Day release and Jacob gets a job, quite different to his old one at the bank.
Sitting in Dr. Zim's office, I was slumped in the chair opposite, my tracksuit pants riding low on my chunky glutes, plumped up and softened by weeks of sedation and inactivity. The fabric was skin-tight on thighs that had lost their gym-honed definition. The morning’s cigarette was a ghost on my tongue, the nicotine itch already building behind my ear where another waited like a promise I knew would be kept, ‘if I was a ‘good lad.’
'Jayden, you've made progress, stabilised enough for the next step. But full release? That means proving you're reformed, ready for the world. We're enrolling you in the day release work program. Cleaning public toilets. You’ll be out there, contributing, under strict supervision. Your overseer is Mr. Akinlode. Solid man, runs the public facilities maintenance crew. He'll report back on your attitude, your effort. Do well, and we talk discharge. Slack off... well, setbacks happen.'
I nodded numbly, the medication dulling the protest bubbling in my chest. Work? Cleaning toilets? This is it, the de-classing, stripping me to nothing? But release... freedom from this place, from the drugs, the mirrors that lie.’
An hour later Mr. Akinlode loomed in the doorway, on time for the handover. At 6'5", he was a mountain of bulk, broad shoulders straining his starched shirt, dark skin gleaming under the fluorescents, a silver cross necklace glinting like a warning. His eyes raked over me with undisguised relish, lips curling into a stern smile. He clapped a massive hand on my shoulder, fingers like iron vices. I later learnt his simple and brutal internal monologue, because in front of me he was quite open about it. ’Typical white scum, eh? filthy thoughts, lazy bones. But I will cleanse him! A short man like that, 5'4" of trouble. I will clear his head of bad thoughts!! Discipline, prayer, hard work. The cane if needed. Many from Greenford House come to me broken; they leave reformed.'
He never admitted the thrill surging through him, the power of bending pale young men like me over, red marks rising on white flesh like the flag of St George. For him it was truly God's work, he told himself this, he was purging sin, but the heat in his groin said otherwise.
The first week under Akinlode was a grind of humiliation and ache. Mornings started at 06.30, Marcus bundling me into a threadbare orange jumpsuit, several sizes too small as usual, everything exposed. No underwear, per Akinlode's 'uniform policy' to keep things 'practical.' Marcus drove me to the cluster of public toilets near the local park, a dingy row of stalls reeking of piss, shit and despair, graffiti-scarred walls and dirty floors.
Day one: Akinlode hands me a mop and bucket, 'scrub, short arse. Every tile, every urinal, every stall. On your knees if you must. White boys like you think you're above this. I’ll show you your place.' I gagged at the stench, the cold floor biting my palms as I scoured, but then I missed a streak in the far stall. Akinlode's boot nudged my ribs, not hard, but enough to topple me. 'Lazy! God sees all.' By afternoon, the cane came out, a thin rattan rod, flexible and vicious. 'Drop ‘em short arse,' Akinlode ordered, pointing to a bench in the maintenance room. I hesitated, heart pounding, but the man's shadow loomed. I struggled to get the tight overall pants down to my ankles, then, with my arse bare and pale, I bent over. The first stroke cracked across my arse cheeks, fire blooming, a red line etching white flesh. Six strokes in total, each one methodical, Akinlode's breath heavy, muttering prayers between swings. 'Repent, scum. Cleanse your sins. Jesus is King!’
‘Fuck, it burns, like he's carving me out. Short arse, white scum... he's right, look at me, grovelling in piss, getting caned. Is this what I wanted? Reduced, marked?’
Days two through four followed the pattern: endless scrubbing, the mop handle blistering my hands, knees raw from tile floors. Akinlode hovered, bible in one hand, clipboard in the other, barking corrections. 'Faster, short arse! Whites always slack.' My back ached, sweat soaking the jumpsuit, clinging to my flabby gut and the tattoos that screamed 'Jayden' across my skin. I got caned once more, for spilling bleach, six more strokes marking my arse. Akinlode’s eyes lingered on the marks, a bulge straining his trousers which he dismissed as ‘a gift of the Spirit,' but I could tell that the power rush made his mouth dry.
By day five, I moved slower, the cumulative sting making me wince with every bend. I pissed in the very urinals I'd cleaned, Akinlode watching with a nod of approval, ’good, know your level now.' No talking back from me; the cane's threat silenced me, but inside, I seethed. ‘This giant's breaking me, caned like a whip on a slave. Devout my arse, he gets off on it, the power trip, the marks on my skin his trophy.’
Friday capped it: a full inspection. Akinlode made me strip in the shed, body on display, scars, piercings, the softened cock dangling between marked thighs. 'Turn, short arse. Show me the Lord's work.' His fingers prodded the welts, clinical but probing, sending jolts through my core. No cane that day, just praise laced with threat: 'Improving. Keep it up, or next week another caning!’
Back at Greenford House that evening, I shuffled to the lounge, my tracksuit bottoms tugging low as usual, to reveal the bruised globes of my arse cheeks, marks like an angry barcode. I wasn’t yet allowed the privilege of underwear, so everything was on show. Marcus and Arien were there, charts in hand.
'Bloody hell, lad,' Marcus said, whistling low as he circled, thumb tracing a raised line without asking permission. 'Akinlode's not messing about, is he? Proper job on ya.' Arien nodded, pulling the cigarette from behind my ear, lighting it with a flick. 'Sit, yeah? You've earned this.' I sank into the chair, inhaling deep saying nothing.
They flanked me, Marcus on my left, his right arm around my neck, his hand on my right shoulder, kneading gently. 'Learn to behave yourself, Jaydie, the man’s strict for a reason. Puts you right, don't it? No more of that old nonsense.' His tone mixed reproach with warmth, fingers drifting down to tweak a nipple ring idly. Arien crouched on my right, eyes level with mine, voice soothing. 'Yeah, mate, take it on the chin. Shows you're tough, comin' back from the edge. We're here, though, got your back. Smoke up, relax. Good lad for showin' us, lettin' us see you're tryin'.' The praise washed over me, the love bombing almost as welcome as the nicotine, Marcus’s palm sliding down to cup my arse cheek, Arien's knee pressing between my thighs.
I exhaled, the drag calming the storm. ‘They see the marks, call it a lesson learned like I'm their project, beaten and soothed. Behaves himself... yeah, that's me now, craving their affection. The smoke helps, scum, short arse, good lad. But the comfort... it pulls, makes me want to stay broken.’
Jacob goes on a local football team and learns to fit in, or else.
Marcus told me how this started, it was Akinlode’s idea, but they all jumped on it at Greenford House.
’Dr Zim, Akinlode called. Says the lad here's due more than scrubbin'. Believes in sport, y'know—builds team spirit he says, toughens the soul. Wants Jayden on a local footy team, local lads from the estate. Reckons it'll do him good, channel the energy.' Marcus glanced at me, a smirk playing. 'What d'you think, Doc?'
Zim paused, intrigue sparking, visions of me stripped to shorts, muddied and panting, under Akinlode's eye. 'Intriguing. Yes, I approve it. Report back on his... participation.'
The first football match hit a week later, a muddy pitch on the edge of the estate, ringed by chain-link and graffiti. The team was a pack of local lads, all zero-fades and skin heads, expensive looking counterfeit kits, attitudes as sharp as their haircuts, eyeing me like fresh meat as Akinlode herded me into the pack.
I stood at the edge of the huddle, my short frame exposed by an almost obscenely too tight kit provided by a smirking Marcus: skin tight 3 inch shiny blue shorts, showing what could be old cane marks on the lower glutes. A shirt, matching shiny blue, nothing left to the imagination. Blue socks and a second hand pair of boots. I never got any underwear. The team, a crew of fifteen lads from the towers, gold chains glinting under hoodies, sized me up with serious faces. 'New blood, eh? Shorty gonna keep up?' one jeered. I nodded, forcing a scowl, my heart pounding. I'd never kicked a ball properly, not beyond awkward PE sessions at school, but survival demanded I blend in. ‘Act the part. Run, shout, don't flinch. Anything to pass the Akinlode test, escape from Greenford House.’
The game kicked off, bodies colliding, the ball a blurred streak. I chased it clumsily, my medicated body a burden, lungs burning as I weaved between taller opponents. I managed a few tackles, sliding into the muck, grass staining my knees, but mostly I flailed: missing passes, tripping over my own feet, earning groans from my teammates. 'Oi, move ya arse, bruv!’ a guy called Dex yelled after I fumbled a clearance, the ball sailing harmlessly out.
When the final whistle blew our loss was 4-1. Akinlode marched onto the pitch. 'Effort was there, short arse. Good enough for initiation, earn your spot proper.' He nodded to two of his lads, Rico and Tariq, clearly the dominant ones in the pack. They grabbed me by the elbows, dragging me toward the equipment shed at the field's edge.
Inside, they shoved me face-down onto a bench, wrists and ankles secured with gaffer tape. In silence Tariq yanked my shorts down to expose my arse, still some marks from the caning two weeks previous. Akinlode stepped up, cane flexing in his grip.
‘Six for the team, builds brotherhood, two from each of us.’
The first two from Akinlode were harsh, but not as bad as the strokes from the more athletic Rico and Tariq.
It didn’t take long. ’Bruv! You is on the team now, bruv!' Rico untied me and Tariq handed me a cigarette. I just nodded, silent, in shock: ’fucking hell... but they accepted me.’
Several more matches followed over the next few weeks, each one grinding me deeper into the Jayden persona. My accent shifting subtly at first, the vowels flattening, 'th' sounds dropping, then more insistently, the old edges eroding under constant mimicry, thickening into Multicultural London English (‘MLE’) The team folded me in, shared smokes on the bench.
Dr. Zim received a verbal debriefing from Marcus during a late evening session in his office.
’First match was a mess, Jayden couldn't kick straight, but he was good enough for Akinlode to have him initiated. We didn’t see it but we know two guys strapped him down in the shed post-game. Six strokes of the cane. His arse looked like a barcode afterward. He took it without much fight, though. Smoked with the lads after, fitting right in. They've been calling him 'shorty bruv' since.
Accent's back now to where it should be. A more insistent ‘MLE’ as you call it Doc. Moves like one of them too: sometimes aggressive tackles, trash-talking the oppo. Responds to Jayden 100%, no Jacob slips. Full acceptance of the routine: toilet work, football, smokes. High compliance, no resistance noted.'
I can imagine it now, Zim nodding, eyes alight with satisfaction, filing the report beside a discreet photo Marcus had posted of me, in the tight blue kit. ‘The boy's remade, piece by piece.’
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