W-09

What he goes through

The woodshed number at the Ranch Belt. When the Boss puts out a sentence, W-09 steps up and takes it for the man who earned it—three days served for every one due. Under sentence the days pile on: water tower with a full bucket and a dumbbell riding the load, the ball mill harnessed to the stone, milk-rack quotas past what his own body should clear, and the shock ring that reads an erection as loafing. He does not complain, does not make anyone pay it back, and never begs a blanket in the ice house.

In his words

“I am the number who steps up when a sentence needs serving. They do not call my name. They just look, and I walk over. Three days for every one of his, and I hold them all. I never complain about what is done to me under a sentence, and I never make anyone pay it back—I am there to be used, and they use me well. That is what a sentence is for. Harlan casts it. I allow it. And if I am honest, I think of him as a coach: he finds where my limit is, then makes me go a little past it. The pain is his method. The result is mine. Some men would call that being broken. I call it being trained.”

News

Night class runs first, then the tavern queue past the porch light. If my cock is already hard, or your foot still itches for kicking, you do not have to wait—money on the counter buys the next kick. The next fuck costs more.