The Play Pen

By Nate Stone

Sorry for cutting off your questions about my bracelet and vacation earlier today. You deserve the full answer and it’s definitely NSFW. The bracelet is not a political statement. Definitely not a political statement.

It all started a couple of months ago in the Play Pen part of ConCom. Someone posted that he was tired of cyber role play and wanted to experience a real jail and real prison time. A C.O. Jones replied that if the poster wanted something more realistic he should send Jones a private message. I sent Jones one, making it clear I wasn’t the person who posted the original comment.

Jones and I had a long chat online, trading wisecracks as well as credentials. C.O. stood for Corrections Officer, which was what he claimed to be in real life.

He also liked to apply his skills and knowledge to people who might like it. I came clean about what I wanted. At the end of the chat he told me to send him more details about my experiences and expectations with CP and incarceration as well as a recent photo. He wanted a head shot. “We don’t care about your dick,” he typed. The domain name for the email was CVDEC, which I probably should have looked up, but didn’t. I was too turned on by the possibilities to think straight. I had to jerk off before writing up what I wanted or expected in a prison scene.

I worked up my pitch to be kept as an inmate for a while. Then I took a selfie with the day’s paper held next to my face. On impulse, I attached my complete punishment log as well as an SFW pic of me in my orange jumpsuit before I hit send.

About a week later Jones replied. He had read the log and said I sounded like a real sick fuck. More important, he thought I was a good candidate to spend real time inside and suggested I check out his website. In addition to the link, he included a user name, 274 728 404, and a password, “convict.” Apparently I was an error in addition to being in error.

[[WARNING: This story contains extreme elements that some readers might find objectionable. Continue reading at your own risk.]]

The link was for The Center for Voluntary Detention and Elective Correction (CVDEC, pronounced siv-deck, as I found out later). The tag line was “Where you can do the time without doing the crime.” The site offered a range of different “vacation packages” to be locked up in jail from minimum to maximum security, for as short as a weekend to as long as a month in either a private facility or a genuine prison.

In addition to jail time, you could experience arrest, arraignment, parole reviews, probation, half-way houses – pretty much the full gamut what a convicted criminal would experience with the exception of an actual trial. And presumably a record. First-time offenders were put into probationary incarceration – to see how much they can take, with only a weekend or a week option. Costs were about the same as any all-inclusive resort. It was all a bit elaborate for just a corrections officer who was willing to cater to the fetish.

That’s when I did a search for CVDEC. It turned out to be a division of one of the larger but lesser known private prison companies with more than the usual number of government investigations and reports for abuses. Of course I got hard. Of course I jerked off.

Nevertheless, I completed a brief application. In addition to the usual name, email, phone number stuff, there were choices for what experience you were interested in, how long, and for what crime you would be serving time. The choices ranged from the more serious misdemeanors to rape and murder. You could also pick whether you were guilty or innocent. I picked guilty, two weeks, maximum security, and a mid-level felony. I just didn’t feel like a murderer. And how much of a death row experience can you have in one week? And somehow being innocent feels like cheating. And being guilty made me hard.

Jones called me a few days later. His voice sounded a bit distorted, as if some sort of scrambler was being used. He said he was now the “case officer” assigned to me. He wanted to ask a few questions, mostly about the punishment log. He was interested in the more severe punishments and the more structured scenarios in general and the reformatory scenes in particular.

He also stressed that as a convict I had no rights, no freedom, and no privacy. I would be as much “owned” as if I were a slave. Unlike a slave there would be no sex, just a taste of convict life. While I seemed to be a good candidate, he was concerned about my going for a week at maximum for my first offense. He’d get back to me in a day or two.

It wasn’t until after he hung up that I realized he had called me “Kagan” a few times in addition to the more arousing “turd” and “faggot.” I didn’t give my real name on the application. Suddenly my user name looked funny as well. It had the same digits as my social security number, just scrambled and grouped in three threes instead of grouped three two four. That was scary. I felt the back of my balls prickle as the sac tightened around them. It turned me on as well. That’s when the gag behind C.O. Jones hit me. He certainly had a pair. I wished feeling trapped didn’t make me hard.

The next email arrived a couple of days later. Jones told me to log in again, but with a different password. This time it was “jailbird.” Haha: it’s good to know CVDEC has a sense of humor. The site directed me to a new application, one that required my legal name, address, credit card number, and the like. The deposit was non-refundable of course. I also had to “sign” that I understood once I was taken into custody I would not be released until I had served my sentence as well as a waiver of liability. As we tell white belts at the dojo, what that waiver means is that if we kill you it’s your fault.

Other items were two weeks I would be available for a week, marked first and second preference, as well as options for how and when I would be taken into custody. I couldn’t see being arrested at an airport or bus stop or someplace like that. Hot as the idea is, it could also create problems where there aren’t any, as the chief likes to say. I ticked off “Other,” adding I’d report to the facility.

The charge went through. Another email arrived the next day telling me my first choice of which week was fine. Jones added that “check in” was 6 a.m. Monday. It might be better to arrive the night before. He even recommended the Hoden Hotel, a nearby motel, as cheap, close by and with secure parking for my car.

Nevertheless I couldn’t resist asking, “Sie sprechen Deutsch?”

“What does that mean?” Jones asked.

“It’s German for ‘Do you speak German?’”

“Who cares if I speak German?”

“Hoden is German for cojones.”

There was a pause. “Shit. I thought they gave that up.” Another pause. “You speak German?”

“Don’t think I spent a semester in Berlin for nothing.”

“Oh, yeah, the J.D. scene,” he grumbled.

I ignored that. “Does Hoden have secure parking for motorcycles as well?”

“We’ve had no complaints. Why? You got a Beemer or something?”

“No. A Triumph. A Bonnie.”

“You want to be part of a biker gang as well?”

“No. Not even a patch club. I leave hairy bikers to qualified professionals.”

He snorted. “We’ve taken care of a few.”

He refused to tell me the actual address of the prison. Only that I would be called and told were it was in plenty of time to check out and get to them to turn myself in. It was nearby then. I asked if the facility had secure parking as well. Jones pointed out that the staff has to park somewhere. After he hung up and I jerked off, I searched the web. There was nothing identified as CVDEC in the area that I could find.

The Hoden was about 500 miles away. I could push myself and ride that in a day, but since I didn’t have to turn up until early Monday morning, decided I would split the trip in two and spend Saturday night someplace interesting. I found a small town with “interesting shops” with the suggestive name of Bentham more or less at the halfway point. There was even a choice between a cheap motel and an expensive historic hotel. I picked the cheap one. Convicts, even wannabes, are downmarket. Both motels were booked 15 minutes later.

A week before my vacation started I got another email, this one filled with things I could expect inside. It “walked” the reader through the experience in order. More than half of it was well known to anyone who watches TV. The rest was known to those into the scene. The writing was very cut-and-dry matter-of-fact. It was also good reading for jerking off.

Jones called the Friday before to tell me that I would be called Monday at 5 a.m. at the hotel and told the location of the facility. By bedtime Friday, I was pumped. I was so excited that I had to hump the bed twice to calm down enough to get a good night’s sleep.

It was easy enough to get ready and on the road Saturday. There wasn’t much I needed to pack, really just stuff I’d need for overnight stops on the way there and back again. A few changes of underwear as well as basic tack to shave and brush my teeth. I don’t freeball when I ride or workout. It would all fit into a rucksack with room to spare.

The first day’s ride was pleasant. The weather was good for riding. The side roads were fun. The scenery was interesting enough. There was only one odd person: a little old lady who pointed out that my all-black bike and leathers gave riders a bad name. She felt the bike and leathers should be in bright, cheerful colors. She certainly wore a rainbow of colors: she was practically a poster girl for the entire spectrum.

Bentham turned to be named after Zachariah, not Jeremy. Zachariah Bentham was a Methodist minister who founded the town in the early nineteenth century. Its heyday was between the Civil War and World War I. The older buildings were a mixture of gingerbread gothic and vest pocket Beaux Arts. The interesting shops turned out to be for gifts, antiques, gourmet foods and fashionable clothing. The sort of thing people like if they like that sort of thing. On the other hand I picked up a treasure at a used-book shop. I found a book about Jeremy Bentham’s prison reforms I hadn’t read before – or even heard of. I had it shipped.

The motel was basic, but there was a secure garage. It was a staggered row of units, each one small, sparse and more or less clean. Reviewing the emails got me so hard I had to hump the floor for relief so I wouldn’t leave any telltale stains on the sheets.

The second day’s ride went smoothly as well, with no pit stop adventures beyond filling a gas tank and emptying a bladder. The Hoden Hotel reminded me a bit of a cell block. Two two-story buildings flanked a courtyard and a swimming pool. A long porch on the second floor doubled as a corridor. The garage was in the basement. At one end connecting the two blocks was the reception desk and lobby. Connecting the other ends was a restaurant that closed early Sunday night. It would open for breakfast at 6 a.m. There was a vending machine for hot tea, coffee, or chocolate. However, the receptionist told me when he checked me in, there was a 24-hour convenience store down the road about a mile. I arranged for a wake-up call for 4 a.m.

The pool was inviting, but I hadn’t packed my Speedo, and didn’t think swimming in the nude would be appreciated. It wouldn’t be a good idea to be arrested for indecent exposure right before I got to serve some time.

I rode down to the convenience store and picked up a yogurt, orange juice, and some ice to keep everything cold for breakfast. I rode back, found a good spot to park my bike in the garage, rode the elevator up to the second floor, and curled up in my room until dinner, which was as late as I dared to make it. I passed the time by jerking off.

The meal wasn’t bad, but my mind was on Monday. Back in my room, I had to drain my balls again to be calm enough to get a good night’s sleep.

A loud, sharp, triple rap on the door woke me up. Someone yelled, “Open up,” as the door banged open. As two men rushed in, arms out, holding guns, a third walking a little behind, I rolled off the other side of the bed, crouched on the floor, and said, “What the fuck is going on?”

“Get up,” the third man said. His gun was in a shoulder holster. He was tall, distinguished, and looked to be well-built beneath his uniform. About twice my age, his iron grey hair was cut in a classic flattop. He was too close to how I like older men.

I stood up slowly, keeping my hands cupped over my junk. I wasn’t exactly wearing pyjamas.

“Put your hands on your head,” he ordered.

I hesitated. “Who are you?”

“Stop stalling,” he said.

I put my hands on the top of my head.

“And face the wall.”

I walked to the wall. And, yes, I did wonder if they were really going to try to frisk a guy who was naked.

“Spread them.”

I put my hands on the wall and spread my feet about shoulder width apart.

One of them kicked my feet farther apart. I heard a snap of rubber. One said, “Lift your penis and testicles.” I automatically reached down with my right. “Other hand,” someone said. I grabbed my manhood with my left and lifted.

A finger went up my hole. It was quite professional. It moved around just long enough to probe for anything hidden and establish dominance, but not long enough to be funny. It was so correct and appropriate that it was all the more erotic. I wasn’t hard, but I was full out.

“Hands back on your head,” the third man said.

Almost as soon as my hands were resting on my head, my right was grabbed and twisted behind me. I heard the clink of a handcuff at the same time I felt the cold metal around my wrist. My left was twisted back and cuffed as well. One of them grabbed my elbow and turned me around. Another was finishing putting my helmet, rucksack, boots, gloves and leathers into a large clear plastic bag, which he tied off and swung over his shoulder.

The guns were now holstered. My kit was in a trash bag restricting the movements of one man. While my hands were handcuffed behind my back, my legs were free. With a side kick followed by a swinging roundhouse it was just possible I could take two of them out while the third was still trying to get rid of the trash bag and draw his gun. With the element of surprise on my side I might be able to move faster than a speeding bullet. Or a call to help through their headsets.

Then I saw the logo on the uniforms: CVDEC. It wasn’t waiting for me to report. It came and got me. The temptation to be an uncooperative prisoner was strong. The older man looked straight at me. “You don’t want to find out if the bullets are real.”

That was scary. And arousing. I looked straight back at him and wondered what he knew or thought he knew. I decided to come along quietly.

One of them pushed me out the door. I almost balked, but he grabbed my arm and began to march me down the balcony toward the elevators. Anyone could see my cock and balls bouncing back and forth. With my hands cuffed behind my back, I couldn’t cup them over my junk. And being hairless from the neck down, I’d attract more attention than I would if I still had the usual amount of hair. What if someone saw us? Would they ask what was going on? Or call the real authorities? Was anyone looking at the monitor for the security cameras?

We got to the elevator, which had to come up from the garage level. What if someone is in it? How would he or she react to my being under arrest as well as to my being exposed? I began to wish I weren’t so turned on by being that naked in that public a space.

The elevator was empty. We marched in. The older man pressed the button for the garage. My first thought was I hope we don’t stop at the lobby level. What would happen if the doors slide open to reveal my junk to an unsuspecting public?

We didn’t. The doors opened in the garage, which was cold, empty and not well lighted. I was marched to a waiting van, back doors open, uninviting. Two plastic benches faced each other, the hollows and safety belts indicating it was three to a side. There were wide channels at the rear of the seats.

The trash bag with my kit was tossed in. Then I was pushed in. I barely managed not to stumble when two of the CVDEC guards pushed me down onto the bench. The seat was cold against my bare bottom and the backs of my thighs. The channels behind me turned out just the right size for a pair of hands in a pair of handcuffs.

Two safety belts were quickly fastened, crossing my arms and chest in an X. There was a lap belt as well. The older man watched from outside the van. As soon as I was secure he closed the van doors and locked them. The other two sat across from me, one in each corner, flanking me diagonally. After a moment there was a lurch as we started to roll.

I asked where we were going and was told not to be a dick and shut up. I did. I wondered if, maybe even hoped that, the older man was C.O. Jones himself. I have no idea how long the trip was, but it wasn’t that long before we came to a full stop and I heard the van doors being unlocked.

While one of the guards uncuffed my left hand and pulled it out from behind me, the other guard grabbed my right and twisted it in front of me. The handcuff was snapped over my left wrist, leaving me cuffed in front. Then he shackled my ankles. A long chain attached to the shackles was attached to the cuffs. Only then did they release the seat belts. One guard told me to get up and get out. The other grabbed the trash bag with my kit.

It was awkward getting out chained that way, but I did it. I was half marched half pushed the few feet to a guard house next to a recessed door where the older man was standing. The asphalt was cold and rough against my feet. A sign read “CVDEC Training Centre.” I wondered if I had been smuggled across the border somehow. I heard the older man say, “Bringing in two seventy-four seven twenty-eight four oh four.”

The man in the gate house stared at a monitor for a moment and mumbled something. The door slid open with a quiet whoosh. I was marched through with another push. The door slid closed behind us. I think I heard a click as it shut.

We went down a long corridor to a set of doors. The older man fished a card out of his pocket, slipped it in and out of a slot. As he put the card back in his pocket, the doors opened. We went through and the doors closed behind us.

This room was square, divided into two by a four foot high counter. The side we were on was empty. The other side had a standing desk with a work station. Behind that were floor to ceiling shelves, filled with metal foot lockers.

The guard with the trash bag put it down on the counter with a thud. The noise got the attention of a clerk who came out from the back to the counter. The older man said, “Two seventy-four seven twenty-eight four oh four for processing.”

The clerk nodded and went to the computer. He asked for my name, address, date and place of birth, nationality, marital status, and next of kin. If he noticed I wasn’t wearing anything he could have fooled me. He did notice the trash bag with my kit. “We may need two boxes for that.” He sounded annoyed. And there I thought I had packed light.

Each item was taken out of the bag, identified, and entered into the computer before being put into another bag: belt, scarf, helmet, hoodie, leather jacket, boots, sunglasses, riding gloves, Kevlar riding jeans; Vans, watch cap, leather gloves; three briefs, three tee shirts, three pairs of socks; travel kit with razor, shave cream, and toothbrush, toothpaste, and dental floss; cell phone with charger and auxiliary battery; wallet with cash and credit cards as well as driver’s license and black belt ID; and keys to the apartment and the motorcycle. It took two bags, each one sealed before being put into its own box. I then had to sign off on a screen.

The list of all I wasn’t wearing made me feel more naked than being nude did.

The clerk wasn’t done with me yet. He inked and pressed my fingers on a card, each print into its own square box. He gave a disposable wipe to clean the tips while he scanned the prints into the computer. He then snapped two pictures, head shot and profile. After a few keystrokes, machinery whirled, and he reached down and pulled out a clear plastic strip, which he clipped around my wrist. The shiny band gave my name and number and listed me as a “Kagan, P.N. – probationary inmate – felony.” The “P” made me feel more institutionalized than the number did. The clerk handed me a thin towel and a bar of soap.

The older man stayed behind with the clerk while the two guards marched me a door at the other end of the room and down another corridor. One swiped a card and we were let into a shower room. It was classic: just an open all tiled room with shower heads along the walls. A mezzanine level behind a barrier looked down on showers. My guess was that was for a guard to patrol the area even if one wasn’t there then.

The other guard released the cuffs and shackles, said, “Bath time,” and pushed me toward the showers. There wasn’t any less privacy than I have at the dojo’s showers, but no one is watching my every move there. Worse, I wanted to jerk off, but not in front of two guards. It would probably have been a disciplinary infraction anyway. I took as cold a shower as I could, hoping it would take the edge off my needs. It didn’t.

After the shower, I was cuffed again, but this time in front. They marched me down yet another corridor. At least I could hide my junk behind my hands. We entered another room, much like the first. A different clerk issued me a jumpsuit, canvas slip-ons, socks and briefs, all in bright orange, all marked inmate, all marked CVDEC, as well as a thin mattress. The jumpsuit was about the same quality as mine. I barely had time to sign before they shoved the lot into my arms and marched me down a corridor to an elevator. At least I had clothes, even if I wasn’t dressed.

The elevator went up one floor. A desk and a guard faced the doors. To either side were dimly lighted aisles lined with modular metal cells. I was checked in by number and assigned a cell. The two guards marched me right, then left, following the direction of the aisles, passing empty cell after empty cell.

The front of each cell was made of woven steel rods, sliding doors with locking pass-throughs, and built-in security fluorescent lighting. In one corner of each there was a combination stainless steel sink and toilet. On the other side was a wall to wall ledge, just deep enough to be a bed.

We stopped in front of one that was in the middle of the row. One guard spoke into his headset. After a moment, the door slid open. The other guard pushed me inside. I almost dropped the mattress. The door slid shut. He told me to push my hands through the pass through. I did. He unlocked the cuffs. I pulled my hands back in quickly just in case he changed his mind. They marched off down the corridor.

I was now alone in an empty cell row. I laid the mattress down on the ledge and got dressed, even the briefs. For a guy who likes to parade naked whenever he can at home, I was ridiculously grateful for clothes. Then I looked around. The open space between the bed and the toilet was about the size of one tatami mat. A security camera in the aisle was aimed right at my cell. There was a premium on a lack of privacy to put it delicately.

With the jumpsuit I would have to get naked to use the toilet to take a dump. While my back would be to the camera when I took a piss, there wouldn’t be much doubt about what I was doing. And I wasn’t sure I wanted my back exposed to the aisle. Standing to the side like a LEO taught us at the dojo would take care of that, but also let everyone see my cock, not that it hadn’t already been on considerable display. They could see me jerk off as well.

That’s when the reality of it hit me. This was where I was going to spend the next week, the next seven days, all 24 hours of those days, or close enough to make little difference. No one knew where I was. They could do what they wanted to me. Keep me there indefinitely. Or worse. I wished the thought didn’t turn me on so.

After a while, someone came by and pushed a tray of food into the pass-through. I wasn’t expecting much and got less than I expected: some Nutraloaf and a meal replacement drink. Nutraloaf is what prisoners in disciplinary detention usually get. I managed to get both down. It helped that the drink was vanilla.

Just to have something to do, I did burpees, sit ups and any other body-weight exercise I could think of. I also meditated a bit. And of course I practiced tensho a lot. The story I was told is that it was created to be done in a jail cell by a martial arts master who was in jail, so it’s always been a secret favorite of mine.

Whenever someone walked by or brought food, I tried to start a conversation. I was either ignored or told to shut up. The guards taking me down to the shower room weren’t much better, although one did ask me how high I could kick. The guard and I agreed that it might not be a good idea to demonstrate lest the purpose of the kick be misunderstood.

I got bored and started to needle them, suggesting they were closet cases, they enjoyed watching me jerk off, and the like. That got more of a reaction. Now I was not only told to shut up, but also I should if I knew what was good for me or that I was really asking for it.

After five days, the older man returned with two heavily muscled guards, both easily four or five inches taller than I. The older man looked at me. “I’m told you need to learn to keep a civil tongue in your head.”

“Yes, Sir,” I heard myself say.

“Stand facing the wall.”

I followed his instructions and heard the door slide open. I was quickly handcuffed and shoved out of the cell. We marched to elevator. There were now two guards behind the desk. We marched into the elevator, which carried us down, past the first floor into the basement. I had a bad feeling about that.

The basement was cold, a little too well lighted. We went down a long, cold hall that ended in a metal door flanked by two well-muscled guards. The older man spoke into his headset and the door slide open. I was pushed inside.

I saw two more guards inside a large whitewashed room before I saw the punishment table in the middle. I glanced around. There was an X frame with shackles for wrists and ankles. Hanging on a wall nearby was a prison strap and a cat of nine tails. I looked away. There was a depression in the floor surrounding a drain. Worse, the room stank of disinfectant.

I was scared. I wanted to run. I was turned on. I wanted to stay. I had no choice. It would be seven against one, with two on the other side of a locked door I didn’t know how to unlock.

One of the guards uncuffed me.

“Drop your pants,” the older man ordered.

I hesitated. At a guess, he must have thought I was literal-minded.

“You know what I mean,” he said. “Or are we going to have to rip it off you?”

I opened the front, slipped out of the sleeves, and let the jumpsuit fall and wrinkle around my ankles.

“And your briefs.”

I wasn’t certain where this was going.

“Stop stalling,” he said. “We’ve already seen what you’ve got.”

I pushed the briefs down to my knees. He handed me a paper cup.

“Now jerk off.”

“What?” I said.

“Don’t tell me you’re shy. We’ve all seen you in action. At least three times a day.”

I still didn’t get it.

“It’s not about what turns a sick fuck like you on, faggot. Or am I going to have to jerk you off myself?”

These were not the sort of men who touched other men’s penes. That could be seen as “sex.” But whatever they planned would hurt more if I came first. It would be punishment, not foreplay.

It wasn’t the first time I’ve had to shoot a load into a receptacle. The main difference was between a sperm bank and here was that there were people watching. If that didn’t help bring me off, wondering whether I’d get the cat or the strap did. Maybe the cat, since I usually take the strap when I play boy in a reform school.

The thought helped bring me off. I shot about a tablespoon’s worth of cum into the cup. One guard took the cup and tossed it into the trash. Apparently, the sperm bank overpaid me.

The other three guards pushed me over to the punishment table. Between recovering from having cum and the jumpsuit being an effective hobble, I was in no position or condition to resist.

The punishment table had a padded leather top, dull and cracked with age in a few places. One guard adjusted the table for my height while another shackled my knees and ankles to the legs. I was pushed down on top, my arms grabbed and pulled out. Each arm was shackled as well. A strap across the small of my back was much to help hold me in place as it was to protect my kidneys.

Usually the mix of leather and bondage makes me hard, but I’d just cum and my refractory period is 60 minutes. It hadn’t been even six minutes. My cock was soft and small.

I turned my head. The older man was taking the prison strap off the wall. It looked like the classic Canadian strap: a hard foot-long handle with a 15 inch leather strap, three inches wide and three-sixteenths of an inch thick, pierced with a row of quarter inch holes spaced about two and half inches apart.

He warmed up with a few sideways swings in the air. The strap made a solid swish crack as it arced and stopped.

“Ten cuts, Kagan, ten cuts,” he said. “Five now and five later if there’s no improvement in attitude and behavior.”

More than five can cause bleeding. Somehow that wasn’t comforting.

I braced myself and clenched my teeth.

I heard the strap slice through the air wish a whistling swoosh ending with a loud snap as it hit me square on my bottom, literally knocking the wind out of me. I couldn’t scream even if I wanted to. The pain shot up my body from the impact.

He waited about half a minute.

Then he cracked the strap again, hitting just below the first strike. It knocked the wind out of me again and doubled the area radiating intense pain.

Another 30-second pause; another swoosh; another crack. This time the strap landed right above the first cut.

The first two breaks felt too long; this one felt too short. With a swoosh and a snap the strap landed just below the second cut. This time I screamed.

I doubted breaking that way would make the last cut any lighter, and I was right. The strap was wielded just as hard as the first four cuts. It landed above the third cut. My scream ended in a whimper.

There was another pause. I sort of noticed the guards all heading somewhere behind me. The older man walked around in front, no longer wielding the strap.

“You’re going to enjoy the next part,” he said. “It’s just what you want.”

I didn’t get it, At least not until I felt someone’s cock pressing against my hole.

I groaned. “No sex,” I mumbled.

“You didn’t really come here to keep your manhood, did you, faggot?”

Someone shoved a towel into my mouth.

The cock pushed all the way in and began pounding away. It hurt and not just because of the five cuts with the strap I took earlier. I felt him surge inside me as he shot his load, groaning with each shot. It wasn’t until I felt the next cock pushing its way in that I realized that at least all four guards were going to use me while the older man just watched.

The second guard was a talker, ringing variations of “you faggots like this don’t you faggot” until he came. The third guard was quiet, took his time, and let out an eerie high pitched sigh when he came. The fourth was quick and brutal.

After a moment, two of the guards released me from the strap and the shackles while the older man continued to watch, saying nothing.

I slipped off the table, fell to the floor, curling up into a fetal position. I felt shaken. Then the guards began to kick me, threatening me with death or castration or both if I told anyone. I tried to curl up into a tight ball. The kicks rolled me back and forth, most hitting my back and sides, a few on my upper arms and thighs, a couple square on my balls, which had me gasping and screaming in pain.

After a while they stopped. I wanted them to just go. I didn’t want to be left alone. Then a stream of hot liquid hit me. It took me a moment to realize it was piss. Someone was pissing on me. I groaned again.

Each one took his turn pissing on me, aiming for my body, not just in one spot, but also aiming the stream along the length of my torso. I rolled onto my back, spreading my legs. They pissed on my cock and balls as well.

After the last one was done, the older man said, “That’s enough. Dismissed.”

As all four guards left, I sat up, pulling my legs tight against my chest, resting my head on my knees. It was now just the older man and me in the room.

He let me stay curled up on the floor for a while.

“I am going to help you up,” he said. “I’ll have to touch you.”

I recoiled at the thought, but managed to let him help me up. His grip was firm and professional and kept to my upper arm.

“Let’s get you washed up and back into a cell.” He grimaced. “And let’s ditch the jumpsuit.”

For some reason, I found that hysterically funny.

I got out of the clothes which all smelt of piss. He guided me out of the room, down a couple of corridors, up the elevator, and back to the shower room. I was aware I was naked, but not really aware of it.

“Wash up,” he said. “Take your time.”

It was then I realized I wasn’t handcuffed. He didn’t see me as a potential threat.

I took my usual amount of time to shower. I wanted to be alone in my cell.

Instead of returning upstairs, he took me down two different corridors to a large open room. In the middle of the far wall was a holding cell, open interlocking bars on three sides. The sliding door was open, waiting.

He pushed me through and slid the door shut. He then left me alone. Naked. In a cell that had no walls for all intents and purposes.

Sitting down was painful. I wound up lying on my stomach, trapping my cock beneath me. It got hard. That meant nothing. The punishment room meant nothing. The prisoner game would run its course. Things would go back to normal. Everything would be all right.

Except that whenever I thought about what happened, I’d get hard and start humping the bed. That didn’t mean anything either. It’s my favorite way to jerk off, and my cock is well trained. It’s no surprise that I shot a load. I hoped the guards appreciated that. I drifted off into an uneasy sleep.

I won’t say I felt better the next day, but at least I had food, which helped. I was angry. At them, for doing that to me; at myself, for letting myself agree to a scene without knowing the full details and ramifications. Neither of which stopped me from being turned on by it or jerking off to it.

I spent Sunday in the open cell, feeling edgy and nervous.

By early Monday, my anger had passed, just in time for my discharge. It was as bureaucratic as the intake, the major difference being that I was allowed to get dressed once I had reclaimed my clothes and kit. The van took me back to the Hoden, where my motorcycle was waiting, unmolested, unlike its rider.

The Hoden charged me for one night, but a week of parking. Fair, but annoying. If I stuck to vanilla, I thought, I won’t have to deal with such things anymore. By the time I had checked out and checked over my motorcycle, it was close to midday. My bottom was still sore. Riding was difficult. Going 50 miles – something that often takes less than an hour – took closer to three, broken up by frequent breaks to stretch and walk around.

I finally gave up and found a motel. It was pretty standard. At night I jammed a chair behind the door and slept on the floor beside the far side of the bed. I tried to jerk off to thoughts of vanilla sex but got nowhere. I finally got off thinking about being raped, beaten, and pissed on.

The next day was both better and worse for riding. I was able to do 100 miles, but with more than a few near misses. I decided to quit while I was ahead and found another motel. As for jerking off, I felt it didn’t matter. Sooner or later they’d find my dead body somewhere, the victim of a sex crime.

I felt better on Wednesday. My body hurt less. I was able to ride 50 miles more than the previous day. Realizing that my take-away from the week’s adventure was to be more careful about the scenes I did helped. And yes I realized that included scenes like the one I just did.

I closed the final 200 miles to home the next day, feeling more or less back to normal, which probably helped getting through all the usual back from vacation things. Jerking off to my favorite prison fantasies made nice breaks from the mail, the laundry, and stuff.

By Sunday I felt calm enough to send a follow-up thank-you note to my “case officer.” Instead of the usual off-hand email in return, he called to say he was glad there were no hard feelings as well as that it was always good when someone asked for more than he wants and then has to take more than he asked for.

Trying to back into my big question, I said, “I bet you said that to the guy you answered in the first place.”

“He never emailed me. About six other guys did, including you,” he said, then added, “Good job, Kagan. You’re ready for the real thing next time.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“In the meantime, you can sign up for weekly reports to a parole or probation officer.”

I was so turned on by the upsell that I forgot to ask if he were the older man at the CVDEC Training Centre.

And that, as we used to write in middle school essays, is how I spent my summer vacation. I’m still bruised a bit, but that should be gone by the end of the week. And I can’t quite bring myself to cut off my ID band, even though I knew I should. Not a good idea to leave it on, is it, with all those questions at work. Even my parole office might balk.


Metal would like to thank Nate Stone for this story!






14 thoughts on “The Play Pen”

  1. This is a very well crafted story, love it and would like to see a part 2. Couldn’t stop reading, excellent job.

  2. I have read it for a second time after some months. As I am visiting sometimes roleplays in a former ‘real prison’ in Eastern Germany, I like this story very much. I looks very real.
    Place go on with a return of Kagan to the facility

  3. @Armyinmate: working on it. Thanks for the comment. Love to hear about your experiences in the ‘real prison’ sometime.

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