Author unknown

I rented a car at the Kansas City airport and drove towards Springfield as I had been directed.  I had read about the Training Center in a leather magazine and decided I was ready to try it myself.  I had been working on my physical condition for over a year and was now not in bad shape for a 30 year old.  For reasons I can’t entirely describe, the scene I wanted to act out was that of a sailor sentenced to do hard brig time.  I had read in the article about the psychology of confinement and the various levels and decided I wanted to try a very strict regime.

I also had a whipping fantasy and decided, what the hell, to go for broke and cap my stay in the brig with an old time formal flogging scene.  So, I had written the Training Center, sent them my requirements, and they had responded with more questions.  After they reviewed my physical report, and collected my $200, they had sent final instructions.  So, I drove to a shopping center outside of Centerville and parked.  It was not yet 2:00, so I was on time.

Precisely at 2:00, a plain 4 door black sedan pulled up behind me, and two khaki clad officers (or what looked like deputy sheriffs) got out.  One stood at the rear of my car (I could see him in the mirror) and the other came up and motioned me to roll down the window.  He asked for my drivers license, and then told me in a low but official way to get out of the car.  “Get up against the car and spread em” he said as he none too gently spun me around and shoved me roughly against the rear door.  In short order I was patted down, cuffed, and dumped into the back seat of the squad car.  The car had a heavy metal grill between the back seat and front; the back doors had no handles.  I was a prisoner for real.

The two officers returned to the patrol car and proceeded to start a conversation about baseball scores, completely ignoring me.  I noticed one guy at a nearby car staring at our little scene, his eyes looking at me secured helplessly in the back seat.  I felt both embarassed and excited at the same time.  We drove through the small town and pulled into a driveway.  The garage door closed automatically behind us.  I was led to a small room and uncuffed. “Change into the clothes you find inside and put your stuff in the bag you’ll find.”  “Put your personal effects in as well” “You have five minutes.”

On a clothes hook was a pair of dungaree trousers and shirt with my last name stenciled on them.   I stripped down to my underwear and saw the small suitcase to put my suit and shirt in.  When I put the dungaree shirt on, I discovered that there was even a Navy ID with my name on it in the pocket.  I was now a sailor.

The door opened and this time a “marine” came in.  “Assume the position, sailor — that means get up against that bulkhead and spread em”.  I did so, assuming the now familiar position, and again feeling the strange sensation of fear and excitement.  He gave me a thorough pat down, then said “turn around and stand at attention.”  He left the room for a minute, then returned with some chains.  “Hold out your hands” and he clipped an old fashioned set of rigid cuffs on my wrists from which a length of chain fell to the ground.  He squatted and attached irons to my ankles.  “I’m going to order you to Present chains” the guard said.  “That means spread your legs as far as you can and raise your arms as high as you can and freeze in that position until I tell you to move — Present Chains”.  I did as ordered and felt immediately the limits imposed by my shackles.  My wrist irons were connected to my ankle irons, prevented my arms from moving above my waist.  My feet could move about 18 inches — enough to walk but not run, I gathered.  I surged with a strange sense of arousal, and I sensed my cock becoming semi-hard.  The guard tested the fittings and then moved me forward.  He seemed totally oblivious to my state, just another prisoner to him.  “Time to get this brig rat locked up,” he said to his partner standing by the door with a shotgun in his hand!  He led me to the rear door of a van, lifted me up to the rear facing back seat, and slammed the door locking it.  I saw wire grill covered all the windows and the back of the drivers seat.  I was the only passenger. The shotgun toting marine had a rear facing seat next to the driver and had told me to face to back and not turn around again.  Naturally I complied.

We traveled for several miles on a two lane state highway, and I saw that the town turned quickly into farmland.  A pickup truck with two young looking farmboys overtook us and passed, one of them giving me the eye. I couldn’t tell what he could see of my shackles, but the wire grill and the gun toting men in khaki must have been plain enough.  I had not expected this openness, but I found that it only added to my strange sense of simultaneous fear, shame, and exhilaration.  I was a sailor on the way to the brig for rough treatment, and I was now helpless to do anything but play out my assigned role in the scene.

The van turned off the highway onto a side road and proceeded perhaps a mile before turning into a farm.  I noticed the mailbox said “National Training Center,” again right out in the open.  After passing a farmhouse and some outbuildings we came to a high chain link fence with barbed wire a round the top and an electric gate.  We paused while the driver talked over an intercom, than continued to a second fence, this one covered with corrugated metal and topped with razor wire.  The fence looked 20 feet high, and I noticed floodlights mounted at regular intervals.  As we proceeded through the gate, I saw that there was a khaki clad guard this time looking directly at me as I tried not to stare at him.  I saw the gate roll shut, closing us in as the truck came to a stop and backed to a loading dock.  The driver came around and unlocked the van door as the shotgun stood at the ready.

I had arrived at the brig.

“Out” was all he said, and I struggled in my chains to get out of the seat and onto the concrete deck.  “Follow me” and the driver headed towards a steel door, the shotgun bringing up the rear.  I clanked to the door which swung open as we approached.  On entering, my nervousness immediately overcame my arousal, as I took in the institutional surrounding.  A large bare room, with a table in the middle and several barred doors at the end.

“Present Chains” said the guard, arousing me from my musing.  He quickly unlocked them as the rattled to the ground.  “Stand at attention on the white line.”  A Marine officer came out of a side office and stood directly in front of me.  “Sailor you have been sentenced to confinement on bread and water and to be flogged”  “You will be indoctrinated in brig rules any infraction of which will result in further punishment.”  “Your sentence of 12 strokes of the cat-o-nine-tails will be executed tomorrow morning”  “Do you have any questions?”  I stammered out a no, my heart thumping from the harshness of the sentence and my situation.  Instantly I felt a baton tip lightly tap the small of my back.  I had not realized one of my guards was directly behind me.  “Prisoner, the first and last words out of your mouth are SIR”  “Sir, no questions Sir.”  This time, the baton struck hard, almost knocking me over.  “Louder scumbag” “SIR NO QUESTIONS SIR” I shouted, trembling.   My brig time would indeed be hard.

“The first step is to make you a proper brig rat” said the guard pointing with his baton to a small room.  I ran to it and a “trusty” emerged with a barbers clippers.   He was dressed in dungaree trousers and a t-shirt with the word Brig in large black letters.  He motioned me to sit on a stool and commenced to cut my hair.  I could tell he was putting the clippers right against my head, and in a few strokes I was a skinhead.  “Give him the rectal probe” said the guard.   I was told to strip. “Put your chest on the table and spread your cheeks and hold them.”  I felt a rubber gloved finger probe my asshole, and visualized the scene.  Naked, skinheaded, butt up, watched by two tough guards.  I didn’t know what would be next, but I knew I would get my money’s worth.

I was then told to get back into uniform, and the trusty gave me a t-shirt with “Brig” on it and dungaree trousers with big white stripes on each leg.  I was then marched back to one of the barred doors which slid open revealing a cell block.  I was put in the first one and the door slammed shut.  My first real confinement.  The guard said “read the rules, we’ll be back” and left the block.  My cell was totally bare, about 10 by 10 feet made of concrete painted white.  On the rear wall was a stenciled sign “Brig Rules” There were only 3 and I realized I had better memorize them or something worse would happen (what could be worse — did I want to find out?)  The block seemed empty, and I had trouble concentrating since my arousal was beginning to return.  Then the guards returned.

“Hit the white line asshole” said one of the guards.  “Prisoners come to attention facing front toes on the white line whenever a guard enters the block.”  I had already screwed up.  They entered the cell, one guard standing behind me.  I felt his baton in my back and knew I would get a rap for each screw up.  “What is rule 1 asshole?” said guard number 1.  I stammered out my answer, forgetting to end with Sir, and got a good tap.  For good measure the guard questioning me gave me a healthy slap across my face.  “Scumbag, the first and last words out of your filthy mouth are SIR”  “SIR YES SIR” I shouted, beginning to catch on.  We played out the scene for another 10 minutes, my back getting very sensitive by that time, but the scene was having an effect and I was becoming strangely exhilarated wallowing in the degradation of it and screaming my SIR YES SIRs while my finger tip pressed tightly into my trousers, my head staring straight ahead.  “OK scumbag, you have 10 demerits.  That means 10 minutes in the box.”  “Sir yes Sir” I shouted wondering what that meant.

 

Part Two

 

Quickly, I was marched out of the cell and down to the end of the block.  “Strip, put your uniform in the locker, straddle the line and hold your arms out.”  I took the position.  A leather collar was looped around my neck with a chain lead dangling down my back.  My widespread ankles were then fastened to a rigid bar 18″ long.  Heavy leather cuffs were buckled tightly on my wrists and I was ordered to parade rest.  I felt the guards lock my cuffs to the neck lead, my wrists secured in the small of my back.  I remembered as all this was happening that this was the setup described in the leather magazine, except he had said they could make it worse and they were.  Without warning a leather hood was pulled over my head and I could feel a padlock locking it in place.  The feeling was almost claustrophic, but there was enough slack around the mouth and nose to breathe with a little extra difficulty.  The guard yelled in my ear “10 minutes, if you screw up now its the strap” and with that I was shoved forward falling into the tiny cell and stopping when my chest and head hit the wall.  I could feel more that hear the door being bolted.  I was totally confined, just as the article described, not able to do anything except move forward or back a matter of inches.  Then I discovered one extra feature of my wrist restraints — they were attached to a choke collar.  Unless I kept my arms bent upward, the loop would gag me.  For a moment, I though t I would panic and began breathing in gasps.  But as the totality of the scene burned into my consciousness I began to feel a sense of incredible arousal.  With amazing speed I could feel myself getting a hard on and soon my prick was pressing against the cell wall wedged between my spread legs.  Then I almost laughed.  This is ridiculous.  Here I am naked, trussed up, jammed into a tiny cell, no room to move, hard to breathe, with no sense of light or sound and I’m practically jacking off against the wall. Then I thought of what the guard said — if I screw up now, it’s the strap.  Wonder if I’m going to have to learn what that means.

The ten minutes, if that what it was, passed more slowly than I could have possibly imagined.  My arms were getting incredibly cramped and I had to move them enough to tighten the noose and then had another panic when I thought the noose wasn’t loosening after I raised them.   My legs were cramping as well, since the combination of the rigid ankle restraints and the closeness of the cell limited movement to fractions of an inch.  In spite of this my prick maintained an incredible hardness against the wall and I think I probably came, although I couldn’t be sure.  Then I felt the rush of cool air and knew the door had opened.  A rough hand unlocked the hood and pulled it off, the light almost blinding me and causing me t o forget about my neck loop and arm restraint. “Well look here, the scumbag came in his cell”  “I told you what would happen didn’t I asshole”  “SIR YES SIR” I shouted, making an effort to bend my arms to give me breath.

They left me leaning against the cell wall, but actually tightened my wrist loop causing me to grunt with pain.  “I didn’t say you could talk, asshole”  “Another 10 demerits”  “Are you ready asshole?” “SIR YES SIR” I shouted, not quite sure what I was supposed to be ready for.  Then I found out.  A hand roughly twisted my head to one side and I was staring at a heavy leather paddle being held up by one of the guards.  It looked 3 feet long, about 4 inches wide, and 3/4 inch thick.  I trembled as the guard stepped back.   I heard the whistle and then felt the STROKE.  “Count asshole”  “SIR ONE SIR”  “Wrong asshole, say Sir one Sir, thank you Sir, may I have another Sir” These were mean marines alright.  I struggled to hold up my arms to get the breath to shout, the pain meanwhile beginning to burn into my ass, and I realized I had 9 more to go.  “SIR ONE SIR, THANK YOU SIR, MAY I HAVE ANOTHER SIR.”  As it turned out I had 10 more to go since they didn’t count that one since I had screwed up.  The strokes slammed into my butt every ten seconds, enough to let the pain blaze through before the next one landed in a slightly different place.  Again I found myself reflecting on the scene and realized my cock was getting even harder.  Naked, wrists and arms held tightly in a parade rest position above my ass by a choke collar, legs spread wide by a rigid bar, ankles locked in place, ass fully exposed to the STROKES of the leather paddle wielded with full force by the marines.  I was going to come again.  Would they see it?  Would I care?  “SIR TEN SIR, THANK YOU SIR, MAY I HAVE ANOTHER SIR”  (I think I hope not)  “No faggot, you’ve had enough jollies for now”  (Were they really straight themselves — I suspected they got off as much on this scene as I did).  I was now released from my restraints, allowed to work my cramped muscles for a few seconds, then told to put my uniform back on.  I was returned to the first cell.  This time, there was a blanket (but no pillow), a bucket, a cup of water, and two slices of bread.  The cell door was locked and the light turned out.  “See you tomorrow scumbag”  Tomorrow I would be flogged.

Alone in the cell, I reflected on the condition of confinement.  Not as immediately terrifying as an immanent physical threat, the feeling of loss of control was overwhelming.  The feeling was reinforced by the silence imposed by the heavy walls, totally cut off from real light.  Was it now night outside? It seemed hours since I arrived, but how long had it been, and when would they release me.  I realized that I was no longer in control of my destiny, I belonged to the Training Center to do with me as they liked.

 

Part Three

 

My arms, legs, and especially my ass ached and I thought the bread and water would be unappealing.  But surprisingly I wolfed down the two slices of bread. I had expended a lot of energy.  I sipped the water, knowing I needed to replenish my sweat loss, but not certain when they would give m e more.  The bucket, I realized, was my toilet.  Better try and sleep.  I rolled up in my blanket, and dozed, but awoke at each imagined sound.  Were they coming back?  Once, I awoke with a start, my heart pounding wondering whether it was time. Must have been a sound — another prisoner? Were there others confined here, with similar fantasies undergoing similar scenes?  Were there worse scenes? Did I crave something more?  Could I take what I had asked for?  I passed in and out of a state of semi-arousal, leaving me in a strange state of fear and excitement at the same time.

I awoke with a start.  I had slept after all, and this time it was the opening of the block door that had awakened me.  I struggled to my feet, feeling achy but the anticipation gave me new strength. I moved to the white line just as the lights came on and the guard shouted “count brig rat.”  I didn’t know what to say, the point of course, but blurted out “Sir the Prisoner is present Sir.”  “Not bad shithead — the proper drill is Sir present Sir.”  “SIR PRESENT SIR” I shouted, getting off on the degradation of it all.  This seemed to fulfill some need I had although I certainly couldn’t explain why.

It turned out there were other prisoners.  After the trusty came around and collected the slop bucket,  I was led out of the cell block and into the main room where I found four others in similar uniforms.  There was also another prisoner in my block — strangely I felt slightly embarrassed that he had been witness to my degradation.  We were than let out into the field between the cell house and the covered fence and made to do calisthenics for 30 minutes or so.  It felt good to exercise my muscles and at the end I felt OK, with a slight sweat.  I could handle the physical part, as well or better as the other prisoners it seemed to me.  The year of hard work had payed off.

We were returned to the cell house, shouting through the white lines at each door — I learned the procedure watching the man in front.  I and the other prisoner in my block were sent to the head, then back to our cells while the other prisoners remained in the main room, I guessed for breakfast.  Our side must be for bread and water prisoners.  I also realized that half of the cells on our side had solid doors.  That was why I hadn’t seen the other prisoner — so there were stricter conditions than mine.  Was he also to be flogged — I had almost forgotten that next scene.

After a period of anticipation, broken by several counts on the white line, always accompanied by verbal harassment which served to keep my adrelinin up, both guards entered the block accompanied by a trusty and a person in white — a corpsman I guessed.  I watched from my white line as they approached and I sounded off.  “Strip, you have one minute” said the guard.  I raced to get my clothes off, fumbling as usual with my shoes.  “Fold them shithead.”  I put my uniform in the corner and resumed my position on the line knowing I would pay for that later.  The cell door opened and the corpsman came up to me while one guard stood behind, his baton taking its familiar place in my back.  “How do you feel prisoner?” asked the corpsman. I almost broke out in a laugh but managed a “Sir the Prisoner feels OK Sir.”  He put his stethoscope on my chest, I was sure my heart was beating.  After looking me up and down coldly he said “Fit for flogging” and made a mark on the clipboard he carried.

Now the trusty entered.  “Hold your arms out and spread” accompanied by a tap on my back.  The trusty brought a chain around my waist and squatted to snap irons on my ankles. “Arms front” and another tap.  The trusty put manacles on my wrists and then secured them to the waist chain.  “Move out to the line” said the guard, giving me a smart rap that sent me stumbling forward as I discovered the limits of my leg irons.  Once on the line he ordered “Present chains.”  I found that I had very little freedom of movement as I put tension on my chains, my wrists constrained both at the waist and by another chain connected to my ankle fetters.  The guard tested the shackles and gave them an extra squeeze.  I breathed hard, and got myself another rap in the back from the unseen ever present guard.

I stood at attention and heard the second prisoner put through similar paces.  Then we were ordered to move out and clanked forward, my guard remaining close behind.  When we reached the main room we kept on going and I suddenly realized we were being taken outside, stark naked.  My slight hesitation, of course, got me another rap so that I almost stumbled as I p assed through the outer door onto the dock.  There my heart really began to pound.

The other prisoners were in a rank to observe our punishment.  In addition there were several civilians, including I was sure the young farm boy who had eyed me in the van.  I had asked for a traditional navy flogging and of course the crew would be called to witness punishment.  I felt myself flush at the thought of my nakedness, but the feeling was quickly followed by an increase in my arousal.  This was, after all, what I had asked for — to be flogged in the manner of a common seaman.

On the dock was the punishment triangle.  I recognized it from movies and leather mag photos, and had even attempted to imitate it at home.  But this was real!  Made of heavy 4 by 8 timbers, it stood 10 feet tall and slanted about 20 degrees off the horizontal.   A jab of the baton drove me towards it and I was brought to a halt directly in front.  The trusty raced up and unlocked my wrists.  “Hold out your arms” the guard ordered in a loud voice.  He then jabbed me again so that I lurched forward, my midsection now pressing against the crosspiece between the timbers striking me just below the bellybutton.  The trusty now secured my wrists to a second long crosspiece set at the height of my shoulders.  He used leather straps to bind my arms at the wrist and elbow on each arm as I held them out against the smooth wood.  Now my waist chain was removed and a belt was drawn over my waist forcing me against the midsection crosspiece.  Then my ankles were released and my legs secured to the triangle with straps at the ankle, knee, and thigh, spreading my legs widely.  I now tightly embraced the triangle, completely restrained except for my head, which stared straight out at the Training Center officer who now spoke.  “Prisoner, you have been sentenced to be flogged 12 strokes of the cat-o-nine-tails in the manner of a common seaman.  Are you ready to be punished?”  I was not prepared for this, but blurted out “Sir the prisoner is ready to be punished Sir.”  A hand came down HARD on my butt.  “Louder scuumbag”  “SIR THE PRISONER IS READY TO BE FLOGGED SIR,”

A hand reached around my head and a finger probed my mouth.  Instantly I felt a leather piece forced between my teeth and drawn tight with a strap around the back of my head.  I was bound immobile and now gagged.  Naked, arms straight out, legs angled, cock exposed (and becoming erect).  A helpless prisoner awaiting his fate.  I felt a strange sense of detachment and certainly arousal in spite of the fear and shame I felt at being exposed.  Now two guards appeared in front of me and displayed their cats.  Each instrument consisted of nine lengths of 1/4″ whipcord, 3 feet long, attached to a 3 foot handle.  I trembled at the sight although it was what I had expected from visits to naval museums.  Then the guards moved behind me out of sight.  I waited, my heart pounding.

“Execute the sentence, 12 strokes well laid on”  I felt a sense of panic and momentarily struggled at my bonds which were, of course unyielding.  The witnesses no doubt found my struggles amusing.  “First stroke, ready STROKE”  I heard the cat tails whistle, then heard the impact as it fell across my pinioned back with a SLAP, the ends of the cords wrapping around my exposed side to STING the chest, reaching to my right tit.  Then I felt the PAIN blaze across me.  I couldn’t take 12 strokes, but I had NO CHOICE.  I gasped for breath through my gag, making a strange guttural sound.  A count of ten.  Sweating from every pour.  Already heaving and only the first stroke.  An even dozen!  The lot of a common seaman.  “Second Stroke, ready STROKE.”  From the opposite side this time.  The tails SLAPPPING my left tit.  Tears were flooding my eyes and only the second stroke.  Ten to go.  I felt panic again, but followed by an incredible surge of arousal.  I think my cock must be stiffer than it had ever been.  Nothing to hold it down, so everyone could see.  Fuck them.  I’m the sailor being flogged.  Let them come up here and take it if they can.   I can take this.  “Third stroke, ready STROKE”  Already one-quarter over.  Now, what do I do for an encore.  Part of my brain raced on to the imagined next scene as the whipcords again SLAPPED my back and chest, driving the air from my lungs and causing me to blubber through my gag. Would I shoot my load?  YES.  STROKE ON YOU FUCKING MARINES — I’M READY FOR PUNISHMENT.

 

THE END

 

NOTE: I do not know who wrote this story. It was posted on a chat board many years back, but I was not able to contact the author. I suspect the guy who wrote this one is the same as the author of Master Qualification.

If you are the author, or if you know the author, please contact me.

—Metalbond