***
Clive Cleburne was proud of his latest excursion and excited about the prospect of being rewarded. At fifteen years old, he was very eager to lose his virginity and his father had made him hopeful, hinting at candy as the reward. Clive had lost most of his interest in the actual candy treats at age twelve. Girls were what interested him now and his father knew it. He could tell from the tone of his father's voice that he had been referring to something far sweeter than candy.
Clive could have done worse to that puny inbred if he wanted to, but obeying orders was what mattered and the orders were to put the fear of God into that whelp. That's exactly what he'd done. The grabbing of that inbred's shoulder at the end was a special touch. He had loosened his grip after the second punch, so the wimp could escape. It was a job well done and Clive expected something much better than candy.
His father was sitting in the living room, cleaning a rifle. The middle aged red neck was fat with brown hair and a beard and he was wearing overalls and a red baseball cap. His bare feet touched the ground in front of the rocking chair, which he sat in. Above the fireplace to his right hung a confederate flag and along the mantle were pictures of family members proudly displayed in Sunday dress clothes, all of them Caucasian.
Clive said, “I did as you told me, pa.”
“I heard you did well. I'll give you your reward tomorrow after school. Keep your evening free of plans and you'll be damn glad you did.” His father shot a boorish grin at Clive.
Clive knew better than to seek immediate satisfaction for his curiosity. His father had often told him that good things come to those who wait and Clive had no intention of being told that again. Instead, his lips curled into a slight grin in anticipation of what was probably going to be the best night of his life. Then he went to the kitchen, where he opened a cupboard and took out a pill bottle with a label saying Doloft and no prescription information. The last two pills slid into his hand and Clive put the empty pill bottle on the counter. He washed the two pills down with a glass of water and walked back into the living room.
“We've run out of the Doloft,” reported Clive.
“You did good with that too, Clive. You don't need no more Doloft.”
This further enhanced Clive's good mood and he returned to the kitchen to eat dinner. He had been taking Doloft without a prescription for many months on orders from his father. He'd never liked doing it, but orders were orders. Besides, it didn't seem to do much of anything. Depression wasn't a problem he'd ever had to deal with and he couldn't fathom why his father had ordered him to take the anti-depressant.
Clive put a frozen burrito in the microwave and cracked open a soda. It felt so good to be alive. He'd been freed from another responsibility and tomorrow he would probably lose his virginity. His curiosity revolved around what the girl might look like. He hoped she was a young blond girl with thin hips.
In his room, just before getting ready for bed, Clive took out the small rubber tube and the pincers, which his father had given him. According to his father, the nightly practice sessions were preparing him for an occult activity, which he would learn about at the appropriate time. With the pincers he expanded the tightly compacted tube and then he stuck a small piece of lead within the tube. Once the piece of lead was fully inserted, he removed the pincers and the tube hugged the piece of lead. Each night, for several months now, he'd left the lead in the tube overnight and had removed it in the morning.
The next day after school, Clive's father drove him to the local Ku Klux Klan compound. At first glance it didn't look like much of a structure. It was smaller than most of the churches in the more populated areas. The inside was every bit as unimpressive. Klansmen would meet there before the rallies and sometimes a senior member would give a speech in the small auditorium.
Today, Clive got his first glimpse of the building's basement. There was a small library with book shelves along the walls and a couple tables in the middle of the room. Clive didn't like the look of it. He scanned the basement and saw a door nearby, but his father was walking away from it. Clive hated thinking his reward would be another book to read. It was disconcerting to have his hopes lifted so high, only to watch his father approaching that book case full of white supremacist literature. Clive couldn't care less about reading any of those books and he hated the idea of being ordered to read one of them as his reward.
Instead his father reached into the back of one of the bookshelves, propped against the wall, and he turned something. There was a click.
Clive's father easily swung the bookshelf to the side, revealing a secret door operating on hidden hinges, built into the wall. He looked back at Clive with a boorish grin and said, “Bet you thought I was gonna give you a book to read. That's part of the fun.”
Behind the secret door was a staircase leading downward. Basking in the joy of this surprise, Clive followed his father down the stairs into a subterranean antechamber with lights built into the ceiling above.
On the wall before him was a painting of General Robert E. Lee with a wooden desk beneath it. To either side were closed doors. The room was similar to the rooms in the compound above it, with a clean and tidy church like feeling to it.
Clive's father reached into a drawer of the desk. He pulled out a pair of pincers and a pack of the same type of lead, which Clive had been practicing with. “You're going to need these for your rite of passage.” He handed the pincers and the lead to Clive. Then he turned to the door on the right. “Follow me.”
Clive followed his father into a long hall full of doors, containing peephole covers with small handles, below black numbers. The numbers progressed from one hundred one upward, with an odd number to the right and an even number to the left. His father stopped at one of the doors and opened the peephole. He looked through the peephole for a moment. Then he backed away and motioned for Clive. “Take a look.”
With his blood stream rushing, Clive opened the peephole and looked inside. A predatory impulse filled him as he glimpsed the naked Asian male, sitting in a chair, with his arms chained down to the arm rests. He hated the teenage male's nakedness. It was disgusting. Now he knew why his father had ordered him to engage in the nightly practice sessions with the rubber tube and the pincers.
“That's your whipping boy and you're going to give him a fistula.”
So that's what it was called. A grin spread across Clive's lips with the idea of being let in on this form of torture. The Asian in that cell already disgusted him. It would be a pleasure to torture that chink's penis.
Clive's father slid a bolt and opened the door. The room reeked of foul sweat, which increased Clive's disgust and disdain for the Asian male, who stared at him with a distant and stupid look to his face. The cell was bare and primitive looking with a mattress on the floor and no sink or bathroom visible. Just that chair, the mattress, and a grimy blanket.
“He's losing his cherry today too,” quipped Clive's father.
Clive sneered and approached his helpless victim. Was this chink deaf and dumb? Didn't he know what was about to happen to him?
“He knows better than to speak out. It's very simple. Just insert the lead like you've been taught. Make me proud and you'll be getting some candy soon.”
Clive's sneer curved upward into a monstrous grin. He'd never loved his father more than at this moment. “Is it all right if I talk to this chink?”
“Sure. Whatever you feel like saying.”
He loved his father for spoiling him like this. “You ain't never gonna get a girl you filthy chink.” Clive took a piece of lead out of the package and stored the package away in his pants. The tears beginning to form in the eyes of his victim caused Clive to feel drunk with power. So this retard wasn't made of stone after all. Clive reached down and grabbed the Asian male's penis with his left hand, causing his victim to flinch slightly in anticipation. Then, deftly, with the pincers in his right hand, Clive pried open the boy's urethra and held it in place, removing his left hand, whic
h contained the small piece of lead. With the expansion of the urethra, the victim's body jolted, causing his head to spasm back against the chair. Clive grinned in fascination at the reaction. “You're a girl and this is your boyfriend,” said Clive as he inserted the lead into his victim's urethra, every bit as adroitly as he had with the rubber tube at home. His victim began shivering with the insertion of the lead and Clive said “Try not to get too excited with it.” Then he removed the pincers, allowing his victim's urethra to tighten around the lead. Rising to a standing position, he looked into his victim's face and saw oblivion in his eyes. The look on that chink's face was almost surreal.
His father chuckled and patted him on the back. “You've got quite a sense of humor, son. Soon it will be time for candy.”
In a state of godlike elation, Clive followed his father out of the cell. He'd never felt so high in all his life. Torturing was a drug. He remembered Timothy running away and he thought about how much better that inbred would be, sitting in a chair like that.
Clive followed his father back to the antechamber, where they stopped in front of the painting of Robert E. Lee. “Now it's time for your second rite of passage. But I need to explain something about our order before you're given your second rite of passage.”
“What is it pa?”
“We serve the police officer's union and we obey orders from them before all others.”
“But I thought the police arrested klansmen.”
“If the police order you to do time, you do the time without question. It'll be easier on you that way.”
This was the first time his father had ever disturbed him. Clive didn't like the idea of obeying orders from the police. How could he ever trust the police, when they were perfectly willing to arrest members of the Ku Klux Klan, whenever it was deemed convenient for the state? However, Clive knew that his father was being serious. He knew this would be expected from him as a klansman of the inner order.
“Are willing you to be a servant of the police?”
Clive nodded and said, “Whatever it takes to be a klansman like you, pa.” Some of Clive's initial exhilaration was already leaving.
“Then it's time for the unspoken part of the oath. Hold your hands together in prayer and look at the general.”
Clive did as he was told and, as he stared at General Lee, looking so majestic and proud in that painting, a door in his perception slid open. “This is the police officer's union,” asserted a voice from within Clive's head. The baritone voice sounded every bit as boorish as it did authoritative. The moment he heard it, an entirely new perception of the world was laid bare and Clive felt emptiness consuming him. “You're gonna get pussy for obeying our orders. If you obey them well enough we'll let you play the Iron Butterfly Theme Song with the chink in that cell.” Clive smiled at the thought of getting a girl and wondered what the voice meant by playing the Iron Butterfly Theme Song. “Open that door to your left and go down the hall until you find cell one forty two.”
Clive opened the door to his left and his father followed him in silence. Before Clive stretched another long hall, lined with cell doors. When Clive reached cell one forty two, he stopped as his father continued walking further down the hall. “Open the peephole and look at your candy,” said Clive's astral commander. With this command, the excitement flooded back into Clive, finally able to satisfy his curiosity. The look through the peephole revealed a slender and attractive Asian girl, sitting on a bed, dressed in shorts and a t-shirt. The sight of her sent an exhilarating rush of desire through Clive's entire body. She was so exotic and beautiful with long silky black hair, worn loose and long slender legs. “Now open the door and introduce yourself. Mind your manners.”
The girl looked up at Clive with expectancy as he entered. “Hello,” she said, rising from the fully framed bed to greet him. The room was a stark contrast to the cell Clive had just been in. The bed had sheets and a nicely kept down comforter. Next to it was an oak night stand with a lamp. Along one of the walls was an entertainment center, with a television and a stereo system.
“Hello. I'm Clive.”
“I know. I'm Carol.”
Clive approached her and said, “That's a beautiful name.”
“Thanks.” She smiled seductively and shrugged. “Do you want to touch me?”
Clive loved her asking a question like that. His entire body was coursing with the desire to touch her. “Yeah,” he said. He licked his lips and ran his hands along her slight hips. A moment later they were locked together in a kiss. His hands went up from her hips to her breasts and he began fondling them. The pleasure of the embrace overwhelmed his mind. After about five minutes, which seemed more like thirty seconds, the two parted.
“Do you want to play some music?” asked Carol, in a playful tone of voice.
“Sure. What do you have?”
“You can take a look in the entertainment center. The CDs are under the stereo system.”
Clive turned toward the entertainment center, eager to get the music playing before he took her.
“I like listening to music,” said Carol.
“I bet you do,” remarked Clive as he opened the drawer beneath the stereo system, revealing a collection of different genres. Among the heavy metal section was the Virtual Xi album by Iron Maiden. It was one of his favorites. He noticed that Carol was already getting undressed as he put the album in the stereo and pressed play.
The song, Futureal, hit him with a surge of adrenaline, driving him forward in his lustful passion toward Carol. The two locked together again and he laid her out on the bed and began giving her finger sex. By the time The Clansman began playing, she had been ready for an entire song, but he had waited. It was special to take her during the Clansman. He began slow and steady with the brilliant southern acoustic guitar at the beginning, followed by the melodic electric guitar riffs and the singer's vacant personification of feeling as he sang about longing for some warped sense of freedom. Just as the singer professed himself to be a clansman, Carol's erotic moaning burst into massive orgasms as Clive began pounding her to the rush of the heavy metal music. That rubber tube wasn't the only thing he'd been practicing with and he was glad he had been practicing. He'd never felt so alive in all his life as he did hearing her burst into massive orgasms. Unlike that chink suffering back in that squalid cell, Clive was a nobleman. He would always be a member of the Southern Confederate nobility and, unlike that Iron Maiden singer, Clive really was a klansman.