Labour camp

Despite everything I have gone through so far at this so-called labour camp, where we are basically without any rights at all, having to hump the floor in the guardroom in front of my brother’s best friend, someone I have known almost all my life, was the most humiliating thing I have ever done. It seemed to take forever for my penis to get properly hard. Mr Senior was incredibly picky about my posture and if I moved my feet out of the position he requires he lashed my soles with what felt like a leather strap. Each time my soles got lashed my penis flagged a little and it took more effort to get to orgasm.

Mr Senior also discussed me with Stuart as I humped the floor like an idiot, talking about my body and how it had been toned up by the exercise regime at the camp, and squatting down to get a better look at my dick as it scraped back and forth over the floor. This was the first time I had been put to the floor since the piercing in the head of my penis had healed. None of us had been allowed to be made to dogcum since the rings had been inserted, but the piercer had passed most of us as safe only a couple of days ago, and the big black inmate in my hut had been the first to be made to hump the board that morning when he was the slowest at our exercises. Things had got back to normal, he was put on the board until he came, then he lapped it up and then he was put to the bastinado. As he hadn’t cum for quite a while, there was a lot for him to clean up, and it seemed to make the beating that he had to endure to his soles afterwards harder to take than usual - he is normally pretty stoical when he is beaten, but this morning he had yelped and gasped so much that he got 5 extra strokes for making a fuss.

Humping the floor with the ring through my penis was a different sensation and was, of course, noisier. When we dogcum our bodies do make odd noises as we squeak and fart against the wood of either the floor or the board. Now, the ring was scraping and knocking against the floor as I thrust my hips.

As always when I am put to the floor, I got almost to the point of orgasm and then my penis would move slightly and the friction necessary would disappear at the crucial moment and the urge would abate. 

“When you think you are about to despunk, faggot, I want you up on your knees and you will ask Mr Dadson here for permission to spill your seed.” Mr Senior was clearly determined both to humiliate and embarrass me as much as possible and to show Stuart how much power he had over me.

After what felt like hours I finally reached the point of almost no return. I scrambled up onto my knees, my penis throbbing and bobbing before me.

“Please, Mr Dadson, Sir, may I despunk?” 

I had tried to avoid looking directly into Stuart’s eyes, but I had no choice now and he looked at me with a mixture of disgust at how low I had fallen and pleasure at seeing me like this.

“Of course you may, faggot, get on with it!”

Now he too was calling me a faggot. I blushed even redder than I had become from my exertions on the floor, and got back down into position. Thankfully, the short break from the floor had not disapated my need to cum too much, and it only took a few more desperate thrusts of my hips for me to spurt semen over the floor. I hadn’t cum for about a week and for a few seconds I forgot about my situation and gave myself over to the pleasure of the orgasm. It was only a few seconds, as Mr Senior barked “up!” and I scrambled back to my knees, my now spent penis still erect and throbbing and very obvious as I stood there with my legs apart and my fingers laced behind my head.

“So, Stuart,” Mr Senior said, “to make sure the prisoners associate release with discipline, it is best to ensure that they do not enjoy their orgasms too much. The best way to do that is like this.”

Mr Senior had put a latex glove on his right hand and was holding a tube of KY Jelly in the other. He squeezed some of the lube onto my penis and began to ‘polish’ the exposed glans with his gloved hand. The head of my penis is always incredibly sensitive after i have ejaculated, and Mr Senior stroking and encircling it made me want to squirm and whimper. I knew better, though, and tried to stay in position as much as I could as he jerked all the pleasure of my orgasm out of me and made my penis just another part of my suffering body. He stroked and teased it, but carried on talking to Stuart about other things and drinking his coffee as he did so. It was if I wasn't even there, and such whimpers and gasps that did escape me were completely ignored. 

After a few minutes I could feel another orgasm building up inside me. I didn’t know what to do - we are not allowed to speak unless ordered or spoken to, and yet I knew that if I came without permission I would be in trouble as well.

“Please, Sir,” I gasped

“Shut up, faggot,” Mr Senior said without looking away from Stuart or stopping his stroking of my sore and throbbing dick.

I tried so hard not to cum again, but eventually there was nothing i could do. My breath began to come in short pants and I could control it no longer. With a deep exhalation of air, I shot a second load. Thankfully, it did not go on Mr Senior or Stuart’s clothes, but a few drops landed on the toe of Stuart’s boots.

“I am very sorry, Stuart, the prisoners, especially the faggots like this one, cannot always control themselves even if they have just been despunked.” 

He looked at me for the first time since he took hold of my penis.

“Well, faggot? What do you say to Mr Dadson?”

“I am very sorry, Mr Dadson, Sir, for soiling your boot with my semen, and for ejaculating without permission.”

“Hmmm. I suppose that will have to do.” He let go over my still straining penis. “Get down there and clean up your mess!”

With a quick “yes, Sir”, I got back down to my knees and began lapping up the now cold cum from the floorboards. I had to try really hard not to gag as I did so, i’ve never liked the taste of cum anyway and this was cold and congealing. Having cleaned up the floor, I moved towards Stuart’s boot and began licking the cum off that as well.

“While you’re down there, faggot, you may as well give both of Mr Dadson’s boots a proper clean.”

The week before I had been on boot cleaning duty with two other prisoners - whilst the guards were resting we had to clean every pair of boots the normal way, with polish and a cloth, but when we returned each pair to its owner and try had put them back on, we had to grovel before them and give a final polish with our tongues. So I knew what was expected, and began to use my tongue in long strokes to lick Stuart’s boots, the taste of leather rich and deep in my mouth.

I’d just finished, when Mr Senior said,

“I don’t know about you, Stuart, but that coffee has gone straight through me!”

“Yeah, I could do with a piss - where are the bogs, Sir?”

“Well, there is a latrine block behind the guardroom, but if you just need to piss there is no need to bother going out there - use the faggot urinal here.”

Stuart looked a little stunned - he had not been in the guardroom when Mr Senior was pissing down my throat.

“They are not allowed to do guardroom duty until we are sure they are properly toilet-trained,” Mr Senior reassured Stuart, “all you have to do is put your cock in the faggot’s mouth and let him do the work. The only slight drawback of having them take you on their mouths rather than using a funnel, as we do when they are in the Hole, is that they cannot swallow a constant stream. You will need to moderate your flow a little to make sure you don’t ‘overwhelm the plumbing’! Otherwise, I can assure you not a drop will be spilt.”

“Do you do this a lot?” Stuart asked - he looked like he was finding this a step further than he had been expecting.

“If we are out and about with work units, we tend to use the Hole - there are usually at least two active Holes at any one time. But if it is urgent, or the Hole is too far away, we just use the mouth of whichever of the prisoners we feel either needs the practice or needs a reminder of his place. And here in the guardroom there are always prisoners on duty who are proficient urinals, so we very rarely use the latrine.”

Stuart still looked a little shocked, but he started to unzip his flies. He stopped, and looked down at me kneeling in front of him with my hands on my head looking downbeat the ground as Ihad been trained to do when saying orders.

“Doesn't it feel odd, getting your cock out in front of everyone like this?”

“My dear young man, we are surrounded by inmates all day long who are kept naked at all times. They may be ashamed of the state they are kept in, but it doesn't bother us and not should it you. You are not exposing yourself, like they are, because it has been ordered by the courts and the humiliation is part of the punishment. You are just doing exactly what you would do if you were to use the urinal in the latrine outside the guardroom, taking out your cock for a piss. The only difference is that you don’t have to bother with trudging out to a smelly and dank latrine to do it, you don’t have to stir from the room, you can carry on watching TV, reading or chatting and you don’t need to worry about splashes or drips. It’s the ideal solution!

Stuart’s face cleared and finished unzipping his flies and took out his cock. It wasn’t as thick as Mr Senior’s and, I was a little surprised to notice, was circumcised. I moved nearer to him, and took his penis into my mouth. Although I was still aware that this was my brother’s best friend, I had now gone into autopilot and was in urinal mode. Four weeks ago if anyone had told me that I would find it more or less natural to be on my knees with a man's cock in my mouth, swallowing his piss, I would have said they were completely bonkers. But now I had got so used to doing it I just got into the right mindset and prepared to deal with the flow of urine.

I looked up into Stuart’s face as I had been ordered to do with Mr Senior, but it seemed to put Stuart off,

“Stop staring at me, faggot,’ Stuart said, angrily.

“You’ll get used to that, Stuart,” Mr Senior said, “it is better to have them look at you whilst they perform urinal duty, it allows you to better judge how well they are coping with your flow, and it helps them remember what their place is. But if it puts you off your stroke, you can always have him look straight ahead into your flies.”

“I think that would be easier,” Stuart said, “do that, faggot.”

I moved my head slightly and, instead of  looking into Stuart’s face, I looked into his flies where I could see a thick bush of dark blonde pubes.

It still took a few moments for the flow to get going, but eventually, Stuart let loose and his piss began to fill my mouth. He pissed a bit too fast for me, and I was worried that I was going to spill it, but Mr Senior intervened and talked Stuart through this, his first time using another man as his personal urinal.

“We have to learn how to piss into a man’s throat, or a faggot’s in this case, almost as much as the faggot needs to learn how to drink it. The plus side is that if he fucks it up he will get flogged, if you fuck it up, he will just end up wearing some of your piss and lapping it up from the floor as well as drinking it ‘straight from the tap’ as it were!”

Stuart seemed not to have pissed for quite some time - if I hadn’t heard him express doubts about our role as urinals, I might have thought he had deliberately saved it up for me. But his piss was quite light, he’d obviously been drinking quite a lot of water, and it was not to strong-tasting. The worst is when you are used as a urinal first thing in the morning. That can be really strong and I have gagged and choked a few times when guards have given me their first piss of the morning. They just find it funny and, if I spill any, I get a paddling anyway, which most of the guards enjoy. I could hear the sound of one of my fellow inmates being paddled somewhere else in the room as I drank Stuart’s piss - I wondered what the poor sod had done to deserve it, but it probably wasn't much. Most of the inmates had been displaying bright red buttocks most of the time ever since the governor had announced that we would all be here indefinitely - they had become as much a sign of our place in the camp as the rings we all displayed through our tits and dicks.

Stuart’s flow slowed and stopped and he pulled out of my mouth. I stayed where I was with my mouth open.

“Shake off the drops into his mouth like you would at the urinal, Stuart,” Mr Senior adviser, and Stuart did as he had suggested. As with most of the guards, his aim once his cock was not in my mouth was not perfect and some of the last drops of piss went in my mouth but some missed and landed on my face.

Stuart looked down at me and I looked up inadvertently and saw the look in his eyes, the satisfied look that all the guards get when we have completed urinal duty, combined with his exaltation at lording it over his mate’s brother on this way.

“While we have a compliant faggot and I have some time, Stuart, why don’t we use him to start some of your training? I see you have your standard issue paddle already - used one before? No? Well, this is as good a time as any other. Crawl behind us, faggot.”

I felt crushed and broken as I crawled across the room to the far end where there was a punishment area. There was a metal bar set up across the back of the room, which had passed areas a bit like saddles set on it a intervals. It was here that the inmate I had heard being paddled earlier was bent over - the guard had finished punishing him, but he had been left there until another guard needed him for something else, or until he was given other orders. Mr Senior sent him away, telling him to collect up cups and plates and get them washed up and put away, and then ordered me up over the bar.

I stood and then bent over, fingertips and toes touching the floor, with the majority of my weight suspended over the bar. The padding was pretty comfortable - it was one of the most comfortable positions I had been in since being sent to the camp.

Mr Senior began talking to Stuart about how to wield his paddle, and every now and then he would land a blow on my exposed buttocks, showing Stuart different amounts of force, the effect of landing in different parts of the buttocks, and how I reacted to the blows. He got Stuart to follow suit, and soon Stuart had got into his stride, raining blows down all over my buttocks, making sure that from the top of my thighs to where the buttocks meet the coccyx my buttocks were an even and deep shade of red. I tried really hard to take the beating stoically, knowing that Mr Senior hated it when we inmates made a fuss during a beating. Some of the guards preferred to know they were ‘getting through’ to us, and would carry on beating us until we started yelling or, in some cases, until we were brought to tears. Mr Senior quite like a inmate to cry quietly when beaten, but was not at all tolerant of the yelps, gasps and whimpers that pleased some of the other guards.

Stuart was beating me quite hard now - when I first came to the camp I used to try to count the strokes when I was beaten, it seemed the easiest way to get through it and retain my composure. Now I didn’t bother, rather I tried to keep my mind blank and just accept what j was given, not worry about when it was going to stop, and almost use the growing pain in my behind as a meditation tool. I guess I had got where the camp wanted me, a beating calmed me and made me think about my place and I no longer fought it even internally.

Eventually, Mr Senior spoke,

“You’re a natural with that paddle, Stuart, I can see you are going to be an asset to us. Now, let’s see how you get on with something trickier - pass me that cane, would you?”