Date: Thu, 22 Mar 2012 05:42:32 -0700 (PDT)
From: don mumford <thinat20@yahoo.com>
Subject: THE DISTURBING BEHAVIOR OF SHERIFF BLEAKER.....  by Donny Mumford

		THE DISTURBING BEHAVIOR OF SHERIFF BLEAKER

			     by Donny Mumford


It's Monday and in my life Mondays suck.  I hate Monday with a passion and
it's still the 2nd best day of the week for me.  The rest of the days get
every week get progressively worse until Sunday.  On Sunday I get some free
time, so that's the best day by far... no slave labor that day.  On Sundays
we skip the sadistic and perverted early morning activities and 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 it's not a
really 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" because 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 only current ranch hands, which is mysterious since it'e
well known that many wayward boys get sent here.

Four or five hours each day Sheriff Bleaker does his other job, which is
Sheriff duties in the town of Bleakersville, Texas.  Aside from the
sheriff'in, he'll 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 member of the 'Bleaker' clan. He's married and has two teen aged boys who
will one day continue the tradition of Bleaker control of Bleakersville, I
suppose. I've had only limited exposure with the Bleakersville's town
people, but it's still 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 passes by, 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 because I was
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 like 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 I was caught sneaking across the Mexican
border into the US when I was sixteen years old.  I was caught by some of
the many vigilantes working with the Sheriff.  At the time of my capture I
was with were six other boys ranging in age from fourteen to twenty. 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. Obviously 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 we suffered enough the vigilantes had calmed down and sobered up and
began 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 sixteen 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 turned eighteen 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 and I remember 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,
then he felt our muscles up and down our arms and legs, had us "bend over
and spread em" and after that 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 screwed 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 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. it used
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 and 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; well, they're slim and
none and slim's left the building. 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 figured out
later they wouldn't even bother doing that.  They'd just let the two dogs
loose on me.  The one, a German Shepard named Fury, is ninety 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. That was one time my first week here, 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 need 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 us are locked together until
he spurts his seed up my ass.  Yeah, it's true, I found that 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.  The Bleaker 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 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.

Naturally I was scared to death my first day on the Ranch.  That's when I
first saw the Bleaker brothers together, but 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 and 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
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; reminds 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 with wide shoulders, barrel chest, huge pot belly.  His
legs are like tree stumps and he wears size 13 1/2 boots, which he seems
proud of that because he's always mentioning his boot size. The younger
Bleaker, Skeets Bleaker, is large too. I'd guess he's ten years younger
then the Sheriff.  A is very pale looking man, 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 that sticks straight up
almost two inches all over the top of his head.  The sides are cut real
short.  It's hideous looking. Both the Bleaker brothers would be considered
'ugly' by everyone on the planet, and ugly in any number of different ways
too.  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 people in
town say is that the Bleakers have some serious in-breeding in their
not-too-distant family history.  Maybe so, nothing would surprise me. I saw
them together again my second day on the Ranch right after I'd had my
whipping the first day for peeing my pants in the truck. I was paying real
close attention to what the Sheriff was explaining about how things worked
around here and how I fit into the picture.  That information caused me to
frown at the time, not believing my ears as my stomach quivered in fear.
It made me think, 'He he must me exaggerating things just to scare me,' and
it was working too because that's the scariest of ever been up till
then. The whipping left welts across my ass cheeks and the back of my
thighs as well.  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 scare the shit
out of me.

As I said earlier, prior to being captured I had no place to live, but I
used to live with my mother in Nueva Lorado, Mexico until I was sixteen.
My mother was Canadian; a kind, hard working woman who I loved. She was on
vacation in Mexico when she met a handsome Mexican boy who was to become my
father.  They started an affair which resulted in her getting pregnant and
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, and
that was before I was even born. The handsome Mexican boy, my father, did
not turn out to be the marrying kind and he 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 real 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 wasn't 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 when her
Volkswagen was rear ended by a trash truck and demolished.  She was killed
instantly they say. 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 and while I
tried to adjust to the orphanage routine, I was only able to stand that
shit-hole for about a month.  There was almost no security so I just up and
ran away; actually, it was more like I "walked away".  It hit me later that
they actually wanted us to run away.  Shortly after running from the
orphanage I tried sneaking into the United States. That was two years ago
and here I still am on the Bleakers Cattle Ranch convicted and serving my
sentence under 'house arrest'.

The troubles I encountered as I was growing up had mainly to do 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 and I guess I still don't. I'm
eighteen and guess I'm as tall as I'll ever be at 5' 6" tall and 115 pounds
soaking wet.  I have dark blond hair and light tan skin and dark brown
eyes. My mother taught me English and of course I speak Spanish. Looking
different, which is to say, 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 became a very tough kid.  Lot's of fist fights and I was
considered tough for my size. I haven't gotten any weaker since working on
this fucking ranch for two years, but all I'm concerned with is surviving
from one day to the next, being tough helps in that regard. There are many
rules and regulations enforced on the two of us 'house arrest' boys.  The
ones I heard about with disbelief 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, he says, "Your routine cleaning out
keeps your digestive tract in order,".  The Sheriff has always administered
all of my routine stuff and his brother, Skeets, handles everything for the
other boy, Dallas.  So every Monday, Wednesday and Friday begins with an
enema.  I'm always expected to be in the stable at 5:30 am.  Dallas gets
all his treatment from Skeets in the barn which is on the other side of the
ranch house, so Dallas and me 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' and 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 neither of us says anything
because the Sheriff has informed me that he's 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 which
allows the six cups of warm soapy water that I've filled enema bottle with
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, watching me.  At first he'd grope himself while watching me get
the enema, but he's use to the view by now although 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 as cramping occurs. I remain standing, bending at
the waist with my hands on my knees. My asshole attached to the enema tube
taking all six cups of the enema and no sound comes from me except for the
occasional fart that squeezes out my ass. I need to keep the soapy water
inside me until the Sheriff slides a big wide mouth bucket over under me
and pushes it over with his flip flop adorned foot.  Sometimes he drags out
the process longer than other times, but I always break out in a sweat from
the effort to hold all the water inside me. 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; a whipping is the consequence.  The Sheriff doesn't want
the silence broken because he enjoys watching my stress with 'my sound
turned off', as 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. A little lower than that, come on get lower.  OK.  Hold it
there."  This is the hardest part holding back the discharge once the tube
isn't helping to 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, he giggle,
then says, "Alright.  Let her loose, Son."  Finally relief and the brown
water explosion in the bottom of that aluminum bucket creates a loud clang!
Hearing that 'clang' sound usually causes more giggles of glee to burst out
of the Sheriff's mouth. When done giggling he always lights another
cigarette. His eyes are bright as he inhales from his smoke, then snickers
some more before turning away. Subhuman behavior. 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.

When the last drips drop from my asshole, the sheriff's like, "Over here,
get a move on!" 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 remove his big dirty terry cloth bathrobe, which was wearing except
for the size 13 1/2 flip flops.  Naked he's even more disgusting with lots
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 firsthand experiences
with it.  I also can verify that each of his nuts is the size of a lemon
and they're 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
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 and I always feel much worse
after the enema, but I know what to say. It's 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 the bucket I just shit in and
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. Hair don't grow much in a
week. Dallas and I have whispered to each other about the things that
happen to us and compare 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 as he listens to that sadist, Skeets, giggling at Dallas' pathetic
efforts to stop the pee stream.  After the buzzed hair we're handled
differently, 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 where 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 move. 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, but 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 goddamn 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. Maybe it's not specifically the bath, it
may be the whole procedure of treating me like an obedient farm animal.

At some point he'll become satisfied with the scrubbing part and turns the
hose on me again.  The 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. 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 begins whistling, horribly off key, as he
puts a dab of shaving cream under each of my arms and uses a straight razor
to 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, and the shave because of the
stubble that grows in under my arms and all around my crotch. Oh my God,
that stubble causes a pricking, scratchy, 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
until that 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 and next the pubes around my
penis. He's meticulous at least, 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. Usually he'll still be doing that terrible be humming
while rubbing my legs up and down and 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. Same routine, first with the grain and then a
second time against it.  The Sheriff often loses concentration and he'll
nicks 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 comes the worst part for me. He rubs an alcohol based after-shave
lotion all over the shaved areas, concentrating on my cock and balls; 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, including the nicks and cuts, little
excited sounds escape from the Sheriff's throat and his eyes get real shiny
as they roll around in their 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's 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 one hundred, by the time I get to one I'll
have made it one more time. 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 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 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; you know, whenever we get to use a hose.It
seems the Sheriff and Skeets are both fans of body odor as neither of them
is interested in us getting cleaned-up 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 animal's
natural odor." When the Sheriff has me in bed with him he'll elaborately
inhale my body odor and it took many months before I could get over the
urge to vomit from his this and all the rest of his revolting behavior.  It
seems that humans can eventually get use to whatever they have to get use
to, so I got use to it, but never stopped hating on it.  The Sheriff and
his brother shower daily, but their two "house arrest" boys only have the
one bath per week, 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".  Simply put, it's more 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 rape and a physical beating. The Sheriff sits on his heavy,
hard wood, straight back chair smoking his cigarette.  We're both naked,
but 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 picks me up and pulls me onto his broad hairy thighs.
He then wraps both 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 as I feel his cock
getting harder and harder underneath me.  When it's 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 with one of
my nuts hanging on either side of that pole of a 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 to
which, I think to myself, 'What utter horse shit!'. With his arms around
me, he always continues with, "So, hold onto my wrist with both your hands
and 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 boil!" My legs are
draped over the outside of his thighs and sometimes 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 next to him 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. It's 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 and often he'll squeeze too hard and my body
will stiffen but I keep my 'grunt' inside my head.  The Sheriff chuckles
away and 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 because 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 as both my legs get stiff, pointing straight out and my body gets
like a wire just before I climax. A small silent moan signifying that
spunking feeling, and then oh my God, I can't stop it and out shoots my
sperm. I'm breathing a little hard as the Sheriff slips his Vaseline and
cum covered hand under my ass to insert his middle finger up my ass.  He
forces it way up, then almost all the way out, then up again as he fucks my
hole with his fat finger until I'm loose back there. With the looseness
comes his second even fatter finger and its tight again.  He fucks my hole
with two fingers until I'm opened-up 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. I've been trained to assume this
position. 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 as the Sheriff 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 with his copious pre cum drooling down my ass cheeks to
join the earlier load and it all eventually runs down the inside of my
thighs. Positioning his hairy legs on the outside of my hairless ones,
while holding onto my shoulders to keep me in place, he pile drives me
until he explodes his orgasm into my bowels, filling me completely up and
over flowing with his large load of spunk.  Lots and lots of cum.

The Sheriff is a big breather so there's 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, and that's even though the Sheriff just
milked me dry a few minutes ago. Even so, by the end of that rough fucking
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 all into consideration when
preparing these procedures. Okay now, what do you have to say for
yourself?"  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 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 thanking him profusely, he'll
finally say something like, "Ok, Ok, enough of that, hurry up now 'cause
we're late today.  Get across my lap now, son, and 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 spanking time.  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, but 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 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
to 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 might see me crying and acting like
a baby.

Skeets and Dallas are there ahead of the Sheriff and me every day because
Skeets handles the 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,
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 him, the harder Skeet's boner gets and the
more it leaks.  He doesn't have the silence 'rule' because 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. As he humps Dallas he orders
Dallas to jerk himself off.  So for Dallas it's horrible, but not nearly as
horrible as I have it.  Sometimes I can't help it and let myself 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. He sits in
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 the 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 ourselves, "thank you Lord for all
our many, many blessings".

Dallas and I are never suppose to speak 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 your mouth
shut. When we are spoken to we're to sit up straight and look straight
ahead, then give them the "correct" response.  We've learned the 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 in that we have no
hair on our bodies 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 actually!  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, but not a single
one has a smile on his face.  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, so I do, but I still think Dallas is a
cool name so I think of him that way a lot of the time. Dallas tell me to
call him 'Dally' means he thinks of me as his friend, not just a fellow
house arrest convict.  Dally is a 'run-a-way' too.  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 and I'm sorry as hell he has to go through this.  He's become very
important in my life by managing to keep me from just giving; 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 or
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, although 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, the question I have is: 'when they're free why hasn't even one
of those boys complain to the authorities 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 have complained to someone. 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 we're enduring?  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 and that's that the boys
who leave the ranch never make it back to the 'real world' alive.

The Sheriff and his brother, 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 because I think he's the
psycho mass murderer or serial murderer or whatever you call it. Maybe he
does the murders when his insanity comes over him.  The boys who leave must
be killed and then buried somewhere out there in that vast dirt farm. What
else could it be? This is hard to say too, 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 confirmed my worse fear, "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 twenty 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 twenty, 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're both
careful not to give them any trouble.  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, but 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, tend 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. In short we do everything. The Bleakers are our guards only; our
guards, our bosses, and our torturers; they do not do manual labor.  Well,
wait a minute, there's an exception... 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 also claims 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, they are
only conscientious about watching us and in the two years I've been a
prisoner on the Ranch I've never once thought I could escape. Either a
Bleaker brother or a vigilante is always there to guard 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, Dallas at
the moment, stays in Mr. Skeets Bleaker's room.  When we're 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.
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
quietly talk occasionally out on the job.  We didn't look at each other
when we talked. just whispered, just like Dally and me do now.  Sometimes
our guard would be lazy and not bother to move over to where we're 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 until
finally I gave up hope.  Back then I still believed boys actually were
released back into the real world and 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 and when they
finally broke him, 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 overheard Skeets say to the
Sheriff, "Well, that 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 okay. Dallas told me he
could see no sense to fight against the program no matter how inhuman it
was.  What benefit would result from fighting it, there would be nothing
positive in it for Dallas. He also said, right 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 and told me 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 anything to reinforce that 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 still 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 will too."  Dally had spoken that 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, as in, that would be okay.  Would it be
okay with you, Danny?"  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
and at times I find myself wondering if the Sheriff had turned me into a
gay boy and if that's what Dally meant?  I hadn't thought I was a gay boy
when I crossed that border almost two years ago and sleeping with the
Sheriff or with Skeets hasn't done anything to change my mind.  The only
slightly positive thing about sleeping with the Sheriff is it doesn't
happen often.  It only happens two or three times a month.  I never know
when, but out of nowhere 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 quarter inch wide 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.  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, then he'll takes two big steps before unleashes that bull
whip across my ass.  Each lash has me bucking like a wild pony.  The icy
clarity of the pain from the whipping makes 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, boy? I do everything I can to help
you with your run-a-way sex drive?  Oh for Christs sake, alright you can
get up here, you can suck my cock."  And he'll toss over the key to my
handcuff, the one he wears 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, and 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, those exact 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's 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 because 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 orders Skeets, using that crazy woman's voice he uses when
he's under the grip of his insanity, "Fuck Danny hard for me tonight,
little brother, 'cause 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'm 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 because people are for
his personal pleasure, his personal use at 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 that he swings around, firing random
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; oh yeah, 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 are working along
the fence line when our guard Skeets gets a call on his cell phone.  It's a
real hot that day and made hotter because we have heavy jeans and jackets
on.  We're 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 are get big as he barely
nods his head at me and whispers, "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 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 don't see how Dallas thinks he's gonna
be able to come over to talk with me.  If Skeets locks us down that means
he'll handcuff us in our beds.  How is Dally going to get free from that?
As usual Skeets doesn't tell us a thing, he just goes, "You two pussies get
over here right now."  He puts Dallas in the back of the pick-up truck with
the two dogs, handcuffed to the steel ring back there and I go into the
passenger seat handcuffed to the ring on the floor board.  It's very
uncomfortable riding all bent over like I need to do with my wrist
handcuffed to the floor.  Skeets does not appear to give a rat's ass about
my discomfort. On the ride back to the ranch I hear him tell the Sheriff's
deputy on his cell phone that the Sheriff has badly twisted and seriously
sprained his ankle and his right knee 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 is 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 have
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 have no way to tell him.  Skeets takes Dallas into his
bedroom and handcuffs him down first, then 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 or Dally and
me are same fucking thing to Skeets Bleaker.  I'm so tired of being scared
all the time and being treated like a farm animal, and of being whipped and
fucked by those horrible miscreants, and of working like a beast of burden,
and being Fury's bitch. I'm tired of my life, really... I'm afraid of my
death too.  How would they do it?  How to they murder us boys, a bullet in
the head? I hear Skeets' truck pull out, and two minutes later Dallas
shocks me by coming into my room.  He's carrying what looked like an old
time 'billy club'.. "You OK , Danny?" I'm like, "Where...er, how or why
can..who?"  I was speechless.  Dally explains 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 and it stops it short of fully locking. This leaves the opening
just barely big enough so that I can squeeze my hand out through the
cuff. I have Vaseline wiped on the underside of my cot and I smear some on
my hand to help it slide through the metal handcuff.  Smart, ain't I ?" I
can only stare at Dally in admiration, and with a new kind of feeling
too. I wonder what that other feeling means, but my focus quickly switches
back to listening to Dallas. He explains that he has a piece of match to
stick in my handcuff too. Dallas has two heavy, hard wood 'billy clubs'
from a chest in the family room; one club for him and one for me. They
would not feel very nice swung around to land on a person's head.

Dally explains further, "I wouldn't even think of leaving without you,
Danny. The only 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.  We can't 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 because we'll need that
much of a head start time.  I'm thinking these billy clubs might be just
the ticket to get our sore asses out of here.  We'll get only one attempt
to save ourselves, Danny, if it fails, they'll kill us.  Tonight is the
night."  My eyes were as big as saucers.  as me tells 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, so 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.  They're 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 fucking mercy." My leg is
shaking so hard Dallas sits down on the edge of my cot putting his hand
gently on my thigh, and in a calm voice says, "I can't do it without you,
Danny.  They're going to kill us sooner or later so we need to take the
chance right now; there may never be an opportunity as good as this one
again.  I know there's a hero inside you, Danny, inside your heart."
Dally's saying this while looking right in my eyes and my head is
involuntarily moving back and forth indicating, 'no'.  Dally says with more
force, "Yes, there is!  There isn't anybody else I'd rather try this with
than you. You're my main wingman, Danny and we got each other's back.
Right?"  Dallas gets a sweet look in his eyes now as he slowly rubs my
buzzed head and continues 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?" My heart is
pounding so hard I can't get air in my lungs and I have tears in my eyes
because 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 whipping scares me;
nothing hurts like that.

Danny used his thumb to wipe the couple of tears that ran down my face,
"It's good to be afraid, Danny, that way 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 the Bleaker scum if we don't stop them now."  Dallas smiled a real nice
smile, "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 help you
forget all about this nightmare".  I reached up with my free hand and Dally
takes it in both of his, muttering encouragement, "We'll show them who
laughs last, Danny!"  He makes me feel good with all his leadership and
confidence, so I smile a little smile of my own.  He holds of my hand as he
tells me the rest. He says 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
pickup 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
and he's due at the ranch at eight am. We're 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're 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 straight 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 work and then making it long term too; with
the money we could do it.  Before I was just anxious to escape here, but
now I'm thinking maybe we can make a life for ourselves too.  The money,
but mostly Dally, gives me a realistic hope. A half hour later Dally found
the evidence he had been sure would be here. It's a cardboard box filled
with wallets, rings, and clothing from about twenty different boys.
'Trophies' from the boys that those two pieces of shit 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 has a lot of hate in his voice, then he just stopped, sat down and
cried. I cried too. We're crying for all those boys, but we also cry for
ourselves.  How close we were, and still might be, to sharing the fate of
these poor murdered boys. I begin urging Dally to go to his cot and put his
handcuff back on, and he says he will, but then he found the tapes.  These
scumbags had been taking video of their various sex acts on and off since
we'd been here. In that paper bag were maybe fifty tapes, all labeled.
They're of the different boys and the sex acts the Bleaker brothers did
with them.  Dallas is pissed, he says, "We got them stone cold now, Danny.
After we have them all duct taped up well get the pictures, tapes and
personal belongings of you and me, and you to bring with us, but 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 nod my head, chewing on my fingernail. I'm seriously nervous again
because it's close to the time for Skeets and the Sheriff to get back.

Dallas gets the box with all the boys personal effects back in it's place
as we hear the truck tires scrunching the gravel in the driveway.  "Hurry
Dally, hurry... please."  He quickly picks-up the bag of tapes and the bag
rips with all the tapes going every which way.  We hear a truck door slam
and I'm extended out from my handcuffed wrist as far as I can reach trying
to gather up some of the tapes.  My heart is thumping in my chest.  Dallas
got some of the tapes back in the bag, but then, just like that the side of
the bag rips all the way to the bottom. Dally mutters, "Fuck!", as we hear
Skeets saying, "Wait for me to get over there Bart! You'll fall again for
Christ sake". Bart?  Then the Sheriff shouts, "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 slams shut and Skeets says, "I'll
get the fucking front door for you, watch the step."  I look at the tapes
and at Dally holding that ripped bag.  Dally isn't panicked; he had a look
of determination on his face as he stares at all the tapes spread over the
floor. but I have that unmistakable feeling that I'm going to throw up. The
Sheriff saying, "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 okay
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's in a pissed-off mood.

to be continued...   Donny Mumford   thinkat20@yahoo.com