Date: Sun, 31 Jan 2021 23:44:45 +0000
From: JordanProject <JordanProject@protonmail.com>
Subject: Texas 1956 - 13

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TEXAS 1956 Vol. 1 – Chapter 13

The hulking granite structure had a turret in each corner, and there were
accommodations at the top. The rooms were isolated, making this one ideal
for what would be happening between Hank, Dirk, and Clay.

Hank's strength, in the academy's eyes, was his presence: his size, his
looks, his athletic achievement, his swagger. Dirk was a fighter and a
natural leader of rough infantry soldiers. Clay was quiet, serious, and
intelligent. To maintain the arrangement, Clay's subservience would need to
be smooth and orderly.

But it also needed to be thorough and constant. Oddly enough, that was
aided by something always present at the academy, the horniness and
isolation of the cadets. They usually entered at the age of 18, and the
rigor of the program didn't leave much room for socializing. The girls in
town were widely considered scheming Man-traps, a belief not without
justification, reinforced by abundant warnings from the Commandant, other
administrators, and upper classmen.

Sexual frustration was rampant, and one result was plenty of banter about
who might be queer. For most of the cadets at Clinton Academy, it was
nothing more than a goof, and given little thought. The light-hearted
mocking of a danger that would mean certain social death, and maybe worse,
provided the humor. What lay behind the joke was of interest only to the
cadets who actually desired other cadets, and to those others who might
want to catch them and exploit their secret.

The rules were unwritten, but everyone knew them: If a male serviced
another one, only the one doing the servicing was queer, unless they
serviced each other, in which case they were both queers. If force or
intimidation were used, the victim was queer for having been too weak –
which meant that he'd better not let it be known. To the extent that the
subject was mentioned apart from the joking, suspected queers were quickly
scorned.

This left plenty of room for joking, some of it outrageous, and for
displays that bordered on lewd, such as the widespread tendency of cadets
to wear their uniforms so tight that it was clear which side of their body
their dick hung on and how large it was. Over time, cadets wound up in
cliques that tended to correspond to their attractiveness, with "studly"
cliques on top.

All of it rested on the assumption that no one was actually queer. In a
Texas military academy in 1956, the reality was too shameful to discuss in
any serious way. Joking was fine, but actual homosexuality triggered shame,
ridicule, and expulsion, along with letting a disgraced cadet's family know
the reason. It was impossible to overestimate how powerful a deterrent this
was, nor how equally powerful it was as a cover.

In the case of Clay and his roommates, the incident with the deputies, and
the photographs from Three-Finger Buck's place, made sure that the lid
could be secured as tightly as Dirk and Hank pleased. They both liked it
screwed on plenty tight. Just how tight was something Clayton Thompson
would come to learn.

* * * *

On the night that his roommates lowered the boom, Clay had expected them to
attack him like the deputies did. But they left him alone. The next
morning, Hank reminded him that he'd be expected to shine their boots, look
after their uniforms, make the beds, give him his car keys while keeping
the tank full and the vehicle polished, and concentrate only on his
studies.

"And remember, no jackin' off and no trollin' for dick," Hank said. "And
yer gonna keep them queer eyes to yerself."

"Yes sir," he replied. "I hear, Captain White."

Hank remained "friendly," while Dirk was his usual gruff and standoffish
self. But there were no sexual demands or discussion of what had happened
with the deputies. His roommates included him in their activities,
including the monthly Friday night poker game with other cadets, complete
with smuggled-in beer and bourbon. It was if almost nothing had changed,
but it was apparent that everything had changed: Clay was their servant,
and all three of them knew why.

Hank and Dirk made a point of flaunting their privilege and Clayton's
denial, without mentioning it. Their beds were lined up together in the
large room, with Clay's in the middle. Before "lights out," the other two
would strut inside the room in their tight skivvies, daring him to look
while making clear that he'd better not.

One night, Clay heard Hank snoring, and then glanced over toward Dirk and
saw him stroking his hard dick in the moonlight that streamed in through
the window, absorbed in his thoughts, his eyes closed while breathing
heavily. Suddenly, Dirk opened his eyes and stared in Clay's direction, a
smirk on his face. He smiled and obscenely crooked his middle finger,
beckoning him over to his bedside. Following the gesture, Clay put his ear
next to the cadet's lips.

"Get on down there and lick my balls," Dirk whispered.

Clay followed the order and began licking as the cadet stroked his
hard-on. The Man's balls were big and tight, and Clay was mesmerized by the
task. Soon, his tongue noticed a throbbing, and Dirk was squirting onto his
stomach. When the cadet's dick had softened, Clay moved back toward his
bed, but Dirk grabbed his wrist and drew his ear back to his lips.

"Lick it off my belly, faggot," Dirk whispered.

* * * *

Dirk repeated the drill a couple of nights a week, having Clay lick his
balls until he came, and then lick the cum off of his belly. The superior
cadet would say nothing about it.

"Dirk, just wanted to say somethin' to ya," Hank said, when Clay wasn't
present. "We don't call him a queer faggot to his face. He's lickin' yer
nuts and lickin' off the squirt, plus he's doin' our boots and shoes, and
the racks, and cleanin' the head. Clayton's no dumbshit, so every time he
does any a-that, he knows why. The way to sink it in is to not talk about
it, and to give him atta-boys when he does the other stuff."

Dirk chuckled and nodded his head in agreement.

"Ya got a talent, bud, that's for sure," he replied.

"We're trainin' a huntin' dog here, and if all ya do is beat on a dog it
don't work," Hank said. "Tellin' him what a good job he did is what really
nails it in. It's callin' him a queer faggot without actually sayin' it,
'cause he knows why he's doin' this stuff. We talk about that faggot shit
to the other guys when he's there, but not straight at him fer now."

"Okey doke, Hank," Dirk said. "Ya got me convinced ya know what yer doing."

* * * *

The monthly poker games in their turret, always played on a Friday night,
featured a regular crew: themselves and three or four other cadet
guards. They played for nickels, dimes, and quarters, with anyone's take
past $15 going into the pot for beer and cigars for the next game.

This was the second card game since his ordeal with the deputies, but since
it had taken a couple of weeks for Hank and Dirk to follow up, it was the
first game since they had lower the boom on him.

As usual, the talk was relaxed and went everywhere: the academy and its
rules, the Commandant, their futures, the academics, sports, cars,
girlfriends, whores, hometowns. At one point, Dirk mentioned that Hank had
a cousin on the Adams County Sheriffs Department who was one of a two-Man
queer control squad that patrolled parks and highway pullovers. That led to
an animated conversation among the cadets.

"Yeah, he knows about most of the queer faggots in the county," Hank said,
with a chuckle. "More of 'em than ya think. Got 'em here in the academy
too."

Jack Hornsby, a linebacker on the football team who was invited to the game
because one of the regulars was sick, growled.

"Hope I never find one, or he better hope I don't," he said. "Faggots are
like rattlesnakes. Good one's a dead one. I'd kill 'em for sport, except
faggots got no fangs so I'd kill 'em with my bare hands."

"Yeah, and you could do it," Dirk replied with a laugh.

Hornsby was the biggest cadet at the school, standing 6' 4" and weighing
230 pounds. Everything about him was enormous, including the dick and balls
that pressed against the crotch of any uniform he ever wore. His fists
reminded Clay of catcher's mitts, and he made a mental note to be extra
careful around Hornsby.

The game continued, and after a couple more hands, Hank addressed Hornsby's
comment.

"My cousin worries about guys like you, Jack," he said, with a laugh.

"He warns faggots to behave themselves. If they's doin' it with kids, he
runs 'em outta the county and sometimes worse. But he's been easy on cadets
ever since he reported a couple of 'em to the Commandant a few years ago
and one of 'em killed himself after getting' thrown out.

"After that Clark Branson got hisself murdered, my cousin's been thinkin'
about how to handle cadet queers. He don't want to ruin 'em 'cause they'll
be leavin' anyway, but he worries about 'em getting killed by guys like
Jack here."

Tom Strayley, one of the guards, brought up Hank's cousin.

"So does that guy get free blowjobs from the queers?" he said, laughing. "I
hope so, 'cause I don't know what else they'd be good for."

Hank chuckled.

"He's got a queer who takes care of his house, and washes his truck, his
car, his motorcycle and shines his boots. And I think he's got a rich
faggot who pays him money every month not to tell his wife," he said.

"He says I'd be better off if I found myself a faggot at the academy
because at least I'd know they like dick and do a good job at takin' care
of it. They's afraid to tell anyone, and they'll do anything else ya tell
'em to. That's what he said. Sounded like the voice of experience to me,
but who knows?"

The game continued, and this time it was Dirk's turn to win more than his
limit, with the excess thrown into the bank for the next game's
refreshments. By custom, when the game ended, they lounged on the furniture
in the room for a while, and this time the chatter returned to the
academy's queers.

Strayley, a muscular blond in a Marine military police uniform, wearing a
perpetual expression somewhere between a smirk and a mischievous grin,
chuckled as he sat on the edge of one of the racks that Clay had made up
that morning.

"I guess I'd take the blowjobs and the shined boots," he said, "but he'd
have to watch out in case I piss in his throat!"

The comment prompted laughter and groans around the room.

"If I had a personal faggot, he'd make up my rack, shine my shoes and
boots, and lick my balls when I felt like it," said Dirk, stretched out on
his rack, wearing tight khakis that showed his details. "When I squirted,
he'd lick it off my belly and then I'd go to sleep. Jack, think about it,
wouldn't you want to have someone who'd do all that stuff for ya?"

Hornsby, sitting in an easy chair, his legs spread wide to show a
pronounced bulge in his tight camouflage uniform, laughed and scratched his
crotch.

"Got a point there, brother," he said. "I hate shinin' everything. I'd let
a queer faggot live if he did that for me, but he'd better keep his queer
mouth away from me."

Hank, dressed in the standard academy uniform whose tailoring showed every
part of his body to perfection, grinned.

"Damn you guys," he joked. "When my cousin told me about all this, I
figured I might have the queer faggot kiss my ass and shine my boots, but
y'all are givin' me ideas. How about I have him lick my armpits clean after
a workout, suck my dick, and thank me for the chance?"

More laughs echoed through the room.

Billy Ringo, another walking recruiting poster who stood 6' 1" and weighed
180 pounds, with a wide chest, a jet black crewcut, and a five o'clock
shadow, favored a tight-fitting Air Force guard uniform: navy blue slacks
bloused into mirror-shined black boots, a duty belt with a firearm and a
billy club, and a beret.

"So, Clayton, how 'bout you?" he said lightly, sitting in another easy
chair, his legs also spread wide. "Would ya let a faggot suck ya off, or
are ya savin' that fuckstick fer yer future wife?"

Clay yawned and smiled nervously. He was dressed in his favorite, a
snug-fitting Navy dress white uniform.

"Guys, if ya get yourself a personal faggot, at least let him follow yer
orders," he answered, avoiding the question. "Let it be yer secret, and
have yer fun. I'm sure he'll lick yer balls and suck yer dick and shine yer
boots and all the rest. But no need to kill him over it. Makes everyone
look bad."

The night was drawing to a close, and Hank added a final thought.

"I can say this much: If I were runnin' a faggot around here, I'd make damn
sure he wasn't playin' with his own dick or trollin' around like that Clark
Branson did," he said. "Might let him suck on my stiff arm if I was horny
enough, but he'd have to keep his queer hand off his queer dick along
seein' as how it's what got him in trouble to begin with."

The other cadets nodded in agreement.

"Damn right about that one," Dirk added. "Let the queer turn all that dick
juice into takin' care a-me. Ain't that about the size of it, fellas? How
'bout you, Clay? Think some faggot oughta be whackin' off?"

"You can't have queers goin' outta control," Clayton replied. "All I'd say
is that if yer personal faggot keeps his hand off his dick and does
whatever he's told, he oughtta be able to wake up the next morning."

Strayley laughed at the remark.

"Don't worry, Clayton, you'll survive if ya behave," he said. "No one's
gonna kill ya, not even Jack."

"Tom, come on, Clay here's engaged to be married once he's outta here,"
Dirk said, recalling a long-ago conversation. "Clayton ain't any queer
faggot."

* * * *

When the other cadets had left, Clayton spoke up.

"Captain White, sir, and Lieutenant Mayfield, sir, can I ask something?" he
said, tentatively.

"Shoot," Hank replied. "What's up?"

"I wanted to know if the two of you have been satisfied with me, sir," he
said. "I'm worried about Sergeant. Hornsby killing me if he finds out about
me."

"You been behavin' fine, Clayton," Hank replied, in a fatherly and
condescending tone. "Keep yer doin' what yer told and no harm will come."

Dirk chimed in.

"Hornsby? He ain't gonna do nothin' to ya if ya behave," he said. "We'll be
sure he never gets close enough to put the hurt on ya, got it?"

"Yes, sir, Lieutenant Mayfield, and thank you Captain White," Clay replied,
the relief showing in his voice. "I'm gonna be here until the end of next
year, and I want to follow your orders and get out of here alive."

"Just remember about controllin' yerself," Hank said. "Cousin Jake says ya
been a regular in the parks and pullouts. Yer damn lucky ya didn't get
yerself killed."

* * * *

The three of them ate lunch together on about half their days, and the
routine continued. They were usually joined by Strayley and Ringo, guards
and roommates who were regulars at the turret card games, and by a rotating
cast of others drawn to the table by Hank's charisma. In his second year at
the academy, Clay had started to notice that the guards were the
best-looking cadets in the academy.

"Big dicks rule!" one of them had said, and Clay mentally added big chests,
strong legs, square jaws, tight uniforms, and flattop crewcuts to the
list. As with the card games, the chatter ranged wide, with the Commandant
a frequent target. The Man in charge of Clinton Academy was seen by almost
all cadets as an erratic jerk – "a five-star asshole," one cadet put it
– bordering on lunatic. Clay was especially scornful.

"You'd think he charged up Mt. Suribachi with a knife in his teeth and
wiped out all the dang Japs by himself, just before climbing into a plane
and dropping the atom bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki," he once
said. "Thing is, if he's so great, why didn't he kick MacArthur's ass and
win the Korean War all by himself?"

The academy's strict discipline, by itself, wasn't a problem for Clay. It
was the Commandant's phoniness, inconsistency, and pettiness that got to
him.

"That blowhard is all hat and no cattle," he'd say. "I bet if someone
really took a look at his service record, they'd find out that all he did
was run liquor a thousand miles behind the lines. Every time he gives us
one of those long speeches, I start doing trigonometry in my head."

At one point, privately, Dirk asked Hank if he thought Clay was getting too
full of himself at lunch.

"I think Clayton's tellin' us that he wants us to run him as long we ain't
bullshitters," Hank replied, with a frown. "He's startin' to beg for it in
his own way. But I'll have a talk about it with Cousin Jake anyway."

One day after he had given yet another speech that ripped into the dangers
of communist perversion, the Commandant's obsession became a topic of
ridicule at lunch.

"I don't know," Strayley joked to Hank, in front of the others, "if you'd
bend over this table right now, I'd put the missile in the tube. What do ya
say? Should we show the Commandant how the professionals do it? Shit, I bet
ya got a tight one there, buddy! Oh yeah!"

Hank laughed and replied, to the laughter of the others within earshot,
"How about next Tuesday? I'm booked until then. But you can suck my dick
again tomorrow if you want."

When the snickering died down, Hank looked across the table at Clay, and
asked him what he thought of the speech. "The Commandant's an asshole, but
he's got a point about not wantin' queer faggots around here, don't he?"

"Sure he does, but that communist stuff makes me laugh," Clay
replied. "Everyone around here knows I do a lot a reading, and I've read
that the communists think the queers are capitalists. Sir, as far as I can
ever tell, the average queer faggot just wants a hard dick in his mouth."

Hank chuckled and added, "up his ass too."

"I'm sure they'd have to get used to it," Clay replied. "Part a-bein' a
queer, I reckon."

Hank and Dirk noticed that Clay had been calling them them "sir" at the
lunch table, off and on. The rank structure at the academy was mostly
informal, so those with enlisted ranks weren't required to call cadet
officers "sir." But rural cadets comprised at least half of the school's
population, and it wasn't unusual for them to drop the word into a
conversation. Clay had only started doing it recently, and the three of
them knew why.

"Any a-them in this place better behave," Hank said, smiling at Clay.

"Behave themselves is right, sir," Clay replied, firmly. "Not like they can
expect to roam around here doin' whatever they want. They don't got to be
killed, but they dang well got to be controlled for their own good."

Later, Hank and Clay were back in the turret by themselves, Dirk being at a
boxing practice. Hank praised Clay's thoroughness in cleaning the head, and
reviewed the finer points of shining boots and shoes. He'd been doing a
fine job of shining the uppers to a mirror finish, Hank told him, but he'd
been neglecting the edging of the soles, and cleaning the bottoms, and
needed to work on that.

"Okay, sir, I'll pay more attention to it," Clay replied.

"Get 'em done by noon on Sunday," Hank said, "After lunch on Sunday, I want
ya to take the car over to Richardson's to have 'em check the alignment. I
think it's been pullin' to the right. Wash it and wax it while yer there,
and fill 'er up."

"Yes sir, Captain White," he replied. "It's been a while since I cleaned
it, sir."

"Kurt Wing pretty much runs the joint, and he'll make sure ya do it
right. And drive straight back here afterwards," Hank said. "No detours or
mischief. We can't have ya roamin' around doin' just anything y'all feel
like."

"No sir, you can't," he answered. "I'll come straight back, Captain White."

Hank nodded, and smiled warmly.

"Right back to where yer bein' controlled fer yer own good," he said. "It's
what ya need, ain't it?"

"Yes sir, it is."

"We keep ya in yer place."

"Yes sir."

Hank smiled broadly.

"And when ya lick Dirk's balls, get ready to suck on his dick too."

* * * *

Kurt Wing was a West Texas redneck right out of a movie. An inch taller
than Clay, plus five or so years and 10 or so pounds. Brown flat top
crewcut, and a twang sharp enough to slice a roast. Handsome in a rough
way, not educated but quick-witted. That Sunday, he was dressed in starched
work clothes: dark blue pants and a dark blue short-sleeved shirt with his
name over the pocket, one of the cuffs rolled to hold a pack of cigarettes.

A year ago, the owner of the gas station and garage, Wes Richardson,
decided that his attendants looked too scruffy, and ordered clean shaves,
better clothes, and more attention to keeping the place looking good to
customers. Business was slowly rising, and Richardson was toying with
expansion and extended hours. But for the time being, the garage was closed
on Sundays and gas sales stopped at 4 p.m. The air and water hoses were
free, and so were tire and oil checks and wiping of windows with a
fill. Change would come, but not too quickly.

Clay brought cleaning supplies from the academy, and the wax was already in
the glove compartment. He was dressed in green utility coveralls and ready
to work. Kurt gave him a friendly greeting and a bucket, and directed him
to the side of the building with a water hose.

"Hank White told me y'all would be comin' 'round," Kurt said. "Told me to
tell ya to make the inside a-this car as clean as the outside, and to make
the outside real clean. I'm gonna be gettin' a few bucks out of it to make
sure it's clean, so I'll probably have to be a real sonofabitch. I'll do
the alignment once yer finished. Best thing might be to do it in sections,
and I'll look at each one as ya go."

Just then a car pulled in for a fill, rolling over the hose that rang the
bell to call Kurt. There was a steady flow of business, not leaving much
time for the inspections, but they were done. After three hours of hard
labor, the car shined inside and out. It was just after 4 p.m. when Clay
rolled it around back to where the garage doors were located, while Kurt
closed up.

"This'll take an hour or so," he said. "There's beer in the fridge and ya
can have some smokes if you want 'em. Ya must be kind tired with how hard
ya were workin'. Ya did a dang good job on the car though. Hank's gonna
like it."

Kurt explained that he had to kick Clay out of the garage while he did the
work, so he'd need to go outside. If anyone came around, tell them the
place was closed and the pumps were locked down for the night. Clay took a
beer and a few smokes and headed out back, where there was a set of
bleachers that Richardson had bought from the local high school when they
were replacing the stands next to their football field. Only five rows
high, backed up against the wall of the building, it was a minor
conversation piece among car repair customers who were often invited to
relax there with a beer and a smoke, on the house.

As Clay sat on the top row, drinking his beer and smoking a Camel, he heard
the bell ring. A few seconds later he saw a motorcycle pull around back,
near where he was sitting. Kurt heard the cycle pull up, and poked his head
out of the garage.

"Howdy, deputy!" he called over toward Jake Haskins. "I'm about halfway
done. If ya want beer it's in the fridge back here, and there's a pack a
smokes on the table. I think there's some cigars too."

Clay looked over, and drank in the deputy as he dismounted his
motorcycle. He spread his thick, muscular legs wide to get off, the shine
on his tall leather boots reflecting the late afternoon sun. Haskins nodded
and smiled in his direction, took off his leather jacket and rested it on
the motorcycle, then ambled off to get a couple of beers and a cigar. As he
walked back to where Clay was sitting with his beer, the cadet could see
the bulge in the motorcycle uniform, the sidearm on one side and the short
billy club on the other.

Jake climbed the bleachers and sat next to Clay, put his arm around the
cadet's shoulder, and began talking. It was the first time they'd seen each
other since the fateful night two months earlier, but it was obvious that
this meeting wasn't by chance.

"Hank tells me yer behavin' so far," the deputy said in his gravelly voice,
looking Clay in the eye. "He says ya been takin' care of him and the other
fella, Dirk I think it is."

"Yes sir, I have been tryin' my best," Clay replied. "I hope they'll see
that I'm holdin' up my end of things, and will keep all of it from
 the Commandant and the cadets who'd just as soon kill me as look at me if
they know."

"Ya don't got to worry about it so long as ya control yerself and do as
they tell ya," Jake replied. "Hank says yer okay with them two keepin'
things under control."

"Yes sir, it seems to be going okay," Clayton said.

"Gonna be schoolin' ya in the details of keepin' Men satisfied and knowin'
yer place," Jake said. "Can't come as a surprise that yer gonna need to
learn to get used to takin' it in both ends. Yer gonna be learnin' the
finer points, so keep yer Sunday afternoons free. Ya got plenty to learn."

* * * *

"Hey there again, Deputy Jake!" Kurt said, poking his head out from the
garage. "Clayton, yer alignment's done, so I'm gonna get it off the hoist
and roll it on out and then wash up. Be there in 10 minutes. Anyone want
more beers?"

Jake rose from the bench and stretched, giving Clay an opportunity to look
at the deputy again.

"Yeah, I'll take one," Jake called over. "Another cigar too."

The deputy looked back at the cadet, and caught him staring.

"Clayton, ya want anything?" Jake said, smiling.

"No thanks, sir, I'm good." he replied. "But I need to get back, sir,
because dinner ends at 7 o'clock and it's 6 right now."

"Kurt's gonna grill us some steaks," Jake said. "We'll make sure yer back
before 9 when the gate closes. Oh yeah, and don't forget to pay for that
alignment. It's 10 bucks."

"Yes sir, I'll do that," Clay replied.

"Like I said before, Hank says yer doin' good," Jake said. "Looks like yer
daddy up there in Oklahoma taught ya how to follow a Man's orders. Plenty
a-queers are little brats and get themselves into big trouble 'cause
a-that, but that don't seem to be you."

"I suppose so, sir," the cadet said. "We had some a-them in high school and
I steered clear. Didn't like 'em then, and still don't. I didn't start into
guys until last year, and it ain't gonna keep me from marryin' my girl."

"Yep, yer gonna be a part-time queer like most of 'em in these parts are,"
Jake replied. "Ya already know that most a-the Men want nothin' to do with
it. Some Men are okay with a queer who'll blow 'em or get screwed, but only
if the queer behaves himself."

The deputy walked back the garage, then returned holding a very large glass
of water. He stood in front of the cadet and told him to drink it all
without stopping to breathe, and to look him in the eye while he was doing
it. A minute later, Clay was finished, and took a big gulp of air.

"That's how ya drink a Man's piss," Jake said. "Ya look up at him, and ya
don't stop until he's done. Ya thank him afterwards, and ya do the same if
he comes in yer mouth or screws ya. The Man makes the first move, not
you. Faggot that wants to stay alive waits for the Man, then does what he's
told. Got it, Clayton?"

"Yes sir," he replied. "Thank you for the water, sir."

"One more thing, and it's something ya better never forget as long as ya
live," the deputy said. "One a-the quickest ways for a queer faggot to get
hisself killed is for him to try to tell a Man that the Man's queer 'cause
he's getting' his dick sucked. Forget yer place and ya wind up dead. Got
that?"

"Yes sir," the cadet answered.

Clay excused himself to take a piss in the bushes on the other side of the
garage, and by the time he returned Kurt had rolled out the car. He started
the charcoal for the barbecue and then climbed up the bleachers and stood
on the riser below where Clay sat. He was directly in front of the cadet,
his belt buckle aligned with the top of Clay's head, his hands on his hips
and a smile on his face.

Jake leaned over and whispered in Clayton's ear: "Ya can look him in the
eye, but remember, the Man makes the first move. And ya never touch a Man
unless he tells ya to."

Clay looked at the fly of Kurt's dark blue work pants, and the hands
perched on the sides, with traces of grease in the fingernails. His eyes
followed up the placket of the work shirt with its row of buttons, then
over to the pocket where "Kurt" was embroidered on a patch sewn there, and
then upward past the collar to the mechanic's grin.

Kurt patted his crotch, which was showing a half hard lump.

"Bet ya want in there, don't ya?" he said.

Jake whispered again, while the cadet listened.

"Whatever you'd like, sir," Clay replied.

"Undo my belt buckle and find what I got, then put it in yer mouth and
wait," Kurt said.

"Yer gonna use that practice from before," Jake whispered. "Be sure to hold
yer breath, then look into his eyes and say 'Thank ya sir' when he's done."

"Drink it, faggot," Kurt said, as he moved his hands from his hips and
crossed his arms across his chest. "Good for ya!"

The attendant started slow, then pissed as hard as he could. The cadet
swallowed furiously. His gulps were audible, but he swallowed everything
without losing a drop before Kurt finished and put his dick back into his
pants and zipped up.

"Thank you, sir," Clay said.

Kurt went off to the barbecue pit, and Jake talked.

"Ya did that just right. Now, if the wrong Men find out about the wrong
kinda faggot, that faggot will have a rough time of it," he said. "But if
the right Men find out about the right kinda faggot, they'll protect ya as
long as ya keep on bein' the right kinda faggot for 'em."

"Protect me, sir?" Clay asked.

"Yep, protect ya. Right now, there's two cadets who know yer story," the
deputy said. "If ya are the right kinda queer for 'em, that Commandant
ain't gonna know, and that football player ain't gonna know."

* * * *

"Suck nice 'n tight and run yer tongue tight on the bottom of my dickhead
so I can feel it," Jake told the cadet, in a voice both gentle and
firm. "But make sure not to scrape anything with yer teeth."

The deputy smiled and leaned back, as the cadet swirled his tongue and
sucked tightly on the long, thick erection that pointed skyward out of his
uniform trousers.

"There ya go, y'all take care a-me just right," Jake said. "Now get me all
slicked-up and start usin' yer hand and yer mouth together."

Clay complied, and he could soon taste the mixture of saliva, sweat, and
pre-cum, and feel the deputy's hand massaging his scalp.

"When a Man comes, the faggot who's suckin' his dick makes damn sure to
swallow it all," the deputy said, his hips now arching as the cadet
worked. The precum was now coating his tongue, and Clay felt the Man's dick
start to spasm.

"Suck out the starch now," Jake said. "That's right, get it all. There ya
go."

The deputy got up and stood in front of Clay, his softening dick still
hanging out. The cadet reached for it, but Jake stopped him.

"You say, 'Thank you, sir. Is there anything else I can do for you, sir.'
Got it?" Jake said.

"Yes sir," Clay replied. "Thank you, sir. Is there anything else I can do
for you, sir?"

The deputy smiled and squuezed some remaining cum to the head of his dick,
and rubbed it on the cadet's upper lip, then put it back into his pants and
zipped up.

"That'll do it," he said. "Now let's go get some steak."