COPYWRITE 1998. DUPLICATION BY PERMISSION OF THE AUTHOR ONLY.
The following story is a work of fiction. All characters and locations are fictional, and not based on any real person, living or dead, or law enforcement or government agency. Additionally, as fiction, this is not meant to imply that any incidents such as this have occured, or will occur in any real organization. The author believes that activies such as those contained here should only take place between consenting adults.
The Local Jail
When I was 23 years old, I was a sophmore at LSU in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. I still hadn't decided what I really wanted to do, and was basically spending a lot of time drinking and screwing around. One weekend in April, I headed off to meet a girl I knew who lived in the northern part of the state, near Shreveport.
Unfortunately, I spent too much time with her, and I was late getting back to Baton Rouge. Basically, I was flying. I figured I was on back country roads, and there'd be no one around. Wrong.... next thing I knew there were blue lights in my rearview mirror, and after an encounter with an unsmiling State Trooper, I was the proud owner of a speeding ticket. I headed out, going a whole lot slower and eventually got home.
The next day, I called the number on the ticket. I figured the fine would be high, but that I'd just pay it and get it over with. I was wondering where I'd come up with the money though... my parents were paying for school and I wasn't working. I dialed the number and got a recording from the DA's office... it explained the procedure for paying tickets, then started with price lists: 1-10 miles over the speed limit: $125.00; 11-20 miles over the speed limit: $175.00; 20-25 miles over the speed limit: $225.00. Anything more than 25 miles over the speed limit and I didn't have the option to pay the ticket... I would have to go to court and see the judge. Uh oh... My ticket was for doing 82 in a 40. The recording then gave me the court date, and admonished me to show up on time.
This wasn't good, but I still had hopes of getting out of this without my parents finding out. The judge would probably realize that I was a poor college student and give me a lecture from hell. No problem.
A few weeks went by, and my court date arrived. I was supposed to be there at 9:00am on a Friday. I skipped school and headed out early. I gave myself plenty of time and definately didn't speed.
The courtroom was small, and there weren't a whole lot of people there. My case came up pretty quick, and I knew right away I was in trouble. The judge didn't look like he'd show me a whole lot of mercy... He was about forty, and had a heavy black beard. It was fairly neatly trimmed, but he had his head shaved completely. He looked menacing.
The DA presented the case, and I knew right away that the best thing would be to just plead guilty. I did, and was called before the judge for sentencing. Not good: a two-thousand dollar fine, AND thirty days in the parish jail. I was horrified... there was no way my parents wouldn't find out about this, but, never mind that, thirty days in jail!?
Obviously, the expression on my face showed what I was thinking, and the judge asked me if I had anything to say.
I went into a little speech about how sorry I was and about how the thirty days in jail would force me to miss a whole semester.
The judge glared at me for a minute, then announced that there would be a recess. He ordered me into his chambers.
Inside, he told me that he agreed that the thirty days in jail would really hurt me, and understood that I'd have to drop out of school.
Then he asked me a strange question. "Boy, did your Daddy use a belt on you when you were growing up?"
I kind of stuttered, but finally spit out, "No sir."
He gave a sort of satisfied smile, and explained that he'd thought as much. He then told me that the local sheriff's office had developed a program that he thought I'd benefit from. He explained that this program ran from Friday afternoon until Monday morning, and that if I'd be willing to enter the program this weekend, he'd substitute it for my sentence.
I jumped at the chance: "Yes sir! I'll do it!" This meant no fine; no huge jail sentence; no dropping out of school; and no telling my parents!
"Hold on, son," he said, "Before you agree, let me explain in detail what this program entails."
As he explained, I felt my stomach start to cramp up. What he was telling me was horrible... I didn't know if I could do it. The more he talked, the worse it sounded, but I knew right from the start that I was going to have to say `yes.' I couldn't face the disappointment from my parents if I didn't do it.
When he finished talking, I was quiet for a minute, but finally said, "Yes sir, I'll do it."
"Good boy," he said, standing up. "I want you to wait here in this office. A deputy will come for you shortly. You will be released on Monday morning at 6:00."
He left me alone in the office to continue thinking about what was coming.
About a half an hour later, the door to the office slammed open, and the biggest cop I had ever seen in my life stepped in. He was about 40 years old, with dark hair that was starting to recede. He wore long sideburns that went almost the length of his ears. He had a thick, heavy black mustache, and he had a huge cigar hanging out of his mouth. He was well over six feet tall, and had to be at least two hundred and twenty pounds--- almost all of it was muscle. I could see his biceps bulging out at the edge of his shirt sleeves. He was wearing a black deputy uniform, with gold Sergeant stripes on his sleeves. He had a wide leather duty belt around his waist, probably made of clarino. The heavy buckle was sparkling silver. A huge .357 was holstered on his right hip. His black pants had a thin gold stripe down the side, and he was wearing shining black leather high-boots that came up to his knees. The boots were shined so well that I could actually see a muted reflection of the room in them.
"Get on your _f_u_c_k_ing feet, boy," he growled around the cigar. His voice was deep, and gravelly.
I stood up, and he grabbed me, quickly turning me around to face the wall.
"Hands on the wall, up high. Legs back, and spread," he said in a low voice.
The smell of the cigar was almost overpowering. He was puffing out smoke right behind me.
I did as I was told, and he immediately kicked my legs apart even further. "Do you have any weapons, or needles on you, boy?"
I was barely able to spit out an answer, "No sir."
He then began to search me, thoroughly and completely. His big hands went over every inch of my body, poking and prodding. He pulled my car keys out of my front pocket, and my wallet out of my back. He even grabbed my testicles through my jeans and gave a hard squeeze.
I heard the clink of steel, and the next thing I knew he had a handcuff on my right wrist. He pulled my arm down and behind me, then reached up and grabbed my left hand. Right away, both hands were cuffed snuggly behind my back.
"Smith and Wesson, hinged cuffs, boy," he said, "No way you're getting out of those."
He pulled me back, and shackled both of my ankles with steel chains.
Then he turned me around, and stood before me with his hands on my shoulders.
He puffed a few times on the cigar, then said, "Boy, you belong to us now. Until Monday morning, you have one right: the right to medical treatment. Other than that, your ass is ours."
Then he shoved me, and pushed me out the door and down the hall. Soon, I was in the back seat of his car, headed for the jail.
He didn't speak at all during the ride, and I wasn't about to attempt conversation. We got to the jail about ten minutes later- he pulled the cruiser into a Sallyport, and dragged me out of the backseat.
We entered a small plain room, with one steel door on the far wall. I noticed a video camera pointed down at us.
The cop roughly undid the shackles and the handcuffs, then turned me around to face him.
"Strip down," he growled.
I was too panicked to do anything else but obey. He stood, with his hands hitched into the huge buckle on his duty belt, puffed on the cigar and frowned at me as I fumbled to get all my clothes off.
I had them off pretty quick. He glared at me for a minute, with a smirk on his face.
"Hands on the _f_u_c_k_ing wall, boy," he growled.
By this time, I knew the drill. I turned and put my hand high up on the wall, spreading them as far apart as I could. I also spread my legs. I felt pretty exposed now that I was stripped.
"Eyes on the wall," he said, "And you move, and you'll wish you were _f_u_c_k_ing dead."
I stared at the plain, grey wall, but I could hear him moving away, and the door open and close.
I don't know how long I stood there, but my muscles were starting to ache. I knew the video camera was pointed at me, so I didn't dare move even to stretch. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, I heard the door open again, and the sound of heavy boots on the floor.
"Welcome to Hell, boy," a new voice said. This one was also deep and rough, with a heavy north Louisiana accent. "You move, and I'll beat your ass into the ground."
With that, I felt myself grabbed from behind. I tensed up, but kept my eyes on the wall. A pair of big, calloused hands started moving over every inch of my body. Starting at the top, he ran his hands over my head, through my hair, and behind my ears. He continued down, checking thoroughly under my armpits. Then I felt him at my crotch. He was rough, and did a thorough run through of the hair around my _d_i_c_k_ and balls. He just did a brief check of my butt-crack, and I was relieved at that. Then he moved down, grabbed each of my ankles in turn, and checked the bottoms of my feet.
I felt him step away, and there was a pause. Then the sound of rubber being stretched.
He put his left hand on my lower belly, and pushed in. The next thing I knew, two of his right hand fingers were going deep into my ass. I groaned, as he prodded around, going even deeper.
"Shut the _f_u_c_k_ up," he said.
A few minutes later, he was done. He yanked his fingers out, and stepped away again.
"Put both hands behind your head, lacing your fingers, and turn around," he ordered.
I did so quickly, and got my first look at him.
He was about 30, and built as big as the other cop. I could see his biceps stretching the sleeves of his black uniform. The uniform was the same as the other cops: black high-boots; breeches; and uniform shirt. He wasn't wearing the duty belt though... just a black leather garrison belt. His brown hair was cut short- a Marine regs cut. And he had a brown, closely trimmed mustache.
Very quickly, he marched me out of the room, down a hall, and into another similiar room. The difference was a piece of machinery in the middle of the room. I'd never seen anything like it. It was almost like a sawhorse, about crotch level. There were a few differences though. The top of the device had a black leather pad on it. There were also thick leather straps attached to various parts of the machine.
"Let's go boy," he yelled, making me jump, "On the rack!"
He pushed me forward, and in a moment, I was bent over the rack. My lower belly and crotch were pushed up against the leather pad. The guard bent down and quickly put each of my wrists in the straps. The straps were made of dark brown leather, and were about two inches wide: very thick and heavy. I could also see that they were well worn. I could tell they'd been used many times. Before I knew it, both my wrists were snuggly strapped in. The guard moved to my backside, and I felt him positioning my ankles. Soon, they were both strapped tightly to the base of the rack too. Then, he pulled two more straps over the back of my knees, and finished up with a final strap that went across the small of my back.
I was terrified. I tried to move, but found I could only barely wiggle. I was bent over, with my butt high in the air- totally exposed. All I could think of was that he was going to _f_u_c_k_ me. I was in the perfect position, and I'd be totally helpless.
I heard him moving across the room, and his bootheels on the floor. Then he came around in front of me.
"Look up, son," he said. His voice was less angry than before.
I strained my neck, and tilted my head up so that I could see him.
He was standing before me, holding in his hands something that made me even more afraid.
"This, my boy," he said calmly, "Is a Louisiana Prison Strap. And it's an excellent tool for correcting young men who've gone astray."
The strap was made of heavy black leather, and was about two feet long, and more than two inches wide. I could see that it was almost as thick as the straps around my wrists and ankles. Attached to the end of the strap, was a short piece of wood.
"And it is my duty," he said, "To begin your discipline."
He walked slowly around to my backside and said, "And unless you want to be gagged, you keep nice and quiet."
Suddenly, I heard a loud "whoosh" sound. I knew immediately it was the sound of leather cutting through air. Instantly, I felt the leather hit square on my rear end. The pain was enormous! The strap gave a heavy sting that continued after he had pulled it away. He was merciless with the strap, and obviously long experienced at his job. Each lash fell almost immediately after the other, covering both my butt-cheeks. Eventually, my entire butt was stinging.
Then he slowed down. I'd lost count of the lashes, but I'd taken a lot. Now he was pausing between each swing. The sting was starting to go away, but was replaced with severe pain. I tried hard to stay quiet- I didn't want to be gagged! But I couldn't help it, and spit out a few grunts and groans. Finally, he stopped. My butt was on fire. The whole thing was incredibly sore, and felt like someone had poured boiling water on it. The buring was unbelievable.
The guard stepped around in front of me again.
"Look up, boy."
I lifted my chin, and looked up. My entire face was wet from tears. Upside down, they'd been running up my forehead. Now, they reversed and were streaming down my face.
"The judge tells us that your daddy never used a belt on you," he said. "Now you know what it's like."
He laid the strap down on a small shelf and crossed his arms.
"That was just an introduction. I needed you to know what a real strapping feels like. Here, you step out of line, and you get the strap. You disobey a guard, and you get the strap. You slack off in your work, and you get the strap."
I nodded my head.
"You speak only when spoken to. The only words you say are, `Sir, yes sir,' `Sir, no sir,' and `Sir, I do not understand, sir.' Is that understood?"
"Sir, yes sir," I managed to sputter.
"Good boy," he said. I could see a slight smile on his face.
Then he walked away. I could hear his boots go across the room, then the door open and close. Silence. I tried to move again, but couldn't. My butt was still on fire. I waited, and waited. A lot of time passed. I tried to sleep, but my butt was in too much pain. Besides, I was still basically upside-down, and in an uncomfortable position. I waited.
TO BE CONTINUED
[ NOTE: This story is taking a long time to write, so Part II may be a while in coming. I'll try to get it out as soon as possible. Let me know what you think.]