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Bend over and spread your butt cheeks

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This guy isn’t as stupid as your run-of-the-mill criminal. He had to be cute on the outside, and in the bin he is no different. As such, despite his obvious arrogance he has managed to control himself and at the same time gained some privileges. He is too sensible to ever put himself in a situation where he is overpowered by the guards and stripped against his will. He also doesn’t want to be stripped where the other lags will take the piss out of his cock. So here he is having a cavity search in relative privacy.

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Story

One Year – Part 15

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By Taurus

Part 15 – “Treats”

Day 194. The day for James’ second pleasure session, and the last day of Riley’s stay.

James awoke to the all too familiar blaring alarm in eager anticipation.

In came through the cell door a slave and two handlers, no doubt Russell and Riley with his handler.

Riley was fully naked, and thrown onto James’ mattress as expected. The slaves were ordered to drink the protein shake breakfast together, and so they did, on all fours and side by side like pigs at a sty. Their teeth were brushed straight after.

What was not expected, however, was the proceedings of the pleasure session itself. Strangely, the slaves were left alone, both without restraints other than chastity, locked in the cell while their handlers left presumably for breakfast.

Regardless, they took the chance to play. They tousled with each other, with a hint of play-fighting – light slapping among a bit of wrestling.

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Story

One Year – Part 08

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By Taurus

Part 8 – “Time and Sanity”

Like James, I too have a confession to make as this story’s messenger – not an author; I can neither confirm nor deny its fictitious nature.

I have no idea how to properly convey the passage of time in its whole – its significance, its poetry, its aesthetic. I struggle with passing a few hours, let alone the months I seek to skip over.

Forgive me for skipping so much time. I do not want a story that has more chapters than days in a year, that takes more time to read in its entirety than a dictionary, or an encyclopedia.

In any case, it simply is impossible to come up with so many original ideas to fill out each and every day of the year, which applies to James’ guards and handlers to arguably benefit, not detriment.

At times, the most profound epiphanies and most powerful destructions are achieved through repetition alone.

One could make use of silence and let it sit there, unchanging. Get that, and pile on ad nauseum.

Well then.

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Story

The WORC Program – Part 16

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By Joshua Ryan

Back at the House, the atmosphere seemed to be changing.

Everybody noticed it  — things were different. Cicero was snapping at everyone, at least everyone whose existence he noticed. Sacky complained about “these constant ALTERATIONS in my menus” that were made by Mr. Hamilton and Mr. Thomasen. Marky complained about being rousted “in the middle of the night” — meaning his jerk-off time after dinner and Sacky’s kitchen wine — and having to drive Mr. H and Mr. T to the Parrot Lounge and wait in the car till they “came out with something or other,” a something that spent the night in their bed and was returned to obscurity the next morning, “after stinkin up my car.” Then it all stopped, as suddenly as it started. The Misters decided to try something else.

Late one afternoon, right before dinner, a new workie arrived in the back of a truck and was hauled out of its cage and led to the barracks. Its name was Jody, and it was a very cute young man, or had been before it got put in a workie suit. Clearly, it had done service in some other venue besides Hamilton Farms: there was fuzz on its head, and it still had eyebrows. But it had big brown eyes and a nice slender body. This was no field hand. Wherever it had been, it had been given easy treatment. To its body, anyway. The brain might be different. Its eyes were scared — very scared. Which is normal, when you’ve just been shipped somewhere in a cage. Cicero stood in the door of the barracks and told Nob to “take off its hair and move it up to the House. That’s where it’s gonna live.”

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Story

The WORC Program – Part 10

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By Joshua Ryan

So that’s the way it was, as — what do they say? — the days stretched into weeks and the weeks stretched into months. If this was a movie, there would be a calendar with the pages flipping past. No reason to stop at any of them. Every day was the same, except for Sundays.

They don’t make you work on Sunday. Somebody said “it’s because Old Man Williams needs a day off,” which made everybody laugh because nobody could figure out what he did on the other days of the week. Him and the jeans dudes. Who turned out to have names. “Ethan is the one that locks us up at night,” I was told, “and Chad is the one that lets us out in the morning.” There were a lot of jokes about whether Chad and Ethan were always packing guns because they never had anything else to shoot with. But everybody knew that they wouldn’t think twice about shooting one of us.

That first Sunday I just laid on my bunk, listening to my body trying to recover from every kind of pain, in every member except one, which I hadn’t used in so long that I couldn’t remember it. But the overwhelming pain was knowing that I was a workie. On the other Sundays I was given more education about what that meant.

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Story

The WORC Program – Part 08

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By Joshua Ryan

While I was thinking about all the things that could mean for my future (!!!), the dudes in jeans were putting me on the truck. I’m saying “on the truck” instead of “in the truck” because my place was in a cage attached to the bed. I would ride to the farm like an animal. No, not “like.”

The two five-gallon tubs of Slick It Off were nestling beside the cage. One of the dudes told me to stow my box behind them, and he unclipped the leash from my collar and handed it to the cop. I could see a lot of leashes hanging in the truck’s rear window; I guess they didn’t need any more. And was that a rifle sticking up between the seats? That or a shotgun! They’d be ready for me, in case I caused any trouble during my transport.

They opened the little gate to the cage, and I clambered in. You could tell that the cage wasn’t just a temporary part of the truck; it was bolted to the bed. There wasn’t enough room to stand up in, but there were little shelves on each side of it where somebody could sit. Just enough for four workies to be crammed inside. But today only one workie was out for delivery — me. I had the whole cage to myself.

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