Hawthorne Ranch

I was born in Mexico City to an American father and a Mexican mother. My father, an executive for an American company, had been stationed in Mexico City when he had met my mother. I’m told that they had married after having known each other for only two months. My father had wanted to get married sooner, but my mother was from a wealthy family, which had pressured her to wait. Her father, also a Mexican citizen, was president of the Mexico City branch of my father’s company. I, their only child, was born nine months later.

Their marriage was not a happy one. Although I was too young to know it then, I now know that my father constantly cheated on my mother. All I knew then was that he spent little time at home and almost none with me. When he was home, my parents constantly argued. I can vividly recall their last one. I was ten years-old.

“I’m not putting up with it any more, Sam,” said my Mother, Maria. “I’m taking Sean and leaving you. You won’t miss us anyway. You’re never here.”

“Like hell you will. This is my family you’re talking about. You’re my wife. He’s my son. You belong to me, and no one takes away what’s mine.

“What’s yours? That’s all we’ve ever been to you-possessions. You don’t love either one of us. I don’t think you love anyone-except yourself, possibly.”

“Of course I love you. See I said it. Are you satisfied now?” he yelled.

“No, I’m tired of your excuses-and of your women. I just don’t fucking care anymore. Hortensia,” she yelled at my nanny, who was overhearing this argument as she had overheard many others, “get Sean ready to go with me. Pack him a bag with enough to last a couple of days.” Then to my father she said, “We’ll send someone over for the rest of our things later.”

“I told you that you weren’t taking my son.” I could hear the anger in his voice.

“There’s no use trying to talk to you.” Then I heard her call my name: “Sean, come on; we’re leaving.”

“Like hell you are.”

As I walked into the room, he grabbed her arm, twisting it up behind her back. I yelled, first in Spanish since it was the language I used with everyone but him, and then in English, since he didn’t like for me to speak Spanish to him, saying, “Let go of my mother. You’re hurting her.” Running to him, I tried to pull his arm away. He struck me with the back of his other hand, knocking me to the floor.

I sat up on the floor-dazed-in shock, as much from surprise as from the blow itself-or from the pain. It was the first time that I’d ever remembered being struck by either of my parents, or by any adult. After wiping my mouth, I stared at the bright red of the blood which was smeared across the back of my hand.

“Sean,” my mother screamed, looking over at me where I sat on the floor. Then to my father she said, “You’ve hurt him. My father will have you fired and thrown out of the country for this. You’re an animal.”

Not saying anything, he thrust her away from him. She struck her head on the corner of the fireplace and collapsed to the floor unconscious. I was screaming as he reached down, grabbed my arm, and dragged me from the house, taking me to his car. Opening the driver side door, he shoved me inside, then climbed in after me, grabbing my arm when I tried to go out the other door.

“Sit your ass down there and stay put.” He threatened me again with the back of his hand. “Buckle your fucking seat belt.”

I was frightened by this hitherto unseen side of my father. Before, he had just ignored my mother and me. Now, as far as I knew at the time, he had killed my mother. It was only later that I found out the she had just been knocked unconscious.

Stopping only at the bank to pick up some money, we left town, driving north for the border-for the United States. Although I had duel citizenship, I’d never been there. We stopped for the night at a motel in Monterrey then drove on to Texas, arriving in Austin late the next day. We moved around staying at different motels, traveling between Austin and Dallas, until my father got a job in Austin; then he rented an apartment, and I started school.

It was my first experience with public school. I’d gone to an upper-class private school in Mexico City. I had a hard time fitting in. The Chicanos didn’t like me because I had blond hair and blue eyes like my mother-her German ancestors had settled in Mexico over 100 years ago-and the Texans made fun of how I spoke English. I could speak it well enough. I had learned it along with Spanish, but I spoke it precisely. I knew almost no slang. All the English I’d spoken had been with adults, mostly with my mother and father. The other kids were always using words and phrases that I didn’t know. That and my being so unhappy at being separated from my mother estranged me from the other kids.

My father, an engineer by trade, had to return to that occupation. His abrupt departure from his last job rendered him unsuitable for an executive position. Blaming me for his predicament, he verbally abused me when he wasn’t with one of his many women. I was still ten years-old when I ran away for the first time. They caught me of course. By the time I was thirteen I had run away so many times, often stealing to survive, that I was placed in a school for wayward boys. All I wanted was to return to my mother, but, although my father didn’t want me-never loved me-he wasn’t about to let her have me back.

I spent my fourteenth year at St. Mary’s school for boys. The school grounds were surrounded by a high fence that had razor wire at the top. I had run from every other place. After my fifteenth birthday, I was sent to Hawthorne Ranch.

Hawthorne Ranch, a working ranch for wayward boys, was located in the Big Bend area of Texas, actually bordered on one side by the Rio Grande River. There were some cattle on the ranch, but sheep predominated. Although the work was hard, and, in winter, there was school as well, I liked it-at first-at least until I met Howard. He kept hitting on me, trying to get me to have sex with him. Hell, I was only fifteen. All I’d ever done was beat off. I’d never had sex with anyone, either boys or girls. Other boys, at other schools had approached me, but none had been so persistent as was Howard. He wouldn’t leave me alone-and he was older-bigger than I was. He was seventeen. I might have let him suck my dick, just to get him to leave me alone, if that’s what it took, but he wanted me to suck his. There was no way I was going to suck anyone’s cock, especially not his.

I came to dread having to work alone-in one of the barns or sheds. He would usually seek me out, pestering me to have sex with him, once even busting my lip when I refused. Of course I couldn’t tell any of the bosses. That would have been snitching, and nothing was worse than being known as a snitch.

As you can imagine, I was relieved when I heard that he was going to be spending the summer at one of the line shacks with one of the bosses, a former program member-inmate-and one other boy tending a flock of sheep. Then I was told that I was to be that “other boy.” Howard had suggested to Rodney Jones-the boss-that I go along. Although I protested, pleading not to go, nothing I said did any good. I had to climb into the back seat of the crew cab pickup next to Howard. During the two hours it took us to get to the line camp he kept grinning at me and putting his hand on my leg. I kept my head turned away, looking out the window at the dry South Texas countryside, brushing his hand from my leg whenever he placed it there.

At the line camp, the cabin had only one room. Rodney had a single bed against one wall; Howard and I were to sleep in bunk beds against the opposite wall; the top bunk was to be mine as Howard informed me when we entered.

“I’ve got the bottom bunk. You get the top, and don’t keep me awake beating off.” He grinned-that God damned shit eating grin of his.

“At least,” I thought. “Rodney will be sleeping in the same room. Howard won’t be able to do anything with him here.”

Nothing happened the first night, although the bed shook while Howard beat off in the lower bunk. Still, it took me a long time to get to sleep. I kept expecting Howard to try something, even though Rodney was in the same room. I could hear Rodney snoring softly in his bed.

Because I had difficulty getting to sleep the night before, I overslept the next morning. I awoke to Howard shaking me. “Hey, get the fuck up. We’ve got work to do,” he said.

I sat up, my feet hanging over the edge of the bunk, my pillow on my lap to hide my morning erection until it subsided. I didn’t want to give Howard any ideas, not that he needed any enticement. Rodney was at the woodstove at one end of the cabin. From the smell coming from the pan he was stirring, I knew that he was fixing oatmeal for breakfast.

Slipping off the bunk onto the floor, I picked my jeans up off the back of the chair where I’d placed them the night before, and, with my back turned to Howard, pulled them on. Even though I no longer had a hard on, he’d been staring at my groin. His look had reminded me of a starving man looking at a juicy steak-and I was that piece of meat. He even licked his lips.

Rodney looked up, raising one eyebrow, when I slipped past Howard to walk over to stand by him at the stove. He only grunted when I said, “Good Morning,” I thought that he looked at me peculiarly, but dismissed the thought, supposing that I was paranoid because of Howard. Rodney, after all, was a boss. I had nothing to fear from him. He was, in fact, my protection from Howard. If necessary I intended to tell him about Howard’s pressuring me to have sex, even if it was snitching. I wasn’t big enough to physically resist Howard, and I certainly wasn’t going to spend the summer sucking his dick.

Breakfast, hot oatmeal, bread, and warm milk, was simple, but filling. After tasting the milk, however, wrinkling my nose, I said, “This milk tastes weird. Is it spoiled?”

“No, dummy,” answered Howard, even though Rodney had begun opening his mouth to reply, “it’s goat’s milk. We’ve got goats here that have to be milked everyday. Starting tomorrow morning that’ll be your job.”

“Yeah,” said Rodney. “I guess it tastes a little strange to begin with, but you’ll get used to it. Howard’ll show you how to milk them in the morning; then it’ll be your job after that.

After we finished eating, I found out that clearing the table and washing dishes was also my job. I had to take them outside and wash them in a pan filled with water from the spring that flowed from a little hill behind the cabin. For a toilet, we used an outhouse that was well away from the spring. After I had washed, dried, and put away the dishes, Rodney introduced me to Shep, an Australian sheep dog-one of our three sheep dogs.

“Take Shep and go to the upper pasture,” he said, pointing toward some nearby hills. “Round up any strays and bring them back. If they stay up there by themselves, the coyotes will get them. Howard and I have work to do around here.”

At least I wouldn’t have to worry about Howard hassling me today, I thought. I planned to take the whole day rounding up sheep. After fixing a couple of sandwiches to take with me, I called Shep and started toward the hills.

I didn’t have to do much. Shep did all the work. He was amazing, rounding up the sheep with little or no direction from me. Hell, I didn’t know what to do. It was a good thing that he knew his job so well. It was late in the afternoon when I returned to the cabin, tired but in good spirits, trailed by Shep and thirty sheep. I had scarcely thought about Howard throughout the day. But, there he stood beside the cabin door, watching me-that same stupid grin on his face.

“Hey, you’re late. You almost missed dinner.”

The way he was looking at me, I felt like I was one of the entrées. Any good feelings that my day with Shep had engendered, evaporated. Without answering him, I washed off at the spring then brushed past him, through the door into the cabin.

“Hi,” said Rodney. How many sheep did you find?”

“Thirty,” I answered.

“Hmm...not bad. You did O.K.”

“What’s for dinner?” I asked.

“Stew-mutton stew,” he answered, “with biscuits.”

“And-don’t tell me-goat’s milk to drink, right?” I said wrinkling my nose, remembering it’s taste from that morning.

“Yeah, goat’s milk, or, if you want, you can drink water from the spring.”

“I think I’ll have water.” I wasn’t quite ready to try goat’s milk again. About that time, Howard came in, shutting the door behind him. He sat down on the edge of his bed, but every time I glanced over at him he was staring at me-grinning-always grinning. Even though it was hot, the hair on the back of my neck stood up. He was planning something...I knew that he was. When I went to the outhouse before going to bed, I kept looking back over my shoulder, expecting him to follow me, to make another attempt to get me to blow him, but he didn’t.

He was sitting on the edge of his bunk when I climbed onto mine, not taking off my jeans until I was sitting on my bunk-this time folding my jeans and laying them at the foot of my bed. I didn’t want to provide him any more temptation than necessary. “At least,” I thought. “I’m safe now. Rodney is here.”

Lying on my back with my eyes closed with a sheet over me, although it was too hot for it, I felt the bed move as Howard stood. Opening my eyes slightly, gazing through my eyelashes, I expected to see him standing beside the bed staring at me-with the stupid grin on his face, but he wasn’t. Instead, I saw him walking over to Rodney’s bed. There were no lights in the cabin, but by the moonlight streaming through the window, I could see the bulge of Rodney’s erection beneath his white briefs. Howard sat on the bed, placing his hand on Rodney’s cock. Rodney moaned as he began caressing it; then Howard pulled down Rodney’s briefs. Rodney’s cock, pulled down with the briefs, sprung back when it slipped free of them, slapping Rodney’s stomach. After pulling the briefs free of Rodney’s feet, Howard, grasping Rodney’s cock in his hand, took it into his mouth. Shocked, unable to avert my eyes-Rodney was a boss-I watched Howard’s head bob above Rodney’s cock, until, with a groan, Rodney shot his wad into Howard’s mouth. Then they both looked up-at me.

“Come on over,” Howard said. “You’re going to suck both our cocks.”

“Like hell,” I said. “I’m not sucking anyone’s cock. I don’t care what you do.”

They came over to my bunk, dragged me from it and began punching me.

“You’re going to suck some cock, or we’ll beat the shit out of you.”

“Stick your cock in my mouth, motherfucker, and I’ll bite it off,” I threatened. They must have believed me, because, although they continued to pound me, no one stuck his cock in my mouth that night.

The next morning I hurt too much to get out of bed and they left me there, but watched me closely when I later struggled out to the outhouse. It was obvious that they weren’t going to let me out of their sight. They were afraid that I’d run away-which I planned to do at the first opportunity.

They didn’t bother me that night. They had beaten me severely the night before, but I watched as Howard gave Rodney another blow job. The next day, although still sore, I got out of bed and did some light work around the cabin, always within sight of either Howard or Rodney. That night Howard said, “You are going to suck some cock.”

“Stick your cock in my mouth, motherfucker and see what happens. I’ll be spitting it out onto the floor.”

You bite my cock, motherfucker and I’ll cut yours off,” Howard replied.

“I don’t care, you’ll lose yours first. Come on,” I said opening and pointing to my mouth, “stick it in.” He must have believed me, because he made no move toward me.

Then I heard Rodney speak. “Wait, he said, “I have an idea.” He walked over to a cabinet, opened it, and removed a tool and a box containing some small rings.

“What’s that,” asked Howard.

“It’s an elastrator,” answered Rodney. “We use it to castrate sheep. Grab him.”

Howard grabbed me, using one hand to twist my arm up behind my back and placing the other arm across my throat, pulling me down onto Rodney’s bed. Rodney, placing one of the rings on the tool, walked over to me, pulled down my shorts, operated the tool, spreading open the ring, pulled my scrotum through the ring, then released it, allowing it to close upon the base of my scrotum. I screamed as it tightened on the cords from which my balls hung. Then, as Howard held me, Rodney tied my hands behind my back.

“Do you know what that does, asshole? Rodney asked.

My only reply was: “Take it off. It hurts.”

“Well, I’ll tell you. That band cuts off all flow of blood to your balls. Even as we speak they’re beginning to die. If I don’t remove it, your balls will die, turn black, shrivel up, and drop off. If you give us both a blow job, I’ll remove it, but it stays on until you finish. If you bite either one of us-even a little, I’ll leave it on. We’ll make a steer out of you.”

“You won’t do that. If I go back without any balls, they’ll know what you did.”

“Who says you’ll go back. Shit, we’ll bury you up in the hills and say that you ran away. Better make up your mind. Your balls are turning blue.”

Although I’d sworn to myself that I would never give either one of them a blow job, I didn’t want to lose my balls, and I believed that, if I lost my balls, that I would lose my life as well. I believed that they would bury me somewhere up in the hills. “All right...O.K., I’ll do it.”

“And, you won’t bite-right, motherfucker?” asked Howard.

“No, I won’t bite. I promise. Come on, hurry.”

“Hey,” said, Rodney, “he wants it now.”

They laid me down on the bed-on my back-my hands still tied behind my back. Howard climbed onto the bed-on top of me, his feet toward my head, his cock poised above my mouth. A sticky drop of moisture was oozing from its head.

“You’d better not bite.” He was obviously still worried by my earlier threats.

“No, I won’t bite,” I replied.

With one hand on his cock, he thrust it into my open mouth. I gagged as he rammed it into my throat, but he paid me little attention as he continued to ram it down my throat. In self preservation, to be able to breathe, I rapidly learned to relax my throat muscles to allow his cock to slide down my throat without gagging. To my surprise, he took my limp cock into his mouth, licking it until it became hard, then took it into his throat as he continued to ram his into my mouth. As I felt-then tasted-his cum spurt into my throat, my own, with a mixture of pain and pleasure, erupted into his.

When Howard was through, Rodney had me sit up on side of the bed, He walked up to me, first slapping me beside my mouth with his cock, then thrusting it into my open mouth. It was easier this time. I only gagged once or twice. When, after he came, I started to spit out the cum, he said, “No way, motherfucker, swallow it.” I did. The ring was still around my balls and I was rapidly losing all feeling in them.

When he had finished, I said, “O.K., I did what you asked. Now, take it off-please.”

Both he and Howard laughed and Howard said, “Hey, you’re a real cocksucker, now. Not, bad. You did pretty good. You might even get to like it.”

There was no way that I was going to like it. I’d been raped. All I felt was disgust and anger, but, wanting the ring off my balls, I said nothing, except, “Take it off, please.”

Rodney, with a small pair of snips from the cabinet, cut through the ring. My balls, as the blood flowed back into them, began to hurt more than they had when he had placed the ring on them; then he cut the rope which tied my hands. They tingled, then hurt as the blood flowed back into them. Rodney looped a rope around my body under my arms, tying it, placing the knot at my left arm pit. “Get in bed,” he told me.

After I climbed onto my bunk, he looped the rest of the rope around the bed tying it underneath. Although my hands were free, I was securely tied to the bed. I certainly wouldn’t be able to free myself without waking Howard, who would be asleep in the lower bunk.

It was a long time before I fell asleep. My balls ached and I kept replaying the rape scene in my mind almost gagging when I recalled the taste of their cum-when I remembered how they had forced me to swallow it. I fell asleep, though, because I awoke the next morning to the sensation of something touching my balls. With a snap, Rodney slipped another band onto my scrotum. The pain in my balls drove all sleep from my brain. Instantly awake, I tried to sit up, but was restrained by the rope around my chest. “You don’t have to do that,” I screamed. I’ll suck your cock. I’ll do anything you want-just take it off.”

My balls were already sore. I didn’t know how much more of this they could take, but my rapists, standing beside my bed naked with throbbing erections, were obviously turned on by the idea of the band choking the life out of my balls. They didn’t take it off until I had given them both a blow job. Afterward, my scrotum was discolored and swollen; my balls were sore-tender to the touch.

They didn’t keep me tied up during the day, but had taken away my clothes. Without them, especially my boots, I could go nowhere. The bottoms of my feet would have been shredded by the rocks and thorns before I had gone a mile. They were sore from just walking around the camp as I did my chores: milking the goats; washing dishes; splitting wood. I didn’t know what I was going to do. I couldn’t run; yet, if I stayed, if Rodney kept putting the band on my balls, if my balls died as the result of being banded, they would have little choice but to kill me-to bury me up in the hills. As I figured it, my only chance would be on Sunday, when someone from headquarters brought supplies to the camp as they did every Sunday. Perhaps then I could tell that person what Rodney and Howard had done. He would have to believe me when I showed him my swollen scrotum. But, Sunday was three days away.

That night I anticipated Rodney, going to his bed before he thought to band me, sitting down beside him, reaching over, grasping his cock, pulling down his shorts, sucking his cock without being told. Howard watched, grinning, then said, “I told you he’d get to like it,” then asked, “Aren’t you going to band him?”

But, Rodney, sated, answered, “Nah...”

“Well, I want a blow job, too,” said Howard. So, I gave him one.

When I awoke the next morning, Rodney was already up and gone from the cabin. The elastrator was locked in the cabinet, so I didn’t get banded, but had to give Howard another blow job. At least the pain in my balls was beginning to ease; the swelling in my scrotum was going down. That night, again I went to Rodney’s bed-sucked his cock-didn’t get banded, but the next morning I awoke to having a band placed on my balls again. The boys had missed having their fun. At least it was Saturday. Tomorrow, someone from headquarters would come.

That night, Rodney didn’t want a blow job, so I didn’t get banded, but I had to give one to Howard. He was always horny. He made me beat off while he watched. My balls ached even more as they retracted when I ejaculated.

They didn’t band me Sunday morning-or even request a blow job. They, too, were thinking about the visit from headquarters. Rodney, after tossing me my clothes, said, “Get dressed. You’re going with Howard up to the upper pasture.” Then to Howard, he said, “Keep him up there until late in the afternoon. By that time, they will have dropped off the supplies and gone.”

My hopes dashed-my spirits fell-as if they could have been much lower. I didn’t know what I was going to do. I didn’t know whether keeping my balls-or my life- was worth having to keep sucking off Rodney and Howard. Maybe I’d be better off dead. They’d probably kill me before the summer was out, anyway, to keep me from telling anyone what they’d done, and, since I had run away from so many other places, no one would have thought it strange that I had run away from this one. They could bury me somewhere I’d never be found-and no one would ever know what had really happened to me.

Howard didn’t tie my hands, but, with a rope, tied one end around my neck and the other end to his belt to prevent me from running. They had to give me my boots since I was going to have to walk to the upper pasture. Taking a couple of the dogs, we left for the upper pasture.

When we got there, we actually did some work-or, at least the dogs did. Rodney and Howard had been so preoccupied with subjugating me that they had neglected the everyday chores. During the morning, however, Howard never let me off my leash; even when I had to take a crap, I was tied to him, and just as a turd was about to fall, he sadistically jerked on his end causing me to fall smearing shit on my pants. He laughed and wouldn’t allow me to wash off at the stream.

By lunch time, I had formulated a plan. “If you let me wash off,” I said, “I’ll give you a blow job.

“You’ll give me a blow job whether I let you wash off or not,” he replied, but I guess that he preferred to get his cock sucked by someone who wasn’t covered in shit, so he led me to the stream.

We both took off our clothes and entered the stream. The day was hot-the water cool. It felt refreshing. As I washed myself, I examined the creek bank for just the right spot. After I had cleaned myself, I let him to the spot I had chosen, His cock was already hard. Mine was becoming hard, too, not as he thought, when he said, “Hey, you’re getting to like it, aren’t you?” from desire for him, or from wanting to suck his cock, but in anticipation for what I planned to do. I was excited, nervous, and frightened, but I calculated that I had nothing to lose. My erection was only a symptom of those feelings.

I had him sit on a low stone beside the creek and began sucking his cock. Before long he began moaning, and just as I felt the first spurt of cum hit the back of my throat, clenched tight both his eyes and teeth. Before, when I had sucked his cock, I had noticed that he always did that when he came.

I reached down, picked up the rock that I had selected while washing, one that fit nicely into my hand, and slammed it into the side of his head. He never knew what hit him, or enjoyed the rest of his climax. He was unconscious while the last of his cum spurted out onto his belly.

I took off the rope which was my leash and hogtied him, his hands behind his back with his feet pulled up and tied to them. When he awoke, he wouldn’t be able to move. There weren’t any trees, so I had to leave him in the sun, but I did drape his shirt over him to keep him from getting too badly sunburned; then I dressed, after washing off my jeans and underwear, and headed back for the cabin, hoping to get there before the guy from headquarters left.

When I crested the hill above the cabin, I saw the headquarters’ pickup pull away. I started to yell, but he wouldn’t have heard me-and Rodney would have, so, instead, I ducked behind a boulder until Rodney reentered the cabin, then crept down, keeping out of sight of the window, until I reached the back of the cabin.

I went to the woodpile and selected a piece of wood that hadn’t yet been cut to fit the stove. It was about three and one-half feet long and three inches in diameter. I swung it a couple of time to get a feel for it, then went to the front of the cabin, crawling under the window to reach the front door, where, after positioning myself beside the door, I waited.

I had been there about fifteen minutes when I heard the door open-and, as I saw Rodney start through the door, I swung my club, striking him on the bridge of his nose across the eyes. He disappeared into the cabin. I peeked around the corner, half expecting to see Rodney standing there waiting for me, but he was flat on his back on the floor of the cabin. Blood was streaming from his nose and the swelling had already begun around his eyes. If I hadn’t killed him, his black eyes were going to be dandies.

I could have left then, but these guys, Rodney and Howard, owed me, and it was a debt which I intended to collect. It wasn’t just about revenge, however. If they got away with what they had done to me, there was nothing to keep them from doing it to someone else-or, at least, that was my rationalization. In any case, I’d already decided on my course of action.

I tied up Rodney, although it didn’t look like he would be moving for a while; then, taking the keys from his pocket, went to the pickup and drove as close as I could to where I’d left Howard. He was conscious when I got to him.

“You son of a bitch,” he said. “You’re going to pay for this. Wait until Rodney gets hold of you.”

I didn’t tell him what I’d done to Rodney, but untied his feet, and threatening him with the same rock with which I’d brained him, forced him to walk to the pickup. He staggered some, still a little unsteady from the blow to his head, but made it there, where, after making him to climb in the back, I retied his feet, then drove to the cabin.

Rodney was still unconscious, breathing through his mouth, making gurgling sounds. His nose was smashed. He wouldn’t be breathing through it for a while. I went back to the pickup where I’d left Howard, stopping at the door of the cabin to pick up my club-the one I’d used on Rodney. I untied his feet and then, poking him in the back with the club, urged him to walk to the cabin. When he saw Rodney lying, tied up on the floor, his face covered in blood, his knees became so wobbly that he almost collapsed to the floor.

“Fuck,” he said, “did you kill him.”

“No,” I replied, “he’s still breathing.”

“Wha-What are you going to do to us?”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” I said.

“You won’t get away with it. They’ll catch you.”

I didn’t reply, but made him lie down on Rodney’s bed. He was still naked; then, after tying his feet to the bed, I ran another rope around his chest, strapping him to the bed. I reached into my pocket for Rodney’s keys, walked over to the cabinet, unlocked it, and took the elastrator and box of bands from it.

Howard, his eyes wide open, stared at the tool in my hand. “What’re you going to do with that?” he asked.

“Hell, you and Rodney had so much fun with this thing, I thought I’d try it out.” I put a band onto the tool. After a couple of tries, I managed to spread one. I had learned much about the operation of the device from watching Rodney. My eyes, just as Howard’s were now, had been riveted to it, before he placed the band on my nuts.

Howard screamed when I pulled his scrotum through the ring-a scream which intensified when I released the band allowing it to clamp down around the base of his sack.

“Ow-it hurts take it off, please. What do you want me to do, give you a blow job? I’ll do it. Anything you want. Just take it off.” He started bawling. At least, I hadn’t, throughout the beatings, the bandings, or the rapes.

He pleaded with me throughout the next hour to take it off, but I busied myself around the cabin collecting the things that I would need, ignoring him the best I could. Rodney was still unconscious, but stirring some. I hadn’t banded him, but had removed his pants. I wanted him to be awake when I slipped the band around his nuts. Finally he awoke, but was so groggy that I decided to wait for morning. When Howard wouldn’t shut up, I gagged him so that I could get some sleep.

When I awoke the next morning, Howard was awake, craning his neck to look at his balls, which were already turning black. Rodney was asleep, but awoke when I dashed some water in his face. He was more coherent, recognizing me-aware of his predicament: lying tied up on the floor with his pants off. When he glanced over at Howard-saw the band around his blackening balls, what little color he had, drained from his face.

“Hey, man, don’t do it,” he cried.

I hadn’t done anything yet. I didn’t even have the elastrator in my hand.

“Come on. We were just kidding around with you. We always took the band off. We wouldn’t have really left it on.”

He continued to plead with me, but, saying nothing, I just smiled, then walked over and took the elastrator and some bands from the cabinet. This time I spread the first one I tried and walked back to where Rodney lay. Like a snake he wiggled, trying to scoot away from me, but I sat down across his legs, effectively pinning him to the floor. Then reaching over, grasping his scrotum with one hand, I pulled it through the band. As had Howard, he screamed when I released the band and it clamped down around the top of his balls. They bulged out, filling the sack when the band tightened.

“Take it off, please. It hurts. What do you want. I’ll do anything.”

“Will you give me a blow job?” I didn’t want one from him, but Rodney had never sucked anyone’s cock, neither mine nor Howard’s. I wanted to see what he’d say.

He hesitated for a moment, but then after glancing again at Howard’s black balls, said, “Yes, I’ll suck your cock, anything. Just take it off.”

“Well, I don’t want my cock sucked by either of you, but I think Howard would.”

I walked over to the bed, rolled Howard off onto the floor, then, after positioning Rodney’s face next to his cock, said, “O.K., Rodney, start sucking.”

“If I do, will you take off the band?”

“If you don’t, I surely won’t.”

After hesitating a moment longer he put his lips around the head of Howard’s cock, which was flaccid. “You’re going to have to do more than that, Rod, if you want the band off. If Howard doesn’t get off, your band stays on.”

He started more actively mouthing and licking Howard’s cock until it became hard, then bobbing his head, took it farther into his mouth, until I saw Howard’s pelvis begin to thrust as he climaxed, ejaculating his cum. Rodney gagged, started to withdraw his mouth, but I said, “Uh-uh, Rodney, swallow it.” He did.

“How did it taste, Rodney? I don’t imagine that there was any sperm in it. I wonder if that makes it taste different, but, that was probably the first load you ever swallowed, so I guess you wouldn’t know-and I’m not going to check to find out myself. I guess that’s just one of the mysteries of life-one that I’ll always have to wonder about.”

“O.K., I did it,” he said, “Now, take the band off.”

“But, Rodney, I never said that I would take the band off. I just said that I surely wouldn’t if you didn’t blow Howard. Sorry, it stays on.”

“You son of a bitch. Take it off or I’ll kill you.”

“Hard to see how you’re going to do that-considering.” With an obvious motion of my head, I ran my eyes over him where he lay trussed up on the floor.

I ministered to my two patients. Both had already pissed where they lay, Howard on the bed and Rodney on the floor, but, when they needed to shit, I took them to the outhouse. I wasn’t ready to leave the cabin yet and didn’t want to have to smell it. Whenever I untied their feet, I always kept my club close. I washed the blood, the best I could, from Rodney’s face. His face was bruised, black around his eyes; one eye was swollen shut, and the white of the other eye was blood red. Since Rodney was hurt worse, I put him on the bed, leaving Howard on the floor.

After three days, Howard’s scrotum was black, shriveled, and cracked. Puss was oozing from it. There was no doubt that his balls were dead. I was sure that Rodney’s were, too. His scrotum had also turned black. I decided that it was time for me to leave. In another three days, there would be another visit from headquarters. Neither of the two appeared to be in any danger of dying, not that I cared, except that, if they died, then the police would never stop looking for me. Because of that, I wanted them to live.

With a piece of tarpaulin I rigged a shelter by the spring, then had each of them, one at a time, walk out to it, where I retied their feet. Here they would have access to water and could pee onto the ground, not making as much of a mess as they would in the cabin. I started to put some food out there as well, but figured that either the dogs would get it, or that it might attract other animals. Rodney and Howard wouldn’t starve in three days, anyway.

Once more I searched the cabin, scouring it for anything that I might need. For food, I had prepared some sandwiches and had over a pound of jerky. It wasn’t much, but it should last until I got to a town. I broke open Howard’s footlocker where I found a little over $5. I found another $38 in Rodney’s wallet. I also took a hunting knife and a .22 rifle that I found in the cabinet. I packed my clothes and everything I could into a backpack that I also found in the cabinet.

I walked out to the spring, where the boys were, one last time. They both glared at me when I walked over to them. “Well, boys, guess it’s adios. I’m leaving. How’s the balls?”

“You mother fucker,” said Rodney, “I’ll get you for this.”

“Come-come, boys, can’t we part as friends?” Then, looking at their faces, smiled and said, “Nope, guess not-well, so long.” When I walked away they were both cursing me.

After leaving a note on the door of the cabin telling what Rodney and Howard had done to me in an attempt to explain why I had left them as I had, I threw the backpack onto the front seat of the pickup, hung the rifle on the rack which hung over the back window, and climbed in behind the wheel, not intending to drive it very far. I didn’t want to stay on the roads where I might meet someone else from the ranch. Never having seen a map of the ranch, I didn’t know exactly where I was, but only knew the direction that I wanted to go-south, and, for now, the road headed it that direction.

After I had driven for about twenty minutes, the road turned, heading away from the direction I wanted to go, so I headed across country, but had only gone a few miles before getting the pickup stuck. It didn’t have four wheel drive. I abandoned it, striking out cross country, keeping the morning sun to my left.

As the morning wore on, it became hot. I had three canteens, but, not knowing when I would next find water, drank sparingly from them. Late in the afternoon I came to a river. The was only one in the area, so I knew where I was. It was the Rio Grande, although the name appeared to be a misnomer. It looked shallow enough to wade across.

One of my canteens was empty, so I filled it, noting which one it was. I didn’t trust the Rio Grande water. I didn’t know how many sewers emptied into it further upstream; then, I started across-to Mexico. Half-way across I slipped into a hole, going in over my head, but, luckily, my pack was buoyant and didn’t pull me under. When I reached the other side, a thought struck me; I smiled. The Texans had a derogatory name for the Mexicans who crossed over illegally into the United States: wetbacks, implying that they got their backs wet crossing the Rio Grande. Well, I was now a wetback-but a reverse wetback. I’d gotten my back wet, illegally crossing into Mexico.

I spread out the contents of my pack to dry them out and discovered that most of my food was ruined. The sandwiches were soaked-inedible, so I threw them away, but I placed the jerky in the sun to allow it to dry. Although, as I had said, I didn’t trust the Rio Grande water, I decided to take a chance on it. “Anyway,” I thought. “I’ve got it made. I’m out of Texas-in Mexico. They won’t catch me now.” I headed south-ever south, not realizing that, in the direction I was headed, there wasn’t a town for over fifty miles-and very little water.

I didn’t eat anything that night or the next morning, but by noon I was becoming weak from hunger, so I ate some of the jerky. It was a mistake. Within hours I was violently ill, spewing from both ends. As I had feared the Rio Grande water was contaminated, and having soaked the jerky, had contaminated it. I was also down to my last half canteen of water, except for the one filled with Rio Grande water, and I didn’t dare drink that. I threw it away, canteen and all.

Weak, my lips cracked from dehydration, I struggled on until nightfall, abandoning my pack along the way. My stomach and gut cramped, but nothing was left either in my stomach or in my bowels. I finally fell asleep, not knowing-and almost not caring-if I would awake the next morning. The only thing that had kept me going-the same thing that had so often motivated me during the last five years-was the image I kept in my mind of my mother’s face. Somewhere-somewhere to the south of where I was-she was. I awoke to my mother kissing my face-or at least in my dream, that’s what was happening, but when I opened my eyes, it was a dog that was licking my face-ironically a sheep dog. When I looked around, I found that I was surrounded by a flock of sheep. Alerted by the dog’s barking the sheepherder found me and took me to his camp beside a waterhole, one that I had passed within a couple of miles of the previous day, not knowing that it was nearby.

With plenty of water and the sheepherder’s simple food, I soon recovered, but had to spend a week with him before someone came out to the camp with supplies. That person, after I convinced him that I wasn’t the gringo he thought me to be, took me with him to town, a little village called Las Minas. I offered him a few dollars for his trouble, but he declined to take it.

I spent the next several days hitch hiking through the state of Chihuahua going ever southward, making slow progress because I avoided the main roads and often rode on horse driven carts, eventually making my way to Monterrey, where, using the last of my money, I bought a bus ticket to Mexico City. At last, I was really on my way home-to my mother.

I was excited when the bus arrived there. I couldn’t stop looking out the window at the buildings, hoping to see something that I recognized, because I had realized during the ride that I had no idea how to find my mother in Mexico City. My memories of my life there-those of a ten year-old- jumbled by the trauma of the last five years, were a montage-a poster board on which were plastered my hopes and my fears, my dreams and my nightmares, as well as my actual memories. I could no longer discern which was which. I didn’t even remember my grandfather’s last name, or where he lived. I vaguely remembered his house, but not where it was. I’m not even sure I would have recognized him if I saw him on the street. My only clear memory was that of my mother’s face.

When I got off the bus, I checked my pockets. I had only a handful of pesos, worth less than a dollar in American money. I spent that riding around town on city busses hoping to see something that was familiar-to no avail. Some of the monuments and the main streets seemed familiar, but it didn’t help me find what I wanted-my mother.

I thought about going to the police to solicit their aid, but was afraid that there might be a warrant out on me from Texas with my description. I couldn’t take the chance, especially not since I was this close to my goal-to finding my mother, but, although I was close to her geographically, millions of people lived in Mexico City. I didn’t know how I could find her among all of them-and I was out of money.

Out of desperation, I decided to panhandle, something that I had practiced during other times that I had run away. I had competition. Many other kids were on the streets doing it, but I had an advantage-I looked like an American. I went up to an American couple and said with tears welling in my eyes-partly a practiced art, and partly real from my frustration of being so close to my goal-yet so far away, “Could you help me? Some kids stole all my money. I need some so I can get a taxi back to my hotel where my parents are.” They looked suspiciously at my ragged and filthy clothes, but were convinced by my English. During the last five years, I had even acquired a Texas accent.

The man initially gave me $5, but his wife admonished him saying, “Give him some more, Henry. That’s not enough.” He gave me another $5.

I worked the scam throughout the day, always picking older couples. By the end of the day I had over $100, which I used for a meal, some new clothes, and a cheap hotel.

During the next three months I continued to travel around Mexico City always looking for something familiar, a house or a face that would trigger a memory. I ran up to every blonde woman that I saw on the street to see if she were my mother, but I was no closer to finding her than I had been when I first arrived in Mexico City. I celebrated my sixteenth birthday-alone.

I had bought myself a bicycle, which I rode through the streets of the City always looking. One day I passed a house that looked familiar. I stopped, went around to the back of the house and looked over the fence. There was the tree I used to climb. It was my house. I went to the front door, rang the bell, then rang it again when it wasn’t immediately answered. After what seemed to be an interminable time, I heard footsteps crossing the tile entryway.

It wasn’t my mother who answered the door, but a black haired, dark skinned woman dressed in a maid’s uniform. She was no one that I recognized.

In Spanish I asked, “Does Señora Harris live here?”

“No,” she answered, “this is the home of Señor and Señora Garcia.

My hopes, which had been so lofty, plummeted. “Do you know how long they’ve lived here? You see, I used to live here, and I’m desperately looking for Señora Harris. She’s my mother.”

“I don’t know, Señor, she said. “I’ve only worked for them for a year. They already lived here when I came to work for them.”

“Could I speak to Señor or Señora Garcia?”

I waited in the entryway while she went to get Señora Garcia, then explained again that I was looked for the former occupants of the house. Señora Garcia didn’t know my mother, but they had purchased the house five years ago through a real estate broker. She gave me the name of the broker.

I rode my bicycle to their office. None of the agents remembered the sale and seemed too busy to talk to a kid, but for recompense I enticed one of the file clerks to look up the record of the sale for me. She provided me with the address of the seller. I took a taxi there.

The house, behind a high adobe wall, was hidden from the street. All I could see were two entrances, one for people and another for vehicles. From the street, it looked like any other house in the area. It brought back memories of my grandfather living in such a house, and raised my hopes some, but I couldn’t be sure. I paid for the taxi and rang the bell at the small entrance.

I knew the person who answered the bell. It was Jose, my grandfather’s gardener. I used to help him around the yard. “Jose, don’t you know me? It’s Sean.”

“Sean,” he said, “Come in-come in.” then he ran for the house yelling, “Señora, Señora, come quickly.”

I was standing at the doorway when I heard the click of a woman’s high heels on the tile floor, then I heard her say, “What is it, Jose?” Then I saw her. There might have been more lines around the eyes, but it was the same image that had kept me going through all that I’d endured during the past five years. It was my mother. She looked at me. Her hand went to her mouth. “Sean,” she said. We rushed into each other arms, both crying.

I went to school, to college, and then to work for my grandfather’s company. I’ve worked my way up to being one of the vice presidents. I hope through merit, rather than because I’m the president’s grandson. For years I was worried that my testicles might not function, having been subjected to so much torture, but I’m married with two sons and a daughter.

I’ve been back to the United States, but only on business, and never to Texas. I had someone do some discreet checking. He could find no record of an extant warrant for Sean Harris, but it doesn’t really matter. Sean Harris no longer exists. I took my grandfather’s last name, discarding my father’s. I’m now Sean Gendt, Mexican citizen. When I go to the United States, I go using a Mexican passport.

I often think about Rodney and Howard, wondering how life without balls has been for them.