Penance Corporation of America

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He appears to be a dog humbly pausing from a vigorous hunt to answer natures call. Though I forcefully hold his head high, I know it would otherwise be hanging in disgrace, being made to show himself naked before a woman and performing such a lowly act. Still he completes his deed in ignominy and with the quick swipe of a handiwipe his period of exercise can resume. After two more laps, balls swinging with an erection pressed to his stomach, I lift with the leash to raise his head and torso, bringing the hands and arms of my charge off the floor. He sits upright on his knees like a dog begging for a treat, his sad eyes looking into mine like a punished puppy. His erection points skyward. I wonder when he was last able to touch it. 122299 is of moderate size... not large... not small. But ironically, what normally drives the male psyche no longer matters here at the Penance Corporation of America. The function of his phallus is now to amuse others, not himself.

I laugh mockingly, smooth the menacing tip of the cattle prod up and down his shaft and watch him shudder in fear, having so many times felt the excruciating jolt of a domineering woman in control. Then I release the tension on the leash to lower him back to all fours. I return the rectangular patch, adhering it to his hood to blind him and then it’s back up the ramp and into the cage. End of the only form of respite he gets.

I secure 122299 in the prostrate position, which fully exposes his erection as it spears through the bars into the cage below. After clipping the wrist cuffs tight and high, forcing 122299 to lie arching his back, his forced posture appears that he is attempting to copulate with nothingness. I cruelly move to the end of the cage and reattach his ankle cuffs, raising his feet as well. His thighs no longer rest on the bars. It is a most awkward and uncomfortable position. Yet 122299 will hold it for me for a couple of hours without a word of complaint. As an experienced prisoner he knows my authority is not to be questioned or challenged.

Plus, his erection will remain frustratingly unruly for him... yet entertaining for me.

The suppository jar beckons for the next prisoner. As inmate number 053001 feels his cheeks being parted, I find that exercise time nicely breaks the monotony.

With six inmates under my tutelage, the bottom four cages are empty, reserved for new arrivals. In the curious hierarchy of our institution, those prisoners with seniority are confined to the higher cages. ‘Cattle prod bait’, as the new arrivals are whimsically referenced, begin their incarceration at the bottom and work their way up.

I hear the electronic lock on the room door click. It swings open and Peggy Blakely enters, her left hand tightly gripping a leash. She smiles briefly in greeting then turns, lowers her right arm, cattle prod in hand, and utters a firm command.

“Come!”

Her laconic encouragement is followed by a pitiful howl as I surmise her prod has found its mark. With her years at the Penance Corporation of America I cannot imagine that she often misses.

Her large frame steps into the room and tugs briskly. Following her... hooded, blinded, naked and on all fours... is a new prisoner, tethering chains quite short, buttocks bearing the ink and bloated flesh of a recent tattooing. As more jolts bring compliance, the crawling form is brought before me, dragged as much as expending his own power.

I read the keloided numbers along with Peggy’s simultaneous recitation.

“112606. A little Thanksgiving present for you,” she announces in referencing the holiday eight days past.

Her sardonic introduction is accompanied by a tightening of her grip on the leash as her right hand moves behind the buttocks and jostles the hairless testicles with her cattle prod. Even a new prisoner knows not to offer resistance while his most precious male bits are so proximate and vulnerable to excruciating voltage.

“Settle!” comes a quieter but equally stern command.

As always, the deceiving expanse of hairless skin suggests youthfulness. I point my prod to the metal disk on his left hip where the girls in orientation have probably just pierced him. Onto the small screen comes the birth date. It reveals that I am to supervise the incarceration of a lad of 19 years. His crime, a string of convenience store robberies. His sentence, two years. Yet I know under our system he may never again see daylight.

Tsk. Tsk, I think to myself. So young. He will live a long life and become quite the annuity for the Penance Corporation of America.

“I didn’t do nothin’,” comes the diction of a street urchin from below.

I step back and smile. I have not heard an inmate talk in my five days of supervision. And his tone is so belligerent. I feel moisture in envisioning the process facing him.

“That does not matter, 112606. You’ll be treated the same as all of our other innocent guests here. We have many.”

I use a soothing, comforting voice. Peggy smiles at my sarcastic humor.

“I have just the cage for him, Peggy. Your arm must be tiring.”

I open for the first time one of the lower cages. Above in the middle cage is a very quiet but large 070704 and above that in the upper is 122299. Since my new arrival is not broken and has never before been caged, both Peggy and I stand by, pushing with our hands, issuing instructions and threatening with the cattle prods to force 112606 to lower himself and back into his confining new abode. Peggy’s strength comes in handy as a final maneuver a powerful hand pushes against the top of his hood and 112606 glides along the bottom steel bars until his feet meet the end bars. Double ‘D’ clamps attached to wrist and ankle cuffs quickly make him one with the cage and the tethering chains are removed.

“He’s all yours... break him,” the usually pleasant Peggy ominously hisses.

112606 must have offered quite the challenge in being brought from orientation. An irritated Peggy is in earnest with her succinct proclamation.

As with all my charges, the prostrate position has the male package dangling through the lower bars. Peggy stoops, spies the depilated scrotal sac and points with her prod.

“Enjoy your stay,” she hisses again, her finger pulling the trigger mechanism.

There comes a scream and the entire naked form of 112606 writhes in agony as Peggy applies a sizable jolt to the male’s most sensitive anatomy. She laughs at the animated reaction, gives me a silent hand signal of departure and leaves. Her final gesture while I am sure is partially vindictive, it also clears the way for me. I can now soothe and comfort and begin the psychological process of turning this street thug into one of our lambs... he who will earn the Penance Corporation fifty dollars per day... for a long, long time.

Meanwhile, as 112606 calms, he spews a filthy string of vulgarity, all grammatically strained and thoroughly graphic, describing and suggesting actions not really conceivable to the imagination.

Well, I can not let this deportment pass, lest my other charges muster similar temerity. Resistance costs money. The training offered at Penance Corporation of America encourages costs control. And I have a cabinet drawer with implements designed just for that.

I have learned that slow torment imbues the proper atmosphere. Quicker, less endurable pain can send a specific message.

We’ll start with slow, fostering a penchant to learn manners. Then I will teach manners.

In a lower cabinet drawer there is a small winch. Portable, sturdy despite its limited weight, propping it against the cage door of 112606 requires only moments. Rigging the wrist cuffs of my new charge to a strong rope is effortless. I then turn the crank and take up slack, check to assure that the ankle cuffs are well secured high to the end bars then pull up my comfortable stuffed chair.

“We’re going to have a little tête-à-tête, 112606. Except I’ll be doing most of the talking.”

Another string of profanities suggests I am to do something unmentionable to myself. How vulgar!

My tongue clucks a rebuke as I release the double ‘D’ clamps attaching the wrist cuffs to the bars right and left. Then I quickly crank the finely geared winch to remove all slack and pull the hands toward me. It requires little effort on my part and despite the muscled resistance, I soon have the prostrate form of 112606 stretched more than he’d care to be stretched.

Words I never use nor care not to hear, transform to moans of agony as I slow the crank but maintain the building tension. Then as 112606 attempts to lift thighs and belly to ease the tension, the moans turn to yelps of outright pain.

Oh, I do feel wetness now. His form of communication becomes that which the other inmates use... gasps of breath spasmodically drawn between anguished cries. Yes, now we can talk.

“A rather simple form of a device termed ‘the rack’ in medieval times”, I lecture while stopping the crank.

“You’ll survive, 112606. In time I’ll grant some slack without bringing any dislocations to the shoulders, knees, and elbows. But you should understand the timing is mine to control. As a matter of fact, everything is mine to control.”

I am encouraged to hear the profanities change to inaudible entreaties... welcomed attempts to elicit mercy. But such are really not close to the goal of breaking the will. That takes much more time... and unfortunately for 112606, much more suffering. And then there is the overall protocol of silence, which he is breaking... whether uttering threats or pleas.

With the winch wedged against the formidable bars of the cage door, I set a lever to hold the crank and thus the tautness, rise from my chair and push it to the side of the cage. There, 112606’s stomach barely touches the bottom bars, the tight rope forcing his chest into the air. To the rear I have attached his ankle cuffs high which likewise forces his legs and thighs off the bottom bars. His back is therefore uncomfortably arched to add to the slow torment. I pause and once again think what a wonderful job I have attained. To think I get paid for this invigorating amusement.

“Now, let’s talk about proper comportment here at our facility.”

With that, I lean forward in my chair, slip my hand through the bars and under his hips to find the recently denuded genitals. Though he is nowhere near the level of denial endured by the more experienced inmates, I still detect a degree of randiness as my soft, warm feminine hand grasps that which the male normally seeks to have manipulated.

“You’re nicely sized, 112606. Unfortunately that means very little here.”

I begin a very sensual hand job, tenderly stroking and feeling firmness take root. Yes, despite the slow pain, the male still reacts, never letting pass a perceived opportunity to spew seed. Within a moment, 112606 is admirably stiff. His moans of suffering turn to moans of joy. And me... well the moisture turns to wetness.

Overall, with the wrist and ankle cuffs transferring my induced tension to the ligaments of the arms and legs, my new charge is feeling the results of my weeks of training. A latent penchant has been awakened, stirring a psyche that has always had little regard for male comfort. How the recruiters knew of my proclivity for imparting pain and humiliation on the male gender I will never know. But here I am, thoroughly enjoying myself while 112606 slowly suffers.... mentally and physically. He really does not want to be erect... does not want to display himself so degradingly. Yet he really has no choice. I govern in this little chamber of concrete. And if I want a man to show me his swollen p***s, then he will do so. And 112606 is rapidly learning such.

Sensing near climax my stroking hand smoothes down the shaft to his scrotum where I both grip and firmly press my middle finger against the urethra at the perineum. This very simple pressure, the mere tip of my finger, will forestall any orgasm. I am elated to feel the ejaculatory muscles desperately throbbing in preparation of something I will not permit.