Tag Archives: Joshua Ryan

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Remembering Joshua Ryan: A Tribute to a Talented Storyteller

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It is with a heavy heart that I share the news of Joshua Ryan’s passing. Known for his remarkable storytelling, Josh was the creative force behind numerous long-form, multi-part male bondage narratives that take place in prison. Many of his captivating stories can be found in the Metalbond Prison Library, where they continue to resonate with readers.

Josh’s tales are not just stories; they are intricate worlds filled with rich character development and interwoven plot lines, often told from multiple perspectives. His unique ability to draw readers into his narratives set him apart in the genre.

The titles he graciously shared with Metalbond readers are:

The Convict
The Worc Program
Island Paradise – Part 1
Island Paradise – Part 2
The Prison Writer
My Trip to Paris

 

Note that these are lengthy, multi-chapter stories that invite you to dive deep into their narratives.

Beyond his work as Joshua Ryan, he also wrote under an alias, Prison Process. He shared his stories across platforms like Tumblr and Bdsmblr, and before that, he was on Flickr and was also active in several Yahoo groups. His dedication to storytelling and connection with his audience was truly inspiring.

Though I never had the pleasure of meeting Josh in person, our correspondence revealed a kind and thoughtful man. He built lasting relationships with fellow authors, offering support, edits, and encouragement that helped nurture the creative community. His impact was profound, touching the lives of many, including my own.

As we mourn the loss of this immensely talented writer, let us also celebrate the stories he shared and the connections he fostered. Joshua Ryan will be deeply missed, but his legacy will live on through his unforgettable narratives.

Prison Process aka Joshua Ryan on Tumblr

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My Trip to Paris – Chapter 15

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By Joshua Ryan

Chapter 15: Congratulations. You Are Here Forever

“Just do what I told you,” 8363 said.  “Do what I did.  It worked for me.  They’ll never throw me out of here.”

That’s what I was thinking about while Officer Yan marched me across the Parade Ground to the Examination Rooms, which were part of the Classroom Building.  It was February; snow was falling; I’d been in prison for almost a year.  I was having my one-year Custodial Review, which would be conducted by an officer in one of the Rooms.  I repeated to myself the answers that 8363 had given me.  Then I repeated them again, until I was sure I’d got them right.  They worked for him; they’d work for me.  There was no difference between us.

My assigned officer was Lieutenant Connors.  In the corridor, I waited in line, cuffed and shackled, behind the five other criminals waiting to see him.  One by one they went in and came out.  A couple were crying.  The rest appeared stoic.  Or indifferent, fated.  But in a situation like that, restraints need to be applied to everyone.  Officers can never predict when a criminal may do something unfortunate.  Then I heard “G023104411!”, and I entered the office.

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My Trip to Paris – Chapter 14

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By Joshua Ryan

Chapter 14: Sewing Your Own Prison

We entered the Pen through the gate.  No more front door and lobby for me.  I was promptly escorted to the Colonel’s residence and locked in the cage in the servants hall.  6839, 1057, and 9555 were buzzing around, preparing for Mr. Patrick’s afternoon snack and casting sidelong glances at me, afraid to ask what had happened.  Afraid, or indifferent.  More glances were cast as 9555 stepped into the role of conveying the snack, and a very long time elapsed until he returned.  I was in the cage, looking out through the bars like an owl in the zoo.

Then, while 1057 heated the stove for the couple’s first course at dinner, the Colonel himself strode in, ordering everyone out of the servants’ area.  They scuttled away, 1057 casting anguished eyes at his stove—puzzled, like all of them, where he was supposed to go.  My prediction was the servants’ john.

“You did a good job today, convict,” the Colonel said, walking up to the cage.

“Thank you, sir.”

“It was a privilege never given to any other convict.”

“Yes sir.  I am grateful for my privileges, sir.”

He was pacing restlessly, but always keeping my face in view.  Every time he passed the cage, I could see his dick growing harder behind his pants.  At first I wasn’t sure.  Then I was.

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My Trip to Paris – Chapter 13

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By Joshua Ryan

Chapter 13: Stage Struck

“Thanks for the gossip,” 8363 said.  “You know how it turns me on.”

“Anything to serve,” I said.

“You definitely like serving the Colonel.”

If you can shrug when you’re wrapped up in a bunk with the guy you’re shrugging at, I shrugged.

“Too bad,” he said, “that he’s just running a test.”

“Yeah.  To see if I’ve been tamed.  He said he could tame me, and he was right.  He’s got his answer.”

“Actually, he’s testing himself.”

“Sure, sure.”

“You can’t fuck something that doesn’t get you hard.”

“So?”

“So you think he likes being turned on by the tool he’s made out of you?  I like it, but that’s because I’m a tool myself.”

“I’m glad you’re screwed onto me.”

We played for a while.  He had an amazing tongue—great in my mouth, great on my toes, great when it slithered across my bald head.  Then he told me, “He’s testing himself to see if he wants to be like you.  If he wants to be tamed . . . punished . . .  shackled . . . worked . . . .”

“Who cares?  Just keep doing what you’re doing . . . .”

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My Trip to Paris – Chapter 12

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By Joshua Ryan

Chapter 12: Employment Benefits

I think I mentioned that Mr. Patrick didn’t spend as much time at his job as the Colonel spent at his.  Nothing close.  In the afternoon he was usually to be found lying on the nine-foot couch, watching videos or having an early cocktail.  9555, the pretty young airhead, fetched him his drinks, and while that was happening I wasn’t given any chores in that part of the quarters.

But one day it was me that he summoned, and when I’d set his drink on the end table—or more precisely, on the little marble coaster that needed to be placed precisely at arm’s reach on the end table—he told me to “wait at the wall,” which meant standing at attention in my usual arms-behind-my-back posture.  Half an hour passed before he finished with whatever he was doing on his phone.  I was happy, just looking at the walls that enclosed me and the comfortable furniture that I was permitted to clean but never to sit on.  Then his voice said, “Here.”  His glass was on the coaster, with his phone beside it.  “Suck me,” he said.

He opened his slacks and dropped them over his knees.  He was being careful; he didn’t want to get a stain.  I dropped in front of him, automatically loosening the collar of my uniform for the job ahead of me.  “Stay in uniform,” he ordered.  “And watch the teeth.”

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My Trip to Paris – Chapter 11

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By Joshua Ryan

Chapter 11: Welcome to Our Service Team

It’s humiliating to say this, but I’ll do it, because “humiliation” is something I was learning to like: I was enjoying my life in prison.  I was glad I’d told 8363 my story about being the prisoner of my former boyfriend and sub.  It was sort of like bragging.  He took it that way, and enjoyed it: “That is so humiliating!  You are definitely being humbled!”  I liked having things to say that were interesting to him, and that always was.  When we were forming up to be marched someplace, or when we were listening to one of those lectures we had to attend, he’d whisper to me, “This is your punishment for not respecting the Colonel.”  Always gave me a hardon.  Maybe that was just more of the brainwashing!  But it helped me learn more about prison, and being a prisoner.

If you’re a normie, everything about your life has to be taken seriously.  Every decision demonstrates whether you deserve respect or not.  You blew a business deal, you didn’t demand more salary, you didn’t join the right club, you didn’t vote for the right party, you didn’t go to the best resort, you didn’t get a totally hot boyfriend . . . you are in trouble.

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My Trip to Paris – Chapter 10

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By Joshua Ryan

Chapter 10: So Good for You to See Me

It was an interesting conversation—so interesting that now it was even harder for me to sleep in my bunk at night.  A few months before, I would have dismissed his prison shit right away–nothing but weirdness.  Now I was confused.  Why was he telling me this stuff?  Was it to make me love him, or warn me not to?  The sight of Paul in his convict suit, indistinguishable from the other cons—that was me, wasn’t it?  Wasn’t that what he meant?  And if I loved him, that’s how I’d end up?  But that’s how I already had ended up!  I flipped up my badge and looked at the picture.  That gray little blob might as well be “Paul.”

So now I was playing with my badge when I should have been sewing.  And at night, it wasn’t enough to jerk—yeah, I was doing that, what do you think?—but I had to dream, too.  One dream I remembered: I was outside the Pen—they’d let me out!  I was so happy!  At last I was free!  I walked off down the street, and I looked back at the walls, which I knew, even in the dream, I was mainly just making up in my head, because I’d only seen them once from the outside, and then I was squinting through the bars of a prison bus.

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My Trip to Paris – Chapter 09

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By Joshua Ryan

Chapter 9: Bunks, Chairs, and Other Furnishings

8363 . . . . the guy in Bunk 14.  I found myself maneuvering to get beside him in the shower, just for a few seconds to look at his plump, well muscled ass.  I tried to get the seat next to him at chow, just to feel his arm touching my arm through our uniforms.  In the factory I spent every extra second I could spare from my needle looking up the line of backs bent over their machines to watch his back moving rhythmically beneath its stripes.  At night I lay next to him, feet to head, and thought about what it would be like if I caressed his naked head with my naked toes and he wriggled across the few inches of bunk-frame and climbed in with me.  In dreams I told him, “You are about to be fucked!  Assume the position!”

Dreams vs. realities . . . .  If we were on the Outside, I’d do the usual: take him to Bleue, invite him to my place for drinks, become insistent if he noted that the hour was late . . . .  But in prison, I was no better than he was; I couldn’t impress him with my bald head, my convict uniform, or my criminal record.  And he evaded all my cues.  He saw how hot I was for him, but he treated it as a fact he didn’t need to do anything about–a fact of life, like the walls and bars.

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