This story is fiction. Any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental. It's copyrighted 2020 by The Jordan Project, all rights reserved outside of Nifty. The reader comes first, so I live for feedback. Please take some time to provide it to TBTop@protonmail.com. What worked, what didn't work.
Keep this great site going and donate to http://donate.nifty.org/
TEXAS 1956 Vol. 1 – Chapter 25
"Hey fellas, got some news," Hank said at lunch on Monday. "Some of ya know about it, but not all of ya."
He explained a bit about the cages, and said that Clayton had been in one for a week, and Jimmy Smithson had volunteered to be caged later that day.
"Let's all meet up on Thursday afternoon at the guardhouse and I'll go through the whole thing," he said. "Meantime, take 'er easy on both of 'em, especially Smithson. If ya want yer dick sucked or yer piss drunk, Clayton'll do it. Ya can't fuck him, and lay off a-Jimmy altogether until we meet."
That afternoon, Hank gathered with Jim, Bulldog, and Chance in the turret that they shared.
"We're real glad ya made the right decision, Jimmy," Hank said, warmly. "I know it all came out of the blue for ya, but yer gonna look back and thank yer lucky stars it worked out this way."
They had Smithson take off his clothes and lay down on his rack. The first order of business was using the electric shaver in Chance's bag on the hair between his legs. There wasn't much to shave, but they removed all of it. They took the wisps from his belly, and shaved his thighs and butt.
"Raise yer arms now," Hank said. "We're gonna shave under there too, little fella."
Hank spoke to Chance and Bulldog.
"The cage goes on easiest after a fella has squirted," he said. "Jimmy here's already been screwed a couple times by that cowboy, so maybe ya guys want to do it now?"
"Sure thing, Hank!" Bulldog replied, reaching into the bag for a tube. "I'll put some a-that muscle relaxer in there for him."
"Just like with the cowboy in town," Jake said. "Ya get on yer elbows and knees, but this time ya go cross-wise on yer rack so Chance can have at yer mouth."
Bulldog started slow then built up speed. Chance took his stance in front and hauled out his thick erect dick.
"There ya go, little guy," he said, his own rhythm building.
"Okay, guys, let's talk about Clayton Thompson 'n Jimmy Smithson," Hank said. "We got two queer faggots under control and there's prolly be one more real soon, so now's a good time."
"Another one?" Ringo exclaimed. "It's rainin' faggots around here! Who is it?"
"I don't know the name," Hank said. "Jake says there's another one, and he'll tell me when he's got the proof. Anyhow, first thing to know is we ain't goin' after every queer faggot. Just the ones who are out of control. Second thing to know is all this got to be under the radar. Only the eight of us and the queers themselves can know.
"That means we got to treat 'em carefully, which means no infirmary and give 'em enough time fer their schoolwork. Outside a-here, there's a few people who know, but I think the only one who knows everything is my cousin Jake. All a-this is part of that base's study of queers and how to control 'em. It's super secret, so they ain't gonna be tellin'.
"Third thing to know is there's two kinda queer faggots: the full-timers who don't got a girl and never will, and the part-timers who got a girl and somewhere's along the line figured out that they like the stiff dick.
"Right now we got Clayton, who's a part-timer, and Jimmy, who's a full-timer. They's both caged up, so we don't gotta be watchin' to see that they don't beat off. The bad news is that part-timers get cages that require 'em to get permission from a guard to take a leak, which means that ya got to use yer key to unlock their piss hole, then lock it back up.
"Part a-stayin' under the radar is that none a-the queers can know who the other ones are. When Clayton needs to take a leak, he'll find one of us and say he needs an explanation about something in his military tactics class, and ya will tell you'll meet him after class. At whatever time ya set, he'll go to the basement latrine and wait.
"Ya will go down there and then ya will lock the latrine door and unlock him and let him piss, then lock back up. Ya will leave first after he's done, then he'll wait five minutes and come back up. Ya use different doors to go to and from the basement, and different buildings, different times, and different guards. No pattern."
"We're at his service then?" Bulldog said. "Hell of a note."
"So you wanna to have to ask a guard for permission every time ya use the head?" Hank said, with a chuckle. "Maybe we oughtta stick yer dick in a cage and see how long ya like that one."
The other guards laughed as they drank their beers, which were dosed with the Supervision formula.
"Far as they know, them cages are what controls 'em, but that ain't exactly right," Hank said. "Them cages are what lets us control 'em. They can't get stiff no more, but they're gonna be ten ten times as queer as they ever were. So they ain't a matter of turnin' 'em not queer. They's a matter of bein' queer faggots the way they's supposed to be.
"Oh yeah, and the cage has a strap and a harness that hold a rubber bump up against the faggot's asshole. Reminds 'em who's boss. Next time we get Clayton down here y'all can see it."
"So, how's they supposed to be queers?" Strayley asked, grinning. "I thought no one was supposed to be a queer faggot."
"Remember we ain't the queer elimination squad. We's the queer control squad," Hank said. "Once they been been in that get-up for a week or so, they's horny as all get-out but they can't get hard. All they wanna do is please ya however they can.
"So each one a-us should have his own special thing. Just one thing like a word and a smile or a pat on the ass or a rub on the back. Always the one thing. Start out by doin' that and tuggin' the strap. After a month or so, ya don't even need to tug the strap. Ya just do the one thing, and ya control 'em.
"With Jimmy, we're nice 'n gentle like he's yer little brother. With Clayton, ya show him who's boss, like yer his father. Both of 'em will be trained dogs. One more thing. The only ones who get to screw 'em are their roommates, or at least ya got to clear it with 'em first. It's 'cause squirtin' 'em off starts the clock again."
"Maybe we ain't at their service," Bulldog said, laughing.
"Well, guards, think about it," Hank replied. "Ya tell 'em what to do, and they do it. Ya call 'em by the first name, or whatever else, and they call ya 'sir.' Ya squirt 'n piss in their throat, or fuck the one ya run. They can't even ask ya for it, even though they're gonna want it bad. Trust me, ya ain't at their service, no how."
... to be continued in Volume 2.
PREVIEW!
Staff Sergeant Thomas Jensen was tall, muscular, and mean. One of the guards in the brig at the base outside of the town of Clinton, a plain and dusty settlement in the vast, windswept reaches of West Texas, he was known to co-workers and inmates alike for his hatred of any queer prisoner. He had plenty of opportunity to show his opinion and to act on it. And he had a secret.