By Johnny Utah

Based on a suggestion by MetalbondNYC

Sgt Stiles drove me off into the Florida Panhandle pine forests. I don’t know if we drove for five minutes or fifty. I must have nodded off a few times. Sgt Stiles didn’t say a word to me. I guess I was either too tired from working all day or I was unconsciously following his advice to keep my mouth shut. I was stuck, handcuffed in the back of the van. From time to time I’d get distracted by the back of Sgt. Stiles head. His high and tight haircut was so hot, so masculine.

We got to the camp as it was just starting to get dark. Not much to see. A clearing in the forest out in the middle of nowhere. The camp was eight canvas tents, and some plywood shacks surrounded by rows of barbed wire. The kind you see on the top of fences at prisons. There were a few poles with lights and one gate.

A guard opened the gate. We drove in and Sgt. Stiles pulled up to one of the plywood shacks. He shut off the engine, got out and came over and opened the side door. “Get out, prisoner,” he said. I got out and tried to stretch my arms. I was still handcuffed behind my back. “Go wait at the door for me, face the building, keep quiet,” Sgt Stiles said. I did what he said.

Sgt Stiles took his sweet ass time in getting to me. “OK, move aside, let me open that fuckin’ door,” he said.

I waited until he came back.

“Get inside prisoner, get your feet on those yellow footprints and keep your mouth shut,” he ordered.

The first thing I noticed was the air conditioning. Oh man it felt so good, so luxurious! Once again, I did as I was told without saying a word. I faced the wall.  I kinda got the feeling I was going to be looking at a lot of walls during my stay at camp.

“First things first. I have to find a place to put your ass,” Sgt Stiles said. “You got any requests, prisoner?” He laughed. “A room with a view?”

I wasn’t sure but I took the question as serious, and I spoke up.

“Sir, can I get put in with Johnson and Keelie?” I requested.

“Yeah, there’s one vacancy in that tent,” Sgt Stiles said as he moved in right behind me. His body heat hit me. He pressed into me with his weight. I felt his cock press into my ass. I grunted. He backed off and then I felt his hand go between my legs. I tensed up. He took a firm grasp of my balls and gave a tug.

“The next time you talk without being spoken to first, I’ll whip your ass,” he said. “You got that punk?”

“Sir, Yes Sir!” I squealed. How did my voice go that high?

“Got to get you processed in,” Sgt Stiles said.  “I’m going to uncuff you now.” Sgt. Stiles got the cuffs off me. “You just keep facing that wall, keep your feet on those yellow footprints, hands on the back of your head, fingers interlaced.”

I did as I was ordered to. I felt his hands on me. I was getting frisked. My head was swimming! Those big hands on my body. He lingered around my waist. Big hands smoothly caressed my pecs and abs. Sgt Stiles’ hands got to my ass, he lingered, gave a squeeze. His hands explored my crack. Then one big hand intruded into my crotch. He gave a firm upward thrust on each side of my balls. I grunted again.  He ran his hands down my thighs, then back along my calves. He lingered on the inside of my thighs. I was getting hard. So hot!

“OK, you just keep your boots on those yellow prints and your hands on your head. Just keep studying that wall,” Sgt Stiles said.

“Sir, Yes Sir!” My ears were ringing. I was hard.

I just heard busy noises. Paper shuffling, drawers opening and shutting. “There’s one more thing we have to do. Take of your shirt and T shirt and sit in that chair,” he said, pointing at one of those standard metal folding chairs.

I did as he ordered, what else could I do?  My dick went down, I was scared.

“We have to be careful here in camp, a lot of little bugs and we don’t have a lot of water to keep clean,” Sgt. Stiles said, kinda laughing.

He took out a pair of hair clippers from a desk drawer and plugged them in.  “Hold still!” he said.

Oh fuck! I thought I wasn’t ready for this! Oh no! Sgt. Stiles gave my head a swipe down the top of my head. There was no mirror I could see, but I could imagine a clean white path of stubble from my forehead to the back of my neck. He worked the clippers of the sides and back of my head, taking clumps of hair off.  It didn’t take Sgt. Stiles long to finish my head shave. Oh man, was this what I wanted?  Sgt. Stiles did a quick check for any stray long hairs and then, giving me a slap on the back of the head, said, “all done now, punk.”

I had lost all my head hair in a manner of seconds.

“Get your shirt back on,” he ordered.

I put my T shirt and blue shirt back on as quickly as I could.

“Get your ass back on those prints and face the wall, hands behind your head,” he barked.

I got the first feel of my stubbly head! Man, he took it down to the skull! How did I look?

“OK Utah let’s get your shit together,” Sgt. Stiles said. I was surprised he used my name, instead of prisoner. “Turn around put your arms down.”

He took a small plastic tube out of his pocket. Sgt. Stiles handed it to me. “Unscrew the top and spit in it, then screw the top on,” he said.  I did as he ordered.  He stuck the tube in a yellow envelope. “OK, let’s get your gear,” he said.

Sgt. Stiles went over to a locker and took out some uniforms, towels, socks, a roll of toilet paper, and shower shoes. He stuffed all of this into clear plastic trash bag.

“Take this bag and get your little ass down to Tent 6,” Sgt Stiles said. “Johnson is in charge of your tent, and he’ll fill you in on what to do.”

“Sir, yes Sir!” I bellowed and got my ass out of the shack. And there I was with all my possessions in a garbage bag, my head shaved, in the middle clearing of a camp in the Florida woods. Looking around, I saw a row of six big tents. The first one had a 1 on it, so the last one must be 6. I walked down the row of tents.

The tents were like that kind you see in the war movies or MASH. They were made of green canvas and lots of poles and ropes. The sides were made of netting, but you could see a roll of canvas tied up to the spot where the wall and roof met.  I guess you dropped the canvas roll when it rained. The tents were lit up by Coleman lantern type lights hanging from the center of each tent.  I looked into each tent as I passed. In the first two tents, men were playing cards.

A prisoner stood in the door of Tent 3 and watched me walk by. I guess I slowed my step enough from him to feel the need to say something to me. “Keep moving, new meat,” was the only thing he said to me.

I got to the last tent. I heard Johnson’s voice. Tent 6, my new home for a month.

I swung the canvas screen door flap to the tent open and walked in. As soon as I did that, I was confronted by a blond-haired, scrawny prisoner. “What the fuck you want FNG!?”

I dropped my bag. I don’t know where it came from, but it came out of me. “I’m in this tent. You go fuck yourself!”

Johnson came over and got between us. “OK, assholes, settle down!”

“Kepler, get your ass back to your bunk now!” Johnson ordered.  The scrawny Kepler sulked off to his bunk on the other side of the tent.

Johnson smiled at me. That made me feel good. I looked around. There wasn’t much to see. Six men, six Army style cots, six buckets by each bunk. Overhead lighting was supplied three Coleman lanterns hissing away.  An empty bunk next to the door was my new bed. “Put yer shit on the cot, I’ll take you around to everybody and show you how things are set up,” Johnson said as he put his hand on my shoulder, which reassured me, and he led me deeper into the tent. Deeper into my new home.

Across from my bunk was a white guy, maybe in his late twenties, Miles. Miles was in for drugs. Next to me was Radisson. He was black and about twenty, I guess. I never found out what his original crime was, but he got extra time for fighting with another prisoner — five years. Across the tent from him was Kepler, whom I already met. He was a shit. He did some kind of hold up. In the last two bunks were Johnson, and across from him Keelie. My road crew buddies.

In the back of the tent was another flap leading outside. On each side of the door were three plywood cabinets. Each section for one man. There was a place to put up your uniforms and stow whatever you had.  The was a little free space for a small card table and a galvanized wash tub. That was it.

“Come on and get your uniforms put away.” Johnson said. “This is our table. We use it for card games and laundry. Go get your uniforms.”

“OK,” I said.

Johnson called me back. He moved in close to me and lowered his voice. I got worried. Did I fuck up already?

“You can’t call me Johnson here in the tent or when we are out working,” he said. I was confused, and it showed on my face. Johnson explained, “This camp has to run on some strict rules. Some of them sound really stupid, little picky rules, but it keeps things under control. Without these rules this place would be a jungle like over at Baker. One of the rules is the Tent Boss is responsible for the guys in his tent. Sure, I’m kind of an enforcer, but I also am a buffer between you and the guards. I got to keep that status. One of those ways is to make sure you recognize my authority, so you call me Tent Boss unless I tell you different. You got that?”

“Yes, Tent Boss,” I said. I had a protector.

I went back to my bunk and got my uniforms and put them on the card table. Johnson showed me how to fold up the pants, shirt, T-shirts, socks, and one pair of boxers into a neat rectangle. It took me a few tries to get it right. Johnson made it clear that on inspections a properly folded uniform was a big deal. The folded uniform set fit into one of three small cubbies. One was empty — I was wearing the uniform that could go in there. The toilet paper went on the bottom. That was it for wardrobe arrangements.

After I put up my uniforms, Johnson showed me around the rest of the tent.

“The tub over there is for wash day. Clothes and us,” he said.

I gave Johnson a puzzled look.

“We don’t always get showers,” he explained.  “Go out the back door and there’s an outhouse off to the left.  Don’t go right, that will take you close to the guard’s latrine. You DO NOT want to go there! Next to the outhouse is a bench where we wash up in the morning and brush our teeth.”

“I didn’t get a toothbrush, Tent Boss,” I said

“I know, sounds silly but one of the things being Tent Boss is you get to keep all the toothbrushes and toothpaste.  You can make a real good shank out of a full-sized toothbrush. The guards come round with razors every three days to shave with, that’s for your face. We get a buzz — Johnson ran his hand over his stubbly head — about every week. Don’t plan on growing long hair while you’re here.”

“Yes, Tent Boss,” I replied.

“There’s a cord behind your bunk between the tent poles, hang your towel and wash cloth up there.

“What do I do with these shower shoes, Tent Boss?” I asked.

“The shower shoes go under your bunk. You’ll only wear those when you go to the showers.” He continued. “Before lights out, put up the uniform you’ve got on, except your boxers and your boots. Boots go under the bunk too. Nighttime is boxers only. You don’t have to have socks after lights out.  If you go out to take a piss or shit, day or night, wear your boots. You got that, Utah?”

“Yes, Tent Boss.”

Keelie came over with Radisson. “Hey, Utah you know how to play spades?” Keelie asked.

“Yeah, well I used to when I was in the Air Force. It’s been a while though.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll school ya.”

“If you guys are going to play cards, make sure you’ve got your shit squared away before you start. I don’t want us to get caught trying got put shit away after lights out.”

“We got it, Tent Boss. Miles! get your ass down here and come play with us. Got to break in the new guy right with a game!” said Radisson, laughing.

Johnson called out, “Kepler, get yer ass down here too, you can sub for anyone who wants out if it gets too late.”

“Yes, Tent Boss,” said Kepler as he shuffled down to the table. He moved slow but I got the feeling he was glad Johnson had called him over to be with us.

I striped down to my boxers, folded my uniform in the way I had been taught. Keelie double checked it for me and said it was ok. I played cards in my prison issue boxers and boots with three other prisoners: In our tent, in a prison camp, in the Florida woods. Heaven!

Out in the camp someone bellowed, “Light’s out in ten! Light’s out in ten!”

We put the cards away. Time to get in my bunk in prison camp. My Tent Boss turned out the lanterns. It was dark,

Out in the camp someone bellowed, “First call!  First call!”

“What! I was like asleep only for ten minutes,” I said pretty loudly.

Radisson in the bunk next to me said, “That’s how it happens, new guy. You think you just got to sleep. You’ve been out for eight hours.”

Oh, shit. I thought.

“If you gotta piss, get out there quick. We share the outhouse with Tent 5. Some of those guys can just sit in there for a long time.” I looked down at my boxers.

Oops!

My face turned red; I could feel the heat. “It’s OK to go out in these?” I asked Radisson.

“Sure,” he said. “Just be in uniform when it’s time for count, and take care of that morning wood.”

Radisson smiled as I made for the backdoor of the tent.

I was thinking of Sgt. Stiles.

There were only two guys in line for the outhouse. I did what I had to. It smelled like you would think an outhouse in the Florida woods would, too.

At the bench outside the back of the tent was Johnson, Keelie, and Kepler. Johnson told me, “Go get your bucket and wash up. Here’s your toothbrush and paste. Faucet is over there.”

“Yes, Tent Boss,” I replied. Start of my first day. A quick wash with soap and water, face, underarms, and crotch. Teeth brushed quickly, toothbrush and paste returned to my Tent Boss. We got into our blues quickly, you don’t have time for any small talk or BS-ing at Sgt. Stiles’ Camp! We made two ranks in front of the tent. Three men up front, three in the rear. Our little tent family unit. All the tents formed up the same.

Sgt. Stiles swaggered out of his air-conditioned shack. There he was. His uniform fit him tightly. His hat was low over his eyes. Like a bull challenging a competitor, he faced off in front of us.  That arrogant fuck who shaved me bald. That arrogant fuck who had his hands all over me last night. That arrogant fuck who got me all hard and left me without any release. That arrogant fuck who landed me here at a work camp in the middle of fucking nowhere Florida. That arrogant fuck! Man, I loved him!

With his legs spread, Sgt. Stiles read from a clipboard. He read out all our names followed by our numbers. The only answer was to reply with you name, number, tent assignment, and followed by “Sir”! Johnson had practiced with me in the tent the night before. When I fucked up, he made me do ten pushups. I fucked it up twice, then got it through my shaved skull. I was going to be the last man called. I was the FNG. We sounded off when called:

“Johnson, J. 82846”

“Sir! Johnson, J. 82846, Tent 6, Sir!”

“Keelie, R. 42821”

“Sir! Keelie, R. 42821, Tent 6, Sir!”

“Radisson, K. 92921”

“Sir! Radisson, K. 92921, Tent 6, Sir!”

“Miles, B. 47278”

“Sir! Miles, B. 47278, Tent 6, Sir!”

“Kepler, A. 24978”

“Sir! Kepler, A. 24278, Tent 6, Sir!”

My turn. Oh God, please don’t let me fuck it up.

“Utah, J. 37354,” said Sgt. Stiles.

My reply was, “Sir! Utah, J. 37354, Tent 6, Sir!”

That was it.

After Sgt. Stiles finished roll call, we found out what we would be doing for the day. Sgt. Stiles sauntered down to the six men assembled in front of Tent 1. He planted his immaculately shined boots in the sand, clenched his perfect ass, and bellowed, “Tent 1, Road Crew!” He would then march down to the next tent group. Tent 2, Road Crew! Tent 3, Road Crew! Tent 4, Road Crew! Tent 5, Road Crew! and so on until he got to us in Tent 6.

“Tent 6, your crew has been rented out to Seminole Concrete. Go get all the sets of your uniforms and your hygiene gear. You’ll be out there for the week. They’ll feed you out there. Seminole is on the other side of Five Points, and we ain’t carting your assess back and forth all week.”

Johnson answered for us, “Sir, yes Sir!”

Sgt. Stiles marched up to be across from Tent 3’s group. Once again, he planted himself firmly, his boots crushing the sand. His ass clenched. His back was straight. “DIS—MISSED!!!!!!!!” he yelled. Man, that guy had some lungs!

“Come on, let’s get to chow, we’re losing time!” said Johnson.

We went in a group to the chow shack. I hadn’t seen it when I arrived yesterday. Breakfast was baked beans and two biscuits on a metal plate. There was coffee — black only — in a styrofoam cup. We all sat together at a really long picnic table. Tent 5 shared it with us. They stayed at their end, we at our end. There was also one juice box each. From the way everyone was acting I guess this was some kind of a treat.

“Come on, finish up, we gotta pack for our trip,” Johnson said.

I gulped down the last of the coffee. Up until now I never took coffee black, now I had no choice. We all got back to the tent and started to get our uniforms and towels together. We had to load a tent and all the poles into the back of a second van that was coming with us. It was a tight fit, there was already buckets and other stuff in there. We’d all be riding in another van.

Two guards came up to us, each carrying a bunch of chains and leg irons. Transport chains. Why were we getting transport chains? We didn’t know. It didn’t matter, we had no choice. For whatever reason I was last to get chained up. The guards had finished with everyone else when Sgt. Stiles came out. “I’ll cuff that one up,” Sgt Stiles said, pointing at me.

Oh, great! I get special attention. At least I get to be up close to him. He turned me away from my tentmates. His orders came fast, like someone firing a gun.

“Put your hands in front of your chest!”

“Right hand over your left hand!”

“Put you right hand palm up!”

“Put your left-hand palm down!”

Sgt Stiles then put a plastic box that closed over the chain on my handcuffs, making them one unit. No moving my wrists around now.

He wrapped a chain around my waist and threaded on end through the plastic box and secured it with a brass padlock. Then he pulled the other end of the chain around my waist, making it tight. There was a short length of chain that dangled down my asscrack, like I had a tail. He gave the chain a swipe, making it swing.

Sgt. Stiles was standing right behind me, he was pressed up against me. He said very quietly into my ear, “Nice little tail you have now.” My dick started to process this before my brain did.

Sgt Stiles crouched down in front of me. My mind started to pump out fantasies of Sgt. Stiles blowing me right there in front of everybody! The thought of that mouth of his around my cock translated into my growing hard-on.  Sgt Stiles started to put leg irons on me, just above the top of my boots.

He knew it too. He raised his head slightly and under the brim of his hat I saw his eyes. Those eyes said, “Yeah, I’m down here next to your cock, and I know exactly what you are thinking. I could do it if I wanted to.”

Sgt. Stiles double locked the leg irons. He was done all too quick for me! Cuffed to my belly chain and wearing leg irons, I waited for the order to get in the van.  My cock, still half hard, tented my pants. I wasn’t embarrassed at all.

Johnson gave me a smile. He knows what I just went through, I realized. Maybe Johnson has the same lust for Sgt. Stiles that I do?  Did Sgt Stiles bring Johnson here, like he brought me?

All six of us shuffled off to the van when a guard came out to drive us to the concrete plant.

We drove out of the camp. I didn’t recognize anything until I saw a sign that I remembered when I was looking for the campsite in the National Forest. Man, that seemed like a long time ago now. Sure enough, we went right by the entrance to the park, back where this whole thing started. It was a pain in the ass sitting cuffed up like I was. I could barely scratch my nose, or anywhere else. I couldn’t shift around too much. I was just chained meat, and I was the only one chained up like this too. Man, this is going to suck!

We kept heading west down country roads. I did remember one because of the name: Black Lassie. The name stuck in my head because of the lassie part.

We arrived at Seminole Concrete.

A burly guy came out of the portable building that was the site office. He just oozed masculine confidence. He was over six feet tall. He wore a baseball cap with “Seminole Concrete” on it. He had a fade haircut and a dark beard. A thick neck went down to massive shoulders. A tan work shirt was stretched like a trampoline over his chest. He had big hands. He was poured into his jeans. They had to be Wranglers. Big work boots were formed to his big feet. Is Florida full of these hot country boys?  I thought. He had a 9mm in a black leather holster on his right hip, and I got the instant feeling he knew how to use it.

His partner on the other hand was scrawny and looked nervous. Maybe 6 feet tall, barely. Under 150 pounds, I’m guessing. Scrawny guy had a gun too, and I wondered if he ever shot it. He was completely uninteresting to me.

“So, you are my guys for the week,” the burly guy said. “My name’s Brodie. I’m the foreman. I’ll look after you guys. Our food’s good, so that’s a plus. We don’t have a lot of luxuries here. You’ll work hard, but I won’t fuck with you. I don’t want to say this, but sure you can try to escape. If you do, I can shoot you. The gators, the bears, the cougars or the snakes can get you. If we bring you back, you’ll lose all your privileges and go back to the hole in Baker. Before all that happens, you’ll have to deal with Sgt. Stiles.  If you’re thinking about the leg irons, Sgt. Stiles said you guys must stay in leg irons, his rules not mine, sorry.”

“Fuck!” I thought. That’s going to make things really difficult.

The two guards that came with us out took off our cuffs and belly chains.

Foreman Brodie came up to me and looked at the way I was cuffed before the guard let me loose. “You must have been difficult,” he said, smiling. “You’re not going to be a fuck up here, are you?”

“No, Sir,” I replied.

“That’s good, then,” Foreman Brodie said. Then he looked at me for a second that made me wonder what his interest in me was.

“Guess you got some special attention from Sgt. Stiles, then,” he said.

Foreman Brodie then turned towards Johnson. “You guys better get that tent up first. All your gear is in that second van.” Then Foreman Brodie turned and walked to the company shack.

I watched Foreman Brodie walk away. Maybe not so much walk as strut. Yep, that was a Wrangler ass! I thought.

“Come on Utah!” Johnson said to me. “There’ll be plenty of time to look at that fine ass on that foreman later.” He laughed and slapped me on the ass. Johnson’s a mind reader, I thought.

There wasn’t much of anything there for us. There was a six-man tent rolled up in the back of the second van. We’d be putting up our own tent. There were a bunch of buckets, a wash tub, soap, a couple of insulated water jugs.  Man, I thought to myself, this is going to really suck!

The vans drove off back to camp. It was just us, hottie Foreman Brodie, and the scrawny guy.

Getting the tent up while leg shackled was a pain in the ass. You had to get the sides staked in, then two guys had to go under the canvas to stick the roof poles in. We eventually got it up after a lot of swearing and sweating. We got in and rolled up the sides of the tent to get some air in. There were screen sides to attach at the top of the sides of the tent. Kind of like curtains. I didn’t think they’d keep all the bugs out, but at least they’d stop some.

Foreman Brodie reappeared. “We’ve got plenty to do, so let’s get started.” We spent the next 5 hours moving 50-pound bags of dry cement mix from a bunch of pallets to the back of a truck. Didn’t these guys have a fucking forklift?  We worked hard, extra hard because of the leg irons. I almost tripped myself up a few times. After a while you just shuffle. We must have moved a couple of tons of concrete mix.

At some point later in the day, the smell of grilling steak was drifting through the air. It smelled so good. I wondered what crap we would be fed.

We were working away. The sun was starting to get below the line of the trees.

“Chowtime!” Foreman Brodie hollered.

I couldn’t fucking believe it when we got steak.  Sure enough, on the picnic table were six steaks piled on one of those disposable aluminum trays. We went over as fast as we could with our shackles. We were exhausted from hauling that fucking concrete all day, but the smell of that steak gave us new energy! We sat down, used our hands and dug in. We didn’t have knives or forks. Who needed them?

Foreman Brodie came over and dropped a plate of cornbread on the table. “My wife made this, hope you like it.” We all said, with steak in our mouths, “Yes, Sir.”  Man, this was living!

“We got cherry Kool Aid in that cooler, and ice water in that cooler,” he pointed.

There’s a water tap over there; you can fill up the buckets and wash up there.  We scarfed down all the steaks, the cornbread, and drained the Kool Aid cooler. It was getting dark.

Foreman Brodie called Johnson over.  They went into the company shack for a few minutes, then Johnson came out alone.

“OK, here’s what we’ve got to do. Miles and Kepler, get the stuff cleaned off the table, put the trash over there in the can, wash the table down. Keelie and Radisson, go get the lights turned on in the tent, swat any bugs you can see, and get the tub out, looks like we got a chance to do laundry in the morning. Get to it!”

There were multiple replies of, “Yes, Tent Boss.”

Johnson turned to me. “Utah, you got some duty in the company trailer.”

“Yes, Tent Boss,” I replied. I was about to ask what, when Johnson spoke again.

“We get treated real well here, we all got to do our part to keep things that way, you got that?”

“Yes, Tent Boss,” I said.

“When you go up to the company trailer say, ‘Sir, Prisoner Utah reports, Sir!’ Foreman Brodie is an ex-Marine. He gets a woody for that kind of shit.”

“Yes, Tent Boss,” I said.

I got to the company trailer, knocked hard once on the door and yelled, “Sir! Prisoner Utah reports, Sir!”

From inside came a deep, “Come.”

I opened the door and walked in, my leg irons dragging on the floor.

What a sight! Foreman Brodie was shirtless. He had brown eyes. The rest of him; big pecs covered with dark fur, huge biceps, and his forearms were big. A trail of fur went down to his crotch. A big brown leather belt and those tight Wrangler jeans.

“Sir?” I mumbled.

“Are you going to follow the rules here, Utah?”

“Yes Sir,” I said.

“See your already fucking up, Utah. I know you wouldn’t talk to Sgt. Stiles that way. Just because I’m not a uniformed officer of the law doesn’t mean I don’t get respect.”

I knew where he was going and said, “Sir, yes Sir! I will follow the rules, Sir!”

Foreman Brodie finally smiled. “Better,” he said.

“Turn around, put your hands behind your back.”  I did as I was ordered.  Foreman Brodie’s massive hand held one of my wrists while he slapped the handcuff on my other wrist. He had a grip on me like a wrench. He got the other cuff on, then double locked them. He was a pro. He’d done this before.

“There, that’s better. Now turn around, Utah,” said Foreman Brodie.

“Sir, yes, Sir!” I turned around to face that hunk of muscle.

“Now we can talk,” said Foreman Brodie. “How did you end up here, Utah? You tell me the real truth now.”

I guess this was it, I knew I couldn’t lie.

“Sir, yes Sir! Sir, I was watching a road crew that Sgt Stiles was in charge of. Seeing all those prisoners working in these uniforms got me excited. I met him later at a bar and he said he could get me on the crew. I liked it, and Sgt. Stiles said he could get me into the camp, Sir.”

“Now you’re here at my cement plant?” said Foreman Brodie.

“Sir, yes Sir!” I replied.

“You like being here, Utah?” he asked.

“Sir, yes Sir!” I said. “It’s been really great.”

His eyes changed. “Get on your knees, Utah”

“Sir, yes Sir!” I said as I dropped. I knew what was coming. I could smell it. I could taste it. I wanted it. I looked straight at the growing bulge in his tight jeans, how was there room for that thing in those jeans?

“Look up at me, Utah. Keep your eyes open and keep looking up at me, got it?”

“Sir, yes Sir!”

He unzipped his fly and pulled out is dick. It was big.

“Open,” he just grunted.

I got my mouth around the head and a little way down, but there was no way I could take it all. I did my best at sucking him off. He seemed pleased. I keep looking him. Straight into those brown eyes. Sometimes they looked friendly and encouraging, other times they looked mean and cold. I don’t know how long it took, but he reached the point of cuming. He moved his massive hands behind my head. I was afraid he’d pull me down deeper onto his cock, but he just held my head still. He pumped his cock into my mouth while he held my head perfectly still.  Then he pulled out of my mouth and immediately got his right hand on his dick — I gasped for air. Foreman Brodie gave his cock one, maybe two pumps and sprayed his load in my face.

I stayed on my knees. Forman Brodie took deep breaths, getting air into those lungs in that massive chest. He took his right hand and rubbed his cum all over my face and then in my buzzed hair. I was covered in his load.

He snorted like a bull. “That’s better,” he said.

I was still looking up at him, and reflexively said, “Sir, yes Sir!”  I guess that’s all I could do right then.

Foreman Brodie smiled; those brown eyes twinkled. I thought, “he’s got something planned for me.”

“Come on, get on yer feet and let’s get outside.”  He hooked a massive arm under my armpit and lifted me off the floor as I struggled to get my leg ironed constrained and booted feet working.

We got out the door of the company trailer arm in arm. It was dark. The lights of the cement plant made pools of light on the ground. Up by each light at the top of each pole there was a racing cloud of bugs.

“Over here.”

We stopped in front of a big block of cement about the size of a big refrigerator. At the top of the block were two old and thick iron loops. It must have been used as a counterweight for a crane or something like that.

“Sit down, get your back up against that block,” Foreman Brodie ordered.

I still had my hands cuffed behind my back so I couldn’t get right up against it, but Foreman Brodie seemed satisfied with my effort. I slid my butt as close to the block as it could get. My legs were in front of me, still leg ironed.

Foreman Brodie had a chain in his hand. He reached on top of the block and came back with a collar. No shit, a real old fashioned iron collar. It took him seconds to have it around my neck and, with a click, locked. He padlocked one end of the chain to the collar and the other end to one of the iron loops on the top of the concrete block.

I was going nowhere. It was just me and him.

Foreman Brodie straddled me. His legs spread wide, booted feet securely anchored.

Foreman Brodie didn’t say a word. He reached in his jeans, pulled out his dick and unleashed a stream of piss right at my face. I sputtered.  Fuck! He aimed his stream at my sticky head, then right for my mouth.

“Open,” he said. I opened my mouth a little, just enough. I got a taste. Hot, salty, ugh. The stream stopped. He shook off the last drops onto me.

“There now, all rinsed off,” he said with a smile. “I’ll get someone to come get you in a while.”

I just sat there, stunned.

That was the most fucking hot thing I’ve ever been through! Holy shit!

I just sat there collared, chained to the concrete block, with a fully erect cock, and no way to get to it.

Tears came.

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