Article 116292 of alt.sex.stories:
From: an179397@anon.penet.fi (Stroker Al)
Date: Sat, 23 Dec 1995 22:53:16 UTC
Subject: The Executionee's Schlong 1/4 (M/M)

		      The Executionee's Schlong
				  by
			      Stroker Al
			      Part One

	The buzz around courtroom F in the Jackson County courthouse
that morning was unusually lively. Obviously somebody BIG was going to
be attending court, the clerks and secretaries whispered to each other
as they peered out the windows and watched the unknown VIP's
plainclothes security staff scrambling around the grounds, equipped
with radiophones and reflector sunspecs. But which person of
importance, the courthouse regulars wondered out loud, would be
interested in this particular trial? And why?

	Few of them recognized the name of the defendant, Reggie
Jefferson, though most knew he was on trial for murder. Some also knew
that the trial had been moved to Jackson County from somewhere else
for a change of venue. But the only two people present who seemed to
have an inkling of what might really be going on, court clerks Robert
Lincoln and Gloria Carter, were staying nervously mum.

	Indeed, Gloria and Robert were in some position to know, since
they had both worked on the court documents for the case the previous
week, drawing together and relabeling the stacks of files and
transcripts that had been sent from the Los Angeles County Courthouse.
Still, the pair's slightly greater familiarity with the case didn't
much narrow down the list of big wigs who might possibly come bursting
with his or her entourage through the ornate bronze and glass
courthouse doors any minute now.

	What Gloria and Robert DID know, however, was the identity of
the defendant, who despite the unfamiliar name on the docket, had been
a center of focus for the media worldwide and a cause celebre of
critics of the justice system for the past two years. Yes, the man on
trial today, or more accurately, on retrial, was Sabo Mabaku-Jabeer,
the ex-Black Panther, journalist and author, whose conviction by an
all-white jury for the murder of a white policeman during the 1992
Rodney King verdict riots had recently been overturned. If Sabo's name
hadn't already been burned into Gloria and Robert's brains by two
years of non-stop political commentary by opponents of the death
penalty and corruption and racism in the justice system, then the week
the clerks had just spent pasting over it's every appearance on the
files with labels marked 'JEFFERSON, REGGIE' (in accordance with a
bizarre new state law) would have done the trick.

	Certainly the word about this important retrial would get out
through the Press or TV before the day was over, but it seemed funny
to the two coworkers how it was already the first day of court and no
one seemed to aware of it. But then again, it was understandable that
few people in the State of Idohiowa knew yet or cared about the
effects of the sweeping crime and court reform bills that their
elected representatives had pushed through in the wake of the 1996
Republican presidential victory.

	It was this legislation, after all, that contained the vastly
overlooked clause that dictated that in all legal proceedings criminal
defendants had to be identified strictly by the name listed on their
birth certificates, regardless of the legality of any subsequent name
changes.

	"Enough of this multicultural mumbo jumbo goobledygook!" the
legislature had seemed to be saying by including this clause, though
its articulation had perhaps gotten drowned out in the cacophony of
`mandates' that had been so loudly trumpeted immediately following
Bill Clinton's final defeat that November.

	"I know we're legally required to do this now, but doesn't it
seem a little... sneaky to you?" Gloria had asked Robert one afternoon
the previous week as she picked at the blister forming on the side of
her thumb from peeling labels.

	"In theory, no," Robert muttered. "In practice, perhaps."

	"Yes?" she looked at him, waiting for an explanation.

	"Well, what I mean is that Broadshanks signed the bill into
law 6 months ago, yet this is the first time that I'm aware of that
the name clause has been enforced."

	"That's not so surprising. Mabaku-Jabeer's, er... Jefferson's
case must have been the first to come up," she said. "I mean, most
people keep their birth names don't they?"

	Robert peered at her incredulously through his tortoise shell
horn rims. "Whatever you say, Ms. L. Gloria Carter-Cleveland," he
smirked. "But I can think of two cases last week alone where no change
was ordered in the files. Both defendants were white, incidentally."

	She made a face. "Oh, so its a racist conspiracy, that's what
you're saying?"

	"Not necessarily, but he does seem to be getting singled out
for something, I'd say. And I'd agree with you, that if nothing else,
it seems sneaky. Like they want as little publicity as possible."

	"I HAD to change it, anyway," Gloria said. "My name, I mean.
It was Vince who insisted on the hyphenization, but I had stopped
using Linda years before. You have no idea how tiresome it was to be
called "Wonder Woman" three times a day!"

	Robert smiled. "And what makes you think I'VE never been
called Wonder Woman before?"

	"Have you?" she giggled. "Affectionately, though, I'm sure."

	This morning the pair was silent, looking out the windows with
the others, waiting for a glimpse of the big arrival of whomever. In
the mean time, the handcuffed and shackled prisoner had arrived in the
transport van with a fleet of prison guards.

	"Do you think he's attractive?" she asked, finally.

	"Who? Sabo?" he asked.

	`Yes."

	"Oh, in a middle-aged sort of way, I suppose. The dreadlocks
are kind of nice. But he doesn't especially strike me," said Robert,
noticing the arrival of a few stretch limos.

	"Oh. I'd thought that you might, since you... " she paused,
looking embarrassed suddenly, as she often did while talking freely
with Robert, often startling herself by saying the first things that
popped into her head.

	"Since I've what?" he laughed, "dated black men? Honey, I only
go out with the smartest, most gorgeous guys I meet. Can I help it if
so many of them happen to be black?" Even as he spoke those words
Robert's eyes were drawn to one of the VIP security troops outside, an
especially striking, tall, ebony-skinned gentleman in a grey suit
speaking into a radio phone. "But what's with you and this thing
you've got for white meat, Gloria?" he teased. "Ah seen how you're
always slobbering over that Vince fella who comes `round for you."

	"Oh shut up," she blushed. "You know I just meant that... "

	"Hey, here's an ample specimen of the fairer flesh right now,
Glo! What do you think of the Aryan stud climbing out of that
limousine?" he teased.

	Her eyes widened. It was Barry Broadshanks, the Governor,
looking ridiculous, but unmistakable, in a pair of those aviator
style orange-tinted mail order UV sunglasses. "HE'S attending the
trial? I can't believe it! Doesn't he have anything better to do?"

	"Besides pressuring the jury to convict and condemn Sabo?"
Robert said. "Probably not. He wants to milk every opportunity he can
out of his victory last November when the swing voters against capital
punishment were voted out of office."

	He sneered at the politician and then pointed at him when he
turned his back. "Hey, get a load of that ass, Glo!"

	Broadshanks had stopped to consult with a handful of his
personal security officers, including the tall, striking, black man
that had caught Robert's eye.

	"You'll never see a bubble butt like Broadshanks' on a BLACK
man, Glo. It's MASSIVE! Isn't he making you HOT?"

	"Yuck, Robert, stop it! He's NOT my type!" she laughed. "He
looks like a combination of Adolph Hitler and Beaver Cleaver"

	They watched the governor move swiftly up the steps and into
the courthouse, amidst a cloud of security officers. "Poor Sabo. He's
doomed." She said.

	When California had agreed to accept Idohiowa's offer to host
the new trial for Sabo Mabaku-Jabeer, it was to escape the threat of
almost certain repeat rioting in the case of a conviction. After five
years of imprisonment, the dreadlocked journalist had become almost as
commonly known a figure as Nelson Mandela had during his imprisonment,
and there was sure to be a major outcry if he were sentenced to death
a second time.

	Though initially troubled by the incredibly racist rhetoric
that Idohiowa Governor Broadshanks had used to spearhead his final,
successful attempt to restore the death penalty (after numerous
failures), officials of the State of California were eventually
seduced by Idohiowa's recent Draconian crime reforms, which, they
reasoned, would so strangle-hold the defense in this second trial that
few of the frankly unconstitutional proceedings that had lead to
Sabo's California conviction would have a chance to be highlighted and
countered in the new trial, and in turn trumpeted in the media in a
way as to further embarrass the California justice system. California
was all too happy to wash their hands of their Mabaku-Jabeer problem.

	But perhaps the deciding factor was Governor Broadshanks'
personal interest in the case. He alone of all the state governors had
made the trip to California to personally lobby for Idohiowa to get
Sabo's retrial. Drunk from yet another Republican election blitz
across the state, he was determined to make Sabo, the media darling of
anti-death penalty liberals, into a shattering example of a tough-on-
crime exercise of power by the new Republican supremacy. The governor
of California got the distinct impression that Broadshanks, if given
the opportunity, would have delighted in personally throwing the
switch on this guy. Who'd have guessed, after all, as this Broadshanks
guy had, that the secret to getting the death penalty back in his
state was to bypass lethal injection and propose the good old electric
chair?

				* * *

	More people were looking at Barry that day in the courtroom
than were looking at the defendant. The governor didn't get out that
much, as they say, and certainly spent little time in his old
undergrad college town, which being the liberal stronghold that it
always had been, despised him.

	But Barry had his eyes on Sabo the whole time. His breathing
intensified to see the man at last sitting there: silent,
contemplative, defiant. This scumbag cop killer, with the smug anti-
American, anti-government views. Looking at his dreadlocks, the
governor couldn't help but finger his own short, neatly trimmed
haircut and wonder how filthy those tangled things must be, and what
possessed the man to keep them.

	Barry was proud of his own dark brown hair, thick and not a
spot of grey yet, at least one that he'd admit to. His characteristic
bushy moustache was always trimmed, and he always looked neat and
tidy. He was getting a little thick in the middle lately, but that was
appropriate for his age and the sedentary nature of his job, he
reasoned. He fancied himself still attractive, and indeed he did have
intense blue eyes, but his chipmunk cheeks and roly-poly body did not
exactly render him a sex symbol to many people.

	Down in the defendant's box, by contrast, was Reggie
Jefferson, looking amazingly trim for a man in the even more
potentially sedentary environment of prison. He looked like he might
have the body of a twenty year old, and his skin looked as smooth. As
he enviously assessed the prisoner's youthfulness , Barry made a
mental note to press for more legislation to reduce the quality of
life in prisons, to ensure that they not be used like health clubs at
the expense of taxpayers. Perhaps, he mused to himself, he should also
send an aide over to the newsroom of the college paper and suggest a
topic to Ed Tyler, the current "political" cartoonist (and payrollee
of a humongous conservative political thinktank). Ed could draw Sabo
in a mock advertisement for a exercise video for cop killers. He could
trust Ed to go with the idea suggested to him without applying any
serious political analysis to it. Never mind that Sabo probably kept
healthy by eating smaller portions than Barry did from more regular,
simpler meals, and daily walking in the prison yard.

	Broadshanks envisioned a more damning image of Sabo, behind
bars on a Soloflex, sweating to the beat and chatter of the latest Kop
Killer rap song, his bronze skin glistening , muscles straining. For
some reason his mind locked on the image and he found himself filling
it in almost cinematically, in color, in detail, down to the very
drops of sweat, the ropey, thickening veins on the surface of Sabu's
muscled skin, which would be totally exposed but for a tiny red pair
of onionskin running shorts that in turn would get hiked so far up the
pampered prisoners straining thighs that the only mystery they would
hide would be his crotch, bulging bigger than even a college paper
would dare to show in a cartoon.

	It seemed unfair to Broadshanks that since he and Sabo were
almost exactly the same age, 48, that the prisoner should look almost
as if he could be a classmate of Barry's son, who was now away at a
military academy to have some obedience drilled into him.

	Barry would have never subjected his son to the kind of
environment he'd experienced at school here in the mid and late
sixties: riots and protests against the government all the time.
marches, demonstrations, arrests, defacement of property, lack of
respect for law and order. Apparently things hadn't changed all that
much in the last 25 years, he discovered, after perusing that
morning's edition of the college paper, which one of his security
officers (that tall black one, ironically enough, whose name he kept
forgetting) had arranged to be picked up for him.

	My god, he thought. If it wasn't for Ed's cartoons, the entire
rag would be nothing but a liberal wet-dream. Instead of stories about
the state's own governor attending the trial, the paper was plastered
with profiles and updates about the wretched prisoner, Sabo Mabaku-
Jabeer. If people hadn't yet figured out about the relocation and
retrial, the cat was certainly going to be out of the bag now. Every
bit of trivia about Sabo was there, but not a shred of attention
towards Broadshanks! What further proof needed there be that liberal
bias had infested newsrooms across the country?


	Barry was too appalled to read any of the pieces carefully and
was about to toss the paper away when he spotted a headline on a page
two piece that made him stop. "MABAKU-JABEER GREW POLITICAL ROOTS AT
U. IDOHIOWA in '60s."

	Broadshanks was stunned. Jefferson went to school HERE? In the
60's? My God, he thought to himself, did they ever meet? Unlikely, he
reassured himself. According to the paper he was already a Black
Panther at age 18, and a terrible trouble maker. The two of them never
would have run in the same circles. Barry had been busy most of his
college days trying to found what eventually would become the College
Republicans.

	He read the story but found nothing that dislodged any
specific memory. But when he turned the page to read the conclusion of
the piece, his eyes fell upon a reproduction of Reggie Jefferson's
1966 pledge photograph from the 'colored' fraternity on campus he had
joined for a year. It showed a fresh-faced Negro youth with very short
cropped hair, a winning smile and huge brown eyes. Barry suddenly
realized that he'd seen this face before in some significant context,
the importance of which made his skin go goosebumpy, despite the fact
that he couldn't remember what that context was.

	This mystery (and one other nagging mystery) was solved for
the governor two weeks later back at the courthouse on the date of
sentencing for Sabo's second conviction. The second trial, like the
first, had been a farce. Witnesses were prevented from testifying in
Mabaku-Jabeer's favor, ballistics evidence was once again barred from
the trial for technical reasons, the defense team was prevented from
spending enough money for an adequate defense, all thanks again to the
governor and the insane crime bills he signed. Barry was delighted.

	The State of Idohiowa, with so few blacks and so many
conservatives, was not particularly worried about the repercussions.
Security was indeed beefed up around the courthouse, but rather
casually so.

	When sentencing day finally arrived, however, Barry found
himself to be not quite up to the occasion. He had tossed and turned
all the previous night from excitement over this latest victory
against lawlessness and social decay, but also from a nameless
anxiety. As a result, he'd had to guzzle four or five cups of black
coffee already that morning on the flight from the Capitol to Jackson
County just to keep awake. Now, minutes before the sentencing hearing,
his full bladder was forcing him to make a detour trip to the
bathroom. In his hurry to relieve himself, he nearly outran the two of
his security officers who were doing close duty that morning.

	As he approached the men's bathroom door in the basement he
noticed a tall black man in a guard's uniform already on watch outside
the door, who when he saw Broadshanks approaching attempted to address
him.

	"Sir, the bathroom... ," he began.

	"Ah, mister uh... Price!," Barry interrupted, grinning at the
guard as he tried to push past him to the door, though the grin was
really more for himself for finally remembering one of his minority
staff member's names. "You've anticipated my needs better than I have
this morning!"

	"Sir?" the guard replied, confused, and momentarily distracted
from his duty at hand. Incredibly, the Governor was mistaking him for
his own officer, Price Washington, the slick dude in the grey suit
with the attitude that he'd had a few run-ins with the previous week,
and who was in fact upstairs right now checking for potential risk
situations in the rapidly filling courtroom. The stupidity of the
identity mistake was enough to distract the guard to the point that
Broadshanks had almost gotten all the way through the door before he
was able to grab him by the arm and stop him.

	"Stop, Sir, the prisoner is... " he said, but found he didn't
need to finish.

	He stood with Barry in the doorway and both watched the the
three male figures in front of the urinals on the opposite wall turn
around. The outside pair, two young, white prison guards had whirled
about instantly and pointed their guns, probably for the first time
while on duty in their careers. The middle figure, in blue prison
dungarees, with hands cuffed behind his back and ankles shackled,
turned more slowly and only came to full frontally face the startled
governor by about the time that his mortified escorts faces had gone
fully scarlet and they had lowered the barrels of their guns.

	They were good boys, obviously, and would make fine
corrections officers in time, their supervisor would say later, while
reprimanding them for the incident, but clearly they needed to work on
assessing situations correctly and not over-reacting in sensitive
situations - yes, even insinuations like being unexpectedly intruded
upon while shaking the last few drops of piss from the dick of a
convicted cop killer.

	Ironically Barry was less frightened by the more conventional
weapons the boys had pulled on him than he was when he beheld the dark
bludgeon of flesh that hung out of the open fly of Sabo Mabaku-Jabeer's
denims. He'd only seen such a huge dick once before, he realized, and
the truly horrifying thing - the thing that nearly made him piss in
his pants - was that he was now convinced that he was seeing once
again THE VERY SAME DICK IN THE VERY SAME ROOM nearly thirty years
later.

	At that time, too, a brown-skinned hand had gripped his young
law clerk/law student arm tightly, just like now, but back then the
hand had come later, and had belonged to the same beaming, friendly
Negro boy who had displayed to him his dick at the urinal. The arm had
only gripped him after he'd followed him into one of the stalls and
closed it behind them. It had frightened Barry back then how much he'd
wanted that dick, and it still frightened him now to realize how much
he still wanted it.

	"You can suck it, governor," he swore he remembered the boy
saying, even though it was really Mabaku-Jabeer who was speaking now,
swaying his exposed cock as disrespectfully at Broadshanks as he could
with no free hands. Back then Barry had actually gone down to his
knees and even opened his mouth before he panicked and broke away, ran
away and hightailed it into a career of life-sucking repression and
denial. Now he just gawked in disbelief as the embarrassed officers
first barked at the prisoner to shut up, and then shared the duty of
gingerly tucking his penis back inside his pants, zipping him up, and
hauling him away and out of the governor's sight.

	But the sight of Sabo's cock stayed with Barry. He had great
trouble pissing himself, despite the fullness of his bladder, because
the incident had made his own dick go stiff with excitement. He looked
down at it as he pressed it head downwards so the urine could get
through, and he watched as his own piss washed away any remaining
traces of of the prisoners down the very same urinal, which he had
instinctively chosen. His shaken security officers stood on either
side chattering into their radiophones and assuring everyone else in
the security network that the situation was now in hand.

Article 116284 of alt.sex.stories:
From: an179397@anon.penet.fi (Stroker Al)
Date: Sat, 23 Dec 1995 22:52:51 UTC
Subject: The Executionee's Schlong 2/4 (M/M)

		      The Executionee's Schlong
				  by
			      Stroker Al
			       Part Two

	In keeping with the new "conservative" trend towards exacting
swift justice to convicted criminals, Reggie Jefferson's execution was
set for a mere 2 weeks after his sentencing. Since a court appeal was
impossible in such a short time, a proposal for a meeting to plea for
a governor's pardon was arranged and was surprisingly accepted by
Barry. However, the meeting was a failure in the sense that
Broadshanks refused to stay the execution in any way. It was a success
for Barry, however, because he got a chance to see Sabo up close once
again. He couldn't get those words, and the phallic vision that
accompanied them, out of his mind the whole time: "You can suck it,
Governor."

	In the middle of the night before execution day, Barry awoke
with an elation he had never experienced before. He had realized that
what Sabo had said was absolutely true: he COULD suck it. And now he
had figured out how he was going to go about doing it!

	At 11 pm on the evening set for Sabo's execution, the prison
shaved the dreadlocks off of Sabo's head. Barry Broadshanks was in the
very next room, watching through a one way mirror. The Warden and
other officials were in the room with Barry, but he managed to get
relatively private satisfaction out of the spectacle.

	Two of his suit pockets bulged with potential. One, next to
his breast, contained a lengthy typewritten document that he'd bullied
a sleepy secretary into hastily drafting in the middle of the previous
night, when he'd had his brilliant idea.

	The other, his left trouser pocket, contained the governor's
throbbing erection, which he stroked and squeezed through its thin
lining as he watched the vision of his bright eyed, bright faced Negro
boy being restored to him once again, thirty years later. His breath
caught in his throat as each nasty, filthy-looking dreadlocked
reminder of a foreign culture dropped to the floor and left behind a
gentle looking, totally assimilated vision of male beauty.

	Minutes later, the warden escorted Barry to the execution
witness room, where most of the other approved visitors, including his
wife and son, were already seated.

	Broadshanks' wife, Marla, looked extremely relieved to see
him, tired as she was of being asked questions by the press. His
sullen son, Barry Jr, on the other hand showed little response beyond
his resentment for being dragged away from the academy (as much as he
hated it) for yet another of his father's lessons about right and
wrong.

	The DA stood and turned to shake Broadshanks' hand, leaning in
close so no one else could hear him.

	"I was wondering if you were going to arrive too late for the
commencement of our work," he whispered.

	"What? And missed all the fun?," replied Barry through his
teeth, without a trace of irony, keeping a mask of solemnity on his
face for the benefit of the press.

	Only Gloria, still seated in the chair next to the one her
boss had risen from, caught the remark. Appalled, she momentarily
obscured her face with the manila envelope full of supposedly
pertinent documents that her boss had bullied her into carrying for
him that night and leaned over and repeated what she'd heard to
Robert. Refusing to go unless Robert could come along was the perhaps
the most defiant thing Gloria had ever done since coming to work in
the courthouse, but also perhaps the wisest. She was going to need a
friend next to her to get through this horror, even if she couldn't
bring herself to close her eyes when the moment would come.

	Watching Sabo be executed was about the last thing Robert
would have wanted to see, but he couldn't have refused to stand by a
friend like Gloria when she obviously needed him. As much as the DA
disliked Robert, he apparently had Gloria there badly enough to agree
to issuing them both passes. The two clerks suspected that the DA was
hoping they might become 'better' employees if their liberal
sensitivities were to evaporate from the heat of the spectacle they
were soon to witness. Indeed, the huge observation window of the
execution chamber loomed before them all like a theater curtain,
rendered opaque by electronically suspended magnetic particles.

	Ignoring numerous attempts from all sides to get his
attention, Broadshanks chatted anxiously with Marla, but was inwardly
distracted. He wanted to spend as little time in this room as
possible, since it was half filled with media representatives and
sympathizers with the prisoner, who would hound him all evening if
given the chance. Then his rescue came in the form of Price
Washington.

	"Excuse me, Governor," the man said softly, "there is an
urgent telephone call for you in the warden's office." Barry rose
immediately from his seat to follow Washington, whose jacket the DA
had suddenly reached up to grab.

	"Damn it, man," he hissed. "We've got enough phones in here to
hold a telethon! Why can't you just transfer it in here?"

	Barry went pale, but Washington remained calm and smooth.
"Sir," he began, leaning in close and speaking so softly that Robert
almost couldn't hear. "The governor has been expecting this call and
needs to answer it in private."

	Robert turned to watch the two mount the few but steep steps
out of the observation room and was disappointed when Broadshanks butt
obscured his view of the departing Washington's far more interesting
posterior. It was the first time he'd heard the hot-looking security
officer speak, and the authoritative tone in his voice had rather
impressed Robert. Apparently it had impressed the DA as well, because
he had sheepishly shrugged in response and sat down again. Robert
wished HE could follow that stud somewhere himself, and couldn+,t
resist watching him until he disappeared from view. It only occurred to
him later as the slow-closing, heavy door shut after the pair that
they had turned down the hall in the direction opposite from that of
the warden's office. That was when Gloria nudged his side.

	"Look!" she said.

	The observation window to the execution chamber was clearing,
and the prisoner could now be observed being strapped into the
electric chair. The clerks were horrified.

	"I think Barry's going to miss his triumph after all,"
whispered Gloria.

	Robert frowned, then turned behind him to look at the door
again. "I'm not so sure about that, Glo." he said, and then squeezed
her arm as he rose from his seat.

	"Where are you go... " she started, but he raised his fingers
to his lips to maker her fall silent.

	He climbed the steps quietly but swiftly, in time to reach the
door before the questioning prison guards could intercept him, since
they'd been paying too much attention to the sight of Sabo about to go
down for the count. When he slipped out the door, they stopped and
decided to let him go. Broadshanks had his own security, after all,
and there were too many people in the observation chamber to worry
about keeping in line as it was.

	Five minutes later, Barry Broadshanks, the governor, was alone
in the hallway outside the prison's electric chair chamber. He had
watched as the executioners escorted Sabu into the room, and now he
was seeing them emerge and disappear down the opposite end of the
hallway. He walked to the door, gripped the knob, and waited for his
cue.

	"Come on, Washington!" he breathed to himself, impatiently, as
he envisioned his chief security officer carrying out his boss'
bidding. For a brief second he mused that there was still time to
scrap the whole plan and instead go back to the room where he'd left
the most fiercely loyal, dependable black man he'd ever met. If his
employee was willing to go to these lengths to let his boss suck
another man's dick, mightn't he'd be willing to offer up his own
instead, as a safer, less career-risking alternative? But no, thought
Barry. Even if he WERE willing, it just wouldn't be the same. It was
the 'cop killer's' dick he was after.

	Then, the lights went out all over.

	Even though Barry himself had arranged for this to happen, it
still made him jump. His blood felt as though it had been lit aflame.
He sucked his breath in and then pushed open the heavy door and let
himself into the chamber, then shut and bolted the door behind him.


	Meanwhile, Gloria, the DA, Broadshank's wife and son, and all
press and prison people gasped and began to murmur. They lit lighters
and flashlights, and swung them around to gape at each other in
confusion. The huge window in front of them now merely reflected their
beams of light, having converted with the loss of power into its
opaque default mode. Sabu was once again invisible to them. Prison
officials scrambled, only to find, minutes later, that the methods for
correcting the situation lay behind two highly secure locked and
bolted doors. It could take hours to get through them.

	In his peripheral vision, Sabo had seen the light from the
hall flash into the room as Broadshanks entered, and he attempted to
turn, with a start, to see who it was.

	"What's going on? Who's there?" he said. And although there
was no answer when he was once again enveloped in darkness, this time
he knew he was not alone in the room.

Article 116291 of alt.sex.stories:
From: an179397@anon.penet.fi (Stroker Al)
Date: Sat, 23 Dec 1995 22:53:59 UTC
Subject: The Executionee's Schlong 3/4 (M/M)

		      The Executionee's Schlong
				 by
			      Stroker Al
			      Part Three

	Broadshanks moved towards Sabo in the chair, feeling his way.
He decided he wouldn't turn on the flashlight or speak until he was
completely ready.

	"What's happening? Have I gotten my reprieve? Why are you
toying with me?" cried Sabo, getting more agitated by the second.
Suddenly Broadshanks touched his shoulder and the startled Sabo cried
out. "Hey!" he shouted. "This here is highly unusual, and cruel as
well. Who are you? What are you doing here?"

	Broadshanks' hand moved up Sabo's shoulder to his neck and
then lifted the chair's hinged metal skullcap up and off of the
prisoner's head. "I've come to give you one last chance," said
Broadshanks in the calmest, smoothest, most dignified tone he could
muster. He'd hoped the effect on Sabo would be one of awe and
confusion, as though God himself were paying a visit to the condemned
prisoner. The people of the slave race, he mused to himself, were SO
superstitious.

	"Ain't no man who can give me another chance now but the
governor. Get your ass outta here and let me die in peace, you
psychotic little prison rat."

	Barry chuckled to himself and positioned himself directly in
front of where he now knew the chair to be. After another moment's
pause, he clicked the flashlight on and let its beam shoot straight up
to the ceiling, bathing the room in dim, indirect, but adequate light.

	His narrow, beady eyes met Sabo's staring big brown ones and
he smiled in triumph as the prisoner recognized him and was
dumbstruck.

	"As I said, I have come to give you one more chance." Said
Broadshanks, now in his more ordinary, rather nasal voice.

	"In my pocket is a letter of pardon written on your behalf. It
is the only copy in existence. Whether or not the letter is put in the
warden's hands or not is entirely up to you."

	"Nonsense, as usual. You speak nothing but lies. YOU have all
the power, and I have none. If you're going to pardon me, why don't
you just do it now, or get out of this chamber and let me die with
some dignity."

	Broadshanks smiled. He anticipated that Sabo might be defiant
to the end. But that wouldn't stop his plan.

	"No. YOU have the power," he insisted. "If you want to live
as a free man for the rest of your life you may. The only condition is
that for the rest of your life you never speak to a living soul about
what is going to go on here in this room during the next twenty
minutes or so... between us."

	"That will be easy, Mr. Broadshanks, because there is no
possible connection between us, and never can be. We are on different
planes, different worlds, different... "

	Sabo stopped in the middle of his sentence as Barry reached
out and caressed the short cropped ebony dome of his head. It felt so
wonderful to Barry, just as he thought he remembered the same head
feeling 25 years ago.

	"What kind of supreme cowardly hupocracy do you have on your
degenerated, sick mind, you white devil?" hissed Sabo, angry, confused
and still unwilling to fully accept what he already guessed
Broadshanks was getting at.

	"I've come back for your dick, Reggie." whispered Barry.
Twenty five years after I ran away from it with my tail between my
legs, I've come back for it. To worship it."

	Sabo's jaw dropped. The man was insane. What on earth was he
talking about, 'after 25 years'? As far as he knew, the fat white
hypocrite had never laid eyes on his dick until the first day they
met, by accident, last week in the courthouse bathroom - a place he'd
never been before in his life, despite a few court appearances in his
college days. Apparently power corrupts brain cells, too, he thought
to himself grimly, though the porky fucker's apparent feeble
mindedness didn't make Sabo distrust him any less. Still, a tiny hope
for his life and freedom caused the prisoner to decide to play along
with the looney governor at least until he understood exactly what was
going on.

	"My... dick, eh?" he laughed, trying to control his contempt
and only partly succeeding. "Couldn't stay away, huh?" he managed to
say, with a convincing leer. "What made you run away back then?"

	Barry sighed and smiled. looking upward. "I was SO young, and
so inexperienced. And when you showed me your prick in the courthouse
bathroom stall and I saw how HUGE it was, I panicked. I won't run away
again. I'm READY for it now."

	Sabo snorted. His huge dick? It was a rather ordinary 6 and a
half inches erect, and certainly hadn't been any longer back in
college. But white stereotyping and unwillingness to see reality didn't
surprise the prisoner. What shocked him was the pleading tone in the
governor's voice. The desire to worship a black man's dick -
apparently ANY black man's dick - was genuine. But his years of being
fucked over by the white man's justice system made Sabo wary of what
the outcome might be if he went along with this degenerate deal.

	"How can you risk doing this as governor?" he asked, his face
serious again. "After all, what's to prevent me from bragging about it
to the tabloids AFTER I've received my pardon and have walked through
the prison gates to freedom?"

	"You wouldn't do that, Reggie, er - Sabo," cooed Barry.
"You're a man of your word, and a dignified hero of liberal politics.
Your image would be diminished and tarnished.

	"Even if anyone believed you," he added, like an afterthought.

	Sabo squinted at the man who was reaching out towards him
again, this time to caress his face. It took every ounce of the
prisoner's strength to not bite the fat pig's chubby fingers as they
brushed across his full lips. He didn't trust him for a second. He
knew the governor would never let him live after he'd had his way with
him. He was a dead man no matter what happened. The question now
seemed to be, what kind of end did he want his life to have - holding
on to the principles of his life's work of fighting racism, economic
and political oppression and all kinds of exploitation, or allowing
himself to be sexually serviced by the obnoxious governor of Idohiowa?

	Sabo wouldn't have had any trouble deciding this question if
it hadn't been for the persistence of that tiny ray of hope. Could
there possibly be any other way out of his predicament? Might not the
governor trip up in some way that would allow Sabo to live by default?

	"What do you say, Reggie?" whispered Barry, leaning closer.

	Slowly Sabo's tightened mouth relaxed into a broad, bright-
toothed smile. He wanted very badly to go on living, and being the
gambler that he was, decided to go for that slimmest of chances he
might survive. But he was a proud man, and had never had his spirit
beaten down throughout all these years of prison. Today was going to
be no exception.

	"You want my big dick, you rich, fat Republican cracker?" Sabo
sneered. "Well, then get down on your pudgy knees and fish it out,
faggot!"

	Barry's face flushed red with excitement tinged with
indignation. He started to say something in retort, but his breathing
and heart rate had sped up so quickly that he was afraid his voice
would crack if he spoke. And so, the governor knelt down between the
the prisoner's blue denimmed knees in silent acquiescence, choosing to
reserve his tongue for cockskin rather than reprimand.


	When Barry grabbed greedily for Sabo's fly button, it occurred
to the prisoner that drawing the encounter out as long as possible
might be to his advantage.

	"No hands, Governor. Use your teeth," Sabo barked.

	Barry stopped for a moment, looking momentarily rebellious,
but then leaned forward and dove his head down into Sabo's lap,
supporting himself by firmly gripping the prisoner's strong, lean,
well-exercised thighs. He chewed at the fly button with his teeth and
thanked fortune for all his expensive dental work.

	"That's right bitch. open it up. Like that," hissed Sabo.
Barry jumped at his command and worked all the more feverishly. Sabo
laughed to himself how he had won the first gamble. He had guessed
right that the Nazi whore needed to be badmouthed and bossed.

	Finally Barry had the button open and the zipper between his
teeth. He pulled back and carefully dragged the zipper down Sabo's
crotch, parting the fabric of the prison dungarees to reveal the pure
white of the prisoner's boxer shorts and the buttonless fly that
gapped slightly to show a glimpse of the dark, recoiled equipment
inside.

	"Now go fish for my jimmy with your cocksucking mouth, you
conservative closet queen!" Sabo ordered.

	He needn't have said a word. Barry instantly had his
moustachioed mug pressed against the white cotton and was working the
fly open wider with his tongue, wetting the boxers with his warm
saliva. The kneeling governor's probing tongue first encountered the
tight, springy curls of the prisoner's pubes. He savored the musky,
sweaty taste and then buried his muzzle lower until he reached the
spongey root of Sabo's resting cock, licking the silky, loose and
wrinkly dickskin, and moaning in pleasure at making contact with it.

	"Okay, bitch, bring it out. Haul it out with your whore's
mouth." hissed Sabo.

	Barry had to turn his head and work his lips together and
apart as he pressed his mouth over Sabo's dick, until he could finally
draw it inside. When he felt the warm, pungently sweaty appendage tuck
into his mouth, Barry raised his head again and drew back, keeping the
fat, mushroomy head hooked behind his lying lips, so that the
prisoner's soft, flexible penis extended through the fly of his
boxers. He let it drop forward and looked down at the black cock as if
it were a prize he had just dug out of a box of cracker jacks.

	"Blow me now, bitch. Suck my black meat real good and make it
hard for your faggot ass!"

	Broadshanks trembled and with a moan snapped Sabo's dick back
up into his mouth and began sucking it. His technique was shit, Sabo
noted, and his rhythm was wild and erratic, but his enthusiasm and
energy made up for his shortcomings, and very soon the prisoner felt
his penis swelling into an erection.

	Once Sabo was fully erect, he began to raise his hips to meet
the governor's forward oral plunges down onto his cock, and soon was
overpowering them to the point that he was now fucking Broadshank's
face. The governor gagged and sputtered a bit but hung on and kept
sucking.

	"Take it you cocksucking whore. You love it, bitch. You've
been hungry for black dick since the day you were born," he growled,
bucking his hips harder with a punishing rhythm.

	"Too bad you think you gotta send a black man to the electric
chair just so you can have some black bone to suck! "

	Sabo had had his dick sucked by a couple of men before but had
never really been particularly interested in his own sex. But seeing
that famous, bloated face of his powerful nemesis down there between
his legs, his chipmunk cheeks puffed up even fatter when full of
Sabo's meat, really began to turn him on. After a few minutes he was
ready to come, and had to shout at Barry to stop.

	"Okay okay, slut, you can stop now," he ordered, pulling his
hips back as far as he could, popping his hard cock out of the
Republican's disappointed mouth. "Where'd you learn to behave such a
good lil' whore? From some of those gangsta rap records you and your
cronies have been trying to ban?"

	Barry laughed, as he tried to catch his breath. "No. But
I've... I've been... been practicing a few things this week. I had a
close aid find me a... a dildo."

	Sabo laughed scornfully. "You practiced sucking on a dildo,
while my black meat was rotting in prison?" he sneered.

	"Well," shrugged Barry. "I couldn't risk a real dick. In my
position, you know. And yes, I did practice sucking it," he added,
with a gleam in his eye. "but I practiced other things with it as
well."

	Sabo wanted to puke when he saw that leering, cornfed face
confessing his pathetic secrets. But he restrained himself with the
knowledge that for the rest of the encounter he wouldn't have to look
at the cowardly hypocrite's face any longer. Just his ugly white ass,
which would no doubt be more tolerable to behold, Sabo mused to
himself.

	"Okay, now for the pussy phase, Gov. Turn around, and drop
your pants," commanded Sabo.

	Barry quickly did as he was told, with a fumbling and jingling
at his belt buckle, sending his polyester slacks plunging down his
hairy, hammy legs. Sabo sneered at the governor's specially tailored
stars and stripes boxers, obviously sewn from a real flag that had not
been properly discarded after being replaced. They were suited
perfectly for such a hypocrite, and presumably sized extra large for
his porky behind, Sabo thought. Broadshanks wisely tried to keep this
kind of political too-facedness as well tucked away as his
Presidential aspirations.

	"What's happening in congress with that flag desecration
amendment you're always braying about?," Sabo taunted him.

	Barry shrugged as he looked about the room for something.
"Gotta keep the people worked up about something, you know," he said.
His eyes came to rest upon a jar of blue-green conducting gel sitting
next to a roll of paper towels on top of the filing cabinet that held
the death certification forms. It was the stuff that they had spread
around Sabo's wrists and ankles to reinforce the intended flow of the
current when the switch was thrown.

	"Aha," he said, retrieving the jar and bringing it back to
Sabo who was watching his every move nervously. "Mmm, I knew it,"
Barry said, dipping two fingers into the thick, transparent gel laced
with tiny suspended air bubbles. "It's just like Dippity Do. Remember
that?"

	"Can't say that I do," replied Sabo, puzzled.

	"That's what I used to use on my hair back in college. When we
first met. "

	"Oh. Oh, yeah," Sabo said, in an effort to play along, "You,
uh, used to slick your hair back, didn't you?"

	Barry nodded eagerly, then fished a comb out of one of his
jacket pockets and began to comb a thick glob of the gel through his
black hair. He did this in front of Sabo, staring right at him as if
he were the mirror in his dormitory bathroom. Barry assumed that the
gel would make him look more like he had back in the sixties, but Sabo
thought it just made him look more like Adolph Hitler.

	Barry put the comb away and then removed his jacket. He then
carefully tossed it aside towards the glass partition, so that it fell
just within his reach but out of Sabo's. As deranged by desire as the
governor appeared, it seemed he was still coherent enough to be
cautious and keep the pardon paper safe.

	Barry stepped closer to Sabo with the opened jar in hand. Sabo
noted his coolness and began to doubt once again that he had any
chance of surviving. But then The governor knelt between his legs
again and began applying the gel liberally to Sabo's upright cock,
mesmerized by it once again. Sabo knew then that if he used his dick
properly, he still had a chance.

	Barry stood finally, and shimmied the boxers down around his
ankles, to expose his own hard cock, emerging from a low cloud of
curly black hair and sticking up out from under his dress shirt tail
to bob up and down just below the tip of the Republican's dark blue
necktie. Then he turned around, and while keeping his head turned to
watch Sabo, he raised his shirt and leaned forward to unveil his
flabby, portly butt. Soft and as white as an albino deep sea creature,
Broadshanks' ass was nevertheless thinly adorned with the same dark
hair that covered his legs and elsewhere more thickly. The pucker of
his asshole winked at Sabo from deep down at the bottom of his crack,
like the distant ripple of sunlight reflecting on the surface of the
Colorado River at the bottom of the Grand Canyon.

	This was, at least, how Sabo visualized Broadshanks' butthole.
Objectively, it should be noted that Barry's ass, though ample, was
not so spectacularly large, at least for a Republican.

	As Barry bent over further and backed his butt against the
prisoner's dickhead, Sabo said, "Unstrap my hands so I can stand up
while I fuck you."

	Barry moved as if to do it, but suddenly stopped and said,
"No. I want you to fuck me while sitting down in the chair."

	Sabo began to sweat a bit. He was afraid that something was
going to go wrong and that he was never going to get out of that chair
"You're too heavy," he protested. "I won't get enough leverage."

	"You've got strong legs, you can take it," Barry replied,
lowering his ass once again towards Sabo's upturned erection. Then,
with much wriggling and manual adjusting of the black fuckpole's angle
of entry, Barry slowly sank down onto Sabo's lap, moaning the whole
way down.

	Sabo grimaced at first when his cock had finally impaled the
governor's substantial ass. But once he started moving inside there,
things started to feel pretty damned good. Tight fisted, anal
retentive conservative that he was, Broadshanks turned out to have a
fuckhole that gripped dick like no pussy Sabo had ever had before.
Fucking himself with a dildo every night for a week had somehow not
diminished the governor's sphincter tone, although judging from his
moans of pleasure, it had eliminated some of the pain that a virgin
ass tends to feel when it's getting taken.

	Indeed, the virginity of his asshole was the farthest thing
from Barry's hot little mind as he rode Sabo's dick. He was lost in
his favorite sexual fantasy, one of the ones that had fueled his
political agenda as well as stiffened his dick. He was a sexy, black
single welfare mama, 9 months pregnant and holding crying babies in
both arms while her latest no good, shiftless but stunningly handsome
boyfriend was lifting her housedress and taking her pussy from behind
yet again in front of the ironing board while she ironed out her
crumpled $20 bills she'd earned from prostitution.: waiting for the
big-dicked boyfriend's big deposit that came whenever he did - about
once a week, just like that fat government check! And wasn't it a
shame that this particular deposit wouldn't have as large a payoff as
the one that had put in the bun that mama currently had in her oven ?


	There they rocked for ten minutes or so, Broadshanks with his
knees apart, his chunky white thighs straddling Sabo's and his ankles
pulled in together by the elastic waist band of his star-spangled
boxers. Sabo drove his hips up as high as he could, but it began to
exhaust him in his shackled position, even as Barry moaned for more.
He begged Barry to undo his hands and feet, but Broadshanks refused,
saying that it was too risky because he couldn't trust him. Finally,
however, Barry's mounting pleasure and boundless desiring greed
provided the opportunity that Sabo sought.

	"Oh, twist my tits," Barry groaned.

	Sabo laughed bitterly. "Twist your own goddamned tits. My
hands aren't free."

	Barry gasped for breath and considered the risk. "I'll undo
your wrists," he said finally. "but no funny stuff or its over."

	Broadshanks unhooked the metal wrist clamps on both sides,
freeing Sabo's arms. The prisoner sighed with relief as he shook his
wrists to disperse the tension that had built in them during his
restraint.

	"If you unclamp my ankles,too, I can really fuck you good." he
whispered into one of Barry's reddened ears.

	"No. Absolutely not. You're still a prisoner. The ankles stay
secured," Broadshanks declared. He unbuttoned his shirt and threw his
tie over his shoulder and out of the way. Sabo considered grabbing it
and choking the fucker to death, but held back for the chance of
getting away totally free.

	"Okay, I'll twist your tits - on one condition." he said,
finally.

	"Name it," groaned Barry, grinding himself down again onto the
prisoner's prick.

	"Lick my pecker clean after I'm done fucking you."

	Barry laughed, and thought for a few moments. Then he agreed
he would do it.

	Now it was Sabo's turn to laugh. "I knew you'd like that, you
limpwristed little log cabin Republican asslicker!" he hissed. "You
fucking little closet queen fat ass! I'm gonna twist your fucking big
saggy woman's tits right off of your D cup chest!" Then he snapped
his fingers and pointed at the jar of conducting gel. "Gimme that
dipwaddy do-do shit!"

	Barry reddened and handed Sabo the jar. Quickly the prisoner
dipped fingers from both his hands into the aqua gel and reached
around Barry from both sides to apply it to his pink nipples,which
hardened at his touch and perked up and out of the mat of black chest
hair that surrounded them. The governor cooed with delight as the
black prisoner tightened his grip like a vise on his tits and rose out
of the chair into a standing position, hefting Broadshanks up with
him.

	"Time for you to bend over, Mr. politician," chuckled Sabo,
helping Barry into position. "Got a big piece o' pork to offer you.
And we both know how much you LOVE pork!"

	And so Sabo commenced his stand up assault on the governor's
backside, as the politician squealed with delight. "Oh, god! Harder!
Deeper!" he cried as Sabo nailed his thrice-elected ass and tweaked
his nipples. Barry's hunger increase to the point that he considered
undoing Sabo's leg shackles to expand his range of movement, but came
up with a creative, alternative solution. He grasped the unhooked
wrist clamps on the chair arms, one in each hand, which allowed him to
lean farther forward without falling on his face. But what was even
better was that because the chair was firmly anchored to the floor, he
could also safely support Sabo's weight as he thrust forward with his
ankles still secured. The result was that the two men were engaged in
an almost sculptural-looking sort of flying fuck that extended out
into the space in front of the electric chair.

	And so, this sort of winged, victorious pose was the position
of the governor of Idohiowa at the moment that he approached climax.
His rigid dick arched up in front of him parallel to his arched,
ecstatic body, ironically a half an inch longer when fully erect than
the black cock that was pile driving his prostate and triggering his
first man to man orgasm. In Barry's mind, though, Sabo's 'savage',
totemic rod would always be a foot long at least, and certainly as
enormous as his long repressed desire. It wouldn't be long now till he
would have what he wanted from the prisoner, could leave him alone
again, and allow the execution to continue. He'd never intended to use
the pardon, of course, except as a way out in case the plan hit a
snag. And THAT hadn't occurred!

	Though with part of his brain always focused on survival,
Sabo, too, was at that moment becoming overwhelmed by his own
impending orgasm. It was going to be a major one, he felt, fired by a
combination of the silky hot receptivity of Barry's fuckhole and the
triumphant acting out the ultimate power reversal.

	Imagine! The very fat cat who had engineered his condemnation
to death was now stripped almost bare and submitting to a punishing,
sodomizing fuck under his supposed victim's deliciously vengeful,
relentless penile thrusts. The bastard was taking them up the ass,
where each and every one of them served as a richly deserved response
to the equally innumerable pieces of bad legislation upon which he had
penned his signature and made into law during his wretched terms in
office. The incredible satisfaction this situation gave Sabo was about
to express itself seminally and ejaculatorily inside the secretly
cunt-like, dick-hungry rectum of the single most powerful man in the
state.

	But alas, this was also the moment when REAL power finally
asserted itself.

Article 116285 of alt.sex.stories:
From: an179397@anon.penet.fi (Stroker Al)
Date: Sat, 23 Dec 1995 22:52:58 UTC
Subject: The Executionee's Schlong 4/4 (M/M)

		      The Executionee's Schlong
				  by
			      Stroker Al
			      Part Four

	We're talking about real power now. Not Broadshank's illusory
25 year crawl towards a shot at the Presidency. Not Sabo's skillful
yet incomplete manipulations to gain the upper hand in his situation.
But shear, raw power. Fifty Thousand juicy volts of it, surging madly
now through cock-thick cables in the prison's death row wing after
temporarily being interrupted by a governor's lust and a minion's
obedience.

	Yes sir, this was the only real power on the scene now that
could make all the other pale imitations of it fall to their knees in
subjugation to it.

	Of course some of those who hunger for power are always ready
to fall to their knees. Broadshanks turned out to be such a man, as
we've seen. But let us now check up on another man, in a related, yet
different situation. His name is Price Washington, and at this moment
of truth he has dropped to his knees and relinquished to another man
his temporary grasp on real power, in exchange for for the sake of a
mere symbol of it, and, like his hero, Supreme Court justice Clarence
Thomas, the immediate gratification that he gets by worshiping such
symbols.

	"Oh, Price!" moaned Robert Lincoln as he leaned back against
the utility room wall and narrowed his eyes to slits behind the
borrowed reflector shades he was now wearing. "Oh yes, oh yes!"

	A minute ago He'd been merely flirting with Broadshank's
hunkiest security officer, whom he'd discovered, just as the light
went, in the small utility room down the hall with his powerful black
fist around the main power shut off switch for the death row wing of
the prison.

	Price's stunning good looks, which were obvious even while
illuminated, as they were now, only by penlight, had quickly
distracted Robert from his original goal of finding out what
Broadshanks was up to. Before he knew it, Robert was flirting with the
man, getting hard, and teasing him about the cruising benefits of his
mirrored specs that Price, in response, allowed him to try on. Robert
demonstrated how they allowed the wearer to stare undetected at any
man's face or crotch for as long as he wished. Washington had merely
smiled and taken the opportunity to reach out and fondle the court
clerk's own unguarded, expanding crotch. Robert nearly melted to feel
the gorgeous man's grip on his gonads and the gaze of those intense
brown eyes, which appeared so convincingly to be locked upon his own,
but which were actually focused on their lustful owner's double
reflection. Robert's face was relegated to a secondary point of focus,
like the rolling split screen credits at the end of a Fox Network
television program, while Price turned himself on, contemplating own
desires in general.

	After a couple of forceful, passionate tongue-burning kisses
and a quick glance at his stunning reflection in the lenses, Price was
on his knees, and, after fumbling with Robert's fly for a second or
two, soon had his eyes on the prize he sought - not the genuine prize
of equality that his brothers and sisters had been fighting for for
decades, but the means to some immediate, private gratification.
Making white men feel comfortable, and even real, real good, was what
gratified Price the most, and made him feel like he really belonged
with them. So there he was again, wrapping his dark lips around the
pinkish prick of yet another white man.

	Robert was in ecstasy, of course, and although he had never
doubted his talents of seduction, hadn't anticipated that he'd get so
far so soon. He hadn't even gotten around to proposing a deal about
getting the power turned back on, in the hopes of foiling whatever
mischief Broadshanks was up to, when it became clear he would no
longer need a deal. The big switch was now unguarded, two feet to his
right on the same wall, standing up as straight and rigid as an erect
as Price's now unsheathed prick, which he was furiously jacking
himself as he sucked off Robert.

	Damn, this man knew how to suck. He knew what white boys liked
to feel. Robert nearly slid down the wall with the activity and had to
reach out to steady himself. The switch was there for him and he clung
to it. A tremendous pounding on the utility room jarred him and he
cried out, simultaneously filling Price Washington's mouth with his
hot white ejaculate and pulling the switch sharply downward in
spontaneous reaction.



	What everyone in the observation room noticed first, of
course, was the sudden return of light and visibility. There was a
startled outcry of pleased surprise, which fell immediately silent
when the mere ability to see had progressed into understanding of the
sight that appeared before them.

	For the last 20 minutes, none of them had seen anything but
the faces of whichever nearby neighbors had briefly been illuminated
in the light from their bic lighters or matches. Struck illegally, but
irresistibly during the long wait for power to be restored.

	Now, with the power on, the suspended particle glass screen
had returned, as it should have, to the mode it was in when the power
had been lost: transparent. The witnesses and press could now see
their Governor, Barry Broadshanks, getting fucked up the ass by a
condemned prisoner on the electric chair.

	There was no mistaking by anyone who saw it what was going on,
no matter how sexually naive they may have been. There, between
Broadshank's chubby thighs, all the more clear to view under camera
flashes, was the ebony root of the prisoner's dick disappearing up
into Barry's parting ass crack, the prisoner's pre-come and the gel
lubricant dribbling out over the big, twin brown balls that had worked
their way out of Sabo's fly in the process of fucking. Less
immediately recognizable (even by his fascinated wife and son in the
front row) was Broadshanks, whose normally sour face had been
transformed by orgasmic ecstasy. It was his signature hypocrisy,
curiously enough, that finally rendered his identity unmistakable, as
signified by the stars and stripes boxer shorts that had been pulled
down around his ankles.

	This all occurred in less than a second. Immediately, the
effects of the high voltage electricity that was now surging to the
electric chair began to be visible by all.

	There were two points of contact that allowed the 50,000 volts
of electricity to surge through the two men's bodies. First was Sabo's
ankles, which were, of course, still clamped to the foot of the chair.
The other point was the wrist clamps, which Barry was grasping as
tight as he could. With a sudden surge of power, there are generally
two predictable responses. The person is either shocked into hanging
on or letting go. Barry's gripping hands virtually fused to the metal
straps when the electricity hit.

	Sabo cried out when the burning rush of power raced from his
ankles up his legs and converged at the nearest appendage, which of
course, was his hard dick, which also happened to be slathered in
conducting gel. The effect was that his cock heated up like a big
bratwurst in a the rotiserie of Broadshank's ass. Sabo's dick expanded
and instantly jettisoned the super-heated semen that had already been
racing on its way to be ejaculated when the electricity returned.

	If the gel-slicked cock of the prisoner hadn't heated up
enough on its own to sear the Republican's prostate, than the sudden
napalm-like barrage of lava-hot semen that erupted in his ass would
have done the trick.

	As frightening and painful as this was for Sabo, it was
nevertheless and orgasm, and in fact the most powerful he'd ever had,
and pleasurable as well.

	So, too, although Barry's asshole felt then like a fireplace
being stirred with a hot poker, his button had definitely been pushed,
and his own orgasm proceeded as well. A gush of hot white semen shot
out of his erect prick and splashed the glass screen copiously, though
not enough to block much of the view, dotting it with literally
steaming come. But as the last few drops squirted up his dick, they
combusted spontaneously, creating fiery sparks as though the Governor
had a Roman candle between his legs instead of a dick.

	The black hands that all could see gripping Barry's tits began
to convulse with the surging electricity. Current was now being
directed toward Barry's chest through all four of the pair's arms. The
effect was that Barry's tits began to spark and smoke, and finally
flash into flame like pasties on a 4th of July stripper. The mini-
blaze roared across the forest of his chest hair and wiped its old
growth clean away, not unlike a number of forests that Barry and the
Idohiowa legislature, in short-sighted greed, had allowed to be
cleared. Sadly, the forests would take much more time to grow back
than a politician's chest hair.

	From there, the torrent of flame raced down Barry's whale
bellied treasure trail to his pubic bush, which vaporized in a cloud
of smoke. Seconds later, his mustache burst into flame, followed by
his dippity do sodden hair. Within seconds, the man who'd so craved to
be balled was bald as well. At that point his heart lurched into an
irregular beat and his hands released their grip on the straps, and
the governor collapsed forward onto the floor in a naked, hairless
sprawl.

	Sabo was knocked the opposite direction, back into the chair,
when the current suddenly stopped. This time the door to the chamber
had been finally broken through and the inside switch to the chair had
been turned off by prison guards. The guards stood around Barry, who
was crawling now, back towards the chair. The men watched stunned, but
somehow had the presence of mind to allow space enough between them to
let the observers in the next room watch as Barry crawled up into a
kneeling position in front of Sabo and took the prisoner's scorched
but still functional dick into his mouth, sucking it clean. He then
looked up for a second at the gasping, out of breath prisoner, as if
to say "I kept my word," before dropping dead in a heap at his feet.

	"Cool!" said Barry Jr, to his mother, who having fainted, did
not reply. Somehow the young man felt he understood his father at
last. He was sorry the old man was dead now, because they could have
had some mighty interesting arguments if he'd lived.

	No one else in the observation room said a word, though
photographers continued to take photographs that they knew, somehow,
would never be published.

	As part of the bargain of silence he made with prison
officials, the DA, the governors office and the owners of Gannett news
service, Sabo Mabaku-Jabeer, now free and pardoned, was allowed to
speak at the funeral of Barry Broadshanks, despite the protests of the
governor's wife. Sabo had also been given all photographic and
documentary evidence of the incident for his own archives, provided he
keep them inaccessible to everyone for at least 75 years.

	The one condition that had been applied to his eulogy was the
same that was applied to all his subsequent public speaking. No
references could be made to the sexual indiscretion that Barry had
committed with him, or to the circumstances of his death.

	Gloria flatly refused her boss' recommendation that she attend
the service in the state capitol.

	Her former coworker, Robert, with his new, likewise unemployed
boyfriend listened guiltily to the eulogy in the latter's apartment in
the state capitol over his illegally retained radiophone, as another
friend on the attorney general's staff broadcast it to him from the
funeral.

	As Mabaku-Jabeer rose to the podium at the outdoor capitol
step ceremony, Barry Jr horrified his mother by stopping the man to
get his autograph on a memorial service leaflet.

	"There are those that have claimed that Governor Barry
Broadshanks was a shallow and opportunistic man," Sabu began, in his
short address, which as agreed, had not been pre screened or edited.

	"Even I, as you may recall, was compelled at times to make
statements to that effect while fighting for my life. But that was
before I came to know him in this past week following my conviction
and sentencing. I came to know him intimately. In the end - his end -
I finally knew him in the same sense that some of you religious folks
know your Bible. I knew him Biblically, I guess you could say.

	Barry Jr sniggered.

	Robert, despite himself, sniggered too. Price just gave him a
look.

	"And I discovered that he was a deep, deep man. I found that
in the eleventh hour when he came to me, pulled down the barriers
between us and opened himself up to me, allowing me to probe depths of
his consciousness and mercy. For that moment, he offered me a safe
harbor for the hardness of my life."

	Even Price cracked up at that one. Robert smiled at him and
pulled him closer. Finding jobs in this town was not going to be easy.
It was good that they could laugh now.

	"And once he had so completely grasped the urgency of my stiff
predicament, it touched a sensitive spot deep inside him. And from
that moment on, up until his queerly sudden death, he worked
feverishly to bring us both to the brink of release: I from my false
conviction, and he from his burden of bureaucratic and legal
injustice.

	"He succeeded, of course, and freedom gushed forth. Clearly,
the man was still overflowing with that famous spunk, right up to his
end. I, Sabo Mabaku-Jabeer, mourn that end."

				* * *