Cruel and Unusual

"Uh ... please ... please, Winny ... uh ... fuck me."

"That's 'Mr. Winchester' to you, buddy," Winny replied as sternly as he could.

"Where have I heard that name 'Winchester' before?" Chazy thought. But the mystery would have to wait. He had more urgent concerns.

"Please, Mr. Winchester, fuck me," he responded, "I need it."

Winny walked quickly to the table, opened the drawer and took out a squeeze bottle of KY gel. He knew it was there, Chazy thought. But that figures. He probably comes here a lot.

"Hold yourself open," Winny ordered as he squeezed some gel onto his prick. "Show me how much you want it."

Chazy reached back with both hands to spread his buns apart, but no sooner had he grabbed them, then he immediately let go again and gasped in pain. The surface was so sensitive it hurt to touch them.

"Do it!" Winny said.

Chazy reached back again. Using only his fingertips so as to minimize contact with his glowing skin, he opened his crack. He was now swirling in a sea of humiliation, but he was also harder and hornier than he'd ever been. Indeed, nothing else, save humiliation, aroused him at all, not since Creekside.

"Please, Winny—I mean, Mr. Winchester, fuck me now, hard."

Then, for the first time in his life, Chazy felt something pushing the wrong way against his asshole. He instinctively tightened the muscle, but it was overpowered by the stronger force pushing in. Suddenly, he gave way, and Winny slipped in by an inch. It hurt, but Chazy did not protest. This was, after all, his only hope for sexual release. Gritting his teeth and fighting back tears, he willed himself to relax. With a few more thrusts, Winny was sunk all the way and Chazy could feel Winny's loins rubbing against his tender butt.

Chazy felt his dominator pull out and then push back in again. The action was repeated, then again, and again. Soon Winny was moving with a steady, practiced rhythm. Chazy was jerked forward with each thrust. This is what it feels like to be fucked by another man, he thought. Before this night, he wouldn't have believed that he could have sunk to this; providing sexual services to a fag.

But even as he thought this, he was aware that his desperate hard on was threatening to break out of its own skin. But something was still wrong. He still wasn't coming, still not getting over the mountain. Something was missing, but what? He thought back to the alumni meetings. How easy it had been to come explosively after being paddled in front of his fellow alumni and then sucking off one or more of them. And, suddenly, he realized what was different; he and this Winny guy were alone. There was no one else to see his degradation.

That's what I need, Chazy thought, an audience to witness my humiliation.

At that very instant, as if cued by his own inner porn movie director, Chazy heard a loud, splintering crack as the lock on the door gave way and the door swung inward violently, banging against the wall.

Winny and Chazy both jerked in surprise and whirled their heads around. The intruders were three hardened men, complete with tattoos and scraggly facial hair. They stared at Winny and Chazy with unhidden fury.

3 Years and 1 day and 6 hours Before (an hour before the previous flashback)

The white van with "California Dept. of Corrections & Rehabilitation" stenciled on the side passed through a gate in the chain link fence. Chaotic coils of barbed wire topped the fence for its entire length. Above the gate, a sign read "Creekside Men's Correctional Facility."

It had been less than 24 hours since Chazy's guilty plea and sentencing in Sacramento. On the drive up, he and the other two prisoners, Randy and Pedro, in the van had congratulated each other on their wisdom in volunteering for Creekside. Only wimps were afraid of Creekside, they agreed. Chazy saw the state trooper driving the van smile at this assertion and he felt a momentary sense of unease.

As the three prisoners, handcuffed and chained together, walked from the parking lot to the building labelled "Intake," Chazy looked to his right. Several hundred yards away, he could dimly make out four figures. The shortest was wearing a khaki uniform and had long blond hair. But it was the other three who caught Chazy's attention: although it was hard to tell from this distance, they appeared to be men and naked. One seemed to be bent over as if he was touching his toes. Chazy looked forward again and continued to the building, but the sight left him with a vague foreboding.

The group filed through the door and Chazy blinked as his eyes adjusted to the dim interior. As things gradually came into focus, he saw that they were surrounded by over a dozen khaki-clad female guards. Chazy smiled. They were actually quite cute and he wondered if they ever got lonely up here in the mountains. He caught the eye of one and winked, but she only stared back imperiously.

The trooper removed their cuffs and chains and, with a polite nod to the guards, he departed.

"Strip!" a female voice commanded.

Chazy grinned and looked at the other two prisoners, who grinned back. They wanna see our goods, he thought as he unbuttoned his shirt.

"Make me!" Randy called out, laughing.

Out of the corner of his eye, Chazy saw a blur of motion as a guard behind Randy leaped forward and jabbed her booted right foot against the back of Randy's knee. The force made his leg buckle and he landed hard on his ass. Startled, Chazy and Pedro jumped away as four more guards converged on Randy who was now howling in rage and embarrassment.

In seconds, they had Randy handcuffed again and were dragging him, literally kicking and screaming, across the floor. At the same time two more guards fetched a wheeled table from the side of the room and rolled it to the center. Chazy could see that there was a thick, wide leather belt bolted to surface of the table. A matching buckle was bolted to the surface a couple of feet away. Lifting from their legs, the six guards hefted Randy up and dropped his upper torso face down onto the table. Swearing and threatening, he planted his feet and tried to rise up, but one guard kicked his legs out from under him again as two others, acting with practiced ease, quickly buckled him in place. He was now fixed in place, bent at the waist over the edge of the table. The belt didn't prevent him from furiously kicking and twisting, but he was effectively pinned.

"Now," said the same guard who had ordered us to strip, "for disobeying orders, you will apologize to me and politely ask me to spank you over my lap. But, first, for swearing and resisting you will receive 50 swats from a paddle."

"Fuck you, bitch!" Randy shouted as he renewed his mad struggles to escape his bonds.

"You will address me as Officer Kart," the guard responded. "For failure to properly address a guard you will receive 50 swats, and then you'll receive the 50 for resistance, and then you will politely ask for your spanking for disobedience."

Randy only roared in response. Seconds later two guards grabbed the waistband of his slacks and yanked them down hard. His underwear came down next. Randy froze at finding himself bent and bottomless, but he was not still for long. Another guard handed wooden paddles to the two who had stripped him and they immediately stood on either side of him. With a nod from Officer Kart, one of them gave Randy's right bun a powerful whack. Randy's head jerked up and he shouted in surprise and pain. Barely a second later, the other guard added a balancing blow to the other bun and Randy jerked harder.

They continued to swat him, taking turns and mostly alternating sides, but delivering some whacks across the whole butt. These weren't taps either. Both women swung from behind the shoulder and put their whole bodies into it, like a batter in baseball. Each blast flattened its target and caused Randy to jam his hips forward into the edge of the table. He tried to tough it out and keep silent for a while, but by the 20th blow he was moaning with each smack and his face was as red as his ass. By the 40th, he was crying out.

Chazy and Pedro stared big-eyed and stunned. Unconsciously, they both began to inch backwards, away from the excruciating exhibition in the center of the room.

By the 60th blow, Randy could no longer hold back the tears. He kicked and squirmed, but not in an attempt to escape. Instead, he was trying to twist away the pain. He trashed so mightily that at times both of his legs were off the ground scissoring up and down. Soon his slacks were kicked off completely and then his shorts. His legs kicked madly up and down while his prick and balls dangled and swung with each kick.

By the 80th blow, he was crying continuously, and begging for respite.

"Please, stop!" he sobbed, "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I won't call you a bitch anymore. I promise!"

But his pleas were ignored and his two tormentors continued, machine-like, to blister his bright red behind relentlessly.

"That's a hundred," Officer Kart finally called out.

Randy sagged on the table, whimpering and jerking every few seconds as if a bee was repeatedly stinging his posterior. The belt was unbuckled and he sagged to the floor. But the instant his bum touched the tile, his hips jerked up again in pain. He rolled onto his knees and then sagged forward resting his forearms on the floor. He was breathing heavily, weeping, and sniffling. The bees were still stinging because every few seconds one or the other buttock would suddenly clinch and jerk forward.

"All right," Officer Kart said, "apologize now and ask me to spank you over my knees."

As she spoke, another guard carried a folding chair over from the side of the room and set it up beside Officer Kart.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" Randy choked out, "But please don't hurt me anymore."

"Rule number one at Creekside is that there are no exceptions to the rules," Officer Kart said impassively, "and I have no intention of making an exception to rule number one for you. Of course, if you'd rather go back on the table for another 50 swats ... " She let her voice trail off.

"No!" Randy practically shouted, "No, no more paddle! Alright, please spank me."

With that he crawled over to where Officer Kart had seated herself and then draped himself over her lap. Seeing this powerful man submit, weeping, like this was even more frightening to Chazy than seeing him paddled. He and Pedro had by this time backed all the way to wall of the room.

She started in immediately, slapping his buns hard and fast. The spanks hurt more because his butt was already so sore from the paddling. He was soon kicking and twisting on her lap.

She made it as humiliating for him as she could. After every 20 slaps, he was required to thank her and tell her he deserved more. He obeyed, but his blubbering made his apologies increasingly incoherent. It went on for 3 minutes without stopping. It seemed like forever to Pedro and Chazy, and longer than forever for Randy. When it was over, he lay on his side on the hard tile floor, whimpering and rubbing his shiny red butt.

"Now, then," said Officer Kart, "where were we? Oh, yes — Strip!"

Chazy and Pedro set a new land speed record getting their clothes off.

The Present

"Shit!" Winny exclaimed, "Not again!" He pulled out of Chazy's backside, bent slightly to grab the fallen waistband of his pants, and then without bothering to fasten them, dashed forward, forcing himself between two of the menacing figures. He flew through the doorway and disappeared into the barroom beyond which was nearly empty as the last of its patrons fled headlong out the front door.

Chazy was left behind, still kneeling on the cot, head down, rump up. Frozen in surprise, his hands still holding his paddle-pinkened cheeks apart.

He wasn't the only one frozen. All three of the uninvited guests had dropped their threatening glares and were now blinking in puzzlement at Chazy.

Chazy blinked back, equally puzzled. There was something familiar about their apparent leader. He reminded Chazy of Def-Mad. In fact, Chazy thought, if it weren't for the soul patch on his chin and the vulture tattoo on his neck it could almost be—

"Chazy?????" the man said in unfeigned astonishment.

The voice was unmistakable to Chazy. It was Def-Mad. Oh, God, no, Chazy thought. He looked at other two. There was no mistaking Loosa and Jer. In a nanosecond, he put it together. His old gang was still busting gays for thrills, and tonight they'd picked the Lumber Jacks.

They saw me, Chazy thought, saw me bent forward, holding myself open, and now they see my beaten ass and the paddle on the cot and the tear streaks on my face. Chazy had not thought that it would be possible for the humiliations he'd endured at Creekside to be exceeded, but this was worse. Still frozen in his ignominious position, he found himself at the bottom of an impossibly deep sink hole of shame. But he felt something else, too; for at the very moment an electric bolt of pleasure crackled through him. Involuntarily, he closed his eyes and moaned in joy as he felt himself shoot his juice onto the bedspread. His release seemed to go on forever, spurt after spurt. It was the greatest climax of his life and when it finally ended, he went limp, breathing heavily and smiling in postponed relief.

After a few seconds, he remembered his situation and opened his eyes again. His three old gangbangers were still there, but the glares of hatred had returned, and Def-Mad was pounding his fist into his hand.

3 Years and 2 Days Before (a day before the previous flashback)

"Last one for today, Your Honor," the court clerk whispered as he laid a file in front of the judge. "Change-of-plea and sentencing."

The judge cleared his throat as he scanned the top sheet in the file.

"Has your attorney apprised you of the consequences of pleading guilty?" the judge asked as he glanced up at the defendant.

"Yes, Your Honor," the young man said as he tried to look as sorrowful and repentant as he could. Since he had never actually felt repentance, he relied on tips from his attorney; hanging his head, inhaling deeply before he spoke, and blinking a lot to make it appear that he was blinking back tears.

"Then, let's talk about punishment," the judge said looking at the prosecutor. "Does the state have a recommendation?"

"Seven and four — in max," replied the prosecutor as she stood.

"Disproportionate!" the defendant's counsel shot to her feet feigning shock.

The judge leaned back in his chair to watch the two lawyers bat back and forth. Both were women. All rape defendants hired female lawyers these days, apparently thinking that juries wouldn't believe that a woman would ever defend a rapist. To counteract, the state attorney's office invariably assigned a woman to prosecute.

Both were also experienced in the criminal courts, so they spoke in a shorthand. 'Seven and four' meant a sentence of seven years with no eligibility for parole for at least four years; and "in max" meant in a maximum-security prison. The other possibilities are medium security and minimum security. "Disproportionate" meant that the punishment was too harsh for the crime.

"It's rape," the prosecutor said evenly.

"No physical force," the defendant's counsel countered, "he just got her drunk."

"He drugged her drink. That makes it non-consensual."

"OK. Four and two — in minimum."

"A place with no fences? So he can sneak out at night and commit more crime? Get real. Six and four — in medium."

"It's his first offense."

"Only as an adult. He has a juvenile record from before he turned 21. It's in your file, Your Honor."

"Hmmm, let's see what we got here," the judge said as he flipped through the file. "Yes ... here it is ... a 98-501 ... hate crime ... gay-bashing."

"Gay-harassing, Your Honor," the defendant's counsel interjected, "not bashing. He didn't hit anyone."

"Actually," the prosecutor corrected, "the complainant, Mr. George 'Winnie' Winchester, needed treatment for cuts, bruises, and a black eye."

"My client was in a group of boys who invaded a gay bar. He just went along and taunted the gays, but he didn't personally hit anyone."

"It was a gang not a group," the prosecutor replied, making air quotes as she said 'group,' "and all of them claimed that they didn't do any hitting. Yet, somehow, Winnie Winchester ended up in the ER."

"It would appear that your client's disrespect for the rights of others is chronic," the judge said. "Six and four in medium looks about right. So, if neither of you have anything further to say, I'll pronounce—"

"Excuse me, Your Honor," the defender interrupted. She then whispered something in the defendant's ear to which he nodded in approval.

Turning back to the court, she said, "My client would like to volunteer for alternative sentencing, Your Honor."

"If you mean community service, I can tell you that's there's no way I'm going to let your client off with just a thousand hours of cleaning up litter from state's highways," the judge said firmly, "he needs to be incarcerated."

"I understand, Your Honor. I've talked about this possibility with my client before court today. He would like to volunteer for the program in Creekside."

"Creekside! Did you recommend that to your client?" the judge asked in disbelief.

"No, Your Honor, I have advised him against it, but he insists that he would prefer it to any sentence of more than a year in medium."

"Well, I'll be a monkey's uncle! ... Creekside! ... Young man," he said, leaning forward and peering intently at the defendant, "do you understand what the facility at Creekside is like? Physical punishment is allowed there. It's so tough, no one can be sentenced to Creekside involuntarily, and only dopes volunteer. Are you a dope, young man?"

"No, Judge. And I can take anything they can give out," the man said, straightening his shoulders and holding his head up. He had dropped the 'good-boy-led-astray-and-now-sorry' routine. He was now Mr. Tough Guy.

"And from what I hear," the defendant continued with an arrogant smirk, "they're not allowed to hit hard enough to cause injury. Besides, all the guards there are women, so ... I mean ... like, how hard can they hit?"

"It's not just physical punishment, son," the judge pointed out. "They can dish out any kind of psychological punishment they want. No limits."

"Psychological punishment!?" the defendant sneered as though he couldn't imagine how anything merely psychological could be punitive, "from women!?" He didn't bother to say "don't make me laugh" out loud, but it was apparent to everyone that he was thinking it.

The judge leaned back in his chair again and sighed.

"I don't know about this. I've never sent anyone to Creekside before. Call me old-fashioned, but I haven't forgotten that American constitution forbids cruel and unusual punishment."

But, Your Honor," the defender spoke up, "in Gosling vs. Idaho, the Supreme Court ruled that—"

"I know! I know!" the judge interrupted. "No punishment can be considered cruel and unusual if the convict volunteers to suffer it. Damned Gosling vs. Idaho! Worst decision the Supreme Court ever made."

There was a long silence as the judge considered the situation before speaking again.

"Well," he looked at the prosecutor, "how does the state feel about sending this defendant to Creekside?"

She looked at the defendant and he looked back with a contemptuous sneer ... for her ... for all women.