By Hunter Perez

I imagine that being trapped in a pillory while being erotically teased by your dream lover can generate some carnal pleasures – I could be remember being aroused while watching some videos of hot guys in those types of bondage scenarios having fun with each other. Unfortunately, that was not my situation. There was no one to tickle my fancy – among other things in need of tickling – and the physical monotony of being forced into a slumped stationary pose with heavy boards controlling my head and hands quickly became stressful. But while I could tolerate the discomfort of being locked in an unnatural physical position, the prison sergeant’s presence added a new degree of emotional agony at the worst possible time.

I was baffled at his reaction upon viewing me – he clearly believed that he knew me, but that was obviously impossible unless I had a double running around in 1875. I hated to imagine which person he was mistaking me for – was I supposed to be a train robber or some other Butch Cassidy-type bad guy? Of course, claiming a bounty for the capture of such a miscreant could have excited him. But his agitation seemed more personal than professional. I recalled him saying something along the lines of “Oh no, not you” but quickly insisting he only knew of me and never met me.

Yet that made no sense either. Where could he have seen my photo? And whose photo did he see?

I was also nervous about having to explain myself. How do you tell someone in 1875 that you come from the future? I feared that he would consider me to be a lunatic if I recounted the journey that brought me into his life. Even I was still having trouble comprehending what has happening.

The sergeant stopped midway across the courtyard and stared at me. I couldn’t see his expression and could not imagine what he was thinking, but it must have been rich with contempt. He stood there for a minute or two, then walked in a much slower pace to the platform where I was imprisoned. I was able to get a better view of him – he bit his lower lip and nodded very slightly while looking up at me. He folded his arms across his chest, tilted his head back and let his lower lip go free. At this point, his expression was inscrutable, and I did not want to torture myself further trying to read his mind.

The sergeant slowly walked to the right, but I did not follow him with my eyes. Within a few seconds I detected his footsteps ascending the stairs of the platform, then I heard him circling behind me. I thought I heard the tinkling of spurs in his steps, and I began to inhale the thick scent of tobacco that permeates the clothing of chain smokers. I felt his presence next to the pillory, but I was unable to move my head far enough to affirm he was there.

I heard him pulling on the padlock that secured my imprisonment. He let the heavy padlock swing into the pillory, creating a loud knock. There was silence for a few moments before he stepped in front of me.

“Having a bad day?” he asked, bending over slightly to put his face directly in front of mine. He looked like he was having fun, though perhaps in a smug manner. Yet his voice was not threatening. His handlebar mustache handsomely framed his smile, and I noticed he had a slight overbite that gave him an extra toothy beam that I found appealing.

Still, I was afraid he was toying with me. I thought it would be best to be contrite and play along with his display of authority.

“I’m sorry about what happened earlier,” I muttered.

He laughed heartily. “Oh, that? Well, it was certainly the most exercise that my men had this week. And while you should not be in the habit of assaulting the guards, they all got a good laugh out of it. No one was hurt. Just don’t do it again, please – we have rules about that.”

I didn’t know what to say next, so I averted eye contact and stared down. The sergeant stood up straight and fumbled in his jacket pocket before producing a silver flask.

“Just to show there’s no hard feelings, have some of this,” he said while unscrewing the flask’s cap.

I was afraid to look up, but the sergeant put one hand under my chin and lifted my head while he directed the open flask to my lips.

“It’s bourbon, and sip it slowly,” he said. “Don’t gulp it. You’ll enjoy it more in smaller sips.”

The sergeant carefully elevated the flask to allow a gentle wash of bourbon flow across my tongue. I swallowed cautiously and felt the warm comfort of the bourbon pour down my throat. I shut my eyes tightly and shook my head, which the sergeant took as a cue to pull the flask back.

“There, how does that feel?” he said in a much softer and more sympathetic tone.

“It feels good,” I responded, almost smiling. “Thank you. I wasn’t expecting that.”

“Would you like some more?” he asked. “There’s plenty more where that came from. Seriously, there is. I have a deal with the old saloon keeper in town. His son is locked up here, so I told him that I would keep his son safe if he kept me supplied with booze. Well, he’s keeping his word and I’m keeping mine. The son’s cute – he just turned 22 and he’s all muscles and smiles. It will be a shame to let him go – I need to think of a way to extend his sentence.”

He returned the flask to my lips, and we repeated the routine. The bourbon had an instant effect on me, and I felt more relaxed in his presence.

“I hope you don’t mind if I smoke,” he said, taking out a cigar from a pocket inside his jacket. “I’m not sharing this – unlike the booze, I have to pay for these things. But if I can get the tobacconist’s son locked up here, then maybe I can get some free smokes. His son is also about 22 – perfect age for a convict, if you ask me.”

He lit the cigar and exhaled away from me. “Tell me if the smoke gets in your eyes,” he added in a manner that sounded sincere.

I nodded slightly but couldn’t think of anything to say. The sergeant sat at the edge of the platform with his back to me, puffing on his cigar while his swinging his feet into the air. There was no further talk for a few minutes. He finally turned back to me, crossing his legs while resting his hands in his lap.

“How are you holding up in that thing?” he asked, motioning with eyes to the pillory boards that locked me in place.

“It’s not comfortable,” I said.

“It’s not supposed to be,” he grinned.

Even though his answer was smugly patronizing, his overbite smile was cute to behold. I found myself grinning slightly, and he smiled wider when he saw my reaction.

“You’re not a bad looking guy,” he volunteered. “Quite easy on the eyes.”

“Can you let me out of this thing?” I asked hopefully.

“Of course I can – after all, I work here,” he said, laughing while fishing into his jacket. “But I’m not going to. We do have rules here about prisoners who create disturbances. If it was up to me, it wouldn’t matter. But it’s not up to me.”

The sergeant pulled out a gold-plated pocket watch from his jacket. Standing up, he held the timepiece in front of my face.

“Under our rules, badly behaved convicts who start fights with guards have to be in the pillory for at least five hours. According to my watch, you’ve only been in there for 45 minutes. You’re not even halfway through your time.”

I was no longer smiling – I exhaled with a deep anguish at let my head droop down. I stared at the platform floor, but the sergeant fished his way under my gaze.

“But look on the bright side,” he continued. “At least you haven’t been castrated yet.”

“What do you mean, yet?” I gasped. I found myself trying to push the top board of the pillory away, but I could barely maneuver my neck.

“I mean that it is an option here, provided you want it,” he said, widening his eyes and realigning his cute grin into a devilish smirk. “The other year, we had a convict come here who came to believe that the root of his bad behavior could be traced to his sexual impulses. In his mind, the way to stop being a bad guy was to get rid of his sexual impulses, and to do that he needed to get rid of his sexual organs. He gave us a lot of grief – he was always trying to get his hands on sharp objects to perform his own castration. I eventually got tired of his behavior, so I got the blacksmith to come in and take care of him. The blacksmith also sewed him up when he was done. Now, he’s a happy and passive prisoner who doesn’t give us any grief. So, if you feel like you want to get rid of your sexual impulses, I’ll call the blacksmith.”

My face became very warm, and my body started shaking. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“No, I’m completely serious,” the sergeant stated. “The blacksmith still has his balls in a glass jar – they’re floating in whiskey to preserve them. If you want, I can run over…”

I found myself crying while my throat choked with vomit. My breathing became heavy, and my legs buckled. The sergeant dropped his cigar and cupped his hands around the sides of my head.

“There, there, don’t get scared,” he said in a whisper. “No one’s going to hurt you. Silly old sergeant is just having some fun at your expense. I was just being dumb – I’m sorry if I frightened you.”

The sergeant began to massage his knuckles into my temples and made hushing sounds to placate me.

“Take a few deep breaths,” he added. “And have some more of this – I think you should gulp it rather than sip it. You certainly earned it.”

He returned the flask to my lips and poured down the bourbon, which I swallowed ferociously.

“That’s a good man,” he said, gently withdrawing the flash and using a finger to wipe my lips. “You’ll be fine. Everything is going to work out. Do you feel better?”

I nodded weakly and the sergeant rubbed his sleeve over my forehead.

“You’re sweating a little – must be the bourbon,” he observed. “Are you sure you feel better?”

Again, I nodded weakly.

“Can we be friends?” he asked, giving another toothy overbite smile. “Come on, let’s be friends.”

“Let’s be friends,” I repeated.

“Good!” he declared. The sergeant then pinched my cheeks and pulled them as far as they could stretch while he planted his lips smack on mine while making a loud “Mmmmmmwah!” noise. He released my cheeks, stepped back, retrieved his cigar from the ground and relit it.

“Oh, there’s nothing like a Bugs Bunny kiss to seal a friendship,” he stated, puffing out a snake of cigar smoke high into the air.

“What the hell is going on here?” I yelled. “What the hell is wrong with you? I’ve never been treated so stupidly in my life. I’ve not done anything to you. I don’t even…”

I stopped when I belatedly realized something was very wrong.

“Did you say something about a Bugs Bunny kiss?” I demanded.

“Yes, why?” he asked, blowing smoke over the top of the pillory while emoting an air of nonchalance.

“Something…something…” I stammered, swallowing before I could gain my composure. “I saw a calendar back over in that building that said this is 1875. Is this really 1875?”

“Yes, and it’s been that for the last 10 months,” the sergeant said, turning his back on me.

“But if this 1875, how could you possibly know about Bugs Bunny?” I yelled. “Bugs Bunny was in the 1940s. How could you possibly…”

The sergeant turned back and leaned into my face until we touched noses, and said, “Oh, doc, have I got a story for you!”

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