The first half is about teen boys being treated badly by a Sheriff and his brother and how two boys bonded together to plan their escape...in Part 2 they get some revenge, escape and then it's sexual awakening and fallind in love
It's Monday and in my life Mondays suck. I hate Monday and it's the 2nd best day of the week for me. During the rest of the week the days get progressively worse until Sunday. On Sunday I get some free time, no slave labor that day. On Sundays we skip the sadistic and perverted early morning activities too. I mostly spend the day cleaning the Ranch house. Of course, Sunday is also my itchiest, scratchiest and grungiest day of the week.... so, you know.... not a good day by any means, just better than the other days.
I hate Mondays, but for some time now I've hated just about everything else in my life too. These past two years I've been under what might loosely be termed as "house arrest". Not in my own "house".... I haven't had a house to live in since my mother was killed. I'm under house arrest at Sheriff Bleaker's Ranch. Sheriff Bleaker, with the help of his brother Skeets, owns and operates Bleaker's Cattle Ranch......the BCR. It's a small ranch. Me and one other "house arrest" convict, a 19 year old boy named Dallas, are the current ranch hands.
Four or five hours each day Sheriff Bleaker does his other job.... Sheriff duties in the town of Bleakersville, Texas. Aside from the sheriff'ing, he'll either be guarding Dallas and me on the ranch or
drinking in one of the town's six bars. The town is situated twelve miles north of the Mexican border. A relative of the Sheriff's founded this town in 1823 and it's been under Bleaker family control from then right up to present day. It's a town of almost 8,000 people now so it's not some kind of 'ghost' town.....it's a real town.
Cattle.... for what it's worth, is the main reason for the town's existence. The Sheriff's cousin, who lives in town, is also a 'Bleaker'. He's married and has two teen aged boys who will one day continue the tradition of Bleaker control.... I've had only limited exposure with the Bleakersville's town people, but it's still awfully obvious to me that the current Bleakers are not a popular bunch. It seems they are no more popular than the previous Bleakers had been. The Sheriff and his brother are pretty much the worst of the lot. That being said, everyone is totally intimidated by them.
The town folks probably have good reasons for being intimidated and number one on the list of reasons is that the Bleakers have been the law of the land in these parts for a long time. They own the Bleaker Ranch of course and, I guess much more importantly, they own the only bank in town...... the Bleakersville Bank. Owning the bank means they own the mortgage to many homes here abouts. The Sheriff's cousin is the bank's president. Bottom line... no one is giving the Bleakers any kind of shit what-so-ever.
No one likes them, but no one shows that to their face. All I hear is, "Morning Sheriff" or "How ya doing Mr Bleaker, Sir" and a tip of the hat. Then when the Sheriff or whoever passes out of sight.... that's when I hear, "Fucking asshole" or "Trailer trash" or "You ugly, scary mother fucker you" or the infamous "that human bowel movement is just like his shit-kicker of an old man" and all kinds of stuff like that. I over hear them, but they don't notice me. I'm handcuffed in the back of the Sheriff's big pick-up truck that's parked head-on to the curb. It's like I'm invisible. I do enjoy listening to the towns people piss all over the Sheriff though.....it's music to my ears. I've also heard that anybody who messes with any of the Bleakers has some bad luck visiting them sooner rather than later...... so, more intimidation.
My personal pathetic story is that I was caught sneaking across the Mexican border into the US when I was fifteen years old. I was caught by some of the many vigilantes working with the Sheriff. At the time of my capture I was with six other boys ranging in age from fourteen to seventeen ....one of those boys had a gun and one of them used that gun to shoot a vigilante in his nuts. There will be no more vigilantes produced by that poor fellow.......
Probably because of the shooting the vigilantes became very mean spirited and a lot of rough treatment for all of us boys ensued. We were a very docile lot by the time those vigilantes were done with us. Even though we sustained lots of cuts and bruises and a few broken bones we didn't receive any medical attention for almost three days. Instead we were crammed into the two-cell jail they have at the Sheriff's office. After a week the vigilantes had calmed down enough to begin sorting us boys out.
In lieu of going to some formal type of prison I was assigned to work on the Bleaker's ranch. At age fifteen I was sentenced to work there until I reached the ripe old age of twenty-one. On my 21st birthday I'd be set free. Maybe sooner if I'm good. I've been here just short of two years now.... I turned seventeen last week. No birthday cake or ice cream though. No presents either....well, Dally blew me a kiss when no one was looking and I blushed so hard my eyes watered.
I don't know what happened to the other boys who'd been with me when I was caught. I remember back then all too well......... how the sheriff had all of us boys strip naked and line up behind the jail standing on the blistering hot black-topped parking lot in our bare feet. ......we were all scared near to death. He looked us over real careful like, staring at our faces and all.....he felt our muscles up and down our arms and legs, had us "bend over and spread em" and he looked at our teeth and stuff like that......the way you see men do with horses. He finally pointed to me and in a less than enthusiastic manner said to his deputy, Carl, "This here'un, I guess."
That apparently was my trial. I'd been found guilty and sentenced to six years hard labor on the Sheriff's ranch. Didn't matter a bit that I didn't do anything and that I didn't even know which of the boys had the gun or who fired it. The deputy told me to get dressed and get in the back of the Sheriff's pick-up. When I did he hand-cuffed my wrists to a metal ring that had been soldered onto the inside of the truck bed. I peed my pants after sitting out there in the sun for five hours and got a whipping for it as soon as we got to the ranch.
The things done to me and the other boy, Dallas, are beyond belief, but Sheriff Bleaker has an explanation for everything he does to us. God help me, but I honestly think the Sheriff believes his bullshit explanations make sense.. I guess that shouldn't be such a surprise seeing as how the man is insane. At times he's as crazy as a bed bug and that's a fact...... sure, there are times when he can seem normal and kind of smart and I've even seen him act charming once in a while, but the bottom line is he's dealing with a serious case of 'come-and-go' insanity.
The Sheriff's 'normal' periods actually makes his insane periods scarier.
I remember that first drive out to the Ranch, me bumping around in the back of that pick-up. Sheriff drives very fast but the Ranch is still about an hour drive from town. During the first half of the ride I noticed nothing but cattle country with pastures and fences as far as the eye can see. Then the terrain becomes flat and dirt dry. The Sheriff's place isn't all that big and it's right in the middle of mile after mile of all that flat barren land. Years ago the Bleakers were the only ones raising cattle out there. The vast majority of the activity was farming... this use to be miles after miles of farm land. The water supply was cut off about fifteen years ago. A big government damming project on the Coyote River put all those farmers out of business. The Bleakers have the only deep water well within thirty miles...... it generates plenty of water for small time cattle ranching, but not near enough for farming.
So, as far as my escape possibilities are concerned.....hell, it was obvious right away that even if I knew which way to run I could never escape. They could give me lots of head start time and then all they'd have to do is drive around in bigger and bigger circles until they spotted a lone runner in this huge open dust bowl. That's one of the things they could do...... but I found out later that they wouldn't even bother doing that. They'd just let the two dogs loose on me. The one German Shepard, named Fury, is 90 pounds of muscle and he's very familiar with my scent. I hate to tell you this, but he has had his way with me..... one time my first week there....and many times since then. He'd track me down in no time flat. It's as humiliating as anything could be, but I've been designated by the Sheriff, because of my small size, to be Fury's 'bitch'. When the sheriff wants to reward Fury, I have to get down on all fours.... naked.... and stay still until Fury is ready to mount me.
When dogs fuck, their cocks expand inside their bitch's cunt.... in this case my ass, so that the two of them, in this case Fury and me, are locked together. They stay locked together until all the dog's seed is transferred. Yeah it's true....I didn't know that either. I found out the first time Fury fucked me though. He still gives me nips at the back of my neck if I move around after being mounted. I try to stay real still when Fury starts that throaty growl and begins his nipping.
Both the brothers get real excited about Fury fucking me and they encourage their dog on. The dog don't really need a hell of a lot of encouragement if you ask me. It may seem like I'm blase about being fucked by a dog, but it's not that at all. I despise it as much as I despise many other things that happen to me here. It's just that it's been going on for almost two years now and I realized something early on.... and as terrible as this sounds, I'm able to tolerate being fucked by a dog easier than I can tolerate being whipped by the Sheriff. It's a survival thing.
I was scared to death my first day on the Ranch. That's when I first saw the Bleaker brothers together.
At that time I didn't know they were brothers. They don't look anything alike. The Sheriff is the oldest, about 50 years old I'd say, and he is definitely in charge. He's a very large man with an especially large head. Big, red, moon face....a wide, high forehead with big eyes that are much too far apart to look normal. It's hard to tell what or who he's looking at. Lots of eyebrows and a bulbous nose packed with dense, gray hairs. I don't know how he gets inhales of air through all the nose hairs.
He has that badly receding hairline and the hair he does have he wears long...it's long gray stringy hair.
An amazingly small mouth for such a large head.....it reminded me of a picture I saw once of some big blow fish with a tiny, tiny mouth. This odd head sits on top of a powerful looking neck and everything just gets bigger and bigger from the neck down....wide shoulders, barrel chest, huge pot belly. His legs are like tree stumps and he wears size 13 1/2 boots ....he seems proud of that... he's always mentioning his boot size.
The younger Bleaker..... Skeets Bleaker, is large too. He must be ten years younger then the Sheriff at least. He is very pale looking. Almost an albino. His hair is white, but he probably would tell you it's blond. His eyebrows are definitely white and it doesn't look like he has any blood in his acne scarred face. .... fish-belly-white is the descriptive phrase that popped into my head when I first saw Skeet's face. Every place the Sheriff is big the brother is small and vice versa. Skeets has a very small nose but a very big, wide mouth with fat bloodless lips. He has almost no forehead as his whitish hair line begins about an inch above his eyebrows. He keeps that yellowish-white hair in a long burr style haircut ...it sticks straight up almost two inches all over the top of his head. The sides are cut real short. It's hideous looking.
Both of the Bleaker brothers would be considered 'ugly' by everyone on the planet, and ugly in any number of different ways. If you were to see either one of them, in a dark alley or any place else for that matter, you'd quickly be running your ass off in the opposite direction... I'll bet you on that. The other thing I've heard the town people say is that the Bleakers have some serious in-breeding in their not-too-distant family history. Maybe so....
I saw them together again my second day on the Ranch. I'd had that whipping the first day for peeing my pants so I was paying real close attention now to what the Sheriff was explaining. He was outlining the way things worked around here and how I fit into the picture. That information caused me to frown while my stomach quivered. It made me think, "Was he serious?" The whipping had left welts across my ass cheeks and the back of my thighs. A few of them leaked a little watery blood. Very painful.
When the Sheriff introduced this gargoyle as his brother I continued to frown, but now my mouth was hanging open in disbelief. Then they started instructing me in a more physical way and I could soon believe just about anything. My five to six week breaking in period has, thankfully, been mostly blocked from my conscious mind. I remember some of the early whippings, but mostly my mind is blank about that time in my life. I do have nightmares about it quite often and they do scare the shit out of me.
I said earlier that I haven't had a house of my own for some years now and that's true. I use to live with my mother in Nueva Lorado, Mexico. Sadly, she was killed in an automobile crash. My mother was a Caucasian woman, a Canadian. She was a kind, hard working woman and I loved her. She had been on a vacation down in Mexico many years ago with some college friends. She met a handsome Mexican boy who was to become my father. They started an affair which resulted in her getting pregnant by him....then,
one thing led to another and they eventually got married. My mother's family back in Canada, however, was not open-minded about her marrying a Mexican and they more or less disowned her, and by extension me too..... before I was even born.
The handsome Mexican boy took off never to be seen again when I was three years old. I saw a couple of pictures of him, but I don't remember anything about him. Mother got a job in the town bakery to support us and although neither one of us was having a very good time, we were getting by at least. We tried to fit into a life in Mexico, but the older I became the more trouble I had fitting in. When it became obvious that it simply was never going to work out for me, Mother began making all kinds of arrangements through the Canadian Embassy in Mexico City for us to emigrate to Canada. We were less than a month away from the move....... Then her Volkswagen was rear ended by a trash truck and demolished. She was killed instantly they say. I was age fourteen at the time.
Due to some bull shit technicality the Mexican truck driver, who worked for the city, was never found 'at fault' for the accident. This meant that I couldn't collect any insurance money. Being a minor without means of support I was sent to a state run orphanage. I explained about our plans to move to Canada but it all fell on deaf ears. I tried to adjust to the orphanage routine.... but I was only able to stand that shit hole for about a month. There was almost no security so on my fifteenth birthday I just up and ran away....actually it was more like I "walked away".
It hit me later that they actually want us to run away. Shortly after running from the orphanage I tried sneaking into the United States and two years later ....here I am on the Bleakers Cattle Ranch.....convicted of something, and serving my sentence under 'house arrest'.
The troubles I encountered as I was growing up had to do mainly with the way I looked in my teen years. I didn't look 'Mexican', not that there is anything wrong with looking Mexican. It's just that I didn't fit with the "Mexican" image of my peers while growing up. Now that I'm seventeen I would guess I'm as tall as I'll ever be... 5' 6" tall and I weigh 115 pounds soaking wet. I have dark blond hair and light tan skin and dark blue eyes. My mother taught me English....... and of course I speak Spanish.
Looking 'different'....looking like a 'gringo' was a problem. Kids do not relate well to diversity in the dirt poor towns of Mexico and so by necessity I was a very tough kid. Lot's of fist fights....I was tough for my size. Growing up I thought I was a 'bad ass'. I haven't gotten any weaker since working on this fucking ranch for two years, but the thought of me being a bad ass is a distant memory. I'm a lot closer to being a 'kiss ass' now as I try to survive from one day to the next.... that's about it.
There are many rules and regulations enforced on the two of us 'house arrest' boys. The same ones I was taught when I first got here are the same ones I work with today.... We exist within a very exact schedule that rarely varies in any significant way. One of the basic beliefs of the Sheriff is that a regular enema keeps a boy healthy, "your routine cleaning out" he calls it. The Sheriff has always administered all of my routine stuff and his brother, Skeets, handles everything for the other boy.... currently the other boy is Dallas. So every Monday, Wednesday and Friday begins with an enema.
I'm always expected to be in the stable at 5:30 am. The other boy, Dallas, gets all his treatment from Skeets in the barn which is on the other side of the ranch house so we don't see each other until breakfast. I can smell the smoke from the Sheriff's cigarette before he gets to the stable so I have time to take off anything I'm wearing. The sheriff says his horses and livestock don't wear clothes so why should his "house arrest" convicts...... he wants us naked like the other animals "as much of the time as is sensible"..... they're his words, not mine. Not too much of what the Sheriff says or thinks seems all that sensible to me, but I keep that thought to myself. When the Sheriff arrives we do not say good morning, we don't say anything because the Sheriff has informed me that "he is not a morning person". He's not much of an afternoon or evening person either, but that's another thing I've never mentioned to him. I keep my eyes on the ground and wait for his commands.
On an enema day he'll usually grind out his cigarette butt in his coffee can ash tray and in a routine way
he'll say, "Alright Boy, bend over." The Sheriff dunks the enema tube in a big tub of Vaseline and then pushes six inches of the tube up my ass and releases the catch on the tube....this allows the six cups of warm, soapy water that I've put in the enema bottle to run down the tube and into my bowels. The Sheriff slowly walks over to sit in his chair and drink his large mug of coffee while smoking another cigarette.... all the time watching me. At first he'd grope himself while watching me get the enema but he's use to the view by now. He's use to it, but he still stares at me as my face gets red and I break out in a sweat as the enema progresses through it's various phases.
It's a fast moving enema and my stomach distends pretty quickly..... cramps set in pretty quickly too. I stay standing and bent at the waist with my hands on my knees.....my asshole attached to the enema tube taking all six cups of the enema ..... no sound coming out of me except for the occasional fart that squeezes out from my ass. I have to keep the soapy water inside me until the Sheriff slides a big wide mouth bucket over under me....he pushes it over with his flip flop adorned foot. Sometimes he takes longer than other times to do this. Early on I break out in a sweat with the effort to hold all the water in..... a little later sweat runs down my face from the concentration necessary to keep from groaning or whimpering from the cramps. It's a close call every time, but I know the consequences of making a sound.....I'd get a whipping. The Sheriff doesn't want the silence broken....he enjoys watching me with 'my sound turned off'.... that's the way he puts it.
The anticipation of relief is great when the Sheriff does finally get up and saunters over to kick that bucket under me. He pulls out the tube and says, "Hold it all in! No dripping... Squat down now, Son..... lower than that ....lower. OK. Hold it there." This is the hardest part...without the tube to help hold in the soapy water and with me squatting low over the bucket it takes great effort keeping that enema water inside me. My legs begin to shake and cramp up after a minute or so. Then, ..."Alright. Let her loose, Son." Finally relief..... the brown water explosion in the bottom of that aluminum bucket creates a loud clang! Hearing that 'clang' sound usually causes a giggle to burst out of the Sheriff's mouth..... as he lights another cigarette. His eyes are bright as he snickers some more and turns away. I'm allowed to help hold myself up by reaching behind me and grasping the rim of the bucket for support. It takes five minutes or so for the remainder of the brown water and shit clumps to drain out of me. The whole deal leaves me feeling very weak.
"Over here, get a move on." he orders, and dragging the shit bucket with me I hurry over near the big drain in the stable's cement floor. Every day the Sheriff, at this point, will removed his big dirty terry cloth bathrobe. The only thing he has on now are size 13 1/2 flip flops. Other than the flip flops he's as naked as I am. He has a lot of gray body hair, pretty much all over him. It's so dense at his crotch that his large balls are mostly hidden in it. Not his fat cock though...it hangs out of his long haired pubic patch. It's over eight inches when boned up. I can testify to that from hundreds of first hand experiences with it. I also can verify that each of his nuts is the size of a lemon and they are encased in a tough brown ball sac that reminds me of a coconut shell..... almost as hard and brown, with the same bristly hairs. The Sheriff is 6' 4" and approaches 300 pounds. A big, strong, ugly, crazy man with hard calluses on the palms of his hands and bulging muscles in his arms and legs. A fucking nightmare!
Over at the big floor drain the naked Sheriff is holding the hose we use to wash the horses. That hose has a smallish, adjustable nozzle on the end which he sticks an inch up my asshole and fills me up with water again...this time clear water. It takes about 15 seconds till my belly is bulging out. He pulls out the nozzle and I let all the water drain out of me again. Once more he fills my bowels with water and I let it drain out of me. "That should do it Danny, your coming out clean now. Feel better?" He always asks the same thing.. Do I feel better? I always feel much worse after the enema, but I know what to say...either "Yes, sir. Thank you sir." or "Yes Sheriff. Thank you sir." There are no other acceptable responses. I say it and he nods his approval and begins right in with the regular Monday routine.
First I bend my neck so that my head is over, and I'm looking right into, the bucket I'd just shit in. The Sheriff turns on electric clippers and cuts my dark blond hair to 1/8 inch all over my head. Each Monday he does this so of course there isn't much hair falling into that shit bucket. Your hair don't grow much in a week.. Dallas and I have whispered to each other about the things that happen to us. ....comparing notes so to speak. We know that up through the buzzed haircut our treatment is almost identical.
Well not exactly because Skeets...for fun, will sometimes let the hose fill up Dallas so much that Dallas will begin peeing out a strong stream of piss. Skeets smacks the back of Dallas' head when this happens, but Dallas can't make himself stop peeing .. . and he can hear that sadist, Skeets, giggling at Dallas' efforts to stop the pee stream as more and more water is pumped up his ass. After the buzzed hair we are handled differently by the two men.... although the end results are pretty much the same.
When the Sheriff is satisfied my hair is uniformly short he turns off the clippers and I back up to the drain again. The Sheriff turns the hose on full force to drench me with cold water. I turn slowly with my arms raised above my head as he trains the hose up and down my body. When he's feeling playful he'll sometimes direct a hard stream at my balls. I know not to move out of the water stream's path or let a sound of any kind escape my lips. It can hurt my balls something wicked, but I know I'd be hurting worse if I moved. When he's torturing my balls with the sharp water stream he tries to hold in the smile, but I can see him chuckling to himself...... Skeets and the Sheriff both have their water torture fun, but in different ways. They both like to cause pain.
When it's impossible to get me any wetter he turns off the hose and begins scrubbing me down using the same rough sponge we use on the horses. For me it's foaming with lye soap. I have to be sure to keep my eyes and mouth tightly closed. This scrubbing goes on for a while and at times during the scrubbing I feel the Sheriff's stiff boner poking me here and there as he leans into me breathing hard through his large nose. The Sheriff must have some kind of a god damn fetish about some part of this scrub down. I don't know what part it is exactly and I don't believe he's ever climaxed from the fetish, although I'm not positive about that..... I just know he springs a long poker of a boner when he's scrubbing me.
At some point he becomes satisfied with the scrubbing part and turns the hose on me again. The dirty, soapy water flows down the drain as I turn slowly around until he says, "That's enough! Get over to the saddle now." An old saddle has been fastened onto a heavy oak wheel barrel that's laying on it's side. The barrel itself is bolted to the floor of the stable. I sit on the saddle putting my feet in the stir-ups and lay back on the barrel with my hands clasped over my head. The Sheriff sometimes begins whistling..... horribly off key, as he puts a dab of shaving cream under each of my arms and, using a straight razor, he shaves off the stubble that's grown in since last Monday.
Every Monday I get the bath and a body shave. They are both very welcome. The bath because it's the only one I get all week. The shave because of the stubble that grows in under my arms, all around my crotch, and ....particularly on both sides of my ass crack. Oh my God, that stubble causes a pricking, scratchy and itchy nightmare of irritation. The last couple of days of each week, the constant pricking of the short little stiff hairs as they grow in drives me near crazy .....I hate those unrelenting pricks. With the shaving starting now I have to stifle a sigh of relief knowing I'll have a few days of peace from that god damn prickly stubble.
He does a quick dab and a swipe of the straight razor on my upper lip and a little below each of my sideburns where I'm growing some peach fuzz. I have no hair on my torso except my pubes and they get the shaving cream next. He massages the shaving cream all around my crotch concentrating on stroking my cock with his slippery shaving cream hand.... it gets me semi-hard. Then holding my semi-hard cock like it's a handle he pulls up to make the skin all around my cock taut and he shaves my pubes around my nuts very slowly....then my pubes around my penis......first with the grain and then after more shaving cream, a second shave against the grain.
My legs are next and he takes his time rubbing the shaving cream up and down my legs in a kind of hypnotic massage. It's not unusual that he'll be humming to himself while rubbing my legs up and down, over and over again as if he's lost track of what he's doing. Then he'll shake his head and say, "Huh?" before starting in with the razor ...first with the grain and then a second time against the grain. The Sheriff often loses concentration causing him to nick me here and there with the razor. Some days blood from the nicks smears on me as he's feeling every inch of my shaved skin to be sure I'm as smooth as the day I was born.
Lastly, I turn over to lay across the saddle on my belly and he takes a long time lathering my ass with the shaving cream and massaging all around my hole. When ready to shave he begins by pushing his index finger in my hole and pulling up to distend it. This allows him to shave right up to the edge and all around my hole. Then slow razor strokes away from the hole until he's fully covered both ass cheeks. More rubbing by the Sheriff to be sure it's completely smooth and then he always says, "That was the pleasure part Son, but I teach you nothing if I let you think life is all pleasure." With that he rubs an alcohol based after-shave lotion all around my ass crack, my hole, my legs and reaching under me he covers my balls and groin with a handful of after-shave alcohol torture.
This use to get me in big trouble because I would scream out in pain, but I expect it now and I grit my teeth in anticipation of the pain that will roll over me. When he's applying the alcohol to the newly shaved areas with all the nicks and cuts... little excited sounds escape from the Sheriff's throat.... his eyes get real shiny as they roll around in his eye sockets. He's giggling quietly to himself all the time he's applying that evil after-shave lotion. My eyes run with a river of tears, my body is as stiff as a board and I have the shakes like I'm attached to a vibrator. The pain comes in waves and I know from experience if I count down from '100' by the time I get to '1' I'll have made it. The pain will be bearable and fading by then. I do the backward counting in my head while the Sheriff is groping himself as he puts away the shaving paraphernalia.
Dallas is spared most of the pain here because Skeets uses an electric hair trimmer to shave Dallas smooth over there in the barn. Almost as smooth as me, but not quite. He gets the after shave torture too but it's not nearly as bad as it would be if he was actually 'shaved' the way I am. As far as Dallas' weekly bath goes...Skeets doesn't have any kind of bath fetish and so, while he does wet Dallas down with a hose, Dallas gets to scrub himself clean.
The bath and the shave happen only on Mondays and the only washing we're allowed to do the rest of the week is to wash our hands and face once a day..... before dinner. Dallas and me both try to find ways to get wet during the week, especially for the area around our asses and inside our thighs where the drooling sperm from the Bleaker brothers dries and itches. Usually we have success in this endeavor while watering the garden or washing the horses and things like that....when we have access to a hose.
The Sheriff and Skeets are both fans of body odor though. Neither of them is interested in us getting cleaned-up too much during the week. They like the two of us boys real "ripe" as they calls it. "You're good and ripe tonight, Son. You got yourself quite an odor going for ya....yup, quite an odor." When the Sheriff has me in bed with him he'll elaborately inhale my body odor. It took many months before I could get over the urge to vomit from his revolting behavior. It seems that humans can eventually get use to whatever they have to get use to.... The Sheriff and his brother shower daily, but their two "house arrest" boys only have the one bathing per week... a bath almost like the animals get out there in either the stable or the barn.
The bath and body shave are only done on Mondays, as I've said, and the enema is done only on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. What is done every day except Sunday is the "sexual-release exercise" and the "anticipated-need for discipline spanking". It's simply more of the Bleaker's sadistic and perverted behavior. Everyday for the last two years the Sheriff names and explains these two daily exercises for me. Almost the exact words every day. He can call this abomination whatever he wants, but what it actually is......it's, rape and a physical beating. That's what it is.
The Sheriff sits on his heavy, hard wood, straight back chair smoking his cigarette. We're both naked........ with all that wiry gray hair covering his body the Sheriff doesn't look particularly naked. My hairless body looks very naked. "Get up on my lap, Son.... and lean completely back against me." I turn around and he usually doesn't wait for me to crawl up on his lap but instead grabs my hips with his huge hands and he just picks me up and pulls me onto his broad hairy thighs. He wraps both of his hairy arms around me and nuzzles the side of my face. His whiskers feel like a wire brush. Often he'll kiss me on the side of my face or forehead and on the back of my neck..... I can feel his cock getting harder and harder under me. When it is finally sticking straight out from his crotch the head of his rock hard cock extends out far enough to poke into the back of my nut sack and lift it up ....one of my nuts hanging on either side of that pole-hard cock of his.
He gives his little lecture when he's done with the nuzzling. In it he describes what he sees as his 'duty'..... "to eliminate the strong sexual urges a boy my age has". The Sheriff considers this exercise an acceptable substitute, if you will, for a 'normal' sexual release... He explains that sexual urges detract from our ability to perform our jobs at the highest level possible. As 'Sheriff' he must demand a high level of performance. I think to myself, "what utter horse shit"...... but, with his arms around me he continues, "So, hold onto my wrist with both your hands. Lean back onto me more, I don't want to have to tell you that again. I want you tight up against me. Hell, I won't bite you boy... god damn it all!"
My legs are draped over the outside of his thighs. I actually feel like a little boy sitting in that huge lap of his. The Sheriff dips his index finger in that big tub of Vaseline and lubes up my limp cock with it.
He likes to put his nose right on top of my head and I can feel his hot nose air on my head as he breaths out. Revolting. The Sheriff will breath out quite a bit as he continues to massage Vaseline all around my groin. First my shaved balls and then my penis. He relentlessly plays with and squeezes my package....often he'll squeeze too hard and my body will stiffen but I keep my 'grunt' inside my head. The Sheriff chuckles away. Sooner or later my cock invariably gets hard as he strokes from the bottom of my balls to the top of my stiffening dick.... over and over. The palm of his hand is roughly callused and at first it feels scratchy on my cock but the Vaseline soon lubricates everything.
His breath stinks of cigarette smoke and coffee as his hairy body itches and disgusts me..... but no matter, after a while my cock will still start twitching and leaking as he keeps up his rhythmic stroking. I can feel his fat, hard cock head leaking precum under my nuts and as gross as it all is to me I can't stop my balls from sending a load of cum up to my boner... both my legs get stiff, pointing straight out.... my body is like a wire just before I climax, and then a small silent moan signifying that spunking feeling...oh my God, I can't stop it...... out shoots my sperm.
I'm breathing a little hard as the Sheriff slips his Vaseline and cum covered hand under my ass.... his middle finger goes up inside me. He forces it way up, then almost all the way out...then up. He fucks my hole with his fat finger until I'm real loose .....with the looseness comes his second even fatter finger and its tight again. He fucks my hole with two fingers until I'm loose again and then he pulls up on my hole and pushes on my back. I slip forward off his lap to land with both my hands and feet on the floor....almost like doggy style, except my ass is as far up in the air as I can get it.. The Sheriff pulls his finger out of my hole and pushes his huge cock head against it.
I can always feel his precum drooling down my bubble butts. The Sheriff's strokes his hot, swollen cock as he smears Vaseline up and down that pole. Then he grabs my hips with both hands and pulls me onto his cock. All the way on that big fat pole till his coconut nut sac whacks into my sac of nuts....mine are empty nuts at the moment. The Sheriff's action picks my feet right up off the floor so my weight is fully on my arms and hands. It's very painful as that monster cock plows its way up my tight tunnel, but I'm use to the pain and have learned to bear it. He roughly fucks me by pulling me onto his boner and pushing me off of it. It's almost like he's jerking off using my hole instead of his hand. When his initial sexual urgency is satisfied he'll moan out a long moan and lower my feet back to the floor....... his copious pre cum drools down my ass cheeks to join the earlier load .....it all eventually runs down the inside of my thighs. Positioning his hairy legs on the outside of my hairless ones and holding onto my shoulders to keep me in place, he pile drives me until he explodes, filling me completely up and over flowing with his large spunk load. Lots and lots of cum.
The Sheriff is a big breather...lots of noisy, heavy breathing to go along with lots and lots of cum. His large cock head stimulated every bit of my tunnel and dominated my prostrate so totally I can't help myself and I spring my own boner, my second of the morning which eventually generates a few drops of cum. The Sheriff had just milked me dry a few minutes ago, but by the end of that rough fucking and prostrate stroking I cum that little bit again. We are both breathless and fully spent by the time it's over. He barely can speak for a couple of minutes and I just stay on my hands and feet in that awkward position with my hole burning and aching.....waiting for the Sheriff to get his voice back.
"You god damn better appreciate this, Son. I go through a lot of effort for you.... and, I can see you sure as shit enjoy it..... getting 'off' twice and all, you're disgusting......boys your age are so horny and disgusting. Oh, but I understand how it all works and I take it into consideration when preparing these procedures.....now, what do you have to say for yourself, Son ?" I know what to say, "Thank you Sheriff, I love that you're doing that sexual relief exercise on me, Sir. Thank you for caring about me so much. Thank you for caring enough to do this for me even though I know you hate doing it, Sir." That's the only form of protest I dare.... that little bit of sarcasm about him 'hating fucking me'. I get away with it because the Sheriff doesn't 'get' sarcasm, he takes each word at face value...
After I thank him profusely, he'll finally say something like, "Ok, Ok, enough of that, hurry up now.... we're late today. Get across my lap, Son..hurry up!" I lay across his lap and my heart always starts beating faster from the scary feeling I get in the pit of my stomach. This is the spanking I get every morning.... except Sunday. The Sheriff explained to me and Dallas that we'll get a mild spanking ever morning to cover the fuck-ups that all teenagers are bound to have during each and every day.
And, the spanking is also to account for the bad "thoughts" we may have during the day. Major screw-ups will of course require much more severe punishment. The spanking is an open handed, dozen or so smacks on my ass. Believe me, it isn't mild. Every morning I promise myself that this is the day I'm not going to end up bawling like a seven year old.
I haven't been able to keep that promise to myself yet. The first smack is painful and by the 4th or 5th I'm trying to get off his lap. It kills with the pain...... the Sheriff's arm way up behind him as he swoops down and slaps right on the same spot time after time. I'm blubbering and crying by the time he's finished..... and the Sheriff has himself another huge, dripping boner. It sticks straight out from his thick pube patch as he breaths hard while putting on his bathrobe. "Get your red ass over to empty that shit bucket. Then you need to run to the house right after that. Get some breakfast and you need to find out from Mr Bleaker what you two convicts are expected to get done today. Go on along now before I give you another couple smacks on that bright red ass of yours!
And, God Damnit stop that crying, what are you....some kind of pussy-boy? Tell Skeets I'll be right there." I see the Sheriff stroking his long boner as I hurry to do what I'm told. All the while I'm trying to get my blubbering under control. I wipe my forearm across my nose and wipe my face with the palms of my hands. My concern is that Dallas not see me crying and acting like a baby.
Skeets and Dallas are there ahead of the Sheriff and me every day because Skeets handles thes things differently for Dallas. He makes Dallas bend over at the waist and hold on to a ring that's screwed into the barn wall. First Skeets forces a lubed dildo up Dallas' ass to loosen it and then, using his open hand he starts smacking Dallas on his bare ass with big, long, sweeping, hard smacks. Spanking Dallas get Skeets boned up hard and big, just as big a boner as the Sheriff's. The harder Skeets spanks Dallas and the more grunts and yelps he gets out of Dallas, the harder Skeet's boner gets and the more it leaks. He doesn't have the silence 'rule'....he likes hearing the groans and cries of pain from Dallas. They turn Skeets on.
Many times Skeets gets over stimulated from spanking Dallas and will mount him early..... after only six or seven smacks sometimes..... And, as he humps Dallas he orders Dallas to jerk himself off. So, Dallas has it horrible, but not nearly as horrible as I have it. The Sheriff's routine is much worse then Skeets' routine. Sometimes I can't help it....I feel jealous that Dallas has it so much easier then me.
At breakfast each morning the Sheriff's seat is at the head of the kitchen table....it's a captain style big arm chair. Dallas and me sit next to each other on a bench to the right of the Sheriff, each of us with a wash cloth under our holes to absorb the Bleaker brothers cum that drips out of us during breakfast. Mr Skeets Bleaker sits to the Sheriff's left in an arm chair just like the Sheriff's. Dallas and I take turns saying grace before every meal and we better make it sound sincere and from our heart. The grace must be in our own words and include thanks for the food and thanks for two men like the Sheriff and Mr Skeets Bleaker, two men who have taken an interest in two wayward convicts like Dallas and me..."thank you Lord for all our many, many blessings".
Dallas and I are never suppose to speak to or look at each other. We must speak whenever the Sheriff or Mr Skeets Bleaker ask us about something, but that is the extent of it.....all other times just keep our mouth shut. When we are spoken to we're to sit up straight and looking straight ahead give them the "right" response. We've learned the "right" responses over time. Dallas and me are usually naked when we're in the ranch house.
Because of our nakedness I can see we both look the same.....we have no hair and our asses are always red and sore looking .....and leaking at breakfast. Misery loves company I guess because it is some small solace that I'm not the only boy in the world going through this. But then I feel guilty about being glad that Dally has to suffer too. I can't think straight all the time in this nightmare life I'm living! Dallas and I both walk a bit bowlegged from the rough daily fucks we receive from the Bleakers. Of course, I've never seen Dallas being fucked by the German Sheppard so we're not treated the same in that regard either... There I go, feeling sorry for myself again.
During the months he's been here I've taken many, many
little quick peaks at Dallas. He's a very nice looking 19 year old white boy about 5'10" tall with a nice, taut body. His buzzed hair is light brown and he has the greenest eyes I've ever seen.... impossibly green. Beautiful! Only the cutest or best looking convicts apparently get to be "house arrest" guests. The Bleakers have a bulletin board with all the boy convicts pictures on it and the dates of their sentence and release. Pictures of Dallas and me are the last two on the board. Virtually all the boys are cute and good looking.......not a single one has a smile on his face though. We all look scared to death.... and we all had good reason to look scared to death too.
Dallas, who long ago told me that I should call him 'Dally'..like his friends did out in the real world. The first part rhymes with the first part of "Dallas"....'Dal'.... and the second syllable is the "ie" sound... "Dally". I like calling him that. It means he thinks of me as his friend, not just a fellow house arrest convict. Dally is a 'run-a-way'. He ran away from his home in New Jersey when he was 17 years old. It took Dally over a year to make it all the way down here in Texas. The vigilantes picked him up for pan-handling outside the supermarket. That's his crime. As I've alluded to, thank God for Dally because I wouldn't have lasted this long without him. I'm sorry as hell he has to go through this, I always feel that way when I'm thinking straight. He has become very important in my life...... he manages to keep me from just giving up as he provides me with that important thing called 'hope'. Dally does one thing or another to help me make it through every day.
I love him like a brother.....maybe more, I'm not sure because I never had a brother.
I've been trying to put this next thought out of my mind but I can't do it any longer..... recently I've had to come to an extremely disturbing conclusion. I have resisted this for a long time, but the circumstantial evidence simply can't be ignored any longer. It's like this.... I was here for more than a year and after seeing other house arrest boys leave, a thought occurred to me...... when they were free why didn't any of those boys complain to someone about the sexual abuse and whippings that take place here. It doesn't seem possible that not one single boy would complain to some sort of authority figure. Sure, it would be embarrassing admitting what's happening to us here, embarrassing to say the least....even so, someone would surely go to the authorities .....at least one of the released boys. There are over 20 pictures on that one bulletin board. If just one boy told their story to the police or FBI or somebody.....
wouldn't they have to come here and investigate such abuses as we endure.....no? Am I wrong? I tried to convince myself that there has to be some explanation, but the reality is that there is only one reasonable answer for this.......the boys who leave the ranch never make it back to the 'real world' alive.
The Sheriff and his brothers....or somebody connected to them... is a mass murderer. All those boys are murdered once the Sheriff or Skeets gets tired of them. My guess is it's the Sheriff....I think he's the psycho mass murderer or serial murderer or whatever......maybe he does the murders when his insanity comes over him. The boys who leave are simply killed and then buried somewhere out there in that vast dirt farm. What else could it be? This is hard to say too...really hard to admit, but that same someone, the Sheriff or whoever, is going to kill me and Dallas too and our bodies will also be tossed in some dirt hole. At some point in the foreseeable future they are going to murder us and then simply replace us with other run-away or wayward boys. I get such fright chills up my back and a scary freezing feeling in my stomach whenever I think about this.
I've whispered my fears to Dallas and he said, "Jeez, Danny, I figured that out too, but I didn't want to scare you by telling you about it. When we get to be 20 we're too old for the Bleaker brothers, they like their boys younger for sure. They don't even have to wait till we're 20, they could just get a hair up their ass and 'do' us sooner." I shivered all over when he said that, but he also told me, "Don't you worry right now though Danny, we're still young enough for those perverts and we are both smart enough to not to give them any trouble at all....Right? They're satisfied with us for the time being and anyway, I got an escape plan in my head. Trust me Danny, I promise I'll save us both!" Dally has whispered that to me many times and I believe him too. How else could I carry on every day....all my hope is in Dally's hands....
We work for ten to twelve hours a day.....six days a week. It can get very hot in Texas so that adds to the many difficulties of a long day. Some days when my ass or my asshole, or both of them, are especially sore it can be a great torture to ride a horse all day, but it simply must be endured. We don't ride horses every day ....sometimes we're driven in the pick-up. There are many jobs to be done.....such as, rounding up stray cattle, fixing fences that seemingly go on forever, feed the horses and make sure the herd is near something it can eat. We feed the chickens, do the laundry, tending the vegtable garden, cook and clean up after dinner, sweep out the barn and stable, clean the house, change the beds and many other things....... we do everything.
The Bleakers are our guards only...our guard and our boss. "Do this...now do that...after that do this." The Bleakers do not do manual labor. Well, wait a minute...the Sheriff likes to split logs with an ax. He'll do it for a couple hours straight. Plenty of fire wood. He says he does it to keep himself strong and he has his best ideas while splitting logs. Dally and me just sneak a look at each other when the Sheriff gives out that crock of shit.. Other than that, the Bleaker brothers aren't interested in manual labor. They are conscientious about watching us though.....in the two years I've been a prisoner on the Ranch I've never once been alone with one of the other boys. Either a Bleaker brother or a vigilante is always there with us.
The sleeping arrangements have been the same since the first day. I have a cot in the Sheriff's bedroom and the other "house arrest" boy, who is Dallas at the moment, stays in Mr Skeets Bleaker's room. When were ordered to our cots for the night our right wrist is fitted into a handcuff that is affixed to a steel ring bolted to the floor. When I first arrived the other house arrest boy was a very good looking, light skinned African American boy named Sylvester. He'd been in Skeet's room for a while before I arrived. Initially we had very little opportunity to speak because I was just getting 'broken in' and consequentially I was hysterical much of the time.....just babbling and crying and begging. That went on for five weeks or so, but then about four months before Slyvester left I'd been finally completely indoctrinated into the Bleaker brothers program. Sylvester helped me to understand that cooperation with the Bleakers, no matter how horrific that may be, was my only hope of surviving this.
We found time to talk occasionally out on the job. We didn't look at each other when we talked... we talked in a whisper, just like Dally and me do now. Sometimes our guard would be lazy and not bother to move over to where we were working and we took that opportunity to talk openly to each other. Sylvester was excited because he only had a few more months to go. He'd been on the ranch for a little over a year at the time. When he heard I had a six year sentence he cried for me and promised to send in help when he got out. I waited every day after he left for some sign that help was coming.....finally I gave up hope. Back then I still believed boys actually were released back into the real world......I thought he just forgot about me and that he was probably so glad to be out of here he wanted to put it all behind him.
It was only a few days after Sylvester left that his replacement showed up. He was a large strong good looking Mexican boy about 18 years old. He broke in hard over a five week period.....when they broke him though, they really broke him. He never tried to talk with me even once and I speak perfect Spanish. He was here only a few months and left without ever saying a word to me. I over heard Skeets say to the Sheriff, "Well, that 'wet back' was one big fucking waste of time and effort. Some kids just aren't worth the trouble." The Sheriff said, "Fuck em! There are plenty more where he come from." Back then I thought the boy had won his freedom somehow. Another boy followed and he was gone quickly too.... in less than four months. At the time Skeets was always complaining to the Sheriff about that kid. Then came Dallas.
Dallas broke in fast and gave them very little trouble so Skeets thinks he's OK....Dallas told me he could see no sense to fighting against the program no matter how inhuman it was. What benefit would result from fighting it....nothing positive for Dallas. He also said, almost from the beginning, that he'd figure out some way to get us out of here. He still had some swagger at that point. He adopted me as his little brother.... or something. He said there was no way he would allow me to spend four more years with these retarded sub-human perverts. Dallas has quite a large hate going for the brothers. You might say I do too. When Dally is pumping up my spirits I have a strong desire to hug him and have him hug me back. That would be a wonderful comforting feeling..... Dally and me pretending we're safe for a little while, that would be so nice. We never get the chance to do that though.
Dallas is real confident in himself even though the treatment we receive doesn't do a lot to reinforce confidence. I asked him how he could stand the sex with Skeets and Dallas said, "It's the hardest thing I've ever had to do....In my wildest imagination I couldn't think up something this unspeakable. It's worse then I imagine Hell would be like...... and yet,
it's not as bad as what you have to put up with, Danny. I admire you for holding on. Keep holding on until I can get the chance to take care of those two assholes. And I am going to take care of them too."
Dally had spoken with such hate in his voice about the Bleaker brothers that a minute later he surprised me when, this time with a smile in his voice he said, "Now, on the other hand, if they made you and me do the sex together, Danny.... well, that'd be another thing altogether... that would be OK. Would it be OK with you, Danny? ....maybe better than OK even!" And he lightly elbowed me in the side to make me look over so he could wink and smirk at me. I'm very, very fond of Dally. At times I find myself wondering if the Sheriff had turned me into a gay boy.....is that what Dally meant? I hadn't thought I was a gay boy when I crossed that border almost two years ago.....
Sleeping with the Sheriff or with Skeets is the worst of all the things we must endure. The one slightly positive thing about sleeping with the Sheriff is that it doesn't happen often. It only happens two or three times a month. I never know when, but out of no where he'll say something crazy like, "What? You think you're too good to sleep with me?" I don't even have to look at him....I can tell from the different sounding voice he's using that his insanity has taken hold of him. The voice sounds like an old lady's high pitched voice. It comes on him and it scares the shit out of me. What he says doesn't need to make any sense. If I make the wrong decision and say the wrong thing I'll be getting whipped and he'll be correcting my behavior using that scary old lady voice.
I have a lot of 1/4" high welts and quite a few permanent scars across my ass cheeks and the back of my thighs from previous whippings.... he uses a very old looking bull whip that makes a whistling sound and a sharp "crack" as it breaks the sound barrier just before the tip of the whip connects with my bare ass or the back of my thighs. About one out of three strikes splits the skin open for about an eight inch strip. The other lashes leave welts that sting for days. He whips me while I'm naked and on my hands and knees. The Sheriff insists that I try to crawl away. "Go on now you naughty, naughty boy. Try to get away from your punishment. Crawl faster or I'll whip you all night!" He screeches in that insane scary high pitched voice.
I'll get a little bit away from him and he'll start to snicker while drooling spit down his chin....... he'll takes two big steps and unleash that bull whip across my ass. Each lash has me bucking like a wild pony. The icy clarity of that whipping pain causes me to see everything in bright red colors... Splashes of red in my head each time I'm hit.... and the sounds I make in my throat as each lash connects with my body doesn't sound like any human noise you've ever heard....
The fear of a whipping makes me try to accommodate the Sheriff in every way I can. When his insanity takes over and he says something stupid like 'I think I'm too good to sleep with him" I know that he wants me to sleep with him, but more than that he wants me to 'want' to do it. I've learned to quickly say something like, "Oh no, Sheriff Bleaker, Sir. I was afraid to bother you with this Sir, but sleeping with you is my favorite thing to do in this whole world. Please let me get in bed with you, Sir. Please let me suck your cock and please fuck me, Sir." He'll say something like... "Where do you come up with this shit, Danny? Jesus Christ, don't I already do everything I can to help you with your run-a-way sex drive? Oh for Christs sake....alright, get up here, you can suck my cock." And he'll toss over the key to my handcuff .... he wears it on a string around his neck.
I'll suck his ugly, veined, swollen, dark reddish/brown cock like I love it and I can see his crazy eyes looking at me with approval.....that's the way I want him to stay because if his eyes cloud over I'm getting a whipping. When I taste his precum I say, "Please fuck me Sheriff...fuck me hard, Sir." I've learned that is all he wants to hear...just those words. He gives me a wild fuck and sometimes he'll follow-up with a second one an hour or so later after cuddling and licking and kissing me. It is always a big struggle for me to keep from throwing-up. The morning after those in-bed fucks I can barely walk. I walk with my legs as far apart as I can get them. No one says anything about it...we all know that no matter about last night, I'll still be getting my regular morning fuck from the Sheriff shortly. I don't even think the Sheriff remembers what he did the night before. I've seen him look surprised in the morning when he wakes-up and sees me in bed with him.
On occasions the Sheriff will want a taste of Dallas and he tells Skeets. The Sheriff, using that crazy woman's voice he uses when he's under the grip of his insanity says, "Fuck Danny hard for me tonight little brother....I'll be busy doing my best to satisfy this here other boy's sex drive for him.. and I want that one there to get his sex drive fucked out of him as well. Heh heh... fuck em hard, Skeets."
Skeets Bleaker will do me good and hard alright.. Skeets is a mean spirited man...a mean bastard through and through. I am alert to his every wish too. I know that when I'm in his bed he'll smack me across my face without giving it a thought. He's knocked me unconscious with one smack on four different occasions. He wants the whole sex deal too... including a lot of rimming, so all in all I prefer the crazy Sheriff to the vicious Skeets for bedtime duty. Dallas has whispered to me that he gets slapped about twice a month but he don't pass out like I do...Dally's a lot tougher than me. God damn, I use to think I was a tough kid, but the Bleaker brothers long ago whipped and fucked that thought out of me. I'm scared of both of them.... all the time.
Skeets never thinks about liking anybody... people are for his personal pleasure, his personal use ... his convenience, period. That is, with the exception to that being his brother, the Sheriff. Skeets is afraid of his brother, probably because he knows the Sheriff is insane and can get totally out of control at times... nobody, included Skeets can predict what the Sheriff will do when his insanity has hold of him.
No small concern is the Sheriff's gun.....he swings it around and fires off some shots whenever his insane brain thinks it's a good idea. And also, I've got to believe Skeets knows things about the Sheriff that the rest of us don't know. His fear of the Sheriff makes my fear of the Sheriff that much stronger........it scares me the most that that mean bastard Skeets is so afraid of his brother. Of course there are always things to be scared about around here.
Then.... one otherwise normal Monday afternoon, Dally and me were out working along the fence line when our guard Skeets got a call on his cell phone. It was real hot that day and made hotter because we had heavy jeans and jackets on. We were working in sage brush which can cut you up real bad if your skin is unprotected. I hear Skeets say, "No shit! How bad? OK, I'll lock these little fuckers down and be in to pick you up....give me about an hour and a half." I glanced over at Dally and his eyes were getting big. He barely nodded his head at me and whispered, "Maybe something finally is going to give us a shot, Danny. Just do as Skeets tells you. After we get back to the ranch I'll be over to talk with you.... just as soon as that piece of shit leaves." Dally nodded his head toward Skeets when he said "that piece of shit". Boy, Dally can even make me smile in this hell hole... he's something!
I enjoyed my little smile, but I still didn't see how Dallas thought he would be over to talk with me. If Skeets was locking us down that meant he'd handcuff us in our beds. How was Dally going to get free from that? As usual Skeets didn't tell us a thing, he just said... "You two pussies get over here right now." He put Dallas in the back of the pick-up truck with the two dogs.....Dally was handcuffed to the steel ring back there and I went in the passenger seat handcuffed to the ring soldered to the floor board. It was very uncomfortable riding all bent over like I had to do with my wrist handcuffed to the floor. Skeets did not appear to give a rat's ass about my discomfort.
On the ride back to the ranch I heard him tell the Sheriff's deputy on his cell phone that the Sheriff had badly twisted and seriously sprained his ankle and his right knee was very swollen from the blow it took on the cement sidewalk when he fell. He'd fallen off a step coming out of the 'OK Corral' bar and was in a lot of pain. "That dumb fuck was drinking shooters of Wild Turkey with come back pony bottles of Bud all afternoon. Asshole is drunk again so I need you to help me with the "house arrest" cunts tomorrow. Yeah, a'course the same rate...town pays $12 an hour for this and your regular deputy pay too, ya greedy bastard. And Christ, ya don't hav ta do anythang cept sit in the fucking air conditioned truck. OK Carl, see ya tomorrow...... 8am sharp!"
This information might be important for Dally to know, but I had no way to tell him. Skeets took Dallas into his bedroom and handcuffed him down first thing when we got back to the ranch. Than he got me and did the same to me in the Sheriff's bedroom. He didn't tell either of us anymore than he'd told the dogs when he put them in their kennel.. The two dogs...Dally and me... same fucking thing to Skeets Bleaker...no difference. I was so tired of being scared all the time....of being treated like a farm animal...of being whipped...of being fucked by those horrible miscreants....of working like a beast of burden....of being Fury's bitch...I was so tired of my life, really. And, I was afraid of my death too. How would they do it? How to they murder us boys....a bullet in the head? I was, as usual, shaky....and always afraid.
I heard Skeets' truck pull out and two minutes later Dallas shocked me by coming into my room. He was carrying what looked like an old time 'billy club'.. "You OK , Danny?" ..... "where...er, how or why can..who?" I was speechless. Dally explained how he'd come up with this way to get out of his handcuff whenever he wanted. He had a piece of a wooden match...the stick part, not the striker head. He broke off about half an inch and stuck it inside the 'female' part of the handcuff. "When that revolting piece of shit, Skeets, puts the handcuff on my wrist each night he squeezes it closed till the 'male' part hits against that little piece of wood match that I inserted inside the 'female' part... and it stops it short. This leaves the opening just barely big enough so I can squeeze my hand out through and escape the handcuff. I have Vaseline wiped on the underside of my cot.... I smear some on my hand to help it slide through the metal handcuff. Smart, ain't I ?"
I could only stare at Dally in admiration and with some other kind of feeling too...I wondered what that other feeling was and then quickly switched back to listening to Dallas. He explained that he had a piece of match for me to stick in my handcuff too. I was to stick it in my handcuff when they let us out for dinner. Dallas had picked up two heavy, hard wood 'billy clubs' from a chest in the family room. One club for him and one for me. He'd discovered the billy clubs during one of his night time explorations. There was about a dozen of these old time billy clubs in that chest, each with a little pamphlet describing who had owned it and how old it was and other stuff that Dally and I didn't care about. The Sheriff had been picking them up at flea markets .....it was one of his many hobbies ....collecting old 'billy clubs'. Another of his hobbies was that log splitting thing....real normal hobbies, right? The only thing we cared about was that the billy clubs were stout, heavy and easy to swing . They would not feel very nice swung around hard and fast to land on a person's head.
Dally explained, "I wouldn't even think of leaving without you, Danny .....the reason I didn't tell you about my ability to get out of my handcuff earlier is because you're a worrier and the lunatic brothers might have picked up on your worrying vibes if you knew about me sneaking around here at night. We can't even think about breaking out of here unless we are first able to over-power those two maniacs. They have to be incapacitated for eight hours or more. We need that much head start time. I'm thinking these billy clubs might be just the ticket we're going to need to get our sore asses out of here. We will get only one attempt, Danny ....if it fails, they'll kill us so we got to work together. Tonight is the night."
My eyes were as big as saucers.
He told me he heard the cell phone conversation about the Sheriff's accident by putting his ear up against the back of the truck below the rear window. "With one of them hurt, Danny, we'll take a chance on getting the other one. Surprise will be on our side. I can't get your handcuff off now, Danny.... if I could we'd try taking them as soon as they come back.
The next best time to do it is right after they put us down for the night.... tonight your handcuff will be altered just like mine with that piece of match stick.. so you'll be ables to pull your hand out when you want. They are always a little drunk after dinner which will help our chances even more. As soon as they cuff us in, we'll pull free and get our billy clubs and come right up behind them fast and quiet. Surprise and quickness. Show no mercy."
My leg started shaking so hard Dallas could see the sheet moving up and down. He sat down on the edge of my cot putting his hand gently on my thigh and in a calm voice said, "I can't do it without you, Danny. They're going to kill us sooner or later. We have to take the chance right now because there may never be an opportunity as good as this one again. I know there's a hero inside of you, Danny....inside your heart." Dally was saying this while looking right into my eyes and my head was involuntarily moving back and forth indicating...'no'. Dally said with more force, "Yes, there is! There isn't anybody else I'd rather try this with than you. You're my main man, Danny and we got each other's back. Right?"
Dallas got a sweet look in his eyes as he slowly rubbed my buzzed head and continued with, "Danny, I know you've got what it takes inside you my friend.... and I have no doubt that we'll succeed. I've been waiting for this opportunity since the end of my first month here and now the time has come. We won't let it pass us by, will we? . I know I can depend on you!" My heart was pounding so hard I couldn't get air in my lungs and I had tears in my eyes. I've never known fear like this. If we fail, the Sheriff will whip me to death.....I just know it. Nothing scares me like that whipping scares me...nothing hurts like that.
Danny used his thumb to wipe the couple of tears that ran down my face and said, "It's good to be afraid, Danny, because you'll stay alert. Just remember we are helping each other to escape...that's number one, but also we're helping the countless number of other boys who would fall into the clutches of these Bleaker scumbags if we don't stop them now." Dallas smiled a real nice smile and said, " And just think of all the fun you and I can have together when were safe, away from here. Just the two of us, Danny. You'll see, I'll make you forget all about this nightmare". I reached up with my free hand and Dally took it in both of his and said, "We'll show them who laughs last, Danny!" He made me feel good and I gave him a little smile of my own. He kept hold of my hand as he told me the rest.
Dallas told me we aren't trying to kill them, we're not murderers.... just knock them out. Knock them out and then duct tape all up their bodies.....make mummies out of them. We're going to take the newest pick up truck with a full gas tank and with four five-gallon cans of gas in the bed of the truck and we're going to drive all night. All the way out of Texas. We're going to drive that truck till the wheels fall off and burn.
We're going to take the Sheriff's cell phone with us and call the State cops at 5am or there abouts and tell them who and what's at the Bleaker ranch. We want the State Police there before the deputy gets there.... he's due at the ranch at 8am. We are going to put the pictures of the boys that the Bleakers have probably murdered and ask the State cops ..."where are these boys now?" And mostly, we are going to get our asses far away from this hell hole and Dally and me are going to be safe at last...... that's what we're going to do.
Dallas got my mind straightened out and then he began searching the Sheriff's bedroom and office. Also that big walk in closet just off the bathroom. He did the search carefully so the Sheriff wouldn't notice anything had been disturbed. In about 20 minutes Dally found a leather brief case. It was stuffed with packets of $100, $50, and $20 bills. "There has to be thirty or forty thousand dollars in here, Danny. We're taking it with us and we'll still be grossly under paid for all the hours we worked for these assholes." This new turn of events really excited me because now I could see us really making our escape and then making it long term too...with the money we could do it. Before I was just anxious to escape here, but now we might actually make a life for ourselves too. The money made many other scenarios for the future possible.....Dally always gave me hope.
A half hour later Dally found the evidence he had been sure would be here. It was a cardboard box filled with wallets, rings and clothing from about 20 different boys. 'Trophies' from the boys that those two pieces of shit sex-tortured and murdered. "We'll leave this box of evidence right next to the pictures of those boys. Those fuckers are going to the gas chamber for sure now!" Dally had a lot of hate in his voice and then he just stopped, sat down and cried...I cried too. We cried for all those boys, but we also cried for ourselves. How close we were and still might be to sharing the fate of these poor murdered boys.
I began urging Dally to go to his cot and put his handcuff back on.... he said he would, but then he found the tapes. These perverts had been taking video of their various sex acts on and off since we'd been here. In that paper bag was maybe 50 or 60 tapes, all labeled. They were of the different boys and the sex acts the Bleaker brothers had done with them. Dallas said, "We got them stone cold now, Danny. After we have them all duct taped up well get the pictures, tapes and personal belongings for me and you to bring with us....and leave all the rest for the State Police. I knew I'd get these Bleaker bastards!!
I just knew it!! They fucked with the wrong two boys this time...Huh, Danny?" I just nodded my head and chewed on my fingernail.....I was super nervous again because it was close to the time for Skeets and the Sheriff to get back.
Dallas had put the box with all the boys personal effects back in it's place in the Sheriff's walk-in closet when we heard the truck tires scrunching the gravel in the driveway. "Hurry Dally, hurry... please." He quickly picked-up the bag of tapes and the bag ripped.......60 or so tapes went every which way all over the floor. We heard a truck door slam. I was extended out from my handcuffed wrist as far as I could reach trying to gather up some of the tapes. My heart was thumping in my chest and I was sure I could hear it pounding away. Dallas got some of the tapes back in the bag.... but then, just like that, the side of the bag ripped all the way to the bottom. Dally said, "Fuck!".
We could hear Skeets saying, "Wait for me to get over there Bart....you'll fall again for Christ sake". Bart? Then the Sheriff shouted, "Stop telling me what to do, Skeets. You act like you never had an accident. Give me those fucking crutches." Then the second truck door slammed shut and Skeets was saying, "I'll get the fucking front door for you... watch the step." I looked at the tapes and at Dally holding that ripped bag. Dally wasn't panicked...he had a look of determination on his face as he stared at all the tapes spread all over the floor. As for me, I had that unmistakable feeling that I was going to throw up...
The Sheriff said, "I'm starving. You go on ahead Skeets and get your boy to start in on those meatballs he makes so good. Then send that cunt Danny out here to get all my shit out of the truck. I can get up these steps OK if I do it slowly. Fuck, I got to learn to use these things sooner or later anyway....."
Skeets came in slamming the front door grumbling under his breath. As usual, he was in a pissed-off mood..
to be concluded soon
Fiction by Donny Mumford thinat20@yahoo.com