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Five days and several beatings later, Jason, prisoner 04578, was back in the warden's office. His civilian clothes had vanished, and he wore a prison-issued jump suit. The corrections officers stood behind him.
"Now, where were we?" the warden said matter-of-factly, as if no time had passed. "I believe ..."
The youth interrupted him.
"Warden, I want to speak with my father now," he barked. "These two storm troopers of yours threw me in a cell, beat me up, and kept me in the dark. They fed me shit food and piss for water. They made me shit in a bucket, and when I knocked it over in the dark they beat me up and hosed me down with high pressure hoses. They refused to let me out for exercise. They insulted my body and told me I would be raped in prison. Warden, if you value your job, you'll get on that phone, apologize to my father, get these goons fired, and treat me with some respect."
The warden's eyes brightened.
"I see," he replied sarcastically. "Is there anything else?"
The prisoner glared.
"That ought to be enough. If you don't believe me, just look at my bruises," he said, angrily. "Get my father on the phone. Don't you know who I am? Oh yeah, and I think your guards are queers. You ought to check into it."
The warden smiled thinly and turned to a short stack of papers on his desk. He picked them up and held them out toward the prisoner, along with a cup of water. The room was warm so he drank eagerly, barely noticing the bitter taste.
"We will talk to Mr. Hornbeck in a short while," the warden said, coldly. "But first you will read this material. Pay special attention to the sections I have highlighted. At the bottom of each page, you will write your initials, and then go onto the next one. Once you're finished, I will make the call and sit here with you. It will be a learning experience for all of us, I am sure."
Jason snorted at the warden's insolence. He examined the papers, and saw that they consisted of a report, and about 20 photocopied letters between his father, a judge, and two wardens, including the one in whose office he sat. He read through the report that summarized the results of his intake physical exam, and interviews with psychologists and counselors at Banner Creek and prior custodial institutions.
"Robust, athletic, white male, age 22. Right-handed. Height, 65.6 inches. Weight, 138 lbs. Body fat, 5.4%. Heart rate, 58. Blood pressure, 110/70. Excellent health. Scar on face from boxing injury. Lightning bolt tattoo on right arm. No evidence of neurological or musculo-skeletal abnormality. Blood chemistry normal except as noted below. No broken bones or physical deformities. Respiration, normal. Reflexes, normal.
"Notable physical feature: Underdeveloped secondary sexual characteristics. Penile length 1.8 inches flaccid (8th percentile), 3.5 inches erect (4th percentile). Testes descended, 60% of normal size (6th percentile). Erectile function normal, seminal fluid volume one-fourth normal (5th percentile). No general body hair, voice somewhat softer, higher than adult male. Conclusion: resembles early adolescent (9 to 12 years old). Status permanent as shown by bone xray showing other adult structures complete. No deformity.
"Psychological: Intelligence high-normal (85th percentile). No hallucinations, dissociation, somatic disorders, paranoid-schizophrenia, psychopathy, or psychosis. No evident drug or alcohol addiction. Moderate-high narcissistic disorder (75th percentile); very high inferiority/jealousy (97th percentile); moderate-high oppositional disorder (71st percentile); moderate neurosis (63rd percentile); very high shame/embarrassment profile (96th percentile); very high dominance/submission profile (94th percentile). Strong obsessive/compulsive tendencies surrounding dominant fear mentioned below.
"Sexuality: 3 on Kinsey scale (0 = heterosexual, 6 = homosexual), behaviorally heterosexual with notable latent homosexual interest, trending higher under stress. Defensive, compensatory gestures toward hypermasculinity (bullying, bragging, intimidation, athletics). Subject's fear surrounding deficient masculinity, emanating from short stature and secondary sexual underdevelopment, poses pronounced sexual-social adjustment problems. Conversion to homosexual possible or desirable with right partner, in long-term corrections setting."
Jesus Christ, he thought to himself, the shrinks think I'd be better off as a queer!
Then he turned to the letters. The first few showed that, starting a year ago, his father had requested his transfer to Banner Creek, but had run into resistance from authorities. The facility is too dangerous for your son, their replies said. Officials detailed the violent nature of Banner Creek's inmates, the prison's strict regimens, and the safety risks that a young inmate would face there.
Banner Creek's warden was the most adamant. In three letters, he laid his job on the line, refusing to accept Jason unless his father specifically acknowledged the risks involved. The warden insisted that Jason be visited by family members, and by two former Banner Creek inmates. As he read the letters, the prisoner recalled a series of visits that he had taken as empty appeals to straighten up. He recalled his own hostility to what he had seen as his father's insincere string-pulling. He had told his two brothers to fuck off. He had rebuffed his grandmother, calling her a senile old bitch. But he saved his very worst for his mother.
"So Dad's too much of a coward and a drunk to come here, I see," Jason had told her, as tears streamed down her face, twisted in pain. "Well the old man wasn't too much of a coward to take me to his whorehouse after all those times he got drunk and beat you up. He always told me that he'd take care of me, so here's my message: Tell him 'business as usual.' He'll know what I mean."
In a letter to his father, dated after his mother's visit, the warden wrote that Jason must be given a chance to think about what he had been told by the people who had come to see him. If, in the end, Jason was transferred to Banner Creek, the warden insisted that no special accommodations be made to him. If he were to die at Banner Creek, no investigations or inquiries must take place. He must be treated, in life and in death, if it should come, as any other inmate would be treated.
"We have a voluntary orientation for youthful inmates, and we follow certain housing procedures that are designed to maximize their safety within our walls," the warden wrote. "If your son chooses to reject our help, our rules, and our cautions, his life will be in danger. I must insist that you explicitly accept what I have told you. I will not make special accommodations for him, even if that means the end of my 30-year career in the corrections department of this state."
As Jason read those words, he chuckled inside. So another idiot tries to stand up to Dad, he thought, not stopping to consider that the warden was still in the room several months after having sent that letter. What he read next shocked him. It was a letter from his father to Banner Creek's warden. It referred to a prison visit by his father, at the warden's insistence (imagine his father, summoned to a state employee's office!); a tour of the facilities; and his father's viewing of what his letter called a "horrendous collection" of photos of violent acts committed by Banner Creek inmates, both within and outside of the prison.
"If my son should meet his end within your walls, I give you my word of honor that there will be no investigation at any level of government, or by the press," the letter read. "I am confident that you will, as we discussed, make him aware that his life is now in his own hands."
The young inmate felt himself gasp for air, as he had done on his first day in solitary when the corrections officer had punched him in the gut. He looked up, and saw the warden holding more papers. He handed back what he'd been given, and received another stack.
"What's in here was of great help to your father," the warden told the stricken prisoner. "You will find that the staff at your last residence wasn't quite as clueless as you thought about that cellphone you smuggled in. They monitored your letters, phone calls, visits, and e-mails, and they read every text message you sent. So did your father."
The young inmate felt queasy in his stomach, where a knot of fear and dread had formed. In hundreds of messages to a couple of friends on the outside, he had poured out his hatred, disdain, and undiscovered criminality. And now he was staring at the highlights.
"The rich old asshole will get me out of this, just watch."
"You wouldn't believe how stupid the vermin guards are here."
"Remember when we knocked over those other 7-Elevens?"
"My mother? Stupid hosebag!"
"Good thing no one ever found the sawed-off shotgun."
"My so-called father is a slimy prick, but I got him wrapped around my finger."
"As soon as I'm out, let's hook up with that guy who wants to move the meth."
The young inmate could barely breathe.
"At some point, you will be visiting the prosecutors again," the warden said, evenly. "You are going to be with us for a much longer time than you thought."
The prisoner became aware of a speakerphone ringing, and of his father answering directly, without the usual secretarial intervention. The warden had the personal number, Jason noted. You've got to be real damn important for that. And his father had called the warden by name, another rarity.
"Dad!" Jason shouted, as he glanced in the warden's direction. "They threw me into the hole and the guards beat me up and ..."
"Shut up. I have something to tell you," his father interrupted, in a sharp, caustic bark whose brutality stunned Jason. "Your mother had cancer when she visited you. The doctors had given her two years to live, but she died two weeks after coming home from that visit. Your grandmother died a month after seeing you. And of course I know what you think of me, and of what else you have done."
Silence hung in the air. The warden stared him down.
"Oh come on, Dad ..." Jason began. "You always told me anything can be fixed!"
"Yes, I did. And here is how this will be fixed. If you intend to live for more than another week, you'd better listen," his father replied, his voice metallic and frozen. "You will do what you are told there, and I suggest that you accept their orientation program. No matter what, you will change your name and never again contact anyone in this family. I have made the necessary arrangements. You will sign off, or else."
More silence.
"Am I clear?" the voice on the phone said.
Jason couldn't talk. It was as if a hand had grabbed his throat.
"Warden, is he in the room?" the voice asked.
"Y-y-yes. Yes sir," Jason answered, softly, to the man who was once his father, before the line went dead.
The warden, a powerfully built Man in his early 50s, turned toward the shocked young man, who was slumped in his chair and lost in worry.
"By the time you return here, if not before, I will have the papers associated with your name change, ready for your signature," the warden said. "I am sure that you've already heard about this prison."
"Yes sir, I have," the shocked inmate said, softly, finally realizing the gravity of his situation.
"You have the most important choice you will ever make in front of you," the warden said. "You must request to be sent immediately to the general population, or to enter the orientation program that I mentioned in my letter to your father. I can describe it for you if you wish."
"You might as well, sir," Jason replied.
"You will be here for a long time, and entering the general population immediately will put you at risk," he said. "The corrections officers will try to protect you from the worst, but there are no guarantees. The program will familiarize you with the realities before sending you there, and help you adjust to them."
"How long does it last?" the inmate asked, "and what does it do?"
"I can only estimate that, for you, it will probably take a few months," the warden replied. "You have plenty to learn. Orientation isn't easy. The corrections officers will have complete authority, and you can expect some corporal punishment as you learn your place and what is expected of you. I'm sure you understand their capabilities in that regard?"
"Yes sir, I do," Jason said.
"The program was designed as an experiment, and it includes a behavior modification drug that will help make the changes you need," the warden said. "It will also keep your spirits up while your make the necessary adjustments."
"Sir, I saw the report," the inmate replied. "Am I going to be turned into a queer or something?"
The warden ran a hand through his flat-top crewcut, dark with flecks of gray, trimmed closely at the sides.
"Ah, that," he said. "Son, I've been in the corrections system for a long time, and I have never seen or heard of an inmate who was not homosexual being turned into one here. And something else: I do not hire homosexual corrections officers."
"Sir, may I ask what the drug does?" the prisoner said.
"It won't turn you into a homosexual or a robot," the warden replied with a chuckle. "It will make you attentive to the corrections officers and help you deal with your circumstances. It has a very good reputation."
"Will the same guards run that program, sir?" Jason asked, knowing the answer.
"You will refer to them as corrections officers, not guards," the warden said, sternly. "Yes, if you request the orientation, they will run it. They are well trained and have have more than 10 years worth of experience."
"The corrections officers must hate me, sir," the inmate said, mournfully.
"They don't," the warden replied. "They understand that this is new, especially since your father has protected you for so long. If you request the program, they will wipe the slate clean, and I suggest that you do the same. Or you can request general population. It is your choice."
The warden fell silent, and waited. The only sound in the room was a ticking clock. After five minutes, Jason spoke.
"Sir, I request the orientation," he said.
The warden handed him a one-page agreement that detailed his description of the program, including the use of corporal punishment and the behavior control drug.
"Read it carefully, and sign at the bottom," he told the inmate. "I think you are making the correct choice. If there's one thing to remember it is that their authority is absolute, and you will obey my corrections officers without hesitation or argument. Do you understand?"
"Yes sir," Jason replied, as he followed the warden's instructions and handed the signed agreement to him.
The warden stood up, and as he moved toward the office door, the inmate stole a glance below the belt buckle of closely tailed suit and noted the substantial outline next to the fly of his pants. The warden opened the door and called the guards back into the room. They moved to each side of the chair where Jason sat, the officers muscular in their crisp, tight uniforms that also bulged outward below their belt buckles.
"G block," the warden said.
The younger officer's hand tightened slightly on the prisoner's shoulder. The young inmate was suddenly aware of the officer's size. His hand felt like a bear claw trapping him. Ominous.
"Yes, warden!" the young corrections officer said, a hint of eagerness creeping into his tone. "We'll get this one the training he needs." He gently told the prisoner to stand up, and Jason complied. As the officers guided him toward the door, the prisoner turned back toward the warden and asked how long he would be in the hole.
The warden smiled slightly, and said nothing. He nodded toward the officers, signaling them to leave with the prisoner. As they led him from the room, the warden spoke.
"Remember what I told you," he said to Jason, his voice firm. "If you obey these officers, you will have nothing to worry about. The program isn't easy, but you will be better off for it. Alright?"
"Yes sir," he replied softly.
The warden's assurances did nothing to calm Jason, who was shaking with fear as the two corrections officers led him back toward the bowels of the prison. A kaleidoscope of thoughts rushed through his mind – his mother and grandmother's deaths, his father and brothers' repudiation, how he had broken the officers' rule about not talking about what happened in solitary, and his calling them queers, the report suggesting that he was part queer himself.
He began to hyperventilate, and he felt his legs weaken. He crumpled to the floor at the officers' feet, and started to sob. After what seemed like hours, he heard a voice. It was the senior officer's. His tone had changed. Still authoritative, but gentler, even caring.
"Now don't ya worry, son," he said. "We're here to help. Now why don't ya get up? Got places to be."
Jason felt uneasy, but couldn't quite put his finger on it. Something was off. Then it hit him: the corrections officers had known everything, right from the start. The new gentleness wasn't affection. It was dominance. They might as well have been his brothers, calling him "little fella." He was being mocked, but in a way that made it impossible for him to object.
His mood was both terrified and aroused. He wanted to surrender to these Men, yet his fear was overwhelming, and his anger gnawed at him. His humiliation was intense, yet the hint of even mock affection from the officers made it appealing, almost erotic. He hated and feared them but wanted to please them, but was afraid to show too much.
"But ... but ... all those things I said," the prisoner said. "You'll beat the living hell out of me!"
"You'll beat the living heck out of me, sir," the younger corrections officer replied gently, placing his big hand on Jason's shoulder. "We would like it if ya would work on yer cursing, and we need ya to remember to show respect at all times."
"Yes sir," the prisoner said, quickly. "I am sorry, sir."
The senior officer interrupted, and stopped in the corridor.
"I'm gonna get me some water. Deke, ya want some?" he said to the junior officer, his voice cordial.
"Yeah, I'm pretty thirsty. I'm sure this little fella could use some, too."
Jason immediately felt thirsty, and wondered if someone had read his mind.
The senior corrections officer disappeared down a side hall, reappearing a few minutes later bearing large cups with straws. He handed one to the junior officer and one to Jason, bidding them to drink. Jason drank quickly, trying not to taste it as it went down. He figured it contained the drug, and when he finished, the older officer took his cup, vanished, and returned.
The three resumed their walk as it took effect.
"I ... I ... am sorry for what I said to the warden, sir," Jason said, feeling remorse for insulting the officers.
"Ya made mistakes, and we will deal with them," the senior officer said, his metallic voice sending a stab of fear through Jason. "But ya can get past 'em. I promise ya that." The corrections officer's tone had softened, and Jason took heart as they walked.
At length, they reached the G block. Once again, he was the only inmate. He saw a long corridor, with cell doors on each side. The officers led him to the end and into what turned out to be an office. They motioned him toward a couch, which was surprisingly comfortable. The corrections officers took chairs behind a desk, where a thick folder sat in front of each of them. Again, he was aware of their size, feeling much smaller.
"Can't have been real easy to live in that family," the junior officer said, in a tone so sympathetic it seemed almost syrupy. "Maybe it's for the best that yer clear of 'em, 'cause it seems like they sure messed things up for ya."
The prisoner felt relaxed and open, and found himself talking about how he had hated and feared his brothers for their relentless teasing, and of how his father's attitudes had confused and hurt him. He had tried to satisfy the Man, but felt rejected because of his small stature. He had pushed himself in sports and boxing, but it was never enough.
"I felt like he was laughing at me like my brothers did, in a way," he said. "I always wondered whether he thought I was some kind of fag." The corrections officers nodded and talked with him, their voices hypnotic.
A piano metronome sat on the table, clicking away. Jason found the sound mesmerizing, and soon felt tension leaving his body. He leaned further into the soft couch, and the older officer pulled his chair up, faced the young prisoner, and looked straight into his eyes. Jason returned the handsome officer's gaze. He was reassured, and felt his resistance melting.
"I saw the psychology reports about ya always checkin' out the other fellas," the elder officer said, gently. "Just a matter of tryin' to figure out why they had their equipment and ya got yer little stuff, right?"
"Yes sir, that's exactly how it was," the prisoner answered, feeling deeply humiliated yet marveling at the officer's insight. "The worst was from my next-oldest brother. Every time we'd fight over something, he'd tell me I'd never be a Man."
"So they made ya feel bad 'cause of it?" the younger corrections officer asked.
"Yes sir, it was terrible," the prisoner said. "I was always having to prove myself, but it never seemed to matter. I was always the 'little fella' or 'little half buck.' That's what they'd call me."
The older officer had been stroking Jason's wrist, and the prisoner felt himself grow sleepy.
"Easy does it. Nice and easy," he told the young prisoner. "Easier to talk if ya close yer eyes and concentrate on the tick-tock."
As the corrections officer kept up his reassurances, the young prisoner sighed and closed his eyes, entering a hypnotic state.
"Yer deadly afraid of the dark. It makes ya whimper and cry like a little boy," the officer said. "Once the lights go out, the only way you'll be able to chase it away and get some sleep is to suck yer thumb. And that's gonna make ya know yer a little fella like yer brother said, and make ya suck yer little thumb even harder. Yer gonna feel real dang safe when yer suckin' yer little thumb."
"Yes sir," he said, his voice quivering, as the metronome marked time.
"When one of us comes back into yer cell, he will turn up the lights and say, 'Are ya ready to get up?' He'll know ya been cryin' and suckin' yer little thumb, and you'll know he saw ya doin' it. And that'll make ya know that he's a Man and yer to obey him 'cause he knows what ya are."
The officer repeated the suggestions over and over for the next hour, reinforcing both the reality and the humiliation. It was what the corrections officers wanted him to think, and the young prisoner was being trained to do just that.
Finally, the hypnosis drew to a close.
"When I snap my fingers, ya will wake up," the officer told the trance-engaged young prisoner, "and ya will not remember this conversation."
"Yes sir."
The officer turned the metronome off and snapped his fingers. The prisoner shook his head rapidly. Groggily, he asked, "How long was I asleep, sir?"
The junior officer replied that he hadn't slept at all.
"Ya yawned a whole lot," he said, gently. "Ya must be pretty tired."
Jason had been given a heavy dose of the drug mentioned by the warden.
Correctol was classified as a "waking hypnotic," making a subject hyper-aware of subtleties of the tone of someone's voice, body movements, facial expressions, and the content of their speech. It was as if someone else was able to control what a user felt, merely with a glance or a slight vocal change. By eliminating emotional defenses, Correctol rendered a user powerless, vulnerable, and dependent on his controllers.
The hardest of the hard core seemed immune to its effects, as did those who were simply insane. But Correctol could be a powerful tool to influence those who were young and misdirected, like Jason. Whether the government imagined the sort of control that would be practiced by Jason's overseers, no one really knew. Nor did it really care, as long as inmates behaved.
The corrections officers chatted amiably with Jason for the next half-hour, ranging wide. They gave him a tour of his cell, and explained how it was organized: the waste bucket and the wash bucket, the bed and the food slot, and the need to drink only the water he was told to drink. They did so in gentle and subtly mocking tones that told Jason that he was being reduced and humiliated, regarded as no more than a child. He could see what was happening and felt worried, yet he also felt comforted and cared for.
"We will be taking ya to yer room and turnin' the lights out," the senior officer said. Jason began to breathe harder. He said little.
"Please don't make it dark, sir!" he pleaded. "I am sorry for what I did, sir."
The older corrections officer spoke to the prisoner.
"Ya done wrong, little fella," he said, evenly. "Before we take ya to yer room and turn the lights out, ya need to stand up, face me, and then take all of yer clothes off. Right now."
Soon the young prisoner was naked, facing the officers. For what seemed like an hour, they looked at their papers, occasionally glancing at each other and toward him. Their eyes went from head to toe, pausing at his waist. The senior officer smiled, and spoke.
"Look at the little fella. Just look at him," he said softly to his partner, with a chuckle. Then he turned to the quivering prisoner and said, "It's time to take ya to yer room."
They rose from their chairs and approached him. The boy stood in place, conscious of the officers' height and bulk as they loomed over him. The older officer put his arm around the prisoner's shoulders and guiding him to the open door of his cell. He escorted the youngster into his room, and sat him down on the bed.
"It will be dark soon, little fella," he said, before leaving. "But you'll get through it, I promise."
Alone in his cell, young inmate struggled against the fear that began welling up inside of him when the officers had ordered him to strip. When the lights went down, an unthinking panic immobilized him. He wanted to cry, but fought against it. Don't cry, he said to himself, over and over, increasingly desperate. Eventually, sobs came. He cried softly, feeling his skin flush with embarrassment.
He laid back on the bed, moving toward a fetal position, crying softly and thinking about the corrections officers. His mind was a jumble. Images floated: their condescending tones, their caring, their mocking, their verdict that he had disappointed them. He felt all of it, clearly and sharply. His world had collapsed to only a few things: darkness, tears, humiliation, how the Men thought of him. The thoughts seemed to go in a circle, ever downward, as he curled tighter and tighter.
The young inmate felt his fist on his mouth and became aware of his thumb there, and thought about sucking it. He hesitated, knowing what it would mean. But he couldn't stop, and once it was in his mouth he felt his fears and worries replaced by a profound warmth, as if covered by a blanket.
He had no idea how long he had been sleeping when the lights came on.
"Ya ready to get up?" he heard. His eyes opened to see the junior officer standing over him. He carried a small camera, and had taken a picture of his thumb in his mouth. Jason felt a flush of embarrassment as the officer stepped back. The feeling remained, but was quickly accompanied by a wave of relief. The lights were on, and he would leave.
As the youngster rose, he realized that he had not relieved himself. His bladder was full, and his penis was extended to its full, erect 3-1/2 inches.
"Stand there a minute," the corrections officer said, backing up with the camera. "Got to get yer picture."
Jason rose, but was impatient.
"Where's the bathroom?" the young prisoner snapped. "I really have to go, now!"
The officer frowned. Jason froze at the expression.
"Now stand there," the officer said, his tone suddenly cold. "I told ya I've got to get yer picture. Hold still."
The camera clicked. Slowly, the officer checked the pictures as Jason stood as told.
"Please, sir." he begged. "May I please go to the bathroom. sir?"
"That's better," the corrections officer replied, gently. "Yer bucket is over in the corner. Go use that."
The young prisoner did as told, pausing to let his erection soften before letting a pent-up stream of urine into the receptacle. A minute later, when he was finished, the officer beckoned him to return to the edge of the bed. The officer stepped forward until his face was within a foot of the younger's forehead.
"Look at me," he commanded softly, as the boy gazed upward.
"Ya know better than to talk like ya did," the corrections officer said, giving his face a gentle pat. "What have we told ya to call us?"
"I'm sorry sir," Jason replied, looking worried. "I had to go so bad that I forgot, sir."
"Ya ain't been behavin' like ya should," the officer replied harshly, handing the youngster his jumpsuit. "Get dressed, and come on out."
The young inmate pulled his jumpsuit on, and his socks and shoes, and followed the officer out of the cell. He was led back to the office, where the senior corrections officer sat. The junior officer recounted Jason's transgression as the dispirited boy stood, at the edge of tears. He didn't realize how much progress had been made, nor exactly how much time had passed.
He had been taken in and out of his cell numerous times over the past week. He had obeyed and been rewarded, disobeyed and been punished. All was done non-violently, through hypnotic manipulation of his emotions, aided by Correctol, and repeated hypnotic suggestion. In the past two days, he had been weaned off the drug to determine whether the groundwork had been truly laid inside of the young inmate's mind for what would come next.
The dejected youngster made his way to a desk on the other side of the room, where a pen sat next to a pad of paper. The senior corrections officer spoke coldly: "Ya will write: 'I'm nothing but a little boy. My job is to obey the Men.' When ya have written it 100 times, let me know."
"Yes, sir," the boy said, and began to write. When he was finished, he was told to stand and recite the lines, as the officers took turns counting them off. By the time he reached the hundredth repetition, he was in tears, and urine soaked his jumpsuit.
"I – I – I am sorry, sir," the boy stammered through his tears, his eyes staring at the floor.
The corrections officers glanced at each other, and raised their eyebrows. The first phase was complete. The senior officer rose from his desk. His massive body strained his crisply starched gray uniform. He walked over to the weeping boy, towering above him.
"Little fella pissed himself," the officer said, as he took a fresh jumpsuit off a hook. "Better get a new suit on him." The humiliated prisoner did as he was told, and the senior officer directed him to the couch. He picked up a remote control, and turned on a television.
Everything the youngster had said, both to the corrections officers and the warden, had been recorded, and was now being played back. The prisoner saw himself cursing the warden and the officers, and was shocked. He began to apologize, but the junior officer gently interrupted.
"Yer doin' better now," he said, once again filling the young prisoner's heart with warmth. "There's much more for ya to learn, but look how far ya come!"
The officers fell silent, and Jason thought about all that had happened. The people who had told him that this place would teach him who and what he really was were right. The person in the recordings was confused and rebellious. As he thought about things, he realized that he had lost all of it as if he were a snake shedding its skin.
The prisoner felt a rush of happiness. He basked in it for a while, and spoke.
"Thank you, sir," he said to the senior corrections officer. "And thank you sir," he repeated to the junior officer.
The junior corrections officer offered the boy a glass of water. Trained to feel thirst, he eagerly drank it. The bitterness was now, in his mind, another sign of the corrections officers' caring. The drink contained a strong dose of Correctol, to prepare him for the second phase.
"Yer gonna be here for fifteen years," the senior officer said. "The Men upstairs are pretty rough, so ya got to listen to us and think hard about what we tell ya."
"Yes sir," he replied, eagerly.
The senior officer locked eyes with the boy's.
"Ya will share a cell with a Man," the corrections officer said. "If ya don't behave, it could cause ya sufferin' and even yer death."
The young inmate was scared, and it showed.
"Don't worry, ya can do this," the junior officer said. "Just remember that yer a little boy and yer here to do what a Man tells ya do to, when he tells ya to do it."
"Yes sir," the boy said, brightening. "I think I understand, sir."
The senior officer picked up a folder, withdrew some papers from it, and attached them to a clipboard.
"Somethin' else," the senior corrections officer said. "Yer past behavior caused yer father to disown ya, so ya need a new name. The warden has sent us the paperwork for ya to sign."
A new name, the prisoner thought. It makes sense. Everything else is new, so why not that?
"Randall Matthews," the senior corrections officer said. "That's who ya are now. Upstairs yer gonna be called by number. But the Man in yer cell will know yer name, and so will ya."
Jason signed the papers, and became Randall Matthews.
"I'd like to explain a thing or two about yer name," the senior officer said. "When the warden, other staff, and ordinary inmates use yer name, it'll be just identification. But when either of us, or yer new cell mate uses it, yer name will be special."
"Yes sir," the youngster said, eager to hear more.
"Being called by yer last name means ya been bad and yer in trouble," the officer said. "It ought to get yer attention right away, and cause ya to think about how ya might have done wrong. Ya understand?"
"Yes sir," the prisoner said. "If I'm called 'Matthews,' I'm in trouble, sir."
The junior corrections officer smiled.
"That a-boy," he said, warmly. "Yer pickin' it up quicker now, and that's good."
The senior officer continued.
"If yer called 'Randy,' it means ya made a Man happy," the senior officer said. "It'll give ya a thrill down way down deep. Got it?"
"Yes, sir!" the boy replied, with a joyful smile across his face. "I really hope I can be called 'Randy' a whole lot, sir."
As the boy smiled, the senior officer picked up another file folder. He rose from his desk, and brought it to the young inmate, exchanging it for the signed forms. He stepped back and leaned against the officers' desk.
"This is who you'll be livin' with," the corrections officer said. "Have a look."
On top were standard jail mug shots: side and front views of a rough yet very handsome white male. A full length picture of the same man, naked from the front, standing against a measuring stick. He was 6 foot 3 inches tall. The sign he held gave his name – Robert Dell Warren – and vital statistics. 75 inches, 238 pounds.
He had a shaven head, and could have passed for a professional wrestler with those muscles, except that unlike a wrestler he was covered with hair from neck to ankles, with tattoos on his neck. The young prisoner gulped, and his spirits wavered as he felt a tinge of embarrassment. This guy's soft dick is almost twice as big as mine hard, he said to himself.
The final picture in the stack showed Robert Dell Warren with an erection, holding a dollar bill next to it, lengthwise. It almost half again as long as the bill. He knew what that meant. The man who was once his father liked to talk about how every denomination of currency was the same length. Whether it was a $1 bill or a $100 bill, it was the same 6.1 inches long by 2.6 inches wide.
He cringed at the memory of his brothers calling him "little half buck" throughout his teenaged years.
"He was smoking some reefer with some buddies at his high school graduation party about 15 years ago. The idiots cut the stuff with PCP just to see what would happen," the senior corrections officer said. "Warren decapitated one of them with his bare hands, and gouged the other one's eyes out. Took a dozen officers to control him. Once he got here, he killed an inmate with a curtain rod. In one ear and out the other."
The young inmate began shaking with fear.
"I won't last a week with him, sir!" he said to the officers. "Please don't ..."
"Don't ya worry," the junior corrections officer said, rising from his chair and coming over to the couch to put his arm around the prisoner and comfort him. "He was out of his mind when he killed them people. Do what this Man tells ya to do, when he tells ya to do it, and ya will be just fine."
The senior officer spoke.
"We told him all about ya, and showed him yer pictures," he said, gently. "Warren's a Man who wants some company. The killing in here? Happened when someone tried to mess with his property. No one's messed with Warren or his boy ever again."
"But sir, I'm not a faggot! I've got a girlfriend ..."
The senior officer looked the young prisoner in the eye, smiled, and chuckled softly.
"Ya need to understand how this place works, little fella," he said, as the prisoner shrank and looked away.
"We got 350 or so Men upstairs. We also got another 75 prisoners like you who ain't Men," he said. "All of 'em have sucked dick at some point, but there's probably 35 or 40 full-time faggots who wind up bein' turned into girls. Once ya get upstairs you'll see 'em wearin' makeup and some even takin' female hormones. Get sold off to the highest bidder every night."
The senior corrections officer leaned back against his desk, relaxing and spreading his legs in an natural show of masculine confidence and dominance. He smiled, but spoke seriously.
"Maybe that's what ya want, to be everyone's girl in return for a pack a cigs? That yer secret dream?" he said, with a mocking leer on his face. "I can call the warden right now and we'll send ya on up within a couple hours. Ya can be some gang's dick-suckin' girl by nightfall if that's what ya want. You a dick-suckin' girl, are ya?"
"No! No sir!" the prisoner shouted, terrified. "Not at all, sir! Please!"
The senior officer laughed, while the junior officer rose and approached the chastened young prisoner. He spoke softly and gently.
"Trust me little fella," he said, stroking the young prisoner's shoulders in a fatherly sort of way. "We know Warren, and we know what he likes. Once ya learn what ya need to know about takin' care of a Man, ya ought to be just what each other needs. I think yer gonna wanna be his good little fella rather than a whole cellblock's dick-suckin' little girl."
The Correctol was kicking in strong. Randy felt the humiliation of being taunted with his old nickname, while savoring the pleasure of the officers' caring tone.
"I just didn't expect that it would mean sucking his dick," he said, softly.
The senior officer spoke again, this time quite gently.
"Little fella, ya been interested in Men yer whole life and ya dang well know it," he said, mockingly. His stare caused the boy to feel embarrassment and humiliation, as if he'd been stripped naked in front of a grade school class. Yet he knew the officer was right, yet somehow also felt at ease. "But don't ya worry," the officer added. "We ain't sendin' ya upstairs until we know yer good 'n ready."
He approached the couch, and turned the metronome on, then sat next to the prisoner, took his hand, and stroked it.
"Now easy does it. Nice and easy," the senior corrections officer said, gently and hypnotically, repeating it several times. "It's much easier to talk if ya can close yer eyes and concentrate on the tick-tock."
After a few minutes, the young inmate relaxed, and the officer reached over and closed his eyes.
"When a Man looks ya in the eye and tells ya to 'Come up,' you'll get good 'n stiff. Ya will know that yer hard-on is a gift from a Man, and ya will be dang grateful for it," the officer said. "Ya will see how big and strong he is. Ya will be thinkin' about how yer nothin' compared to him, and how ya sure are lucky to be around a Man. You'll be wantin' like crazy to make that Man approve a-ya, and ya will be deadly afraid of him not bein' happy with ya."
"Yes sir," the boy said. "All I want to do is make you happy, sir."
"When a Man looks ya in the eye and tells ya to 'Come down,' you'll lose yer little hardon. Ya will know it was his doin' and not yers. Yer gonna remember how ya felt when ya were hard and what ya did for that Man. Ya will always be thinkin' about what a lucky little fella ya are. And yer gonna hope like heck that ya made that Man happy."
"Yes, sir," the boy said. "When I'm told to 'Come up,' I get hard, sir. When I am told to 'Come down,' I go soft because the Man ordered me to, sir."
As before, the corrections officer repeated the suggestions for an hour, cementing them into the inmate's subconsciousness. Eventually, the session drew to a close.
"Now, when I snap my fingers ya will wake up," the officer said, gently. "Ya will not remember this conversation at all."
"Yes sir," the boy said.
The officer snapped his fingers, and the young inmate sat up, relaxed and smiling.
"Why don't ya show him his new room, Deke," the senior corrections officer said to the junior one.
"Come up, Randy," the junior officer said, looking straight into the youngster's eyes. "Follow me. Let's have a look."
"Yes sir!" Randy replied, as he grew aware of a surge of perceptions of this officer. "I am going to get a new place, sir?"
"Ya sure are, little fella!" the junior corrections officer said. The young prisoner followed the officer out into the corridor. He noticed how tall the Man was, and how well built. Wow, he thought. He's huge!
"Those are really slick uniforms, sir," he said.
"Ya like that, little fella?" the junior officer chuckled, reaching and giving the youngster's shoulder a squeeze.
"Yes sir!" Randy replied, as a mixture of humiliation and attraction flooded his mind. He was hard, and could feel his erection rubbing against the fabric of his jumpsuit, intensifying the feeling.
The officer led the boy into the cell and closed the door. This one had bars, and a curtain on the inside. The officer drew the curtain.
"This is a cell kinda like the one ya will share upstairs," the corrections officer said. "Ya got a toilet over there, and a big bed just like that one. Yer new boss Man is in it by himself, but you'll be there with him. Why don't ya sit down and see how it feels."
The boy sat down, and the officer stood in front of him, his belt buckle at face level.
"So the little fella likes my uniform does he?" the officer said, putting his hands on his hips and one foot up on the bed, showing a substantial sword hanging on one side of his fly, semi-hard and getting harder. "Maybe what's inside it too, don't ya? Randy want to suck my stiff dick and be a good little fella? Is that what ya want?"
"I sure do!" he answered, reaching for the officer's crotch. The officer's face darkened, as if a cloud had passed over the room.
"Matthews, look up at me," he said sternly. "Ya forgettin' somethin' here!"
The boy looked as if he'd been hit by a lightning bolt. He yanked his hand away, and was lost in worried thought.
"Wh – wh – what did I do?" he asked, tears swelling in his eyes. "What did I do wrong?"
The corrections officer frowned.
"Matthews, what do ya call the Men here?" he asked, impatiently. The boy collected his thoughts.
"Sir, I am sorry, sir," he said, sniffling and pleading. "I forgot again, sir. I am sorry, sir! What did I do wrong, sir?"
The officer sat down next to the whimpering boy, putting his arm around his shoulders.
"I'm going to overlook it this time," he said, the gentle tone returning to his voice. "I know how much yer tryin' to be good, and I can see how excited ya are. But a little fella's gotta remember his place."
The boy brightened.
"Thank you very much, sir," he said softly. "I'll try, sir."
"No matter how excited ya are, it's always 'sir' to a Man," the officer said. "And keep yer hands off. Little fella's always gotta get permission to touch a Man. Always. No exceptions, ever."
"Okay, sir, I will try to be good and remember, sir. I swear it, sir!"
The corrections officer squeezed the boy's shoulder.
"That's good," he said. "Yer learnin' fast, Randy."
The prisoner felt relief and desire wash over him as the officer reached between his legs and gently pinched the end of his tiny erection poking up into his jumpsuit. He used his thumb and forefinger, emphasizing how small it was. The prisoner felt the embarrassment, but at the same time could smell the corrections officer's odor. The mixture of humiliation and arousal was intoxicating.
"Happy little fella, ain't he now?" the officer said. His smile deepened the boy's humiliation, making it exquisite. "I think little Randy wants to suck my stiff dick."
The officer stood up and slowly moved to a chair in a corner of the room and sat with his legs spread open. Randy, remained in place on the bed, quivering as he gazed at the muscular Man's motions.
"Okay, now come on over here and kneel between my legs," the corrections officer said.
The boy, his small erection stiff, did as told.
"Now put yer little hand between my legs," the officer said.
The boy saw a lump in the officer's tight, heavily-starched gray uniform pants, and placed his hand there. The officer felt it quivering and heard the boy breathing hard.
"Look at me, Randy," the officer said.
The boy gazed into the Man's gentle eyes, and felt his erection growing.
"That's a real good little fella," the corrections officer said, a smile creeping across his face. "Ya can push down a bit harder."
The officer's erection continued to grow stiffer. The thickness astonished the boy. So this is what Men are, he thought.
"Thank you, sir!" he said, breathlessly.
The officer eased the youngster's hand lower.
"That a-boy. Rub on a Man's balls," he said. "Slow 'n gentle. Keep lookin' me in the eye while you're doin' it, Randy."
As he had done with the officer's erection, he slowly and lightly caressed the Man's balls through the stiff, smooth fabric. The corrections officer took the boy's hands, placing one on his erection and the other on his balls, guiding the one to grind and the other to caress more softly, staring into his eyes all the while.
"There ya go," he said, stroking the prisoner's head. "Randy likes doin' good, don't he? Little fella likes tendin' to a Man's stiff dick now, don't he?"
"Yes sir!" he said, awestruck, drinking in the smile on the officer's handsome face, his broad shoulders, and the feel of the lump through the slick fabric of the Man's uniform.
The corrections officer stretched himself out and sighed.
"Why don't ya wrap yerself around my leg, and squeeze as hard as ya can," he told the boy. "Keep lookin' up at me while ya do that."
The Man's leg was like a tree trunk, huge and strong. The boy squeezed the muscular officer with all his strength, and involuntarily began humping.
"Whoa there, Randy boy," he said. "Little fella gotta think about a Man first."
"Yes sir," the boy said, breathing hard, struggling to control his urge. He settled for a tight, steady squeeze with his whole body.
"Now put yer mouth on that stick a mine," the officer said. "Warm me up good."
The boy followed the command, and felt the both of the officer's hands caressing his head as he blew on the long, thick, stiff, hot lump in the Man's uniform.
"Oh yeah," the officer moaned. "That's real good. Yer doin' real good, Randy."
The corrections officer moved the boy's head between his balls and his dick, one after the other for several minutes.
"Ya can undo my fly now," the officer said, at last. "Nice 'n slow."
"Yes sir," the boy said, still holding tight to the officer's leg. He unzipped the officer's pants. The officer saw the boy stop himself from reaching inside and instead look up for permission.
"That a-good boy, Randy," the smiling officer told him, as his gaze held the boy's. "Now ya reach on inside and rub the Man good 'n hard with yer little hand."
The youngster did as told, feeling the rock hard erection, long, thick and pointing toward his hip inside the corrections officer's pants.
"Keep on rubbin' in there, little fella," he said. The prisoner complied, and felt the warmth and the incredible thickness under his hand.
"That's a good boy," the officer said. The clean, masculine scent rising through the Man's open fly blended with the officer's words, and his tone, and the feel of his leg to put the boy in a new universe. "Randy makin' a Man proud."
The boy worked on the officer's hardon for what seemed like hours, as he stared up into his eyes. The officer smiled broadly.
"Can I taste it, sir?" the boy pleaded. "Please, sir? Could I taste it, sir?"
The corrections officer smiled and stroked the boy's prison crew cut.
"Ya want yer mouth on this Man's stiff ol' dick, little fella?" he asked, his mocking tenderness casting a masculine spell on the young prisoner who was feeling his humiliation and arousal blending into one. "You want to suck my stiff dick, little fella? Don't ya now? Ya got a nice little mouth ready to suck on me, then?"
"Yes sir!" the boy pleaded. "Can you please put it in my mouth, sir?"
"You gonna be a good little Randy boy then?" the officer asked. "Randy boy want to do good for the Man? Is that right, little fella?"
"Yes sir!" he replied. "Please sir!"
The officer chucked and reached down into the waistband of his shorts, found his hardon and pushed it out through the fly of the briefs, then the uniform pants. The thick, engorged member sprang forth toward the boy's mouth. Randy's eyes widened as he involuntarily licked his lips. It was even bigger than it had seemed, and fluid was all over the blood-engorged dick head.
The officer slowly stood up and planted himself in front of the kneeling, quivering inmate, his hardon jutting out through his open zipper.
"Open yer mouth and look up at me," the corrections officer said, in a low and hypnotic tone. His command intoxicated the boy, who complied.
The officer stood above the boy's open mouth, and guided his hard, engorged dick inside.
"There ya go, little fella," he said, a crooked and mocking smile on his face. "Just what ya been wantin' here. Ya suck on the Man's stiff dick, then. Now ya relax yer mouth and keep lookin' up. And grab the back of my legs, just below my butt."
The boy did as he was told, feeling the stiff, slick dick slide into his mouth, and the officer's hard and muscular legs in his hands. The officer began to move in and out in a slow rhythm, not going too far. Soon, the young inmate was drooling out of the sides of his mouth, onto the floor.
The officer saw it and chuckled. The boy felt a flush of humiliation and excitement. The position commanded by the officer was difficult to hold, and made his mouth feel like little more than a socket for a huge plug, a thing to be used.
"Yer suckin' little mouth belongs to the Man, little fella," the corrections officer said, stroking the boy's head as his dick squeaked in and out of the boy's open mouth. The inmate could feel the officer's slick juice on his tongue. He had no will of his own, the mouth a mere appendage for the officer's use. It thrilled the young inmate to the core.
"Stroke the back of my legs nice 'n slow, and tighten up yer mouth a little," the officer said, his thrusts speeding up slightly. "Stroke them legs a-mine nice and hard like yer givin' me a massage, and go way back around the inside of 'em. Keep lookin' up."
The boy complied with the commands, feeling the officer's pecker relentlessly pushing toward the back of his throat. Suddenly, he gagged. The officer pulled back, and frowned.
"You'll be learnin' how to use that throat a-yers," he said. "Keep it tight enough, but not so tight ya can't swallow what I got."
The corrections officer picked up the rhythm, and Randy felt his throat loosen. The officer's rock hard dick felt like it was designed for his throat. The officer paused and drew his dick out until only the tip was in the boy's mouth.
"Lemme feel yer tongue on the bottom of it," he said, thickly. "Nice and good and tight. And keep it up on my legs. Don't let up."
The boy complied. The officer's slick, sweet, and salty pre-cum was thick on his tongue. As the slow but determined thrusting resumed, Randy became aware of another presence behind him. He could smell the senior corrections officer, and felt his breath against his ear.
"Ya get real good at that," the senior officer said in a low, gravely, barely audible and insanely seductive whisper. "Yer gonna learn all about what a Man wants."
The senior officer scratched the back of his neck softly. Then he felt a hand on his butt, and a few pats.
"I'm gonna have that, little fella," he whispered. "I'm gonna screw ya so deep you'll feel it in the back a-yer throat."
In an instant, he heard the senior officer's footsteps retreat from the room. The junior officer's relentless penetration of his mouth had gradually quickened, and he spoke.
"I'm gonna be squirtin' real soon here, and yer gonna swallow everything I give ya," he said to the kneeling boy.
"Mmmmhmm," the boy hummed, the corrections officer's hardon in his mouth.
"That's good. Keep it up with my legs, Randy. Oh yeah. Okey doke."
The young inmate felt the officer shake, heard him moan, and felt a spurt hit the back of his throat. He loosened the grip of his mouth, as cum filled his throat. He swallowed quickly, looking up at the officer as he did so. Wave after wave of cum filled his throat. The volume surprised him, but he kept swallowing.
It was as if someone had attached a power cord to his body. Jolts of pleasure filled the boy, and he realized that he too was coming. As he was spurting, the officer pulled all the way out of the boy's mouth, grabbed his dick, cupped one hand and filled it with his jism. When he was done, he held it near the boy's mouth.
"Lick that up, little fella," he told him. As the boy began to comply, the corrections officer rubbed his hand over his head and face, and even managed to rub some of the juice under his nose. The sweetness filled his nostrils.
"I want ya to taste me for the rest of the day," the officer said. The kneeling boy stared up, breathing deeply, his gaze fixed on the Man who stood over him.
"Okay, little fella, come down."
As Randy's dick softened, he became more aware of the taste and smell of the officer's semen. He felt what he had squirted into his own jumpsuit, and noticed the feel of the officer's cum on his face and in his hair. The smile on the officer's face filled him with joy. When the officer held his cum-covered hand to the boy's mouth, Randy licked it like an excited puppy.
"There ya go. Ya been a real good little Randy boy for me," the officer said, with a smile and a chuckle that humiliated and thrilled at once. "Man tastes real good, don't he?"
"Yes sir!" the kneeling boy replied.
"Man fits just perfect in that suckin' little mouth a-yers, don't he, then?"
"Yes sir!"
"Good little Randy boy likes suckin' a big stiff dick? Makes him feel real dang good?"
"Yes sir! Thank you, sir!"
The corrections officer stood and held his gaze, his enormous dick softening. After a time, he spoke.
"Put it back inside, then zip up my fly."
"Yes sir," the boy said, moving to comply. The officer stood motionless for a couple minutes as Randy looked upward, his eyes locked on the man's bulge inside the crisp uniform, and upward into his smile and his eyes.
"Okey-doke, we're done here," the officer eventually said. "Come on outside, and we'll go back to the office and I'll give ya yer afternoon chores."
"Yes sir," the boy said. He rose, aware of the stiffness in his legs, soreness in his knees, and in the muscles of his face, which had been stretched in ways previously unfamilar to him. He hobbled after the officer, who chuckled in a friendly way.
"Buddy got himself a little workout," he said. He looked toward the spot on the boy's jumpsuit. "Looks like ya enjoyed yerself too."
The young inmate, while not feeling lustful, felt a mixture of embarrassment over the stain, humiliation at being used in the way he had been – and at having liked it. He had become what he long feared he'd be. Yet he also felt profoundly contented and relaxed.
The corrections officer rubbed his shoulders in the way a coach or a brother would do.
"Don't ya worry, little Randy," he said. "Yer learnin' about yerself here. Lots more to come, but ya done good, Randy."
The boy basked in the praise as the officer led him back down the corridor to the office. The senior officer sat at the desk, looking through papers, as though he'd never been in the cell. He glanced up, and spoke to the junior partner.
"You and Randy here get things rollin' good?" he asked.
"Sure thing," the junior corrections officer replied. "He did real good. Quick learner. We got us a good little Randy here."