By Johnny Utah

Based on a suggestion by MetalbondNYC

I don’t know how long I was sitting there. My arms were really stiff, cuffed behind my back. My butt was sore and cold from sitting in the dirt. Was Foreman Brodie just going to leave me here? I was miserable with my piss-soaked head and my hard on.

Eventually out of the dark I saw Johnson. He was in his boxers and boots. He wasn’t wearing leg irons; for some reason that made me scared. What happened?

He came up to me. “Looks like you’re in quite a state,” he said.

“Yes, Tent Boss,” I dejectedly replied.

“I got the keys. Hold still,” Johnson said as he unlocked the chain to my collar and then my handcuffs. “Hold on, let me get the leg irons too.” I stayed sitting down.

“What about the collar?” I asked.

“No,” said Johnson. “That stays on. I don’t have a key for that.”

I slumped my head down.

“Get up. Let’s get back to the tent,” he said. “Stand up!”

“What?” I stopped myself. “Tent Boss, what about my hard on? It won’t go down!”

Johnson spun me around. In a second, he had one hand on my cock, his other hand was over my mouth. “Don’t want you making a lot of noise,” he panted into my ear. Oh God that was hot! His hand worked me quickly, but I was ready. It didn’t take more than a few pumps of Johnson’s rough hand. As I squirted, I saw stars. Jonson took his hand off my mouth. I sucked in a lungful of Florida swampy tasting humid air.

He was pressed up against my back, his body heat went right through me. He squeezed my cock hard, I gasped. “Just want to get every drop out, I don’t want you whacking off all night in the tent.”

He gave my dick a final hard squeeze. “All empty?” he said.

“Yes, Tent Boss,” I managed to say while I panted like a dog.

“Come on, we gotta get some sleep,” Johnson chuckled. “Can you walk?”

“Yes, Tent Boss,” I was able to get out.

It was weird walking without the leg irons. I kept taking short steps, waiting for the chain to snap and stop my stride. We got back to the area outside the back of the tent, near the water faucet.

“Strip off that uniform,” said Johnson.

“Yes, Tent Boss,” I meekly replied. I was tired, and I wasn’t sure what was going to happen next.

“Put everything in that tub over there, then get a bucket or two of water, let it soak all night. Boxers too,” he commanded.

I got my uniform and boxers in the tub and poured one bucket of water over it.

“Hold on,” Johnson said. He tossed me a washcloth and a bar of soap. Stick your head over the tub. Johnson then poured a full bucket over my head. “Use that water in the tub to wash you face and crotch. Chuck the washcloth in the tub when you’re done.”

I did the best I could, then Johnson handed me a towel. It was small, and I got it soaked drying off. I tossed the towel in the tub too.

“In the morning get up early and change the water, you can wash everything out after work tomorrow,” Johnson said. “Come on, let’s get inside.”

“I don’t want to go into the tent naked, Tent Boss,” I said.

Johnson looked straight at me, hard. “Everyone knows what you did.  Foreman Brodie came in and announced you had made a deal. You blew him. You did your part, and he took our leg irons off.”

“I didn’t make any deal with him, Tent Boss.”

“I know. We all know. Let Brodie have his jollies.”

“Tent Boss, what about the collar, did he say anything about when it comes off.?”

“No. That stays on.”

“How do you know?” I asked. I didn’t get in trouble for not saying “Tent Boss.”

“I know, so does Keelie. We were here before. I wore that collar before. Foreman Brodie does that to let you know he owns you. It’s his power trip. You can’t do anything about it while you’re here. He’ll take it off when it’s time to go back to camp, but until then it stays on.”

“I’m kind scared to go back in, Tent Boss. All the guys will think I’m a bitch.”

“First of all, no one’s going to say shit, or I beat the fuck outta them. Next, we got outta those leg irons because of what you did. Now we work together, get through the next days and then it’s back to camp.”

“But I’m Brodie’s bitch,” I said. “His collared bitch.” I touched the collar.

“Come on, it’s late, Utah,” said Johnson as he held the back door to the tent open for me. I walked into the tent red faced, naked, and collared. I grabbed a pair of clean boxers and went to my bunk.

The morning routine was reassuring, and things were ‘normal.”  After wolfing down a cup of black coffee and two biscuits with real bacon, it was back to loading those fucking trucks. We worked hard until lunchtime. I worked collared. We had a couple of piss and water breaks, but the lunch break was the longest. I had to run to the wash tub to change the water. I’d be scrubbing my uniform after dinner.

Forman Brodie wasn’t anywhere to be seen. We spent the day being watched by that scrawny punk. I never spoke to him. I just didn’t like him.

We lugged bag after bag of cement. I wondered how many tons we had loaded over the week. Finally, Forman Brodie came by. He was there in his tight jeans and a plaid shirt. It was tight. Didn’t this fucker have any normal sized shirts? He had two buttons on the shirt unbuttoned to show that chest fur of his. His big boots made him 3 inches taller than the massive hulk he already was. He strode up like he owned the world and said, “Time to stop, go get washed up, dinner’s on the way!”

I didn’t make eye contact with him. He didn’t say a word to me.

Dinner was great! BBQ chicken along with biscuits like we had for breakfast. Greens too. For a northern boy, I sure was getting to like southern cooking. I ate fast. I had to get my ass to the wash tub and get my uniform scrubbed and hung up. My new priority, I thought. I used to worry about getting a job.

I got to the wash tub, took off my shirt, got on my knees and, using a bar of soap, scrubbed my uniform against the sides of the tub. After I was done, I got two buckets of water to rise everything out.  We had a line from one of the tent posts to a nearby tree. I hung my shirt, pants, T-shirt, and boxers out on the line to dry.  Domestic life in a work camp, I thought. Well not really. Domestic life when you’ve been rented out from a prison work camp. Fuck, my life had changed.

Johnson came up to me. “Yes, Tent Boss?”

“Brodie’s on his way.” My eyes must have got big because Johnson said, “don’t be scared. Things are going to be different, I promise you. You go with him. You’ll be sucking him off I’m sure of that, but don’t worry about anything else. It’s our last night. He’s not going to do anything stupid. But that doesn’t mean I won’t,” Johnson said with a strange smile I hadn’t seen on him before.

‘Yes, Tent Boss,” I answered.

Foreman Brodie came around to the back of the tent where I was waiting next to the line with my clothes flapping in the wind. I hoped they were dry in the morning before we got loaded for the trip back to camp. He stood like a bear on its hind legs. God he was big. Around his hips he wore a gun belt with his holstered pistol.

“These all yours?” Foreman Brodie asked.

“Yes, Sir.”

“You going to come along, or do I have to put leg irons on you?” he paused, “and a leash.”

“No, Sir. I’ll come along.”

“I’ll make sure you stay with me.” He curled a finger through the ring on the front of my collar. He walked in front of me, arm stretched back toward me. He led me by my collar, shirtless. toward the company trailer. Halfway to the company trailer I realized I was getting hard. What was wrong with me?

We got to the trailer.

Foreman Brodie was about to open the door and lead me inside the trailer when Johnson was suddenly in front of us.

He had a pistol.

“That’s far enough, Brodie!” Johnson yelled.

“What the fuck, Johnson!” I said.

“Keep your right hand on Utah’s collar, Brodie. Use your left hand to drop that pistol on the ground!”

“Are you fuckin’ nuts, Johnson!” said Foreman Brodie.

“Just do it, fucker!” yelled Johnson.

Brodie used his left hand to take out his pistol and then he let it go.

“OK, Brodie,” said Johnson. “Now let go of Utah. Put both hands on top of your head.”

Brodie slowly complied.

“Take out those cuffs you have and cuff your hands in front of you!” Johnson yelled at Brodie. I stepped back a few paces. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

Foreman Brodie reached behind him to a handcuff case he wore on his belt. Without looking away from Johnson, Brodie cuffed himself.

Johnson lowered his pistol.

“Utah, pick up that pistol and hand it to me!”

I did.

“Go inside on the desk, there should be another set of cuffs somewhere on the desk, or in one of the drawers,” Johnson told me.

I went in the trailer. It took me a minute to find them, my head was swimming, what the fuck was going on, how would we explain this.? Were we going to escape?

I came out with the cuffs.

“Utah, pay attention now. Run one cuff through the front of Brodie’s belt, the put the other cuff around the handcuff chain. Make sure the cuffs are locked.”

Brodie was now handcuffed; his belt was acting like a belly chain, keeping his cuffed hands close to his body.

“OK, let’s take a walk over to the loading shed,” Johnson said.  The loading shed was more like a garage, the dump trucks were in there and some other kind of machinery I didn’t recognize. The shed was made of concrete blocks and corrugated metal. It smelled of oil and sweat.

Johnson motioned Brodie to start walking. I followed. We got inside the shed.

“OK, Brodie, down on yer knees,” Johnson said.

Johnson talked to the kneeling Brodie, keeping the pistol trained on him. “There, that’s better. See, Brodie, I know your secrets. Don’t think I forgot about the time I wore that collar Utah’s got on. Oh, and I know there’s a spare. I found it and, walking over to a rusty barrel held up, here it is,” Johnson said.  Sure, enough Johnson held up a collar exactly like the one I was locked into.

Why hasn’t Johnson unlocked my collar, I wondered to myself.

“I was going to do this, but I think Utah deserves the honors,” Johnson said as he looked at me and held out the collar in his left hand, his right still holding the pistol.

“Where’s a lock?” I asked.

“Over there,” said Johnson, motioning toward a shelf.

I walked over and got the lock, then got the collar from Johnson. I put the collar around Brodie’s thick neck and locked it with the padlock.

“So, what do you want to do now, Brodie?” Johnson asked Brodie.

A huge bulge in his jeans explained his dick was doing the thinking.

“I want him to suck my dick!” said Brodie.

“No, said Johnson, you’re going to suck his dick. You’re going to ask permission first, though.”

Johnson stuck the barrel of the pistol in the back of Brodie’s head.  “Well, ask him!”

Before Brodie could ask, Johnson yelled, “No, look up at him, keep your eyes on him!”

“Sir, may I suck your dick?” Brodie said.

From out of nowhere, I was feeling super confident. I said, “First you won’t need this!” I knocked off the baseball cap he was wearing.  “Second, don’t call me Sir! Call me Prisoner Utah!”

Brodie’s eyes got big. He had beautiful brown eyes.

“Prisoner Utah, may I suck your dick?”

“Say it again,” I said.  I struggled to get my hardening dick out of my boxers and pants.

“Prisoner Utah, may I suck your dick!?”

“Take it, Brodie!” I said.

Brodie opened wide and slid down my cock.

Brodie gagged.

He came back up for air.

“Keep on,” I said.

Brodie sucked me off. He’d done this before. He was no first timer. His tongue swirled around my cockhead. I grabbed his hair. His hair was thick and black on top, long enough to get a grip on. His haircut tapered down to short, clipped hairs then was razored smooth at the back and sides. He had a thick neck like a bull. A prized bull.

Brodie continued with his task. Things became blurry for me. I only concentrated on being sucked. Nothing else in the world mattered. No pre-road crew life, no work camp, no Sgt Stiles, no details.

I shot my load.

Brodie swallowed.

That was it.

Plain and animal.

I recovered.

Brodie stayed on his knees. A little cum dribbled into his thick well-trimmed black beard.

I looked over at Johnson for a clue about what to do next. I hadn’t paid Johnson any attention while Brodie was sucking me off. Johnson had his hard cock out, and he was pretty big and getting bigger.

“My turn,” Johnson said. I moved away from the kneeling Brodie. Johnson took my place.

I was going to watch, I told myself that. I did see Brodie take Johnson’s cock in his mouth and go to work. I found myself looking away. I’m not sure if I wanted Johnson to have a little privacy. From the sounds that Johnson was making, he could care less. There was an occasional, “Take it, cocksucker!” “Slower, bitch!” and “Gag on it!”

Johnson unloaded. At least from the sound I heard.  I looked over and Brodie’s face was covered with a spray of Johnson’s cum.

“Payback isn’t over, shithead,” Johnson said to Brodie menacingly.

“Get up!” Johnson barked. Brodie got to his feet.

“Utah, take off his belt,” Johnson ordered.

Programed as I was, I said, “Yes, Tent Boss.” I unbuckled his belt. His hands were now cuffed, but free of the connecting cuffs to the belt. I was worried Brodie might try something.

“OK, Foreman Brodie, kick off those shit kicker boots and drop those jeans!” Johnson said. He said “Foreman Brodie” like it was some disease.

Brodie had some trouble keeping his balance, probably from taking in all that cum. I laughed to myself. He got his boots off, then slid his jeans as far down as he could over his big hairy thighs.

That kinky fucker had a jock on! He wanted to show that ass off alright!

“Utah, pull those jeans off him,” Johnson said. I squatted down and gave a yank to Brodie’s jeans, pulling them down to his ankles. I was right at eye level to the head of his cock, poking out from his jock. In the spirit of things, I gave the head a flick with one of my fingers. Brodie tensed back, saying a loud “ouch.” I smiled. Brodie stepped out of the bunched-up jeans at his ankles.

“Now take that shirt off!” Johnson commanded. Brodie did as he was told. That magnificent chest. That fur! He was a forest beast. A collared and naked forest beast!

“Go over there behind the truck, there are some ropes. Go get them,” Johnson ordered.

I went and came back with the ropes.

“Tie a rope to each ankle, make sure it’s tight,” Johnson told me.

My Boy Scout skills finally came in handy! With a rope around each ankle Brodie was told by Johnson to climb up “real careful onto the hood of the dump truck.” I had to help Brodie get up. It was a bit of a jump from the driver’s side step up to the hood. Brodie squirmed and pushed himself up onto the hood, his hands cuffed in front of him. He used his cuffed hands to balance himself. He was sitting on his butt.

“OK, Brodie, on yer belly. Spread your legs as far as you can. Utah, tie of those ropes.”

I jumped back on the ground and tied Bodie’s left rope to supports of the driver’s side mirror. It was a pretty chunky support, this was a construction dump truck after all, built for heavy use. I scrambled around to the right side and tied off the right ankle rope to the right-side mirror supports, running a little extra around the external air filter casing. Brodie’s legs were spread out like a thanksgiving turkey about to be stuffed. The straps of that jock just served up that firm butt of his. A nice dusting of dark fur covered each ass cheek. The crack of his ass was deep in that dark fur.

“OK, Utah, now get his hands spread.”

Brodie was hanging off the end of the hood from about the shoulders up. He didn’t look comfortable. Good. It must have taken a lot of muscle to raise up his head and upper chest to see straight ahead. Otherwise, he just had to look straight down at the garage floor.

Johnson came up to the front of the dump truck and stood right in form of the radiator, looking Brodie in the eyes. Brodie’s arms were hanging down in front of the radiator.

“I’m going to uncuff you. You give me any trouble, I’ll beat the shit out of you, you got that?”

“Yes, Sir,” Brodie said quietly.

“No,” Johnson lightly slapped Brodie on the top of the head, “It’s ‘Yes, Tent Boss!’ Say it.”

“Yes, Tent Boss,” said Brodie

“That’s better, you panhandle redneck shit kicker!” Johnson said, smiling.

Johnson uncuffed Brodie. I pulled one rope and tied it off to the headlight assembly on the right side of the dump truck. I did the same on the right side.

“Go open the door,” Johnson ordered. I went to the front door of the garage. It was one of those roll-up doors big enough for the dump truck to drive through. There was a green button that said open. I pushed it, and up the door went. It stopped by itself. Brodie was spread eagled on top of the dump truck hood. His head and shoulders hung of the edge of the hood.

Johnson padlocked a short length of chain onto the ring on Brodie’s collar. It hung down in front of the radiator of the dump truck. It clanged against the radiator.

“One last thing before we go,” said Johnson. He went into the cab of the truck and came back with a bright red ball gag.

“Where did you get that, Tent Boss?” I asked.

“This kinky fucker has all kinds of toys around here. Maybe we’ll use some later on,” Johnson said.

Brodie’s eyes got big.

“Open,” said Johnson. Brodie didn’t resist. He knew it would do no good. Johnson put in the red ball gag, buckling it tight behind Brodie’s head, and said, “One more thing.”

Johnson took a phone from out of his back pocket. Let’s have a few pics for memories and insurance. Johnson took about a dozen pics of Brodie from far back to get all of him in the pic to some close-ups.

“Here, take a few of me,” Johnson said handing me the phone. Johnson posed like a hunter with his prize buck, tied to the front of his pickup. Brodie was really in much the same situation as a shot buck.

I handed the phone back to Johnson. “I’ll just send these to a friend,” he said.

“Time to go!” announced Johnson.

“Hop in,” he said to me as he got in the driver’s side of the dump truck.

I got in on the passenger side.

Brodie gave a gagged yell that sounded like a long Nooooooo!

Johnson started the dump truck, put it in gear. “Let’s ride!” he yelled.

Johnson hit the gas and we went forward out the door. Brodie’s chain made a racket as it bounced of the radiator with each bump in the road.

We drove out and around the perimeter dirt road of the cement plant. It was a long way. On the journey we looked out at the scene in front of us, Florida panhandle sand and pines. Tied to the hood, just on the other side of the windshield, was a firm white hairy butt. It bounced with every pothole. Brodie struggled to keep his head up. If he lowered his head he got more dust coming up from the front of the truck.

“How’d you like to look at that pretty tight butt all the way to Jacksonville?” asked Johnson.

“That would be a nice view all the way down I-10,” I said.

We around the dirt roads leading to the sand quarries and by the piles of gravel. Brodie was going to get a good coating of grit by the time we were done. We circled back to the garage. Johnson put the truck in reverse and backed in.

“Go close the door,” he said.

“Yes, Tent Boss,” I said as I hopped out the passenger side door.

After I hit the button to close the door, I turned back and walked toward the trussed-up Brodie on the top of the dump truck hood. Johnson was already there next to him.

“What do we do now, Tent Boss?”

“Get up there and untie his legs.”

Johnson undid the ropes around Brodie’s wrists.

“Utah, get up on the hood and help this piece of shit get down.”

I got my hands underneath Brodie’s big body. The week of lugging those fucking bags of cement helped. I helped Brodie get up so he could slide off the hood of the dump truck.

Brodie’s abs were a sticky mess. Somewhere along our ride he had cum on himself. There was a slimy film on the hood of the truck, like when a slug leaves a trail. Brodie’s jock was wet and had a dusting of road grit mixed in. that must have been an uncomfortable ride. Bouncing up and down, side to side, and with a hard cock; rubbed in sand. The engine was hot too, I’m sure that helped! I laughed.

“Here, Johnson yelled. Use his shirt to clean up that cum stain on the truck.”

Johnson tossed me Brodie’s plaid shirt.

I got up on the truck and reached out and wiped the remains of the mix of Brodies cum and sand off the hood.

“Toss me his shirt,” Johnson said. I did.

Johnson used the shirt to wipe off Brodie’s hairy and cum glazed belly. Then he wiped Brodie’s face with it.

Johnson then looked Brodie right in the eyes.

Johnson kissed him hard.

I couldn’t believe it. It was one of the hottest things I’ve ever seen. What did it mean?

Johnson said, “Get over here, Utah.”

“Yes, Tent Boss.”

Johnson put his hands on my bare shoulders.

Brodie shuffled in a little closer to me and Johnson.

“OK, I know you’re thinking what the fuck is going on. It’s alright. No one’s in trouble. You’re not in trouble.”

Brodie spoke. “It’s OK, Utah. We set this up. When do two horny fucks like me and Johnson get a chance to live out a fantasy? When your cute ass came chained up into my place, I went straight to Johnson to figure out some way to get you to play along.”

“You fucks!” I said, smiling.

“Come on, we gotta get back, everyone will be asleep. We got a big day tomorrow.”

Brodie moved in. He planted a kiss on my mouth with a force that a big man can put into it. He squeezed my butt with  big hairy hands. “Who knows, maybe you’ll be back here, and you can go for a ride!” He walked over to where his boots and jeans were, scooped them up and walked jockstrapped out into the Florida night towards the company trailer.

“Come on,” said Johnson.

The sun was up. We got to sleep in just a bit. I was still tired from last night.

No lugging 100-pound bags of cement today.

Breakfast was just coffee and biscuits. We had to break the tent down, get all the poles and the rest of our shit ready for pick up and that drive back to the work camp.

Foreman Brodie came out of the company trailer with sets of leg irons.

“Gotta get you guys shackled up for the ride back to camp,” he announced. When it was my turn, I got hard when Brodie squatted down to lock my shackles on. “These look so fucking hot on you,” Brodie whispered as he stood up in front of me.

We saw the vans pull into the plant.

It was over. Our week was done. It seemed like a lifetime.

Guess there won’t be any more steaks and homemade cornbread.

It was back to “Camp Stiles.” That was the pet name I made for it. I kept it to myself.

A guard got out of van. “OK, get the tent and stuff in the back van.”

We stuffed the van with the tent that had been our “home” for the past week.

Time to get transport chained.

“Help us out here,” one guard said to scrawny guy. Scrawny guy came over to me next to cuff me, he was afraid. I could smell his fear, sweaty fear. I suddenly had the realization I must really be on my way to becoming a convict, figuring out who was weak and strong, recognizing fear by smell, like a predator.

We were belly chained, cuffed, shackled, and a short chain ran from our leg irons up to our cuffs. We shuffled into the front van. The guard got in and we drove off. I saw Brodie real briefly. Then we turned and we were on the road.

Camp was ahead.

 

The next day

 

Same place. Same drill. We got into order. We made two ranks.

Sgt. Stiles, looking tough and as hard as I remembered him, came out. It was this image that I had jerked off to at the concrete plant, except the last night when Brodie had taken his place.

Sgt Stiles read out all our names followed by our numbers.

As always, the only answer was to reply with your name, number, and tent assignment, followed by Sir!”

“Utah, J. 37354,” said Sgt. Stiles.

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

Morning assignments were given out. “Tent 6, the Farm!” Sgt. Stiles roared out. He seemed happy about it.

We loaded up into the van. No chains, what a relief. It wasn’t too long of a drive. Right across from Baker Correctional is a farm. It’s on the other side of the highway from the prison and runs down as far as the Prison Guards Shooting Range.

I got out of the van with Johnson and Keelie.  Me and Keelie lugged the water jugs to the edge of the field. There was a stack of empty bushel baskets and plastic bags.

Something had ploughed up the dirt and pushed up all these sweet potatoes.  There must have been thousands of them. We made a line running perpendicular to the furrows. You picked up the sweet potatoes and put them in the plastic bags, making them stand up like four-foot-tall towers.

I was out in the field picking up sweet potatoes, I thought. Yesterday I was driving around with a naked man tied to the hood of a truck, the day before that I was lugging -pound cement bags. What a diverse life! But after a while my back was killing me.

A van drove up and four guards got out. My con sense was tingling, along with every other con out there in the field. Something wasn’t good.

“Utah, J. 35374!” One of the guards shouted out.

Stupid me just reflexively answered, “Sir, Utah, J. 35374, Sir!”

My mind had been institutionalized.

What the fuck! I thought when I saw the transport chains. Was my time at camp over? Was my time with Sgt Stiles over?

The guard said, “Utah, turn around, hands on your head.”  I did what he ordered.

I said, “What’s going on?”

The guard barked out, “You’ll get the word when you need to!” The guard then put a belly chain around my waist. I got my hands cuffed in front of me. My cuffs were attached to the belly chain. I got leg irons put on me too. A short chain was run up my front to connect my leg irons to my cuffs. I was kinda hunched over. I stumbled over the ploughed-up ground, off to the van.

I turned to shout out, “See ya, Johnson! See ya, Keelie!”

“Take care, brother!” Johnson yelled back.

The guards hustled me into the van.

My stomach churned on the short drive to Baker Correctional. What was going on? The van pulled up to a vehicle gate. The gate slid open, and a bored-looking guard came out.

“Outta the van, punk!” he snarled.

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