on, Yarrow heard the grandfather clock in the living room strike the hour. It was 9 a.m., and he had already been hard at work.
"Follow me," the deputy said, as he moved back toward the part of the cabin that contained two bedrooms. Normally, one was for his brother and one for him, but now one was occupied by Zeke and the other was his, although he had yet to spend a night there. His suitcase remained on the bed, visible through the open door.
"In here," Zeke said, pointing him to a low stool at the edge of the bed in the room that the deputy was using. "Sit on down there."
He sat down, watching as the deputy dressed, first putting on a pair of tight boxer shorts, then a white crew-neck t-shirt, then his light blue, short-sleeved uniform shirt, then his light gray trousers with the black stripe up the side. He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on his boots, and then stood up to tuck everything in. He continued the ritual by adding a Sam Browne belt with a strap over the shoulder, like a knight donning his armor, and finished by standing in front of a long mirror to check himself.
Clifton, seated on his low stool, was stunned by the transformation. His former classmate's thighs pressed tightly against the fabric of his uniform trousers, and his shirt strained to accommodate his muscles. An erection jutted sideways, outlined in the morning light. At last, he moved into position, towering over Yarrow.
"Look me in the eye, little Clifty," he said. The boy looked upward and saw a deputy who was everything he wasn't, and it took his breath away as the young deputy moved toward him.
"Warm me up there," Zeke said, in a deep yet gentle voice that mixed the weight of authority with condescension, pity, and humiliation. He could feel the deputy's hand massaging his head, and he thrilled as he puffed his breath through the cloth into the young Man's balls.
In silence, the young deputy began to grind himself gently yet firmly into Yarrow's upturned face, locking eyes all the while. Clifton was aware of the Man's stone hard erection, but knew he dare not attend to it unless instructed to. Zeke stepped back, and inserted his thumb into the boy's mouth.
"Look me in the eyes and keep your mouth wide open," he said. When Clifton obeyed, the young deputy let a mouthful of spit fall downward.
"Now y'all swallow that," he said, as he drew the zipper of his fly downward, reached inside, and fished his erection out. The shaft protruded straight out from his trousers, a mushroom head purple, and the piss slit slick with precum.
"Stick your tongue out as far down toward your chin as it'll go," he said. "And keep your eyes on mine."
The young deputy smiled as he rubbed the glistening end of his stiffness on the end of the boy's tongue, coating it with his thick fluid. He worked backwards, coating more and more of it, mixing his precum with Clifton's spit.
"Y'all don't want to be droolin' on the floor, so ya better do some swallowin' now," the Man said gently, a confident smile on his face. Clifton swallowed, and opened his mouth again. The deputy did what he'd done before, but this time wiped the boy's upper lip with a thick, heavy mixture of spit and cum before having him swallow again. While his mouth was closed, Zeke wiped the same mixture onto the boy's chin. Clifton could smell the sweet salty fluid.
When he opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue again, the young deputy put his stiff dick far inside Clifton's mouth.
"Close your mouth around it, little Clifty," he said, repeating the instruction to keep looking up. The boy did so, and found that he was in awkward position, his mouth straining while his eyes remained locked on the deputy's. That's how Zeke wanted it, and he smiled at Clifton as he slowly moved his hips in and out, causing his dick to screw the boy's throat.
"Not too tight, Clifty," he said at one point when he felt his hardon scrape against the boy's teeth. "Just relax yourself and keep on lookin' me in the eye."
Of course, the deputy knew there was nothing remotely relaxing for Clifton, whose lips and jaw were stretched by the requirement to look up. Minutes went by as he built a rhythm, moving in and out, smiling warmly into the boy's eyes while stroking one side of his face with his hand.
As he strained to look upward while the deputy pumped his mouth, it dawned on Clifton how different it seemed from barely a year earlier, and before, when Zeke and others had had their way with him. No longer was Zeke the gangly, casual hick-town bully who victimized him just for the hell of it. He had changed, physically and otherwise.
Zeke towered above in his crisp uniform. His manner had changed even more. His bullying had changed into a calm, firm, confident authority. The deputy seemed to know just who he was and where he belonged. As the stiffness invaded his mouth, Clifton was barraged with thoughts. Yet everything seemed much clearer than it had ever seemed. He realized that he was seated in front of a Man, and that what this Man was doing was part of a natural order of things.
"There ya'll go, little Clifty," he said. "Ya keep yer little mouth nice 'n snug. Good little boy, do as yer told now."
As it went on, Clifton began to feel a buzzing between his legs. He recognized it as the beginning of an erection, but he somehow also knew that he was not queer for the deputy. He wouldn't have chosen to be where he sat, nor would he have ever sought it out. Yet he felt a deep kind of satisfaction that came from a desire to serve the kind of Man that he knew he wasn't. Zeke was strong, and he was weak. Zeke was big and he was small. Zeke exuded confidence and authority, and he felt empty and without substance. The deputy's smile, and his own straining to satisfy the Man standing confidently above him in his crisp uniform was humiliating to the core. He ought to hate it, he thought, but it seemed to make perfect sense. It made him begin to feel whole, as if he might have a place.
He was sucking this Man's stiff dick without being forced to, and his own dick was getting hard. He could never explain how that was different than what queers did. But to him, it was a matter of service that someone like him would need to provide to a Man who deserved to have every need met. All of these thoughts seem to come together in an instant.
Then it hit him: His mouth felt like a pussy. The deputy was using his mouth exactly that way. His lips and throat were entirely passive, and he could hear the same sort of squeaking of fluids – his being the mixture of his saliva and and the deputy's precum that he had found a way to slurp and swallow to prevent him from drooling on the floor while his mouth was being screwed. It was a sound that he recognized from the few times he'd been with girls. So is that he was now, a girl? As if to answer his question, the deputy spoke firmly, softly, seductively.
"That's right, Clifty boy," he said, as he kept pumping. "Y'all do a boy's job now. Good little boy, do as he's told."
The words he had always hated struck him very differently as he looked upward. He felt his throat filling up, and he began swallowing, but the deputy quickly withdrew himself. Gobs of cum began hitting his head, and his face. Zeke ran his hand through his hair, coating it with the thick fluid, and aimed a final spasm into his open mouth. Then the deputy used his fingers to sweep the cum from his face into his mouth.
"Now lick that off my fingers, little Clifty," he said. When he was done, the deputy squeezed the last bit of cum out of his dickhead and smeared it across his upper lip so he could smell it.
"Y'all leave it there," he said, his voice a gentle taunt and his smile a conquest. Clifton, still looking up, could begin to feel the cum in his hair begin to dry as the deputy brushed it into his flattop. Finally, they were done. Clifton was relieved to be able to get up from his awkward position. He remembered what he'd been told before.
"Thank you, sir," he said, really meaning it. "I hope I did a good job for y'all, sir."
Zeke smiled, and led Yarrow into the hallway.
"Okay, Clifty, I'm gonna need to get goin' now," he said, "but I've got to show you what you'll need to be doing around here today."
He was to start by gathering up all the laundry and putting it in the washing machine. While the clothes were being laundered, he was to make the beds, wipe down the bathrooms, make sure toilets were cleaned, wipe down the kitchen, and sweep the floor. Then put the clothes in the dryer and finish cleaning, and set the dining room table for that night's dinner.
"You're responsible for keepin' our uniforms in top shape, including ironin' and starchin' the shirts," the deputy said. "I figure the military school showed y'all how to keep a crease. Think y'all can do that?"
"Yes sir!" he replied, enthusiastically, his eyes bright.
"I'm workin' a short shift today. Be back at 3, and will be sleepin' until 7:30. Then I go in at 10. So I want y'all to get all your inside work done before I get back," he said. "Mavis will drop off dinner at 7. Be done with the truck by then so y'all can meet her. Keep dinner in the oven warmed until the sheriff gets back at 8 and we eat. Got that?"
"Yes sir!" he said.
"You'll have from 7 to 8 to rest up and clean up," the deputy continued. "Remember about shavin' yourself, and Pa said he wants you to clean out your insides at the end of every day with the enema in your parents' bathroom. Be in your waiter clothes at 8 when he gets back."
"Sir, would you like it if I folded your laundry and put it away?" he asked. "Should I wake you at 7:30, sir?"
"That'd be real kind of you," the young Man said, with a smile. "There's sandwiches in the refrigerator for you."
"Thank you sir!" Clifton replied. "Plenty to do, but I'll get it all done."
"And y'all ain't to be driving your daddy's truck anywhere except a few feet to clean the tires all the way around," the deputy said, without any hostility. "Keys are on my bedstand, but only move it for the cleanin', ya hear? Truck's for me."
"Yes, sir!" Yarrow replied, as his former classmate, now deputy, turned and walked toward the door. He opened it to leave, but paused.
"One more thing, Clifty boy," he said, with a smile. "I wouldn't want y'all squirtin' that little gun of yours while I'm out. Men here will tell ya when you're allowed that. Hear?"
"Yes sir," he replied, wondering how the deputy knew he might want to.
"Son, we'll head out to the porch while you suit up," the sheriff said. "That way, you'll be ready to go straight in when the time comes."
The younger Man disappeared, and the sheriff, his bourbon in hand, led the way. The drug that the sheriff had slipped into Clifton's milk at dinner had taken effect, and he felt relaxed as they stepped onto the porch. He recognized the wicker chairs and the screens, and saw the familiar lanterns on the table tops when the sheriff flicked on the light. The sleeping cots were off in a corner, folded up and ready to lay out once the weather got hotter. There was the elaborate shoe shine stand, which had stood inside the main house during colder weather and on the porch during the summer and into the early autumn. As a child, he had earned his allowance shining his father's shoes while the older Man had sat in the chair, reading the newspaper. The surroundings were comforting, evoking warm memories of times gone past.
Tonight was ideal, with a warm, light breeze. While the sheriff spread out in one of the wicker chairs, Clifton moved to the lamps and lit them, and then switched off the overhead lamp. He felt loose and agreeable, glad to be in the older Man's presence. When the sheriff motioned him to sit on a cushion on the floor between his legs, he was happy to be there. The Man's touch on his scalp felt good, his kind tone reassuring.
"Zeke tells me y'all did a real good job on the truck," he said, conveying the benevolent yet absolute authority of a master over a favored house slave, and with it the expectation of a groveling appreciation for the praise he had delivered. Yarrow recognized his humiliation, yet was somehow neither resentful nor afraid. "Y'all did just the way we were lookin' for at dinner too."
The sheriff's hands massaged the muscles between his shoulders and neck, and Clifton felt the hint of an erection stirring.
"Thank you, sir," he said. "I'm glad y'all are satisfied, sir."
"Now did y'all do everything he asked of you?" the sheriff asked, gently. "You know, the shavin' and the cleanin' that I asked for?"
"Yes sir, I did, sir," he answered.
"That's good," the Man replied. "Now, y'all make sure to clean yourself inside and out every day before dinner, and keep all that hair off. Hear?"
"Yes sir," Clifton said. "I sure will, sir."
"And you keep your clothes sharp, and our uniforms and shoes and boots shined and sharp," he added.
"Yes sir, I'll do that, sir," he said.
The light breeze blew sweet air through the porch at a lazy pace, and Yarrow's relaxation deepened. He was alert, but the rush and the tension of the day had dissipated. The sheriff's legs were spread, and the Man gently guided him to change his position until he was sitting sideways, with the back of his head resting against one of the sheriff's muscular thighs. He felt the sheriff stroke his head in a regular, hypnotic motion, with his fingers occasionally stroking the ear closest to the Man's knee.
They sat wordlessly, and time seemed to stand still. He felt confused in a way, knowing that he was doing what he had always resisted and even hated, yet now felt powerless to stop his desire for it. He felt profoundly at ease and comfortable with his subordinate position, and with the older, powerful Man's touch that seemed to reach deep inside and connect to a kind of longing that he had never felt. This wasn't at all like it had been the previous night, or the times he had been assaulted before leaving for the military academy. He belonged to the Man who was doing this, and he wanted to.
The sheriff lifted his other hand from where it had been resting on his other thigh put the back of it up against Yarrow's lips. He began to lick it like he'd done unwillingly the night before, but now with increasing comfort and growing lust.
After a while, the Man turned his hand and gently parted the boy's lips with his fingers and put them in his mouth. He pressed down and moved them on Yarrow's tongue. It was a touch of ownership, and then he combined it with his thumb under the boy's chin to tilt his head upward until their eyes met. The sheriff kept moving his fingers, causing Yarrow to keeping licking and sucking them. With his other hand, the Man kept stroking the seated boy's head, and tugging gently at his ear.
"That's right, Clifty," he said, in a smooth voice. "This is where y'all belong."
At last, the sheriff took his fingers out of the boy's mouth, curled his hand into a ball, and held the fist in front of the boy's lips.
"Now lick my balls there, Clifty," he gently ordered. Yarrow complied by licking the fist while still looking up into the Man's eyes. After a few minutes, the sheriff slowly stretched his two middle fingers skyward and took his hand off of the boy's head to guide it to his mouth.
"Show me how you treat a Man's stiff pecker, little fella," the sheriff said. The boy did so, and the sheriff gave gentle orders to suck harder while using his tongue on his fingertips while the sheriff moved them deeper and then shallower in his mouth.
"That's right, Clifty boy," he said, smiling downward into the boy's eyes that were locked on his and returning his free hand to the stroking of Yarrow's head. This continued for a while, and then Zeke walked into the room and a look of fear crossed Yarrow's face.
"Don't y'all worry," the sheriff said, reassuringly. "You're just showin' me what y'all been doin' for Zeke."
Zeke walked over and rubbed his shoulder affectionately.
"Y'all doin' real, real good, Clifty," he said, the mockery of the previous night gone from his voice. "Everything's just fine here, little guy. No one but us."
Yarrow sighed.
"Now let's move y'all over to the other chair," the sheriff said at last.
"Y'all want me to shine your boots, sir?" Yarrow asked.
"Got other things to do," the sheriff answered, turning to his son and telling him to unfold the cot. He had Yarrow stand up, and as he did so, he was aware of his erection, and hoped that it wouldn't show within his black waiter's uniform in the dim porch light. He walked him over to the cot, where Zeke stood next to a small duffel bag that he had placed there.
"Now bend over the edge at the corner, Clifty, and don't y'all worry," the sheriff said. "Just gonna put somethin' into ya, before ya sit by the shine stand."
Uncertain, he got onto his knees and lay his stomach on the cot.
"Sir, are ..." he began.
"Not that, Clifty," the sheriff said. He massaged the small of his back. Like the riding breeches, the waiter's uniform was equipped with a well-hidden zipper in back, and his underwear had been swapped with new briefs with buttons in back. The boy felt the clothing being undone, and hands spreading his legs farther apart. The sheriff's hands reached inside, and caressed the skin around his butt, all the way to his hole.
"Y'all done good, Clifty, you took off all your hair just like I wanted," the sheriff said, warmly.
Then he felt something hard and slick being inserted inside of his rectum. He was being stretched wide, but it didn't hurt, and then he felt himself clamp down tightly. The buttons were left open, and so was the zipper. Then he felt the strong arms of the sheriff and his son lift him up. Whatever they had stuck up his asshole had hardened his erection. He was now embracing his submission, basking in his helplessness. He relaxed as they moved him, and when they sat him on the short-legged chair at the base of the stand he was like jelly in their hands.
"We can't have y'all fallin' over," Zeke said, as he used rope to bind Yarrow's arms to the chair. "What's up your back side makes it necessary to get you all in tight here."
He felt reassured as the sheriff's son moved a thick leather strap across his lap, and cinched it tight, pulling his hips were pulled downward and forcing the plug in tight. Another strap across his lower abdomen kept his back tight against the chair, keeping his posture straight. His ankles were secured to the chair's stubby back legs, forcing his legs apart. He couldn't move an inch.
"There y'all go, Clifty," the sheriff's son said. "Nice 'n tight here, just like it ought to be."