Date: Fri, 26 Jan 2007 10:21:38 -0800 (PST)
From: don mumford <thinat20@yahoo.com>
Subject: THE DISTURBING BEHAVIOR OF SHERIFF BLEAKER (Part 1 of 2)
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