Date: Mon, 01 Feb 2021 04:04:33 +0000 From: JordanProject Subject: Texas 1956 - 14 This story is fiction. Any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental. It's copyrighted 2020 by The Jordan Project, all rights reserved outside of Nifty. The reader comes first, so I live for feedback. Please take some time to provide it to TBTop@protonmail.com. What worked, what didn't work. * * * * Keep this great site going and donate to http://donate.nifty.org/ * * * * TEXAS 1956 Vol. 1 – Chapter 14 There's basically four ways a queer can get hisself screwed," Jake explained. "Flat on his belly, flat on his back, bent over in some way, and sittin' hisself down on it. If a Man wants to punish ya or teach ya a lesson, he'll get ya flat on yer belly or have ya sit on it. If he wants it to feel okay, he'll bend ya over or lay ya on yer back." "So back a couple months ago, you and the other deputy were punishing me, sir?" Clay asked. "Teachin' ya not to tell lies," the deputy replied. "It can go a lot better for ya than that if ya behave yerself. A Man might even give ya a muscle relaxer to make it even easier, like I'm gonna do after dinner." When the meal was over and the sun was setting, Jake handed the cadet an enema consisting of a rubber bag and a rubber hose with a nozzle on the end, along with two tubes marked "K-Y," one with black electrical tape on the bottom. "This is to clean yerself out," the deputy said. "Fill the bag with warm water. Spread the stuff in the tube on the nozzle. Sit on the toilet and squirt the water up yer backside. Hold it in fer 5 minutes. Push the water out and do it again. Third time, use the tube with the tape. It's got the relaxer in it. Wash yer hands each time." * * * * "Hands and knees," Jake said. "Spread yer legs good 'n wide." The cadet was clad only in a t-shirt, on his hands and knees on a bed in a room on the second floor of the garage where Kurt lived. The deputy started slow, burying his hard-on in the cadet's ass for a few minutes, then taking it out to give Clay's insides a chance to relax, and then re-entering, over and over until the cadet became accustomed. "That's right, ride the rail," Jake said. "And no touchin' yerself." Kurt knelt on the bed in front of the cadet, his hands on his hips and a thick 7-1/2 inch erection sticking out of the unzipped fly of his work pants. "Open yer queer mouth," he said. "Keep it slack while I fuck ya there. We're gonna have us a good ol' spit roast just now." The cadet was a cylinder, moving back and forth, impaled by a piston at each end. He felt one of the deputy's hands on his hips, pushing him gently outward and then pulling him inward. Kurt's hands held his head, one occasionally patting his cheek or scratching his scalp. "Now back yerself onto it," Jake said. "Give yerself a good screwin' there. Go in 'n out on yer own." Clay obeyed the command, rocking back and forth onto the steel-hard dick of the deputy standing on the floor at the end of the bed in back of them. "There ya go," Jake said, gently patting Clay's ass with one hand and stroking the back of a leg with the other. Their movements were matching, the deputy moving inward while the cadet moved backward, and Kurt doing the same in reverse with the cadet's mouth and throat. "Yep, ridin' the rail," the deputy said, his voice gentle and taunting. "That's what ya do there, buddy boy, ya ride that rail. Choo-choo, little guy." Then Kurt was ejaculating inside of his mouth, while Jake thrust fast and deep, filling his rear end. The cadet could feel semen entering at one end, and his own semen being ejected at the other. He had an erection, but it was more a milking than anything. But somehow it fit, and as it happened he pushed backward. "Swallow my squirt, ya faggot," Kurt said, his voice low and brutal. "Bet that tastes real good for ya too." Clay thought to himself: This was how it would be. * * * * Deputy Jake was driving the cadet's car back toward the academy, a half-hour ride. Kurt was following, and would take Jake back to the gas station to retrieve his motorcycle. "Ya got, what, 500 cadets at the school?" the deputy said. "How many queers ya figure are there apart from you?" "I don't know, sir," the cadet answered. "I don't think very many." "Well, I know of two other than yerself, and we only find out about cadet queers if they go to the parks and pullouts," Jake said. "For every one a-ya, there's five or six others that control themselves. So yer probably one out of 15 or 20 there." Clay remained silent while he did the math in his head. One of 3 or 4 percent. He wished he knew who they were. "Ya basically got two kinda queers," the deputy continued. "The ones in control a-themselves, and the ones like yerself who got to be controlled. Me 'n Brick are here to make sure the ones in control a-themselves stay that way, and to deal with the ones who ain't able or willin' to control themselves. That's what brought ya to us." The deputy continued. "Now, ya been given a bunch a rules to follow to behave yerself, and ya been doin' a good job at it," he said. "But the most important part is controllin' yerself, and that's the part about not touchin' yer own dick and knowin' yer place. Ya got to keep yerself controlled. Understood?" "Yes, sir, I understand," Clay replied. "It's the right thing, sir." "Okey doke, then," Jake said. "Don't forget what I'm tellin' ya. Behave yerself and control yerself, then. No excuses for gettin' yerself outta control. Ya know the rules." "Got it, sir," he said, "and thanks for telling me again, sir." They had gotten within sight of the academy's gate, and the deputy pulled over. Kurt pulled up in back of them, and the deputy got out of the car and stood next to the open window while Clay slid into the driver's seat. Jake leaned in the window and handed him the enema bag and hose he'd used back at the gas station. "Keep this clean, and use it every other mornin' after ya get up," he said. "Hank will give ya a tube a-grease for it." "Yes sir," Clayton replied. "Okay, now ya go back inside, and I'll see ya a week from next Sunday afternoon," he said. "Hank will give ya my address, and ya will be at my place at 2 o'clock for more trainin' about pleasin' the Men. Don't forget what I just told ya." "I won't forget, sir," Clay replied. "And thanks again, sir." * * * * Clay had been given Correctol ever since the first time he'd been beaten and screwed by the deputies. His version had been an improved "Management Minus" that lasted for 20 days. It suppressed his erections and his sexual interest, while enhancing his submissiveness. Hank had slipped it into his drinks like clockwork, every other week. As a result, Clay began thinking that maybe he wasn't queer after all, and that his interest in Men had been just a phase. He'd been thinking of discussing it with his roommates, and telling them that he'd taken a brief wrong turn. He also didn't know that that Kurt had slipped another two-week dose into his food that Sunday, but this time it was a version of the "plus" formula that stimulated his sexual interest and ability. He began having erotic dreams about the cadet guards. They would surround him and shove him around, and then make him suck their dicks. They would call him a queer faggot and slap his face. He would have to drink their piss. He would be tied up and flogged and screwed like the two sheriff's deputies had done. They would make him shine their boots, and fuck him while he was doing it, then have him suck their dicks. The star of his dreams was usually Hank, whether he was leading a group, or they were alone. As the guard leader, Hank had been trained in the effects and administration of Correctol. Everything was by design, intended to steer Clay in the right direction. Clayton Thompson was to be the latest in a series of experimental subjects whose homosexuality would be manipulated as a means of control. * * * * "That's right, faggot, now take care of my stiff dick," Dirk said. Clayton had been licking his balls, and now did as he'd been trained and used his hand while sucking tight and running his tongue along the underside of his roommate's erection. It filled his mouth, and the pre-cum leaked into his throat while Dirk rubbed Clayton's head. Then his dick began squirting. The cadet sucked and swallowed until he had gotten it all. Hank wasn't sleeping this time around. He was at one of the room's desks, working. From time to time, he'd glance over and grin, then go back to his books. "Hank, ya want Clayton here to take care a-ya?" Dirk called out. The cadet was hoping Hank would want the same service, but he remembered Jake's warning that he was never to ask or even suggest such a thing of a Man. "Naw," Hank replied, with a chuckle. "He can practice his Sunday school lessons on y'all for the time being. By the way, Clayton, that slick fer yer enema bag's in yer dresser drawer in case ya ain't found it yet." * * * * That week, Hank stepped up his domination. He became more distant and unapproachable, his smiles replaced by smirks and grins. Requests became orders. Comraderie turned into supervision and contempt. The treatment, and the drug, only served to heighten Clay's desire and eagerness to please. Servicing Dirk went from once every few days to almost every night. It was also more humiliating, being done openly with Hank in the room -- not to participate but to grin and chuckle when he noticed, and maybe add a sarcastic comment. It had been one thing to see the pictures that Jake had shown him, but to watch Clay servicing Dirk had made it real. "I didn't hear ya thank him," Hank said after one session. "Ain't ya supposed to do that, and ask him if he needs anything else? Least that's what Jake told me he was gonna teach ya at Sunday school." Cadets were required to do their own laundry and washing, starching, ironing of uniforms, and Hank added that to Clay's chores. Truth be told, the academic requirements at the Clinton Academy weren't especially demanding. There was plenty of free time, so the duties only cut into Clay's personal reading. Hank had let the other guards in on much of what was happening, and they also became more pointed in their comments at lunch. They also drew him into more conversations about the proper role of queers and Men, and the importance of the need for a queer faggot to be kept under control at all times. Under the influence of the Correctol, Clayton found all of it to be a powerful aphrodisiac, and he'd subtly egg them on. That Friday, Hank and Dirk showed off new uniforms they'd added to their collections. Not even Clay had been aware of it until that morning. While he groaned inwardly at the extra work entailed in taking care of them, the sight of his roommates in the clothing overrode all of that. They were Adams County sheriff deputy uniforms – Hank's the regular patrol version and Dirk's the motorcycle uniform, the difference being that the motorcycle pants were thick and tucked into brightly shined, pointed-toe boots, while the patrol pants were thinner and worn over the tall boots. They were both tan with a brown stripe, along with tan long-sleeve shirts. Each came with a leather Sam Browne belt worn over the shoulder, with short billy club in a holster and handcuffs in the rear. In deference to academy rules, their revolvers were unloaded, and they both wore straw cowboy hats, Dirk's uniform's motorcycle helmet not being practical within the academy. Clayton wasn't the only cadet electrified by the sight. As they passed through the halls, Hank and Dirk drew compliments from other cadets on their costumes. "I better make sure not to speed through town!" said Billy Ringo, one of the guards and a regular at the poker games in the turret. Even Jack Hornsby, the football player who hated faggots, noticed. "Good thing I ain't a queer," he said, laughing. "I'd probably want you two to fuck me all night long in them slick get-ups." Clay took mental snapshots of his roommates for later on. He had secretly masturbated back in the turret on Tuesday afternoon, unable to contain himself. There would be two hours of free time again that afternoon. He didn't know that the same spy cameras that had caught him at Three-Finger Buck's had been installed in the room the prior Sunday. Hank and Dirk already knew what he was doing, but weren't saying anything – yet. * * * * All six guards were at the lunch table that Friday: Hank and Dirk in their slick new uniforms. Tom Strayley wore his usual Marine Corps M.P. uniform; Billy Ringo was in his Air Force guard uniform. Tanner Sundell wore a state police uniform with dark blue pants, a wide light blue side stripe, a shirt matching the stripe, and a dark blue "Smokey Bear" campaign hat; and his roommate Trevor Black was in a different state patrol uniform closely similar to the Adams County sheriff uniform but for a straw "Smokey Bear" cover. The academy's cadets were generally an attractive bunch, being physically fit and in the prime of life, but the guards stood out as the best looking and most muscular. They were the academy's "big swingin' dicks," known for their swagger and their meticulous care of their uniforms. Each new guard had to be unanimously approved by the existing guards, who chose a new leader every other year. Hank, a third-year cadet, had been picked as the leader at the end of his second year. "So Hank, what's yer cousin been tellin' ya about the queer patrol lately?" Trevor Black asked, a sly grin creeping across his face. "Nothin' much new, really," he answered, "but he's told me a few things about that brig on the base that explained some stuff. They got some kinda secret squirrel project about perverts, and Jake's been usin' it with the county faggots." Hank explained that the military had set up half a dozen secret research projects around the country that dealt with behavior control, using criminals as test subjects. He's been told that the effort got underway after the end of World War II, with much of it based on discoveries of German records, methods, drugs, and devices. The project at Clinton county's military brig focused on supervision of military members imprisoned for non-violent child molestation and homosexuality. "If they stick 'em in the usual prisons, the kiddy diddlers usually get killed and the faggots don't do too well," Hank said. "Jake says they figured out that half of 'em got skills, so they idea is to get 'em under control and keep 'em outta prison." "How's that work?" Trevor asked, a confused look on his face. "I don't know much about it yet," Hank replied, chuckling. "Jake says he'll be tellin' me more. About all I know now is they keep their hands off their dicks most a-the time. They got to get permission to beat off, or else. It's their dicks that get 'em in trouble, so they got to stop." "Damn right about that," Sundell said. "Far as I'm concerned, a faggot don't got a dick. At least that I wanna know about." "Jake says most a yer part-time queers who got wives and mess around in the parks and pullouts will just quit if they's caught and warned," Hank said. "If they keep it up, then they got other things to do with 'em. The kiddie diddlers don't get a warnin' ticket." "It's like ya been sayin', Clayton," Hank added, with a mischievous grin. "Queer faggot dumb enough to let hisself get outta control deserves what he gets. Jake says if we find 'em here, the guards ought to keep 'em busy. All about keepin' the queer faggot under control and his hand off his dick. Plenty a ways a doin' it." Clayton was thrilled by the idea of "control" by Hank and the other guards, and especially by the danger of being caught masturbating in violation of their orders and by the idea of what might happen. By the time he got back to the room that afternoon, where he was alone for three hours while Hank was at football practice and Dirk was boxing, he beat off again, his excitement heightened by the risk of what he was doing.