I crawled through the gate of the bungalow.
The bungalow in the prison grounds was where Eric lived with the teenage trainee guard known to everyone as ‘the boy’ - except to me – to me of course he was ‘Sir’. This was my first time there and Eric had said it was to be my home for two long years.
Eric, still in his immaculate uniform, greeted me by spraying my whipped back, spraying the open wounds on the fronts of my thighs which he’d brutally caned a few minutes earlier, and spraying my knees and hands which had been cut and torn by being forced to crawl mostly on gravel from the hard-labour yard to the bungalow. Eric’s spray was originally a liquid made up of antiseptic and pepper-spray, but now he had added some kind of acid-based coagulant, which made being sprayed a special torture, much worse than before.
I was writhing on the ground for several minutes, naked in the mud, while Eric and the boy watched calmly, the boy smirking at my agony. Then Eric kicked me on one of my shins and ordered me to stand up.
‘As the boy said’ started Eric, ‘you’ll hate it here. The boy will show you the way you have to go to your basement cell. I’ll visit you there. You won’t enjoy my visit today or any other day.’
With that, Eric went inside by the front door and I was handcuffed by the boy and made to go in a metal door which led to a steep and badly lit concrete staircase. At the bottom was a well-lit bare concrete room. Three other rooms led off it. One was clearly a jet-wash room where presumably I would be cleaned up – it was chilly in that basement and the thought of an ice-cold jet-wash made me shiver. To my dismay, I saw what was obviously a torture-room – there wasn’t as much as in the main prison Punishment Room but there were whips and canes, weights and clamps, a spanking bench and plenty of attachment points. I also noticed a couple of car batteries and some nasty-looking oversize pinwheels. A third door led up a carpeted staircase presumably into the main bungalow.
Then I noticed a door only half the height of a normal door. Anyone using that door would have to crawl through it. ‘That’s the door to where you’ll live’ laughed the boy, pointing to the half-size door. ‘Get in there’ he laughed. ‘Look around – or rather feel around because there’s no light – in fact there’s nothing but bare concrete. It’s what you deserve, cunt. I’ve made it super-uncomfortable for you. I got Mr Eric to make the floor sloping with the highest point in the middle, so there’s no way you’ll ever find a comfortable position to rest. I think he already told you – you’ll have no bed, no blanket and no bucket – it'll stink in there soon when you shit out the filth you’ve just had to eat.’ The boy giggled and grinned. ‘Get in there, cunt – I'm leaving you in the cuffs – in fact I’m going to tighten them for extra discipline.’
The boy adjusted my handcuffs so they bit painfully into my wrists, and ordered me to crawl into my cell – or rather shuffle on my torn knees with my head at the floor in those painful tight handcuffs. The boy, who could never resist an opportunity to hurt me, gave me two bruising kicks on my ass as I entered my cell, my home for the next two years. The door slammed behind me and the boy bolted it. I was in pitch darkness. I felt the low ceiling – there was no way i could stand up. The strange floor, sloping away from a high point somewhere in the middle meant that the only slightly comfortable way to lie down was at the bottom of the slopes on the longer sides of what seemed to be a rectangular cell. I couldn’t stretch out and my knees kept hitting the concrete slope.
I broke down and sobbed miserably. I was sure that i would die in this place – but not quickly. At the slow speed Eric chose for me.
After what seemed forever but was probably little more than an hour, I heard footsteps and I assumed that Eric and the boy were coming for me. The boy kicked my door and said ‘Having a good time, cunt?’ But they weren’t there for me. The next thing I heard was the boy, definitely the boy, saying ‘Take down your shorts and get over that bench’ and I heard the swishing of a cane. The boy was going to cane Eric. I had seen Eric as a sub when the strong blond guard was around, but this was different. I heard Eric cry out at the very first stroke. The boy wasn’t holding back. I heard another swish and a cry for mercy. ‘You’re getting 10’, said the boy ‘so shut your fucking face or I’ll make it 20. ‘Sorry - thank you, Sir’, Eric stuttered.
The boy apparently awarded Eric two extra strokes because he had 'wriggled around' too much and told him ‘If you don’t keep your ass still, I’ll treat you like the cunt in there and not use the lube when I fuck you’. Eric must have kept still because, after 12 strokes, the boy noisily lubed Eric and fucked him noisily. Clearly, Eric was still helplessly strapped to the caning bench.
When he was in my dungeon, I punished Eric in many ways but, above all, I loved caning him. I went too far and he squealed and bled but I didn’t care. After the caning, I fucked him dry while he was still tied down. In that tiny dark cell, with the boy's noisy fucking in the background, I started thinking about sex. I thought about Eric’s amazing ass, just the right amount of tightness, such beauty. I felt a stirring. My dick started to shift a little in its cage. I couldn’t stop. I remembered the spikes which would activate in my dick-cage. .I heard the noises they were making, Eric’s little grunts and squeals, the boy’s pure lust. Those twenty torture-spikes in my cage sprang into action. Each one penetrated my dick. The pain was in every part of my tortured penis and it was utterly overwhelming – my body spasmed and I shrieked in agony. I couldn’t help it. I pissed, farted and let out a long soft shit which stuck on my legs.
A few minutes later, the boy finished with a loud shout and I could hear a sweaty slap as he slumped on to Eric’s back. A few minutes later, I heard Eric and the boy go back upstairs together. On the way, Eric kicked my door - ‘Heard you scream, cunt – don't expect us back tonight – enjoy those spikes – remember you deserve each one of them sticking in your little dick, cunt’.
‘It’s in fucking tight cuffs too’, I heard the boy say as they went away. Then they both laughed at that.
I spent that dark night unable to find any even slightly comfortable place in my bare and tiny basement cell. The low parts of the cell were wet with piss, and it was impossible to lie on the sloping parts of the floor. My legs were covered in my own sticky foul-smelling shit. I lay awake most of the night in unbearable agony with twenty spikes sticking into my penis and with my hands stuck painfully behind my back in cuffs tightened as an extra punishment by the boy until they cut into my wrists.
It was a painful and miserable night.
‘Morning, cunt’ said Eric. A shaft of light from the door of my tiny cell nearly blinded me. Ugh, it stinks in there. Get out here, now!’ I half-crawled and half-shuffled. Eric slammed the door behind me. Then the boy appeared with two very young inmates, mid-teens in regulation shorts and shirts. They were carrying a bucket: ‘We’ve got its gruel, Mr Eric,’ said the shorter of the two with a fresh smiling face, cheeks slightly pink under jet-black hair. We’ve both pissed our morning piss into it, like you asked, Mr Eric - it smelled horrible - it'll be fun to watch the cunt drink it’. ‘Can we shit in its gruel next time and then watch the cunt eat it?’ asked the other, a thin-faced crew-cut boy with acne. ‘Don’t see why not’ Eric said sleepily ‘Do you want to stay and give the cunt its morning wash?’
The two boys were excited now. They watched as Eric reached down to my cage, unlocked it and pressed the ‘disengage’ button. The spikes sprang back out of my dick, twenty all at the same time. I fell down screaming, and screamed more when Eric sprayed my dick with his torture-spray.
Eric kicked me into the jet-wash room and got the kids to attach my ankles to rings at least a yard apart on the floor, exposing my cock and balls in the front and forcing open my ass-crack behind. They took off my tight handcuffs and attached my tortured wrists to a chain hanging from the ceiling. I was exposed and vulnerable front, back and sides. Those kids could jet-wash me anywhere they wanted and from every angle they wanted. Eric handed them the hose. They smiled delightedly. Torturing the cunt was something they’d wanted to do for some time. I stood naked and helpless. I shivered and shook with fear.
The force of the ice-cold wash was so powerful that the young inmates had difficulty keeping their balance – freezing water hit me in furious torrents. It smashed into my balls - Eric had told them to keep returning to my balls from every angle - ‘watch them bang into each other’ he had said. The water crashed into every part of my body, even my face. After 5 minutes, I was bruised all over and I was frozen. My balls were in agony. The two young inmates were holding the jet-wash hose together and laughing.
At last it stopped.
‘What do you say, shitface?’ I knew the ritual by now. ‘Thank you, Sirs, for jet-washing me. I don’t deserve a normal shower or bath, ever. And thank you for jet-washing my balls, Sirs. I deserved that especially’. What about the fucking gruel they brought over for you, you ungrateful cunt’, said Eric. ‘Thank you for bringing my gruel, Sirs, and thank you for pissing in it, Sirs’ - but it was too late. I had forgotten to thank them for the gruel.
‘You’ll get 20 strokes of the cane from them after you’ve finished that gruel. For ingratitude,’ said Eric.
They put me back in cuffs to eat my gruel. It was particularly disgusting gruel, made worse by having to dip my head in it to take in horrible mouthfuls of the stuff. The two boys’ smelly morning piss had accumulated on top in a vile yellow puddle which I had to lap up first. The rest of the gruel was made up of the usual bitter fatty lumps, which today smelt like rotten eggs, and a more or less flavourless clammy grey paste. I could never say I got used to my morning gruel, but it didn’t matter whether I was used to it or not, because the penalty for not swallowing everything in that bucket would be too brutal to contemplate – at least 50 strokes of the cane, and then I'd have to eat it afterwards anyway probably with the addition of someone's morning shit.
I finished the gruel – and I was now due to be caned for my ingratitude. I was ordered over the bench for my caning and Eric strapped me down. My naked ass stuck up, as it always did on those horrible spanking benches. It must have looked like my ass was begging for punishment.
Eric reached between my legs and was all business as he re-attached my cage - 'on "sensitive" again, cunt' he said. Then he handed a long thin cane, which I knew would sting terribly, to the dark-haired inmate and gave the caning instructions ‘Hit the cunt hard, as if it was your worst enemy – it deserves real pain for not thanking you properly. Aim anywhere between the top of its ass-crack and about half way down its thighs – usually the lower strokes are the most painful – but really you can hit it hard and anywhere. No one cares. You can take it in turns.’ Then Eric turned to me and changed his tone: ‘Cunt,' Eric told me, ‘count each stroke out loud and thank them properly. Praise them when they do a good stroke that really hurts.’
It was soon obvious why Eric had given the youngsters this particular cane. It was long and thin and difficult to control. They certainly hit hard – the spotty one especially. Their strokes curled around and smashed into my hips, cutting the thin skin in that bony area at the side and making me bleed. 'Thank you, Sir, for number 4. It cut me hard. Well done, Sir. I deserve this beating, Sirs.' The end of that bendy cane smacked into my balls several times, and one stroke somehow sliced agonisingly straight into my perineum which started dripping blood on to the floor - ‘you’ll clean that up afterwards’, said the boy. The beating was so painful that I could sometimes barely shout out the number sometimes and I could only manage a desperate ‘Thank you, Sir’. Inevitably, Eric added ‘three extras for not praising the inmates when they did good strokes and for not using a respectful voice’.
‘Sorry, we didn’t always get the target’, said the crew-cut boy at the end of my 23 wild and hard strokes of that cane. ‘It honestly doesn’t matter’ said Eric, ‘it deserves it everywhere and hard. Anyway, it’s going to be a long day for the cunt and a few extra pain-points will do it good. It’s got its hard labour, its pig-food, and it’s going to meet the boy’s dog later. If it’s not respectful to the dog, it’ll finish up in the prison Punishment Room, riding that painful horse with its balls burnt by the boy’s cigar.’
‘It won’t like that fucking dog’, said Eric.
'It won’t like my fucking cigar’, said the boy.
All four of them laughed as they untied me from the caning bench and prepared to send me crawling to my day’s hard labour.
