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TEXAS 1956 Vol. 1 – Chapter 17
"Did ya put a good shine on our boots?" Dirk asked on Tuesday night. "We're gonna be wearin' our sheriff's deputy uniforms tomorrow and they got to be perfect."
"Yes sir!" Clayton replied. "At least I think I did, sir."
The cadet lieutenant inspected his boots. A ruler showed a four-inch shine, and Clayton had dressed the edges of the soles. Then he turned one over and looked at the sole. Dirk slapped the cadet in the side of the head.
"Clean off the bottoms," he said, harshly. "Next time y'all miss that, y'all will be lickin' 'em off after I march through a mudhole."
Clayton, chastened, quietly went back to work on the boots, and 15 minutes later presented them for inspection. This time they passed. Hank, busy in a school book, spoke up.
"Make sure ya get the bottoms a-mine while yer at it," he said.
"Yes sir," Clayton replied, softly, and went back to work. His plan to win over Hank wasn't exactly working out. That night for the third time in a row, Dirk went to sleep without calling him for service.
"Jake wants to see if the guards will supervise the queer faggots he and Brick catch," Hank said at lunch. All the guards were present, along with Clayton and Chance Williamson, a second-year sergeant who roomed with Strayley and Ringo. "He says there's only so much he can do, and they need to be watched all the time."
"Sounds like a bunch a dang extra work," Strayley said, frowning.
"Yeah, prolly right," Hank replied, "but there's some advantages. Faggots'd be under yer thumb. Doin' all the crap we hate, like shinin' boots, makin' racks, cleanin' the quarters, and doin' the laundry. I don't know about you guys, but I hate ironin' and starchin' the shirts."
"God damn, I hate all that crap, especially now that I've got a few uniforms," Ringo said. "Seems like all I'm ever doin' is takin' care of 'em."
"Jake says a queer is half middle-ages squire and half Roman slave," Hank said. "But yeah, we'd have some extra work. Jake says if ya give a queer faggot an inch, he'll take a mile. The other thing is that it's got to be kept under the radar so the Commandant don't find out, which also means that the other cadets around here can't know. All in all, I kinda like the idea."
"Still seems like a lot of work," Ringo said, echoing Strayley's reservation.
"Jake says the squire part oughtta be easy 'cause it's a military academy," said. "He says not to give 'em so much to do that it messes up their schoolwork, and don't let on to other cadets 'cause it'll get back to the Commandant. Jake thinks the rubber'll hit the road with the Roman part, and that's what we oughtta think about."
Clayton spoke up.
"You know, a queer would want to keep all of it secret," he said. "If the Commandant finds out, then he's expelled and his family gets told. That guy will do anything you tell him to do."
"So what's this Roman part?" Tanner Sundell, another guard, asked. "Is that where I get my dick sucked?"
Hank chuckled.
"Yep, it's where ya get yer dick sucked. And yer ass kissed, and yer balls licked, and yer piss drunk, and ya can fuck him up the ass," he said. "Anything ya want as long as ya don't send him to the infirmary and the Commandant finds out."
"Don't sound so hard to me," Sundell said, with a laugh. "Ah, I mean difficult."
"It's the rest that's the, ah, difficult part," Hank said. "The most important accordin' to Jake. Ya know, besides bein' a sheriff's deputy he's a reserve guard at the base in the brig. He tells me they spend the most time gettin' the perverts under control and then keepin' 'em under control, which means keepin' their hands off their dicks."
"Yeah, I bet that ain't easy," Sundell said
"There's things they can do out there that we couldn't do here, and there's things they can't do that the Romans could," Hank said. "The Roman masters could kill slaves if they wanted to, and they could cut off their nuts. But they can't do that out there, so they got different ways."
"Yeah, like what?" Sundell asked.
"He ain't told me all of it, but he says they'll strip a pervert naked if he beats off, shave him down and paint his dick and his balls orange and have him walk around without any clothes for a couple days," Hank said. "They flog 'em, which we can do, and they got things they can use to beat on their balls. Wrap a thick rubber band around 'em, then beat on 'em."
"Far as I'm concerned, ain't no reason for a queer to even have a dick," said Trevor Black, another guard. "They oughtta just cut 'em off."
"They can't even do that out there," Hank said, chuckling. "Funny thing is, them queers who get up with the wrong Man in one a-them parks get it cut off half the time, like that Clark Branson did. They got other ways a-makin' a queer faggot understand that he ain't got any use for it other than to take a leak. I figure Jake'll clue us in if we decide to take him up on it."
One by one, the guards agreed to take on the duty.
"Same here," said the sergeant. "If y'all ever make me a guard, I'll be in."
"So Clayton, ya made quite a splash a couple days ago when ya agreed with the Commandant," the sergeant said. "Especially the part about it not bein' yer place to tell any Man what to think, and yer duty to respect the ranks. How about them queer faggots anyway? Think they got to be kept under control?"
"I sure do," Clayton replied. "What Captain White says reminds me of what the instructor in the Military Tactics class said about how if you want to get to a Man's mind the best way is to grab him by the balls. A queer has to know his place."
Hank spoke up.
"Might as well tell ya now, Chance, yer gonna be a guard," he said. "Gonna be announced Friday. Yer roommate Bulldog Carruthers is gonna be the other one. Yer gonna be movin' into the other turret this weekend. Yer days of calling us 'sir' will be over in a heartbeat."
"I know ya been talkin' about it, sir," Williamson said. "What about Jimmy Smithson? Is that little squirrel comin' with us?"
"Yep, he is," Hank replied. "Stay tuned on that one. But you and Carruthers don't let anyone in on it until it's announced, includin' Smithson, okay?"
"Yes sir," Williamson said. "I bet Hornsby will be pissed off about losin' the turret. I know how much he and his roommates like it."
"Won't be a problem," Hank replied. "They knew from the get-go that they'd lose the turret if the guards went back to eight. I kinda feel bad for him, 'cause he'd have made a good guard. But when he told us he'd rather kill queer faggots than anything else, I figured we'd have a problem. No need to kill 'em. Just control 'em."
Lunch was over, and it was time to go back to class. Clayton snuck a look at Chance Williamson. He was 6'1", on the lean side, and his academy uniform fit like a glove. He was a natural fit for the guards, right down to the thick dick whose outline showed in his pants. "Big Dicks Rule strikes again," he told himself.
"Sir, could I touch up your boots?" Clayton said to Hank that night, back in the turret. "It looks like you picked up some scuffs, sir. Same for you, Lieutenant Mayfield. Could I do the same for you, sir?"
Neither of them requested any other service. It was the longest that Dirk had ignored him since the first time he'd been told to lick the Man's balls, and his frustration grew. That night, he dreamed of being caught for his ongoing transgressions, and wondered what their methods of discipline might be.
On Thursday, Clayton ate lunch with some enlisteds, one being Jim Smithson, the corporal who roomed with Bulldog Carruthers and Chance Williamson. By now, it had gotten around that he'd had a change of heart about the Commandant and that he supported his directive. Smithson definitely didn't like the new rules. While the others were bantering among themselves, he confided to Clayton in a hushed voice.
"At least I don't room with any officers," he said, unaware that it was about to change. "Carruthers and Williamson are my roommates, and ever since they made sergeant they've made it hell. Constantly going after me for being short and having a small dick. I can't help how I was made."
Smithson stood only 5'6", and in his first year it became known that he had barely 4 inches where it counted. He had a mental complex about it, and as a second-year he took it out on the first years, constantly barking orders and writing up the smallest infractions as a way of proving his Manhood. It didn't make him popular among any of the cadets, a few of whom joined in the harassment.
"I tried going to the Commandant and getting a transfer, but do you know what that asshole did?" Smithson said, his resentment plain. "He told them about it, and brought us together and said we should work it out. That only made it twice as bad. I can't believe you are on the Commandant's side now."
"Well, I wouldn't try to tell you what to think or say," Clayton replied. "I can only speak for myself, and I decided even before the directive came down that I needed to show more respect for rank around here, even behind everyone's back. But that's just me, and like I say, you are a Man and the captain of your own ship."
The next day, at Hank's direction to try and gain Smithson's confidence, they ate lunch alone together. It wasn't unusual, and attracted no attention. In their private conversation, it was clear that his roommates' appointment as guards and officers had hit Smithson hard.
"Now I have to call them 'sir' all the time," he said. "They've been calling me 'Little Squirrel' all year long, and this morning they said I'll be kissing their asses before long. They were already asking me if I wanted to suck their dicks. Now I think they're going to make me do it. I don't know what to do!"
"I bet they're just joking," Clayton replied, wishing to himself that Hank would make him kiss his ass.
"You room with a couple of guards," Smithson replied. "Do they shove you around?"
"No, they don't," Clayton said. "I don't have any problems with them."
"They seem pretty arrogant, especially White," Smithson said. "How do you manage to get along with them?"
"I've been treating them as my superiors ever since they were named sergeants and I wasn't," Clayton replied. "But you never really got along with Lieutenant Carruthers and Lieutenant Williamson, right?"
"Lieutenant! I can hardly stand it. Anyway, yeah, I guess I never liked them and didn't hide it," he answered. "A lot of it was my own fault. They only started in on my dick after a while, but now it's really bad. Now what do I do?"
"So you're asking for my opinion, I guess," Clayton replied. "I've told myself to avoid running down any Man, or trying to tell any other Men here what to do, but here you are asking me."
"Anything you can tell me will help," he said, his voice pleading.
"Well, I'll have to think more about it," Clayton replied. "It's not like I know them or anything. I guess you might start by giving more respect to the rank structure here. You can always complain to me about the Commandant or your roommates, but maybe stop it with anyone else. And be more reasonable with the first-years."
"Yeah, but what about Carruthers and Williamson?" Smithson asked.
"Off the top of my head, I guess try to make amends," Clayton said. "Tell 'em you respect their rank and will do whatever you can to get along. Maybe offer to do more of the work in the room, like making the racks and cleaning the latrine for all three of you."
"But the Commandant's order says that it doesn't give cadet officers any new authority, so why should I do anything for those assholes?" Smithson asked.
"I think you might be better off if you treated them as your superiors like they are. Maybe it would be a way to change your attitude," Clayton replied. "It's never been a problem for me because I've always looked up to my roommates. For most of this year, I've been calling them 'sir' in the quarters and doing extra things for them. The Commandant's order made it simpler for me, that's all."
"Okay, maybe you're right," Smithson said. "It's just hard for me to think of those cretins as my superiors. But you've given me stuff to think about, anyway. Hell, I asked. Anyway, thanks for being honest. Maybe we can talk again sometime?"
"Sure thing, Jim," Clayton said. "Mess hall's a good place. In the meantime, you might want to think about your behavior toward your superiors. And I'll do more thinking about all this too."
That Friday night, all of the guards got together in Hank, Dirk, and Clayton's turret to drink, play cards, and chatter. Clayton had been told to prepare the room, and while Hank and Dirk went to Three-Finger Buck's for a couple of bottles of bourbon and a big sack of potato chips, he'd found the time to masturbate. This time he was thinking of Williamson and his favorite "uniform," a rodeo get-up consisting of tight, stiffly-starched, bulging Wrangler jeans, tan chaps, a starched snap-button shirt, pointed boots, and a light gray felt cowboy hat. He imagined the new guard with a clenched fist, ordering him to kiss his ass and then suck his hard dick.
The other guards began arriving at 20 hundred, carrying chairs to arrange around a round table that Hank had borrowed from a store room. As the only enlisted cadet, Clayton was deputized as the waiter. He wouldn't be playing cards, but would be keeping glasses full and potato chips on the table, and fetching cigars and emptying ash trays.
"Congratulations on becoming a guard, sir!" he said to Lieutenant Williamson as he entered, giving a crisp salute, repeating the same with newly-minted Lieutenant Carruthers. Clayton enthusiastically saluted all of the guards as they entered, and complimented Williamson on his rodeo clothing.
"I can't quite figure out if you're a roper or roughstock, sir," he said. "The Wranglers and the shirt say roper because they're in perfect shape, but I see some nicks on the chaps that say roughstock. I was a saddlebronc rider myself, then switched to roping."
They proceeded to have a friendly chat, and Clayton offered to clean up his chaps and his boots in time for him to wear them the following week if he wanted.
"Thanks, but I can do it," Williamson said.
"You ought to let him," Hank said. "He wouldn't have offered unless he wanted to do it, and he's good at it."
"I grew up on a ranch in Oklahoma, and one of my jobs and as kid was to take care of my dad's chaps and boots," Clayton said. "Your decision, sir, but I'd be happy to do it if you want."
"The other thing ya oughtta know is that me 'n Dirk asked Clayton if he'd make friends with Smithson and report back," Hank told Williamson. "As long as ya don't ever let on to the squirrel about it, ya might wind up knowin' a few things."
"Hmm, well, okay then," Williamson said. "I can leave the chaps tonight, and maybe ya can stop by tomorrow and get my boots. Can ya get 'em done by Tuesday night?"
"You got it, sir!" Clayton said. "Won't be any problem. I'll have 'em both looking like you just got them back from the store."
"So what did the squirrel have to say about us?" Bulldog asked, with a smirk. "Couldn't have been anything good."
"Sir, you're right about that," Clayton replied. "He told me he didn't like you and Lieutenant Williamson from the start. Not exactly news. I never talked to him personally until today, but he's never made a secret of that. I guess I got known for saying bad things about the Commandant, so he was surprised when I supported the new order and said I had decided to quit running him down behind his back."
"Yeah, I bet he was," said Bulldog, whose nickname came from his features: He stood 5'11", with broad shoulders, a thick midsection, and full below the belt. He wore a state police uniform, with medium gray slacks with a black stripe, a Smokey Bear hat that matched the slacks, a light gray shirt with black epaulets and a black tie – all tight and stiffly starched.
"Little squirrel hates the Commandant, but a lot of people do," Bulldog said.
"He's worried now that you and Lieutenant Williamson are officers, sir," Clayton answered. "He told me that the two of you said it wouldn't be long before he's kissing your asses and sucking your dicks, and he asked me what to do. He also blamed himself for getting off on the wrong foot from the beginning. And he hates being called a little squirrel."
"So what did you tell him to do?" Bulldog asked.
"I didn't actually tell him to do anything because I don't think it's my place to do that, sir," Clayton replied. "But since he asked, I suggested that he might consider re-thinking his attitude and showing more respect toward his superiors, including the Commandant, you, and Lieutenant Williamson. I suggested that he try to make amends with the two of you, and think about doing extra things for you in your room, sir."
Williamson laughed.
"What did he say to that?" he said.
"He wasn't too happy to hear it, but he also said I had given him things to think about, and thanked me," Clayton said. "I ended by telling him he could always talk to me, but that he might want to think about his attitude and his behavior toward his superiors, sir."
"I can only imagine what he said when you called us his superiors," Williamson said, with a chuckle.
"Sir, I can tell you, but I hope you won't hold it against me because it's not how I think," Clayton said. "He called you and Lieutenant Carruthers cretins and assholes and said it would be hard to imagine you as his superiors, sir. He also said that Captain White and Lieutenant Mayfield are arrogant, and wondered how I got along with them."
"So what did you tell him about that?" Hank asked, grinning.
"That's when superiority came up, sir," Clayton said. "I told him that I had been treating you and Lieutenant Mayfield as my superiors ever since you made sergeant, and especially when you became officers. I told him that I'd already been calling you 'sir' in quarters, and that the Commandant's order just simplified things as far as I was concerned. That's pretty much all of it, sir. It ended with him thanking me for being honest and asking if we could talk again, and me saying that'd be fine. I said I'd think about what he told me and try to come up with more ideas, sir."
"Damn good job there, Clayton!" Hank said. "Sounds like you got him started on spilling his guts to you. Bulldog and Chance, don't let on about any of it, y'all hear?"