By "Mike"

Text Reader:

Within an hour of returning home from the hot session with Tom, Woody had located the news story about "The Wranglers", the now homeless cowboy fraternity on the Western Texas State University campus in Alpine. There were multiple versions of the story; a pledge had missed several consecutive days of classes due to what was determined to be "excessive paddling" at an annual stag picnic hosted by the group where the new pledges were "welcomed" into the fraternity with a paddle swat from every active member and alumnus present. This pledge, and each of his eighteen pledge brothers, had each received seventy-three swats of varying intensity. With hazing strictly forbidden, the pledge class had actually requested the traditional welcome, as had all previous classes, with a total of 1,387 swats delivered in a painful process mixed with what the university described as "excessive use of alcohol." The coveted prize for this treatment was a pair of leather chaps, branded with the Wrangler "W" brand on the right leg, which had been worn on the sidelines at football games for nearly one hundred years.

Woody noted the names of the Wrangler officers, as well as some of the pledges, and spent the following day googling the area, with what the internet was in 2010. The Wrangler club was almost entirely made up of the university's rodeo team, Ag and Farm and Ranch students, and had produced several Texas politicians and civic and corporate leaders during its vivid one-hundred-year history. He was fascinated with the club, and the deeper he dug the more he found. There were black and white pictures from early yearbooks of seniors with paddles, and pledges with mouths full of chewing tobacco. There was one of a long line of cowboys with paddles moving down a line of bent-over guys, presumably at an earlier version of the recent picnic that caused the group's trouble.

As he continued to research the area, he repeatedly came across an abandoned former whorehouse, located just out of town. Despite several realtors taking it on, it never managed to sell. The neglect continued, and its ownership reverted to the county due to unpaid taxes, according to the local sheriff, Randy Green. Woody took five days off from the bar, was on a plane to El Paso, and rented a car to Alpine.

Alpine was high in the west Texas mountains, and the cool air was crisp and crystal clear at night. After driving by the former whorehouse, Woody made several appointments: His first appointment was with Sheriff Randy Green.

Green's office was in an old two-story courthouse. His office was on the second floor, and the women in the outer office directed him to Sheriff Green's open door. When Green stood up to shake his hand, Woody was struck by his full six-foot-eight-inch height. He wore starched Wrangler jeans and a thick leather belt around his flat belly, a white shirt with his badge on the left pocket. He was strikingly handsome, prematurely grey-white with a dark mustache and trimmed sideburns. Daisy, his red dachshund who accompanied him everywhere, came out from under the desk to greet Woody. The men shook hands, with Sheriff Green insisting that Woody call him "Randy".

"So you're interested in the old whorehouse!", Randy exclaimed. He explained how it had been abandoned several years prior and would need a lot of fixing up to make it into a roadhouse bar, but that the county was "motivated" to sell it and the ten acres it sat on, and would offer it to him for payment of back taxes only. Woody couldn't help but notice Randy's Wrangler paddle on the wall, and imagined this handsome cowboy gentleman in his younger days, chewing mouthfuls of tobacco and giving and receiving the kind of licks the club was famous for. He knew from his research that Randy served The Wranglers as their Alumni Adviser for several years, a job that no one seemed willing to relieve him of. Randy retrieved the keys and the two set out in his patrol car for the whorehouse.

"You know, we never went here in my day," Randy said as they drove up the drive to the dilapidated structure.

"We used to go to Mexico. Believe it or not, the girls were a lot prettier and the place was a lot cleaner. I never knew of anybody who came back from Mexico with more than he left with. That, plus the fact that the madam went to the same beauty shop as all of our mothers."

Thanks to five years of working as a carpenter before moving to LA, Woody could see through the years of neglect and could see the potential of the place. He could imagine tearing out the numerous small fuck rooms and opening up the whole first floor into a large barroom, with a long bar on one end, a pool table and lots of seating. If he sublet his LA apartment, and with his steady monthly oil royalty, he thought he could manage it. There was the added bonus of turning the entire second floor into a large apartment for himself, along with the income the bar would produce.

On the way back to the courthouse, as they passed the rodeo arena, Woody brought up The Wranglers.

"You know, Randy, I heard about the situation the Wranglers are in." Randy shook his head and started in.

"Yeah. They're in a bit of trouble. They have no place to meet. They aren't allowed to meet anywhere on campus." Another deep breath, "They'll probably disband."

"Well,", Woody began, "Maybe we could help each other. If they could help me fix up the place over the summer, they could meet there. I'll bet they drink a lot of beer. All I ask is that they buy it from me."

Randy smiled from ear to ear. He picked up his phone and soon had the current Wrangler foreman on the line. He agreed to meet the two men in thirty minutes.


Two handsome cowboys walked into Randy's office a short time later.

"Shit!", Woody thought. "Do all the guys around here look like this?"

The two were excited at the idea of using the whorehouse as a meeting place, and enthusiastically offered the club's help. Woody offered at least two full-time paid carpentry positions for the summer, and welcomed any volunteers.

"We can send this year's pledge class, and any other guys who will be around for the summer.", the foreman said.

"Are those pledges the ones who got paddled bad last week?, Woody asked, trying not to look too interested. The other young man, a tall, good-looking sandy-haired cowboy named Will, answered..

"Yes, sir", he said sheepishly. "I'm one of 'em. Seventy three licks."

Randy whistled backwards in sympathy.

"I heard about you all on the national news in LA.", Woody replied, trying to engage the guy. '"Shit - that's a lot of licks."

"Yes, sir.", he replied, shifting in his chair. "I'm still feeling 'em."

"Shit, I'll bet you are.", Randy said. "I got sixty three licks at my picnic. I thought you looked familiar. I remember you from the other day. I went a little easy on you guys, I always do. We old ones feel sorry for you guys and what you've been through. I gave you guys what we used to call a "six", as opposed to a "nine" or a "ten".

"Appreciate it, sir.", he said, shifting in his chair. "I wish they had all been "sixes".

"You know", Randy said, "the ones that hit you the hardest are usually your good buddies. They want to be remembered."

"This guy right here,", Will said, pointing at John with his thumb, "He tried to lift my boots off the ground!"

"Hey,", John said defensively, "I'm the foreman. That's my job!"

"Yeah," I remember back when I was foreman, "Randy said. "You can't go easy on some and hard on others. So the foreman is at the end of the line and is supposed to go hard on everybody. I think those picnic swats were some of the hardest ones I ever gave."

Woody was loving the banter between these guys, and anytime the subject shifted away from the paddling, he would bring it back. He knew just how far to push it, remembering that "cowboys hate queers. Even queer cowboys hate queers."

"There were guys as bad or worse off than my pledge brother in the news. That guy didn't report it himself. His roommate narked on him."

"You don't mind a little ... paddling, do you Woody?", Randy asked, his old chair squeaking as he leaned back and placed his size 13 boots on his desk. "It's kind of a tradition for this group."

"Shit no.", Woody replied, "I don't care what you guys do, as long as you're careful, hang out at my place, and buy your beer from me."

When the meeting ended and the young men stood up, Woody focused on the new member's nice, tight Wrangler butt, imagining him wincing with each added swat. Will bent down to pet Daisy, and his face reflected the reminder of pain as he stood up. What he wouldn't give to see the jeans come down revealing the purple and yellow bruises that had to be there. He heard his name repeated. The thought vanished. It was John, the foreman, with his hand extended.

"Mr. Morrison" he repeated. "Thank you, sir. We appreciate this and we'll help you any way we can, sir."

"Call me Woody. All you guys.", Woody insisted.

"Thank you, Woody.", he corrected.

Will extended his hand, saying "Woody, if you're serious about the carpentry job, I'd sure be interested. I've done it the past two years, and I'm looking for construction work for the summer."

Damned right he was serious. Nothing better than watching this stud working in the hot sun.

The two exchanged numbers and agreed to meet the next morning at the whorehouse to discuss the project.

Randy and Woody returned to business. The whole process took less than an hour. The outstanding taxes for the property were just under seventy five thousand dollars. Woody wrote a check. Randy handed him the keys and a receipt. He was the proud owner of a dilapidated whorehouse.

The next morning, Woody and Will met at the whorehouse and walked the property, measuring it. Once again, Will looked incredible, this time in a loose, grey wife-beater tee shirt tucked into his Wranglers, with extra-long armholes that reached his belt adding ventilation and exposing a tight, toned body. He wore work boots today, with his Wranglers casually tucked into the tops. Woody did his best to concentrate, but it was almost impossible being around a guy like this, especially one with a sore ass from being paddled. Woody would draw plans back in LA before returning in a week. The two decided to start work upstairs first, to get Woody's apartment ready first. In the meantime, Woody would stay at the Motel 6 at the truck stop nearby, which had long-term rates. The crumbling staircase inside would come out to make way for the long bar, which meant the rickety outside staircase to Woody's apartment needed to be rebuilt. Upstairs, more fuck rooms would be coming out, leaving a large, open space with two bathrooms he would combine into one large one. The loft apartment was big, with views out all four sides. Once outside, they looked at the long, low wooden split-rail fence that divided the property. It must have been used to hitch horses years before.

"That fence is too low for much of anything. I guess we'll take it out.", Woody remarked.

"You know, Woody. I was thinking. That rail fence would sure work for the picnic."

"What? How?"

"Well, uh, I'm not supposed to talk about it, but since we'll be meeting here... "

"Yeah?", Woody asked.

"At the picnic last Friday," Will hesitated, "When it came time for the welcome tradition and the chaps ceremony ...,"

"You mean the seventy three licks", Woody said, again hiding his excitement.

"Yeah. We had to bend over in a long line, with our big brothers holding our shoulders."

"Oh shit, boy. Keep going.", Woody thought, his dick starting to stir.

"What if we had the guys bend over this rail, with their big brothers on the other side, holding their shoulders? It could , uh, help with stability. It would have been nice to have somethin' to bend over."

Woody was amazed. He didn't even start this conversation!

"Show me what you're talking about.", Woody said, pretending not to understand.

Will put down his clipboard and moved to the rail, which caught him at about his crotch level. He bent over the rail, spreading his boots and reached over and firmly gripped the bottom rail. His perfect ass was at the perfect height for a paddle. Woody had his camera ready from the many pictures he had taken during their inspection, and snapped a couple of quick pictures in silent mode. His dick was hard, pushing against the crotch of his jeans.

"See?", Will continued, still in position, "This rail would easily hold an entire pledge class, spaced out. The guys can hold on to this bottom rail. The actives would start on that end and swat their way down the line."

"Okay. It stays!", Woody replied as Will returned to his feet.

"Of course, it's not up to me, but while you're gone I'll run it by John and a couple of other board members, if it's okay with you. Either way, we won't tear it down until you get back."

"Sure, hey". Woody joked. "Have 'em bring a paddle with 'em and give you a few licks to test it out!"

"NO WAY, Sir!", laughing. "This butt's not getting any more wood any time soon!"

Woody had pushed this guy about as far as he could go without coming across like the pervert he was.

When they finished surveying, Woody shook his hand and said,

"Bring a buddy and keep track of your hours. Start with the demo upstairs. Everything goes, and trailer it all to the dump.

"Yes, Sir!"

"I'll draw the new outside stairs and partition the apartment and we'll work on that next. See you in a week".


"What do you mean you're moving to Texas!"

"I know, Tom, I-uh", Woody stammered, across the table at the restaurant where they were having lunch.

"I haven't even fucked your ass yet!", Tom said angrily, staring at the table.

"You drive a truck, right?", Woody asked, already knowing the answer.

"Yeah. Part time."

"You ever truck on I-10?

"Whenever I want", Tom answered hopefully.

"You know where Alpine is?"

"SHIT!", Tom shouted softly, "That's less then thirty minutes off the interstate! The hottest truck stop on I-10 is there. I hook up there all the time."

"That truck stop", Woody whispered, "is less than fifteen minutes from my fucking whorehouse!"

Woody took in the sight of Tom, sitting across from him, a far cry from the evil leatherman he had met at the bar. He had on jeans and a shirt, sleeves rolled up to just below the elbow. His hair was cut short, his eyes light brown, a light, trimmed beard, darker than his hair. He was good looking, with a nice smile that was hidden the other night by the cigar.

Woody had been thinking about Tom the entire time he was in Alpine. They both seemed to identify primarily as tops, which was unlike any relationship Woody had ever been in. The thought of controlling and being controlled at the same time was very interesting. Tom had been having similar thoughts. They discussed it at length during lunch, especially the truck stop in relation to Woody's new home.

"Lets go back to my place.", Tom said, with an evil grin.

"Actually,", Woody replied, "tonight is my last night at the bar, and they're planning something special for me. Come to the bar tonight?"

"Wouldn't miss it."

Woody had worked at the bar about two years, and had been a big hit with the customers and staff alike. He was always in full cowboy gear, a look that started out as natural to him but turned into more of a character at the bar. He took extra time getting ready for his last night. He didn't know how tonight would end, but he had a good idea Tom would be involved.

During a steaming hot shower, he foamed up his balls and focused on his asshole. He had bought a cleansing lube at The Eagle, and pumped a good amount onto his right hand. He cleaned his crack as best he could with the unscented, flavorless cleanser, before playing at his hole. He pumped more lube on his index finger and slid it in, first to the middle knuckle then all the way in, vigorously cleaning as far as he could. He was about 75% top, so this was fairly unusual territory for him. There was no trace of the shit he had taken that morning when he pulled his finger out and he washed his hands completely. Once out, he ran a comb through his hair and shaved. His dick was sticking straight out, and he gave it a quick tug, as he turned around, for a quick look at his ass. The marks and soreness from the hard set of licks Tom had given him last week at the bar were finally gone. He reached for a clean shirt and a clean pair of jeans, both heavily starched from the laundry around the corner. The Wranglers were well-worn and faded, and slid off the hanger like cardboard, and he began the process of prying the legs apart and forcing his legs into them. He slid the jeans over his bare ass, carefully tucking his shirt in and smoothing the shirttail out so there wouldn't be a line across his ass. The fit was snug and way too long in the legs, so the excess would gather around the ankles of his boots in a look they called "stacking" in the rodeo circuit. He put on a pair of brown western boots and did a few deep squats, breaking the starch at the knees and butt, and crunching the six-inches of excess length into a good stack that looked like it formed itself. Sharp white creases rose up from the piled denim on his boots up the fronts and backs of his legs, disappearing into his tight, faded Wrangler butt, which every cowboy is most proud of. He wore his thick, brown, tooled leather belt which spelled his name in western letters, the middle belt loop above his starched ass perfectly dividing the name "Woody" between the two "O's" He knew this pair of jeans well. There was a nickel-sized worn area just to the left of the right hip pocket, where the brass rivet was starting to separate from the pocket. He knew the hole was there, revealing a glimpse of his white ass inside. The left pocket was marked with a white ring to hold his Cope can. He was not usually this into his looks, but he looked pretty damned good for a forty year old man.

Once at the bar, he went into the kitchen and put on his brown leather chaps. The chaps were shorter "chink" style, ending in the middle of his shins. They buckled just under his belt buckle, buckled in back at mid thigh, and were of course, open in the crotch, between the legs and perfectly framed his faded, tight Wrangler butt with the worn rivet and Cope can in plain view. They were real chaps, not the leather-store variety, that he had worn for years at the ranch working cattle, and he would be sure to take them home tonight. As he prepared the bar, the early customers started to come in. He figured they were planning something for his last night, and since it was "Spanking Night", he was prepared for anything. And he had something for Tom. His sparkling clean asshole.

The bar began to slowly fill up with "angry" looking daddies and nervous young men, soon to be spanked. Woody's friends had turned out for his last night and were there to wish him good luck. It was not long before a "daddy / son" duo started things off, with a lengthy, bare-assed spanking that started out light before gradually moving to medium-hard with a belt. There were a few more spankings, mostly mild but fun to watch, with all the participants sharing drinks and comments afterwards. There was one particular couple, another "dad / son" pair, that seemed more serious. The dad, a beer-bellied, bearded redneck type picked up a razor strop that was waiting on the bar, dragged his redneck son over to an empty table, opened his jeans and yanked them down, bent him over and proceeded to wail the living shit out of the younger guy. This was no "spanking". It was a full force, hard licking, complete with kicking, shouting, real tears and a bright red ass. The crowd responded with loud clapping. Tom had entered the bar, once again in black leather, and sat down at the end of the bar where Woody was working. Then the lights dimmed. and the bar manager had the microphone.

"Okay, guys. As you know, tonight is the last night for one of your favorite bartenders, Cowboy Woody!" The crowd cheered and whistled.

"Woody, one of your buddies has a special surprise for you. This is from "Tom". A large platter came out from the kitchen with a large, brown cake - shaped like a paddle. A baker friend of Tom's had baked it - from two square cake pans stuck together, with a long cake "handle". The edges were rounded, and once it was iced in flat caramel icing, two rows of "holes", made with the end of a large wooden spoon, ran down it. There were wood-grain marks in brown icing and the name "WOODY" in large, hillbilly letters. Woody was speechless, as the crowd cheered. The bar owner was now holding a real paddle, the one Tom had busted Woody with the week before.

"Now guys, it's Spanking Night. Woody, come over here. We're going to give Woody a little going away present."

Woody had an idea what was coming. He moved to the center of the stage, where he was told to bend over. The owner, with great ceremony, took a dollar bill out of his wallet, folded it, and placed it in Woody's now empty Cope ring pocket, making sure the bill stuck out slightly.

"Now guys, here's a "one dollar" swat.

He placed the board against Woody's ass and swung a light tap across it.

"Now let's see a "five-dollar" swat." he said, placing a folded five dollar bill into the same pocket.

Then swat was a good bit harder, a medium-hard swat with a nice "POP". Woody smiled in good-sport appreciation.

"Now Woody. You know what comes next?"

"A TEN dollar swat?

"Yes, sir!" He once again folded the bill and this time placed it in Woody's right hip pocket. "The tens go over on this side guys. You ready Woody?"

"Go ahead."

The owner dramatically rubbed the paddle across Woody's ass, before drawing it back in a full swing.


Tom was amazed at the hardness of it. So was Woody.

"Now guys, lets fill up Woody's hip pockets for him!"

The guys took their turns, and Woody took their licks in good fun, shaking hands afterwards or even hugging the ones he knew well. There were a lot of fives in his left pocket, and a few tens in his right. Finally he took his place back behind the bar, coming out whenever it was time for a lick. His pockets were getting full, so another bartender emptied them out into a jar and he started over. Though nothing like what Tom had given him the week before, there were some good licks on his butt. And he felt them. Several guys remarked about the now red skin of his ass that was visible through the hole in his jeans.

The paddle cake was slowly getting smaller, and as the crowd got smaller, Woody took all the money from his pockets and the jar and put it into the bartender's tip jar. They protested, but were finally moved by his gesture. He said his goodbyes, promised to visit often, and he and Tom left the bar together.

"You got some LICKS, my friend.", Tom said as they walked this time to Woody's place.

"I don't know how many", he said, rubbing his ass.

"I counted at least twenty-five. I didn't count any of the dollar swats.

"I noticed you didn't add yours."

"No, I wanted you to feel the love back there. Those were your buddies".

As they entered Woody's apartment, Tom could tell at first glance that Woody had more money than he made at the bar. He obviously did not need that tip money that he so graciously gave to the bar and kitchen staff. The place was industrial / modern, in the warehouse district, hidden behind a loading dock front. Like Tom's, it was one large room, old brick walls. Despite his rough, cowboy exterior, Woody kept a neat place and was proud of it. There was dark leather furniture, a steel coffee table, a few antiques and modern and eclectic art. Tom could see that there was much more to discover about this man.

Woody had barely made them each a bourbon on the rocks when he felt Tom behind him, his hands on his shoulders, slowly making his way down his back into a squat. Tom felt the hot ass at his face and playfully poked his tongue into the hole in his jeans. Tom unfastened the chaps from Woody's thighs and Woody unbuckled the front. Tom tossed them aside as Woody unbuttoned his shirt. Tom returned his attention to Woody's ass, gnawing at the stiff denim stretched over his crack, his hands tight against his firm legs. He reached in front and unfastened the belt and jeans and slowly slid them down to his boots. Woody raised first one boot, then the other, as Tom tugged them off and tossed them and the socks aside.

Despite the fiery pain in his ass, Woody could feel Tom's hands pulling his red cheeks apart, and the whiskers of his beard against the still-white skin of his crack as his tongue found the hole. Tom's breath was hot and deep in his crack, perhaps turned on by the natural but not dirty smell and taste that Woody had prepared for him. He spent a lot of time here, as Woody's dick grew rock hard and dripped precum.


Woody moved to the end of the bed, as Tom retrieved a towel from the bathroom and placed it between Woody's knees on the bed. Tom retrieved a small tube of lube from his pocket and lubed up his right index finger. In one motion, he stuck it deep into Woody's ass as far as he could go.

"OWWW, OWWW, OWWWWWWW!", Woody shouted. The assault was about as fun as a digital rectal exam. "Don't you do ANYTHING easy?!?"

"Nope", Tom answered, slowly backing his finger back out to the second knuckle. He knew what he was looking for. There it was. Woody's prostate was firm inside, and as soon as Tom touched it, Woody jumped at the unfamiliar sensation. Tom began a slow massage against it, with the flat part of his finger. Painful at first, Woody soon relaxed into it, his dick semi-hard and dripping clear fluid. His hand instinctively went to his dick.

"DON'T TOUCH YOUR DICK!" Tom shouted. "I'm doing it all from back here."

"But ..."

"Do you know what a Super O is?", Tom asked, continuing the massage.

"Super orgasm? I've read about it", Woody said, beginning to moan in response to the long, steady massage.

"You're about to have one."

Woody's moans grew louder, just as Tom felt his prostate harden. Woody's dick was still semi-erect, but dripping harder. Soon he shuddered into a violent orgasm, his ass clamped hard around Tom's prying finger. The orgasm went on much longer than any other Woody had ever experienced. There was no ejaculation, other than the clear fluid through the semi-hard dick.

"DON'T TOUCH YOUR DICK!!!" Tom demanded, as Woody tightened up again into a second, shaking orgasm, this time racing throughout his entire body, lasting longer than the previous one. It settled into a milder, continuous orgasm, which Tom controlled with his finger. Woody moaned and twisted under it, finally begging for it to stop. The clear fluid was streaming out of his cock into the towel below.

"Please, PLEASE stop! No more!" as his body shook into a third full orgasm. The towel between his knees was soaked. Woody was red-faced and tears ran down both his cheeks. Tom backed out, as his dick poked straight out of his leather pants.


"Yes, SIR!", Woody shouted. He was dizzy when he stood up. His dick drooled a long trail of precum.

Woody turned him around.


Tom moved behind him, and in one push was fully inside. Woody's eyes watered as Tom began his slow, deep movements, nearly pulling out before returning in deep thrusts. It would not be long, with Tom's rock-hard and purple cock burried deep inside to his belly. His arms reached around Woody's waist as he shot a heavy load in three separate waves deep inside. His hand found Woody's dripping dick and he began to stroke it, his semi-hard dick still deep inside.


Woody's cock stiffened quickly in Tom's hand as the stroking grew frenzied, and he shook again as he shot a big load into the towel. Tom had completely controlled the entire encounter. He had topped a top. Woody collapsed back onto the bed, as his cock flopped to the side. Tom put his wet cock back into his fly, washed his hands and returned to a leather arm chair and sipped his bourbon, his booted feet crossed on the side of the bed.

"You care if I smoke?" he said, pulling out another cigar.

"Man, you can do WHATEVER you want!", Woody said still breathing hard and staring straight up at the ceiling.

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