Day 1. Monday, September 16
OK, Iīm going to tell you my story. Canīt think of much else to do, being locked into this bare and windowless room anyway, with a sore ass and enough paper to rewrite the bible. Twice. I was told I have to sort things out from the very beginning, learn from my mistakes and set goals for my future. Suppose they think theyīre going to make a good, law abiding citizen out of me. Well, just watch me, buddies. Iīm perfectly happy being me. If I ever chose to become a saint it wonīt be because you want me to, no matter how long you keep me locked up. This place is a hellhole.
At school, writing stories was my favourite subject. I never got an A, mainly because my teachers were too narrowheaded to recognize a talent when they saw it, but I always did my best and had fun on the way, too. So here goes. Nothing much to it.
I was born nineteen years ago come April. Mom was only sixteen then, and I spent my first years with my grandparents. I donīt remember _s_h_i_t_ from those years, so what Iīm telling you now are what Iīve been told by others. My dad was either a kind of salesman or a bum on drugs, mom said she wasnīt sure but she pinned me on the salesman. This guy was about twenty years older than her. He never questioned being my father. He came around a couple of times when I was very young and then disappeared for ever. Iīve never tried to get in touch with him. Whatīs the use? Apparently he didnīt want me anyway.
When mom was about twenty she had fixed herself a job and a flat and wanted me to come live with her. She was pregnant with my kid sister at the time, having an on-off relationship with some ugly drunkard called Louis. What I think is my first real memory is when weīre sitting in a sofa watching the telly, and Iīm drinking from three lemonades at the same time and have a big kite beside me. I think it was my fifth birthday, but Iīm not sure. Family life back then was no hit. My kid sister Gloria screamed day and night, and mom was always tired and shorttempered and sick of her life. She slapped me around a lot, and then Louis slapped her and me around, and I went to the playground and slapped whoever got in my way. Angry parents dragged me back home and mom slapped me for slapping others. Chain of pain. Mom had it up to here with Gloria, Louis and me, and somebody had to leave the system. It was neither Gloria nor Louis. I was back with my gramps after approx two years.
School was a drag from the first day. I was too restless to sit down and keep quiet in the classroom, and I got into trouble right away. I was a fighter even then, and since Iīve always been strong and quick I was a good one, too. I took no _s_h_i_t_ from anybody. My grandparents didnīt know what to do about me, and my teachers didnīt know, and neither the headmaster nor the social workers knew. I was pretty much left to figure things out for myself, and when youīre very young, you canīt be expected to come up with the brightest solutions. Iīm not saying this to free myself from responsibility, but I sure could have used some serious advice back then.
Mom didnīt want me back, she had done another reload and moved forty miles away with a guy named Johnny and newborn twins. My grandparents couldnīt handle me anymore. I was eleven years old and mean as hell. I already smoked ten cigarettes a day, I didnīt go to school unless I was short of cash and could nick things there, I was working hard to become a skilled shop lifter and hung around with the bad seed of the community. Independent but abandoned by my own kin. Finally I was taken into foster care. I went to live with a nice suburban family called the Cunninghams, in a nice suburban four-bedroom house with a fluffy little dog and a well kept garden. Mr Cunningham-call-me-Ed worked as an engineer and in his spare time he built aeroplane models in the basement and played golf. Mrs Cunningham-call-me-Eva had worked as a flight attendant before Ed knocked her up. She spent her time worrying about money and education and her weight, and re-decorated the house twice a month. She had lots of friends running in and out of the house. They had two children, Angela, aged fourteen, and Josh of eleven, just like me. I had a room of my own with new furniture and nice little pastel paintings with Paddington the bear on the walls. The very first evening I took them down and hid them in my wardrobe, then I replaced them with Iron Maiden wallpapers. Three weeks after I moved in with them I stole my first car. I didnīt get very far, wrecked it against a pole and sneaked away, angry and disappointed. Nobody found out it was my doing.
The Cunninghams didnīt have much of a clue, either. They tried to talk to me all the time, but I soon found out they were saying things out of books, and that it was all crap. They told me over and over again how much they loved me. Big time bull_s_h_i_t_. I ran away from them twelve times. When the cops brought me back the last time, mr Cunningham-call-me-Ed spanked me in the basement apparently heīd never done it before, and we were equally embarrased - and had me grounded for a fortnight with a lock on my door. Thatīs true love for you. They gave up on me shortly after that, when I was caught in the middle of a burglary with two other guys. I was thirteen then and too young to be prosecuted, so I was sent to a reform school, where I spent two years learning all about crime and passion. It wasnīt too bad, still I was glad when I was let out to live with my mom and see a social worker twice a week.
Mom by then had four kids, not including myself. She had put on a lot of weight and spent a good deal of her time smoking at the kitchen table. She drank too much, too, and didnīt think anybody noticed. This fellow John was a real loser. He seemed to be out of order as frequently as a Mitsubishi, and as long as I stayed with mom and him he never held a job for more than a month. With all them small kids, mom didnīt see any point in looking for work. Somebody had to bring home the bread and I was happy to be of any use. I soon became a pretty skilled burglar and a fairly good pickpocket, too. I was never short of cash, I could make money out of anything. When I finally blew it, it was more due to unfortunate coincidence than any mistake of mine, and they caught me with unusually small potatoes. Still, I had kind of a record, and I wasnīt too young anymore, and because of that and a lot of other crap my lawyer told me that the best he could fix for me was another go at reform school, only this time for at least three years. He told me I should be happy not to land in jail. I was really overjoyed. Just another _f_u_c_k_ing pointless waste of time.
I was kept in the slammer awaiting trial, when my social worker, Albert Clarke-no-you-canīt-call-me-Al, came to visit me. He was a tall, dark-bearded, somewhat overweight man in his fifties, with tired eyes and and a funny squeaky voice. I never liked him and I guess he felt the same for me. He presented this reform project for juvenile delinquents to me. It seemed as bad a choice as anything. I glanced through the papers and what caught my eye was a couple of lines in the end, that everybody who went through the whole program was guaranteed an education, a job and a flat. Seemed fair enough. I didnīt give it much thought, I just told Al to get rolling, and he said he would get in touch with my lawyer. I called mom to tell her and she said she didnīt give a _d_a_m_n_, I could go breaking rocks on the moon if it would make things any better.
The judge had no objections. He told me that this was the last chance Iīd ever get, next time Iīd get a jail sentence. I was signed on for a three-year period, which meant going through the whole program. It was the most stupid _f_u_c_k_ing thing Iīve ever done, and Iīm normally a smart guy. But at the time I thought I had it coming. I adapt easily and usually get along well with all kinds of people, and if I donīt, I know how to make them leave me alone. Iīm power all through. Wasnīt prepared for this, though.
After the trial I stayed in custody for four weeks before everything was set and I was taken here. A big silent guy with sunglasses came by to pick me up. He handed me an ugly outfit grey striped shirt, white tee, grey striped trousers, the ugliest knickers Iīve ever laid eyes upon, a pair of working boots and a _f_u_c_k_ing bright red cap. I held my tongue while I undressed and put the clown outfit on, with him leaning against the wall all the time. I just wanted to get the _f_u_c_k_ out of there as soon as possible, even if I had to go around looking like Mickey Mouse on dope. Then he handcuffed and shackled me I had never worn shackles before, and they made me feel a bit suspicious of the whole thing - and off we went. He drove a black Ford Orion. I tried to smalltalk at first, but he just brawled at me to shut up and sit tight. Had no real choice, had I? I stared out of the window and
After about two hours drive my bladder was bursting, and I told him so. He snapped at me to repeat it, and I did twice, thinking that maybe he got off on pissbursting juveniles, until I remembered to add a sir in the end. Just didnīt think of it, I swear. Then he nodded and continued driving until we came to a big gas station. There he pulled in. This was around noon and the station was crowded with trucks and cars and bikes and you name it, and as it was a fairly hot September day lots of people were sitting on the outdoor benches having lunch or icecream or whatever. He went around the car and opened the door on my side.
"Get out", he said.
I had to strut along with him, in chains and silly clothes, in front of all the people. The loo was locked. I could feel my face burning and avoided looking at anybody, but I sure heard some giggling and comments, which made me awfully self-conscious. The guy pushed me into the shop to get the key to the menīs room, and both attendants and customers stared openly at me, _f_u_c_k_ing silly cap on my head and rattling like a kidīs toy. Then he jerked me off to the loo. I was beginning to wonder how I would get hold of my shaft, handcuffs and all, when he urged me into one of the booths, made me stand with my back to the toilet and pulled my trousers and knickers down to my knees. I just stood there, flabbergasted, wondering what he was up to.
"Sit", he said.
"Hey, man, Iīm not sitting down here, in a public loo!" I protested. "If you just take these off..."
He slapped me twice. The cap flew off and landed in a suspicious puddle on the floor.
"Sit", he repeated.
I sat down, cheeks burning from slapping, anger and humiliation. I had never been treated like this before, and on top of that he wanted me to pee like a girl with him watching. I figured him a _f_u_c_k_ing pervert. So I sat there, and though I felt full to the brim I couldnīt get a drop out of me.
"Please, sir", I tried, "could a guy have some privacy?"
"Get done", he retorted. "Youīre not calling the shots here, I am. Either you piss or weīre off."
I tried to relax and forget I wasnīt alone, but it was a small booth and I also heard other people moving about outside it. The guy stood absolutely motion- and mimickless in the doorway, just staring at me through black sunglasses, and I felt like a jerk in my position. After maybe five minutes he ordered me to stand, pulled up my pants, put the damp cap back on my head and had me walk the same way back, needing a piss like hell. Back in the car he told me he would stop at another gas station in about an hour, and then Iīd better make it work.
It was the longest hour of my life, I tell you. When we finally reached the gas station I had serious trouble walking straight, and some bikers laughed at me as we passed them by. This time I voluntarily went to one of the booths and stood erect, waiting for the screw to pull down my pants. I sat down without being ordered to and peed like a good boy. I felt totally _f_u_c_k_ed up and wished I could make him feel even worse. Then he made me stand, wiped my penis and pulled up my trousers.
"If you need a crap, too, youīd better say so. I wonīt stop again", he said.
"Iīm fine, sir", I said humbly, but in my heart, all I could think of was to get even with the _f_u_c_k_er in some way or another. I was certain my time would come.
We reached this hellhole about three oīclock in the afternoon. A cluster of low brick buildings in the middle of nowhere. No fences, apparently no dogs, no bars on the windows. A walk in the sun for an experienced escape artist like me. I couldnīt see any signs of life around as we came to a halt in front of the main building. I was taken through the entrance door, past a reception desk behind which an elderly man nodded to my jailer and into a hallway on the right. At the end of it I was chained to a bench, and the guy disappeared behind a door.
I quickly checked out the surroundings. I was on the ground floor, and the hallway was approx 25 yards long. I jerked the chain: it was solid. I tried to writhe my hands free from the cuffs, but they were secured. I had to wait for a better opportunity later on. After maybe 15 minutes the screw came back, accompanied by another one, looking just as sinister, having a tattoo of a dragon on his hand. He didnīt introduce himself either. I was unchained from the bench and brought to what I reckoned must be the chiefīs office, where I expected a lecture and a briefing on the rules.
I had a short briefing, thatīs right. I listened but it sounded too crazy to be true. I had to shut up at all times and obey all orders. If I had something to say I must kneel and wait until I was given permission to speak. I had to say "sir" all the time. I wasnīt allowed to look the screws or anybody else in the face unless I was ordered to do so. My personal belongings would be deposited until further notice. In a moment I was to be "prepared" for my long journey through hell, but first I was to receive twenty whiplashes on my bare bottom as a reminder of where I was and what I had coming to me if I didnīt play my cards right.
My chin fell down. I couldnīt believe what I just heard.
"Like hell Iīm getting whipped", I blurted out. "There are laws against that, you know", and then I added an acid "sir".
Wrong door. The chief immediately raised my count to thirty and nodded to the two gorillas to start the machinery.
"There are laws against what youīve done, too", he added to me. "Youīre here because you donīt fit into society and donīt care about societyīs rules. Weīre here to teach you fitting in and to follow rules. The more trouble you make, the harder your punishment will be. You canīt win unless you submit."
"Youīre _f_u_c_k_ing crazy", I said, heart pounding with anger and confusion, and some fear, too, I guess. I was immediately slapped hard on the mouth and had a lecture on how foul language, ditto gestures and faces were forbidden, along with smoking, gambling, listening to music and, what do you know, masturbation. Work hard and obey and take it like a man. Bull_s_h_i_t_ times twelve.
"I want to call mr Clarke", I said, but at that time the screws were getting serious. One of them grabbed my arm, the other freed my hands and feet and I was hauled up on a strange rack by the right wall, with the upper part of my body placed on the slightly sloping top and my ass being at the highest point. Off went my pants and knickers, leaving my sorry behind all naked and bare, and then I was strapped at wrists, waist and knees.
I felt like a horseīs ass, if you pardon the expression.
Against better knowledge I first tried to talk myself out of it, which rendered me another five lashes. I decided to shut up for the time being, endure the whipping and then figure out what to do.
My ass was swatted with water. I could hear a swishing sound and figured it was one of the screws trying out the whip. I felt a twinge of fright in my belly. Then the chief gave me the instructions: I was to call the numbers of the lashes out loud, thanking for each one afterwards. This was to teach me obunkience and submission. I clenched my teeth. Apparently they didnīt know _s_h_i_t_ about me. I would never humiliate myself like that.
How little do we know about ourselves, Horatio.
I was ordered to set off the flogging by saying "one, sir", but I refused to speak. Right on I felt somebody fumbling around my balls and dick, and realized some kind of strap was put around my poor package. It was tightened and pulled forward, and one of the screws placed himself in front of me, with the other end of the strap in his right hand, clearly visible to me. I was certain he wouldnīt let go of it, no matter what. When I remained silent, the strap was slowly tightened. It didnīt actually hurt much at that point, but then I thought about what would happen if the strap was left on for, say, an hour or two. A chilling thought. As my manhood was pulled even farther forwards, I reluctantly surrendered.
"One, sir", I hissed through my teeth. And one I got. Right across my poor buns a line of fire was set. I gasped. The pain was agonizingly intense. And I had to thank the bastards for inflicting it on me.
I felt the strap being pulled again.
" Thank you, sir", I mumbled. "Two, sir."
"Speak up!"
"Thank you, sir! Two, sir!" _f_u_c_k_ing bloody green barrets.
I heard the hiss of the whip and then it stung my ass like a snake bite. I shut my eyes tightly and held my breath. Every fibre of my body screamed with pain. Thirty-three to go. Impossible.
"Thank you, sir. Three, sir." My voice sounded muffled. The next lash brought water to my eyes and I was having trouble breathing through the nose. Iīve always been able to endure pain better than most people, but this was someting else. The pain alone wasnīt the worst issue, but along with shame, frustration and the feeling of being completely abandoned by God and man the whole thing was unbearable. I felt like a small kid whoīs gone astray and wet his pants among strangers.
Still, I managed to count the blows and thanking for them, sir, until number fifteen striped my poor behind. At that point I broke down sobbing wildly. I couldnīt get an intelligible word out of my mouth for a while, no matter how hard I tried. The chief ordered a break. The men started discussing other matters, with me still on that _f_u_c_k_ing rack, writhing with pain. Finally the strap around my privates was removed and my ass was swatted with water again. At that point, I figured it was some gesture of compassion. It wasnīt. The pain is even worse on a wet behind than on a dry one.
"Are you ready to continue recieving your punishment?" the chief asked me.
"Yes, sir", I said as steadily as I could, thinking, letīs get it over with, for chrissake. "Sixteen, sir."
Again the hissing noice, and then the whip made contact. I exhaled sharply with the shock. The pain was excruciating, and I lost my brittle self control right away. "Oh GOD! Oh my God! Oh _s_h_i_t_!"
"If you keep using prophanities youīll have another ten lashes, son", the chief said, and I hated his guts.
"Iīm sorry, sir", I sobbed. "Thank you, sir, seventeen, sir."
When number seventeen struck me I yelped like a dog. Tears were streaming along my face and soaked my hair, and the snot flowed freely. I wonīt tell all about the rest of my flogging, itīs too embarrasing. None of my mates would have recognized that _f_u_c_k_ing jellyfish that was me, pleading for mercy and getting none. I had another short break at twenty-seven, when I couldnīt hold my water. I was told I had to clean it all up after the whipping was done. My ass was swatted again.
"Heīs already bleeding a bit", one of the gorillas said, and the other replied:
"Suits him good."
At last I could hear a distant, hoarse, whining voice calling out thirty-five, and screaming wildly as the whip lashed out. "Thank you, sir!" the voice sobbed, and someone answered with a short laugh: "Youīre welcome."
I was left on the rack for a while, shaking all over and bawling like a baby. It took some time before I even could try to get hold of myself. My face felt swollen. I didnīt want to think about what state my ass was in.
I was unstrapped and had to get down from the rack unaided. I was surprised I could stand on my feet at all, but I felt dizzy and nauseous. My hands immediately made for my behind but a sharp "Donīt touch!" stopped them. I was told to put on my knickers and pants. They were damp with piss, Then I was given a mop and a bucket of water. Still jerking with the remnants of bawling I silently mopped the floor, ass throbbing, legs weak.
The chief placed himself behind his desk and I was made to stand in front of it, the gorillas slightly behind me. I held my head and eyes lowered and let my arms hang limply by my sides.
"This was your first lesson", the chief said. There are more to come. Every breaking of the rules result in corporal punishment. Every warder has the right to give you up to twenty lashes on the spot. Twice a week the other punishments are administered. You will find it more convenient to cooperate. Now youīll get on with the preparations. Youīll get further instructions later on. Get him out of here."
The screws grabbed me by the arms. I donīt know what got into me in that moment, but I heard myself say: "And a good day to you, too, sir", and realized I was being stupid as hell. Faster than lightning I found myself bent over the desk, held down by one of the screws, being bared again and receiving ten new lashes in a rapid row on my bleeding ass. I screamed my heart out, not believing this was happening to me, and then started crying again, helplessly.
"On your knees!" the chief commanded.
Pants around my ankles, sobbing uncontrollably, I kneeled.
"Look at me!"
I obeyed. Behind the tears I saw the elderly man, white hair, two gold teeth visible behind thin lips and a thick grey moustache. He looked sunburnt and healthy, but his blue eyes were icy cold.
"I know all about your lot. You donīt scare or fool me or any of my employees. If you think this was an exception youīre in for a big surprise. Weīre going to break you down to nothing and build you up from there, hopefully weīll do a better job than your previous caretakers. Now you have more ordeals coming your way. Either you learn quickly or your stay here will be very painful." And to the gorillas he said: "Proceed."
I was told to stand up. My pants were pulled up, my hands cuffed in front and I was walked out of the building, across the yard and into another house. With each step I felt my raw, battered behind against the cloth. I was still snivelling. My head and ass were throbbing with my heartbeats.
We entered a big shower room. On my right was a row with open toilet booths, on my left a row of showers. In the middle of the room was a long washstand and a rack like the one I had got aquainted with a while ago. This one seemed a bit lower than the other. One of the screws locked the door and told me to strip naked. While I did, the other one was taking out shaving gear. I couldnīt figure why, I donīt have much of a beard yet, but I soon found out.
My handcuffs were attached to a chain immediately to the left of the door, and then my arms were stretched in the air.
"Donīt you move", the screw warned me. "Youīll regret it."
I was shaved, alright. My pubic hair, my armpits, my arms and legs. Then the chain was slackened and I had to bend over while my burning buns were separated and the area around my asshole was shaven, too. "Hygienic reasons", the man said shortly, but I didnīt believe him. Since they left my head hair alone at the time, the shaving was bound to be another ingredient in the humiliation procedure.
Worse things were yet to come.
Have you ever had an enema? Have you had three in a row? Have you ever gone through three enemas with a sore, newly shaven ass, in front of two hunks? I guess not. First I had soapy water, then herbal tea and finally salt water. I had to bend over the rack opposite the toilets, the enema was given, I had to count out loud to fifty and then go backwards and heaven forbid! SIT down on the seat and let go. I couldnīt do it without spilling some on the floor, and each time they rubbed my nose in it. After the last enema I had to mop the floor. OK, I cried again. I was feeling lousy. The only thing I had on my mind was how to get out of this bloody mess Iīd put myself into.
Then I was taken to the showers. My hands were fastened over my head and I was scrubbed and then washed thoroughly with a hose, my poor butt, too. My hands were cuffed behind my back and still wet, I was taken across the yard stark naked, back to the main building to see the doctor. I couldnīt help wondering what would have happened if I had been sick or something, and had been treated like Iīd been. It was a waste of time to visit the doctor. If I had lived through this afternoon, I would live through anything.
The doctor was female, in her late thirties, with boobs the size of small water melons and golden hair in a ponytail. I kept my head down but took the opportunity to glance as often as I dared. Then I was overwhelmed with shame again. What she saw was a tearswollen, newly whipped youngster in handcuffs, naked and hairless like a ten year old, being brought in like a dog in a leash.
She didnīt address me at all, just performed the examination. I had to leave blood samples and my penis, ass and throat were sampled with cotton sticks for VD. I couldnīt piss any more and the screws were asked to get a urine sample from me the next morning. Then I had to lie down on my belly and have my blood pressure and temperature taken. I held my breath when my buns were parted for the latter.
"His readings are fine this far", the doctor said. "The tests will be done in a week. Treat him like heīs contaminated until then."
Still nude, I was again brought across the yard to a third building, where I got my new outfit. Much the same as before, but instead of the ugly knickers I was fitted with a pair of rubber briefs, with a bulge in front for my package, and a string with a _f_u_c_k_ing butt plug for my behind. I couldnīt believe that, either. This place was like a Kinder Egg. I was told I had to ask leave to go to the toilet, and that I werenīt allowed to touch the lower part of my body at any time. The rubber pants are fastened in the back with a small locking device. Over these I have to wear a pair of kneelong woolen undies "for hygienic reasons", that b. s. again. The woolies itches like hell and makes me wish I was bareassed again. Then the striped costume and the white tee, no boots this time but sandals and no cap.
I was marched to my cell, asked if I was dyslectic, and when I said no, I was presented this huge heap of paper and three pens. I then was instructed to write at least four pages a day. My first assignement was to tell the story of my life, and Iīve done that now, along with the rest. And Iīm still me.