This story is fiction. Any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental. It's copyrighted 2020 by The Jordan Project, all rights reserved outside of Nifty. The reader comes first, so I live for feedback. Please take some time to provide it to JordanProject@protonmail.com. What worked? What didn't work?
A word about my writing style. This story starts out a bit slowly. I think credibility in plot, scenes, and characters matters, and that takes some time and words to establish. Reader, your patience will be rewarded. You will find plenty of twisted 'n kinky sex here. It just takes a while to get there. I suggest reading all the way through, and then returning to your favorite parts later.
Synopsis: Jason Hornbeck, the privileged and spoiled son of one of his state's most powerful Men, loses his father's protection and finds himself in a maximum-security prison, where he learns to respect and obey his corrections officers, and to serve them in whatever manner they require.
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PRISON CORRECTION Chapter 1 By Cody Jordan
There was no warning. The patrol car raced up to where he and his friends were sitting, its light bar flashing, a spotlight glaring.
"Freeze!" a metallic voice barked over the speaker. "You with the rifle! Put it on the ground right now! All of you, hands up. Now!"
The four startled youngsters gathered in a backwoods area of the county park hastened to follow the order. They were there to drink beer and take turns shooting at the empties with a .22 caliber rifle. Its owner, Jason Hornbeck, was holding the gun as the sheriff's deputy pulled up. He chuckled to himself. He knew the drill. His father would get him out this jam.
The deputy got the car and closed the door, and Hornbeck's eyes started to adjust. He recognized the deputy, who had drawn his handgun, gone into a crouch, and pointed it at the group. Calmly, the deputy said: "Move an inch, and I blow all four a-yer god damn heads off."
He walked over, his pistol still drawn, leaned over, and grabbed the rifle.
"Stay there," he told the four. "Don't move."
He backed up to the patrol car, reached in and popped the trunk lid. He threw the rifle inside and walked backed to the group.
"You," he said to Hornbeck, "put yer hands behind your back."
The cuffs went on. He grabbed two more pair of cuffs and hooked the other three together, hand to hand. The deputy looked down and saw the case of beer, half full.
"Now, when I tell you to walk, you will walk over to my vehicle, and line yourselves against the hood. Do you understand?"
No one said anything. They were too scared.
"I asked you: Do you understand?"
"Yeah," Hornbeck said. Big mistake. Instantly, he found himself doubled over on the ground, gasping for air.
The deputy turned to the others said, "You will say, `Yes sir.' Now, I asked you. Do you understand?"
"Yes sir."
"Yes sir."
"Yes sir."
The four of them weren't exactly dressed for shooting in the park. They were wearing crisp, snug-fitting black buckle-back slacks, shoes shined to a glossy finish, and starched white shirts, with the top button loose and bow ties tucked in the pockets, topped off by unbuttoned black vests. The effect was to make all of them look younger than they were, especially Hornbeck, who was short, blond, and boyish to begin with.
"What are you fellas doin', takin' each other to the prom?" the deputy asked, with a derisive chuckle. "Or maybe yer gonna marry each other? Hell of a weddin' night, boys."
"No sir," one of them said, sheepishly. "We're waiters at the country club and we got off work a few hours ago. We were just here relaxing, sir. Honest."
The deputy yanked Hornbeck to his by his shirt collar, then leaned over and put his face an inch from the youngster's. Crew cut, square jaw, a TV cop, standing more than half a foot taller than Hornbeck.
"Now do you understand what to call me?"
"Yes sir."
"All of you, walk over to the vehicle."
They walked over and lined up. The deputy stood a few feet back, holding a flashlight and looking them over.
"We'll start with you, gunner boy. This park closes at sunset. You are here illegally to begin with. You are drinking here, which is also illegal. And you are shooting a firearm, which is illegal as hell. And you are on probation, which puts all of this in felony territory for you."
"We were just having a few beers and shooting," Hornbeck replied, barely concealing a smirk. "We didn't mean anything by it. Just having some fun. Come on, it's no big deal."
The deputy's face tightened and his arm cocked.
"Sir, we were just having some fun," Hornbeck said, his insolence temporarily overcome. "We shouldn't have been here. It was our fault, sir."
The deputy tuned turned to the others.
"How much have ya been drinkin' tonight?"
One of them answered.
"Only two or three beers each, sir," one of them said. "We've been here for a couple hours."
"Step away from the car, and I'm going to get yer identification."
As the deputy moved, Hornbeck looked at him. Same one who'd arrested him for the convenience store holdup a year and a half earlier. Man, Hornbeck thought to himself, the guy is slick. More than six feet tall. Dark blue pants with a wide yellow stripe. Gunmetal blue shirt. Short sleeves. Sam Browne belt with a shoulder strap. Muscles on muscles, arms and legs straining against the fabric. Sweat under his pits. Chest hair poking out the top.
He collected their wallets and then stepped up to Hornbeck.
"So we meet again, little gunner," he said, quietly. "Not real big, are you, junior?"
Hornbeck felt the Man's moist, warm breath on his ear. He and smelled the masculine odor coming from the deputy's armpits, mixing with the aroma of the cigar he had been smoking. He felt a buzzing down below, but suppressed it.
The deputy's words hit a sore spot. Hornbeck stood maybe 5'6". His older brothers were much taller and never let him forget it the whole time he was growing up. Their constant teasing had turned him into a tough competitor in grade school and high school. If there was a sport, he went out for it. He played baseball, football, basketball, and wrestled.
By the time he was a sophomore he was on two varsity teams, and the next year another one. But being short always burned, and so did his slight build, no matter that he was muscular and in excellent condition. He was constantly comparing himself to bigger and taller guys, and then worrying about whether he was too interested in them. He knew how big every dick in school was, but he couldn't admit it to himself, and would hide his attraction under a blanket of resentment.
"No sir, I guess not," he said meekly, the humiliation burning deeply. The cop laughed and reached around for his wallet. After he got it, Hornbeck felt an extra pat on the ass.
"I'm going to run these I.D.s," the deputy said to the group. "You'd better hope you're not in my computer."
It seemed like it took forever. While he was gone, they whispered to each other.
"Did you see how fuckin' big he is?" one of them whispered. "Jesus Christ!"
Another one wondered whether they'd be arrested for the beer.
"As soon as he finds out that you guys are underage, you're all screwed," Hornbeck said, softly.
"Oh, you're screwed alright," they heard over the speaker. What, did he have a microphone that was picking up the conversation? "Gunner boy, ya violated the terms of yer probation, and ya will be comin' with me."
Then he walked back to the front of the car, a portable breathalyzer in his hand, and turned to the others.
"Who drove here?" he asked.
One of them explained that everyone had come in his car.
"Blow in this," he said to the one whose car it was, holding the unit out. He complied, and the cop looked at the unit. He repeated the test with the other two.
"Two of you blew .05, and the other one blew .06 so ya can all drive," he said. "I'm going to uncuff ya'll, and ya'll are going to go get that case of beer. Ya'll will put what hasn't been consumed in my trunk. Then ya'll are going to get in the car and drive home."
"Yer friend here will be goin' with me," the cop said. He turned to Hornbeck and said, "Little gunner, yer past has finally caught up with ya."
His buddies stared.
"It's not anywhere near as bad as it sounds," Hornbeck said to them. "My dad will fix it."
"You!" the deputy shouted. "Ya shut the fuck up, gunner boy. NOW!"
Then he turned to the others, and said, "Now I'm going to uncuff ya'all, and yer gonna to do what I told ya to do. Do ya understand?"
"Yes sir."
"Yes sir."
"Yes sir."
The cop stood wordlessly as they got the beer and put it in the trunk.
"Don't let me catch ya back here any time ever again. Not even in the middle of the fuckin' day drinkin' Cokes. This park is now off-limits to ya'all forever, and ya'd better obey that or I'll have ya'all in the same place where this one's going," he said, jerking his thumb in Hornbeck's direction with a smirk. "Do ya understand?"
"Yes sir."
"Yes sir."
"Yes sir."
"I just gave you a big break. Yer in this park illegally. Ya'll were drinkin' illegally. And ya'll were harborin' a fugitive. If ya'll are still too stupid to know it, yer ass is grass if I ever choose to make it so. So, ya'd be best advised to say `Thank you, sir' and then get the fuck out of here."
"Thank you very much, sir."
"Thank you, sir."
"Thank you, sir."
It took a minute for the others to find the car, start it and leave. At last, Jason Hornbeck was now standing in front of the patrol car, illuminated by headlights and a spotlight. Alone with a huge, squared away cop who had gut-punched him, patted his ass, and scared the living shit out of his buddies.
"Now, little gunner, it's just you and me," he said. "First thing we're gonna do is have a little talk, and that's going to require me to change yer handcuffs."
He unhooked Hornbeck and had him place his hands in front before cuffing them again. As he did it, Hornbeck felt another pat on the ass, this one harder, followed by a quick but aggressive rub. The other maneuver could have been mistaken, but not this one. He felt the familiar buzz below, but quickly extinguished the flame.
"Now, why don't ya say we just sit ya down where you were," the deputy said, pointing to a grouping of low tree stumps cut and trimmed to serve as seating. Dusk was turning to dark, but the area was lit up by the patrol car's headlights. As Hornbeck sat on a stump a foot or so above the ground, the deputy rested one foot up on the stump next to his. The lawman raised himself to his full height, standing in a cocked-leg position, his beltline at the level of the young man's forehead.
"Look at me in the eyes, junior," he said.
Hornbeck looked up. It was impossible to avoid the large, hard, thick lump in the deputy's sharply creased uniform pants.
"Yer in a whale of trouble, little gunner. Ya've got enough felonies to send ya to prison for a good 15 years or more. Do ya'll understand?"
Hornbeck said nothing.
"At this point, nothin' says I gotta take ya in," the deputy said, smiling and patting the log bulging sideways in his uniform. "Ya'll can pay me with yer throat, right here and right now."
"No fuckin' way!" the young man said, his ego winning out over his suppressed lust. "My father will take care of this, and then he'll take care of you. Civil servant, you'd better remember just who signs your paycheck!"
The deputy smiled and chuckled.
"Have it yer way then, little gunner," the deputy said, reaching down and dutch-rubbing Hornbeck's scalp with his knuckles. "Way I see it, ya'll got plenty a-lessons to learn. Don't want to learn tonight, then ya'll will learn 'em later on."
A month later, Jason Hornbeck walked through the gate of Banner Creek State Prison. Incredibly, he still assumed he would be able to play his usual tricks. Just past his 22nd birthday, he didn't know how much he had to learn.
Later, he would recall the slight smile that crept into the warden's eyes for just an instant, when he cursed him. He would remember how the warden replied, evenly, "We'll see about that," before telling the stern-faced senior corrections officer, "Six days, E block." And how the other officer gently squeezed his shoulder and said, almost inaudibly, "Mmm, hmm."
As he was marched to the hole, he played the card he'd used at the county jail, the local courts, and the minimum security campus: his father's influence. Jason Hornbeck, prisoner 04578, was the son of one of the state's most powerful figures. He was a man so influential that he never actually had a job or title, yet was universally sought, feared, and admired by anyone who had even the smallest position. A mere nod from the father of prisoner 04578 could move mountains, sometimes literally. Yet his name never appeared in any newspaper, nor was it uttered on any television broadcast.
Jason despised the old man. He resented the absences, the coldness, the corruption, the brutality, the impunity. Yet he was drawn to it, as a moth to a flame, and had inherited his father's view of other people as objects to be used and discarded. Over time, Jason had come to admire the father he hated, yet to hate his own admiration, and to hate his father even more for his being so much like the old man. What he hated the most were the contradictions that swirled inside his mind.
The youngest of three siblings, he idolized his brothers while he was in elementary school. They treated him as their mascot, and he followed them and their friends around like a puppy, but his attitude began to change in junior high school. As it became clear that he'd never be as tall or strong as they were, their swagger and easy confidence triggered growing resentment. He'd pick fights with them, and came to crave their reaction, which by high school had involved beatings and putdowns.
When his father was around –- which wasn't very often –- the indulgence bred arrogance and disrespect. There never seemed to be any consequences for misbehavior. Apart from being spanked once, the only real discipline came at the hands of his brothers, something he came to crave.
Still, he followed in that father's footsteps, grooming himself for the day when he would take his rightful place as the head of the clan. His brothers, once rivals and tormenters, had turned toward other occupations after high school. Jason became the heir by default, a position he assumed he would retain even after a car theft had sent him to jail. Anything can be fixed, his father had often said. This is America, where we worship only the dollar and use God as a mask.
But even his father began to sing a different song. It was called "Watch Your Step," but Jason never heard the tune. He was too busy carousing, too secure in his arrogance. His father hadn't helped matters by intervening on his son's behalf at schools, police departments, and lockups. A mere gesture was enough to win a phenomenal level of special treatment: liquor in cells, a private visit from a girlfriend, protection from assaults inside, even a flat screen TV in his cell.
Jason had even managed to tell a corrections officer to "fuck off," with nothing more than a mild reprimand from a supervisor. Whatever anyone might tell him, he correctly assumed that he was under special protection. Yet he failed to notice that his support had been collapsing long before his transfer to Banner Creek. His doom was rooted in the lack of self control created by his privileged upbringing.
A car theft and joy ride had been swept under the rug with his father's help, prompting the beginning of the be-careful cautions. An assault, and another jail stay, was also cleared off the books, followed by more urgent fatherly warnings. But not even clout could keep Jason from doing prison time after he participated in a convenience store robbery and was arrested.
Before his father could intervene, security videos showing the youngster's face had been played on TV news programs. He would have to do time, but his father made sure it would be easy time in a minimum security facility. His father pulled strings to arrange probation for his son, but told him that would be his last chance.
Sentencing was deferred, and Jason was watched by staff. His father visited to plead for a turnaround. The rebellious young man scorned those pleas, laughed at the psychologists, and committed another assault. That's when his father, without Jason's knowledge, began agitating to have his son placed in the state's notorious maximum security institution.
Jason's chances at any political career were gone, his embarrassed father reasoned, but there might be one more chance to scare him straight – out of prison and into an anonymous patronage slot that would pay him enough to raise a family and live decently. But none of those efforts worked, and eventually Jason found himself being walked to a solitary confinement cell in the state's worst prison. He was unaware that dear old Dad had switched sides.
"My father is watching," Jason snarled at the two officers as they walked, confident in the power of those magic words.
"Mmm, hmm," one of the corrections officers replied, still with his hand on the youngster's shoulder, squeezing not quite as softly as in the warden's office. "We'll see about that."
It seemed to take forever to reach the solitary confinement cells. Once they got there, Jason was surprised by how few and far apart they were. Later, he would realize that the spacing muffled the sounds coming from inside.
"Okey doke, here we are," the senior officer said as they approached the door of his cell. He unlocked the prisoner's handcuffs, leaving the leg cuffs on. "Take yer shirt off." Jason, prisoner 04578, was struck by the corrections officer's tone. Neither friendly nor hostile, neither cautious nor reckless. Low, flat, serious, matter-of-fact – and utterly confident.
"What do you mean I have to take off my fuckin' clothes ..."
Jason thought fast. He'd do what he'd done at other jails and prisons: Bait them into misusing their authority, and then have them fired for it. He wanted their punishment, both for its own sake and for the advantage it would give him. His ability to manipulate the system had left him cynical and unfulfilled, and a part of him was hoping someone would put an end to his games.
The corrections officer who had placed his hand on his shoulder fired a stun gun into the flesh of his butt. He had felt Tasers before, but this shock was much stronger, and he felt his leg tense up and his body slam into the door of the cell.
"You're gonna be fucking sorry you did that!" the young prisoner shouted, not appreciating the gravity of his situation. "Do that again, and I swear that Mason J. Hornbeck will make sure that you eat dog shit for the rest of your life! No one treats his son this way and gets away with it!"
In an instant, the senior officer recuffed the young prisoner's hands, spun him sideways, tripped him, and sent him sprawling to the floor, his cheekbone banging against the concrete floor. He heard the cell door opening. He felt a hand grab the back of his loose prison trousers and lift him up. He was carried by the waistband into the cell, and heard the door close with a bank vault's dull thud.
The older corrections officer had lifted him up. Now he was at the level of that officer's ribcage, suspended in mid-air. He noticed that it was hot inside the room.
"We'll see about that," the officer said, and dropped the prisoner to the floor. He felt his chin hit the concrete, and yelped, more in shock than in pain. He was picked up again, and dropped again, but this time he turned his head to avoid another bump. And again, again, again, again, and again.
"Now," the officer said, as he removed the cuffs, "stand up and take off yer clothes. And shut up."
The prisoner's eyes burned hatred as his arms were unshackled, but he followed the instructions and removed his shirt. The leg chains were removed.
"Bottoms off," the senior corrections officer instructed, in his even tone, as if the resistance on the way into the cell had amounted to nothing. Again, the prisoner hesitated, and again the younger officer shocked him, propelling his body across the room into a metal bedframe with a cross hatched metal platform, but no mattress of any kind, or sheets.
"I swear to you ..." the prisoner said. The younger officer moved to administer a second shock, but the young prisoner, growing fearful, abruptly silenced himself and took his dark prison-issued trousers off. He stood in his underpants, facing the corrections officer.
"Everything," the senior officer said.
"What? You mean ..."
For the first time, the prisoner heard anger in a corrections officer's voice.
"Am I gonna have to clean the crap out of yer ears with this thing?" the younger one asked, holding the shocking prod that had delivered the powerful jolts.
He took his underpants off. As the young prisoner stood naked, with his hands covering his privates, the senior corrections officer spoke:
"The bucket with the cover is yer toilet. Ya will keep yerself clean. The bucket with the water is what ya will wash with. There will be no light in here and it will be so dark ya won't even be able to see yer hands. So take careful notice of where those buckets are because ya will have to feel for 'em.
"Ya'll be fed once a day through the slot at the bottom of the door. When ya hear it open, move away until it closes. Yer drinkin' water will be included with yer food. It is the only water safe to drink. Yer cleanin' water will make ya sick."
The officers were silent, and so was the prisoner. At last, the senior corrections officer spoke.
"Is that clear?" he asked.
"Yeah, it's clear," the young prisoner answered.
"What?" the senior corrections officer asked again, evenly.
"I told you, it's clear!" the prisoner answered.
"I see," the senior officer said, betraying no reaction. His face, handsome and angular, was as blank as a professional poker player's. At length, he turned to his partner and said, "We're going to need to say adios to this one."
With that, the two of them turned and left the room. Jason, prisoner 04578, heard the key in the lock. But the light stayed on. He snorted, and then chuckled as he rubbed the bump on his chin raised by the drop onto the floor. These hillbillies always try to play some trick, he said to himself, as he walked back to the metal bed to lie down. He stared at the lightbulb burning within a sturdy wire cage in the ceiling, and mentally measured the distance from the door to the buckets.
"Shit in a bucket," he told himself. "Wait 'til Dad finds out! These dumbfucks will be back in Dumbfuckville before they can say, 'I fucked up,' " he told himself, laughing silently.
At that moment, he heard a key in the lock of his cell door. The two corrections officers entered, the younger one carrying a duffel bag.
"Stand up," the corrections officer said, his eyes bright, holding what the prisoner now recognized as a shock baton. "Now."
He stood up, and scanned the officers' faces. The senior one was, as always, impassive. Clean shaven, square headed, with short-cropped black hair. He was handsome and swarthy, with olive skin. Italian, maybe a little Greek or Arab, but mostly European. Thick hair covered his arms, and even the back of his hands. Jason judged him to be somewhere in his late 30s. The other corrections officer was much younger, blond and square-jawed. Kinda looks like a surfer except he works out a lot more, Jason thought to himself.
They were much taller than Jason, who was muscular, wiry, more cute than handsome, with cropped light brown hair. Jason had always been embarrassed by his slight stature. His brothers would taunt him by calling him "little fella" and "little half buck," the latter nickname one that grew out of a forgotten joke. As he became older but failed to grow taller or show other signs of developing manhood, the fights became more intense and the teasing became more pointed and hurtful.
No matter what he did, he was always "little fella" at home and somewhere not too far back in his own mind. Now, with the corrections officers towering over him, it felt like the clock had been turned back to those days. The older officer, especially, was gigantic, standing almost a foot taller than the young prisoner. To Jason, he looked like the Jolly Green Giant, and except not so jolly and not so green. The younger one was a bit shorter, but still huge, maybe 6 foot 2. Their crisply starched light gray uniforms were tight, showing their muscles.
Jason's eyes drifted toward the older officer's belt buckle, which gleamed in the light, and then toward the younger officer's. He noticed the outlines of substantial weapons below the both men's belts. Jason's stature in that department was a source of obsession, frustration and humiliation to him, bordering on grief and anger at having been cheated out of what other boys of his age had been given.
Throughout his high school years, Jason had played a kind of cat and mouse game at school, seizing every opportunity to secretly examine his peers. He became an avid crotch watcher, especially in hallways, often knowing and judging other boys by how they hung. If another was small, Jason would tell himself that maybe his own equipment was normal and there was no need to worry. If a boy was large, Jason would experience a mixture of grief and jealousy, at times bordering on rage.
Each day was a minefield, his moods shifting according to what he saw. All the while, he was intensely protective of his own body, having used his family influence to win privacy in showers and locker rooms. Sometimes he would contrive to exaggerate his features, stuffing rolled up socks into his underwear until he found a rubber sheath to put over his dick to make it look larger inside of his trousers. He would swagger, imaging himself as a big man, admired by all.
But here, in the basement of Banner Creek State Prison, he stood naked, with nowhere to hide, a couple inches of flaccid, pathetic truth on display, surrounded by bare wisps of pubic hair.
"How old did they say ya were? Twenty-two, was it?" the young corrections officer chuckled. "Looks to me like 22 going on 11."
"Must get bigger when it hardens up," the older corrections officer said, matter of factly. "Has to, or this little fella's in a world a-hurt."
Jason spoke up, recalling a line he had read in a magazine.
"It's never been a problem for my girlfriend. She sucks it like a water pump, and says she'd rather have a man who tickles her rather than chokes her," he said, realizing that his brittle tone was revealing more than a little too much defiance. "But at least I'm not some sort of fag who looks at other men's dicks."
The younger officer looked at the prisoner but spoke to his partner.
"Why don't we see how much that stub a-his grows?" he said, turning a knob on the shock prod until it produced an audible click. "Electrifying his asshole will do the trick just like with the bulls on the ranch."
Panic jolted the prisoner out of what he had thought was little more than an embarrassing conversation.
"I'm telling you, don't come near me with that thing!" he yelled. "My father ..."
The older corrections officer ignored the yelling and moved over to the bed frame and fiddled. Soon, what had been a metal footboard was folded upward in sections, to join ceiling hooks that the prisoner hadn't noticed. He moved back to the duffel bag he'd brought, and removed leather restraints. Calmly, he handed two of them to the prisoner and said, "Fasten these to yer ankles."
"No fuckin' way!" Jason shouted. "No fuckin' ..."
Before he could finish, he felt the air rushing out of his lungs and a deep pain in his gut. The older officer had punched him in the solar plexus. As he doubled over in pain and fell to the floor, the prisoner found himself marveling at the simplicity of the punch. He felt himself being kicked in the rear end, hard. Finally, a boot rested hard on one side of his face, pinning the other side to the floor. He heard the older corrections officer speak.
"Ya do what a Man tells ya to do, when a Man tells ya to do it," the officer said, matter-of-factly. "Clear?"
"Yeah," the prisoner groaned, his wind returning.
"Get up and attach the restraints to yer feet, then hold still."
He did as he was told. The corrections officer crouched down and tightened them a notch.
"Arms out front."
He did so, and the corrections officer fixed restraints to his wrists. The leather was supple, and felt comfortable.
"Walk over to the end of the bed," the senior officer said. "Spead yer legs and put yer feet by the bottom of the 'X', and put yer hands up by the top of the 'X.' Hold there."
His courage returning, the prisoner moved to a boxing crouch.
"You want to me do that, and you'll have to fight me into it," he exclaimed. "I'm a Golden Gloves title holder, and I'll do some damage here, even with the two of you."
The younger corrections officer, standing off to the side, chuckled softly as the other officer moved in.
In three swift, effortless punches, the senior officer had the prisoner reeling toward the intended destination, where he bounced off the wall. With his body, the powerful corrections officer pinned the prisoner against the wall. With one hand, the officer grabbed three of the prisoner's fingers and jammed them backwards. He shoved two fingers of his other hand into the prisoner's nose and slowly pushed upward. His ground his knee into the prisoner's undersized testicles.
"In ten seconds, yer gonna have a broken hand," the older officer said, in a voice both calm and cold. "Ten more seconds after that, ya will be sneezing yer brains out onto my floor. If ya happen to survive, them little nuts of yers will never work again. Yer choice, little fella."
"I'll do everything you say!" the terrified prisoner replied, his words sounding comically nasal owing to the position of the older officer's fingers in his nostrils.
"Okey-doke then," the corrections officer said in a completely unruffled voice, casually releasing his grip. As Jason groaned and panted, he became aware of his balls rubbing against the smooth fabric of the corrections officer's uniform pants. The officer had withdrawn the pressure of his knee, but kept it high against the wall, forcing the naked young prisoner to straddle his leg.
Jason felt a surge of blood to the area, and knew he had an erection. It was triggered by the shifting of blood and not desire, but it mightily embarrassed the young prisoner.
The older corrections officer glanced at the boy's hardon – all three and a half inches of it – and chuckled gently, adding to the humiliation.
"Dang, that girl a-yers must like ya even more 'n ya like my leg," he said, grinning slightly. "Or maybe yer daddy's money."
The younger corrections officer casually reached out to squeeze the tip of the prisoner's erection, causing him to wince in pain and start to go soft.
"Good question, boss," he said. "I doubt she's out there waitin' fer this one. Some a-the Men upstairs, on the other hand ..."
The older officer interrupted his partner.
"Never can tell," he said, in a businesslike tone. "Prisoner, move to the X and put yer feet and the bottom and arms up top."
As the prisoner complied, he spoke.
"My father has taken care of it," he said, trying to hide the shame in his voice. "I've never been raped, and I'm not going to be. It won't be allowed."
Nor had he ever been seriously and methodically beaten. After the corrections officers fixed him to the bed frame, they spent the next half-hour flogging his back and rear. They saved the lesson for the end.
"Count the next strokes from one until I finish," the older officer said, evenly. "But this time, ya will end with 'Sir.' Ya will say, 'One, sir' and 'Two, sir' and so on."
The tenth hit nearly caused the prisoner to pass out.
"What do prisoners call staff here?" the older corrections officer said, his voice turning metallic and commanding as he loosened the restraints.
"Sir," the young prisoner moaned.
"Warden told ya that before ya cursed him," the senior corrections officer said, slapping the young prisoner in the side of the head for emphasis. "Now that I have gotten yer attention, I am telling ya again: Staff is to be called 'Sir' at all times. Understood?"
"Yes, sir."
"When I give ya an order, ya will say, 'Yes, sir,' and then carry it out right quick. Understood?"
"Yes, sir."
"Drop on the floor and roll over like a dog."
"What ...?"
The older corrections officer slapped the young prisoner's face, hard.
"Roll over like a dog."
The prisoner complied (with a "Yes, sir"), winding up on his back. The older officer stood over the prisoner and placed his shoe between the prisoner's legs. The pressure of his foot trapped blood in the boy's dick, and it become extra hard.
"We got a rule: Ya never talk with anyone what happens here. Understood?"
"Yes, sir," he said, thinking how stupid they were for thinking he'd ever keep quiet once he was out of their grip.
"Repeat after me: 'I will never talk with anyone what happens in solitary confinement.' "
"I will never talk with anyone what happens in solitary confinement, sir," the young prisoner said, as he lay on the floor, looking up at the gigantic corrections officer standing over him.