Chapter seven
The blond guard came in with the usual dirty bowl full of my breakfast gruel, a kind of thick cold grey soup with a nasty bitter flavour and big fatty lumps floating in it. ‘Eric’s pissed in it as usual, cunt. Get your face in it.’ I never got a spoon – it was seen as a ‘privilege’ and Eric had denied me all ‘privileges’. On the second morning, the blond guard had actually taken a shit into my gruel right in front of me in my cell. Most of it sank to the bottom of the bowl, and he made me scoop it up and eat it at the end, after the gruel. But this time – I think the fourth morning – it was only Eric’s piss in my gruel, but it was his morning piss and it was horrible.
Then the blond guard cuffed me and took me down to the punishment room for my first visit of the day. Other inmates were sent to the punishment room occasionally for caning or strapping, but with none of the other horrors I was forced to endure, like the punishment horse or the penis –scraping. Eric greeted me with his usual smile as I entered what he had really, for me, turned into a torture-chamber.
‘I hope you enjoyed my piss in your gruel this morning, shitface,’ said Eric. Today, you’re going to eat my shit as well. But, first, it’s back on the bondage table – your dick has recovered enough for another well-deserved scraping.’ While the blond guard held me, Eric removed my cage: ‘You won’t need this till we’ve finished punishing your dick’, said Eric
He continued, ‘I expect with all this scraping we’ll hollow out your whole nasty penis from the inside over five years – continuous intense dick-pain that you can never get used to is what I have planned for you. Today, we’ll be using the same wire with barbs as on your first day but with an extra source of misery for you – take a look at this bottle – it’s super-hot chilli oil. We use gloves just to open the bottle, but you will feel it in your dick.
‘We’re going to dip your dick-wire in the bottle so it’s smothered in the chilli oil and I expect the barbs will also trap little bits of chilli as well – then, to make sure that this punishment hurts as much as possible, I’m going to take a few of the little hot chilli seeds, the ones that are usually thrown away because they burn so much, and put them at the top of your pisshole – and then we’ll use the wire to push them into your urethra – they’ll go on burning till you eventually piss them out – might be days later - lengthening of your torture. Because this will be so off-the-scale painful for you, we’re going to use extra straps across your stomach and thighs to hold you down. There’s also a special contraption to stop you moving my head – this is a pretty extreme, cunt, and we don’t want you missing any of it by knocking yourself out’, said Eric cheerfully.
‘Now climb up on the table, cunt!’ ordered Eric. ‘This is the first punishment this morning. Then you will eat my shit, all of it of course. The severity of your caning, which comes after that, will depend on how we feel, and on mistakes you may have made – but first I’m going to torture your dick and then see how you deal with my shit’.
I reluctantly – as slowly as I dared – clambered on to the bondage table and lay on my back. My arms and legs were spread out and attached tightly to the corners of the table like before and then, as Eric had said, they pulled two heavy straps across my stomach and thighs and immobilised my head.
With a teaspoon Eric picked up 4 or 5 tiny seeds floating in the oil in the bottle and deposited them carefully just inside my piss-slit – I felt an intense and severe burning sensation instantly and I screamed. My dick spasmed and a couple of seeds fell out of my piss-slit on to the bondage table. ‘You get an extra scraping for that’, said Eric, and picked up with the teaspoon the two burning seeds that had fallen and placed them back inside my piss-slit. Then he wiped the oily teaspoon on my cheek and smiled – the burn tore into me – I shrieked and begged – I couldn’t believe that even Eric was going to put this burning torture-liquid inside another man’s penis, even mine, even though he hated and despised me.
The blond guard picked up the wire and dipped it in the bottle. He swished it around and showed it to me. I could see he’d picked up fragments of hot chilli on some of the barbs.
I realised the utter hopelessness of the situation when the order came from the blond guard – ‘Beg us, cunt’ I knew that it would be even worse if I didn’t make the speech they wanted – ‘Please, Sirs, please torture my urethra with the barbs and the torturing hot chilli oil. I deserve terrible pain inside my disgusting penis, and please give me a second harsh scraping because I spilt some of the seeds.’
Eric held my dick, pointing it directly upwards from my body. ‘Wow – two scrapings with chilli oil, cunt – this will be quite something’. The blond guard carefully used the end of the horrible thin barbed wire to gather up the little seeds in my piss slit and pushed them gently into my pisshole. The burning started to build. I started to shake. ‘If you move, cunt,’ said Eric calmly, ‘we’ll do this all morning’. Somehow I steadied myself. Just pushing the wire into my urethra with its coating of oil and pushing the horrible seeds 4 centimetres into me felt like a worse torture than anything up to now, much worse than last time they did this to me dry and without oil, even worse than the canings, even worse than the terrifying ‘horse’.
The blond guard left the wire 4 centimetres in for a minute or so of sheer agony – I could hardly breathe. Then came the pulling out – the ‘scraping’ part as Eric called it. The barbs, facing up towards the entrance of my pisshole, cruelly re-opened the old wounds and agonisingly dug out new ones in the delicate inner flesh of my urethra, sensitive flesh deep inside my penis. Unbearably spicy-hot super-hot oil, and burning seeds and bits of fierce chilli entered each and every wound. They tortured the delicate pink lining of my urethra by scraping it with those metal barbs.
The blond guard jiggled the wire as he slowly extracted it, as he had done that first morning – in fact I think he twisted it more than before because, when he got to the piss-slit, one of the barbs sliced inti it; it wasn’t a deep cut, but when the burning oil seeped into it, it felt as if someone had sliced off the tip of my dick. Even when the guard finally extracted the wire completely, there was really no relief. The terrible burning just went on and on.
It was the worst pain by far that I could have imagined up to that moment. Partly because the physical pain was unbearable and partly because they were doing it to my penis. The cruelty was so extreme that I still find it difficult to believe that one man could impose it on another, yet Eric did it. And the blond guard did it. They did it to me. I screamed and begged incoherently.
Sweat filled my eyes and stung them as Eric looked over me: ‘second scraping coming up because you stupidly spilt those seeds’. ‘Here we go again’, said the blond guard.
Then Eric noticed some blood around my mouth – ‘shitface has bitten his tongue – wait a minute’, he said as he went to a shelf and took down a contraption that dentists use to keep your mouth open when they’re going to anaesthetise you. Eric roughly pushed it into my mouth and forced me to open my mouth uncomfortably wide, attached the dental gag, and then, for good measure, he spat in my mouth and the blond guard did the same. ‘The gag will do for when I shit anyway’, said Eric with a broad smile, ‘Let’s go.’
The wire went back into my pisshole, back down my urethra. The blond guard had dipped it back into the oil - ‘all fresh’ he laughed - but he forgot about the little pieces of my flesh he had scraped off last time. They were still attached to the wire, so they too went back into my urethra. Eric took over the control of the wire this time. As I produced unintelligible shrieks and groans from my forced-open mouth, Eric had his fun. Smiling and even giggling at times, Eric pushed the wire a good centimetre further than the guard had done. Then he pulled it half-way out. Then he pushed it right back in and shook it around. After a few minutes of this torture, he just yanked it right out. Blood, mixed with chilli oil, dribbled from my pisshole. Eric showed me the barbs with quite a bit of flesh and blood on them – ‘I caught a few more fish this time, but it’ll still take years to hollow out your dick completely – a good punishment for failing to beg properly, cunt, said Eric.
The blond guard untied me and dragged me over to the toliet-box and bolted my head into it. I watched apprehensively as Eric’s slim naked ass descended to within a centimetre of my face. ‘Lick my ass-cheeks and crack’ ordered Eric, which I did immediately as if I was in love with them, ‘but don’t assume that makes up for not thanking and begging – you’ll still get extra caning for your failures!’ The fact that I couldn’t thank or beg because my mouth was forced open was no excuse as far as Eric was concerned.
Eric looked down and positioned himself – and let rip. The stench was just awful, but the worst of this and the penis torture which preceded it and the caning which was obviously going to follow, and even the ice-cold jet-wash I would certainly receive, was that I now finally understood that I was irretrievably under the control of someone I had abused, who had become a sadistic monster and was bent on a horrible revenge, and there was no escape. I noticed later that the broken glass had been taken away from my hard-labour rubble – even slitting my own throat was no longer an option.
Eric deposited his filth directly into my forced-open mouth, but there was so much of it, it overflowed. I tried swallowing quickly but some still fell off my face – when I was eventually released from the toilet-box, I had to lick up the remaining shit from the floor of the box and eat it. Soon, Eric would introduce much viler ways for me to eat his and other excrement, but for now it was enough for me to eat everything he’d dumped and then to atone through a hard caning for not begging and not thanking enough when I was gagged and couldn’t speak anyway!
They gave me my jet-wash, focussing on my balls as always. So, when they tied me to the spanking bench, my dick still burned indescribably from the torture-scraping, my balls ached horribly from the jet-wash, and my stomach was full of Eric’s shit.
At last, Eric released my mouth from the painful gag which had been forcing my mouth open. Then I noticed he was holding in front of me a different-looking cane. ‘This is called a whangee cane’ lectured Eric. ‘The point about this cane is that it’s got sharp little and knobs and notches all the way along. Instead of giving you an even stripe, the notches will bite into your buttock flesh and make a series of small but highly painful bruises with each stroke – I won’t hold back so you’ll find that all the energy goes into a smaller area causing extreme pain. I think that this will be an even better punishment than the normal prison canes. When I hit the same place twice, it’ll be a terrific torture.
‘Today, we’re giving you four dozen. I’ll give you half with the whangee cane and the guard will give you half with the prison cane. We’ll take turns like before. We’ll swap sides half way so you won’t be able to sit down on either side afterwards’, laughed Eric.
‘Thank and beg’ ordered the blond guard: ‘Thank you, Sirs, for tearing flesh from my urethra – the chilli oil taught me a much-needed lesson. Thank you, Sir, for letting me drink your piss in my gruel and allowing me to eat your shit. Please may I now have a caning, Sirs. Please strike my naked buttocks with full force – I need to feel each and every stroke because of my crimes’. I must have sounded truly pathetic. The blond guard doubled up laughing. Eric smiled.
After just two strokes from each cane, I was already frantic, screaming and pulling at my bonds. But I knew it was useless. They caned me from the top of my crack to half way down my thighs. They stood to my side and gave me ‘vertical’ strokes that went straight down my crack and on to my asshole. A few caught my balls. I was a mass of unbearable pain everywhere.
As he marched me up to my hard labour, Eric took a look at my hands. ‘You’ve kept these pretty well, seeing as you’re not using gloves’. For a moment I thought he was praising me, but then he said ‘We’ll see about that’….
Chapter eight
Eric had cuffed me for the short climb to the prison yard where my eight hours of unremitting hard labour started every day.
This yard was only for hard-labour prisoners who were being specially punished. The work was made worse by being repetitive and completely pointless. You could never get to the end. You just carried heavy bricks, concrete, paving stones, sharp but heavy tiles and building rubble, for no purpose other than punishment. You stacked everything on one side of the yard and then carried them back to the other side again, and so on, at the double when ordered, holding your load above your head when ordered, and so on. Hard labour special punishments were never normally given to prisoners for more than a week or two to teach a quick lesson. My special punishment, far worse than all the others’, was to continue without remission for my whole five-year sentence. Eric had made that clear. What was more, I was also kept naked and not allowed shorts like the other prisoners, or even allowed shoes or gloves for protection, and I had only half as many breaks, and I had a personal guard who beat me if he thought I was slacking, or just for fun.
When we entered the yard that morning, Eric attached me by my cuffs to a pole. When he quickly tied some rope around my balls and also attached them to the pole, I was totally exposed and I thought he was going to beat me again.
In fact, both Eric and the black trainee guard, who supervised my hard labour, did in hit me a few times, but only casually to entertain themselves – a nasty bash with a truncheon on my upper arm from the trainee, a quick but vigorous twist of my right nipple from Eric, a couple of kicks with a steel-tipped boot on my right shin from the trainee. Then they brought a couple of chairs over to where I was tied and sat down, looking at me – naked, vulnerable, pathetic, tortured.
‘There are going to be some changes in your regime. Are you listening carefully, cunt?’ ‘Yes, Sir, I’m listening carefully’.
‘First, we’re adding vitamins and antibiotics to your breakfast gruel. Mixed with my morning piss and that disgusting but apparently super-healthy gruel, the taste will be vile, but you’ll eat it all and it’ll keep you healthy. That means, cunt, that you’ll be able to take more punishments and more pain – good news?’ Eric expected an answer ‘Yes, Sir, thank you, Sir. That’s good news, Sir’.
Eric smiled and continued, ‘Second, we’re also going to give you occasional rest-days from hard labour – you won’t know when they’re coming and they’ll be so unpleasant for you that you’ll wish you were still back here hard-labouring – but, again, they’ll give you some rest of sorts and keep you fit so we can torture you more – good news too?’ ‘Yes, Sir, thank you, Sir. That’s good news too, Sir’’.
‘Third, Eric continued in his matter-of-fact way, with his dimpled smile I had once found so attractive but now dreaded, you’ll get water as well as piss to drink during your hard labour. You’ll drink a full litre and a half of fresh water at the start of both the morning and afternoon hard-labour sessions each session. You’ll still drink piss with your pig-food at lunchtime. Understood?’ ‘Yes, Sir, thank you, Sir’, I said.
‘Fourth, my colleague here will only paddle you at the end of the hard-labour day. Theoretically, he’ll only paddle you if you deserve it but I expect you’ll always deserve it. He will discipline you the rest of the time with this electric cattle prod – he handed the prod to the black trainee guard. When he thinks you’re slacking or just need extra discipline, he’ll prod you – he can choose anywhere but I’ve suggested that he mainly prods your balls where it’ll cause you the most pain. Well?’ ‘Thank you, Sir. I deserve it, Sir, especially on my balls, Sir’. ‘Shall I try it on your balls now?’ I knew there was only one answer ‘Yes please Sir’. Eric reached out to where my balls were tied to the pole – I felt my whole body shudder as if something heavy had slammed into me and I thought I smelt burning, and then came the pain with my balls both intensely sore and aching as if from a powerful kick. ‘Good discipline’, laughed Eric and the trainee laughed too, as he took the prod from Eric.
‘Finally, we’re going to make sure your hands hurt. I wasn’t pleased to see that they were still soft. I want it to be much more painful for you when you lift bricks and the other rubbish here. So you’re getting two hits each on the palms and knuckles of one of your hands from this trainee guard’s studded belt before you begin work each day. Left hand today, right hand tomorrow, and so on. What do you think of that, cunt?’ ‘Thank you, Sir. I deserve it, Sir.’ Eric raised an eyebrow so I added, ‘Please belt my hands very hard, Sirs, because I need to feel extra pain all the time.’
They prepared to torture my left hand.
With my balls still roped to the pole, the black trainee guard uncuffed my hands and placed my left hand on a high stool he had pulled across to me. It was a kind of wooden bar stool, where he often sat to supervise my hard labour. He turned my left hand palm up and told me to keep it still. Eric said: ‘You won’t actually be able to keep your hand still after he’s hit it, but you’ll have to get it back in position for his second hit within ten seconds, or he’ll repeat the first hit’ said Eric. ‘It could actually go on till your hand drops off if you don’t obey’, he added and laughed. The trainee smirked as he removed his belt and showed it to me up close. As an instrument of punishment it was fearsome – thick black leather covered with metal studs. It was obvious that it would hurt a lot when the trainee whipped my defenceless hand with it.
The first time the belt whipped my left hand was like hearing a gunshot. I didn’t feel it for half a second. I just heard the bang of metal and leather hitting soft flesh, as it echoed around the yard. Then an overwhelming stinging pain registered in my brain and I screamed. The sheer cruelty of using a studded belt to whip my palm was beyond belief. I lifted my hand to my face and saw an agonisingly painful scarlet mark forming right across the hand. The pain intensified as I watched.
Then I realised that Eric was counting and somehow forced myself to put my hand back, now-tortured palm exposed again for the second violent hit. I could see my bruised palm-flesh on that wooden stool, which had been smooth and pink a moment ago, now had four or five circular crimson marks where the studs had done their work. They radiated indescribable pain. And now that belt, that hard leather, those unyielding metal studs, were again swinging downwards from above the trainee’s shoulder, a look of concentration and hatred on the trainee’s face. The belt smashed into the delicate flesh of my left palm for a second time. I pulled my hand off that plastic stool like I was pulling it out of a mangle – I was in complete agony.
‘Turn your hand over’, said Eric. ‘Same ten-second rule applies’.
To beat my knuckles, I was actually relieved for a moment to see that the trainee was using the other side of his belt where, instead of metal studs, there was just the coarse stitching which held the studs in place. Then I realised that, although my knuckles wouldn’t now be broken by the metal studs, this was going to be just as cruel. I screamed so loudly when the rough back of the trainee’s belt tore into my knuckles that everyone in the yard looked round at me, even the prisoners carrying their punishment loads. Eric actually laughed. The belt had torn the flesh off my two most prominent knuckles and they were already bleeding slightly –the pain was so intense, especially combined with the pain in my palm, that I missed the ten-second limit. ‘The guard will repeat the stroke now’, said Eric.
Two more torturing whippings with the back of the belt later, my hand felt as if it had been in molten metal. It was unbelievably sensitive. I tried to cradle it with my so-far undamaged right hand, which was due to get the same treatment tomorrow, but even the cradling was agony. I had to just hold my tortured left hand in the air, knowing that somehow in a few minutes I would have to use it to lift and carry builders’ rubble. ‘You won’t enjoy using that left hand in your hard labour’, smiled Eric.
‘OK’, said Eric to the trainee, ‘You did that well’. ‘Give him his 1½ litres of water – you can still add spit or snot but please don’t piss in it – he’ll drink piss later. Then get him to work. Don’t forget to use that prod if he slacks off – anywhere on his body – if he pisses himself, you can get at the tip of his dick by pushing the prod through his cage if that’s what you think he deserves’, advised Eric.
Eric sprayed my belted hand with his antiseptic and pepper-spray mix, which of course made me scream more. Then the black trainee guard undid my balls from the pole and spat and blew snot from his nose into my drinking water before ordering me to ‘drink it all especially my nose-snot floating on top, cunt’. Then he ordered me back to work.
I worked at my hard labour that morning with my tortured left hand. From time to time, I just couldn’t help dropping something – maybe a shard would rub against one of the places where I’d been belted. So I had several encounters with the cattle prod on my well-beaten ass, on my balls and on the tip of my cock when I couldn’t hold my piss any longer. It was the worst morning of hard labour so far. Near the end of the morning, when I was exhausted, the trainee ordered me to carry a heavy load at the double. I slipped and dropped everything as I tried to obey him, my cane stripes pulling, my hand in agony, I fell. With the kind of sadism I thought only Eric was capable of, the trainee walked over to me, grabbed my hand and used the cattle-prod to shock the belted palm of my left hand. I can’t describe the pain and horror of that hard-labour morning. It was horrendous in every way.
Relief at my pig-food break was short-lived. In pain everywhere, I had to kneel with a straight back on broken tiles to wait for Eric. When he came, Eric put on the floor in front of me my lunchtime pig-food. It was in the vomit bowl I had drunk from on my first afternoon. The smell of vomit overwhelmed the smell of the more or less inedible scraps Eric had put in the bowl. ‘In the bowl today’, Eric said, breaking out into his finest dimpled smile, ‘you’ve got grey sludge made up from bits left on prisoners’ plates the day before yesterday – it was some unpleasant kind of mince and these are mostly sludgy bits they couldn’t digest and spat back. You’ve got the remains of a fried egg that got dropped on the floor and trodden on at breakfast this morning. And you’ll find a couple of cigarette butts that were swept up with the egg and some other dirt off the floor – it’s all in your bowl, cunt.
‘Eat it all, including some bits of vomit which I left in your bowl as a little extra punishment for you, shitface. Leave anything and I’ll cane you. Start eating’, said Eric.
