Convict Slave - continued:

One of the Officers came up and shouted, "FORM TOGETHER! I want to see you prick to ass, or there's gonna be some fairies clamped to this chain by their DICKS next time! I said prick to ASS!" He pushed us together until every prick was in every crack. The whole line was one solid mass of manflesh. It was like we'd melted together. My chest was resting on Frank's back; David was pressing hard on my own back; and somebody else was pressing on David. We stood there and sweated into each other's skin. I didn't want to look at Chris, but I looked at Aaron and saw that all that long hair of his was wet like he'd just taken a shower, the sweat dripping down from the ends and running down his arms onto his handcuff. I hadn't cum, but my cock was still standing there like a pipe in Frank's ass, and David's cock was still as hard as a pipe in mine. I just hoped that Frank understood. I didn't want the guy to think I was a queer. I thought about Frank and a bunch of other guys, maybe, trapping me in the shower and holding me down while they took turns raping me, their cocks busting into my ass while I screamed into the shorts they jammed in my mouth. . . . But right now, it was sort of the other way around. Frank's back kept clenching and rippling under his smooth brown skin, and my cock kept throbbing in his crack, and I could feel the precum leaking out of it, just like it used to do when I ran cross- country with Johnny Matthews and I'd get embarrassed about the stain on my shorts. It was the heat that did it. But thinking about Johnny wasn't helping at all. God! How did I get into this!! I don't know what would have happened to me if I had just exploded right then, but it would definitely not have been pleasant. I was rescued, again, by the Officers. A steel door swung open on our right and a gang of Officers came charging out. Like the other Officers I'd seen, they were all big men, dressed in olive drab uniforms, but these men had an air of authority that even the transport Officers couldn't match. Their boots hit the concrete like it was their enemy that they were pounding into submission. Every one of them looked like he'd just worked out for eight hours and then scrubbed up for five. Their hair was buzzed short, their skin was clean and cold, their uniforms were spotless, their black boots reflected the fluorescent lights. This was the posse to reckon with. And it was easy to see who was in charge. The guy marching out in the center wore the same uniform as the others, and the same tall, steel-toed boots, but the others wore their shirts open at the collar, and he buttoned his all the way to the top, like a guy who was gonna make sure that nothing escaped. The heavy fatigues hung straight down from his high, taut ridge of pecs. He looked to me about 35, but his hair was already gray, and he wore it in a flat-top, razor-shaved on the sides, like the Marines who pose in those men's health magazines. As he walked toward us, his arms swung by his sides without touching his flanks, like there was an electric charge in every part of his body. The other Officers backed off and stood at attention along the walls. The boss came up to us and looked us over, just standing and looking at us like he owned us and like he had all the time in the world to view his property. His eyes were steel green, and they never seemed to blink. Finally he spoke. "Welcome to Jackman State Training Facility, gentlemen. I am Officer Anderson. I am going to say something and I am going to say it only once. So listen, and listen well. That was the last time anyone will ever call you 'gentlemen,' even for laughs. From now on you're convicts. Convicts. That's what you are. That's all you are. That's all you're ever going to be. And now I'm going to tell you convicts what a convict is. "A convict is not a gentleman. A convict is not even a man. A convict is a thing, a thing to be owned by other men. A convict might be a bad thing. He might, with the proper training and punishment, even be a good thing. But a convict is still a thing. You are things. You are property. You are no longer men. You no longer have a name. Tomorrow, when we give you a number, you will be a number, and nothing but a number. You will be a convict number. You will be a convict number for the rest of your lives." Then he turned slowly and looked at me. "Isn't that right, college boy?" I was too scared to say anything. My cock had shrivelled into nothing, and now my brain was shrivelling too, I guess. So Officer Anderson reached over and grabbed me by the hair, yanking me sideways. "Isn't that right, College Boy?" "Y-yes," I stuttered. "What's that, convict?" he said. And he gave my hair a sudden, hard, very painful yank. He dragged my head down till I was looking at the crotch of his olive-drab fatigues. They were smooth and fresh, newly laundered, smelling like soap, and under them I could see the outline of something that could only be a very large, very firm piece of cock. "Yes Sir!" I gasped. "Yes Sir what?" he demanded, and dragged my face even closer to his crotch. "Yes Sir starting tomorrow I will be a convict number." "Good start, College Boy. But how long will you be a convict number?" "Yes Sir starting tomorrow I will be a convict number for the rest of my life!" I gulped when I said that, and it was hard to get out. I thought I was gonna start crying, but I didn't. I just stared at that olive-drab crotch in front of me. Officer Anderson moved his leg, and the smoothly curving cloth thrust itself out an inch from my face. "That's good College Boy, very good. It's a pity that you didn't learn so fast out in the free world. But now it's too late, isn't it?" He was slowly twisting the ends of my hair between his fingers, pulling it and twisting it out of my scalp. "Yes Sir! Yes SIR!" "Very good--except for one thing. The thing on the end of that sentence of yours about being a convict number. To be exact, the SIR that belongs on the end of that sentence. Now let me hear it again, College Boy." "Yes Sir starting tomorrow I will be a convict number for the rest of my life Sir!" He jerked his hand away and my head snapped back. I stood up and forced my body back in between Frank and David. I stood there while the Officer's cold green eyes bored into me, moving closer and closer until I had the crazy feeling that we were about to kiss. "Now listen, College Boy," he murmured, "and all the rest of you scum. When you address an officer, you start with Sir and you end with Sir. Now let me hear it, CONVICT Boy. Let me hear it all." "Sir Yes Sir starting tomorrow I will be a convict number for the rest of my life Sir!" "Louder. I want to hear you clearly, Convict Boy." "SIR YES SIR STARTING TOMORROW I WILL BE A CONVICT NUMBER FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE SIR!" "All right," he said, looking down and straightening his fatigues. "Now we're getting somewhere. And here's the rest of what I want to say to you. It's something that we all know, but it's something that I might as well say. "There is something special about you convicts. Not the 'something special' that your ma and pa thought they saw in you when they were spending their time spoiling you silly. Not the 'something special' that your girlfriends said they saw in you when you were trying to stick your prick up their panties. And certainly not the 'something special' that you and your bros and homeboys think you 'got' when you're snuffin a line. Nevertheless, you do have something very special. Something very interesting. "At first, you seemed like everybody else. You had fathers. You had mothers. You went to school. A few of you even had jobs. But there was something different about you. Something peculiar. And that something led you here to Jackman. That something made you a convict. Because that something made you WANT to be a convict. "You might not have known it. You might have thought, I want to be a nuclear physicist. I want to be married. I want to be a father. But you were wrong. What you wanted was to be a convict. What you wanted was to be stripped, ironed, numbered, sentenced for life as a convict. That desire was in you. It was YOU. And it's you for the rest of your natural lives. And that's why you're here. You're here because you've been sentenced to penal servitude for the rest of your natural lives. "Now, you may make a mistake. You may think that if you're convicted of something 'unimportant,' like Pretty Boy here"--and he smiled a frightening smile in Aaron's direction--"you don't 'deserve' to be here. If you think that, you've got it upside down. It doesn't make any difference to me, or you, or anybody, at this point, WHAT you did. The important thing is WHY you did it. You didn't come to this Training Facility because you committed some petty crime. You committed your crime because, deep inside, you wanted to come to this Training Facility. So you came. You did something that got you sentenced to penal servitude for the rest of your natural life. "Penal servitude is a concept that you may not understand. For those of you who've never been to college, like College Boy here, I'll make it simple. Penal servitude is slavery. Penal servitude is being owned. Penal servitude is having to obey your master without thought or question, no matter who your master is. Penal servitude means being the property of other men for the rest of your life. Penal servitude means doing exactly as you're told for the rest of your life, and doing it just because you're told to do it." He stopped for a moment to let that sink in. "That's the concept. Here's the application. This state has what people call a youth problem. The politicians finally figured it out. It wasn't hard, even though they tried to make it hard and keep from figuring it out. Almost all crime is committed by innocent, dewy-eyed youths like College Boy here. Statistics show that if a male commits more than two serious crimes before the age of 24, he has virtually no chance of ever 'reforming,' as people like your mamas and papas call the scams you keep running on them when you pretend to change your life in some 'program' or other. You are convicts. You were born to be convicts. You are not going to change your life. "So we're not going to try to 'reform' you. We're just going to give you your wish. We're going to remove you from society, permanently and forever, and we're going to punish you. Don't think you are here to be rehabilitated or some shit like that. You're here to be punished. You're here to be numbered, tagged, ironed, celled, uniformed, and trained as convict slaves. I'm not surprised that I see some of your pricks standing out like soldiers when I say that. Isn't that right, College Boy? And you, Jackoff," he said, looking at Frank, "where are you planning to put that prick, anyway?" He was right. Again, I was sporting an enormous hardon, which Officer Anderson, glancing down in my direction, had no trouble detecting. I knew I was blushing like crazy, but I couldn't do anything about it. As for "Jackoff," Frank, I felt his whole body clench at the insult. I couldn't see what his prick was doing, but his ass cheeks closed on my own cock like a vice. "Allow me to continue with the practical details. This facility stands on the site of the old Jackman Prison. Jackman Prison was abandoned during the era when normal people deluded themselves into thinking that prisons had outlived their usefulness. They know better now. The renovation of this facility was undertaken to bring it into full conformance with the special provisions of Public Law 118, otherwise known as the First Personal Responsibility Youth Act. "This facility exists to make sure that you never again forget who and what you are. You will stay in this facility for the next six months, or until we judge that you've learned to think and act as a convict slave. Then you will start working off the debt that you owe to the state for being who you are. You are not going to depend on somebody else to do it, whether it's your mommy or your daddy or the welfare department or the girls you try to fuck or some college that pays you to jerk off every day. You are going to try to work off your debt, and you'll never be able to work off your debt, but you'll keep trying. You're never going to stop." He paused and looked at us with a strange expression. It was contempt, but it was something else, too, something I couldn't place. Then he said, "I'll tell you something else. If you're who I think you are, you may even begin to enjoy it." When he said that, a peculiar sensation just sort of rippled through the mass of flesh in front of him. He paused again and said, very softly, "I want to hear what you think of that-- convicts." For several seconds, nobody said anything. Then I felt the muscles in Frank's body clench even tighter, and he shouted out, "SIR YES SIR!" "Again!" said Officer Anderson. "SIR YES SIR!" we all shouted. It was incredible. I'm sure that all of us hated this guy; I'm sure that we all were convulsed with hatred and fear of him; and I don't believe that anyone, including me, understood all the things he said. But what we all understood was that we were all males together on the chain, and that we would be on the chain for the rest of our lives. We would have to get along like that. More--there was obviously something in us that wanted to get along like that, that wanted to obey, despite the fact that we hated the idea of obeying. So Officer Anderson was right about that. There was something in us that wanted to show that each of us was man enough to endure the abolition of our manhood. So we all shouted out "SIR YES SIR!" "That's better," he said. "SIR YES SIR!" "Let me make something else crystal clear. Don't think there's somebody on the outside who is going to come along and 'rescue' you. They're not. I don't care where you come from, you're all alike in here. And whether you knew it or not, you all signed the Personal Information Agreement Form, which gives me total power to decide whether you get any letters or visits from people on the outside, and I've already decided that you don't. If you still have any family or friends, which I doubt, you can start forgetting about them right now. You won't hear from these people again." Of course, none of us said anything, but if I read the emotions right, a wave of despair went through the group. Even me. I couldn't think of anybody I was really close to, except Troy, and he . . . I didn't want to think about Troy right then. But to hear that my past life was completely past . . . well, that simplified things. "Now," the Officer continued, "anybody who's been around a prison knows that so-called family and friends almost always do a disappearing act after their so-called loved one has been in the joint a couple months or so, anyway. But that's not something for you to worry your pretty heads about. You were born to be slaves. You were born to be punished. We're gonna punish you. So there's nothing that could make you happier than to take your punishment right here." He paused and glanced down at his watch. "Today, convicts, we got started a little late. We're not going to run the whole chain on you today. The chain always takes more than one day, anyhow. We're going to save part of the festivities for tomorrow, and part of them for the next day, just so you'll have something to look forward to. I think you'll find the process very interesting. It's what I like to consider a complete process of adjustment. When we're through with you, you will look, feel, sound, smell, and taste like convicts. Now, for the last time, what do you have to say about that?" Again, Frank's body tensed and he yelled "SIR YES SIR!!!" and we all yelled with him. "All right," said Officer Anderson, and because he was standing right in front of Frank I thought I even saw him smile. "Start the chain." He turned and strode away, his heavy boots making perfect rhythm into the far distance, and the chain started immediately. TO BE CONTINUED

From: "joshua ryan" <joshcon39@hotmail.com