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TEXAS 1956 Vol. 1 – Chapter 19
Fellas, all ya have heard ol' Clayton talk about how queer faggots need to be controlled," Hank said to the group. "Was talkin' about hisself. Maybe no surprise from the way he looks at ya, but there's never been the proof except for me 'n Dirk."
He proceeded to tell of the cadet's trolling the parks in spite of warnings, and then being photographed in the act in a room at Three Finger Buck's equipped with hidden cameras.
"My cousin Jake passed everything along, and we laid down the rules. After a while, we figured he wasn't keepin' his hand off his dick, but he was doin' so good at everything else that we were hopin' he'd ease off," Hank said. "Didn't happen, so we're gonna be takin' the next step down in the basement."
Sundell and Black would have to stay upstairs to man the gates, he said, but they'd be rotated after an hour.
"Don't worry, yer gonna get yers," Hank said to Sundell, with a chuckle. "Soon as yer done here, rotate with Trev. Tell him he's got a beer and a queer's mouth waitin'. Okey-doke, Tanner, he's all yers."
"Get on over here, ya queer faggot," Sundell said to Clayton, jerking the cadet from the wall and leading him to one of the benches. "Sit on down there 'n get ready."
Sundell, a beefy, square-headed 6-footer, wore the standard guard duty uniform patterned after the ones worn by the Marine Corps guards at the base: blue trousers with a red stripe up the side, "bloused" into the tops of brightly shined black boots, a heavily-starched, long-sleeved tan shirt with a red armband that had "MP" in bright yellow letters, and a white patent-leather duty belt with a holster that held a black wooden billy club. He stood wide, drew his zipper down, and hauled out a stiff, thick 8 inches.
"Open yer mouth, faggot," he said, and when the cadet complied he swiftly pushed past his lips into his throat.
"Look up into his eyes and use yer hand," Hank ordered from off to the side, while Sundell stood with arms crossed off his chest, his hips swaying in and out. "Show the Man what a queer faggot does."
The guard looked downward, smiling in triumph.
"Yep, ya get right down on it, ya faggot," Sundell said, contempt oozing from his voice. "Suck on that thing good 'n tight now, ya dicksuckin' queer."
Now the other guards were watching, and joined in the taunting.
"Looks like he's damn good at that," Carruthers said, laughing. "Maybe he can teach our little squirrel how to suck dick. Give him some queer faggot lessons."
Meanwhile, Sundell was building to a climax, and finally spasmed in Clayton's mouth.
"Swallow it, ya faggot," he said, pumping a load made larger by not having masturbated for more than a week. The cadet below him gulped and took it all, and waited for Sundell to move. The guard removed himself, and Clayton spoke as Sundell was zipping up.
"Thank you, sir," he said. "Is there anything else I can do, sir?"
"I'll be damned!" Tom Strayley, one of the guards, said from the side.
"Yeah, ya can take care a-Lieutenant Black when he gets here," Sundell replied.
Trevor Black was a tall and lanky guard with a handsome, angular face, standing 6'1" and weighing about 175 pounds. He hailed from the Panhandle, not shy but a Man of few words. A stack of Western novels by Zane Grey and Louis L'Amour sat next to his academy books in the room he shared with Sundell, and their conversations revolved around the plots of the Westerns and their sweethearts back home.
Neither of them had fully believed any of Hank's talks about faggots in the academy. The subject was outside of their formative experiences apart from the jokes that boys told each other while growing up. The idea that one Man would actually want to do anything sexual with another one was so disgusting as to be bizarre and unbelievable. But here they were.
A couple of minutes later, Black and Sundell had swapped guard posts, and Black stood tall in front of Clayton. He looked over at Hank.
"Tanner says the queer likes drinkin' piss?" he asked. "That so? Matter of fact, I gotta piss like a god damn racehorse."
"Yep, that's what my cousin Jake says," Hank replied with a laugh. "Ol' Clayton there will drink yer piss and thank ya fer the privilege. Won't ya, Clayton?"
"Yes sir!" the cadet replied. The humiliation had made him even more erect.
"He'll haul out yer hose for ya and put it back in if ya want," Hank added.
"Okey-doke, then," Black said, standing with one hand on his belt and using the other to drink the beer they'd saved for him. "Take my dick out and put it in yer queer mouth 'n wait, ya disgustin' faggot."
Clayton followed the order, unzipping the guard's stiffly starched uniform pants and hauling out a flaccid penis almost as long and thick as his own erect one. Black looked downward, their eyes met, and he grinned.
"Oh yeah, that's right," he said, his voice tender and mocking. "Ya do what yer told. That's right."
The guard turned his head to speak to the others looking on.
"Let me tell ya fellas," he said with a laugh, "ain't nothin' like pissin' in a queer faggot's mouth to show him who's boss."
"That's what ya would think," Hank said sternly. "Turns out this one'll be needin' plenty more 'n that."
When the cadet stood up, his erection outlined in his academy uniform, Hank ordered him to stand at ease. He balled up his hand into a fist and began punching his gut, the blows gradually getting harder. Once he was doubled over, the lead guard allowed him to catch his breath, then ordered him to a door in the corner of the room.
"Now yer gonna learn who's boss," Hank said. "Yer gonna find out that the rules are real, and that they're gonna be enforced."
Clayton learned that the rumors of a guard basement dungeon were true, as he was led down a long concrete staircase that went to a room at least 30 feet underground.
The door behind them closed with a dull thud. By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs followed by six guards, he noticed that the air was still, like a tomb. Switches were thrown, and a large square concrete space about 25 or 30 feet on each side was bathed in harsh light from wire-encased bulbs attached to a ceiling that appeared to be 9 or 10 feet high.
He recognized a big X from the night in deputy's garage where he'd been whipped. He saw the same sort of bed that flipped down from the wall. In a corner, there was a sink, a toilet, and a hose hanging between two faucets on the wall over a small sloping indentation in the floor with a drain at the bottom. Along a wall, a large metal locker and a rack with clothes hangers, and next to it another refrigerator where the guards were getting more beer.
Along two of the concrete walls, there were metal rings in rows, spaced a few feet apart, one row low, one at waist height, one at about 7 feet. Hooks embedded in the concrete floor, and metal chairs, tables, and benches designed to be fastened to the hooks. Two pulleys hung from the ceiling, operated by thick chains. On one wall, a variety of belts, straps, whips, and leather cuffs hung from hooks. In one corner, the same bright yellow painted lines from upstairs that defined a small rectangle along the two walls.
This was where he would learn that his rules were meant to be followed. His shirt was removed and hung on a hanger, and his wrists and ankles were attached to the cross by leather cuffs. A pad at the waist forced his ass outward, and his chin rested on a padded shelf. Hank retrieved a flogger from one of the hooks and handed it to another guard.
Casey Carruthers was called "Bulldog" for a reason. Standing 5'11", he was the shortest guard, but made up for it with a build that seemed as wide as it was tall. The round-faced cadet officer weighed 195 pounds, a walking fighting machine with a thick waist, a barrel chest, and huge legs and arms. They strained the fabric of a crisp highway patrol uniform from a Southern state, consisting of medium gray slacks with a black side stripe, a gray Smokey Bear hat that matched the slacks, a light gray shirt with black epaulets and a black tie.
"Ya start out slow and then build it up," Hank whispered in Bulldog's ear. "Remember, we don't want him windin' up in the infirmary, so don't go too fast."
The guard nodded his agreement, and started. Soft at first, but soon the blows were sharp and heavy.
"After each one, repeat my words," Hank said.
Whack!
"I'm an out of control queer faggot, sir!"
Whack!
"A queer faggot need to be controlled, sir!"
Whack!
"The rules are serious, sir!"
Whack!
"The Men aren't bullshitting, sir!"
Whack!
"Every Man is a queer faggot's superior, sir!"
Whack!
"A queer faggot will obey Men, sir!"
As it went on, Clayton's skin turned red, as if he were getting a sunburn, and he repeated Hank's words as Bulldog wielded the whip. The cadet retreated into a haze. And then it stopped, and Hank allowed a rest before returning the flogger to its hook. He grabbed a different instrument: A thick black leather belt anchored by a handle, with the top of what the loop cut at the top to make parallel straps two inches wide and two feet long.
"Here's your chance, Chance," he said with a chuckle. "Just like Bulldog, but on his ass."
"Start slow," he whispered. "This one does more damage, so yer not gonna be able to end up as hard. No cuttin' him up. Just tan his hide."
Chance nodded and started. Once he'd warmed up, Hank gave the phrases for Clayton to repeat.
Thwack!
"A queer faggot knows his place!"
Thwack!
"A queer faggot is no Man's equal!"
Thwack!
"A queer faggot needs to be controlled!"
Thwack!
"A queer faggot needs to behave!"
Thwack!
"A queer faggot needs to obey!"
As the cadet twisted and moaned, the blows stimulated his erection pressed against the pad on the cross. The pain and stimulation blended, putting him into a trance. And then, as with the flogging, it stopped. While Clayton rested, Hank turned to the other cadets and explained the techniques.
"Guys, ya always got to start slow and then work up," he said. "Hit 'em too hard right away and they'll pass out. And this one strap, ya always use it over their pants. Never on bare skin. We're here to discipline 'em, not kill 'em."
The next step was to take the cadet off the cross and order him to take off the rest of his clothes. He was then put back on, facing forward, secured tightly with extra straps around his thighs and abdomen. His erection and his balls were outlined in the tight shorts that Deputy Jake had given him, and Hank chuckled while he walked over to the wall, replacing the large slapper that Chance had used on his ass with the blackjack and the smaller slapper he had shown the other guards at lunch.
"Looks like the queer faggot's dick's got no complaints," he said to the others as they laughed and drank more beer.
Hank swung the blackjack slowly into the bound cadet's balls, hitting lightly.
"Clayton here has been talkin' a good game to us about queer faggots," he said to the others. "Says all the right words, but can't keep hisself under control. Jake 'n me have talked about it, so we're tryin' this.
"They do a lot a-studyin' at the base about the queers. Jake figures that there are prolly 25 or 30 of 'em at the academy. Long as they keep it to themselves they can think a-themselves. But once they go outta control and get caught, they got to stop thinkin' a-themselves and know their place, and givin' up their dick is how it's done.
"Jake can't exactly be here to do it, so that's why he wants us to do it. He wants us to try this first but if it don't work, there's other stuff that he'll let us in on. One way or another, ol' Clayton's gonna get back under control."
As he spoke, Hank kept swinging the blackjack. The lead weight at the end didn't hit hard, but the repetition combined with the rubber band tourniquet around the cadet's genitals to produce a growing ache.
"Clayton's been the servant in our turret since we found out about him a while back," he continued. "He's been doin' a good job of it, good enough to fool us. But them days is over. No more foolin' us."
Hank switched to the slapper and began working on Clayton's erection. He slapped harder than he'd hit with the blackjack, and the cadet's precum made a wet spot on his shorts.
"Only me 'n Dirk have been supervisin' him, and it'll stay that way," Hank said. "But we'll be havin' him workin' on everyone's boots. Just come to us."
Hank kept slapping, and scored some hits on Clayton's balls.
"Them things don't belong to ya neither," he said. "Controllin' yer dick's about controllin' yer nuts. The way to a queer faggot's head is through his balls, and them things are our property, ya hear?"
"Yes sir!" he answered, his face twisted in pain.
"If I had my way, them things'd be cut off, but they won't let us do it," Hank said. "But yer god damn not gonna be usin' 'em no more, ya faggot."
"No sir!" the cadet replied. "I won't be using them, sir!"
"Okay, Tom and Billy, the two a-ya can fuck him before ya go upstairs and send Trevor and Tanner down here," Hank said. He hadn't brought Clayton to a release, preferring to prolong things.
He walked over to the wall where the bed was, and pulled it down, and fetched a couple of towels, a tube of grease from the cabinet, and some restraints from hooks on another wall. He took two hard pillows from the head of the bed and put them in the middle of the bed, which was the standard single width but a couple of feet longer than a standard model. He adjusted the angle to tilt upward to waist height at the lower end.
"Fasten him on his belly on top a-them pillows, head at the high end," Hank said to the two guards. "Stick one a-them towels on top a-the pillow before ya set him down there."
In an instant, Clayton's legs were spread wide and his limbs were tightly fastened, rendering him immobile with his ass up high. Hank called the two guards over and handed the towel and the tube of lubricant to Tom Strayley.
"There's a zipper on the back of his shorts," Hank whispered. "Grease everything up, his asshole and yer dick, then ease yer way in. Remember, no infirmary. Jake says this is just about the hardest way to get screwed, and this time he ain't gettin' a muscle relaxer. Jake says there's a kinda second asshole up inside, but ya got to loosen him up first."
Strayley grinned and nodded, and walked over to the bed. He unzipped the pants of his M.P. uniform, reached inside and hauled out more than 8 inches of a thick, uncut ramrod. He unscrewed the cap from the tube and put some of the lubricant on the cadet's rectum, and then some on two of his fingers before sticking them inside.
"Got to grease up the valve," said with a chuckle, before squeezing some more on his erection and then wiping his hand on the towel. He planted his feet on either side of the bed, entered slowly.
"Mmm hmm, good 'n warm 'n tight," he said, chuckling and bracing his arms on the bedframe.
Even though Clayton had become somewhat accustomed to being screwed, it was a painful position and the guard's dick was very large. The rubber band that trapped the blood in his erection, along with the treatment it had just received, made it both erotic and agonizing as Strayley gradually went faster and deeper.
As he slipped into a trance, Clayton felt another dick. Bulldog Carruthers had taken up a position at the foot of the bed, unzipped his pants and was rubbing a thick erection against his lips.
"Open yer mouth now," the guard said, his voice gentle and even tender. "Buddy boy queer faggot get it in both ends."
Carruthers pushed his way into Clayton's throat and was soon pumping regularly while Strayley steadily increased his pace and depth.
"Hey Tom, ya getting' close?" Bulldog asked. "Wanna see if we can fill him up at the same time? I'm about 15 or 20 seconds out, buddy."
Strayley nodded, and in an instant they were squirting in both ends of the cadet.
"When ya pull out, do it slow," Hank whispered to Strayley. "And check on his asshole to make sure it ain't bleedin. Remember, no infirmary. And then go over that sink and wash yer dick off. Then go upstairs and find out which one of 'em wants to screw his ass. Send one of 'em back down here, and Billy will be up in a while."
Billy Ringo was next. Hank whispered the same instructions, and he went to it, entering slowly and plunging deep while Carruthers emptied the beer he'd drunk into Clayton's throat. While Billy kept going, Chance stepped up and unzipped his Wranglers and hauled out what he had and went at the cadet's throat. Strayley and Ringo went upstairs, sending Sundell and Black down to finish the rotation, and then it was over.
Clayton lay on the bed, exhausted. Six guards had used his mouth, and the same six had raped him. Semen covered the inside of his shorts, forced out by the multiple invasions. Everything was sore, inside and out, including the skin around his genitals where the rubber band still dug in and continued to hold his blood in a painful erection.
"Clayton find out who's boss?" Hank said, the five other guards in the basement looking on.
"Yes sir," he replied, wearily.
"Clayton gonna keep himself under control now?"
"Yes sir."
"Clayton still think the Men are bullshitters?"
"No sir."
"Okey doke, then, we'll see about that," Hank said, tossing the cadet another pair of undershorts. "Ya can take that rubber band off, and get yerself dressed."
Moving slowly at first, he gathered his things and put his clothes back on, occasionally glancing at the guards. Their faces registered conquest, ridicule, derision – and impunity. They knew his secret, and the screws would now be as tight as they could get.
He was marched up the stairs to the above-ground guardhouse. Tom Strayley and Billy Ringo were there, now dressed in standard cadet guard uniforms. Hank ordered Clayton back into the corner, instructing him to face the wall, standing at ease.
"Fellas, we'll be heading to the mess hall," he said to Tom and Billy. "One of us will come back in an hour with food for the two a-ya and to pick him up."