Several days had past rather uneventfully. Uncle Bill told me he was pleased with my progress, and now he was sure I was his sister's son. During dinner that evening, he mentioned that tomorrow some new arrivals were expected. "It's about time we get some new blood around here," he said with excitement. I asked him what was involved with the processing of the new prisoners. He said "it's like a day at the races!" I didn't really know what that meant, but so far, I wasn't disappointed with anything.
After dinner the family retired to the parlor for some dessert. Uncle Bill pulled out a stack of files, and started reading them. When he was finished he asked me if I was interested in checking out the backgrounds of the new arrivals. Of course I was curious, so he handed them to me. Most of them were local boys just being shuffled around system, but one caught my eye. His name was Richard Broderick. I quickly read his file intensely. Yes! I couldn't believe it. He was the coach of the football team back in New York. Everyone at my school knew of him and his reputation. He had been an alumnus of our school who was the star of the football team who went All-State his senior year, and almost made it to the pros if he didn't have a bum knee. Well, you guessed it. He ended up taking the job as head football coach. I would always remember my freshman year. My size and ability qualified me to be the towel boy for the team. I didn't mind, especially since I got to hang out in the locker room—a lot. Then one fateful day my life came crashing down around me. Most of the students had showered and left, so I was cleaning up, when I noticed that Mr. Broderick was in his jock strap working out on one of the weight machines. He looked so good on that bench press. His muscles were thick and well defined. I must give him credit; he never let his body go to pot. I just stood there, over to one side, with my mouth open. My loose gym shorts must have betrayed what I was thinking. Suddenly, Mr. Broderick turned his head and saw me touching myself down there. He dropped the weights and leapt up screaming at me. "You _f_u_c_k_ing faggot, what do you think you're doing!!!?" "If you weren't so pathetic I'd kick your ass from here to kingdom come!" "Get out of here!" "This will be the last time a faggot steps into my locker room again!" "Just wait 'til the boys here about this!" "You better go home and practice-up on getting your ass kicked—Queer Boy!" I couldn't keep the tears back. I ran all the way home. School wasn't very fun after that.
I read more of Mr. Broderick's file, with my heart pounding harder and faster. He had a record! Most of it was minor offenses like drunk and disorderly conduct, even spousal abuse. His last mistake was getting stopped for a speeding ticket in "our county", and starting an argument with the arresting officer ending with breaking the officer's jaw. The officer, of course was a distant cousin, and his dad was the presiding judge in the trial that followed. Mr. "Macho" Broderick will be our guest for a very long time.
The next day the county jail bus arrived. We were all there to greet it. Ten prisoners were led out in shackles and lined up in front of the big house, and Mr. Broderick was there! The bus left, and the shackles were removed while one of the guards went over "the prisoner's code of behavior." All the men were healthy and between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five. I focused on Broderick. It appeared his situation had not affected his attitude. He looked smug and even bored. What came next would be a rude awakening for him.
The processing had begun. "OK you assholes, STRIP!" Yelled the guard. A few of the new arrivals hesitated, and received a whack from the strap which hassened their movements. Soon, all ten were stark naked and shown the proper "position." The inspection began with all of us circling the inmates. The inmates were expected to remain perfectly still, under threat of the strap, despite the poking and prodding by the guards. Of course, each prisoner could break formation if intructed to assume another position by a guard for a more detailed inspection. I targeted Broderick. I walked right up to him, reached up slapped his face and ordered him to open his mouth and to stick out his tongue. I knew he recognized me, but obeyed without a peep. Then I walked around behind him and patted his round butt. I pushed his back forward and told him to grab his ankles. It was like a dream. I had this man, who had once ruined my life, bent over exposing ass with his ample balls and _c_o_c_k_ hanging low between his wide spread legs. I ran my hands down his broad back and slowly circled my fingers around his balls. I squeezed them firmly evoking a grunt from Mr. Broderick. I pulled on his _c_o_c_k_ for quite a while hoping to get him hard. I think his overwhelming humiliation prevented any hopes of an erection, but I didn't care. Then, I instructed him to use his hands to pull his cheeks apart; after all, this was strip search. I looked down at his pink virgin hole, and mused to myself how long it would remain "virgin."
I looked around; most of the other prisoners were now in different positions under the directions of the other guards. Some were told to get down on their knees with their hands behind their backs and their foreheads on the ground. This position allowed the guard not only a good vantagepoint to inspect their rectums, but also administer some preliminary ass warming. This entire process took about thirty minutes, and when all the guards were satisfied the next step would begin. The shower.
The ten men were again lined up and told to "hit the dirt" on their bellies. Each guard picked a prisoner and stood behind him with either their leather strap or cattle prod in hand. I choose Mr. Broderick. The open air showers were located about two hundred feet away and the prisoners were expected to crawl the distance with the "help" of his guard. Those not participating were busy taking bets on who will win the race. The organizers of the betting must have had a lot of practice, giving odds for "Win, Place, and Show." This is what my uncle meant by his comment earlier, "like a day at the races." I used my cattle prod since I thought Mr. Broderick would get a "charge" out of that. The whistle sounded and the race began. I zapped Broderick between the legs to get him going. The other guards, using their motivation of choice did the same. There was shouting and cloud of dust with arms and legs flaying all over the place. I had gotten some good shots in, making Broderick squirm furiously. Ultimately, the race was over, and that bastard Broderick took fifth. He'll pay for that later. The now dirty and exhausted prisoners were told to enter the shower area and the cold water was turned on. They almost seemed relieved until their respective "jockey" guards came in with stiff bristle brushes to make sure their charges were going to be as clean as possible.
I went up to Broderick, who didn't appear as smug as he did earlier. I ordered him into the position under the cold running water and began to scrub his body with the brush. We dipped the brushes periodically in a bucket of lye to disinfect any wounds the prisoners may have acquired in the processing. The lye burned as I scrubbed Broderick thoroughly. He squirmed a little, but the threat of a more severe punishment kept him in line. I wanted to make sure this son-of-a-bitch would remember "this" shower scene. I made him bend over again so I could shove the brush up his butt with a few twists of the wrist to clean out his hole. Finally the water was turned off and the inmates were issued their new uniforms. I made sure that Mr. Broderick's uniform was at least a size smaller than what was comfortable. I had to sacrifice comfort for esthetics because seeing him in his uniform and how it outlined every cord of muscle on his body made it all worth it.