Date: Sun, 16 Aug 2020 00:30:56 +0000 From: JordanProject Subject: Military School Training & Management Chapter 13 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 welcome feedback. Please take some time to provide it to JordanProject@protonmail.com. What works? What doesn't work? * * * * Keep this great site going and donate to http://donate.nifty.org/ * * * * As he sat and collected his thoughts, it dawned on Yarrow what was going to happen. The chair where he sat was part of a big shoeshine stand that dated back to pre-Civil War days. A house slave would sit where he was now confined, and the master in a chair up on a high platform. The slave, sitting close to the floor, would shine the boots of the Man above him, just as Clifton had done for his father. The slave chair, upholstered in leather with thin but comfortable padding, had a high wooden back, and rotated on a pedestal. It could be raised or lowered to suit the slave's height, and the back's angle could be changed from upright to flat, allowing a slave to take a nap there after completing a shine. The leather padding was split in the center, giving the slave a place for each side of his rear end. In the middle, there was a spot where a semi-circular wooden "hump" could be raised and lowered by means of a lever at the base of the slave chair. His father had explained to him that the hump went along with a set of varnished wooden plugs, flanged on one end and tapered toward the end. They were variously sized, both in overall length and diameter. He had once shown Clifton the plugs, and explained that they were used to train house slaves. As disagreeable as it might seem to have a plug be inserted into his backside and manipulated with the "hump" in the middle of the chair, it was essential to showing a house slave his place. If done in a gentle spirit by a kind master, the training chair would make a slave become docile, agreeable, and loyal. In fact, his father had told him, house slaves came to enjoy the chair, and would ask to be allowed to sit in it while "plugged," shining boots all the while. "The house slaves were picked very carefully," he remembered his father telling him. "Yeah, they were the best of the lot," he recalled answering back. "Nope, other way around," his father had said. "They were the sneakiest, lyingest, weakest, most cowardly of the lot. It was a matter of finding out who they were, rubbing their faces in it, and giving 'em the only chance they'd ever have to stay alive." The news shocked him. Why would the worst slaves be allowed closest to the house? "A field nigger was strong, brave, and true," his father had told him. "That's the last kind you wanted in the house. You wanted someone who'd never survive in the field, and who'd never make it to the county line if he ran away." It had nothing to do with being colored, his father had explained. The slave mentality crossed the color line. The old slavery was gone, but there were still slaves, including white ones. The chair wasn't there to make slaves, it was there to train the ones who were already slaves. These days, his father said, the same chairs were to be found in jails and prisons throughout the state. "The sheriff's got some of 'em at the jail," he had told Clifton. "Every so often, he puts someone in it." * * * * "By the end of the summer, y'all won't need to be tied into the chair," the sheriff said, warmly. "For the time being, it's a matter of showin' you your place. Plus we can't have you grabbing at that stiff little stick." Clifton had hoped they wouldn't see, but he wasn't surprised that they did. "Y'all really didn't have come back here, did you?" the sheriff said. "Yes sir, that's true," Clifton said, omitting his frantic but unsuccessful effort to gain admission to a summer military training program. "I didn't have to come home. Lots of guys don't. I just wanted to be here." "I think y'all came back to us for a reason, even if you didn't quite know what it was," the sheriff said. "Y'all been wonderin' for a long time what you are." "I suppose so, sir," he replied. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the sheriff reach for the lever on the side of the chair. The hump rose and forced the plug in deeper. "Your place is to figure out what a Man wants and give it to him no matter what it is," the sheriff said, as he resumed stroking the seated boy's head, and tugging gently at his ear. "That's the only way y'all's ever gonna be happy, at least around here." "Yes sir," Clifton said, a tone of despondence entering his voice. "Hey, don't y'all worry about it," the sheriff's son said. His tone was gentle like his father's, and carried authority. "It's gonna be okay. No one's tryin' to make y'all into somethin' you're not. I swear it. Y'all doin' real, real good. Real, real good." The piece of wood was rising and falling now, pumping the plug in and out in steady rhythm. It felt good, and with the combination of the drug and the hypnotic warmth of the Men's voices, his resistance was gone. He heard the grandfather clock in the living room striking, and he counted ten. Zeke's shift began at 11. * * * * "You remember Deputy Tony Stubbins," the sheriff said. "And this is Deputy Jack Sherman. They'll show you around and let you know what'll you'll be doing around here." "Yes sir," Clifton said, recognizing both of them from his high school days. Stubbins was the sheriff's only deputy then, and had participated in the various humiliations inflicted on him. Caleb – Deputy Sherman, now – was one of the cowboys who had bent him over after a rodeo, causing him to flee to the safety of country club equestrian horsemanship. But he had never really gotten a good look at either one of them until now. Stubbins wasn't as tall as either the sheriff or his son, but he had a thick and stocky build that made him seem as wide as he was tall. He was dark-haired and swarthy, about five years younger than the sheriff. He lacked a southern accent, and Yarrow guessed that his heritage might be Italian. He was very muscular, and seemed as if he might pop out of his black-and-grey uniform at any moment. His manner was aggressive, challenging, and intimidating, something that Clifton had remembered from before. Caleb Sherman looked like he was made out of rope. He was a few inches taller than Clifton, but leaner. Wiry and square-jawed, with veins standing out on muscular forearms. He hailed from hillbilly stock, and was intensely loyal to those he considered part of his clan, family or social, and disdainful of anyone who might fail a test of courage, honor, or Manhood. Yarrow had long ago failed every test in Caleb's book, and the hint of a sneer that accompanied his friendly greeting made it clear that he hadn't forgotten that one night. Clifton, for his part, was intensely aware that these deputies were his superiors. It wasn't just a matter of what the sheriff had told him on the ride to the jail about his relative rank, nor was it simply a matter of the circumstances of their first encounters. Ever since his parents and brother had left town and he'd moved into the cabin with the sheriff and his son, Yarrow had simply felt his inferiority. "Okey-doke, let's show you around. Follow me," Deputy Stubbins said, leading the way toward the toward then new wing of the jail that had been constructed while Yarrow had been away at the academy. * * * * "There are ten of these," Stubbins said, gesturing toward a tiny 10 foot by 8 foot cell. "Halfway down the hall, there's a guard office. You will scrub down the walls and floors of the cells, and then paint them. One coat of primer, then three coats of paint." Yarrow looked inside. "The ceiling, too, sir?" he asked. "Nope, all the ceilings have been painted. You'll do the floors and walls," he said. "You work until 10, then a 15-minute break. Work until noon, then a half-hour for lunch. Then work until 2:30, and a half-hour break. Then work until 5. Then I inspect, then you clean up. If everything goes right, you're out of here at 6." "Okay, sir," he said. Stubbins explained more details of the job. He'd spend every morning in the cells, and some afternoons doing other jobs. First, the cells would be washed, then primed, then painted. He'd be expected to complete the painting in a month, including more cells in the basement. His second month would be spent attaching hardware. "Sir, can I ask why the jail is being expanded?" Clifton said. "It's a small county, and there's hardly anyone in the main jail as it is. It looks like the sheriff's department has gotten much bigger." "Your daddy was behind it," the deputy replied. "These cells have nothing to do with the county. They'll be for inmates from other facilities who need special attention." * * * * As a son of the South, born in the 1940s and raised in the '50s, Clifton Yarrow was well accustomed to the foreignness of the concept of equality in this world. Everyone was part of a well-established hierarchy in which authority flowed downward and obligation flowed upward, with "Southern manners" dictating a servility from below quite unlike the customs prevalent elsewhere. He had been born into the upper ranks of that society, the son of a military officer and a prominent business owner. He had been able to keep his humiliations, which were literally unspeakable, separated in his mind until he reached Covington Military. There in his first year, he had reveled for a time in the equality of the first-years, while being driven by a burning ambition to rise in those ranks and be able to enjoy the impunity that others had enjoyed over him – if not a desire to rape other cadets, at least a desire to inflict the complete loss of Manhood that he had suffered. This mental structure served him well, and he had been thrilled to be named a Cadet Sergeant at the end of his first year. He had been equally disappointed when his applications for summer training away from home had been denied, and he found himself headed back to where he had come from. He had resolved to avoid his victimizers and make the best of the summer, only to be shocked by his family's departure and the news that he would be living with the sheriff and his son. Even then, however, he believed he could wall off what was going to happen from his essential self, and to hide behind a mask of compliance. The surface tension had collapsed almost immediately, when he found himself in full embrace of their superiority and his inferiority. Yet, in those first few days, he had seen the logic of it, and in fact the satisfaction of finding what seemed like a true place. His ambition to escape the humiliation of his youth had been turned on its head, and he found himself looking back with a realization that what he had been through in his earlier years represented the basic truth of his nature. Not that he was some sort of queer – he knew that was not true – but that he was meant to serve Men who were superior to him in every way. If that meant washing cars or cleaning the house, it was really no different than the rest. All of that was in his mind, if not explicitly or as orderly as it has been described here, as he began his job at the jail. He wanted these Men to be satisfied, and resolved to seek out every opportunity to prove it. That first morning, he scrubbed half the cells, and spent the afternoon washing and waxing Deputy Stubbins's patrol car to a mirror shine. At 5 p.m., he showered off, and cleaned his insides out at Stubbins's request, and awaited what he expected would come next. But it wasn't what he thought, and the deputy took him home and dropped him off early, with praise for his work. As the week went on, though, things changed in Yarrow's mind. Little by little, he began to resent both Stubbins and Deputy Sherman. It started with the little humiliation of being called "Clifty." There was the rigidness of the schedule. He'd catch a tone, or the hint of a sneer. The cleaning of the squad cars didn't help. They wanted their boots shined. Once, when Sherman praised him by saying, "That's a boy, Clifty!" he wanted to slug him. It was all he could do to hide behind his servile mask and say, "Thank you, sir!" * * * The deputies noticed Yarrow's discomfort, and did things to increase it. He knew they were goading him, and he resisted taking the bait. It helped that, once he returned to the cabin, he could feel his attitude change. Things seemed to fall into place there. The sheriff had taken to sitting him in the chair and then screwing him, and once had even permitted him an explosive orgasm. Zeke, his son, used his mouth several times, much to their mutual satisfaction. But at the jail, with the other two deputies, his resentment slowly built. They had not used him in a sexual way that week, but one or the other of them was always there in the late afternoon when he stripped, showered, and dressed to go home. They would make comments about the boyishness of his body – his stature, his hairlessness, the lack of muscularity, the small size of his penis. They contrived ways to keep him longer than expected after he had dressed, discovering tiny flaws in his work, requesting a shine on their boots, asking for windows or mirrors that he had cleaned to be re-done. Friday was especially irritating. Deputy Stubbins kept him until 6 o'clock, dropping him at the cabin later than expected. He seethed inwardly, trying to show nothing on the outside while realizing that his efforts weren't fully successful. Still, as he entered the cabin, his spirits lifted a bit, although he felt uneasier than usual. The sheriff had a surprise: dinner at the country club. * * * * Clifton and the sheriff sat at their table, the sheriff having added a tie to his uniform for the occasion. Yarrow was dressed in a pair of khakis and a white shirt buttoned to the top, without a tie, rendering his status barely above that of the obsequious waiters. Unseen by anyone, he was also wearing an apparatus under his clothes that secured a plug in his rectum. Over the past week, the sheriff had broken him into it, and had installed it before they left.. "Welcome, Sheriff Franklin!" the bright-eyed waiter said, handing them menus. "Sir, would you and your guest like something to drink before dinner?" The sheriff plucked the menu from Clifton's hands and gave it back. "Tommy, this is Colonel Yarrow's boy," he said. "I'll start with a bourbon on the rocks and some water, and Clifton will have a Dr. Pepper." "Right away, sir!" the boy replied, brightly. "I'm good friends with Clifton's younger brother Caleb. Clifton, he speaks highly about the military academy that you're in. Would you like ice in your Dr. Pepper, Clifton?" "Yes please," he replied with a smile, trying hard to keep a happy face on things. But there was no mistaking that this occasion hadn't been planned as a treat. Clifton was being humiliated, and all three of them knew it. Shortly, the young waiter appeared at the table with their food – meat loaf and mashed potatoes for the Clifton, a steak for the sheriff. "Would you like another bourbon, sir? Clifton, would you like a refill on your soda?" he asked, with a hint of mockery in his voice. "And Sheriff Franklin, I noticed that one of your boots is has a little dirt on it. How about if I wipe it off now and then give them a buffing on your way out, sir?" The sheriff accepted the waiter's offers, sitting as Tommy extracted a handkerchief and discreetly rubbed the toe of the sheriff's right boot. When he was gone, the sheriff turned to Clifton and spoke. "Tommy is Deputy Stubbins's boy," he told Yarrow. "But you'd never know that tonight, now would you, Clifton?" "No sir, I sure wouldn't," he answered. "Tommy doesn't get to pick and choose who he serves here," the sheriff said, pointedly. "And neither do you, Clifton." They had been sitting for nearly 45 minutes, and he felt his sphincter tighten around the plug that filled his insides. He wasn't particularly comfortable to begin with, and now a feeling in the pit of his stomach told him he was in trouble. "Y'all ain't very fond of Deputies Stubbins or Sherman, are you?" the sheriff asked. "Now tell me the truth, Clifton." "Sir, I suppose I'm not," he replied. "And just why would that be?" the sheriff asked. "From my understanding, they haven't made any requests of you that you couldn't expect at the military school you've been attending." "No sir, they have not," Clifton replied. "I want to satisfy them, sir, but they seem to be pushing on me every chance they get." "Now, you've got to understand that you don't get to pick and choose about serving the Men here, not any more than our waiter is allowed to do that," the sheriff said. "Y'all don't want to find yourself on their bad side, or mine." "Yes sir," Yarrow answered, feeling genuinely remorseful. "I'll try to do much better, sir. And thank you for talking to me about it, sir." "Starting tomorrow, you'll be spending your afternoons doing chores at Deputy Sherman's place," the sheriff said. "Remember your manners while you're there." "Yes sir!" Yarrow replied. What did Tommy Stubbins know, he wondered. * * * * "On your knees on the bed, legs spread, face on the pillow, hands behind your back," the sheriff ordered. Clifton was naked, and the sheriff had removed the plug. He attached handcuffs, and in an instant, Yarrow felt the stiffness inside. The sheriff worked up a rhythm, pushing deeper and deeper. "Every Man in the county is your boss," the sheriff said as he fucked the boy. "Y'all are never to forget it." "No sir, I will not forget it, sir," he said, groaning from the pressure and the pain. His position was painful, and as he felt the cuffs digging into his wrists he brought his hands as close as he could to each other while the sheriff pounded away. "Clifton's gonna know his place here," the sheriff said, coldly, spitting out Yarrow's name with contempt and mockery. "Clifton's gonna know his place, that's for damned sure." Yarrow squeezed his eyes tight, whimpering under the sheriff's relentless jackhammer. "Clifton's gonna know his place, now ain't he?" the sheriff demanded. "Yes sir," he said, through his moans. "Clifton's job ain't to like the Men," the sheriff said. "Clifton's job is to do what the Men tell him to do. Ain't that right?" "Yes sir," he replied, softly. "I don't think I heard you," the sheriff said, shoving harder. "Yes sir!" he shouted, his voice a painful squeal. "That's right," the sheriff said, moving in and out, his voice rough and husky. "Clifton Yarrow's gonna show his manners toward the Men. Ain't he?" "Yes sir!" he replied, again. "Yes sir! I'll be better sir!" "You're a boy among men," the sheriff said. "Ain't that right, Clifton?" "Yes sir!" he said, feeling the sheriff's ramrod pressing against his prostate, just as it had before he left for the academy. He was an animal now, groaning and squealing, out of control. "Yes sir!" he shouted. "Please sir, I'll be better sir! Yes sir! Yes sir ..." Over and over, he repeated the words like a catechism. The sheriff was deep inside, and then out, and then in. Yarrow felt his insides filling up, and it was over. * * * * Clifton awoke on Sunday morning to a virgorous shaking from Zeke Franklin, the sheriff's son. He struggled to collect himself, and realized he was lying in the sheriff's bed, where he'd been fucked the night before. He didn't feel so much sore as simply exercised, as if he'd had a long run and was recovering. "Time to get up," the young Man said. "Time for breakfast." Zeke handed him a glass of orange juice. "Thanks," he said. Quickly, he remembered where he was, and added, "sir." "I'll make it," Zeke said, in a businesslike voice. "Get yerself washed up and dressed. We got to be in church in an hour. I'll lay out yer church clothes here." "Yes sir," Yarrow said, still groggy, as he made his way out of bed as the sheriff's son was picking up the plug harness that he'd worn last night. "Fifteen minutes," the sheriff's son said. He was already dressed, his uniform sharp and clinging to his muscular frame. "Ya don't got time to clean yerself out, but take this in with ya and get it clean, then put it back on the chair. Ya can do the rest after church, 'cause you'll have to change into work clothes anyway." "Yes sir," Yarrow answered, embarrassed. The young deputy handed him a tube of cream. "Rub this into yer back hole," he said. "Pa told me you might need to. It'll soothe ya there." Yarrow went to the bathroom and eliminated the prior night's dinner, and went through the motions in the shower, removing the residue from what the sheriff had done and cleaning the plug. He brushed his teeth, shaved the hint of stubble from his face, toweled off, applied the lotion, and went back to the bedroom. Attendance at the town's Baptist church was mandatory, and his clothing was a source of humiliation in the subtle Southern manner. Men, including those his own age, wore suits – or for sheriff's deputies, their uniforms. On his first Sunday back in town, Clifton had worn his Covington uniform, but since his father had left town he had been reduced to what boys of high school age and younger wore: pressed khaki trousers and a pressed white shirt, buttoned at the top, with shined black shoes, and a black belt. It was a fresh copy of the "uniform" he'd worn to dinner the night before. Thus attired, he made his way into the kitchen, precisely at 9:15, carrying the empty glass of orange juice. Zeke was putting the last of the breakfast on the table, scrambled eggs, more orange juice, coffee, toast, milk, and the signature Southern accompaniment, grits. Clifton stifled a gasp when he glanced at Zeke. He was tall, and his uniform – dark trousers with the stripe up the side, a gray long-sleeved shirt, and a tie, more formal for church. A Sam Browe belt with a shoulder strap, the sunlight glinting off of polished boots. A flat-top crew cut, shaved close on the sides. Muscles straining the starched shirt, brightwork gleaming, a crease across the front of the trousers accentuating the equipment inside. Zeke saw Clifton staring and curled his lip, but said nothing. "Eat," he said. "We don't got a lot of time." As they ate, Clifton pondered his thoughts about the young Man beside him. They were the same age, but they couldn't have been more different. He wasn't queer for the sheriff's son, that much he knew, regardless of what his body had done the time he had serviced him. The young Man's confident authority felt like a rock in his stream of inferiority and uncertainty. They were finished eating, and Zeke rose. "We'll be leaving in 20 minutes," he said, pushing his chair away from the table. "That'll give ya time to get the table cleared and the dishes washed. Then we'll go." "Yes sir," Clifton replied, in a subdued voice. He knew that Zeke wasn't happy with him. They walked out to the garage and climbed inside the truck. Soon they were in the church, sitting next to each other while the preacher delivered a sermon. All summer, the theme had been service – the duties of wives to husbands, and husbands to wives, and servants to masters. When the preacher quoted from the Bible on a servant's duties, he felt an electric charge as Zeke quickly squeezed him between his shoulder and his neck. "He's talkin' about you," the young deputy whispered. The church service was over, and they drove back to the house and walked inside. "Now get out of those clothes and hang 'em in the sheriff's closet, then go clean yerself out in the shower," Zeke said. He pointed to the plug and belt on the chair, a tube of lotion, and an electric shaver he'd placed there. "Sheriff says it's time ya did that yerself from now on," he said. "And make sure to use the shaver below yer neck. And don't waste any time. Then come on back in here when yer done." "Yes sir," he said. In the shower, he used the enema tube to wash out his rectum, and carefully soaped himself. When he was finished, he dried himself, and felt around his body for hair. He didn't detect any, but shaved anyway. He felt the razor clip a few hairs from each armpit, but he was otherwise smooth. It was the first time he'd shaved below his neck since the sheriff had removed his body hair three weeks earlier. * * * * He fumbled with the plug harness at first, but quickly figured out the geometry. There was a leather waist belt that attached to a sort of harness that fit over his shoulders. Downward from the belt, a narrow strap attached to a small ring that he pushed his dick and balls through. From there, another strap attached to a leather mechanism that held a plug for his rectum. He applied lubricant and inserted it. From there, another strap attached to the back of the waist belt. All of the straps were thin and they were soft. One of Yarrow's jobs was to apply oil to the leather to keep it that way. He walked back into the bedroom where the deputy waited. "Turn around and let me have a look," Zeke said. "Hands on the bed, legs spread." "Yes sir," he said, and assumed the position. He felt the deputy tugging at the straps to make sure they were snug. The plug moved around inside of him, but he remained soft. The deputy yanked the cinch at the back of the belt a notch tighter. "Okey-doke then, Clifty, ya put on yer work clothes," Zeke said, pointing to undershorts, a t-shirt, and a pair of overalls lying on the bed. "Yes sir," he replied. As he moved, he could feel the plug inside. It was intrusive and uncomfortable. Together with the events of the prior night and Zeke's brusque tone that day, he had no doubt he was being punished. "Now lay across the bed on your back, sideways, with the top of yer head lined up with the edge of the bed," the young deputy commanded sternly. "Hands at yer sides." "Yes sir," he responded, his voice shaking. He moved to comply, and he could feel the middle of his calves resting on one edge of the bed. The deputy attached a leather cuff to one of his wrists, then to the other. He recognized them as belonging to his father's "shoeshine chair" that he'd sat in. He felt the deputy clip the cuffs to the loops that hung from the sides of his overalls, usually used to carry tools. Then the deputy walked over the the side where his head rested and reached down with both hands and pulled him backwards so his head was hanging backwards over the edge, with no support. "Time for little Clifty to get his throat fucked," Zeke said. As the deputy stood in back of his head, Yarrow saw that he was staring upside down at the point where the deputy's thighs, straining against the fabric of the his uniform, met the crotch. He jaw the young Man's massive erection pointing sideways in the trousers, and the the deputy's hands working the zipper. Zeke withdrew his stiff arm, stepped backwards, and spit onto it, out and hard. Some of the deputy's saliva missed and landed on Yarrow's face. The deputy slicked up the gigantic tool. "Open yer mouth," he commanded. Yarrow complied, and Zeke put it inside and cradled Clifton's skull in his hands. Saying nothing, he began to pump. Gradually, he went deeper, and Yarrow gagged. The deputy pulled back, and with one hand slapped the side of his head, hard. "Open up yer throat," he commanded, and resumed pumping. Yarrow gagged again. The deputy pulled back, and slapped again, harder. "I said open up yer throat," he commanded again, and resumed his throat rape. Once again, Yarrow gagged. Again, the deputy pulled back, and slapped. Yarrow saw stars this time. "For the last time, open up yer throat," he commanded, his voice low and threatening. This time, Yarrow let the tool all the way down. As his throat was stretched he began to panic, thinking he would suffocate, but the deputy withdrew long enough for him to take a breath. Then he entered again, and Yarrow held his breath. Then he withdrew, and Yarrow exhaled. On and on it went. The deputy varied his timing, at times bring Yarrow to the brink of choking, and at other times letting him breathe quickly. Without any words exchanged, he was being trained -- not just to swallow Zeke whole, but to know that, by controlling his air, his life belonged to the deputy. As the throat fucking continued, Zeke pounded away in an irregular rhythm, stroking Yarrow's throat as he pushed to the very hilt, the bottom of the zipper on the deputy's trousers grinding into his nose and the deputy's balls pressing through the fabric into his forehead. Yarrow was reduced to a set of instincts: touch on his face and in his mouth, the struggle for air, being at the mercy of the Man above. Maybe for the first time ever, Clifton Yarrow was afraid for his life. And there was nothing he could do. His arms were immobile, and he dare not bite down. The Man would decide. The deputy didn't speak, but emitted a deep, gutteral combination of a growl and a moan. He quickened his pace, and stroked Clifton's neck. He began fucking his throat like most Men would fuck a pussy: like a jackhammer, lost in the feeling. As the Man hammered him, he felt his whole body moving on the bed from the assault, and struggled to adjust his breathing to the rhythm. And then the invading presence stayed in his throat. He held his breath, and could feel liquid shooting down his gullet. Just before he passed out, the Man withdrew, and Yarrow gulped for air. As he had done before, Zeke saved his last squirts, depositing a load on Yarrow's lips and another in his own hand, which he quickly rubbed into Clifton's hair. * * * * Yarrow was hardly looking forward to washing Deputy Sherman's car and mowing his grass, but he didn't expect to be doing it alongside Tommy, the deputy's son. He fought a surge of irritation when he saw the two of them standing on the lawn. "Hey there, Clifton," the deputy said, as he climbed out of the sheriff's car. "Mornin', sir," he answered. "You know Tommy here," the deputy said, gesturing toward his son. Tommy was lean like his father, clad in blue work pants and a tank t-shirt, showing all sinew and muscle. "Tommy, I'm sure ya remember Clifton from last night. He's gonna be helpin' out around here on weekends." "Well hey, Clifton!" Tommy said, cheerfully. "It'll be great to have an extra hand!" Yarrow's irritation increased. The boy was all of 16 years old, still in high school, and here he was, a military cadet, but Tommy was showing none of the deference that would normally be due him. "That's 'Cliff,' if y'all don't mind, Tommy," he replied, sharpness entering his voice. He noticed the deputy's eyebrows rise, but only for an instant. "Well, the two of you got a bunch to do this morning," the deputy said. "Tommy, you go get the lawn mower and do the front and back. And Clifton, you come with me. You'll be scraping the paint off the fence over there, and sanding down the rough spots so Tommy can paint after he's done with the lawn." It was a tough job. After three hours, he was soaked in perspiration and his arm hurt, but the job was done. At the moment he finished, Tommy completed raking the last of the grass clippings from the lawn. They walked together toward the garage at the end of the driveway leading toward the back of the house, where there were cans for the clippings and a tool bench where the sanding block and scraper belonged. "Man oh man, Cliff, my Pa likes to work us hard," Tommy said, cheerfully. "Says it's good to work hard, and I reckon he's right." "I suppose so," Yarrow answered, once again irritated at the boy's assumption that they were somehow equals. The deputy appeared at the back door, and called out. "Come on, boys, lunch is on the table," he said. "Come on in and take a load off." The food was good – gigantic egg salad sandwiches, potato chips, and a cold Dr, Pepper for each of them. The deputy, also in work clothes and a t-shirt, was also sweaty, having spent much of the morning chopping wood. He was much more muscular than his son, and the edges of a thick carpet of hair poked upward from the neck of the shirt. He leaned back in his kitchen chair, clasping his hands behind his neck. Yarrow was aware of the strong musk of his armpits and the forest of hair there. He had the same meal, except that it was accompanied by a can of beer. "Ah, that's good," the deputy said to his son. "Once you're a Man, you'll get beer after a hard morning of work, Tommy." Yarrow noticed the omission. It seemed pointed in a way, and he wondered what he'd done wrong. But his hunger overcame his doubts, and he wolfed down the food. "Thanks for the lunch, sir," he said, remembering the sheriff's instructions about manners. "That was really good." "Sure was, Pa!" Tommy added. "The two of you relax for a while," the deputy said, standing and peeling off his sweat-soaked t-shirt to reveal a powerful, muscular torso. His trousers fit loosely, but Yarrow noticed an outline below the belt. He casually walked over to the sink and wrung out the sweat, and put his shirt back on, then left the two youngsters in the kitchen. "I'm gonna go out back and lay down 'til it's time to work," Yarrow said, as he stood up. He didn't want to put up with Tommy's lack of deference for another 45 minutes. "Suit yourself, Cliff!" the boy answered. "I'm gonna sit inside and read the paper." It only seemed like a second later when he felt the toe of the deputy's boot nudge his shoulder and heard a gruff voice. "Come on, wake up, Clifton," he heard the deputy say. "Time to get back to work." He rose slowly and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and saw the deputy walking back toward the garage. He followed, and saw that Tommy was standing there. "Tommy, you go out front and prime up that fence," the deputy said. "When yer done, come on back here and clean up the brush with this turpentine and then let me know. Ya hear?" "Sure thing, Pa!" he said, cheerfully, picking up the can of primer and the brush and hurrying off. "You wait there, Clifton," the deputy said, in a voice tinged with coldness. He turned his back and walked to the rear of the garage, and returned with a long tool. "Ya seen an edger before?" he asked, handing yarrow a four foot long pole with a wheel on the end that looked like a gear with sharp teeth. "No sir," Yarrow replied, examining the strange object. "Come on over here, then," the deputy ordered, beckoning Yarrow to the large lawn that his son had mowed before lunch. "Here's how ya do it." He explained to Yarrow the edger's purpose, and showed him how to use it. "First back here, then out front," the deputy said. "Let me know when yer done." "Yes sir," Yarrow said. The deputy's tone worried him. Obviously he was upset, but Yarrow sensed it would be dangerous to ask why. An hour later, almost simultaneously, Yarrow and the deputy's son announced they were finished, and the three of them stood at the garage door. The deputy had resumed chopping wood, and his shirt was soaked in sweat. "Wait here, Clifton," the deputy ordered, and disappeared with his son. Five minutes later, they returned, laughing at a shared joke. "Okey-doke then, Tommy," the deputy said. "You go off and get the stuff at Thompson's over in Monroe. Only place open on Sundays. Long drive over there, which I'm sure will disappoint ya." A wide grin spread over Tommy's face at the thought of driving 50 miles into the next county to pick up hardware, paint, and other supplies at the only store open within four counties open on a Sunday in the South. "Now don't ya drive that truck too fast," the sheriff said with a chuckle. "Don't want to have to unwrap you from a telephone pole. I called Clete Thompson and he said it'd be fine with him and Lurleen if ya stayed for dinner and did some shootin' afterwards. You be back by 11." "Yes sir!" the boy shouted, grabbing the pickup truck keys from his father's outstretched hand and moving toward the truck in the garage. "Tommy!" his father shouted. "Thanks, Pa!" Tommy replied. "Now you be careful!" the deputy called out, but his words were drowned out by the sound of the truck starting up. He watched his son back out of the driveway, and then turned to Yarrow. "Come over here, Clifton," he said, moving to the workbench at one side of the garage. He picked up a large pair of shears, and an oil can. Without a word, he squeezed a few drops onto one blade, and then the other, and worked the mechanism. "Follow me," he said, curtly, walking swiftly down the driveway, holding the shears in one hand and a paper bag in the other. When they reached the front lawn, he handed the shears and the bag to Yarrow. "Ya get down there and trim the edges, and trim around the trees," he said. "Put the clippings in the bag. When yer done, you come to the back yard and see me. Hear?" "Yes sir," Yarrow replied, feeling increasingly shaky at the Man's tone. Something was wrong, but the deputy gave him no chance to ask, turning and walking away. The work was grueling. He was on his hands and knees throughout, painstaking clipping stray blades of grass and putting them in the small sack. A sense of foreboding hung over him, causing him to take extra care to do a thorough job. After an hour, he walked to the back yard and emptied the sack in the same garbage can where Tommy had dumped the mower clippings. The deputy chopped logs, a cigarette dangling from his mouth and another beer resting on a stump. "Ya can go in the refrigerator and get yerself another Dr. Pepper," the deputy said, not bothering to look in his direction. "Opener's in the drawer to the right." "Thank you, sir," he replied, and went to fetch the soda. He gulped it down and put the can in the garbage can underneath the sink, then returned to the backyard. Before he could say anything, the deputy spoke. "Trim the back, same as the front," he said, gruffly, not skipping a swing with the axe. He resumed the work, painstakingly trimming. An hour later he was finished, and he reported to the deputy. The Man's t-shirt was drenched. He put the ax down and walked back to the garage. Yarrow followed. The deputy handed him a long tool with points on the end. "Go dig the weeds up in back here," he said. "Get yerself another Dr. Pepper, and grab me another beer and bring it out." "Yes sir," Yarrow answered. As before, he got himself another soda, gulped it down, came back out, and went to work.