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Sheriff Roughscale

The Mother Lode is the same as it is every night, full of many types of anthros having a good time. You look around from your usual spot in the corner on the back side of the main room, opposite the bar; giving you the best vantage point to spot any outlaws or troublemakers as they enter. Your dark green scales are hidden perfectly by the shadow created by the walkway and banister on the second floor above you. Despite your slight paunch, typical of men in their forty's like you, your towering, brawny, massive jawed figure emerging from the shadows is enough to scare off most trouble makers. Those who don't scare as easily are often caught off guard by how strong you are; between the muscles on your front and the plates on your back, you've easily taken down many a curly wolf in this miner's town, which you are proud to serve and protect. You are a man who rarely has to resort to the pistols you keep snuggly holstered at your sides. Needless to say, you can break up a bar fight single handedly often with just your booming voice, but you can take down the biggest and the rowdiest brawlers by physical force if you have to.

Experience tells you that you that things are calm enough tonight for you to relax yourself a bit. Lifting your tail off the ground slightly, you walk around to make sure all is right in the establishment; your star-shaped badge reflects the lights from the hanging lanterns as you exit from the shadows. While walking around floor you are greeted by all the regulars--local men patronizing the establishment--and the well-dressed showgirls. They all know you well enough to look past the gold eyes and the two bottom teeth jutting from your closed maw. You notice a new face, the young ranch hand at the bar. He has just turned old enough to get into the bar, and it's obvious why he is here. You give the horse a knowing pat on the shoulder for good luck as you pass him.

You ascend the stairs. The beautiful avian showgirl looking over the banister, who you've had the pleasure of acquainting yourself with a number of times before, greets you with a wink of her experienced eye. You go by each room, briefly placing your ear at each door to listen in on whoever is inside. No sound of trouble, just the usual bed creaking and God calling.

As you descend back down the stairs, you note there are three newcomers who have arrived since you walked your rounds. They are an odd, but harmless looking group seemingly intent on gambling away all of their money. You'll keep an eye on them just in case, but now you see an old friend of yours you've known since cubhood. The fox motions for you to come over and have a drink with him. You make your way to the table to join your vulpine friend, giving a nod and a tip of your hat to the regulars again. You arrive at the table and greet him with a handshake from your firm claw. His manner of dress--black dress shoes, pleated black pants, white button-up shirt--is in great contrast to yours--.a blue plaid button-up shirt, brown leather vest, blue jeans, brown leather chaps, spurred riding boots, and a brown cowboy hat.

"Bartender," he calls to the cheetah at the bar, "a whiskey for the Sheriff!"

You notice his usually red fur has greyed noticeably since you saw him just a week ago.

"Vernin," you say to him, "what's got yer fur agin' so fast?"

"It's my eldest boy, Joseph," he begins with a worried look on his face. "He's been cuttin' a lot of shines recently and it's starting to wear on me and the wife."

Your drink arrives. You take a good swig from it before you continue the conversation. "Now, Vern, the chap's at that age where boys test the waters. Remember how much of a little trouble maker you were when you were his age."

He takes a gulp of his own liquor and says, "It's not that, Russell. I didn't try to steal from the store clerks; I didn't take horses from the neighbors without permission; I didn't use swear words in front of my momma."

You took a gulp while he spoke. You are so appalled by the boy cussing in a lady's presence that you spit out your perfectly good alcohol. "He did what?" You wipe your mouth using the sleeve on your huge forearm. "He cussed with a lady in earshot, and his own mamma no less?"

"With his li'l brothers and sister in the same room," the fox speaks with a mix of shame and confirmation. "And he caught some of the neighbor girls off guard and flashed 'em his rattlesnake. And he pitched a fit when I tried to get a hold of 'im and discipline 'im." He holds his head with both paws, showing the effects of his stress. "Russ, I don't know what to do. He's only fourteen, but at this rate, he'll be a swindlin' bunko artist or thievin' ten-cent man. Hell, he may even be a tail chasin' rapist."

"I see yer worry now, Vern." You take another swig from your glass of whiskey.

"Russ, ya've dealt with kids like mah son before. Hell, more than a handful of youngin's have met your firm claws over the years, and they are productive members of the town. Do ya think ya can straighten mah boy out? I'm askin' as a friend, as a parent, as a concern citizen."

You think for a moment before responding to his plea. "Bring 'im to the jail t'night, and I'll teach 'im a thing or two about bein' a man."

An enthusiastic smile covers the vulpine's face. "I knew I could count on ya, Russ." Your old friend seems to be full of renewed vigor. "What can I do to repay ya?"

"Mah whiskey for the night is on ya." You gulp down the rest of the whiskey in your glass. "Agreed?"

"Done."

You and the fox exchange a few more words to cat up on less distressful news. Then the two of you part ways. He pays the night's tab, and you go to the jail and wait for the arrival of his son.

You're at the jail. Your hat is hanging on the coat rack by the door and your feet are propped up on your desk as you listen to the sounds of the summer night. You wait for about an hour before Vernin and his son arrive. You hear the two argue right outside the jailhouse door, and there goes the boy swearing again. He doesn't even respect his daddy. It's a good thing you're here to teach him a lesson. Vernin opens the door and introduces you to his son. The kit is the spitting image of his father, only about a foot shorter and more than a few pounds lighter. He's wearing a plain brown shirt with light jeans and some worn out riding boots. You send your friend on his way after telling him that you'll escort the boy home after his lesson in manhood.

The boy looks up at you with his defiant eyes. You're well more than a foot taller than him and you could easily put him down if he tried to get physical. You decide to take the gentle approach and try to treat him like an adult.

"Hello, Joseph," you formally greet the young male with a smile on your face. "I'm Sheriff Russell Roughscale, but tonight you can call me Russ."

"Fuck off, ya old wrinkled mass of handbag fixin's. I'm old enough to be mah own man, and I don't need ya or mah daddy tryin' to tell me otherwise." The boy's words are unnecessarily sharp and crass as he stands with his fists clenched at his sides as if he were spoiling for a fight.

You are astounded that he thinks he could possibly intimidate you. This boy is not only a wayward punk, but he is also a fool. The kids gloves are off. Only the fear of God, or in this case, Sheriff Roughscale is going to set this boy straight. "Ok, then. Ya are ya own man, huh?" You grab the boy by his arm. Your experience in war and law enforcement comes in handy. The boy is caught off guard by how fast you are. He struggles to free himself, but your meaty claw around his twig of an arm has too tight of a hold on him. Your rough, firm claw smacks his ass, echoing in the jailhouse and causing him to yell from the unexpected pain. He stops struggling, and you pull his scrawny body over to your desk and force him over the side of it.

Holding him down with one claw, you look down at the kit and say, "Part of bein' a man is acceptin' the consequences of yer actions." You rear your free claw back. "So if yer such a big ol' man, then ya can deal with this." You land a solid, hard smack on the boy's firm ass, eliciting a moan of pain him.

Recovering from the first of the many blows you plan to deliver to his errant tail, he attempts to push himself off the table, but your claw is far stronger than his tiny body. He tries to act tough. He turns his head to you and says in a curt manner, "Get off of me. Not even mah own daddy ever spanked me." He kicks up one of his legs in a tantrum as he growls.

You give his butt another firm palm, and he stops his trashing. "Apparently, ya don't know how to be a good man and accept yer punishment." You take a nice long breath and exhale before saying, "That's alright; ya will be learnin' that directly." You begin an unrelenting assault on his young supple ass. With every hard smack, his growling and resistance fades.

"OW!...Please, Russ...UH...I'll be good...GUH...Sheriff, I'm beggin'. " He tries to convince you to stop as he tries to speak in-between the smacks, with his moans interrupting his own speech. "Ok, stop..." SMACK "AH I'm..." SMACK"OH not..." SMACK "AAhhh man."

"What's that boy?" You backhand his rear end, making sure to put more force behind this strike. His scream echoes in the jailhouse, as tears well up in his eyes.

"I'm not a man," he admits as he endeavors not to choke on his tears.

You place a gentle pat on his caboose, causing him to flinch from the expectation of pain. "Yer not a man what?"

"I'm not a man, sir!" he exclaims with a mix of desperation and revelation.

"Are you ready to accept the rest of yer punishment?" You drag the palm of your claw in circles on his firm, tender butt; he trembles from not knowing what you are about to do.

He simply nods, a soft whimper escaping his muzzle.

"Then strip, boy." You command in an authoritative voice. When he doesn't immediately comply, the glare in your piercing golden eyes make him flinch an let out another soft whimper.

The boy disrobes in front of you. He kicks off his boots and lifts his legs one at the time to take off his socks. The pulls his shirt over his head and discards it to the ground. He undoes the button on his jeans but hesitates to pull them down.

"Do ya wanna make it that much harder on yerself?" Your voice suddenly cutting through the silence causes him to recoil and instinctively let go of his trousers. His brown body is now exposed to you. You notice that a thick strap of white fur stretches from his chest down his stomach, around his crotch, and onto his behind. As he steps out of his fallen pantaloons, he covers his privates with both hands.

"Good, kit." Your voice is calm, yet still commanding. "Now, fold yer things up and put 'em in my bottom desk drawer. After that, turn back around and plant yer hands back on mah desk."

"Yes, sir," the now compliant boy replies. He turns his back to you, picks up his shirt and pants, and folds them neatly. He then opens the desk drawer and places his clothing and boots in it. After he closes the drawer, he assumes your prescribed position on the desk. His normally white fur--which takes up the entirety of his tight, young rear--is tinted in a light shade of pink.

You unbuckle your belt and slowly pull it through each individual belt loop. You fold it in half and give it a good SNAP to make sure you have Joseph's attention; the kit's body jerks from the sound, confirming he understands your intent. "Alright, now listen. Yer still a boy, but there are certain guidelines that yer old enough to know. And part of mah job as the town lawman is to make sure everyfur knows and understands these unwritten rules so the town can remain in order." You place a gentle yet strong claw on the small of the teen's back and gently rub the fur of his lower back. "T'night, I'm gonna teach ya a couple of these rules. We'll gonna go over everything ya've done wrong recently, and I'll give yer tail one smack fer each. Then I'll tell ya the rule ya broke. After I'm done if ya can recall the parts of the code that we talk about, this part of your lesson will be over. How much of a tannin' this belt gives yer hide is up to ya. Do ya understand?"

The teenager nods in response.

"Answer me like a man, boy." Your voice is still calm, but more imposing.

"Yes, sir. I understand, sir." The boy's voice possesses a tone of respect, a first for tonight.

You take a deep breath and begin. "First off, ya stole horses from yer neighbors." You swing the belt and give the boy a good smack on his bare, unguarded rear, and he cries out in pain. "Never take another man's horse without permission. It's the same as trying to mess with his wife, and horse thieves often pay with their lives." You continue in your same calm, authoritative, instructive voice. "Ya showed yer tally-wacker to some young ladies without their consent." You swiftly smack his reddening ass again. A tear escapes his eye as he belts out another sound of pain. "A man is never supposeta shoot a lady. Doesn't matter if'n it's the gun he keeps in his hand or the one in his pants." The boy's sniffling is now audible, and you know he's about to finally break. "And, lastly," you let the tail end of the belt slip out of your hand and stretch to its full length before saying, "Ya cussed at yer daddy." As you let loose a hard smack focusing the force on the tip of the belt on the teen's behind, it elicits the loudest yelp yet from him. "Ya also cursed in front of yerr two younger brothers and little sister." You wield your make shift whip and masterfully give him three stronger strikes to his caboose in succession. He stifles his own screams, but you hear the boy let his tears and sobs flow from his eyes and mouth. "And worst of all," you tighten your hold on the belt for the final lash and raise the belt high into the air before saying, "ya cursed at yer own mamma." Your swing your hand straight down to the ground and deliver the last and hardest smack right beside his crevasse. "A man never curses in the presence of women and children; only in front of other men and only to emphasis his point."

The boy rears back his head as he screams and cries at the top of his lungs, his claws burrowing into the desk. He brings his head back to the table and cries loudly as the tears flows from his red hot face onto the cold, hard desk.

"Dry it up, boy!" you command, making him flinch again and pay attention to you. His sobs soften in response to your directive.

After he complies, you begin to speak again. "Now, what did ya learn about the Code of the West t'night?"

Without wasting any time and risking the prolonging of the spanking, he immediately answers you as his stifled cries break up his words, "A man sniff_doesn't take another man's _sniff_horse because it's the same _sniff as messing with his wife, and sniff can result in his death...sniff...A man nevershoots a lady, sniff whether it's with a gun or a sniff flash of his tally-wacker...sniff...A man never curses around sniff women and children, but only sniff around other men, and only to sniff emphasize his points."

"Good, chap. You may cry freely now." You drop your belt to the ground and kick it to the side as a show of confirmation. The kit falls to his knees and lets all of his tears out. His hands cradle his face as he looks down to the floor. You pat him on the head and say, "Free flowing tears are a luxury only a kid has in this day and age."

"Thank you, sir," he responds with an understanding and thankful voice.

"Yer lesson's not over yet," you say as you pull your hand away from the crying kit. "I'll let ya cry it out for a bit, and then we'll move on to the next part."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," he manages to let out through the tears while fearfully wondering what could be next.

You take a few steps back and let him have some space to himself. After a few minutes, his tears and snivels simmer down. You pull a bandanna out of your pocket and walk up to the boy, when you are right behind him, he senses your presence; he immediately, gets on his feet and turns around to face you, standing at attention. You hold out the bandanna. "Put this around yer eyes, young man." He takes the cloth from your claws and does as he is told; then, he stands back at attention.

You grab his paw gently and say to him, "Good kit. Now, I'm going to show ya what happens to men who disrupt the peace in mah town." As you slightly tighten your hold on his paw, he shows no signs of struggling. "Now, I'm gonna lead the way and ya follow. Understand?"

"Yes, sir, sheriff."

You walk him towards the next room, where prisoners are kept in cells behind iron bars. Because you are such a good lawman, there is only one prisoner. He's in the very back of the last cell, in the part of the room that is covered in shadows. You light a lantern you keep hanging on the back wall above a table and two chairs.

You tell the teen to hold still; when you let go of his hand, he doesn't move a single muscle. You take a jar of clear solution that you leave in the drawer of the table pour it onto something fastened to one of the chairs. You return the jar to the table and close the drawer. You grab his arm and pull him to stand in front of the chair. Placing your claws on his shoulders, you use your commanding voice to say, "Sit." He begins to sit, but he stops when he feels something entering his tail hole.

"What...what is that, sir? I don't like it." The frightened kit protests for the first time since his discipline began.

"Quiet, boy," you demand in your sternest voice, and he snaps his snout shut while hovering with just the tip of the plug in his tailhole. "Ya need to learn some self-control, and this is gonna help ya do it. Now ya can go down easy, or I can force ya down. It's all up to ya." He hesitates for a few seconds, then gives in to your more dominant energy and resigns himself to the inevitable. Lowering himself slowly, he whimpers and moans as the buttplug you fastened to the chair stretches and widens his virgin exit. The bulb slips into his ass, and he falls the last inch onto the chair. He trembles and whimpers as you stroke his headfur. You notice his kithood is already erect and begging for attention.

"Ya've done good with yer punishment so far; most boys would still be bent over my desk at this point." You continue to run your claw gently through his head fur. "Next, yer gonna meet the only prisoner here in my jailhouse. And whatever ya do, don't touch that cattle prod of yourn, or I'll put ya in there with 'im for the night unsupervised. Ya, understand?"

The adolescent nods as his whimpering softens to whispers.

You pull your claw away from the kit. You unbutton your plaid shirt and toss it onto the table. Next, you kick off your boots under the table before using your hindclaws to take off your sox. You undo the tail loop and front button of your jeans and let them fall to the ground. You walk to the jail cell, open the unlocked door, and walk in, closing the door behind you. You tap on the bars with you claws to get the boy's attention; he snaps up, causing his body to jerk and the plug to further stimulate his ass. "Take off the blindfold, boy."

The scared, stimulated teen pulls the bandanna off over his head. His eyes widen at the sight of you naked on the other side of the bars. You can tell his ass instinctively twitches from how his body immediately jerks and his kithood bobs. He moans from the sensational mix of fear and arousal. The boy reaches for his dick, then looks up at your piercing golden eyes; his paw retreats back to his side.

"That's a good chap," you slightly praise the kit. "Ya can do whatever else ya want, but yer li'l doggie is off limits.

"Come on out." You snap your fingers, prompting your prisoner to emerge from the shadowy corner opposite the cell door.

A nude four-armed figure emerges from the shadows. His black, circular compound eyes and pincers around his mouth stand in great contrast to his bright red body. His translucent wings and black feelers are pointing to the ceiling. His protruding exoskeleton creates an armor-like appearance over his shoulders, chest, arms, and thighs. The black rings adorn his hips and ass, matching the rings on his wrists and ankles. His black flaccid cock and sack swing lightly as he moves. Although he towers over the kit, his height still tops at a full head under yours.

He lurches forward at the bars, gripping them with all four of his hands. His bug eyes gaze at the kit with lust as he violently shakes the bars, causing the boy to freeze. "I haven't had the feel of kit on mah mantenna in a long time," he maniacally says to Joseph with a look of joy on his face.

The frightened kit instinctively tries to jump out of the chair. The bulb of the plug catches his tailhole, causing him to fall back down. He screams out of fear, confusion and pleasure as the toy further stretches his inexperienced entrance. The fox lets out a series of quick, short, soft whimpers from the physical, mental, emotional stimuli of the situation he has found himself in.

The hornet licks his lips at the spectacle of the teenage fox in front of him. "Ya got a handsome li'l un this time, sheriff."

"Shut it!" you command the hornet as you grab his feelers and pull his head back. You pin him to the wall so the kit can see the both of you in profile. You position you ghostly white crochood, which is emerging from your slit, and position it at the hornet's dry ass hole. You gently run your cock up and down his crevasse and turn towards the boy as the insect tries to struggle from your hold. "This here outlaw is known as Angry Slim Jinkins. When he was about yer age, he stole horses, flashed girls and cussed around his mamma just like you do now. When he got older he began to beat and rape many women around this town; occasionally, he'd get his hands on a boy your size and make 'im his gal for a few hours." You lightly drag your claw down the outlaw's back, forcing him to groan in pain and push his asshole against your cock.

As he watches, the kit trembles from the realization that he could end up like the hornet: committing rape, getting jailed, and being violated as punishment. He shakes his head violently and closes his eyes. His body jerks as the plug presses into his pup prostate.

"Listen here, boy!" you yell, causing him to open his eyes and place all is attention on you. "This is what happens to outlaws in my town." In one strong push you force your unlubed dick into the hornet's unguarded hole. As you pin him to the wall, his screams echo in the room; the kit shakes and holds the underside of the chair as tight as he can with his paws. You violently fuck the outlaw's ass. You growl from the pit of your stomach as the hornet's staccato moans hit the kit's ears. The fox boy's developing cock bob's from the continuous anal simulation from the plug, pre-cum dribbling out of his piss slit.

The hornet's dry tunnel brings you close to orgasm. You pull completely out and slam you scalie manhood back into the outlaw causing his resulting scream to make the kit flinch on the plug and let out his own moan of pleasure. Your hot fresh spooge fills the hornet's hole. After your orgasm subsides, you pull out and let the rapist slide to the ground.

You open the cell door and walk up to the trembling, sexually frustrated kit. You extend a claw to him; he reciprocates your action, his paw trembling. You grasp his paw and pull him hard and quick off of the buttplug. As the plug POPS out of the fragile boy's tailhole, he whimpers and falls into your chest. "Pick yerself up, boy," you say as you rub his back. "Ya have one more part of yer lesson t'night. And I think yer gonna enjoy it."

Joseph looks up at you and replies in a shaky voice, "Y-y-yes, sir."

"Good, kit." You stroke his trembling head. "Most boys would have had their paws all over their skin pistols and end up being put in there with 'im for the night. But, ya done good; ya got the makin's of a good man."

Your words of praise cause the kit to smile at you. "Thank you, sir." He says in a solid, confident voice.

"Ya wanna help me teach this ten-cent man a lesson?"

"Yes, sir," he answers in an enthusiastic voice.

You smile at the kit and say, "T'night, yer gonna become a man." Still holding the kit you turn around and point to the hornet, who is still sprawled out on the floor. "Yer gonna use that no good waste of a man over there and release yer boyhood mischief in him."

The fox frowns slightly as he responds. "But...I...I'm not..." He turns away from you.

You grasp him under the chin and turn his face to meet your gaze. "A real man knows that size doesn't matter, kit." You let go of the pup, point to the hornet, and say "He won't do an'thin' to you...unless I tell him to. I'll tell ya what to do. All ya got worry about is learnin' one of the many joys of manhood."

The nervous adolescent walks slowly towards the outlaw. You lightly slap his tender hide with your hard, thick tail; he lets out a yip and walks faster. After he enters the cell, you close the door behind him. He turns to look at your face through the other side of the bars before turning around to look at the insect outlaw, who now had his back to the wall and is on his knees facing the kit. The hornet looks up to the boy and says, "Looks like the sheriff is givin' me a reward for good behavior," as he licks his lips and flashes the anxious teen a hungry grin.

"Ya gonna let 'im talk to ya like that?" you ask Joseph, snapping him back to his situation. "A man wouldn't jus take that." You grab the bars of the cell and grip the tightly with your claws. "A man would take the bull by the horns and show it who's boss."

The kit, filled with trepidation, attempts to regain his confidence. He takes a few steps back, with trembling eyes looks down at the hornet, and says, "N-n-now...Now ya shut it."

With black bug eyes wide, the insect looks up to the teen and declares in a licentious voice, "I like mah boys nervous."

The kit is scared but realizes that though this outlaw may be bigger than he is, so are many of the drunks and bandits he has had to help his dad defend the store from in using whatever he could grab. If he can stab someone as big as the sheriff in the shoulder with a broken whiskey bottle, then he sure as heck can put some fear in this bad bug.

Immediately, the mix of newfound self-respect and sexual frustration builds to a boiling point within the kit. He rears his paw back, steps forward, and slashes the hornets face. As the hornet jerks back and yells in pain, the kit grabs the outlaw by the feelers with his eyes clenched shut.

"That's it, boy, by the horns." You cheer the boy on as you watch the scene. "Now, look 'im in the eyes, boy! A man can't drive a horse if he can't see where he's goin'." Your voice demands an instant response from the teen; he opens his eyes wide and pulls the now cowering outlaw up by the feelers until their eyes meet. "That's it, kit. Now, what do ya have to say to 'im?"

"Shut yer filthy outlaw mouth."

"Anythin' else?"

"I'm not gonna be ya." The boy's cracking voice still shows signs of fear.

"Say it like a man!" you call to the adolescent your most authoritative and instructive voice.

The kit growls while repeating, "I'm not gonna be ya," in a louder, more dominant voice; the insect flinches in the face of the boy's newfound resolve.

You clap for the boy. "That's how you sound like a man. Now, what would a man do to this no good lawbreaker?"

Joseph turns to you and states, "Show 'im what frontier justice is," with confidence and fearlessness radiating from his muzzle. He flashes you a mature grin as you nod to him in confirmation. He looks down at the hornet and declares in a commanding voice mimicking yours, "Put yer back on the ground, now!" He pulls the hornet to the side by the feelers and releases his hold, causing the outlaw to fall to the floor.

The outlaw repositions himself quickly in fear of the kit's wrath. The boy gets on his knees and lifts the hornet's legs, facing no resistance. The boy on the threshold of manhood positions his kithood at the insect's thoraxhole. With a single push, he forces his teen cock into the prisoner, your fresh cumload giving him plenty of lubrication. The kit moans his first pleasure of manhood.

As you watch the scene, your reptilian penis emerges from your slit. You use your claw to wipe the excess lube off the chair with the plug and coat it all over your refracted crock schlong. "That's it boy!" you cheer on the kit as he begins to thrust in and out. "Remember, a man pulls the gun's trigger, not the other way around!" You begin to pump your white tool in time with the boy's thrusts.

The hornet moans in pain and humiliation with his eyes closed, prompting the kit to slap him across the face with an open claw. "Look me in the eyes like a man!" Joseph utters through a demanding growl. The hornet opens his huge compound eyes to meet the fox's. "That's it," the dominating teen says, "I'm a...man now...So ya bet...better treat me...like one." His words begin to trail off into panted syllables as he reaches climax.

The boy's intensity and enthusiasm edge you ever closer to dropping your second load for the night. A smile crosses your entire jaw: partly from ushering a boy temporarily into manhood, partly from the heat and ecstasy of the moment.

The boy's thrusts become quicker; you speed up your pumping to match. He digs his claws into the hornet as he forces his fully inflated knot through the outlaw's tight anus. The kit moans at the top of his lungs from the pleasure as the prisoner lets out a loud scream from the top of his. You see the kit's blissful expression just before he bites down on the hornet's neck from his uninhibited, primal canid instincts.

You growl as you fire off a few thick strings of crock cock juice onto the floor. You grip the bars of the cell to steady your shaking body; the bars bend form your strength.

You wait a few minutes for the kit's knot to reduce enough for him to pull out of the docile outlaw. You open the door to let the kit out, closing it behind him.

You and the kit clean up with a bucket of water and a rag you keep in the corner beside the table. You collect your clothes, escort him back to the front room, and get his garments from your desk; afterward, the two of you get dressed. During the whole time, you praise him for his first shows of true manhood: accepting the consequences of his actions, learning from good men, resisting temptation, standing up for himself, and taking control of a situation.

When you both are dressed you escort him home. You review the parts of the Code of the West you went over with him; he remembers everything and promises to follow it. You let him know that your door is always open and that everything will stay between the two of you. He gives you a knowing nod and a smile as you drop him off at his house and departs from you with a "Thank you for clearing up what it means to be a man, Sheriff."

When you return to the jail, Slim is waiting at your desk, fully cleaned and clothed himself. After a moment of silence, the both of you bust out laughing at a job well done. The two of you have been using the outlaw rapist act on the young men of this town for well over a decade. The two of you share a bottle of whiskey to celebrate setting another boy straight.