Eric always made sure I ate all my foul-tasting but medicinal antibiotic gruel each morning. ‘It keeps you fit for your torture and it means we can feed you what the fuck we like the rest of the day’, said Eric.
The gruel was horrible, but the meals, if you can call them that, which Eric fed me for the rest of every day were beyond vile. Eric had made me eat the most disgusting left-over and even spat-out food from the inmates’ meals. He had made me eat bits of food dropped on the floor of the inmates’ dining area and then swept up with the floor-dirt and mouse droppings. He had told the guards always to put my ‘pig-food’ (although pigs would probably have refused it) in a bowl used by inmates for vomiting, and he made sure that the bowl was never really cleaned out. I ate with my hands – a knife and fork would have been too much of a ‘privilege’, according to Eric. When he felt particularly mean, he would cuff my hands behind my back so I would have to stick my face into whatever was given to me, in order to eat it. I was severely punished if I didn’t finish whatever I was given.
Recently Eric had started to leave the boy in charge of my pig-food meals. Since Eric had forced me to eat lumps of inmates’ sick left in the stinking bowl, I couldn’t see how it could get worse. But the sadistic boy, now training as a guard, who carried Eric’s authority because everyone knew they lived together and fucked each other, found ways of making my meals even worse.
The boy loved training to be a guard and he loved his uniform – his slight figure and bright smile hid the worst sadist. This sadism was absolutely evident when he chose what I would have to eat – when it was really bad, he usually brough me it himself and read me ‘today’s menu, cunt’. He nearly always left vomit in my bowl, and he often added a ball of smelly horse-shit from the stables. Dead or half-dead cockroaches were the boy’s speciality - ‘nice crunch, cunt’, said the boy.
Today, the boy brought my sick-bowl of pig-food to the hard-labour yard himself. I was already terrified about my move to the bungalow that evening and the punishments I would have to endure there. My feet and knees had been cut by the glass Eric had made me kneel and then stand on until a few minutes ago while he told me about my move, and I now faced four hours of carrying heavy loads pointlessly from one stack to another in the hard-labour yard, supervised by a guard who had no hesitation in using his cattle prod on any part of my body – he particularly seemed to enjoy my agonised shrieks when he used it on parts of my dick he could reach through my cage.
Now I was terrified of what the boy might have put in my feeding bowl.
The boy lifted the cover off the bowl. The stench was so bad that I took a step back without thinking and nearly slipped. Even the boy turned his smirking face away. Right in the middle of the bowl there was a very dead rat, in fact the back half of a rat.
The boy spoke. ‘Your fellow-inmates found this rat for you – they want to give you extra punishment just from them – so they let the rat rot for a few days, cut it in half and then microwaved it – that means it won’t kill you but you’ll still get the full fucking taste and full fucking stink – enjoy it!’, smiled the boy. ‘The rest of your pig-food is the usual spat-out gristly stuff, which I've left for a day or two longer than usual. We’ll probably give you the front half of the rat tomorrow. Look forward to it, shitface! Now eat.’
I knew that, if I didn’t eat everything in that vile bowl, the boy would punish me without mercy. The last time I had hesitated to eat for more than a few seconds, he beat my balls, and then ripped out my ball hairs and dipped my raw ball-sack in a bowl of ultra-hot chilli oil. That’s what he did when I couldn’t bring myself to eat some horse-shit he’d scraped from his shoe. After he’d finished with my balls, in front of other jeering prisoners – they all knew what I’d done and they all hated me – he had gagged me so my mouth was kept wide open, and then he’d forced me to swallow all the pig-food and half a bucket full of extra steaming horse-shit. So I knew now that I’d not only be forced to eat the half-rat and all the rest of my pig-food but probably, knowing what the boy was like, the contents of someone’s slop-bucket as well. When this was all done, I’d be put back on my hard labour where I’d be punished for being late.
I started to eat that horrible ‘lunch’. I started with the usual spat-out gristle and the disgusting greyish sludge that inmates often left on their plates. There were the usual few lumps of vomit. Then it came to the rat. You could see its cooked and congealed innards where it had been crudely sliced in two. I touched its mangy grey fur and realised that its rotting skin was covered in hard little warts. I simply couldn’t bite into it. Several inmates were now watching, and one of them, a black kid, started retching just from looking at the contents of my bowl. ‘Throw up on the cunt’s rat’, ordered the boy. ‘Tasty’, laughed the inmate afterwards, as his pinkish vomit covered the ass and long tail of my rat.
I knelt there, my face over my bowl, but I just couldn’t bite into that now-vomit-covered back half of a rat. ‘I’m counting to five’, said the boy. I closed my eyes. I picked up the half-rat and I bit through the vomit and into its disgusting tough skin. I swallowed a mouthful of rat-flesh. I retched but somehow held it down. I swallowed a bit more. I chewed its bones and its intestines. I ate that half-rat.
I waited while the inmates told me how disgusting I was, spat on me, and in one case, pissed on me. ‘Did you enjoy the rat’s ass? How did its shit taste?’ They jeered at me. ‘Answer them’ ordered the boy. ‘Delicious, thank you so much, Sirs’, I said. In the end, the boy allowed me to go for my drink.
Drinking at breaks was itself another punishment like the meal. I was given fresh water twice a day and was made to drink three litres of it - ‘part of keeping you healthy for your tortures’, Eric had said. But at the mid-day break, I was only given piss from the inmates’ piss-tank, a rusty tank in the yard which they all used. I ran to that piss-tank now. I dipped my head in it – even other men’s piss was better than the taste of that decayed rat. I drank in that inmate-urine as if it was water from a stream. Then it happened. I couldn’t help it. I vomited the rat and all the rest of my pig-food right into the piss-tank.
‘Hold the cunt over the barrel so I can beat it’, said the boy. He asked the hard-labour guard for his punishment paddle, half-a-metre long and made of heavy hardwood drilled with half-a-dozen holes. I dreaded that instrument of punishment. ‘Twenty with this paddle now, cunt. Then, when you’re finished with your hard labour, you’ll be staked out here and open-mouth-gagged. We’ll pour the whole contents of this piss tank over you and you’ll eat your own vomit, cunt. You’ll eat that fucking rat’s backside all over again’, said the boy as he took the paddle in his hand.
I was held by two inmates over that sharp-edged tank with the top of my head in their piss. The boy beat me with that terrible paddle while I shrieked, screamed and struggled uselessly. Between strokes, they sometimes dipped my whole face into the piss and I could feel bits of my own vomit hit my cheeks and neck. A guard was counting. I felt like my ass was slowly disintegrating – pieces of flesh were repeatedly sucked up through the holes in the paddle and ripped. The twentieth stroke was on my balls.
The inmates pulled me out of the tank and threw me on my back on the rubble-strewn ground. I couldn’t even touch my swollen tortured ass. The guard made me turn over and sprayed my wounds agonisingly with the pepper-spray punishment antiseptic and then did the same on my ball-sack which had been cut by the boy’s final cruel blow to my balls.
‘Five minutes recovery time, cunt’, said the boy. Then he turned to the guard ‘Not a second longer than 5 minutes. Then don’t hold back – plenty of ‘at-the-double' or the cunt will stiffen up’, laughed the boy. ‘Mr Eric and I will be back at the end of the cunt’s four hours of hard labour for its punishment for sicking up its pig-food'. ‘Disgusting cunt’ said the boy, and walked away.
I had 4 hours of hard labour in front of me and other horrors after that, including the promised staking-out - ‘What do you say to these inmates?’ asked the guard. Hoarsely, I intoned: ‘Thank you, Sirs. You gave me the lunch I deserved, Sirs. I am so sorry I threw up, Sirs. I deserve more punishment for that, Sirs’. If I had said anything else, probably I’d have got three dozen with the cane administered by one of the inmates with the guard encouraging him, right there and right then. I was completely broken.
Somehow, cattle-prodded and exhausted, feeling ill and in pain everywhere, I reached the end of my four hours of hard labour.
Eric showed up. ‘Staking-out time, shitface’, he said and he smiled.
Whenever I saw Eric, clothed in immaculate uniform as he was now, I remembered that I was the one who had originally corrupted him. This time, the memories of Eric’s beauty and innocence combined with my fear of Eric’s punishment for bringing up my food in the piss-tank, overwhelmed me. I cried. I blubbed and choked like a child, but no one was about to take me in their arms.
On the contrary, two inmates were busy hammering six stakes into a muddy patch of ground.
There were four stakes for my outstretched arms and legs, and two either side of my neck which would be attached to a tight rope to stop me moving my head. The boy quickly attached the gag which kept my mouth painfully wide open. ‘Lie down, cunt – face up – you can see where to go’, ordered Eric. I was tied into position – naked and spreadeagled on the ground, face up, mouth forced wide open. Three inmates dragged the piss-tank to where I was lying. Eric was smiling his beautiful smile with dimples. The boy was rubbing his hands about what was coming next and grinning. Eric nodded to the inmates, who had now dragged the tank behind my head. They started to tip it. Several days of inmate piss poured over my head and face and into my mouth. It flooded over my chest and down to my dick, balls and thighs. I started to choke from the amount that flooded my nose and mouth.
When the tank was finally empty, and I had swallowed what seemed to be a gallon of mixed piss, and was soaked all over by piss, it got much worse. The inmates, on an instruction from Eric, picked up in their protective gloves any of the vomited sludge or solid pieces of chewed rat that they could find and pushed them into my mouth and pushed them down my throat. I had to swallow whatever they gave me so I could breathe. One of the youngest inmates stamped on my dick-cage while he was doing it, painfully pushing the metal bars into my shaft and glans. The pain from the stamping was less than the pain of my degradation and horror as they forced me to eat my own vomit, including sizeable chunks of rat and gristle, now soaked in bile and marinated in piss.
When they were done – when my filthy degradation was complete – when I had swallowed for the second time everything they wanted me to, Eric picked up a cane and smiled at me. He caned the front of my thighs with one of the toughest prison-canes. This was a new place: ‘this is thigh-discipline, shitface’. I tried to scream through my vile gag as painful welts rose on one of the few bits of previously unpunished skin. ‘Do you deserve this thigh-beating, cunt? Shall I cane you harder? I tried to mumble something but I couldn’t with that gag. Then some blood splashed from my thigh on to my face as Eric increased his tempo. ‘Fifty firm strokes to make you bleed, cunt. That’s what you deserve’.
Finally, Eric ordered the inmates to free me. Eric and the boy made me crawl on mud and gravel the whole three hundred yards from the hard-labour yard to the bungalow, whipping me now and again to keep me moving. When we reached the bungalow. My back was bleeding from the whip, my thighs were still oozing blood from the caning, and my hands and knees were cut and bruised from the crawling. Eric sprayed his usual remedy – antiseptic and pepper spray, this time, as he explained: ‘with some acidic coagulant which will be very painful’ – directly on to my open wounds.
When I had finished screaming and writhing from the spraying, the boy kicked me in the ribs - ‘You’ve arrived at your new home. You won’t like it here. Pay attention to Mr Eric, cunt’.
