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TEXAS 1956 Vol. 1 – Chapter 13
The hulking granite structure had a turret in each corner, and there were accommodations at the top. The rooms were isolated, making this one ideal for what would be happening between Hank, Dirk, and Clay.
Hank's strength, in the academy's eyes, was his presence: his size, his looks, his athletic achievement, his swagger. Dirk was a fighter and a natural leader of rough infantry soldiers. Clay was quiet, serious, and intelligent. To maintain the arrangement, Clay's subservience would need to be smooth and orderly.
But it also needed to be thorough and constant. Oddly enough, that was aided by something always present at the academy, the horniness and isolation of the cadets. They usually entered at the age of 18, and the rigor of the program didn't leave much room for socializing. The girls in town were widely considered scheming Man-traps, a belief not without justification, reinforced by abundant warnings from the Commandant, other administrators, and upper classmen.
Sexual frustration was rampant, and one result was plenty of banter about who might be queer. For most of the cadets at Clinton Academy, it was nothing more than a goof, and given little thought. The light-hearted mocking of a danger that would mean certain social death, and maybe worse, provided the humor. What lay behind the joke was of interest only to the cadets who actually desired other cadets, and to those others who might want to catch them and exploit their secret.
The rules were unwritten, but everyone knew them: If a male serviced another one, only the one doing the servicing was queer, unless they serviced each other, in which case they were both queers. If force or intimidation were used, the victim was queer for having been too weak – which meant that he'd better not let it be known. To the extent that the subject was mentioned apart from the joking, suspected queers were quickly scorned.
This left plenty of room for joking, some of it outrageous, and for displays that bordered on lewd, such as the widespread tendency of cadets to wear their uniforms so tight that it was clear which side of their body their dick hung on and how large it was. Over time, cadets wound up in cliques that tended to correspond to their attractiveness, with "studly" cliques on top.
All of it rested on the assumption that no one was actually queer. In a Texas military academy in 1956, the reality was too shameful to discuss in any serious way. Joking was fine, but actual homosexuality triggered shame, ridicule, and expulsion, along with letting a disgraced cadet's family know the reason. It was impossible to overestimate how powerful a deterrent this was, nor how equally powerful it was as a cover.
In the case of Clay and his roommates, the incident with the deputies, and the photographs from Three-Finger Buck's place, made sure that the lid could be secured as tightly as Dirk and Hank pleased. They both liked it screwed on plenty tight. Just how tight was something Clayton Thompson would come to learn.
On the night that his roommates lowered the boom, Clay had expected them to attack him like the deputies did. But they left him alone. The next morning, Hank reminded him that he'd be expected to shine their boots, look after their uniforms, make the beds, give him his car keys while keeping the tank full and the vehicle polished, and concentrate only on his studies.
"And remember, no jackin' off and no trollin' for dick," Hank said. "And yer gonna keep them queer eyes to yerself."
"Yes sir," he replied. "I hear, Captain White."
Hank remained "friendly," while Dirk was his usual gruff and standoffish self. But there were no sexual demands or discussion of what had happened with the deputies. His roommates included him in their activities, including the monthly Friday night poker game with other cadets, complete with smuggled-in beer and bourbon. It was if almost nothing had changed, but it was apparent that everything had changed: Clay was their servant, and all three of them knew why.
Hank and Dirk made a point of flaunting their privilege and Clayton's denial, without mentioning it. Their beds were lined up together in the large room, with Clay's in the middle. Before "lights out," the other two would strut inside the room in their tight skivvies, daring him to look while making clear that he'd better not.
One night, Clay heard Hank snoring, and then glanced over toward Dirk and saw him stroking his hard dick in the moonlight that streamed in through the window, absorbed in his thoughts, his eyes closed while breathing heavily. Suddenly, Dirk opened his eyes and stared in Clay's direction, a smirk on his face. He smiled and obscenely crooked his middle finger, beckoning him over to his bedside. Following the gesture, Clay put his ear next to the cadet's lips.
"Get on down there and lick my balls," Dirk whispered.
Clay followed the order and began licking as the cadet stroked his hard-on. The Man's balls were big and tight, and Clay was mesmerized by the task. Soon, his tongue noticed a throbbing, and Dirk was squirting onto his stomach. When the cadet's dick had softened, Clay moved back toward his bed, but Dirk grabbed his wrist and drew his ear back to his lips.
"Lick it off my belly, faggot," Dirk whispered.
Dirk repeated the drill a couple of nights a week, having Clay lick his balls until he came, and then lick the cum off of his belly. The superior cadet would say nothing about it.
"Dirk, just wanted to say somethin' to ya," Hank said, when Clay wasn't present. "We don't call him a queer faggot to his face. He's lickin' yer nuts and lickin' off the squirt, plus he's doin' our boots and shoes, and the racks, and cleanin' the head. Clayton's no dumbshit, so every time he does any a-that, he knows why. The way to sink it in is to not talk about it, and to give him atta-boys when he does the other stuff."
Dirk chuckled and nodded his head in agreement.
"Ya got a talent, bud, that's for sure," he replied.
"We're trainin' a huntin' dog here, and if all ya do is beat on a dog it don't work," Hank said. "Tellin' him what a good job he did is what really nails it in. It's callin' him a queer faggot without actually sayin' it, 'cause he knows why he's doin' this stuff. We talk about that faggot shit to the other guys when he's there, but not straight at him fer now."
"Okey doke, Hank," Dirk said. "Ya got me convinced ya know what yer doing."
The monthly poker games in their turret, always played on a Friday night, featured a regular crew: themselves and three or four other cadet guards. They played for nickels, dimes, and quarters, with anyone's take past $15 going into the pot for beer and cigars for the next game.
This was the second card game since his ordeal with the deputies, but since it had taken a couple of weeks for Hank and Dirk to follow up, it was the first game since they had lower the boom on him.
As usual, the talk was relaxed and went everywhere: the academy and its rules, the Commandant, their futures, the academics, sports, cars, girlfriends, whores, hometowns. At one point, Dirk mentioned that Hank had a cousin on the Adams County Sheriffs Department who was one of a two-Man queer control squad that patrolled parks and highway pullovers. That led to an animated conversation among the cadets.
"Yeah, he knows about most of the queer faggots in the county," Hank said, with a chuckle. "More of 'em than ya think. Got 'em here in the academy too."
Jack Hornsby, a linebacker on the football team who was invited to the game because one of the regulars was sick, growled.
"Hope I never find one, or he better hope I don't," he said. "Faggots are like rattlesnakes. Good one's a dead one. I'd kill 'em for sport, except faggots got no fangs so I'd kill 'em with my bare hands."
"Yeah, and you could do it," Dirk replied with a laugh.
Hornsby was the biggest cadet at the school, standing 6' 4" and weighing 230 pounds. Everything about him was enormous, including the dick and balls that pressed against the crotch of any uniform he ever wore. His fists reminded Clay of catcher's mitts, and he made a mental note to be extra careful around Hornsby.
The game continued, and after a couple more hands, Hank addressed Hornsby's comment.
"My cousin worries about guys like you, Jack," he said, with a laugh.
"He warns faggots to behave themselves. If they's doin' it with kids, he runs 'em outta the county and sometimes worse. But he's been easy on cadets ever since he reported a couple of 'em to the Commandant a few years ago and one of 'em killed himself after getting' thrown out.
"After that Clark Branson got hisself murdered, my cousin's been thinkin' about how to handle cadet queers. He don't want to ruin 'em 'cause they'll be leavin' anyway, but he worries about 'em getting killed by guys like Jack here."
Tom Strayley, one of the guards, brought up Hank's cousin.
"So does that guy get free blowjobs from the queers?" he said, laughing. "I hope so, 'cause I don't know what else they'd be good for."
Hank chuckled.
"He's got a queer who takes care of his house, and washes his truck, his car, his motorcycle and shines his boots. And I think he's got a rich faggot who pays him money every month not to tell his wife," he said.
"He says I'd be better off if I found myself a faggot at the academy because at least I'd know they like dick and do a good job at takin' care of it. They's afraid to tell anyone, and they'll do anything else ya tell 'em to. That's what he said. Sounded like the voice of experience to me, but who knows?"
The game continued, and this time it was Dirk's turn to win more than his limit, with the excess thrown into the bank for the next game's refreshments. By custom, when the game ended, they lounged on the furniture in the room for a while, and this time the chatter returned to the academy's queers.
Strayley, a muscular blond in a Marine military police uniform, wearing a perpetual expression somewhere between a smirk and a mischievous grin, chuckled as he sat on the edge of one of the racks that Clay had made up that morning.
"I guess I'd take the blowjobs and the shined boots," he said, "but he'd have to watch out in case I piss in his throat!"
The comment prompted laughter and groans around the room.
"If I had a personal faggot, he'd make up my rack, shine my shoes and boots, and lick my balls when I felt like it," said Dirk, stretched out on his rack, wearing tight khakis that showed his details. "When I squirted, he'd lick it off my belly and then I'd go to sleep. Jack, think about it, wouldn't you want to have someone who'd do all that stuff for ya?"
Hornsby, sitting in an easy chair, his legs spread wide to show a pronounced bulge in his tight camouflage uniform, laughed and scratched his crotch.
"Got a point there, brother," he said. "I hate shinin' everything. I'd let a queer faggot live if he did that for me, but he'd better keep his queer mouth away from me."
Hank, dressed in the standard academy uniform whose tailoring showed every part of his body to perfection, grinned.
"Damn you guys," he joked. "When my cousin told me about all this, I figured I might have the queer faggot kiss my ass and shine my boots, but y'all are givin' me ideas. How about I have him lick my armpits clean after a workout, suck my dick, and thank me for the chance?"
More laughs echoed through the room.
Billy Ringo, another walking recruiting poster who stood 6' 1" and weighed 180 pounds, with a wide chest, a jet black crewcut, and a five o'clock shadow, favored a tight-fitting Air Force guard uniform: navy blue slacks bloused into mirror-shined black boots, a duty belt with a firearm and a billy club, and a beret.
"So, Clayton, how 'bout you?" he said lightly, sitting in another easy chair, his legs also spread wide. "Would ya let a faggot suck ya off, or are ya savin' that fuckstick fer yer future wife?"
Clay yawned and smiled nervously. He was dressed in his favorite, a snug-fitting Navy dress white uniform.
"Guys, if ya get yourself a personal faggot, at least let him follow yer orders," he answered, avoiding the question. "Let it be yer secret, and have yer fun. I'm sure he'll lick yer balls and suck yer dick and shine yer boots and all the rest. But no need to kill him over it. Makes everyone look bad."
The night was drawing to a close, and Hank added a final thought.
"I can say this much: If I were runnin' a faggot around here, I'd make damn sure he wasn't playin' with his own dick or trollin' around like that Clark Branson did," he said. "Might let him suck on my stiff arm if I was horny enough, but he'd have to keep his queer hand off his queer dick along seein' as how it's what got him in trouble to begin with."
The other cadets nodded in agreement.
"Damn right about that one," Dirk added. "Let the queer turn all that dick juice into takin' care a-me. Ain't that about the size of it, fellas? How 'bout you, Clay? Think some faggot oughta be whackin' off?"
"You can't have queers goin' outta control," Clayton replied. "All I'd say is that if yer personal faggot keeps his hand off his dick and does whatever he's told, he oughtta be able to wake up the next morning."
Strayley laughed at the remark.
"Don't worry, Clayton, you'll survive if ya behave," he said. "No one's gonna kill ya, not even Jack."
"Tom, come on, Clay here's engaged to be married once he's outta here," Dirk said, recalling a long-ago conversation. "Clayton ain't any queer faggot."
When the other cadets had left, Clayton spoke up.
"Captain White, sir, and Lieutenant Mayfield, sir, can I ask something?" he said, tentatively.
"Shoot," Hank replied. "What's up?"
"I wanted to know if the two of you have been satisfied with me, sir," he said. "I'm worried about Sergeant. Hornsby killing me if he finds out about me."
"You been behavin' fine, Clayton," Hank replied, in a fatherly and condescending tone. "Keep yer doin' what yer told and no harm will come."
Dirk chimed in.
"Hornsby? He ain't gonna do nothin' to ya if ya behave," he said. "We'll be sure he never gets close enough to put the hurt on ya, got it?"
"Yes, sir, Lieutenant Mayfield, and thank you Captain White," Clay replied, the relief showing in his voice. "I'm gonna be here until the end of next year, and I want to follow your orders and get out of here alive."
"Just remember about controllin' yerself," Hank said. "Cousin Jake says ya been a regular in the parks and pullouts. Yer damn lucky ya didn't get yerself killed."
The three of them ate lunch together on about half their days, and the routine continued. They were usually joined by Strayley and Ringo, guards and roommates who were regulars at the turret card games, and by a rotating cast of others drawn to the table by Hank's charisma. In his second year at the academy, Clay had started to notice that the guards were the best-looking cadets in the academy.
"Big dicks rule!" one of them had said, and Clay mentally added big chests, strong legs, square jaws, tight uniforms, and flattop crewcuts to the list. As with the card games, the chatter ranged wide, with the Commandant a frequent target. The Man in charge of Clinton Academy was seen by almost all cadets as an erratic jerk – "a five-star asshole," one cadet put it – bordering on lunatic. Clay was especially scornful.
"You'd think he charged up Mt. Suribachi with a knife in his teeth and wiped out all the dang Japs by himself, just before climbing into a plane and dropping the atom bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki," he once said. "Thing is, if he's so great, why didn't he kick MacArthur's ass and win the Korean War all by himself?"
The academy's strict discipline, by itself, wasn't a problem for Clay. It was the Commandant's phoniness, inconsistency, and pettiness that got to him.
"That blowhard is all hat and no cattle," he'd say. "I bet if someone really took a look at his service record, they'd find out that all he did was run liquor a thousand miles behind the lines. Every time he gives us one of those long speeches, I start doing trigonometry in my head."
At one point, privately, Dirk asked Hank if he thought Clay was getting too full of himself at lunch.
"I think Clayton's tellin' us that he wants us to run him as long we ain't bullshitters," Hank replied, with a frown. "He's startin' to beg for it in his own way. But I'll have a talk about it with Cousin Jake anyway."
One day after he had given yet another speech that ripped into the dangers of communist perversion, the Commandant's obsession became a topic of ridicule at lunch.
"I don't know," Strayley joked to Hank, in front of the others, "if you'd bend over this table right now, I'd put the missile in the tube. What do ya say? Should we show the Commandant how the professionals do it? Shit, I bet ya got a tight one there, buddy! Oh yeah!"
Hank laughed and replied, to the laughter of the others within earshot, "How about next Tuesday? I'm booked until then. But you can suck my dick again tomorrow if you want."
When the snickering died down, Hank looked across the table at Clay, and asked him what he thought of the speech. "The Commandant's an asshole, but he's got a point about not wantin' queer faggots around here, don't he?"
"Sure he does, but that communist stuff makes me laugh," Clay replied. "Everyone around here knows I do a lot a reading, and I've read that the communists think the queers are capitalists. Sir, as far as I can ever tell, the average queer faggot just wants a hard dick in his mouth."
Hank chuckled and added, "up his ass too."
"I'm sure they'd have to get used to it," Clay replied. "Part a-bein' a queer, I reckon."
Hank and Dirk noticed that Clay had been calling them them "sir" at the lunch table, off and on. The rank structure at the academy was mostly informal, so those with enlisted ranks weren't required to call cadet officers "sir." But rural cadets comprised at least half of the school's population, and it wasn't unusual for them to drop the word into a conversation. Clay had only started doing it recently, and the three of them knew why.
"Any a-them in this place better behave," Hank said, smiling at Clay.
"Behave themselves is right, sir," Clay replied, firmly. "Not like they can expect to roam around here doin' whatever they want. They don't got to be killed, but they dang well got to be controlled for their own good."
Later, Hank and Clay were back in the turret by themselves, Dirk being at a boxing practice. Hank praised Clay's thoroughness in cleaning the head, and reviewed the finer points of shining boots and shoes. He'd been doing a fine job of shining the uppers to a mirror finish, Hank told him, but he'd been neglecting the edging of the soles, and cleaning the bottoms, and needed to work on that.
"Okay, sir, I'll pay more attention to it," Clay replied.
"Get 'em done by noon on Sunday," Hank said, "After lunch on Sunday, I want ya to take the car over to Richardson's to have 'em check the alignment. I think it's been pullin' to the right. Wash it and wax it while yer there, and fill 'er up."
"Yes sir, Captain White," he replied. "It's been a while since I cleaned it, sir."
"Kurt Wing pretty much runs the joint, and he'll make sure ya do it right. And drive straight back here afterwards," Hank said. "No detours or mischief. We can't have ya roamin' around doin' just anything y'all feel like."
"No sir, you can't," he answered. "I'll come straight back, Captain White."
Hank nodded, and smiled warmly.
"Right back to where yer bein' controlled fer yer own good," he said. "It's what ya need, ain't it?"
"Yes sir, it is."
"We keep ya in yer place."
"Yes sir."
Hank smiled broadly.
"And when ya lick Dirk's balls, get ready to suck on his dick too."
Kurt Wing was a West Texas redneck right out of a movie. An inch taller than Clay, plus five or so years and 10 or so pounds. Brown flat top crewcut, and a twang sharp enough to slice a roast. Handsome in a rough way, not educated but quick-witted. That Sunday, he was dressed in starched work clothes: dark blue pants and a dark blue short-sleeved shirt with his name over the pocket, one of the cuffs rolled to hold a pack of cigarettes.
A year ago, the owner of the gas station and garage, Wes Richardson, decided that his attendants looked too scruffy, and ordered clean shaves, better clothes, and more attention to keeping the place looking good to customers. Business was slowly rising, and Richardson was toying with expansion and extended hours. But for the time being, the garage was closed on Sundays and gas sales stopped at 4 p.m. The air and water hoses were free, and so were tire and oil checks and wiping of windows with a fill. Change would come, but not too quickly.
Clay brought cleaning supplies from the academy, and the wax was already in the glove compartment. He was dressed in green utility coveralls and ready to work. Kurt gave him a friendly greeting and a bucket, and directed him to the side of the building with a water hose.
"Hank White told me y'all would be comin' 'round," Kurt said. "Told me to tell ya to make the inside a-this car as clean as the outside, and to make the outside real clean. I'm gonna be gettin' a few bucks out of it to make sure it's clean, so I'll probably have to be a real sonofabitch. I'll do the alignment once yer finished. Best thing might be to do it in sections, and I'll look at each one as ya go."
Just then a car pulled in for a fill, rolling over the hose that rang the bell to call Kurt. There was a steady flow of business, not leaving much time for the inspections, but they were done. After three hours of hard labor, the car shined inside and out. It was just after 4 p.m. when Clay rolled it around back to where the garage doors were located, while Kurt closed up.
"This'll take an hour or so," he said. "There's beer in the fridge and ya can have some smokes if you want 'em. Ya must be kind tired with how hard ya were workin'. Ya did a dang good job on the car though. Hank's gonna like it."
Kurt explained that he had to kick Clay out of the garage while he did the work, so he'd need to go outside. If anyone came around, tell them the place was closed and the pumps were locked down for the night. Clay took a beer and a few smokes and headed out back, where there was a set of bleachers that Richardson had bought from the local high school when they were replacing the stands next to their football field. Only five rows high, backed up against the wall of the building, it was a minor conversation piece among car repair customers who were often invited to relax there with a beer and a smoke, on the house.
As Clay sat on the top row, drinking his beer and smoking a Camel, he heard the bell ring. A few seconds later he saw a motorcycle pull around back, near where he was sitting. Kurt heard the cycle pull up, and poked his head out of the garage.
"Howdy, deputy!" he called over toward Jake Haskins. "I'm about halfway done. If ya want beer it's in the fridge back here, and there's a pack a smokes on the table. I think there's some cigars too."
Clay looked over, and drank in the deputy as he dismounted his motorcycle. He spread his thick, muscular legs wide to get off, the shine on his tall leather boots reflecting the late afternoon sun. Haskins nodded and smiled in his direction, took off his leather jacket and rested it on the motorcycle, then ambled off to get a couple of beers and a cigar. As he walked back to where Clay was sitting with his beer, the cadet could see the bulge in the motorcycle uniform, the sidearm on one side and the short billy club on the other.
Jake climbed the bleachers and sat next to Clay, put his arm around the cadet's shoulder, and began talking. It was the first time they'd seen each other since the fateful night two months earlier, but it was obvious that this meeting wasn't by chance.
"Hank tells me yer behavin' so far," the deputy said in his gravelly voice, looking Clay in the eye. "He says ya been takin' care of him and the other fella, Dirk I think it is."
"Yes sir, I have been tryin' my best," Clay replied. "I hope they'll see that I'm holdin' up my end of things, and will keep all of it from
the Commandant and the cadets who'd just as soon kill me as look at me if they know."
"Ya don't got to worry about it so long as ya control yerself and do as they tell ya," Jake replied. "Hank says yer okay with them two keepin' things under control."
"Yes sir, it seems to be going okay," Clayton said.
"Gonna be schoolin' ya in the details of keepin' Men satisfied and knowin' yer place," Jake said. "Can't come as a surprise that yer gonna need to learn to get used to takin' it in both ends. Yer gonna be learnin' the finer points, so keep yer Sunday afternoons free. Ya got plenty to learn."
"Hey there again, Deputy Jake!" Kurt said, poking his head out from the garage. "Clayton, yer alignment's done, so I'm gonna get it off the hoist and roll it on out and then wash up. Be there in 10 minutes. Anyone want more beers?"
Jake rose from the bench and stretched, giving Clay an opportunity to look at the deputy again.
"Yeah, I'll take one," Jake called over. "Another cigar too."
The deputy looked back at the cadet, and caught him staring.
"Clayton, ya want anything?" Jake said, smiling.
"No thanks, sir, I'm good." he replied. "But I need to get back, sir, because dinner ends at 7 o'clock and it's 6 right now."
"Kurt's gonna grill us some steaks," Jake said. "We'll make sure yer back before 9 when the gate closes. Oh yeah, and don't forget to pay for that alignment. It's 10 bucks."
"Yes sir, I'll do that," Clay replied.
"Like I said before, Hank says yer doin' good," Jake said. "Looks like yer daddy up there in Oklahoma taught ya how to follow a Man's orders. Plenty a-queers are little brats and get themselves into big trouble 'cause a-that, but that don't seem to be you."
"I suppose so, sir," the cadet said. "We had some a-them in high school and I steered clear. Didn't like 'em then, and still don't. I didn't start into guys until last year, and it ain't gonna keep me from marryin' my girl."
"Yep, yer gonna be a part-time queer like most of 'em in these parts are," Jake replied. "Ya already know that most a-the Men want nothin' to do with it. Some Men are okay with a queer who'll blow 'em or get screwed, but only if the queer behaves himself."
The deputy walked back the garage, then returned holding a very large glass of water. He stood in front of the cadet and told him to drink it all without stopping to breathe, and to look him in the eye while he was doing it. A minute later, Clay was finished, and took a big gulp of air.
"That's how ya drink a Man's piss," Jake said. "Ya look up at him, and ya don't stop until he's done. Ya thank him afterwards, and ya do the same if he comes in yer mouth or screws ya. The Man makes the first move, not you. Faggot that wants to stay alive waits for the Man, then does what he's told. Got it, Clayton?"
"Yes sir," he replied. "Thank you for the water, sir."
"One more thing, and it's something ya better never forget as long as ya live," the deputy said. "One a-the quickest ways for a queer faggot to get hisself killed is for him to try to tell a Man that the Man's queer 'cause he's getting' his dick sucked. Forget yer place and ya wind up dead. Got that?"
"Yes sir," the cadet answered.
Clay excused himself to take a piss in the bushes on the other side of the garage, and by the time he returned Kurt had rolled out the car. He started the charcoal for the barbecue and then climbed up the bleachers and stood on the riser below where Clay sat. He was directly in front of the cadet, his belt buckle aligned with the top of Clay's head, his hands on his hips and a smile on his face.
Jake leaned over and whispered in Clayton's ear: "Ya can look him in the eye, but remember, the Man makes the first move. And ya never touch a Man unless he tells ya to."
Clay looked at the fly of Kurt's dark blue work pants, and the hands perched on the sides, with traces of grease in the fingernails. His eyes followed up the placket of the work shirt with its row of buttons, then over to the pocket where "Kurt" was embroidered on a patch sewn there, and then upward past the collar to the mechanic's grin.
Kurt patted his crotch, which was showing a half hard lump.
"Bet ya want in there, don't ya?" he said.
Jake whispered again, while the cadet listened.
"Whatever you'd like, sir," Clay replied.
"Undo my belt buckle and find what I got, then put it in yer mouth and wait," Kurt said.
"Yer gonna use that practice from before," Jake whispered. "Be sure to hold yer breath, then look into his eyes and say 'Thank ya sir' when he's done."
"Drink it, faggot," Kurt said, as he moved his hands from his hips and crossed his arms across his chest. "Good for ya!"
The attendant started slow, then pissed as hard as he could. The cadet swallowed furiously. His gulps were audible, but he swallowed everything without losing a drop before Kurt finished and put his dick back into his pants and zipped up.
"Thank you, sir," Clay said.
Kurt went off to the barbecue pit, and Jake talked.
"Ya did that just right. Now, if the wrong Men find out about the wrong kinda faggot, that faggot will have a rough time of it," he said. "But if the right Men find out about the right kinda faggot, they'll protect ya as long as ya keep on bein' the right kinda faggot for 'em."
"Protect me, sir?" Clay asked.
"Yep, protect ya. Right now, there's two cadets who know yer story," the deputy said. "If ya are the right kinda queer for 'em, that Commandant ain't gonna know, and that football player ain't gonna know."
"Suck nice 'n tight and run yer tongue tight on the bottom of my dickhead so I can feel it," Jake told the cadet, in a voice both gentle and firm. "But make sure not to scrape anything with yer teeth."
The deputy smiled and leaned back, as the cadet swirled his tongue and sucked tightly on the long, thick erection that pointed skyward out of his uniform trousers.
"There ya go, y'all take care a-me just right," Jake said. "Now get me all slicked-up and start usin' yer hand and yer mouth together."
Clay complied, and he could soon taste the mixture of saliva, sweat, and pre-cum, and feel the deputy's hand massaging his scalp.
"When a Man comes, the faggot who's suckin' his dick makes damn sure to swallow it all," the deputy said, his hips now arching as the cadet worked. The precum was now coating his tongue, and Clay felt the Man's dick start to spasm.
"Suck out the starch now," Jake said. "That's right, get it all. There ya go."
The deputy got up and stood in front of Clay, his softening dick still hanging out. The cadet reached for it, but Jake stopped him.
"You say, 'Thank you, sir. Is there anything else I can do for you, sir.' Got it?" Jake said.
"Yes sir," Clay replied. "Thank you, sir. Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?"
The deputy smiled and squuezed some remaining cum to the head of his dick, and rubbed it on the cadet's upper lip, then put it back into his pants and zipped up.
"That'll do it," he said. "Now let's go get some steak."