Caliban

Two Boys in the Reformatory

Chapter One

Shorty and Whitey had first met six months ago, when Shorty had escaped from the reformatory and hidden in the car which Whitey had parked outside a store. Whitey was a foster child, living the last two years under the care and love of a retired judge and his wife. He had prospered under their care, and they had doted on him. He thought he had it all. But when Shorty appeared in his car that day he immediately felt attached to the kid, and regarded him almost as a younger brother. He had hidden him in the judge's garage for weeks, slipping him food, and taking him around town. Now he vividly remembered how Shorty had showed him the whip marks on his back while he proclaimed how tough he was, and Whitey wondered if that might be his own fate now. It was all because of his temper. Shorty had stupidly stolen some candy in a store they had gone into, and he slugged the storekeeper who challenged him. Just then a policeman had come in, witnessed the altercation, intervened, and while trying to protect Shorty Whitey had slugged the officer. They were both arrested. In no time Shorty was found guilty of theft and assault on an officer and given an added two years to his reform school sentence. And Whitey found that being the foster son of a retired judge might have helped in mitigating the charge of assisting an escapee, but not for assaulting an officer. The judge could do nothing for him. But far worse was the shame Whitey felt for the hurt and pain the judge and his wife suffered from the publicity. They had done so much for him. The home, the clothes, the car, and they really cared for him. They had started proceedings to legally adopt him. But he assaulted a police officer. There was nothing the judge could do. He got two years in the same reformatory as Shorty. And even though his foster parents wrote him regular letters he was convinced he could never face them again. He didn't write back, didn't talk to them when they visited. He felt himself in a black hole brought on by the twists of fate, and believed he had no hope other than someday escaping this place.

Once together at the reformatory he and Shorty had become even more devoted friends. Shorty told Whitey that the warden had not been too rough with him after he had been returned from that ill fated escape when they had met, probably because there was so much publicity. Amazingly, they were now in the same dorm, and on some of the same work details. While working in the kitchens those last two months they had noticed how the trash was handled, and while working out in the farm fields, where they could talk privately, they had hatched their plan. Whitey figured that once they were on the outside he knew his way around enough to get them out of the state, and maybe to California.

The door to the room opened and in came the warden with two guards. Mr. Stormer was accustomed to handling tough kids. The juvenile prison was full of kids who got into trouble on the streets of Nebraska. Times were hard, and The Great Depression showed no signs of lessening. He was determined to run a tight ship, and so were his guards. They were all about protecting their jobs. Keep the inmates under control and make a profit from the operation and the public would be satisfied. But this was a gift he had in front of him now. He hated the troublemaking Shorty. And he hated this 'Whitey' (given name of 'Terrence', but nicknamed during his own orphanage days for his shock of blond hair, which had darkened a bit and become 'dirty' blond as he got older) who had helped Shorty on his earlier escape.

Stormer glared at both boys. They glared resentfully and hatefully back at him.

"On your feet you punks." After a momentary hesitation and a first step from the accompanying guards both Shorty and Whitey warily pulled themselves up. Their feet were chained together with shackles.

"Well, you two have just earned some serious, hard time. Attempted escape – second one for you, little man. And assaulting an officer, the second time for both of you. Shorty boy, you're going to get six years in the pen after you leave this place. And your big brother here gets to stay here now until he's 18 and then he gets six years in the pen. Hard time. For both of you." Both boys sullenly stared at the floor as Stormer described the consequences of their failure. Stormer turned to go.

"Sir, wait." Shorty blurted out. Stormer paused, and then turned to face the boys.

"Well?"

"Sir (pause). I know we're in big trouble. But does it have to be more time? Couldn't it be something else?" he said pleadingly.

"Something else? Something else? What else is there? What do you suggest?" Stormer sneered. Shorty looked back at Stormer, eyes darting back and forth from the floor to Stormer.

"Well, sir, you could give us a good whipping, like you usually do."

"A good whipping?!?!" Stormer exclaimed incredulously. "For all this mess – attempted escape. Assaulting a guard! This is serious stuff"

"Then give us a couple of good whippings. The guard can get even that way. Think about it. Give it to us good. It's what we deserve, isn't it Whitey?" Shorty looked anxiously at Whitey. Whitey picked up on Shorty's suggestion…

"I ain't never been whipped Sir. I'm sure it would hurt a lot and teach me a good lesson. I'm good with what Shorty here is saying."

"So you two are suggesting to me that instead of reporting you to the state and giving you extra time we should give you our own punishment, right here, with a whipping?"

"Yes sir, that's just what we're saying. Better for you 'cause you get to teach us a lesson," Shorty rejoined, persuasively now.

The warden turned away from the conversation and left the room, which closed behind him and was locked fast.

"He didn't go for it. We're gonna be locked up for years," Whitey moaned glumly.

"I tried. I hoped you wouldn't mind, but I don't want to be locked up all those years either. I liked being free when we was together out on the street and I was living in your garage. I'll take anything to be free again."

Whitey looked at his recently acquired little 'brother'. Shorty was just now passing five feet [1.50 m] tall. He had started to grow after a lifetime of being a runt. He had been 'Shorty' ever since he could remember, in the orphanage where he had been raised. The only time he had been called 'Martin', his official name, had been when he was in court for beating up kids at the orphanage and they had sent him to the state reform school for boys. Shorty's body was finally starting to stretch. His full head of curly brown hair was now joined by a little wisp of hair over his lip. He had developed a strong musculature on his compact frame over the four years he had labored in the fields of the reform school farm.

Both buys slumped to the floor. Before long both had fallen fast asleep. They didn't hear the door open an hour later. A guard kicked them on their shackled legs and roused them. They blinked their eyes open to find Warden Stormer standing before them. After the initial shock they scrambled to their feet.

"I thought a bit about your idea little man. I'll tell you what. If you ask for it… I repeat, IF you ask for it, we'll hold that escape report. You'll both get a whipping you'll never forget. You'll both do six months of hard labor. And then when the six months are up you'll get another whipping. And it won't be short and easy. I'll whip you long and hard. So, you still want your punishment like that instead of time?" He snarled at them.

After the initial shock Shorty quickly processed what the warden had stated.

"Yes sir. I'll take whatever whipping you want to give me and I'll take however much hard labor you say and you can whip me some more." The words poured out of Shorty's mouth.

"That goes for me too Warden." Whitey added.

"You're older, you're gonna get it worse." The warden retorted to Whitey with a wicked sneer.

"Whatever you say, sir" Whitey quickly answered.

"We did the same here. I want everything I got coming to me, even if I'm not as old as him. In fact, I been here longer and know better, so I should be the one gettin' it worse," Shorty protested. The warden smiled with sick amusement at the little contest of pride.

"I think you'll both get enough." He turned and left. The door closed and locked behind him.

"He did go for it! I don't know how, but he did!" Shorty chattered excitedly. Whitey looked at him with some satisfaction.

"I hope we didn't do something stupid!"

"Are you kidding? So we get whipped. Folks has always been whipped. We work hard for six months. We git whipped some more. And we still get out of here when we turn 18, not a terrible long time. I know it hurts like hell, but then it's over. It's over." Shorty was deeply pleased.

"OK, I don't think they'll wait very long to do it, so git ready. They gonna do it to us bare, you know that. We'll be tied up. It does hurt like hell, like fire coming down on you. But you don't think on the fire. You think something else, somethin' you like. You put your mind someplace else. It'll never go more than an hour. They get tired doin' it."

"How many times you been whipped Shorty?"

"Five times here all together. The first three times was when I was ten and eleven and kinda new here. They whipped me bare butt. They stripped me bare and tied me down over this big wooden bench and they beat me bare butt with a big ol strap. Then when I was thirteen I bit a kid and punched at a guard. They said they was gonna whip me like a man since I was thirteen and all. They took my shirt off and tied me to this post and used this whip with a bunch of leather tails we call the 'cat's claw', and gave me twenty lashes. The last time I got it was before I ran away and met you. Remember I showed you my back? I got sick of the food and threw my lunch tray at the floor and splashed the warden who was standing nearby. I got it bareback again, tied to that post, but this time I got forty. I never cried, I never begged, I never screamed. They hated me for that. They want kids to scream and cry. I decided I was gonna take it like a man. I may be small, but I'm no pussy. And I won't be this time either."

"How many do you think we'll get?"

"Don't know, but I think it will be a lot. He wants to break me, I know it. And he hates you cause you helped me and because of the judge and all. You heard him say he plans to give you more cause you're older. Well, I want as many as you git."

Another hour passed as the boys sat nervously on the floor, wondering when their punishment would happen. Shorty kept talking to Whitey, telling him how to take getting whipped. Whitey had steadied himself, and it really had sunk into him that this was far better than six years of state prison. In fact, he was kind of getting psyched for it. He wondered if they'd be whipped separately or apart. He hoped they'd be together. He figured they would encourage each other just by watching even if they couldn't say anything. He also found his feelings of sex were getting stirred by the thought of seeing Shorty getting whipped. He couldn't figure out why he was feeling that way, but he was. The room was feeling stiflingly hot by now. It was early June, and the summer heat was starting, and the room didn't have windows or any air moving. He unbuttoned his khaki shirt. Shorty not only unbuttoned his shirt, but took it off.

"Can you still see any whip marks on my back?" he asked Whitey. Whitey looked and acknowledged there were only a couple of very faint scar marks. Shorty's back was pretty brown from the work out in the farm fields all through May and from the years of shirtless field work before. He was kind of a permanent light brown. Whitey ran his fingers along the thin whip marks he could make out on the moist surface of Shorty's back. As he traced the five lines he could see, he remembered that when Shorty had first showed him his back during that escape when they first met there were a lot of marks, and they weren't at all faint lines like these.

Whitey thought of that first view of Shorty, and how horrified he had been, and how they were almost invisible now. He felt a bit less unsettled about what he was getting himself in for. In fact, he thought of his own back, and how many marks he would have. But strangely enough he was having another feeling. He was feeling sexual again. Why was that? Why did he feel so excited while he was tracing those marks on Shorty's back? He had so many questions all at once.

Just then the door opened. Four guards came in and quickly lifted the boys off the floor. They told Shorty to get his shirt on and told Whitey to button up. They hustled them out the door and down the long hallway of the administration building. They got to an elevator and opened the door to the waiting elevator car. They stuck a special key in a slot and turned it and the elevator started to ascend. It went up to the fourth floor, above the offices and workrooms and the classrooms. It was a space the inmates never saw unless they were in serious trouble. Shorty knew where it was going, and looked at Whitey with a confident wink. Once they got to their floor the doors opened and they felt a blast of searing hot air as they stepped out.

The fourth floor was used partially for storage and partly for serious corporal punishment. As the top floor of the brick building it trapped the rising hot air from the floors below and from the sun beating down on the roof above. It had a high twelve foot ceiling. The entire space was open except for several quickly obvious furnishings. Whitey could see the wooden bench where Shorty had been spanked with a strap when he was a kid. And he saw a thick post going up from the floor to the ceiling over near one wall. He figured that was the whipping post. But he also saw shackles hanging down from the ceiling, attached by chains to some kind of pulley system. Between the heat and the sight of the inside of the punishment room Whitey started to really sweat, and his denim shirt was soaking in no time. His heart was racing now. But Shorty looked almost totally calm on the other hand.

As Whitey glanced further around the room as they walked into it he saw a series of implements on hooks and hangers on a wall. A big wooden paddle was visible, and a long wide leather strap. He saw a second strap, a bit narrower than the first. He saw a wooden handle whip with four or five long leather strips hanging from the end. And he saw a long whip with a single length of about five feet [1.50 m] hanging alongside it. He stared at that display for a minute.

"Wait here." The big guard said in a no nonsense command.

Chapter Two
Punishment Begins

'You boys need to use the toilet?… Do it now." He nodded towards the far wall where a cubicle stood. Both boys started towards the toilet.

"Wait. One at a time. Peterson, take him over." He nodded towards Shorty.

Shorty went over to the cubicle and took a long leak. He really had to go. He had not been to a toilet since they were caught, hours ago. He zipped up his jeans and shuffled back. Then Whitey turned and headed over there too. He needed relief even more than Shorty did, and felt a lot better as he turned to rejoin his partner.

As Whitey ambled up next to Shorty he noticed Shorty reach to his shirt buttons and start unbuttoning them. Shorty was half way down when Whitey figured he should follow Shorty's lead, and he started unbuttoning his shirt too, but faster. Shorty pulled open the unbuttoned shirt and slid it off, followed a few seconds later by Whitey.

"Shall I hang it up on the hook sir?" Shorty asked the warden, with the air of someone who had done this before.

"Same place." was the stern reply.

Shorty headed over to the wall where the implements were all hanging, followed by Whitey, who figured Shorty knew what he was doing and how this played out. Shorty paused at the wall. Then he reached up and took down the wood handled, multi-tail whip, and hung his shirt up in its place. Taking a cue from the younger veteran of this punishment room, Whitey reached for the other whip, the long one, and hung his shirt on that hook. He coiled the long tail of that whip in a loop and followed Shorty as he walked back to stand in front of Mr. Stormer.

"Well… what do you want?" Stormer impatiently glared at Shorty.

"Sir, I'm here to be punished, and I'm ready to take my punishment. I deserve it." Shorty spoke almost as if he had memorized those words. Later, Whitey found out he hadn't memorized them at all, but the smart kid figured out that was what Warden Stormer wanted to hear. He stretched out his hands and handed the whip to Stormer. Stormer took it from him, and then without waiting a second, he said, "Guards, take Black to the whipping post. And tie him fast."

The two guards escorted Shorty over to the whipping post. Without having to be told he reached his arms up against the post. The guards had rope already wrapped around the circumference of the post, and pulled Shorty's arms around the post to the loose lengths hanging on the backside, and wrapped Shorty's wrists so they were firmly tied against the thick wood of the post.

Warden Stormer had removed his jacket, undone his necktie, and unbuttoned his shirt to take it off. He was wearing a 'wife-beater' sleeveless undershirt. He pulled his suspenders back up over his shoulders. He looked at Whitey then, and pointed to a spot on the floor about ten feet to the right of where Shorty was tied to the post.

"Sit there." Whitey was still holding the coiled up leather whip he had brought with him from the wall. He didn't hesitate to obey, and slipped down to the floor where he could watch everything that would happen to Shorty.

"You are going to count each and every stroke out loud that I give your friend here. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir." Whitey nodded.

Then, to Whitey's consternation, the warden turned away and walked back towards the elevator, followed by both guards. He had no idea where they were going. He had thought they were all ready to start on Shorty. They went around a corner, out of sight. Whitey didn't dare to move, and Shorty couldn't.

"What's goin on?" Whitey whispered loudly to Shorty.

"I think they're messin' with our heads." Shorty whispered back.

"I wish they'd start and get it over with."

"Oh, they'll start soon enough. Now leave me be. I got to get my head ready for this."

Whitey watched as Shorty closed his eyes and almost seemed to go into a trance.

He noticed Shorty's body and how it looked against that post. He was stretched up against it with his hands tied off a couple feet above his head. Shorty was no longer the squat little kid who everyone thought was small for his age. He had grown, and Whitey realized it almost seemed silly to keep calling him 'Shorty', even if he was four or five inches [10-12 cm] shorter than himself. But seeing Shorty tied off against that post like that without a shirt he could see how good looking a kid Shorty was. The work at the prison had trimmed him lean but hard and firm muscled. Shorty had a really wide back at the top, but no fat, and in fact stretched up like this his jeans were sagging down on his hips from his narrow little waist. Shorty had good muscles on his arms too. He was a strong kid. The sweat was really running down both boys now in the heat and tension of that overheated attic, but Whitey could wipe his brow, and he could see Shorty had beads of sweat dripping from his face, as well as running in little streams on his back. From where he was sitting he couldn't see Shorty's old whip marks, but Shorty was really tan from that outside work. He figured Shorty would have plenty of new marks soon enough.

"How come they ain't coming? Maybe they changed their minds." Whitey whispered impatiently after about ten minutes. Shorty seemed to ignore him. Then he slowly whispered.

"They ain't changin' their minds. Be still. Just wait. And do what you're supposed to or it'll get worse."

A few more minutes passed. Then they could hear the warden and the guards laughing, and Whitey finally saw them walk around the corner with beer bottles in their hands.

"Don't mind us, boys. It's hot up here, and we got hard work to do. We just needed something to drink." And they laughed some more.

The Warden walked up close behind Shorty.

"OK Black. We owe you plenty. You're going to get one hundred lashes today – did you hear that – one hundred lashes! You're no baby anymore; I don't care what they call you. You're goin' to be whipped like a man, like a bad man. We're goin' to whip the devil out of you…

"Here's how it will go. You're getting' this instead of six years, so this is going to be done tough and it is going to be done right. Isn't that what you want?"

"Yes, sir." Shorty, who had listened to every word, answered on cue.

"Your friend here is going to count them out. But if one is not good enough, not hard enough, to be worth your six years, your friend is going to say 'give it again'. And if he doesn't say it but guard Humphrey over here doesn't think it was a proper stroke, well, we're going to go back to the beginning, and start all over again… Do you both have it?"

"Yes, sir" they answered in unison, but Whitey felt of a new sense of dread.

Stormer turned back to look right down on Shorty's neck. He grabbed his head by a handful of his thick curly dark brown hair and pulled his head back. I'm goin' to break you Black. I'm goin' to break you."

But Shorty said nothing. He just closed his eyes and bowed his head and spread his feet a few inches and seemed to hug that post.

Stormer took a few steps back. Then Shorty lifted his head and turned it slightly. "Sir, I want to ask you a favor." He said this softly, without any of his usual bravado.

"You don't get any favors here Black. But tell me, what is it?"

"Sir, I been whipped before, and you done it with the cat's claw you have in your hands." Shorty paused for just a second. "But I know I can take that one even though it hurts a whole lot. I said you could punish us like this as hard and as much as you want. I know you save the black snake that Whitey is holding over there for the older guys. But if I'm gonna be whipped like a man I want it to be like a man. Can't I git some of this with the black snake? I'm no little kid anymore."

As Shorty said this he turned his head to the other side of the post and looked right at Whitey, seated on the floor nearby and holding the other whip in his lap.

Stormer looked thunderstruck for a minute. He twisted his mouth to a slender smile.

"OK, I'll tell you what Black. I'll give you half the whipping with the black snake. I'll give it to you just like a man."

"Thank you sir." Shorty softly answered, and then winked his eye at Whitey.

Whitey found himself feeling a strange stirring in his manhood. He sensed himself starting to get hard as he watched Shorty, half stripped, dripping with a running sweat, tied up tight to the whipping post, and asking for a worse beating. It was the damnedest thing he ever felt. But he had no time to figure it out. Events were proceeding without further delay.

Shorty looked straight ahead at the post now, and replanted his feet, leaning forward slightly against the post.

Stormer took a few practice swings in the air with the cat's claw. The whip had a one foot long wood cylinder handle, and five strands of oiled brown leather strap, all rounded and smoothed, each about thirty-six inches [90 cm] long. The whoosh of sound with each swing caught Whitey's attention, but Shorty just remained bound huddled motionlessly against the post, the only movement being the droplets of perspiration falling steadily from his brow and his chin.

The first lash snapped forward from behind Shorty's left shoulder, where the warden had positioned himself to unleash his swing. The warden was a big, burly man. He was easily six foot and two inches [1.90 m] in height, and two hundred and thirty pounds [105 kg], an imposing figure anywhere. While he loved his job as warden for many reasons, this duty was one of the best. He took a deep and satisfying pleasure in administering old-fashioned discipline to undisciplined and lawless youths who needed to be brought into line before they entered society. Shorty and Whitey and the judge had threatened him when Shorty had first escaped and told stories of the prison's brutalities. But the boy's stupid assault on the police officer while shoplifting the corner store had demolished their credibility, and they had no chance for gaining any public sympathy. All Stormer's friends in the press and at the courthouse squelched any embarrassing public disclosures about the state's big juvenile reformatory. And now he had the punk who had started it all just where he needed to be, under the warden's whip, getting the retribution he most richly deserved.

For his part, Shorty was not just putting on a show of bravado. He had gambled, and he had lost, and he knew it. He had lost often in his young life. He had reached the conclusion that he was fated somehow to suffer in life, to get bad breaks again and again. He had stopped fighting and reached a state of acceptance. Little did the boy know that this acceptance would in fact prepare him for a truly free and secure future. He just knew, knew it to the depths of his bones, that he must stand and take a real whipping. And he decided that he was as good as any other man who had ever lived, and certainly as good as any other boys who had been up in this attic room, tied to this whipping post over its forty years of use.

The impact of that first lash was like a lightning bolt to Shorty's submissive mind space. He had been whipped before, so he remembered that the first one, the one that precedes all the others, shattering a man's personal space and impacting his mind and body, was bad. He was braced for it. Still, he shuddered, and hissed as the five strands streaked across his left shoulder blade with the tips striking just past his deeply creased spinal column. Another one fell, with the same angle, but the tips biting further across to the right shoulder blade. He hissed and inhaled almost at once. Then a third one and a fourth one on that same line.

Whitey watched with a certain sense of mental paralysis. He had never seen a whipping, and never really visualized how it might be done. Now here he was, sitting on the floor of an upstairs dungeon, and watching a boy who had become like a younger brother to him get tortured with the primal punishment of all history.

The fifth stroke seared across Shorty's reddening upper back. Then Shorty literally shouted out:

"FIVE"

"You didn't pay attention boy, did you. I said your friend here had to do the counting"

Another stroke, but simultaneously Shorty's shouted number shook Whitey from his trance.

"Six." Whitey said.

"No, it's not six." Stormer callously declaimed. "I said if you don't count right, we go back to the beginning. You haven't counted right. So we are going back to the beginning."

Whitey was devastated. His stupidity was causing Shorty literal torture.

"ONE." Whitey fairly shouted as the next stroke went streaking across the reddened upper back. Shorty slightly turned his head after emitting a loud hiss and gave a quick glance and an unbelievable wink to Whitey, as if to say all was forgiven.

"Two." This time the tails assaulted Shorty's middle back. Again he hissed, and Whitey noticed how Shorty seemed to exhale with the impact of the whiptails.

"Three." Whitey was now calling the numbers properly, but he felt so bad for having messed up the beginning, and causing Shorty to get all those extra strokes. He focused on not messing up again.

"Four." Whitey could almost now see Shorty's breath as he emptied his lungs with just that slight sound of air passing from his throat and lips.

"Five… Six… Seven… Eight… Nine… Ten…" The count was progressing, and Stormer was in a cadence. Whitey could see that Stormer was working down the full length of Shorty's long back. He had started at the top, behind the shoulders, and was now getting down near the tiny and narrow lower back, just up from Shorty's hips.

He could see that Shorty's prison denims were sagging noticeably, and he could see the top of Shorty's ass crack and the top of his right hip. But Shorty was pressing himself against the wooden post so hard that Whitey had hope that his friend would not suffer the embarrassment of having his pants fall down.

"Fifteen. … Sixteen… Seventeen…" Whitey was determined not to miss any more counts. Shorty hardly moved through all this, and Whitey was amazed. The younger boy would sometimes alternate a deeper breath with his hisses at each impact. He would flex his arms, lean into the post, press himself into the post. He was almost pushing himself into the post.

"Twenty… Twenty One… Twenty Two… Twenty Three… Twenty Four…" Whitey watched as Stormer returned to the broad top of Shorty's back. Even though Shorty's body was a deep brown color from his years of stripped down outside work, his back was turning bright red, and Whitey could see that there were nasty welts rising up. Then he remembered something else from his earlier instructions, which he had dangerously forgotten. He waited for a chance.

"Twenty Five… Twenty Six… Twenty Seven… Twenty Eight… Not good enough. AGAIN" Once he remembered his instructions he suspected Stormer would try to get him to mess up and take something off one of Shorty's strokes. Shorty had kept his head buried against the post between his upraised arms, but now he turned his head slightly towards Whitey and smiled. Whitey knew they had nailed Stormer in his trap. He also knew now to stay alert for a repeat effort from the warden.

"Twenty Eight… Twenty Nine… Thirty… Thirty One" The room was silent except for the steady sound of whip flying through the air, its impact on Shorty's back, Shorty's hiss or gasp, a number from Whitey, a pause, and then the sequence again. And again. And again.

As Whitey sat there he could see Shorty's back was getting filled with criss-crossing lines of welts. He could also see, even from his angle, little cuts were appearing. He realized that Shorty might get some new marks from this.

Whitey noticed that Stormer would sometimes now move his feet to stand a little closer to Shorty so the whip ends would curl around the right side of Shorty's back. Shorty pressed himself so hard against the wood of that post. His denims were soaking wet from his sweat. His hair was all matted down and hanging down into his eyes, which appeared to be closed. Shorty still seemed to be almost in a trance, only making little gasping sounds with an occasionally louder 'ahh'.

"Forty Eight… Forty Nine… Fifty." And then Stormer paused. In fact he walked over to the wall and put the whip back on a hook.

"Man, it's hot up here. Come on boys, let's get a drink."

With that Stormer and his two goons walked back towards the elevators. Whitey quickly whispered to Shorty, "How ya doin. You allright?"

Shorty reacted as if coming awake from a deep sleep.

"Yea, I'm OK. We're only half way. I wish he'd finish up."

"Me too," Whitey responded. He wanted Shorty to be released from his agony. Of course then it dawned on him that with that conclusion it would then be his turn to suffer.

"You're doin' great. You're amazing."

"Thanks," Shorty answered, almost listlessly.

They heard some noise. Whitey looked back, and then he saw that Stormer and the guards were sitting on some little chairs by a far wall, with a fan blowing air on them, and drinking another round of beer. He realized that this was going to be quite a few more minutes.

"What's the worst?"

"I don't know. It's all bad. But somehow I feel better now that I know I'm half way. I think I'm doin' good. He's nowhere near breaking me! "

"Well, don't remind him of that. Get it over with."

Shorty nodded his agreement. He had moved back away from the post and twisted and turned his body from side to side, then lifted his feet, first one, and then the other. He was reconditioning himself, preparing for the next fifty.

"Just don't forget to count anymore or to call out a repeat anytime you think we need one. I'm doing OK but I don't think I can stand it if I have to go back to the beginning and start again, so you can't mess up anymore. You know he's gonna try to mess with us."

It had to be ten minutes later when Stormer and his guards headed back. They were all in their undershirts now.

To Whitey's complete surprise, and certainly Shorty's, they walked right up to the post and unbound his wrists. He lowered his arms immediately, and gratefully. Then they looped a long length of doubled up rope over each of Shorty's wrists, with the loose end in a guard's hand, and pulled him away from the post. They moved towards the middle of the cavernous room.

Shorty looked utterly bewildered.

"Here," said Stormer.

The two guards then stepped back from Shorty's sides, pulling both arms out with the rope looped to his wrists. The rope was long, and each guard must have been at least ten feet [3 m] to Shorty's side. They pulled hard so his arms were stretched tight.

Stormer looked at Whitey.

"Get over here."

Whitey rose up from the floor where he had been planted so long. It felt good to walk. Stormer held out his hand. Whitey realized then that Stormer wanted the whip which Whitey had taken off the wall so long ago and which had been cradled in his lap.

Likewise Shorty, who had been watching all this happening to him and in front of him, suddenly realized what was about to happen. He now planted his feet and braced himself between the outstretched arms and rope secured by the firm grip of the guards.

"OK Black. You asked for the black snake, I'll give it to you. Don't say I never did you a favor!"

He pointed to a new spot on the floor for Whitey to take. It was behind Stormer but aside, giving him an unobstructed view of Shorty straight on.

Stormer shook out the now uncoiled five foot [1.50 m] long whip. It was very thin and finely braided leather, with a long strip of unplaited leather on the end. When Stormer snapped it, there was a wild, fierce, sharp cracking sound which was unlike anything the boys had ever heard.

The warden looked at Shorty standing stretched before him. The boy still looked unflustered, tense but unafraid.

"Give him a drink." Uttered Stormer, and the guard holding the left rope let go and walked back across the room to where they had been sitting and came back with an army canteen which was full of cold water. He put it to Shorty's lips, and Shorty swallowed gratefully. The guard took it back after a few slugs and picked up the wrist rope again and took his position to the side pulling Shorty's left arm back out.

"Take a look, men," he said with a voice dripping with sarcasm and cruelty. "What you see here is a wild animal that has to be tamed and broken… both of them… wild animals. They've been raised without a normal family. They don't know how to live in civilized society. They're whole future is prison. That is, unless we can civilize them, teach them obedience, self-control, respect for authority. We're doing this as a favor to them to help them be fit for free living. We're protecting our country from having wild animals running amok. We're doing an important duty here."

"So, Black, you wanted the black snake, you asked me for it. I'm going to tame you, you little animal. What do you think of that?"

Shorty stood there, stretched with his feet planted and his eyes looking straight ahead. The sweat continued to pour off his face and run down his chest. Whitey noticed Shorty's nipples on his chest. He had never noticed them before. They were protruding from the rounded firm ovals of Shorty's breasts, almost like they were expanding. Shorty's stomach was sucking in and out below the expanse of his chest, and Whitey could count his ribs. His little belly button seemed bigger. Shorty's denims were still hanging low, and there were a couple of inches of Shorty's gut visible below the belly button down to the top of the jeans. Whitey had hoped Shorty's jeans would not fall off him back when he was stretched to his toes back at the whipping post, leaving him bare-assed. But now if they fell down Shorty would be totally exposed. Whitey found himself mesmerized by the sight of Shorty standing like this. He was embarrassed to find the sight of Shorty standing like that was sexy. In fact, taking in the sight he had only half heard the warden's little speech. Because he found himself feeling stiff down in his dick.

"Yes indeed, you rotten little animal. You've been running wild, and I'm going to tame you today and show you who's boss and you're not the tough guy you think you are." Stormer sounded really mean now. But his rant was interrupted.

"Then do it. Get on with it. Give it to me," Shorty blurted out in a demanding voice with not a hint of fear. "Come on warden, tame me."

What a moment. Both guards, holding the ropes to the sides, were slack jawed. Stormer got a look of fury in his face. This was one defiant kid.

Stormer drew back the whip and with a sweeping motion sent it flying across Shorty's chest. Shorty tensed in a tight recoil and bit his lips while he closed his eyes. He didn't make a sound. The whip made a red mark across his chest, with the brightest mark on his left chest muscle.

"Fifty One!" Whitey quickly shouted.

"Fifty Two. Not good enough. Again." Whitey detected that Stormer had taken a little off that last one, and he thought Stormer was going to make his move right here.

"Fifty Two. Not good enough. Again." Whitey thought Stormer was deliberately trying to set them up. Even though the lash he had struck at Shorty clearly hurt his friend, he was sure it wasn't as hard as the first one to the chest had been. So it was going to be a double repeat.

"What a good friend you have here Black. Look how much hurt he wants you to have. Do you think he just wants to keep you here? Maybe he's just trying to put off his turn with the snake."

Whitey felt indignant at what Stormer was implying, both against his faithfulness to his friend and by implying his cowardice. But he knew he couldn't fall for Stormer's taunting, because that just what it was, taunting.

"Don't listen to him. He's messin' with us!" Whitey shouted out towards Shorty. Shorty smiled. He knew Whitey would never deliberately hurt him.

"Don't worry Whitey. I know. I know." He shouted almost impatiently and smiled with a big grin at Whitey.

Stormer cracked the black snake forward again.

"Fifty Two. Not good enough. Again." This time Whitey was sure Stormer was taking something off and trying to use the little scene they had just experienced, and his accusations against Whitey, to try to intimidate him and make him not call for a repeat.

"Fifty Two"… Stormer paused to see if Whitey was going to call it. "Not good enough. Again"

Stormer flew the whip so it wrapped around Shorty's left side and into the left side of his back. Shorty recoiled his body backwards, and gave a loud gasp. It was a mean whip stroke he had taken.

"Fifty Two."

Stormer was encouraged by the boy's pained reaction. Finally he felt like he was beating the defiance out of him. Standing a bit closer to Shorty he sent another stroke wrapping around his side. In fact, he sent a series wrapping around Shorty's side.

"Fifty Three… Fifty Four… Fifty Five… Fifty Six… Fifty Seven…"

Shorty was actually now pulling against the ropes which held his arms out. He was trying to contort his body, and was trying to twist in reaction to each lash now. Stormer was looking intent. The guards were both pulling the ropes out with all their might, trying to hold their ground against the boy's bucking reactions. Shorty's face was contorting in pain now. His eyes were no longer closed, but wide open, with a certain fear as he watched Stormer's hand draw the snake back and let fly forward with every new lash.

After the sixty-fifth Stormer had stopped the wraps and had stepped back and seemed to be aiming at the upper chest, and then down towards Shorty's thin belly. Shorty kept bucking and pulling. These lashes to his front clearly hurt in a way different from the cat's claw to his back. His chest and belly showed a whole grid of bright horizontal stripes, and some of them had cut and were dripping a little blood. Whitey realized that Shorty's front wasn't as sun bronzed as his back, and the skin was tenderer – just like his own.

"Seventy-Two… Seventy-Three… Seventy-Four… Not good enough… Again." Whitey could sense Stormer testing them again, especially since Shorty was showing so much pain now.

In fact, ever since the field of punishment had changed to the front, Shorty had started to react more vocally to his beating. Whereas the first fifty on his back at the whipping post elicited hisses, he was now moaning loudly, gasping with loud "Ahhhs", pulling and trying to twist his body. He kept on his feet, but alternated between recoiling his body backwards and thrusting it forwards with the impact of each new blow.

Stormer drew the whip back and let fly the meanest stroke yet. It streaked across the entire breadth of Shorty's breasts, imparting a fresh line on both and actually catching the left nipple with the tip.

"Seventy Four… Seventy Five… Seventy Six…"

Stormer stopped and coiled the whip length in his hands.

"Hold him firm." He barked at the guards.

Stormer then walked around behind Shorty. He was going to inflict the snake on Shorty's back. Shorty used those brief seconds to gather himself together. He was glad to have his back getting it again instead of his front. His back's skin was so much tougher from his years of outside work. He was sure it would hurt less. Of course he had never been whipped on his back with the black snake. It had always been with the cat.

Whitey sat there and felt how hard he was down below and felt so ashamed and confused. What a time for a hard-on! Why was it happening now? He watched Stormer position himself. He saw Shorty replant his feet and lean forward a bit.

Stormer flew the lash into Shorty's already beaten back flesh. Whitey couldn't see which part it struck. He could only hear the sound of whipcord on boy flesh. He saw Shorty wince his face violently and try to twist in response to the impact. That sound was so clear. The whip seemed to 'whoosh' through the air the second before it hit Shorty's back.

"Seventy Seven… Seventy Eight… Seventy Nine … Not good enough. Again"

Whitey could see Stormer's face, and this time he looked a little surprised at Whitey's call. Whitey figured it was better to make a mistake costing his buddy one extra than to risk starting all over again. Stormer let fly a really loud one now.

"Seventy Nine… Eighty… Eighty One… Eighty Two… Eighty Three… Not good enough… Again"

This time Whitey was sure he was right, and he could see from the warden's face none of the surprise like he saw on the last call. They were getting near the end. He was sure the warden would try at least another trick or two, 'cause while Shorty was really hurting he sure wasn't crying and screaming or acting like a kid.

Stormer realized this boy was paying attention after his earlier lapse, and he was unlikely to catch him in a bad count or weak stroke mistake again. So he knew he wanted to make these last ones really count. He had in truth been really impressed by how tough Black had shown himself in taking this whipping. He couldn't recall when he had ever seen a boy take one better. Of course, he also hadn't given a one hundred lash beating in years. This was one tough kid. He might not break after all, at least not in the usual way. In fact, he was feeling some respect for young Black.

Shorty stood his ground. He strained against his outbound wrists, pulling with all his strength against the ropes holding him in place. His back was already sore and beaten, but the black snake hurt with a sharper sting than the cat, like a knife being drawn across his back.

This lash flew around Shorty's right side. Stormer had moved almost two paces closer to the boy. The cord flew across the lower part of Shorty's right shoulder and into his right armpit. Shorty threw his head back and let out a yelp. That sound seemed to energize Stormer with new energy.

"Eighty Three"

The next stroke also wrapped, but a little lower and with longer extension so it wrapped all the way around to catch Shorty's right breast flesh.

"Eighty Four." Another wrap around. "Eighty Five." Another wrap around… "Eighty Six"

Stormer stood closer. Whitey could only see Stormer's face, with Shorty's body blocking out the view of the hulking warden's figure. But he could completely watch each of those wrap arounds make its progress across the skin of the front of Shorty's body, inflicting fresh marks on his stomach and his chest. Shorty was now yelping after each one, twisting his head in pain, trying to plant himself firmly but recoiling with each impact.

"Eighty Nine… Ninety…"

Stormer stepped back, and Whitey was hopeful that the nasty wrap arounds were over. He was also watching for any tricks.

"Ninety One… Ninety Two… Not good enough. Again"

Stormer had indeed returned to finish this boy with a pure back whipping with the snake. He was surprised when Hardy had detected his little move on that last one, taking off some sting. He was truly impressed with the courage and the stamina of this kid. He was actually trying to give the kid a break. But Hardy noticed the change in sound and in Black's reaction, and he called him on it. Stormer knew he had to live with the rule he had made, and finish this one strong, even though he was feeling a rare sentiment for mercy.

"Ninety Two…"

Shorty actually gave a squeal of pain and contorted his face in sheer agony as Stormer laid on that re-do with all his strength. Whitey, seated in front of Shorty, of course couldn't see the damage, but could only imagine. The guards were using all their strength to hold the boy tight in his position, because he was doing his best to buck and twist away from the pain.

Whitey was shocked to see in Stormer's face a look which seemed to show some pity.

"Ninety Three." Before Whitey could say the number Shorty had shrieked in pain. It seemed that every stroke was now hitting a tender spot.

"Ninety Four… Ninety Five… Ninety Six…Ninety Seven… Ninety Eight… Not good enough. Again"

Shorty now looked agonized. He was no longer in a self assured zone, but was struggling to 'hang on'. The sound of whip whistling through air and cracking on the firm back of the tortured boy was followed immediately by an actual shout from Shorty. He bucked violently, then leaned forward as far as he could, stretched from the tips of his toes.

"Ninety Eight… Ninety Nine… One Hundred."

The guards released the ropes, and Shorty sagged to the floor. Whitey jumped forward from where he had been crouched and embraced the sweaty and battered boy, his body streaked front and back with welts long and short, small cuts, droplets of blood, and bruises.

Stormer looked exhausted. But he was clearly impressed with Shorty. However, the move by Whitey was not in the cards.

"Get him away from him!" he shouted to the two guards, who quickly pounced on Whitey and pulled him back.

"You get ten extra for that little stunt Mr. Hardy."

Stormer looked at the two guards, who were also clearly impressed with Shorty's performance.

"We need a break. Are you OK Black? You did OK. … Give him a drink."

Mr. Humphrey took the canteen Shorty had drunk from earlier and gave it to the boy, who drank thirstily from it.

"Now get Hardy here set up. Not full height yet."

The two guards took hold of Whitey and moved him over to where the two shackles were hanging from the ceiling. They were leather cuffs, and the guards quickly had them buckled around Whitey's wrists. Whitey stood there, his wrists in the shackles and spread at about three feet apart a little bit above the height of his head.

Then the warden and guards went back to their chairs across the room to have another beer. This time they weren't laughing however. They seemed quiet, subdued.

"Shorty, are you all right?" Whitey whispered loudly but urgently to his friend, slumped on the floor.

"I… think… so. Man, that was hard. Your turn now…" Shorty was whispering and gasping, still trying to catch his breath.

"I'm sure glad you took that black snake off the wall."

"Why… why?" asked a now puzzled Whitey.

"Cause the cat's claw has five tails. The black snake only has one. I know it has a meaner hurt, but it's still one instead of five. I would never have thought of that. I always got it before just with the cat's claw. They always use the snake just for the oldest, bigger kids. But when I saw it in your hands, and knew I was gittin' a hundred, I thought I had to find a way to git some of 'em with the snake. One strike with that cat is like five with the snake. So by my gittin' the snake for that fifty I got saved two hundred strikes I would have got if they was all done with the cat."

"I didn't think of that. I just saw you take a whip off the wall, and thought I had to do it too." Whitey answered, all the while appreciating with admiration Shorty's clear and clever thinking back at the beginning.

"Shorty, you got guts. I saw Stormer's face and you really surprised him. He knows he didn't break you."

"I know I screamed a bit at the end… but I wasn't goin' to let them break me. You know what helped me? It was having you there to watch me. Especially at the end when you were sittin' in front of me and I could see you. I don't know what I'd do without you Whitey. I'm sorry."

"Sorry? What for"

"Cause all this is my fault. If I hadn't started that fight with the cop when I first got out and you was helpin' me, and even then, after gettin' you sent in here, I got you to try to escape, and then started beating on that guard when he found us. This is all because of me."

"I was stupid too. I knew better. I shoulda gone to the judge right away when you first escaped. I knew it was dumb to hit a cop, and the guard too… Listen… that's all done. We're here now, and we gotta make it together."

"I think you're gonna git it all with the snake, 'cause that's what they always used with the oldest kids. It hurts like hell, but you got to think of something else while they're doin' it. And the good thing is that when it hits you it won't have so many marks to hit on top of since you won't have a couple hundred cat claws already on you. So think of somethin' good."

"OK, I will. What did you think of?"

"I was thinkin' of you. You're the best thing to ever happen to me. I'll do anything for you Whitey. I love you."

"I love you too Shorty"

"Hey, you boys, no talking! Shut up." One of the guards hollered from across the room where they were sitting.

Both boys quieted. Whitey stood there, hands bound to these chains hanging down from the ceiling, sweating bullets, wondering how he would take getting whipped, hoping he could be as brave and tough as Shorty.

"Hey Whitey," Shorty whispered. "I bet you're tougher than me."

Chapter 3
Whitey's Turn

One of the guards walked over to the two boys, almost unnoticed. He pointed to Shorty.

"The warden wants to see you."

Shorty wondered what this was about. He pulled himself up, and slowly followed the guard to the far side of the punishment room where the warden and his men were sitting in front of the fan, drinking beer. The warden looked at Shorty.

"You showed a hell of a lot of character today, Boy."

Shorty wasn't clear, but he thought the warden was praising him.

"Thank you, sir. I tried my best."

"Are you thirsty? It's powerful hot up here."

"Yes sir, I'd like a drink."

The warden got up and started walking to a partial wall that was in front of the elevator area. He turned to Shorty and wiggled his finger.

"Follow me."

Shorty noticed that there was a small icebox by the wall. The warden walked up to it, and opened it. He reached in and pulled out an ice cold bottle of Coca Cola.

"Want this?" he asked the now wide eyed boy.

"Really? I can have that?" Shorty answered hesitantly.

"You earned it today boy. Would you rather have a beer?"

Shorty could hardly believe his ears. He had not tasted a coca cola more than three or four times his whole life, but he always remembered how good it was. And now the warden, who had just given him a sound all-out whipping, was giving him a bottle.

"Thank you sir. Thanks a lot warden sir. Thank you." Shorty kept repeating his thanks as the warden popped off the bottle cap with a tool on the side of the box. He took a deep swig. It was indeed ice cold. It tasted so good.

"Get on back there. I'll get started on your friend in a minute." The warden muttered as he turned back to go to his chair.

While this was going on somewhere behind him, Whitey reflected on what he had seen and on what was about to happen. In fact, the more he thought about it the better he felt. Shorty was certainly covered with whip marks, including welts, bruises, and some cuts. Some of them had even bled a little. But Shorty was not a bloody mess, he was not all torn up, he didn't seem at all to be seriously hurt. He was walking around! Whitey realized the warden was not swinging the whips all out. He actually knew how to beat a boy with different degrees. He appeared to swing hard, and they hurt like hell, but it certainly wasn't the kind of whipping he saw in the movies. He reminded himself that this was going to be about pain, but he would be all right, and that the warden seemed to know what he was doing. He began to feel a bit relieved.

The other thing that was on Whitey's mind was the bulge in his cock that was growing again. It had started to get hard when he was watching Shorty get whipped. He was real glad he was sitting on the floor so no one could see it like that. It went down near the end just in time for him to be stood up and tied into these wrist cuffs. But now it was getting hard again real fast, and he couldn't figure out why. Maybe it was just one of those things, like the way it got in the morning when he was waking up. But he sure hoped it went down before they came back and started on him.

Shorty felt revived by this unbelievable turn of events that came with his little visit with the warden. He walked quickly back to where Whitey was standing. Whitey hadn't seen any of this, since he was facing the other direction. Shorty walked up to his buddy and put the bottle to his lips.

"I bet you're thirsty. Can you believe this?"

Whitey had tasted coke when he was living in his foster home with the judge. But it had been a few months now. The cold soft drink instantly perked him up. But he took just a swig, and wanted no more.

"You drink it. You earned it. Maybe he'll give me one too. Are they coming yet?"

"It looks like they're getting' up." Shorty answered.

"Do me a big favor. I don't know why, but my dick is stiff and it's poking against my denims. Can you grab it and move it so it doesn't stick out."

Shorty had never had anyone ask him to do this, and it sure seemed odd. But he understood.

"You too? When I was at the whipping post mine got big too. That's why I was pressing myself up against the post so tight. I wonder why that happens to us?"

But Shorty quickly tucked his right hand down the front of Whitey's jeans and grabbed his stiff shaft and moved it so it didn't look like it was poking out.

"Here they come," he whispered.

Shorty sat down again, and Whitey took in the sight of Shorty's whip marked torso. The cuts had stopped bleeding. But Shorty sure looked beat up. Then he heard the warden's voice.

"So, are you ready troublemaker? You're a bad one. You had it made, living with the judge in that fancy house. I hear you even had a car. But you messed that up. The judge was in all the papers. He can't get invited to a bowling alley now. He's finished, thanks to you. Well, that's all right. You may be bigger than Black here, but I doubt you're tougher. We'll see. This is the start of your six year make-up Mr. Hardy. We're gonna find out what you're made of."

The warden was talking as he walked up to Whitey, and then circled him.

"Black!" he shouted out Shorty's name.

"Yes sir," Shorty attentively answered.

"You gonna count for your friend here, like he counted for you, you got it?"

"Yes Sir Mr. Stormer."

"And you know what happens if you forget or miss don't you?"

"Yes sir, he has to start from the beginning."

"That's right. And don't forget what happens if I don't whip your friend hard enough. Do you remember how that worked?"

"Yes sir. He takes it again."

"That's right, he takes it again. But if you try to let him get away with it he gets it a whole lot worse. You remember that."

"What did you think of the black snake here Mr. Black?"

"It hurt something fierce, sir."

"Well, watch this Black, because when we come back up here after your six months hard labor you're gonna get it with the snake, strung up here like your friend is about to be. You graduated today, boy… OK, get him up."

One of the guards was standing over by the side wall. He started turning a crank. A second later Whitey felt his arms start to be pulled up. The motion was slow, but inexorable. Within a minute Whitey was standing on his toes. His arms were stretched about three feet [90 cm] apart.

Stormer walked around the upstretched boy again, surveying him. Hardy was a good looking kid. Stormer had read in his file that he got his nickname because during his younger years his hair was very pale blond. Now though, Whitey's hair was more 'dirty blond'. It had not been cut in several months, and was shaggy over his ears and down to his neck. Hardy had a nice build, even though he had never really worked outside. He had powerful looking arms, a broad chest with meaty pectoral muscles mounted by firm quarter sized nipples, and a firm stomach, not as lean as young Black, but full and strong looking. The boy had short tufts of hair under his armpits. His skin was otherwise smooth, but with a little appearance of hair growing from his bellybutton down to his groin. Stormer was especially pleased to see his back. The boy had a long torso on his five foot and six inch [1.65 cm] frame, and his back was not only broad but had a deep spine crease with the flesh very firmly covering its tapered shape down to the noticeable mounds of his butt cheeks, which rose up just below his pants line. His denims were sagging on his hips from this stretched up position, and they were just barely supported by his twin butt cheeks, helped by being soaking wet with perspiration.

Stormer made a second circuit. Then he stopped and looked straight into Whitey's face while holding his chin.

"I bet you've never been whipped before, have you boy?"

Whitey stared ahead, and didn't answer.

"I asked you a question boy. Answer me."

After a dangerous pause, Whitey finally replied in a soft voice.

"No sir, I ain't never been whipped."

"Well, you are gonna make up for all that lost experience, because we're going to give you a first class whipping here today… What do you think of that?"

"Well, sir, I hope you do get it right. I'd hate to waste my chance for a first-class whipping."

The sarcasm in Whitey's response was unmistakable.

"I don't waste my chances boy. And I got plenty more time to 'educate' you here. Yes indeed, those six months is going to be something special. Almost as special as this."

With that Stormer held up the coiled whip right in front of Whitey's face. He sneered with a mean smile at Whitey. But then Whitey shocked his punisher. He thrust his face forward and bit the whip, grabbing it squarely between his teeth. Stormer was shocked for a split second, and then he yanked it back, out of Whitey's toothy grip.

"MMMM. That tasted good. Thanks Warden." Whitey coldly declaimed.

"Let's see if you still think it tastes good after it's been feeding on your body for awhile." Stormer had a brutal look on his face, and was not about to let this untested kid get the best of him.

He walked around behind Whitey. Whitey closed his eyes, figuring it was finally starting.

Stormer planted his feet a little to Whitey's left and half dozen steps behind him.

Shorty had watched all of this with awe. He couldn't believe what Whitey had just done and said. He wished he had thought of that back when it was his time. Whitey wasn't acting scared at all. He checked out the front of Whitey's denims. Sure enough, there was a bulge there. But the jeans were so wet from Whitey's sweating that it wasn't noticeable unless you were looking for it, and besides, the warden and the guards were standing behind Whitey, and they couldn't see it. Shorty sure was glad he had that post back when he was getting whipped. In fact, he had felt kind of good when he was rubbing himself against the big old post, even though the whip was smacking down on him.

In a flash, without warning, Stormer swung his right arm and the whip, and it cracked across the top part of Whitey's back.

"One." Shorty was paying attention. He knew the routine, and was not going to let Whitey get it double if he didn't have to.

Whitey gasped when that first one struck. Although he was expecting it, he was still taken by surprise. It was a sharp, stinging pain. He thrust his body forward from his toes and flexed against his upbound arms.

"Two." Stormer sent the next one almost on top of the first one, almost thirty seconds later. He was in no hurry. After his years of administering prison punishment he had learned the value of a slow and steady rhythm when whipping a boy. It worked best when the recipient had a brief pause after each stroke to feel and absorb the pain, and to think about the next one. A slow pace added to the punishment. Whitey gasped and pulled taut against his arms again. Shorty had a perfect view of his face, and stared at him even as he grimaced, trying to give his friend strength.

"Three… not good enough. Again" Shorty saw Stormer trying to test both boys right away.

Crack. "Not good enough. Again."

Crack. "Not good enough. Again"

After each of these three strokes Whitey had gasped, but Whitey knew Shorty was right. He could feel right away that they weren't as fierce as those first two.

"Three…" Whitey slowly shook his head up and down as Shorty gave the count. He knew that was a real one.

"Four… Five… Six… Seven… Eight. Not good enough. Again"

Both Shorty and Whitey recognized Stormer's efforts to test them. They made brief eye contact. Stormer noticed it.

"Humphrey. Take Black here and tie him back up at the whipping post, facing us."

Shorty couldn't believe that sly old warden had noticed their shared encouragement. The burly guard lifted Shorty up by the elbow and took him back over to the whipping post, about fifteen feet [4½ m] away from where Whitey was strung up. His arms were pulled back around the post and quickly tied. He stood there, leaning forward, watching Whitey, but unable to make eye contact unless Whitey were to turn his head towards him.

"Eight." That was good enough all right. Stormer sent a lash wrapping around Whitey's right side. It slapped viciously against the tender skin close to Whitey's right nipple. Whitey gasped audibly, squeezed his eyes shut, and pulled both arms back while thrusting his body forward, trying to move away from the punishing sting of the whip.

"Nine… Ten… Eleven… Twelve… Thirteen… Fourteen."

Stormer returned to Whitey's back, dancing the leather down its broad surface. He recognized that for more of those wrap around zingers he'd have to step closer. Hardy had a broader, thicker back than Black, and he would need to stand closer to let loose enough length to curl the whipcord around Whitey's side into his tender front.

Whitey's back was acquiring a very visible pattern of welts and whip stripes, and that wraparound had imparted a nasty bruise already. His skin wasn't nearly as sun toughened as Shorty's. Apart from occasionally swimming, the only time Whitey spent shirtless for any duration was just in the last month, since he had been sent to the reformatory for his part in shielding Shorty after his escape and participating in striking that policeman. He had started to brown his skin, but it was a shallow tan, not a deep copper like Shorty's. So the whip's kisses showed up a whole lot quicker on Whitey than they did on Shorty.

Shorty stood with his back against the whipping post, watching Whitey taking his whipping. He thought Whitey was doing great. He leaned forward as much as he could, hoping to somehow make eye contact again. He watched carefully and shouted out every number of the count. He watched for any Stormer tricks, for any sign that a stroke was not a good one. So far they were all good. "Twenty Five… Twenty Six… Twenty Seven… Twenty Eight… Twenty Nine… Not good enough. Again."

Stormer realized he wasn't going to get anything soft past Shorty's experienced eyes and ears. He stepped up and sent another cruel wrap around on Whitey.

"Ahhhhhh," Whitey squealed while he recoiled. Stormer loved it.

"Twenty Nine… Thirty …" Stormer held that position, and sent the next dozen strokes wrapping around Whitey's side into his powerful chest and belly. Each one now elicited a gasping shriek from the tussled haired blond. His face contorted in pain. His arms would pull tight, his body thrusting forward and shoulders pulling back.

"Forty Four… Forty Five… Forty Six."

Shorty kept counting, watching the agony his friend was now experiencing, and hoping the warden would take a halfway break like he had done with him.

"Forty Seven… Forty Eight… Forty Nine… Fifty… Not good enough. Again" Shorty had expected something like this from Stormer now.

A really hard lash now flew forward across Whitey's upper back, creating a new and bright mark from shoulder to shoulder, and Whitey let out a shrill "Owwwww."

"Fifty."

Stormer looked pleased now. Sure enough, he called for a break. They headed back to their little sit down area on the far wall with the fan blowing, and Shorty could see them getting another round of beers.

Whitey sagged from his bonds. His face was literally dripping with sweat, a steady stream running from his eyebrows, nose, and chin. Shorty couldn't see if he was marked up or not, but he figured he was, because he knew Whitey's skin wasn't as tough as his own. As he watched Whitey hanging there he started to feel hard down 'there' again. It had been hard before, but it seemed to go down when he was concentrating on counting for Whitey. Now, the more he looked at Whitey the more hard it was.

"You're doin' real good Whitey. Half way now. Hang in there."

"I'm hanging allright" Whitey gasped back, trying to be quiet so their conversation wouldn't be noticed. "You did real good Shorty, with the count and the do-overs. You know he's gonna try a bunch of tricks for the last half, so watch out for them."

"I will. Just think, it's almost over. Then all we have to do is work hard." Shorty tried to sound encouraging.

The warden shouted across the room,

"You boys talking? Hush up or I'll gag the both of you."

They stopped, but Shorty could see them from the way he was positioned, and noticed they were lounging and talking to each other, so he started encouraging Whitey again, but whispering real low.

"Here they come again." He concluded.

Whitey straightened up on his feet. He could see the marks on his chest from where they had wrapped around him, and they sure were fierce looking. No blood though. He could feel liquid on his back, but couldn't tell if it was just more sweat or blood from cuts.

Stormer came back. He walked back in front of Whitey, and again grabbed him by a fistful of his sweat soaked hair. He pulled Whitey's head up to look into his, Even though Whitey was nine inches [23 cm] shorter than the warden he didn't have to look up too high because of the way he was pulled up by the ceiling chains.

Stormer held the coiled up whip back in front of Whitey's face.

"Don't feel so fierce now, do you boy?"

Whitey looked him straight in his leering eyes. Then he leaned his head forward, towards the whip, and he … kissed it! Stormer was astonished. He didn't know what to say or do. What was young Hardy saying? He was stunned. And Whitey knew he was stunned. And Whitey was pleased.

Shorty watched it all. He couldn't believe his eyes. He thought Whitey was the greatest guy he had ever known, but now he knew it.

"Mr. Humphrey, aren't you the guard Hardy and Black assaulted when they tried to escape?"

"Yes sir, Warden sir."

"Here, you can have a few swings here."

"Oh, thank you warden. This will be a pleasure."

The big fat guard, with big hairy arms and a big hairy back and chest showing from his sleeveless undershirt, took the whip from the warden. He stepped behind Whitey, who stretched himself out and prepared for his punishment to resume.

"Fifty One… Fifty Two… Fifty Three…" Shorty shouted the numbers out as Mr. Humphrey showed the benefit of a fresh arm against Whitey's back. He was strong and mean with a whip, and he was enjoying this. He wasn't into playing games like the warden. He just wanted to beat this boy. Shorty noticed that Humphrey's uniform pants had a big bulge between his legs, and Shorty now knew what that was. He kept watching and saw with his own eyes when right in the sixtieth lash suddenly Humphrey got a big wet spot on his khaki uniform, and Shorty knew what that was. Humphrey did another ten.

"Warden, you do this better than me. You want to finish him up?"

Shorty had just counted number seventy. There had been no do-overs.

The warden took the whip back. He walked back in front of Whitey, but not to taunt him. He stepped back, and he was going to whip Whitey on his chest. At least Shorty could see better from this angle.

"Seventy One."

Whitey cried out loudly and pulled back as far as he could, flexing his stomach in. The warden had put a nasty mark across his chest, from the top of his left nipple down to below his right breast.

"Seventy Two… Seventy Three… Seventy Four…"

Whitey counted them out, but it seemed to him that Stormer was giving it to Whitey meaner and harder than he had gotten it himself. They came one after another across Whitey's whole front side, from his upper chest down to the bottom of his gut above his denims. Each lash sent a spray of sweat flying from Whitey's glistening torso and from his twisting and contorting face. Whitey gave loud gasps and squeals from each one. None of these needed a re-do. For sure.

"Ninety…"

Stormer paused and then went back around Whitey to finish up on his back. He didn't hardly stop.

"Ninety One… Ninety Two…"

Whitey was now shouting out a loud "Ahh" after each one. Shorty was sure they were harder strokes than he had taken himself.

"Ninety Nine… One Hundred."

Shorty was so relieved. Also surprised. No surprises from Stormer! No tricks, no repeats. Whitey hung now exhausted with pain, and relieved it was over.

"OK Hardy. Now you get those ten you earned at the end of your friend Black's whipping."

Stormer rolled these words out with relish. Whitey hung his head low. Then Stormer nodded to a guard over by the crank. He turned the crank, and Whitey found himself lifted right up off the floor. The crank kept turning, and he was hanging a good foot [30 cm] off the floor. Stormer walked around in front of him again. His eyes were a few inches higher than Stormer's face.

"Kick off your shoes, Hardy."

The dazed Whitey didn't comprehend at first, but then did as he was told. The guard had simultaneously been untying his regulation work boots and loosening the laces. He used his right foot to push down and kick off his left boot, and then did the same with the left foot to the right boot. The guard behind him reached down and pulled off both socks. Then the warden undid the top button on the front of Whitey's denims. Only unbuttoning that one button he reached both his hands on the top of the denims to Whitey's sides and yanked down, pulling both jeans and under shorts down, rendering Whitey buck naked. The clothing fell to the floor from Whitey's dangling feet.

Whitey was taken completely by surprise. There had been no hint through all this punishment that either boy would be stripped bare, though Shorty had told him back in the waiting room that this is the way it usually went. He tried to grasp the chain above his cuffs and grip them in his fists to relieve the pressure on his wrists.

Stormer stepped back behind Whitey and beheld the unveiled beauty of this perfectly built blond boy now hanging naked and helpless before him. Whitey had a smooth and well rounded and firm bubble butt, but with tight heavy butt cheeks. His legs had a light growth of hairs from his thighs to his calves.

Stormer drew back the whip. He let fly a sharp lash across Whitey's unblemished ass.

"Oww" Whitey shrieked, pulling himself up even higher in his bonds. It was a new kind of fire. He sure didn't expect it on his ass.

"Ahhhhhh!" he shrieked again as another stroke of the hard plaited leather slashed.

"Ahhhhhh!" he screamed as a third stroke came flying, but sooner than he expected, and while his body was still pulled up from the last one. He wasn't ready for it.

He gasped as another came right on top of that one. He turned his head into his left arm and tried to bury his face in it.

Another vicious and really hard stroke followed, and it seemed to be a bit lower, across the top of his leg, where his ass met his thigh. Whitey pulled himself back up and cringed and twisted.

Another. Another. Whitey gasped now, taking the ass lashes with less drama and a bit more concentration.

Another. Another. Another. Another. Another.

Whitey hung now, reacting with slight gasps, jerks of his body, flexing his arms in their bonds, just hanging on. But suddenly it dawned on him… it sure seemed like more than ten…

"Stop. You said I was getting ten," Whitey gasped out.

"That's right." Stormer replied. "But by our rules we haven't even started yet, have we Black?" and he looked over towards Shorty, tied at the whipping post watching all this.

Shorty had been so surprised by the suddenness of the transition, by seeing Whitey hauled up, seeing Whitey stripped buck naked, seeing him get an ass whipping with the long and nasty black snake… that he had completely forgotten to count. He had been totally focused on the count of "one hundred', and then by the sight of naked Whitey hung up high in front of him…

"Oh no warden, you can't do this."

"It's the rules Black. You didn't count. Your friend still has ten to take."

"Give 'em to me. I'll take 'em. You can give me twenty." Shorty impulsively blurted out.

"No, Black, this is Hardy's whipping. You're rescue is too late. If you want it to stop, count."

He then drew his arm back, and let fly a snapping and mean lash right across the middle of Whitey's back, on top of numerous earlier inflicted welts and marks. Whitey gasped and cried out. He wasn't expecting it on his back again.

"One!" Shorty screamed out.

"Two!" Shorty screamed again, but this one went back across Whitey's butt cheeks.

"Three!" as Stormer sent another across Whitey's butt.

"Four!" as Stormer went to the bottom of the butt, near Whitey's upper thigh.

"Five!" as Stormer sent a wrapper around Whitey's lower back, the tail flying around and into his belly, near his belly button.

"Six!" Stormer went back to Whitey's upper back.

"Seven … Eight… Nine" all went to Whitey's now well striped butt.

"Ten." was a real hum dinger, a savage wrap that curled up around Whitey's right nipple and clung to his sweat soaked skin, causing Stormer to yank back and sending fresh agony to Whitey as the leather seared into his skin.

Whitey gasped loudly after each, pulling up, twisting, and trying to escape the sting. Stormer was patient, waiting for each reaction to subside this time before striking again. When all was done he walked around in front of Whitey, and looked up into his face.

"Well, all done. Was that enough for you?"

"Yes, sir," Whitey meekly moaned.

Stormer was pleased. He had broken the older boy. He nodded to the guard at the crank, and they lowered Whitey to the floor. They uncuffed him. He sank to the floor, totally exhausted and spent. They offered him a drink from the canteen Shorty had used earlier.

The guards retired to their area for a last beer together. They seemed satisfied that they had succeeded. Whitey lay there, embarrassed by his nakedness and by his final subjugation. He didn't like it.

Shorty strained against the ropes tying his hands behind him at the whipping post. He wanted to go help Whitey. He felt so stupid for causing to get a complete double beating at the end.

"I'm sorry, Whitey. I'm sorry… I'm sorry Whitey… I'm sorry," he kept muttering.

Eventually a guard came over and told Whitey to get dressed. He then untied Shorty and told him to get his shirt and out it on. They escorted both boys down on the elevator. This time they weren't chained, since they were unlikely to again try an escape in their currently subdued and weakened condition. They went directly to the infirmary where the doc could see to them. The warden told them they had three days to rest up before their six months hard labor would start.

Chapter 4
Hard Labor

Both boys undressed for him while sitting on the side of an examining table. Mr. Hartgen started with Shorty, carefully washing his entire upper body with warm soapy water. He did the same for Whitey. Then he applied salve to any cuts he found. The boys were both hungry and thirsty after the long afternoon, which included their attempted escape, the long wait in the holding room and their extended time in the punishment room. The old man made a call down to the kitchens, and before long an inmate appeared with a big tray of food, including hot dogs, soup, and a pitcher of ice water. The boys sat numbly through Mr. Hartgen's attentions to their whipmarks, but when the food arrived they jumped to it, and ate hungrily.

He assigned each of them to a bed, next to one another, and got them out of the rest of their clothes. He handed them prison issue pajamas, and took their own uniforms, socks and underwear, soaked with sweat and grime, to the laundry bin. He put their prison boots under their beds. Neither boy put on the pajama tops. He suggested they should let their marks get some air, and they didn't want anything to touch the many tender spots on their chests and backs.

Mr. Hartgen then started a chart on each boy. He recorded their height and weight (Shorty – Martin Black – was five feet and two inches [1.57 m] tall and weighed 115 pounds [52 kg], and Whitey – Terrence Hardy – was five foot six inches [1.68 m] and 130 pounds [59 kg]). He gave them aspirin, and told them to drink a lot of water, because they had obviously sweated buckets and were in danger of dehydration. The old man left them a little while later and went to his room.

The boys looked around their infirmary space. It was a fairly large room with eight beds, but they were the only occupants. The windows were covered with bars, but the windows themselves were raised to let in air, and there was a nice cross breeze coming through. The infirmary was on the second floor of a structure which protruded from the back of the administration building. The first floor was the big dining hall and kitchens.

"Well, this ain't too bad." Shorty muttered matter of factly to Whitey.

Of course, he had been here before to be checked by 'Doc' Hartgen when he was previously whipped. But they were only for brief checkups and the application of ointment. He had never been whipped this badly. And the warden had said they would be there for three days to rest up and get ready for hard labor.

"Yeah, I can take three days of this." Whitey smiled back.

It felt good to smile again. It felt good to think that the worst was behind them. Their next whipping was a full six months away, after all. Both boys lay on their side, looking at each other.

"I really meant what I said up there Whitey." Shorty said with great earnestness. "You've become just like a brother to me. I sure am glad you're here with me. I don't think I could make it alone anymore."

"You'll never be alone again. We're stuck with each other, at least for the next six months." Whitey smiled back.

They talked for the next hour, discussing their memories of the orphanage which they had both called home at some time, and going back further, talking again about families. Shorty had never known his, and neither had Whitey. Whitey had been dropped at the orphanage as an infant. When the judge had taken him as a foster son there had been some investigating, and the records showed his father, whose name was unknown, had been a soldier in the Great War, and had fathered Whitey with a farm girl when he came home after the war. She had abandoned her baby when he was born. Shorty knew even less, only that he had always lived at the orphanage until he started getting in trouble and got sent to the reform school. They talked about some of the guards who were kind to them, and identified the ones who were mean. Before long they had both fallen off to sleep. And they slept through the night.

The next morning Doc Hartgen woke them up early, and told them they both needed to get a shower. The shower up in the infirmary was a single stall, so Whitey went first, followed by Shorty. Both boys found it wonderful to feel warm water on their sore bodies, and to wash away the sweat and grime. When they came out and dried off they sat in their towels and Mr. Hartgen had trays of breakfast with hot oatmeal and big slabs of toast and butter and a bowl of strawberries. They could hardly believe the strawberries. Hartgen told them the warden had ordered them for a treat. Shorty had only eaten strawberries a few times in his life, but never fresh like this, and Whitey was reminded of the bounty of the table in his foster home.

As soon as Hartgen collected their trays he had each boy get back up on the examining table and he applied more of the gooey ointment to their cuts. When he was finished they took stock of their whip marks. Both boys were severely bruised. Both had a multitude of little cuts. Whitey had more of the long stripe marks which were big long raised welts. There was a lot of purple ugly bruising on their bellies, and their sides had very nasty marks from under their arms down to their waists. Neither boy was especially concerned. In fact, Shorty had always been proud of his whip marks from the past, and was even a little disappointed when they faded as he grew older. Whitey was indifferent to their appearance on his body now, but he liked looking at Shorty's, and he stirred deep down when he did.

Shortly after their breakfast the doors opened and the warden came in.

"Well, good morning boys. How do you feel today?" He asked in a very chipper voice.

"We're OK Sir." Both answered, as if on cue.

"Good, good. You have a few days to rest up here. I suggest you take advantage of it. Your hard labor starts after three days, and you won't have much rest for the next six months."

"What are we goin' to be doin', sir?" asked Shorty.

"You'll be working twelve hours a day. You'll spend a good part of every day shoveling the coal into the furnaces which heat the boilers for our hot water. And you'll be working every day out on the farm. And you might have some other duties too. You're going to be very strong after all the exercise we get you. Yes indeed."

"No school classes while we're doin'hard labor?" Shorty continued, in a hopeful voice.

"No, there are no school classes. You're convicts out here now. No school. All work."

Shorty hated school. It was one of the few things he didn't have in common with Whitey, who had loved school, and had been looking towards finishing high school until he got mixed up with Shorty and his life turned upside down again.

The boys could think of nothing else to say, and he turned away.

Mr. Hartgen put out a clean set of pajamas for them, since he figured the ones they had worn the night before stunk. He was a stickler for cleanliness. The boys put on the pajama bottoms, but stayed shirtless in the early summer heat, and to continue their healing.

They were at a loss for what to do in this new idle time. Mr. Hartgen suggested they read one of the books from the shelf he kept stocked up there. Whitey found a copy of a book called Mutiny on the Bounty, but Shorty took nothing.

"What's wrong, aren't you going to read something?"

"You know, I don't read all that well." Shorty replied. "What are you readin'?"

Whitey told him it was a story about sword fighting and sailing ships and pirates. He started reading right away. He had seen posters for a new movie about this story with Clark Gable. Shorty watched him for awhile.

"I wish I could read..."

It suddenly dawned on Whitey that Shorty couldn't read. That's why he was no good in school, and probably why he was always in trouble in school, and it's why he'd rather do hard labor than go to school.

"Want me to read some of this to you?"

Shorty consented, and Whitey started reading aloud.

Whitey continued for two hours, and Shorty was captivated. Whitey liked having him sit there and listening to him read. It made him feel like a big brother to Shorty.

Except for lunch, the boys sat together reading aloud all afternoon.

That evening after the dinner tray Mr. Hartgen put more salve on their cuts. They slept even better. The next morning they didn't shower, but after getting the salve applied they got back to reading. It went on all day. They had another long night sleep. The third day they were conscious that it was the last one before they would have to leave the infirmary and work hard.

Mr. Hartgen gave them a big breakfast that day, and a big lunch too. The salve was actually working, and they saw some of the bruises starting to fade. The welts had gone down too. But it was clear they would have bruises for some time.

"Shorty, thanks for helping me when they had me strung up for my whipping." Whitey said, interrupting part of the story he was reading where the captain was going to whip some sailors.

"Why, what did I do to help?"

"You know, when my dick was sticking out." Whitey said with some embarrassment.

"Oh, yea, no problem. I wonder why that happened to us? Mine was real hard when I was up against that whipping post."

"Did it… you know… make that cum stuff?"

"I thought it was going to happen, but when the cat's claw started to really hurt more it went down before it happened. But I wonder why it did?"

"Mine kinda went down too after you moved it and they started the whipping."

"It got hard like that the last couple times I was whipped." Shorty continued. "It's like I like being whipped. Isn't that weird?"

"Yea, but remember it happened to me too. I don't think I liked being whipped." Whitey responded.

"I hate to say it, but I like to think about gettin' whipped. I like to think about it for me, and when I saw you all strung up and gettin' your whipping I was getting hard again." Shorty spoke with a degree of puzzlement.

"I liked looking at your stripes before all this happened Shorty." Whitey confessed.

"Wow. Really? You know, I think I feel more like a man when I'm gettin' whipped, I feel like I'm gettin' respected, cause I can take it."

"You really do take it like a man. You know, why do you still get called 'Shorty'. You're not so little, at least not now. I think you should be 'Marty' and not 'Shorty' anymore. You're not a little kid, you're a guy."

"Maybe I will."

Mr. Hartgen came in and interrupted this conversation.

"OK you boys, vacation is over tomorrow. They'll come get you early. I got your new uniforms here. Once you start hard labor you still only get two uniforms a week, and two sets underwear and two pair of socks. You'll spend the next six months stinking up every place you go."

The boys were each handed a small bundle with a folded denim shirt, a pair of denim work pants, a pair of underwear and a pair of socks. Hartgen explained that their spare pair would be in the foot locker at their bunk in the dormitory when they got to it the next day. He put a fresh application of the salve to their whip marks, and told them he'd have a jar of it for them to keep in their locker to use back in the dorm after work each day.

The next day the boys awakened before six and got a nice shower, then got dressed in their fresh uniforms. The fit was pretty much OK. Right after breakfast a guard came up and took them down the hall and down the stairs. Then they went outside through the dawn light, and walked across a big paved yard to a different building, the power plant. Shorty had worked there once for a single shift. He knew that all the boys usually took a turn on a two hour shift every two months to shovel the coal which heated the hot water for the prison buildings. He had done that before his first escape. When he was first a prisoner they thought he was too little for the boiler room.

They went inside, and walked down a half dozen concrete steps. A small skinny man came walking up to them.

"So, you're my new boilermen!"

He took them over in front of a row of big furnaces. He explained to them that it was now their duty to keep the boilers running and to keep the supply of hot water high. He showed them the big piles of coal over by a wall where the trucks dumped it on delivery, showed them the wheelbarrows to move coal to smaller piles in front of the furnace doors, and handed them each a pair of work gloves and a short shovel.

"You shovel here every day from seven in the morning until eleven, and again from four until seven in the afternoon. Every day. No days off. Now, get to work."

Whitey looked at Shorty, knowing that Shorty had done this before. Shorty had put on a pair of gloves, and then changed them for another pair that he thought fit him better. He picked up the handlebars of a wheelbarrow and headed towards the huge mound of coal about eighty feet [25 m] away. Whitey followed him with his own wheelbarrow after putting on his own work gloves.

Shorty started shoveling coal into his wheelbarrow, and Whitey did the same. He wheeled it back to the front of a furnace, and dumped the load into a small pile in front of it. Whitey quickly grasped the routine, and followed dumping his load in front of an adjacent furnace door. They made half a dozen circuits. Shorty had unbuttoned his denim shirt. After he felt his pile was high enough Shorty opened the heavy metal door and a blast of hot air washed out over him. Shorty turned and slipped his unbuttoned shirt off his body and threw it over a metal railing on the steps. He heaved a shovel of coal into the furnace, paused, and then heaved another shovel full. Whitey followed Shorty's lead in the super-heated space of the room there in front of the furnaces and took off his own shirt. Before long both boys were dripping with sweat, and acquiring a film of coal dust on their faces and torsos.

They shoveled silently for a good half hour before Whitey paused and looked at Shorty.

"Do we get to rest at all? How long do we do this?"

"You get five minutes of rest every hour when I say so, and you keep doing this until I tell you it's time to go to the farm," came the creepy voice of the little man who had been watching them work without Whitey having seen him. "Now, get shoveling."

Shorty hadn't stopped or even paused. He just worked at a slow and steady pace. Whitey slowed down his own pace a bit. A little while later they heard a whistle blow. It was the little man who was the plant engineer.

"OK, rest break." He lazily announced.

Shorty closed the furnace grate, and Whitey followed. Shorty then walked listlessly to the wall behind where he was working, facing the furnaces, and again Whitey imitated him. They leaned against the wall.

"Man, it is so hot," Whitey complained.

"Yup. I remembered how hot it was here, even in winter. I didn't think it could ever get this hot though. This really is hard labor. All day for six months…" Shorty's voice trailed off.

"I wonder…" Whitey started to say.

"Quiet. No talking. Rest only." The engineer was paying close attention to them.

"Yes sir," Whitey acknowledged.

They rested against that wall, their arms feeling dead from the amount of shovel loads of coal they had moved. They looked at each other and couldn't believe how dirty they were with the coal dust. Yet the sweat bath both boys experienced sent a steady stream of coal laden perspiration running down to their pants.

The whistle blew again, and back they started. Load the wheelbarrows, build a pile, shovel it in, and start again. On and on.

When the whistle blew for the fourth break, Shorty realized it was the end of their four hours, and they would be heading to the fields. He was never so glad to be sent to field work. They were allowed the five minutes against the wall, and then the engineer told them to follow him. They grabbed their shirts without putting them on, and headed up the steps and out the door. There was a guard waiting there for them. He had them get into the back of a truck, and drove out the courtyard and down the road which led out into the vast farmlands on the south side of the building complex. The rush of air felt unbelievably welcome for the five minutes ride they had. Finally they got down a long lane that ran a mile [1½ km] past the main barn complex. He had them get out and follow him.

There were four other boys loading up two wagons with stones and rocks from a huge field which had only recently been cleared. The guard explained to them all that Black was assigned to push a wagon, and Hardy the other wagon, and the other boys there assigned to field work were to be loading a wagon up and steering it from the front. When a wagon was full the 'hard duty' boy was to push it the mile [1½ km] up the lane towards the barn, with the other two boys guiding it in front. They were expected to do six wagonloads each before 3:30.

It was a bright sunny day with only a few clouds, and the air temperature was close to ninety [32°C]. Shorty threw his shirt over the edge of his wagon and Whitey did the same with the other. The other boys stripped off their shirts and threw them over too. They had been in school class all morning.

As they worked the guard wandered a bit, admiring the scenery. One of the boys looked over to Shorty.

"Hey Shorty, we been wondering what happened to ya. Did you really try an escape agin?"

"Yup, but they got us. Gave us each a hundred lashes up in the punishment room."

"A Hundred? I ain't never heard of no one gettin' that many."

"Well, look at my back. Whitey's too. I know we're dirty, but can't you see the whip marks?"

"Yeah. But why are you so dirty?"

"We got six months hard labor, and we been shovellin' coal in the furnace room all morning to give you plenty of hot water!"

"Bet you wish you never tried to 'scape now."

"We can take it…" Shorty felt proud. And so did Whitey as he heard all this.

As Shorty and Whitey pushed their wagons they could feel the sun baking their skin. A lot of the coal dust was washing off in their constant sweat bath. There was a big bucket of cold water with each wagon, and the boys were all allowed to drink plenty. When the wagon was full with the first load, Shorty started pushing it, and the two other boys led the front on either side to guide it towards the distant barnyard. It took a long time, and a lot of effort, but they got there. Whitey's wagon was just behind them. After they unloaded the rocks from the wagon to the beginnings of what would eventually become a big pile, the guard called them over, and there was a box with sandwiches for their lunch. They were all unbelievably hungry, but no one more so than Shorty and Whitey.

After they ate they pushed the now empty wagons back down the rutted lane to the spot in the field where they had left off. They put some speed on the wagons and had some fun. Then it was back to the tedium of picking up the many rocks and filling up the wagon. They worked like this for hours. It took longer than they thought to push these heavy wagons up the rough dirt farm lane and then to unload them. None of them wasted time counting the trips. They just kept working steady, and talking the whole time about what happened in their school room that day and what the other guys were saying about Shorty and Whitey.

The guard eventually blew a whistle, just as the sergeant came down the lane in a truck. He had a word with the guard.

"OK you boys. You were supposed to do six wagonloads each today. You only did five. Black. Get back behind that wagon."

Shorty did as he was told.

"Now drop the pants and hold on to the wagon."

As Shorty obeyed he already knew what was coming. He unbuttoned the workpants and dropped them, and then dropped his undershorts, and gripped the side of the wagon wall.

"You're each getting ten licks, right after Black here, for being lazy and not getting your work done."

And without any further ado he picked up a big strap from the cab of his truck and strode over behind Shorty.

"Hey Sarge," Shorty spoke to him just as he was lining up behind him. Can I just talk to you for a minute… without them hearin' us."

The sergeant took a few steps forward and stood alongside Shorty.

"I'm the one who's been here longest, and I should know best. So how about you givin' me two of the licks for each of the other guys… give me twenty, and give them each eight 'stead of the ten."

The officer paused a moment. "OK, he muttered."

Without ceremony he reached back and unloaded a fierce stroke on Shorty's pale round backside. He continued in rapid fire until he had delivered ten hard ones to Shorty, who made some grunts and groans, but otherwise showed no emotion. With each impact Shorty would flex his knees in, thrust his pelvis forward right into the wooden wagon side, and push his shoulders out along with a slight jerk of the head. The firm round globes which were Shorty's butt cheeks turned fire engine red. When Sarge had given the tenth one he paused, then looked around at the watching boys, then turned back and waled on Shorty again. Shorty was bucking and twisting, but he gripped the wagon tight and didn't make a sound. The strap, two inches [5 cm] in width and three feet [90 cm] long of well oiled polished leather, cracked loudly with each and every impact. Finally, he told Shorty to pull up his pants and wait to the side. Shorty stepped away, and painfully rubbed his hands over his burning hot butt cheeks. He pulled the underwear and work denims partly up to his knee, but stumbled off to the side with his bottom still bare, rubbing it and trying to get the relief of some air on his newly blistered skin.

Then the sergeant ordered over one of the other boys on Shorty's team, a skinny fifteen year old, and had him drop his pants. He didn't take his licks nearly as well as Shorty, and hollered after each one. His partner was a strong sixteen year old who looked like a wrestler. His butt was as muscular as anything seen on the grounds of the State Reformatory Institute for Boys. He was known as a minor league bully. But to his credit, and no doubt inspired by Shorty's performance, he took his eight manfully, though with some louder gasps. They called over one of the boys from Whitey's wagon, who was fourteen, a slender blond farm boy, and he almost matched Shorty by taking the strap with nary a sound. Same for the next boy. Then Whitey came over without being called, and dropped his pants. The sergeant seemed to swing extra vicious, but Whitey was determined to be as tough as Shorty. And he was, even though he only had eight licks. He really wanted to know what had gone on with Shorty and the sergeant, but he knew not to ask now.

They all got back into the bed of the truck. The sergeant dropped off the four field hands behind the main building to go in and get cleaned up before supper. He drove over to the power plant then, and told Shorty and Whitey to get back inside. They still had three hours of work to do. The boys grabbed their shirts, which had hardly been worn the whole day, and trudged through the door and down the steps. The engineer was waiting for them.

"Late afternoon, the whole place is showering. And there will be a lot of dishes to wash from the mess hall. We need lots of hot water. You know the routine."

The boys threw their shirts over the railing and headed to the waiting wheelbarrows, and started the endless task of loading up the coal, taking it to the furnace area, unloading it, reloading, and then opening the furnace doors to shovel the coal into the flames. They got their drink breaks on the hour. The whistle blew at seven o'clock. They put down their shovels, took off their work gloves, and headed back to the door, where a guard was waiting. He took the two boys, filthy with coal dust, streaked with sweat, and bone tired through the back door of the main building, and down a hallway to the elevator, which to their surprise took them back to the infirmary.

Mr. Hartgen explained that the warden had decided that since the beds there weren't being used he would keep the boys there for their six months unless he needed the beds for sick kids. The boys were delighted. They liked the old guy, who was gruff but nice to them. He made them strip and get a shower right away. They thought it was funny to be using the hot water they had 'made' for the last three hours, and they both took their time and used a lot of it. When they came out the trays were there from the kitchen with meat and potatoes and beans, and two beers. What was this all about? Hartgen explained that the warden said they deserved something special for their hard work. They ate sitting on the side of their beds, trying to find comfort for their sore backsides on the soft bed mattress.

Hartgen gave them the ointment, and told them to apply it to each other's cuts, but he was satisfied that they were showing healing, even though he didn't approve of them getting all filthy dirty in the powerhouse and out on the farm. The boys were impressed that the signs of their whippings, while still very evident, were diminishing. Whitey liked running his fingers along the lines and cuts on Shorty's lean hard skin, and Shorty liked the feel of Whitey's fingers tracing his marks. But Shorty also liked the touch of Whitey's muscle, and he especially liked the sight of those long new stripes Whitey was now carrying from having taken over a hundred with the black snake.

When Mr. Hartgen left them Whitey couldn't wait to ask Shorty about the strapping, and what he had said to the guard that got him twenty licks and only eight for the rest of them.

"I knew a couple of those kids ain't never taken the strap, and I have, plenty of times" Shorty started to explain. "Besides, I knew the sergeant was lookin' to git' me. He's had it in for me for a long time. I'm not afraid to get beat. So I made a deal with the sarge, and told him I would take twenty if he would take two off each of yours, and he said OK without any arguin'."

Whitey was in awe of what Shorty had done, and of the simple and clear logic of the younger boy's thinking. He admired Shorty even more. He may be foolish sometimes, and careless, and make bad decisions, but he sure had guts.

"I'm really tired. Let's go to sleep." Whitey suggested.

They were both sound asleep in no time.

The next morning they were awakened by doc at six. They arose reluctantly, got cleaned up and dressed in clean denims and underwear, and put on the shirts they had hardly worn the day before. Doc commented to them that he only had two work pants and two underwear for the week to give them. They must try not to get so filthy. They both rolled their eyes. How could they avoid the pervasive coal dust of the boiler room?

The guard came at 6:45 and within minutes they were walking down the steps and into the simmering heat of the furnaces. The shirts came off right away and were thrown over the railing. They got to work right away. The engineer appeared after awhile to check on them. They took their hourly breaks, and drank buckets of water from the cooler. They couldn't wait to get back outside to the open air of the farm.

June was bursting over the rolling hillsides with fresh growth from a wet winter and the creeping heat of the summer. Shorty and Whitey felt the heat of the June sun on their bare skin as the truck trundled down the farm lane to the field where the other four boys were already hard at work. The boys climbed over the side of the truck bed and headed directly for the wagons piled with rock and stone. The other boys greeted them with a shy "Hey" but didn't interrupt their work, and Shorty and Whitey both knew that the lesson for underperforming the day before had taken.

They had made two trips of the wagons to the barnyard when they were given their lunch break. They sat quietly at first. Then the younger boy piped up.

"Thanks Shorty. Thanks for yesterday. I never had anyone take a whipping for me before." That remark seemed to break the tension, and the other boys started to softly chime in, every one congratulating and thanking Shorty for what he had done. They told him they had told the other kids, that the word had spread, and that the whole school now knew that Shorty had taken a double punishment so the other kids could get off easier.

Shorty listened to it all, and remembered how he used to get teased and made fun of when he was regarded as small for his age. Now he was somehow being acclaimed as some kind of hero. Oh well, he thought, that won't last.

Shorty shrugged off their praise, insisting that what he had taken wasn't that bad, and that he simply wanted to give them a break, but they shouldn't expect it from him anytime again. They quietly chattered on for a few more minutes, then the whistle blew from the guard over by the barn and they pushed the empty wagons back down the lane to the field to resume.

They spent the afternoon picking up rocks and stones and loading the wagon and made a bunch of trips to the barnyard. The sergeant drove down and when they were all loaded in the back of the truck for the return to the reformatory he told them they had taken eight wagonloads up that day, and he was well pleased. The inference was clearly that the discipline from the day before had been effective.

The four laborers hopped out and into the reformatory, while Shorty and Whitey trudged up the steps of the powerhouse and into the furnace room. The heat was even more stifling than it had been on the first day. But they were both now learning the rhythms of this workplace, and how to pace themselves. They did their three hours and headed back to the infirmary with their guard. They again took long and luxurious showers in their 'own' hot water. They enjoyed the break of supper and the larger plates of food that the infirmary seemed to get than the regular dining hall.

Both boys then examined each other's backs and realized the whip marks from five days ago were starting to heal, thanks to the ointment and the effects of the sun. They rubbed in the ointment for each other. Both boys noticed their male parts tingling as they traced the remnants of whip stripes on each other. Shorty especially was fascinated with the thin cut lines on Whitey's golden and muscular back, and Whitey liked the feel of Shorty's fingers as the younger boy kept tracing the lines before and after the application of the ointment. Whitey read some more of Mutiny on the Bounty to Shorty, who was totally captured by the story.

This routine was repeated for the next week, except for Sunday. On Sunday the other four boys had the day off, as did the field guards. Whitey and Shorty still had to go to the boiler room, but were allowed a long two hour break instead of going to the field, and returned to the furnace room at two o'clock instead of at four, and only got worked for two hours on the furnaces, so they got off at 4 o'clock. Then they were allowed to go over to the baseball field to watch the others play ball with the rudimentary equipment they had. This was 'recreation.' Except that when Shorty and Whitey appeared all the guys greeted them, offered them seats in the bleachers, and showered them with respect. Shorty had become a hero within the walls. And he knew it.

In the middle of their third week on the farm punishment detail Shorty was pulled aside by the guard and taken to the far edge of the already cleared part of the field which stood above a little stream bed. The guard pointed out a number of tree stumps there. He ordered Shorty to start digging out the stumps. Some of them were really big. This was a big job. Shorty was given the job to do alone. Whitey was kept with the other farm boys to continue the field clearing. Shorty just knew that the guards were trying to get to him because he had become a hero among the other kids, and they felt a need to bring him back to earth, and part of that meant taking away his visibility from the others. So down the slope he went with a short shovel and a mattock. Since the stumps were so near the stream the ground wasn't too hard, and in fact a bit soft. But it sure was muddy. Shorty and Whitey had both discovered how bad it was to only have two pair of work trousers for a week when doing the filthy work they had to do in the boiler room and out in the fields. This muddy stream side made it even worse.

At lunch time Shorty was given a ride in the guard truck up to the barn yard to eat with Whitey and the others. They didn't talk a lot anymore, but they were all respectful of what Shorty was doing. Whitey talked to him every evening at first when they had their showers and relaxed with their book reading back in the quiet infirmary. The root systems Shorty was finding as he dug up the stumps were extensive. It was hard work, and it was heavy work. Shorty didn't like the solitary nature of it at all. He liked being near Whitey, and he even liked being near the other inmates. He found himself far more tired every evening than he had been before.

After a week of digging Shorty had succeeded in loosening the roots of the five tree stumps. He asked the guard what he should do. The guard was all ready for this. He threw a length of heavy chain down to Shorty and told him to wrap the trunk in the chain. Then he threw a length of thick heavy rope. The rope had a large steel clip on one end, and a large loop tied at the other end. He told Shorty to clip the rope to the chain and to pull the stumps up out of the ground and drag them up the steep slope to field level to be hauled away. Shorty figured out quickly that the loop end of the rope was to slip over his shoulder to allow his whole body to pull the stump along.

So Shorty wrapped the chain around the first stump, then clipped the rope to the chain. He started to pull. He couldn't budge the trunk. It was simply too big, too heavy. He called out to the guard. The guard told him coldly to get to work. Shorty immediately realized what was happening here. He had made himself too important, and the guards knew it. They were going to bring him low. Well, he muttered to himself, not if he could help it. He elevated his efforts, digging his feet in and pulling with every once of strength he had. He felt a small bit of movement. He then wrapped the loop of rope over his right shoulder and over his head so it crossed from the left side of his neck down over his right shoulder and right chest. He strained more and felt a little more movement. Shorty looked up and saw the sergeant was there now, watching passively, coldly. Then he saw it. The sergeant pulled a long strip of black leather from behind his back.

"You want some help big shot? I'll give you some." The sergeant sidestepped his way down the slope, wrapping leather around his wrist so a three foot [90 cm] length was dangling.

"Now pull that thing out you lazy whelp." And he slashed that whip across Shorty's left shoulder, underneath the top loop of the thick rope harness. It happened faster than the boy expected, and he felt it sting and cringed and yelped at the same time. "I said pull." And he slashed down again.

Shorty pulled with renewed vigor. He was dripping with sweat now, pouring down his forehead into his eyes, off his nose, off his chin, running down his sides, down the crease of his back and the crease on the center of his chest. But he got some more movement.

"That a boy. See, you just needed some encouragement. I knew you could do it." The sergeant smirked at Shorty, mocking him.

Shorty struggled to pull some more. He dug his feet into the soft ground. And pulled some more. He pulled and he pulled. He could feel movement. The sergeant struck him several more times. Shorty was being worked like a mule. Shorty pulled and yanked and pulled, and after a while he had managed to move the stump to a leaning position, but it was still in the pit which Shorty had dug around it, and nowhere near being pulled up the slope.

Then Shorty heard the whistle blow. It was time to leave the fields and get back to the boiler room to shovel coal. He never thought he would ever look forward to that boiler room, but now he was. He didn't talk to Whitey as they rode up the lane and trudged into the power plant, but Whitey noticed some fresh looking welts on Shorty's back. Shorty said nothing and he just got to work, took his break on the hour, drank the cool water, and luxuriated in the comparative freedom of the boiler room. Whitey noticed rope burn across Shorty's right shoulder blade and his right chest along with the bright red welts on Shorty's left back.

That night as they lay on their beds after their shower and supper, Shorty told him what he had been made to do. He told Whitey that for the first time he was afraid, really afraid. He didn't think he could move that stump. Whitey applied the ointment which had worked so well for them both on the now month old whip marks, largely disappeared. Whitey's own whip marks were now few, though some still plainly visible. Shorty's had faded quicker. But now Whitey applied the ointment on these fresh marks. He was worried for Shorty, who showed his fear and doubt for the first time ever.

"It's not right what they're doin' to you," Whitey complained.

"We can't do nothin' about it." Shorty muttered dejectedly. "We just got to outlast 'em."

Shorty worked without any energy the next morning during their boiler room time. He was clearly dragging, and dreading the midday return to the stump work.

When they got out of the truck bed on the farm lane Shorty looked at the guard, who looked back at him with an evil stare while pointing towards the slope and the waiting stumps. Shorty took a deep breath, turned to Whitey and gave a half wave before shuffling off.

Shorty took the mattock and tried to loosen the stump more. He could see that the problem was its size, the spread of its root system, and the weight of the moisture on the whole thing. He picked up the rope and looped it back over his sore shoulder. He yanked hard. He yanked really hard. He felt good movement. Shorty felt a surge of elation. He dug in and pulled some more, and felt the stump start to move, to really move. The problem he saw was in getting it out of the pit in which it now rested since he had dug around its entire circumference. He got the shovel and started to create a sloping ramp into the pit. The guard was only half watching him, and wasn't pressing him, so he felt better. Shorty positioned himself finally at the head of this ramp and started to pull really hard. He could feel the rope burning against his skin as he strained, but he started to get movement of the thing towards his little ramp. Then the lunch whistle blew.

Shorty rode up the lane to the barnyard where Whitey and the boys were after they had finished unloading another wagonload of rock. In fact, while he usually looked forward to lunch he hated to stop this time. He had finally begun to make some progress, and he wished he could just keep going. While they sat eating the usual sandwiches he told Whitey that he thought it was getting better. He was not nearly as down as he had been before.

When lunch ended Shorty went back into the back of the truck to return to his stumps while Whitey and the field hands pushed the two wagons back. Shorty got right back to it. He took up the rope and looped it over and pulled with all his might. The stump began to move up the slope and was soon at ground level. Shorty started to pull it up the slope towards the field. That's when the sergeant arrived. He had that nasty leather whip in his hand again. He looked unhappy that Shorty had made so much progress. It was hard work pulling that stump up the steep slope from the stream side to the field. Shorty strained hard. The sergeant started yelling at him to work faster, and he slashed that whip across Shorty's shoulder again. Shorty slipped and the sergeant kept whipping as he lay on the ground.

Just then an awful commotion erupted above Shorty. The sergeant came barreling down across him and down the slope, and Whitey stood above him. Whitey had been working in the field with the other boys when he looked over and could see the sergeant's arm striking down on someone over and over, and Whitey knew who he was striking. He had just stopped his work and run full speed across the field and barreled into the sergeant. The officer back in the field was blowing his whistle and ran in hot pursuit of Whitey.

"Stop right there boy. You're in trouble now."

The sergeant got up, smeared with mud, and was furious. He punched Whitey in the gut. Then Shorty jumped on his back and tried to bear hug him. He whirled and threw Shorty to the ground.

"Get them both in that truck. We're goin' for a ride."

They forced Whitey and Shorty into the bed of the truck, and shocked them by putting metal leg irons on their ankles, and then drove all the way back to the reformatory. The boys were hustled into a courtyard, the ankle shackles were removed, and they were told to strip, and a water hose was turned on them to wash off the grime of coal dust and mud. Then the sergeant threw them a single towel and told them to dry off fast and to get dressed. Without delaying a minute he took them into a side door and onto the elevator. The boys knew where they were going. It was to be a visit to the Punishment Room.

The elevator door opened and the stifling heat of summer which accumulated there on that top floor hit them like a blast from their boiler room furnace door. They got out and walked across the open space where they had been whipped only a month ago. They figured they were going to get it again.

"Black. Strip. Everything. Everything."

Shorty peeled off his shirt and work pants and underwear and shoes and socks.

"On the floor." Shorty got down, a bit puzzled.

The sergeant went over to the pulley and lowered the cuffs which had secured Whitey for his whipping. But he wrapped the cuffs around Shorty's ankles. Then without delay he went back to the wall and turned the crank, raising Shorty's body by his ankles, and pulled him up completely off the floor so that he dangled.

It all happened so fast. Shorty didn't know how this was going to play out. Neither did Whitey. Except they both knew they were about to get beaten.

The sergeant went over to the wall with all the implements and took a long leather belt. He strode back and positioned Shorty's dangling body to where he wanted him, with his butt just about level to his waist, and then without any ceremony he let go a fearsome beating of Shorty's butt. He worked fast, with no pause between strokes. Just one after another after another. Shorty twisted and yelped and turned. He tried to bend his body up. Of course he couldn't keep himself up like that. Especially with no pause in the rain of leather which turned his butt red hot. He was soon crying along with his screams. This was unlike any beating he had ever taken. The firm rounded globes which were Shorty's butt cheeks were as red as fire, but with streaks of deep purple. A puddle of sweat gathered on the floor where it ran in a steady stream from his body.

After Shorty stopped bucking, stopped wiggling, stopped screaming , in fact as he simply hung there like a human carcass, the sergeant finally stopped. They lowered him and he lay prone on the floor, exhausted with pain.

Then, without delay, they pulled Whitey over. He had already started to strip, knowing that he would be getting a turn too. They roughly finished the job for him, and attached the cuffs to his ankles, and listed him up so he was dangling too, his fingers several inches above the floor.

The sergeant didn't whip him right away though.

"You're the one who started this. This is going to be real sweet."

Then with ferocious energy he took that belt to Whitey's ass too. Whitey was older than Shorty, and more developed. Shorty's butt consisted of two tight and round cheeks, but Whitey's cheeks were larger and more muscled mounds, and thus bigger targets. Whitey didn't scream though. He grunted, he huffed, he groaned. But he didn't scream. He had determined while watching Shorty's beating that he wouldn't, and while Shorty had been ass whipped by surprise, Whitey had been prepared and wrapped his mind around what was about to happen to him. The sergeant whipped Whitey a lot longer than he had Shorty, so Whitey's butt cheeks were totally covered with deep purple bruising. At last he lowered him to the floor, where he lay momentarily in the puddle of sweat he had poured out.

But the sergeant wasn't finished. He removed the cuffs from Whitey's ankles, then attached them to his wrists, walked back to the wall, and cranked Whitey up to his toes. Then he walked over to the wall and hung up the belt and took down the cat.

"You both get the strap for striking a guard, but you started all this, so you're getting a big bonus."

The sergeant then drew back and slashed the whip across Whitey's taut back. The boy flexed and gasped. He had almost forgotten the awful hellfire of the back whipping of over a hundred lashes he had received up there. Now he was reminded. The sergeant didn't wait long to fire another one. This was not a formal whipping like he had taken last month with Shorty. This was to be a savage beating to subdue him. Another lash followed. These were being laid on with more force than Warden Stormer had used lastt month. Whitey's back had toughened during his month working outside in the summer sun though, and his skin wasn't nearly as tender as it had been back then. But they hurt, oh how they hurt.

Shorty watched all this happen in rapid fire as he lay on his side recovering from the harshness of his ass whipping. He was pulling so hard fro Whitey to make it. Whitey hardly moved as his whipping progressed however. He would groan and moan, he would flex, but he wasn't heaving and pulling. Whitey had taken about thirty lashes when they heard a bit of noise behind them, and realized the warden had come up. He had been told about the incident. He was furious.

"Good work Sergeant. Some people just don't seem to learn their lessons."

"It wasn't Black so much as the other one who started it Sir."

"Well, didn't they both strike an officer?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, this is enough for now. But you two just got an additional three months hard labor from this. And mail privileges are suspended. Yes sir, we're going to have plenty of hot water thanks to you two."

The warden looked at Whitey hanging from his bonds, barely on the tips of his toes.

"Let him down. Tell the Boiler Room they won't be over this afternoon. But they're back to work, full duty tomorrow."

"Yes sir."

The warden turned and left in a huff, and the sergeant told the boys to get dressed. They did, and he clamped the leg irons back on them. The trip up to the punishment room from their hose down had been the first time they had actually work a shirt in weeks. They never wore their shirts in the boiler room, nor in the fields, and only wore it to go from their room in the infirmary to the power plant in the morning and to walk back at night when work was over. But they slipped into their shirts now, and took the walk to the elevator, then down two levels to the floor where the infirmary was.

Mr. Hartgen hadn't heard about any of their trouble until the sergeant escorted them in and told him. He shook his head, and muttered "They'll never learn."

Both boys couldn't wait to get out of their clothes and to let air on their burning backsides. They lay face down on their mattresses, naked. Neither one spoke. They just lay there for an hour or so. Mr. Hartgen came in and told them to lay still. He was going to put something on their butts that might burn but would give them some relief. It was an alcohol sponge. And it hurt plenty. But at least it was cool.

After they had rested, he brought in their meal tray. It was earlier than they usually ate when they had boiler room duty. After they ate and he told them to get their showers. They luxuriated long in that shower, but ran it cooler than usual. The boys had seen each other naked when getting dressed for bed or after a shower, but they spent the entire evening naked, and they both found themselves looking at the other. Whitey noticed how Shorty had matured, no longer scrawny as when they first met, but with real shape to his upper body, his legs, and his butt. Shorty had always thought Whitey was muscular, but Whitey looked like he had hard muscle now, more chiseled. Whitey now had a fresh pattern of whip marks on his back, and Shorty offered to apply the ointment which had worked so well before. He stood his naked body next to the side of Whitey's bed as Whitey lay face down, and slowly and gently rubbed the ointment along the marks. He took a long time doing this. Whitey didn't mind at all. Shorty felt himself feeling tingly, the way he had felt when he used to play 'sex touch' with the other boys back in the dorm. Whitey had never felt hands on him like this before, and he felt nervous, and… sexy.

After a while Mr. Hartgen came in.

"You two are movin' out tomorrow. The warden thinks you've had it too soft here. They're setting you up over in the spare room in the power house. They're goin' to isolate you. They think you're a bad influence. Maybe they're right."

This news hit them like a club to the head. They had come to really like their space in the infirmary, and they liked old Mr. Hartgen. He was nice to them, and treated them with respect. Whatever would it be like living in the power house, next to the boiler room?

The next day they got up with great pain. Both boys were incredibly stiff and sore from the fight and the beating. Especially the beating. They headed out to work at the boiler room. It was another blistering early July day on the prairie. They set to work shoveling the coal, and at 11 o'clock headed out the door for the truck ride down to the farm field. Once they got there, Shorty headed towards the stumps. As Whitey turned to go join the other boys on the rock wagons the guard stopped him.

"Oh, I forgot to tell you, now you get to do tree stumps too." Their initial reaction was amusement, and a deep satisfaction that they could be together and help each other. The reality was to be something else entirely.

Chapter 4-2
Hard Labor, Part Two

Whitey started to follow Shorty down the slope towards the sunken stream bed where the cluster of stumps waited removal. When they got to the stump Shorty had been working on when their fight with the guard erupted the day before, they saw a large round black metal ball on the ground with a length of chain and a cuff on the end.

"Right here Black." The guard commanded Shorty.

Shorty stepped forward a few more steps and the guard bent down and locked the metal cuff over Shorty's leg above his ankle and over top of the trouser material. The length of chain from the cuff to the big metal ball was easily ten feet [3 m].

"Now, I can do my job and not worry about you wandering around visiting your friend here or running away." The guard obviously liked this arrangement. "Now, get to work. You know what to do."

He turned to Whitey after a minute of watching Shorty pick up his tools and move them away to start pulling the stump with the chain harness that he had wrapped around it. "That way. Move." He said to Whitey. He pointed up the long row of trees along the edge of the stream, between the stream bed and the base of the slope. Whitey started walking. He walked a good fifty yards and around a slight bend, and saw ahead of him there a cluster of stumps like the ones Shorty was working on, and a big metal ball on the ground with some tools next to it. So, they were going to be separated after all. Whitey stepped forward, and the guard locked the ankle cuff on his leg as he had done with Shorty.

"Now, get to work. Dig up these stumps, and get them up that hill up to the field to the rock wagons."

Whitey picked up the mattock and started breaking up the muddy earth around the closest stump. The guard watched him for a few minutes, and then turned away and walked up to the top of the slope, where he could obviously see both boys. From that spot he could also watch the short term hard labor field workers picking up the stones from the field behind, the 'easy' work Whitey had been doing before he leaped to Shorty's defense. Whitey was not the least bit regretful. He was proud that he had helped Shorty, and though he had taken quite a beating in consequence and now had really hard labor he was still glad he had done it. The sun was still hot, as a heat wave had descended on the Nebraska prairie. After Whitey had dug around the stump's circumference for an hour he could see Shorty pulling the stump he had loosened up the day before towards the top of the slope. Shorty was straining, but Whitey realized at that moment how strong Shorty had become in the last few months, and he admired the lean, wiry muscle of his closest friend as it glistened.

As he reached the top of the slope pulling the stump he had loosened along behind him Shorty could see Whitey digging among a cluster of stumps down the way. The chain from the stump he had wrapped around his upper body to pull the stump up the slope hurt a bit as it dug into his skin, but it didn't do any damage, and he was successfully moving this stump along. Every six or seven feet [~2 m] he had to stop to pick up the metal ball that was attached to his ankle chain and carry it forward a bit so he could get up the slope. At the top of the slope the guard unlocked the chain from his ankle, and ordered him to drag the stump across the field to the wagon where the other kids were working picking up stones. It wasn't so hard pulling it across the flat field, unlike the struggle to get it up the slope.

The wagon was piled high from the stones which the three boys now on field labor duty had piled. They looked admiringly at the now legendary Shorty as he approached the wagon. The entire inmate population knew about Shorty's nerve and his toughness. Almost unnoticed, the sergeant rode up behind them on a horse.

"OK you boys, you know where to take that wagon. Black, keep pulling that stump, and keep up with the wagon."

Shorty quickly realized that he was going to have to pull the stump the entire length of the farm road from the field up to the barnyard. He knew the trail well from his time on the rock crew, and knew that it was not a hilly path, but well rutted, and he better watch his foot. He knew it was one thing to pull/push that wagon full of rocks, with the help of others, but quite another to pull this heavy stump along by himself. He did his best. It didn't take long for him to fall a little behind the wagon though. The sergeant slowed his horse and pulled alongside Shorty. Without warning he pulled out a long and mean looking riding crop and slashed it across Shorty's shoulder. "Move it, Black. Move it. I expect you to keep with them." Shorty winced at the sting, glared for a second at the sergeant, than set to work trying to keep up with the boys on the wagon.

Whitey was making good progress on the first stump despite the brutal late summer heat. He figured he had been working for a couple of hours when he had the stump completely dug. The guard, who had been sitting on the top of the slope observing him, walked down holding a long length of chain, and threw it to Whitey.

"OK Hardy, you can haul it up here now."

Whitey wrapped the chain around the stump and started to pull. It was hard going. But he was strong, and using his body the same as he had seen Shorty do he managed to make progress pulling it up the slope, pausing every few feet to walk back and pick up his steel ball and carry it forward to his progress, then renewing the journey. It was an hour of effort to get to the top. As he got there he saw Shorty walking across the field towards him. The sergeant was on horseback alongside Shorty. When Shorty got to the top of the slope the guard put the ankle chain back on him. He told Shorty to pick up the ball and carry it back down and to get to work on the next stump. Then he unlocked Whitey's ankle from the ball and chain, and the sergeant escorted him across the field, pulling his stump. The wagon was empty, having just been returned, and the other boys were starting to fill it again, but the sergeant just had Whitey keep going, pulling along his stump. As Whitey strained he was encouraged by the sergeant's riding crop slashing across his muscular shoulders every hundred steps or so.

At four o'clock the whistle sounded, and the two boys were unlocked from their chains and loaded up into the back of the truck and taken back to the powerhouse to again shovel coal for the hot water boilers. When seven o'clock came they happily put down their shovels. But now there was no trip across the yard to their old infirmary room. Now they just walked up the short flight of steps to the door to their 'dorm' room at the powerhouse. The engineer unlocked it. They went in. He locked it behind them. They were locked in. There was one window which let in light, but it couldn't be opened, and it had bars on it. The boys looked around their new room. There were two narrow cots, a high overhead light, a toilet along a wall, and a surprisingly large shower stall, with no curtain, just past the toilet, with a sink on the other side. They noticed a jar of the ointment Mr. Hartgen used to salve their wounds when they were beaten, their toothbrushes and some toothpaste, and a bar of soap. There was a small table with clean folded towels, and their spare underpants, socks, and clothing supply. And there was the book Whitey had been reading to Shorty, Mutiny on the Bounty. Mr. Hartgen was a good man, and they agreed they would miss him.

Both boys, already shirtless from their boiler room work, sat on their cots and pulled off their work boots, and then their dirty jeans and undershorts, sitting buck naked. They savored the moment of privacy, the ability to simply do nothing and to allow their bodies to breathe. They realized they had the shower all to themselves. Whitey told Shorty he could go in first. Shorty luxuriated in the cascade of the warm water, but didn't linger, since he knew Whitey needed a chance too. He was no sooner out of the shower and drying himself with the towel than Whitey was under the water. When both were clean and dry and sitting there with their towels wrapped around their waists they wondered aloud how they were going to be fed now. But just like that they heard the door being unlocked, and a guard appeared with one of the kitchen detail inmates carrying a tray with two meals on it. There was no lingering. They were gone in moments, locking the door behind them almost immediately. The boys hungrily devoured their supper.

They took a closer look at their room. It was pretty big, almost like a chamber. The ceiling had to be 14 feet [4 m] high. Whitey walked off the length and width, and determined it was around 25 feet by 20 feet [7 x 6 m]. There was one window, set high in the wall, closed tight, and with metal bars. There was a bright overhead light hanging from the ceiling. There was also a clock set into the wall. The floor was old linoleum. Walls were painted a pale and faded white. Their beds were regulation size and nice and firm with big metal frames, metal frame headstand and foot stand, and a table where they could keep their folded clothes in the box each had been given.

The room was stifling hot. But neither boy noticed. They were both excited and exhausted. They were soon fast asleep.

Shorty and Whitey both lay on their beds, naked, as they digested their suppers. Whitey asked Shorty if he wanted to go back to the book they had enjoyed so much and which Mr. Hartgen had so kindly sent over for them. Shorty quickly agreed. Whitey read to him for about an hour. But then they were both tired, and decided to get to sleep. They lay in their beds still naked, without pulling up any covers, since it was still so warm (late July). In fact it was hot. Not only was the weather hot outside, but the only window in this room was closed shut. And the room was after all in the power plant, right next to the infernal heat of the boiler room. But not only was it hot in their room, but there were all kinds of weird noises. This was a building full of machinery, and the many parts were constantly expanding and contracting. But while the stifling air was not conducive to comfortable sleep, nor the odd and weird sounds of the building, they both fell asleep anyway. They had endured quite a day.

The next morning they were awakened by a loud knocking on their door.

"Breakfast in ten minutes." It was the boiler room manager.

They jumped out of bed, and after each taking a quick leak at the toilet they washed their faces at the sink and slid into their underwear and work clothes. Sure enough, in only minutes, they heard the lock being opened. A guard came in followed by Shorty's old friend O'Brien, carrying a kitchen tray with their breakfast of hot porridge, milk, and several slices of toasted bread (now cool). Shorty thanked O'Brien, but the guard quickly demanded "Silence" and O'Brien picked up the tray with the supper plates from the night before and slid out the door, escorted by the guard, and the door locked again.. They wolfed it all down. Just minutes later the engineer came to the door again and opened it…

"Well, how did you like your first night?" He asked this with obvious derision. 'Time to get to work."

The boys shuffled out the door behind him and down the half dozen steps to the floor of the boiler room. They knew what to do. Shirts were tossed over the railing and the endless task of loading up coal and shoveling it into the blazing furnace doors started again. At 11 the whistle blew, and both boys trudged out to the courtyard where the guard was waiting. Into the back of the truck they rode down to the fields, and out to their stands of tree stumps. The sergeant was there waiting. He warned them against any more insubordination. And they went to work.

That afternoon a thunderstorm broke out over the prairie. The guard huddled inside his truck. The boys were told to sit low at the base of the embankment, still chained to their metal balls. This unnerved Whitey who had studied science in school and knew that with lightning flashing around they could be literally fried if it struck the metal of their ball and chain apparatus. But they were lucky. They only got soaked. But it was a nice long break, and they were grateful. It also softened up the ground, making digging easier, even if the ground was heavier to heave.

At the usual time they got into the truck and rode up to the power plant and resumed their work in the boiler room. At work's end they only had a few steps to climb and to go into their room. The door locked behind them. But they noticed that someone, somehow, had opened the window – which was nine feet [2½ m] up the side wall – so at least there was a bit of air coming in. They just had time to pull their shoes off their aching feet when the lock turned again and the door opened and it was a guard with another kitchen kid carrying in their supper tray and taking away this morning's breakfast tray.

"You two have one hour before lights out."

They both quickly agreed to get a shower and wash away the grime and dirt. It felt so good. Their butts were extremely sore from yesterday's beating. But the water felt good. The storm had moved the air a bit too, and it wasn't as hot as it had been. Still, with only two pair of underwear for the week, and the way their bodies accumulated dirt and coal dust and grime and sweat all day, they didn't like wearing their filthy clothing, any of it, any longer than necessary. So they lay naked, just thinking, before the lights went out.

This routine was quickly absorbed, and they both became adept at making good use of their time. As weeks passed they began to like their new living arrangements, despite the heat and the nighttime noises. They liked the privacy, their own shower and toilet, their own room, even if the door was always locked.

One night in early September Shorty asked Whitey if he could see the whip marks on his back. Whitey had been wondering if he had any marks – they had no mirrors. He calmly turned to his side and let Shorty see his back. Shorty said he did have a few marks left… Whitey asked him if he wanted to trace them. That way he would know how many and where they were. Shorty moved over to the side of Whitey's bed and slowly traced the faint stripes on Whitey's smooth moist skin.

"That feels good."

"Really?"

"Yea. In fact I wish I had more of them so you could keep touching them. It feels good when you do that."

"I just won't stop." Shorty continued faintly touching the long lines. There were traces of about six remaining, but Shorty could see that they would eventually fade away too. "Whitey, do you ever think sexy things?"

"What do you know about that? You're only 14. But yea, I think sexy things. Nothing in particular. But my dick gets hard sometimes. I've messed my sheets here a couple times, but I didn't say anything to you about it. Fact is, I feel sexy right now. I like the touch of your fingers on my back See…" And Whitey rolled his naked body over, facing Shorty, and Shorty could see Whitey's dick was almost standing straight up, real hard.

"Wow. That is so big.."

Then Shorty moved his hand from the front of his crotch, and Whitey could see that Shorty's dick was standing firm too. The kid had started to sprout a nest of hair around his dick, not as thick as Whitey's, but quite visible. Despite all the time they were naked together now, Whitey had just never looked.

"Wanna touch mine, Shorty?" Whitey asked hesitantly.

"Can I?" Shorty softly replied.

"Yea. Touch it Shorty."

Shorty reached forward and gently touched Whitey's stiff dick. It got even stiffer.

"Put your hand around it… Hold it… Squeeze it…"

Shorty did. Then, suddenly, within less than a minute, Whitey's body shook and his dick thrust and throbbed in Shorty's hands, and a series of bursts of juice came shooting out, splashing onto Shorty's body. The younger boy was shocked.

"Oh man, that feels so good. Oh yea. So good." Whitey gasped out.

They both looked at one another with some wonderment, knowing they had discovered something new and different together, and something that was immensely exciting and exhilarating. Whitey paused a minute.

"Want me to touch you?"

"Would you?"

Whitey gently grasped Shorty's member, very hard as it was. He rubbed it a few times. In no time at all Shorty had gone into a spasm of sexual sensation, and he shot a load too. The younger boy was shocked. It was clear he had never masturbated before.

"Oh man that was fantastic. That was amazing!"

Just then the light was extinguished, and they were in darkness. Whitey got up and went over to the sink and washed himself off, and whispered to Shorty to come over too. He washed Shorty off. To his surprise, Shorty started to get hard again.

"Wow Shorty, you're full of cum."

"What's cum?" the younger boy asked.

"It's the man juice we have in our balls, and when we shoot it out it feels real good, better than anything on earth. Don't you think?"

Whitey realized that Shorty had become a man some time ago, but didn't know about using his tool. They talked in hushed whispers for the next hour. Yes. Shorty had found himself wet and sticky in the night sometimes, but he didn't know anything about it or what it meant. Whitey explained that this was why Shorty was now growing hair around his dick, and he pointed out to him how much hair was now sprouting under his arms, and on his forarms and his calves. Whitey congratulated Shorty on being a man.

Shorty for his part thought of all those nights in the reform school dorms when he could hear older guys making noises and groaning. He remembered hearing them talk about dicks, about sucking, about 'blowing'. Suddenly all those things made sense to him.

As Whitey and Shorty lay there they began to be really glad that they were in their own private room with each other. They both thought about the intense pleasure they had just had together. And they thought how much fun they were going to have from now on whenever they wanted.

They finally fell asleep. The next morning they couldn't wait to get to work. The sooner they went to work and got to the end of the day, the more fun they would have. And do they did.

September turned into October. They had finished their work on the stumps. Of course they still had boiler room duty at the beginning and the end of every day. During their midday work time the sergeant put them to work sorting the rocks and stones the work parties brought in from the fields. They each remained chained to their big iron ball. Then they were brought to a pile of larger rocks, and each was given a sledge hammer. The reformatory had to make gravel for the roads for the winter snow season. They were made to break the large rocks into tiny pieces. This required more effort, faster swinging of the sledge hammers, to meet their daily quotas. It was hard work. They were given new heavy workboots. The days cooled considerably. They still found themselves taking off their shirts as they worked up a real sweat with the heavy hammers. And as the days grew shorter and the air colder they found the boilers needed more attention to generate hot water for the vast radiator network in the heating system. It started to get cold outside, but the boiler room was toasty warm. Other things got warm too.

Whitey and Shorty found it was a lot warmer for them at night to sleep together. Shorty would usually slip over to Whitey's bed. They would snuggle, and then as they became aroused they would have wonderful sexual release. They would snuggle all night. They knew they'd get in trouble if anyone knew, so they quickly learned the timing of the morning door openings, and got into their own beds. But both boys discovered that their nights now held infinite pleasure. Even though their days were filled with backbreaking hard work, they didn't mind. They spent all day, every day, looking forward to their nights.

As time went on, Whitey showed Shorty some of the other things that men could do with their dicks. They practiced the art of using their mouths on each other. They craved the touch of one another's bodies.

As November turned to December, they both realized that they were undergoing significant physical changes. Shorty's workpants were now several inches too short. His baggy workshirts, which they wore almost all the time now that it was cold except when they were shoveling the coal in the always hot furnace room, seemed a bit tight. Whitey had noticed that about Shorty. The combination of maturing growth, long and very hard work, and meager diet had made Shorty lean, hard of body, and very muscled across his now very broad back and shoulders, strong arms, and muscular legs. They had not had a haircut in many months. Shorty's dark brown curly hair cascaded down to his neck. A guard had commented that they wouldn't have another haircut until their hard labor sentence was over, because their long hair made them easy to spot anyplace on the grounds.

But Whitey was changing too. His workpants were also now too short, showing several inches of shin. He had also put on significant muscle. His shock of dark blond hair cascaded down his neck. He had started to show a few hairs on his chest, and a little trail of hair appeared between his belly button and his dick.

One day in early December they were both sent over to the old infirmary to have a physical by the reformatory doctor. It was state law to have a physical every year. Shorty was measured and he was now 5'7" [1.70 m], and 125 lbs [57 kg]. Whitey was 5'11" [1.80 m] and 145 lbs [66 kg]. The doctor pronounced them both fit. They were surprised when the warden appeared.

"Well you boys would be getting back to normal if you didn't strike the guards back in July. Black, you would be back in the dorms. Hardy, you would be moving out to the state pen next month on your 18th birthday. But don't worry. Nothing is going to change. You struck two guards, so that is two offenses of striking a guard. Each. So you get an extra three months hard labor twice over. You're going to be doing hard labor until August. And Hardy, don't worry about getting sent away to that nice soft state pen in January. My friends at the Department of Corrections have changed your birth date in the records. You'll get to stay right here. And then we'll all have a nice long afternoon next August in the Punishment Room, just as we agreed. Remember? It was your own idea! Now, I hear you are doing good work in the boiler room and on the rock pile. You'll be staying in the boiler room full time now until April. We need lots of heat in this plant. But don't even think of getting out of line. Oh, and Hardy, I informed the judge some months ago that you had assaulted a guard, and that your mail privileges and visiting privileges were suspended. But I'm going to let you call him for Christmas. Make sure you tell him how well we are treating you. Or your friend here will be very sorry."

Shorty and Whitey went back to their room with new, properly fitted work pants, new underwear, new shirts. And a happy heart. They acted distressed that they would have hard time until August – for eight more long months. But in truth they liked their private apartment, and were used to the work. And they could live in untroubled heaven for the entire time.

Whitey was so glad to talk to the judge, his foster father, on Christmas Day. He and Mrs. Hardy had been so good to him. They had really taken to each other, and they really did treat him like their own son. It only took a couple years, but Whitey had come to love them. But he knew how bad his mess-up with Shorty had been for the judge. He had caused so much embarrassment and so much criticism because of what he and Shorty did. He actually didn't feel worthy of them anymore. So when the warden cut off the mail and the visiting he decided it was a good thing, that he just caused too much trouble for this loving old couple, and that they were better off without him. Yes, he missed them. A lot. But he thought he was just too much trouble for them, trouble they didn't deserve. His old negative feelings about himself returned. But it was sure nice to hear their voices on Christmas. He apologized to them again. He promised to stay out of any more trouble. He wanted to tell them to forget about him, that he was no good. But he couldn't tell them that on Christmas. And he didn't say anything about the rough time he had endured, since he wanted to protect Shorty from the warden, who seemed to have all the cards. But there was something else happening in Whitey's head. He had gotten used to the hard labor, and he positively loved his little set up with Shorty in their own place at the reformatory power house. Like so many young people, Whitey and Shorty thought only of the present, and didn't give any thought to their long term prospects. The call made Whitey feel better about the Hardys and better about it being Chrstmas.

It was bitterly cold on New Year's Eve. The boys were shoveling coal furiously into the furnaces. The engineer, the twerp of a man who supervised them in the power plant, had been drinking heavily. He was watching Shorty closely. The boy had turned fifteen several days before. But he had changed in those seven months from a slender wiry kid into a very fit and well built young man. His impressive torso dripped with sweat in the hot boiler room, accentuating his developing musculature all the more. Mr. Vitic, the engineer, liked the looks of both of his young power house slaves, but something about Shorty really caught his eye. As Shorty shoveled away, Vitic called him over. He told him to follow him to his office.

"You're doing good work here, Martin. And I hear you had a birthday. You've proved yourself a man here. How about a nice drink for the New Year?"

Shorty didn't quite know what he meant by a 'drink', but he knew he was being complimented by his boss.

"Sure, and thanks Mr. Vitic."

The engineer had a bottle of whiskey opened. He poured some in a glass, and mixed some ginger ale into it. In fact he poured quite a bit into the glass. Shorty sipped it. Vitic asked his opinions on the boiler operation. He tried to ask about the warden too. Shorty didn't know how to answer. He just kept sipping his drink. Vitic urged him to drink a little faster to taste the full effect of the whiskey. Shorty liked the taste, even though it was totally new to him. He did drink more, and faster. He almost didn't notice when Vitic moved closer to him.

"My you've grown muscle here. Let me feel them. They look awfully hard and strong." And without waiting for Shorty's consent, he started to rub his hands across Shorty's chest. Within seconds his hands had lowered their caress to Shorty's lower abdomen. Shorty felt his dick start to harden. But he didn't want it to harden. The engineer lowered his hand further, and dropped his hand under Shorty's waistband and touched his shaft. Shorty suddenly felt very uneasy, then violated, then angry. He dropped his almost empty glass and punched Mr. Vitic in the jaw. The engineer was stunned, and couldn't believe that this young prisoner would dare to strike him, especially after he had been so nice. Shorty hit him again. The engineer grabbed the phone and called for help from the guardhouse. Whiyey had kept working while Shorty had gone with the engineer back to his office. He had been wondering what was going on, why Vitic had taken Shorty back there, and what was taking so long. Then suddenly four guards came bursting through the door, past the boilers, past Whitey, and into Vitic's office. Whitey had a sick feeling in his stomach.

Vitic told the sergeant that he had called Black in to his office to commend him for his work. But while he was on an important phone call, and had his back to Black, the prisoner had helped himself to his whiskey bottle. He had then slugged the engineer when he challenged this shocking liberty. The sergeant sneered. He had long had a grudge against this kid.

"So, you want to celebrate the New Year with a trip to the Punishment Room?"

He had Shorty by a fistful of hair, and started to push him forword. But Vitic stopped him.

"Sergeant, this is his workplace, and I'm the one he assaulted . Why not give him his punishment right here. And I know it is not the usual practice, but could I administer his punishment, since I'm the one he struck?"

The sergeant thought for a moment.

"Sure, it's New Year's Eve, and I hate to bother the warden. He doesn't have to know about any of this. We'll handle Black right here."

Two guards continued to hold Shorty. The boy felt a bit woozy from all the whiskey he had consumed, and he didn't struggle. One of the guards went over to the punishment room, and returned a few minutes later with an armful of rope and the black snake whip. As he walked past Whitey, who was still shoveling, the older boy got a sick feeling in his stomach. The guards brought Shorty out into the large boiler room. They removed their jackets in the heat, and then looped rope around each of Shorty's wrists. Then they threw the length of rope over a big overhead pipe and pulled until Shorty was standing on his toes. They tied off the rope to metal wall fixtures.

"Well, Black, as I remember, last time I gave you a whipping you said you wanted to get it like a grown man from now on, and you wanted the black snake. Still feel that way?"

Shorty, who had been a bit slow because of the sudden turn of events and the effects of the whiskey, muttered defiantly,

"Be my guest."

"Mr. Vitic, how many should he get?"

"He needs a lot."

"Well, it's December, the 12th month, so that's twelve. And it's the 31st day of December, so that's another 31, and he just turned 15, so as I add it up that makes 58. What do you think of that, Black. How about 58 lashes for your New Year's present?"

"Fifty Eight? Is that all? Double it, and make it worth my time," Shorty shockingly retorted.

"Nooooooo…" Whitey yelled.

"Shut up you, or we'll triple it."

"I think you should triple it," the now light headed Shorty spouted out. "I didn't get anything for Christmas, so you can make this your Christmas present to me. And make Vitic give me all of them."

"Shorty, shut up. Please," begged Whitey.

"Leave me be Whitey. This is mine today. I'll take it. Stay back."

The sergeant handed the whip to Vitic. The engineer, a slight little man with balding hair, took it and looked at the youth strung up before him. Shorty's body glistened in the heat and from the strain of being hoisted up. His firm and taut skin was hard muscled, and brown from the months previous of working outside in the fields. Vitic had really wanted to get his hands on that body, on all of it. But the punk was…he was a punk. He was a bad one, a real convict, disrespectful. He needed discipline. And Vitic was determined to make him his own. He felt like he owned both these boys. Now he was going to show them who was the boss.

Whitey stood there, holding his shovel, watching. He looked straight at Shorty, and they locked eyes. Shorty didn't look scared at all. He looked dizzy though. Whitey could count every one of Shorty's ribs with his eyes. With Shorty's arms tied up high Whitey realized that he was developing a layer of hair growth under his arms, another sign of the rapid and profound physical changes which had so changed Shorty's appearance in the last year.

Shorty waited. He waited for the whip. Yea, bring it on. He was a hard case, and now he would prove it. So go ahead, Vitic, you slimy old man. Do your best.

(Next Chapter: Shorty suffers. Shorty and Whitey discover new pleasure. Spring awakens.)