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." * * *