Texas, 1956

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TEXAS 1956 Vol. 1 – Chapter 18

On Saturday morning, Clayton knocked on the new guard's door, holding the chaps that Williamson had left the night before. All three of them were there, and he gave the two officers crisp salutes.

"Sir, there are still some barbed-wire marks on these," he said. "I can get them out, but I'm afraid it'll take longer than I expected to get them perfect. I could do that if you want, and I could also get them out of your boots if you want."

"Sounds good to me," the lieutenant replied. "Want to come back after lunch and pick 'em up?"

"Sure thing, sir!" Clayton replied, before turning to the corporal. "Hey Jim, want to go to the mess and get lunch with me?"

The other cadet just about jumped out of his chair to accept, as the two guards smirked.

"So how's it going?" Clayton asked as they sat in the mess.

"Now that they're guards, they've got a new slogan: 'Big Dicks rule.' They're using it against me because mine's so small," Smithson replied gloomily. "This really stinks."

"Yeah, I heard that one when Captain White and Lieutenant Mayfield became guards," Clayton said, chuckling. "But damn if it's not true. Those guys wear their uniforms so tight you can see everything. I hear you look at theirs. Maybe that's why they think you want to suck their dicks."

"So that's what they told you last night?" the dejected cadet said.

"Nope, never came up," Clayton replied. "I heard about it a while back. All that crap you've given the first-years made some people around here wonder. Your short arm isn't exactly a secret, so a few cadets must have talked to those guys or something. They must have told a few people that they think you're a queer."

"Well, it's hard not to notice," Smithson said. "But even if I wanted to suck their dicks, I wouldn't ever try. They'd make me their damn slave."

"That's smart, especially now," Clayton said. "The minute you suck their dicks even once, all the guards will know about it."

"Yeah, I bet," Smithson said.

"So you know, Captain White's cousin is a sheriff's deputy who patrols the parks and pullouts with a partner," Clayton added. "Captain White told me that they've seen your car there. It's where the county's queers go, so if you're trolling around there, you might want to think about that."

A look of panic raced across Smithson's face.

"Did Hank tell the other guards?" he asked breathlessly. "That would be the last thing I need!"

"I don't think so," Clayton replied. "He'd only do that if his cousin or the other deputy catch you in the act. But you ought to know it's dangerous. There's Men who get blowjobs from queers and then rob and kill them, like with Clark Branson. And now the deputies are watching for you."

"Oh boy, I don't know what to do," Smithson said, despondently.

"Well, I hear there's a queer cowboy that hangs out at Three-Finger Buck's," Clayton said. "I'm not gonna ask you if you're a queer, but if you are one then that would be safer. He rents a room and likes to take a cadet up there. Buck doesn't care as long as no one knows.

"Captain White says his cousin's fine with it. He used to report any faggot cadets to the Commandant, but he backed off after one killed himself when the Commandant expelled him. After Branson got robbed and they cut his dick off and stole his car, the deputies have tried to find some other way to handle the queers from the academy.

"Captain White's cousin figures that queer cadets don't need their lives ruined because they'll be leaving here after a few years anyway. Buck runs a whorehouse and a cheater's motel and sells us bourbon under the counter. As long as it doesn't attract attention, he doesn't care and the sheriff doesn't care, so maybe this is part of it."

The ate in silence for a while, then Smithson spoke.

"I'm not a queer," he lied. "I just go to the park to beat off in my car. It's the only place I can be alone. But I know a cadet who's that way, so maybe I could pass it along."

"The cowboy's name is Colton Bates," Clayton said. "He's married with a couple kids. He comes in every Thursday night at 1830 or so, and stays for around an hour. Wears a brown felt hat and a belt with silver on it and sits at the end of the bar. Tell the queer cadet to wear his cleanest and best-fitting uniform and to call the guy 'sir' every chance he gets.

"The cowboy won't suck dick but likes to get his sucked on. He also likes to fuck guys in the ass. He'll ask what a cadet's doing there on a Thursday and not the weekend, and the answer is that he's there because it's quiet enough to have a conversation. Tell your guy to be polite and to remember that he likes to be called 'sir.' "

"Okay, I'll tell him."

"Hank's cousin says that most of the queers at the academy lay low and don't go trolling, but some can't control themselves." Clayton said. "So I think this might be his way of giving them a place to go without getting arrested or killed. So if the guy you know can't control himself, that might be his best shot."

"So you don't have anything against them it sounds like," Smithson said.

"I don't know," Clayton replied. "If they get out of control, they will be in trouble around here. So they have to be damn careful. But no, I guess I don't have anything against them, especially a cadet here. Must be a tough road to travel."

"Yeah, it would be," Smithson replied gloomily. "All these guys and all they can do is look but not touch."

"Yeah, I'm sure," Clayton said. "The one thing about being queer for the guards is that they won't tell the Commandant or the other cadets. But that doesn't come free. Maybe I'll tell you about it sometime if you want."

"Maybe some other time," Smithson said, testily.

"Oh yeah, I almost forgot," Clayton added. "They tell me the cowboy is a real nice guy, but that cadet better never get mad and call him a queer himself for getting his dick sucked. That's the quickest way to wind up in the hospital or worse. As long as the cadet does what he's told and remembers his place, he'll be safe."

"Okay, I'll pass it along then," Smithson replied.

Through a mixture of praise and reprimand, seduction and degradation, stimulation and denial, humiliation and instruction, along with the ever-present threat of exposure to the Commandant and to his family and future wife, and the Correctol mixtures that influenced his instincts and behavior, Clayton had become complicit in his submission, and in many ways the architect of his own reduction. He was the eager and obedient appendage of his superiors, the Men around him.

"That ought to show a queer faggot who's boss, sir!" Clayton said at lunch on Monday, as Hank held a blackjack up for the other guards at the table to see. Ten inches of leather covered a stiff spring and a piece of lead at the end. Hank had explained that the brig guards would use it to hit a prisoner's testicles if he was caught masturbating.

He passed it around the table, and then showed another tool, what looked like a leather stick with a handle, a shaft about a foot long, and at the end a rectangle of smooth but stiff and thick leather, six or seven inches long and a few inches wide.

"They wrap a rubber band around his balls and his dick like a tourniquet, handcuff him behind his back, and slap his balls and hardon through his underwear," Hank said. "Sometimes they do it until he comes, and then they make him lick his own squirt."

The guards were chuckling.

"I bet it works, but you'd have to be careful especially with that blackjack," Strayley said. "We're not supposed to send anyone to the infirmary, right?"

"Yeah, we do got to be careful," Hank replied. "A little goes a long way. Jake says it might take a few times to get through to a queer, but it almost always does the trick."

"And if it don't do the trick?" Strayley asked.

"Don't know just yet," Hank said. "Anyhow, if we get any queer faggots to run, we'll be able to use this stuff. Ya just can't have 'em jackin' off, not even alone, right Clayton?"

"No sir, especially not alone," Clayton replied, digging his own grave even deeper. "Any queer who gets himself out of control needs to be put right back in control. Those things will show him that the rules are serious and that the Men aren't bullshitting, sir. Otherwise, they'll just try to get away with it, sir."

"Damn right," said Billy Ringo, another guard, turning toward Dirk, as the others at the table nodded in agreement. "Like you said a while back, a faggot ought to keep his queer hand off hisself and turn that dick juice into takin' care a-us. Ain't got no use fer a dick except to take a leak."

"A queer faggot's dick is attached to him," Dirk said, looking straight at Clayton as he spoke, "but it don't belong to him. Can only use it to take a leak. Ain't that right, Clayton?"

"Damn right, sir!" Clayton answered.

"Did you tell those assholes that I'm a queer?" Smithson asked on Wednesday, his voice angry as they ate lunch together. "I know you eat lunch with the guards, and now they're asking me all the time."

"No, I didn't, and they haven't asked me," Clayton replied. "Jim, your roommates don't talk about you much. They've seen me eating with you, and all they asked was why you've been such a squirrel. I told them that you've been wanting to make amends and that you said that you blamed yourself for getting off on the wrong foot in the beginning. I was trying to make it easier for you to turn things around."

Unknown to either of them, Smithson had been given the Correctol version that made him rebellious.

"Well, when they asked me again a couple nights ago, I told them that they must be the queers for all they've been wanting me to suck their dicks," Smithson said. "That seemed to shut them up for once. What do you think of that?"

"You asked for my opinion, so I'll tell you," Clayton replied. "I told you before that calling a Man a queer for wanting a faggot to take his dick is a good way to get yourself killed. I'd apologize and tell them that you said something you didn't mean. And remember, whether you like it or not, those Men are your superiors."

Smithson scoffed.

"Yeah, I'll try to remember that."

"I suggest that you do," Clayton said.

Thursday would be each cadet's big day. Smithson had laid his plan to venture out to Buck's at 6 o'clock to eat dinner and wait for the cowboy to come by. Clayton had no idea what lay in store. He had told Williamson that he'd deliver the chaps and boots after dinner, not knowing that the Hank and Dirk were aware of his secret masturbation schedule.

Shortly after 2 p.m., Hank, Dirk, and Williamson crept up the granite stairs. Door locks were forbidden in the academy's quarters, a device that made for dreaded surprise inspections. But those were rare past the first year, so Clayton feared nothing when he retrieved the photographs from under his mattress. As one of the photographers for the academy's yearbook, he'd taken and developed a secret stack of pictures of the most attractive cadets, with close-ups of their crotches and asses.

He hadn't even noticed them enter the room until it was too late. Hank moved swifly, silpping a thick, doubled-over rubber band onto the base of the stunned cadet's balls and dick, trapping the blood in his erection.

"Get up, faggot," he barked. "Get dressed, now."

As Clayton moved to carry out the order, Williamson snatched the photos from the bed.

"Will ya look at these!" he said, laughing. "Clayton likes us guards, that's for god damn sure."

He showed the pictures to Dirk, who chuckled loudly.

"Queer faggot's got close-ups of all our dicks 'n asses," he said.

Hank used the blackjack to give Clayton, now fully dressed, a slap between the legs, causing him to yelp in pain.

"In case yer wonderin', the rules are serious and the Men ain't bullshittin' about 'em," he said. "Me 'n Dirk have known about yer secret beatin' off for quite a while. Just wanted to see how many lies ya would tell."

Hank led the way out of the room. Clayton's erection was still raging, and Williamson had put the pictures back in the envelope where they'd been stored and was carrying them. The guardhouse was a small but imposing rectangular granite structure, about 75 feet long and 40 feet wide. A tall fence attached at one side, with an elaborate gate on the other. There were driveways in and out, each with a gate, and a small guard station on the other side.

When Clayton was marched inside, and found four of the other five guards waiting in one of the rooms. At least one gate had to be manned at all times, and Trevor Black was outside doing it. While Clayton was upstairs, he'd be swapping the duty station with his guard roommate, Tanner Sundell. Everything had been arranged in advance to give each guard a crack at Clayton from both front and back. No one approaching the guardhouse would sense anything amiss.

The interior room's window shades were pulled down, leaving it illuminated by harsh ceiling lights. There was a large wooden table with a lamp and a three-level holder for papers, flanked by an American flag and an academy flag. A row of wooden chairs and a few low stools lined up against a wall. There was a closet in one of the corners, and a bookcase along the wall opposite the chairs and stools.

The walls were painted in same two-tone scheme of the other campus buildings: the bottom 4 feet dark green, the top 6 feet a lighter shade of the same color. The floor was concrete, and along one corner there were painted lines on the floor that defined a space 4 feet wide and two feet deep. Hank pointed toward the center of the rectangle.

"Stand there at ease, with yer nose touchin' the wall," he ordered.

"Yes sir!" Clayton replied and stood against the wall with his hands clasped behind and his legs spread to shoulder width at his feet, wondering for the 200th time since entering the academy why anyone called the stance one of ease.

Hank had gone to a refrigerator in another room, where he opened eight beers and put Supervision formula into each one. As he and the other guards drank them, savng one from Tanner Black, Clayton listened while his photos were passed around, to much ridicule and amusement. When the laughter died down, Hank announced that he was going to read something that Clayton had written during the last week.

A queer faggot is no normal Man's equal. He is subject to the authority and supervision of every regular Man who learns of his perversion. He must be made to know his place, and must be supervised to ensure that he behaves and remains under control. He will:

• Not seek, request, or demand sex, directly or indirectly.

• Avoid all sexual acts, including masturbation, unless directed.

• Avoid associations, influences, situations, thoughts, and activity that might lead to loss of control or other misbehavior.

• Not question or limit the authority of his supervisors or others they designate.

• Obey all orders and requests, and respect and display deference and gratitude toward supervisors.

My specific duties as a queer faggot at the academy are to:

• Obey and serve Captain White and Lieutenant Mayfield, and other Men as they direct.

• Clean the quarters that I share with Capt, White and Lieutenant Mayfield.

• Make all the racks, shine all of the boots, and take care of all of the laundry.

• Not make it known, directly or indirectly, to other cadets or instructors, or the Commandant, that I am a queer faggot, unless directed.

• Give myself an enema every morning, and hold in the liquid until lunchtime.

• Use my car only with Captain White's permission. Supply the gasoline for his use of the car, and keep the car cleaned and maintained.

• Not criticize or dispute any Man within or outside of the academy, directly, indirectly, or by implication, unless directed.

• Diligently pursue my studies, and comply with all academy rules and regulations.