THE PRISON PIT
BANG! went the first bolt. BANG! went the second bolt. CRASH! went the door, flung back against the wall. I woke, startled into terror in the black. I felt the push of air pressure as a big form thrust in through the low door. I cowered into my straw nest, gibbering with fear, trying to work out where I was and why I couldn't move my hands to protect myself. Strong hands grabbed my ankles and dragged me out into the cell, raking my whipped chest along the floor grit. (You don't lie on your back with a rod behind your elbows and your wrists manacled!) And then I was being kicked. Short jabbing kicks designed to hurt rather than injure, but expertly placed for maximum pain. On the ankle, hip bone, shoulder blade, shin, ribs. Wherever bone came near the surface, unpadded by muscle. I tried to roll into a ball on my side to protect myself - hard with your hands bound and a rod through your elbows. "No no, please, no" I was screaming, but the rain of kicks continued. I could hear him breathing hard with the violent exertion. I was terrified he would kick my head which I could not protect with my hands, but he made no attempt to do so. But the elbow, (God!) and the kneecap, (oh dear God!) and even my handcuff-bruised wrist bone got it. Then, with equal suddeness, it stopped. The door slammed shut, the bolts crashed home and I could hear his boots receding over the cellar floor.
I lay there in absolute misery, gasping and sobbing with self pity. I had never felt so alone, so utterly abandoned, in my life. Huge tears flooded into my goggles and I couldn't wipe my eyes. Why? I asked myself. What had I done to deserve such unprovoked savagery? And in an odd hallucinatory way I seemed to be floating high up, looking down on the naked, shivering, snivelling wreck on the floor. 'Why?' I said to him, 'because you deserve it. You are a dirty sex pervert and you came here wanting to be physically and sexually abused. Well, you have been, so what's the problem?'
'Because this is too much' he snivelled 'I'm cold and exhausted and hungry and I hurt all over.'
'So, you want to be a sex-slave in comfort is that it?'
He stopped snivelling and shook his head. 'No, but this is too much.'
'So what you want is a gentle, considerate master who will check at frequent intervals "Is this OK?" and "Are you able to take another lash or two?" Is that what you want?'
He shook his head sullenly. 'I don't know, I don't know' he wailed.
'Well, you'd better make up your mind' I snapped, 'Think of those two yobbo louts you fancied on the train. Which did you prefer, the good looking well- built one or the surly slob with the mean look and aggressive manner?'
'I liked 'em both'
'Stop farting around' I told him, 'you wanted the bit of rough because you thought he'd be mean and selfish and demanding and cruel. Right?'
He nodded. 'Right' he conceded.
'And this man,' I pressed, 'would you describe him as mean and demanding and cruel?'
'God, yes!'
'Well then, you've got what you want, so stop whingeing.'
'But why should he suddenly decide to come and kick the shit out of me in what feels like the early hours of the morning?'
I shrugged. 'Two answers to that, I guess. First ,because you are there, so why not? Second, to test if you were telling the truth.'
'About what?'
'You said "anything". Did you mean it, or did you mean "anything, except having a broomstick through my elbows 'cos that hurts, and except being kicked in the night 'cos that hurts too - even though it might be what my master most wants to do at that moment"
He was silent for a while, considering this. Then he nodded slowly. 'Yeah' he murmered dreamily. 'Yeah . . . anything he wants.'
I drifted away and let him sleep.
BANG! went the first bolt. BANG! went the second bolt. CRASH! went the door. In blind, gibbering panic I tried to edge away to the safety of a corner, babbling "No sir, no, please no" before he'd even touched me. He pulled me up onto my knees and jerked the broomstick out.
My arms dropped down limply, my manacled hands between my knees. I pitched forward helplessly and found my face thrust in his crotch. He was naked! He grabbed my shoulders to stop me lurching helplessly sideways and held me there. He was naked and erect. And he was huge! The totem of his manhood was pressed up against his belly by my face. Instinctively I worked up to its tip like a blind piglet hunting for a teat. I braced my chained hands against his thigh to steady myself and immediately registered how massive it felt, and so hard. I got my mouth over the helm of his cock. It filled my mouth, obscene and gross, unlike anything I'd ever experienced - and I was not inexperienced! I began to suck him, but he had other ideas.
He gripped my head between both hands and pushed it back against the wall behind me. Then he began to fuck my mouth, using it as men use a woman's cunt. Slow and shallow at first but then pushing deeper in with each remorseless thrust. I started to gag and tried to twist my head away, but his huge hands were like rocks clamped either side of my head holding it rigid. I heaved and hawked and coughed and spluttered. He continued regardless - or, more like, it added to his pleasure to cause such distress. "Fuckface!" he said, repeating it with each ram-thrust, the dirty name adding to his pleasure in the obscenity of his lust. I could not turn my head or move it sideways or back, because of the wall, so in desperation I did the only thing I could, and with a sudden jerk I scrunched down lower. The huge wet thing flew out of my mouth and up my face. He was furious. "Bastard!" he yelled and hit me across the face, mercifully with his open hand . Even so the blow knocked me flying and left me sprawled on my back. He must have been on the point of shooting, for he dropped to his knees, gripping my chest between his powerful thighs and carried on furiously masturbating. He came, and shot his load into my face at point-blank range. I could actually feel the impact as the wads of cum hit my face, the first one across the bridge of my nose and forehead, the second across my lips and into my left nostril. He spread his hand flat over my face and smeared the mess round and round, rubbing it in. "Lick it"
he said, holding his palm over my face. I licked it. "Between the fingers" he said. I licked between his fingers. He pushed a finger into my mouth. "Suck it." I sucked it and then each in turn, his thumb too. He shoved two, then three fingers in at once. Dutifully, I sucked them too until he seemed satisfied. He wiped his wet fingers on my hair and told me to sit up with my knees drawn up to my chin. I did so, resting my chained wrists on top of my knees, but he thrust them down to my feet, scraping the chain down my shins. The broom handle was pushed through over my forearms and under my knees like a bolt, locking me into a helpless knot. He stood over me, I could sense him just standing there. Why? I soon learned. He wanted a piss.
So he pissed down onto my head. I could feel it coursing over my shoulders, my back, my chest, my thighs. It didn't seem to matter much. Not after all the other things he had done to me. Then he was gone. The door slammed, the bolts were shot home and I was alone.
Why two bolts? Come to that , why any? I wasn't going anywhere, trussed up like a pretzel. No, the bolts were there to make me feel imprisoned when they were shot . . . and to terrify the shit out of me when they were opened. And very effective they were too. He didn't miss a trick! So, it is no big deal to sit doubled up with a stick under your knees and over your arms, is it? Uncomfortable of course, but no major problem? Well, not at first, no. But it soon becomes the most miserable torture. Miserable because it is unglamorous. It is hard to see yourself as noble and manly and heroic. That's OK for Prometheus, spreadeagled in chains on a mountain, waiting for the great bird to swoop out of the sun and rip his guts out with its hooked beak as punishment from the Gods for his services to mankind. It is rather less noble to sit naked in a cold pit, tied into a knot of misery when all you can think of is how your bum hurts on these wet bricks as you try to shift your weight from one buttock to the other. And is that a late drop of piss from your hair trickling down your spine, or is it a spider crawling on your skin? And if it is, what on earth can you do about it? Then, if only you could push your hands just a quarter of an inch further down, what bliss that would be in easing the pressure where the broom handle is cutting so painfully across the top of your forearms. And you do actually manage to do this, well just a bit, but it doesn't seem to ease the pain at all, it just means that now the chain of the hancuffs is cutting more deeply across the front of your shins. Of course, if you could just get your feet a bit closer to your body, the chain wouldn't hurt so much. That's hard to do, but when done it makes the broom dig into the backs of your knees even harder and that is agony. Perhaps, if only it were possible to move back so that you could lean on the wall, that would ease all sorts of pressure points. The more you think of this, the more seductive it seems. So you start "walking" from one buttock to the other. It takes forever, but at last you make it, but it doesn't help at all and the damp bricks are so cold against your back, and there's a particularly large bit of coal-grit under your left buttock. You try and move sideways but it is embedded and comes with you. You consider letting yourself slide onto your side. That'll solve the grit in the bum problem, but what others might it make - and it would be a one-way journey. Once down, you'd never be able to get up again. And what time is it? Must be three am at least. Four maybe? Even five? How many more hours of this misery? If only he'd come back to give you another kicking or something, just to break the monotony.
Food. Images of food. Fantasies of food. Did you know that hunger hurts? Really hurts. In this age of plenty, if you feel a bit peckish, you eat. Real hunger is something we just don't experience normally. And when you do it comes as a bit of a shock. At least it is drier here against the wall away from where he pissed. If only I could get this bit of coal out of my arse. It is so damned sharp. I wonder what time it is now? Boring? Boring to read about dragging misery? Of course it is. Not half as boring as living it though! Was that sleep that came at last, or unconciousness? Certainly I was startled into wakefullness - yes, and terror - by those bloody bolts and the bang of the door. Oh God, what now? "It's all right mate, it's only me with your breakfast." "Corporal?" I queried. He said yes and I heard him put down what sounded like an enamel bowl and mug, then he was unlocking the 'cuffs. It seemed to take for ever, but at last my hands were free but my arms fell limp and useless at my sides. I was free to move my feet now - but couldn't move them either and had to ask him to pull them forward for me. He did and the hateful broom fell to the floor.
"Now listen" he said, "I'm going to leave you with your breakfast. When you hear the door bolted you can take off the goggles so you can see to eat. He'll be down shortly to give you your morning beating, but as soon as you hear him at the bolts, you must put the goggles back on.
And make sure you do it proper, 'cos if he thought you could see anything . . . well just make sure you can't, that's all."
"Morning beating?" I asked. "Yeah, well don't worry 'bout it too much. It's usually three or four cuts with the cane. That sort of thing. Laid on pretty hard of course, but no big deal. It's just that the Brig has this thing about slaves needing a bit of a beating first thing every morning, just to sort of start the day right, you know?" "The Brig? That's what you call him?" "The Brigadier. Er, yeah." he answered uneasily as if he might have divulged more than he should. "And does he beat you every morning?" I asked. "Christ no!" he snapped, "I'm not one of you lot" I asked if he was an employee then. "You ask too many questions. Watch it. The Brig wouln't like it" And with that he was gone, followed by the bolts routine.
I forced my leaden arms up and peeled the goggles out of my eye sockets for the first time in eight or ten hours. A hurricane lamp hung from a nail in the wall. My cell was much as I had pictured it from my body survey. A grim little brick box about four foot square with the understair bit through a low arch. I looked at my hands and knees - smudged black with coal dust so I'd got that right too. The only surprise was how low the ceiling was. Only a few inches above my head when standing. I turned my attention to the much more interesting subject of breakfast. The distinctly grubby-looking mug was steaming. I picked it up, and cradling it in my cold hands, drank. Strong tea sweetened with condensed milk. Disgusting! But I drained it without pausing for breath. The enamel plate appeared to contain porridge. Real prison grub! But how was I to eat it? There was no spoon. Oh no, not with my fingers, surely? My dirty fingers? Like a fool I still looked round for a spoon, unable to believe the obvious. But of course there was no spoon.
Would this meticulous bastard miss such a chance? Have you ever tried eating tepid porridge with your fingers, clean or dirty? Silly question. Of course you haven't. You might think you can imagine how messy it would be. Well, you can't.
Bizarrely the effort was more humiliating than some of the more obvious things he'd done to me.
Naturally, the porridge was without salt or sugar or milk, a sort of grey wallpaper paste. I am ashamed to say I ate it all, scooping the sticky mess into my mouth as best I could, scooping up the dollops that slid down my chin, even licking the plate like a dog, I was so hungry. Afterwards I felt angry. Not because he had humiliated me so, but because he had contrived to make me humiliate myself.
Footsteps! I scrabbled for the goggles. Bolt one. Christ, where they? Bolt two. Round your neck, you fool. I shove 'em on as the door opens.
I hear the mug put on the plate and the plate picked up. Not quite what I expected. "Er . . . yeah"
It is the corporal again! "Forget the morning beating. Change of plan. I er . . . I've dropped you in the shit . . . a bit." What's that mean, I ask him. "He wants a full Court Martial." is the astonishing reply. Brigadiers, Corporals, "drill positions", Courts Martial, what the hell is all this military crap? "What for?" I demand, forgetting my status. "You'll find out" he snaps, offended at my tone. He moves behind me and snaps those bloody handcuffs on my bruised wrists again, rather un-necessarily roughly. "He's waiting" he says in a tone which implies 'Shut up' and, grabbing both my arms above the elbows, he propels me forward at a fast trot , shouting "Hep hi, Hep hi, Hep hi" in true military fashion. We cross the big cellar. " Steps UP" he bellows and having negotiated those, it's "Right TURN! Hep hi, hep hi, hep hi Left TURN! Hep hi, Prisoner-r-r HALT! Prisoner and escort reporting for Court Martial, SAR!" he yells and releases his grip on me, no doubt to tear off a smart salute. Am I hallucinating? Can this mad military charade really be happening? The trouble is I feel caught up in it. My heart is beating and I feel as nervous as if it were all for real. But then, of course, it is . . .