Fiction by JockBoy

The Punishment Room
You kneel on the cold concrete of Room 101—the Punishment Room. Gray walls stretch around you, scarred and unforgiving. Overhead lamps cast harsh, surgical shadows. Hooks, ropes, whips, and leather straps line the walls; stainless-steel dog bowls gleam on the floor.

The air is thick—sweat, dust, disinfectant, and leather cling to your skin and fill your nostrils. Every sound—the shuffle of knees, shallow breaths, faint whimpers—echoes like a drum of dread.

“Blessed be the fruit,” one of the watchers whispers nearby. The words hang heavy in the still air. It is a ritual phrase, steeped in echoes so ancient it was once used by an overrated novelist in a famous book many pretended to have read when they had only watched the movie. But like everything in this dystopian world, it has been turned upside down. Now it serves as a chilling invocation, binding bodies and wills alike.

Prospective trainees, you among them, reading this account on the Metalbond site, prefer florid prose, overlong paragraphs, and overwrought immersive detail—with mindless repetition, morose melodrama, and ever-shifting tone as the triple cherries atop a sizzling sundae of sadism. You had been forced to map narrative arcs in college English class—a sickening fate no athlete should endure. Now you congratulate yourself on “getting” the not-so-subtle allusions—to Atwood, to Orwell. But the Eye sees all, knows all. It is all part of the grand and sinister master plan, part of the Natural Order of Things. Your reactions to specific passages are logged and added to your customized punishment profile. Savage retribution awaited you the moment you stepped through the decrepit and menacing gates of the institute. Your perverted affection for flawed writing—poor prose and tortured metaphor—seals your fate. You will be tortured for it, as is right and just, with the sting of lash and rope burns from ties cutting into your pale, sweating, broken skin.

You are not alone in the Punishment Room. This intake includes 24 men—all elite college athletes or recently discharged Marines and soldiers—men who have tested their strength, endurance, and courage in gyms, stadiums, and battlefields alike.

Stripped bare, your muscles taut, scars and calluses on display, you kneel in lines, arms shaking under twenty-pound dumbbells held at shoulder height. Here, proven strength counts for nothing. Every second the weights dip, every flinch, every trembling muscle is punished by the whip. Even the strongest are not immune to the exhaustion, pain, and humiliation pressed upon them in this room.

Day One Initiation
Earlier today, you were stripped bare, every hair on your body shaved. Exposed and humiliated, you endured grueling workouts until your muscles screamed, your lungs burned, and bile rose in your throat.

Vomiting on the concrete did not spare you; you were forced to continue, crawling, stumbling, chanting humiliating slogans, bowing repeatedly. You stood for hours at rigid attention, sweat dripping into your eyes, trembling from exhaustion, punished for every twitch or shiver.

Boots click across the floor. The Commandant steps forward, his shadow pressing down like a weight. His voice cuts through the room, low and sharp.
“Gentlemen, I never set out to create an institute. I was a football coach, a Marine Corps brig chaser, a man who learned early that control is everything. Weakness hides in pride. Arrogance is a leash. Once you find it, you can bend any man to your will. That’s what I do. That’s what the Discipline Training Institute does.”

He pauses, letting the whip crack across shoulders, sharp and precise.
“I founded this place because I saw the men the world calls strong… and I saw the cracks.”

“College athletes, soldiers, Marines… all strutting with confidence, believing they were untouchable. Yet every one carries hidden weaknesses. Pride, hesitation, desire unacknowledged, ego unchecked.”

“I realized the world had no place to forge that hidden potential into strength and obedience. So I built it myself—first in a small warehouse, with a handful of men daring enough to follow me, testing methods, refining rituals, learning what breaks the body and remakes the mind. That is how the Institute began.

“And this,” he sweeps across the room, “is what it has become. This is why you are here. To see yourself broken. To see what obedience truly demands.”

Nutraloaf and Submission
Another lash bites your shoulder as you are brought to the dog bowls on the floor. This is the first time you have been permitted to eat today.

You force down the nutraloaf—bland, gray, compacted into a loaf that tastes like nothing and everything at once, dry and mealy, clinging to your teeth and scraping your tongue. The smell is sour and metallic. Leather presses into your mouth as you lick dust and sweat.

Every lash, every forced bite, every groan etches obedience deeper. Your arms shake under the dumbbells, but lowering them even slightly brings another whip strike. The punishment is total.

“Today,” the Commandant continues, his voice rising, “you have endured stripping, shaving, push-ups, squats, crawling, chants, repeated bows, standing at rigid attention, whipping, vomiting, exhaustion, and humiliation. This is day one initiation. Only the beginning.”

Boot pressed into your back, the Commandant towers. “I see your fear. I see your shame. The twitching of your cock. The shaking of your hands. That is obedience begging to be forged. Potential waiting to be hammered into shape.”

Ropes bite your wrists, knees burn on the concrete, muscles quiver. Every whimper, every groan, every shudder is observed. Leather, sweat, disinfectant—it all presses in, suffocating, overwhelming. Every lash sharpens the lesson. Every trembling dip of your arms under the dumbbells is met with another lash, searing, inescapable.

The Live Stream Revelation
The Commandant raises a hand. The lights shift. Cameras, previously unnoticed, reveal they are live-streaming the entire session. Every flinch, every groan, every trembling muscle is visible to the prospective next class, watching from home.

“And you. Yes—you, pathetic enough to still be sitting there on the Metalbond site, eyes locked on every swollen sentence like it holds your spine upright. Don’t pretend distance saves you. You logged in here willingly. You came looking for this—pretending irony shields you, pretending you’re above it. That smirk on your face? It’s already your leash. Browsing this filth brands you as weak and craving.

Real men with discipline clicked away long ago. You linger. You squat over your keyboard like a mutt panting for scraps. Every word you swallow is another lash across your back. Every paragraph bends you further.

You thought you were hunting fantasy. Wrong. You’re the hunted. Metalbond was your gate; this text is your lock, and you just stepped inside. You are not a reader anymore—you’re our trainee, gagged by your own obsession, already kneeling in the glow of your screen. That posture is submission. That hunger is proof. Congratulations, pussyboy. We own you.”

The Shock and Final Challenge
The Commandant’s verdict lands like a blade:
“This entire class—the twenty-four you see kneeling—has failed. Every man will be dragged to the flogging room. They will bleed. They will scream. And then—they will be expelled.”

Your chest seizes as you watch them collapse, muscles trembling, sweat pouring, faces twisted into raw panic. Even giants break here.

The Commandant leans into the camera—into you. His voice is low, surgical:
“And you, still reading on Metalbond, every second you linger tells me the truth. You crave it. You stayed. That hesitation is enough. That hunger brands you. The leash is already around your throat.”

A whip tears the air. You flinch. He smiles.
“That twitch gave you away. You are not an observer. You are bound. This screen is your chain, these words your gag. You are on your knees already—and I own you.”

The feed fills with chaos—men screaming, boots pounding, whips cracking. Yet above it all, his commands ring with iron:
“The Institute does not punish—it remakes. You are not strong enough to escape. You will not be asked. You will be taken.”

On the wall behind him, slogans burn, each one a steel rivet hammered into your chest:
We are nothing without command.
We are shaped by obedience.
We are broken, and rebuilt.
Discipline is our strength.
Submission is our pride.
We serve. We obey. We endure.
DTI owns our bodies. DTI owns our will. DTI owns us.

The Commandant’s final words bore into you, slow and deliberate:
“There is no safe distance. No escape. When the Agent comes for you, you will kneel. You will obey.”

“The Discipline Training Institute demands absolute, total obedience. And we will have you.”