Welcome to Dicksburg 3

By Hypnothrill - hypnothrill@yahoo.com
published August 1, 2020
2705 words
Summary

Youssef discovers the secrets of Dicksburg…

So here’s the conclusion. I understand that some of you will think it’s too short and doesn’t spend enough time exploring the town of Dicksburg and its residents, but I encourage other authors to play in this sandbox, either by setting their stories in Dicksburg or coming up with their own fictional small southern towns full of gay mind control. This chapter goes to some darker places, so I’d be really interested in hearing your reactions in the comments section!


Youssef woke at the crack of dawn and took out his earbuds. That white noise app really worked a treat; he’d slept soundly the whole night through. Wiping the sleep from his eyes, he got out of bed, grabbed his prayer mat, and said his Fajr, his dawn prayers.

It was a challenge performing all his Salah, his five scheduled daily prayers, on a roadtrip like this one. He had to plan ahead, making sure he’d have time and space to be by himself and pray. Luckily, Rob and Xander had been very respectful, even if it was clear they didn’t quite understand his need to pray five times a day. Youssef wasn’t quite sure he understood it himself. He supposed it just kept him in touch with his heritage, something he was always in danger of losing in a big melting pot like America.

After he carefully put his prayer mat back in his suitcase, Youssef tried to figure out what to do next. Rob and Xander probably wouldn’t be up for another couple of hours. Maybe he could go for a morning run, see some more of the town. This was probably the safest time to do it; at six in the morning, there probably wouldn’t be a lot of people on the streets, so he’d face fewer cold stares or tense altercations.

Youssef changed into a pair of nylon running shorts and his old Muslim Students Association T-shirt. He reached for his black facemask then decided to leave it in the room; just in case he did run into someone along the way, he didn’t want them mistaking him for a terrorist or a burglar.


Youssef ran down the main road, past the diner where they’d gone last night. He was surprised that so many people seemed to be out this early. He kept passing by men who gave him a smile and a friendly wave, often calling out, “Welcome to Dicksburg!” as he ran past. Maybe he was wrong about the Deep South. Maybe these sleepy little towns were friendlier than he’d imagined, even to people who looked like him.

Youssef’s run took him past the high school football field, where he could see a group of shirtless teenage boys, some black and others white, running practice drills. Their two coaches—one white, the other black—waved at him as he ran by. A bit further on, he spotted a construction site, where the Hispanic crew—clad in nothing but soccer shorts and hard hats—waved at him, calling out “Bienvenido a Dixburg!” as he passed by.

Huh, maybe the town was more multicultural than he thought too. All these guys from different races getting along, showing each other plenty of Southern hospitality. It was all guys, though. Come to think of it, Youssef couldn’t recall seeing any women out on the streets of Dicksburg. Maybe they were all staying at home, taking care of the kids.

The terrain started to feel a bit steeper, and Youssef noticed that he was running up a big hill. And then he saw what was on top of that hill: a big white antebellum plantation house. Youssef cringed a little as he saw the plantation in its place of pride, towering above the town. No matter how integrated Dicksburg was now, no matter how friendly everyone seemed—that kind of history couldn’t just be erased. The plantation loomed over the town as a painful reminder that Dicksburg had been built on slavery.

The road came close to the plantation house, and as Youssef approached it, he could see a bunch of expensive cars parked beside it: a Jaguar, a Porsche, a Ferrari. Wait, were people still living there? Youssef just assumed that most of these old plantations were now museums where schoolkids could go and learn about how things were in the bad old days.

Then he saw the front door open and two shirtless young men step out onto the front porch. It looked like there were people still living there. Youssef moved closer. Wait… was that…? No, it couldn’t be!

“Hey there, buddy,” Rob called out from the porch, a bit of an Alabama drawl already creeping into his voice, “You here to see Master Simon too?”

“What!?” Youssef cried out, “What are you guys doing here!? And what are you guys wearing!?”

Rob and Xander were shirtless, clad in nothing but a pair of denim cutoffs so tight and so short, their butts and ballsacs were practically hanging out.

“I know, isn’t it cool!” Xander gushed. “Young Master Davis and Young Master Jackson gave them to us. They said these shorts would feel so much better than our heavy old clothes when we’re out working in the fields.”

“Working in the fields? You’re going to wear these little short shorts to work in a field?”

“That’s right!” Rob chimed in. “Don’t be jealous, though. We told them about you, and they said they had an extra pair picked out just for you.”

Youssef’s head was spinning. What the hell was wrong with his friends? Why were they talking about working in the fields? What was with all this “Master” shit? And what were those shiny white streaks all over their chests?

“Listen, guys, I don’t know what’s going on here, but I think you need to come back with me. Let’s just go back to the motel, get our stuff, and get the fuck out of this weird town.”

“You mean… leave Dicksburg?” Xander asked, his face scrunched in confusion.

“That’s right, I think something in this town has just… warped your minds or something! If we can just get out of here, then maybe you’ll go back to normal!”

“But I don’t ever wanna leave Dicksburg! It feels like home to me,” Xander said placidly, as Rob nodded his head in vigorous agreement.

“So what?” yelled a frustrated Youssef, “You’re just gonna leave your job as a software engineer in Chicago to take a job plucking cotton in Bumfuck, Alabama that probably pays… what, minimum wage?”

“Pays?” Rob stared at him blankly, “Why would I need to get paid? The Dukes are so generous. They provide me with everything I need. I feel proud to work hard for such a fine family.”

“That’s right!” Xander agreed with a dizzy smile, “Pride in hard work! You can’t put a price tag on that!”

“Do you even hear yourselves right now?!” Youssef cried out in disgust, “This is crazy talk!”

“Oh, we just must be doin’ a bad job of explaining it,” said Rob, reaching out to grab Youssef’s arm, “Why don’t you come inside and meet Master Simon? It’ll all make sense when he explains it. Everything makes sense when Master Simon says it. And if you’re lucky, he’ll show you his big powerful cock too.”

“His… his WHAT?!”

“His big powerful cock,” Xander repeated. “Really, we were sooo lucky that we waited for Master Simon to take our cherries. Cause when I felt that big powerful cock deep in my butt, I knew I was exactly where I belonged.”

“You… you let this man fuck you in the butt?!”

Xander just nodded blithely, “Uh-huh, while we sucked off his sons. And then Davis and Jackson got their turn, and they’re almost as good as their daddy when it comes to fuckin’ butt—big powerful thrusts. Those are two fine young men with fine upstanding young cocks. You’ll see when you meet them,” he said, taking a step towards Youssef.

And at that moment, Youssef realized just how much danger he was in. So he yanked his arm free of Rob’s grasp and ran. He didn’t stop to think about where he was running; he just ran. He didn’t stop to acknowledge the men waving at him or calling out, “Welcome to Dicksburg!”; he just ran.

He ran past the “Welcome to Dicksburg” sign. He ran until he couldn’t see any more people, just trees and fields. He ran until he was on the verge of collapse, parched, out of breath, his eyes stinging with dripping sweat. Running across an open field, he lifted up his T-shirt to wipe the sweat from his face. And then he stumbled over a rut in the ground and fell flat on his face.

“You alright there, son? Here, let me help you up.” Strong arms lifted Youssef to his feet, and he found himself facing a black man in his 40s or 50s, with latte-colored skin that resembled Youssef’s own complexion.

“You sure you okay?” the man asked, “It looked like you was running from something. Or someone.”

Youssef didn’t know what to say. Could he trust this man to help him? Did he have any other choice?

Before he could decide, the man said, “I bet I know what happened. You was runnin’ from Dicksburg, wasn’t you? I’ve seen it before, men runnin’ away from that place. I’ve helped them out, and I’ll help you too. Just come with me, and I’ll get you cooled down and give you something to drink. I’m Tom, by the way.”

“Youssef,” he said, shaking the man’s hand.

“You…Youss… pardon me, I just can’t seem to wrap my tongue around that one. I’m just gonna call you Joe, if that’s alright by you.”

“That’s fine,” Youssef nodded as he walked into Tom’s house and relished the feeling of the cool air conditioning on his sweaty skin.

“Now, Joe, why don’t you just have a seat over there by the TV, and I’ll bring you a nice tall glass of my special sweet tea.”

“There’s no bacon in it, is there?” Youssef joked feebly.

“Naw, naw, no bacon,” Tom chuckled, “It’s a secret family recipe, but there definitely ain’t no bacon in it.”

The tea was so sweet and refreshing that Youssef gladly let Tom pour him a second glass. Then he finally asked the question that had been weighing on his mind, “What’s…what’s happening in that town? My friends, they…”

“Listen, son, it’s a long story. I wouldn’t even know where to begin. But I’ve got a video I can show you that’ll teach you how they do things over there in Dicksburg.” Tom reached for an old DVD and placed it in the player beside the TV.

A soft new age soundtrack started playing as the screen showed stereotypical pictures of a small southern town—magnolias in bloom, Spanish moss dangling from the trees, a white plantation house atop a hill.

Youssef gave a start and leaned forward, agitated, “That’s the place! That’s the house where they brainwashed my friends!”

“Alright, alright, boy, just settle down and relax,” Tom told him, “That’s the Duke Plantation. Now I ain’t gonna say nothing bad about the Dukes, seeing as they my kin and all, but those is some mighty powerful men.”

“Wait, what did you say?” Youssef asked. Something didn’t sound right, but his tired, heat-addled brain couldn’t quite work it out.

“Oh, nothing. Just forget I said anything, Joe. Just drink the rest of your tea, then settle down and watch the screen.” Tom’s voice was so soothing, Youssef found it easy to do as he said. Just take another sip of that sweet delicious tea and concentrate on the screen…

“Come join us on a journey to learn what makes our little town so special,” the deep Southern voice on the TV was saying. “By the time we’re through, you’ll feel right at home in Dicksburg too…”


Joe loaded the bushel full of corn onto the truck, then grabbed an empty basket as he wiped the sweat out of his eyes. He reckoned it must be nearly noontime by now, so he must have been working in the fields for the last five or six hours. Good thing he’d eaten a big breakfast: Virginia ham, plus biscuits slathered in spicy sausage gravy.

He’d nearly finished filling up the next basket when he spotted a rotten corncob, half-eaten by birds, and had a naughty idea. It wasn’t fit for harvest, but Joe could think of something else it would be a perfect fit for. He sucked on the rotten corncob, enjoying the taste of the few remaining sweet kernels, then lowered his denim cutoffs, letting his big brown cock flop out. Then he bent over and slowly worked the spit-slick corncob into his tight butt. Damn, that felt good! But Joe could think of something that would feel even better, so he called out, “Look here, y’all!” to his buddies Bobby and Zane, who were picking corn a couple rows down.

“Damn, boy! Sure looks like you could use some cornholin’!” Bobby chuckled as he walked over and pushed the corncob in and out of his buddy’s butt. “But I can give you somethin’ that feels even better than that lil corncob,” he smirked as he lowered his denim shorts to his ankles.

“And I’ve got somethin’ that can fill that purty little mouth-hole of yours,” Zane smirked as he unzipped his Daisy Dukes and thwacked his big dick against Joe’s pillowy lips.

Soon the three of them were fucking up a storm in the fields, like the down-home Southern boys they were. Who knows how long they would have gone on if their overseer Tom hadn’t come by and said, “Alright, boys, that’s enough foolin’ around. Wrap it up, and get back to work. Y’all still got a lot more corn to harvest for Master Simon today. And you want to make Master Simon proud of you, don’t you?”

Just the thought of Master Simon—of pleasing that powerful man with the Roman nose and the piercing blue eyes—was enough to send Zane over the edge, and he flooded Joe’s mouth with a load of hot white cum so large that some of it trickled down his chin, his neck, his chest, leaving faint white streaks on his brown skin.

Bobby always got off watching his buddies cum, and soon he was busting his nut deep in Joe’s butt. After he came, he knelt down to suck down some of his own sweet, salty cum as it dribbled down Joe’s caramel-colored buttocks. The feeling of Bobby’s pink tongue against his hole was all it took for Joe to shoot his own load all over the cornfield.

The three young men didn’t bother to wash up or even wipe up the cum that was still dripping from their increasingly muscular, tanned bodies. The Alabama sun would dry that up soon enough. They didn’t even bother tucking their dicks back into their shorts. They just let them dangle there, cum still dripping from the tips, as they went back to filling their baskets with corn.

Zane started whistling an old song he half-remembered from somewhere, and soon Bobby and Joe joined in too. Work went by quicker when you were whistling a happy tune with your buddies.

So there they worked on, happy as they’d ever been, happy as they’d ever be. Just three Southern boys whistling Dixie in an Alabama cornfield on an August afternoon.

Hot
Mind control
Wanking material
Writing
Idea
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