One
On the night of October seventeenth, 2025, eighteen-year-old convicted murderer Jameson is dragged from his bed at the Stark Regional Community Prison in Louisville, Ohio and into an armored van. The van takes him to Repperton Correctional, where he is transferred to the custody of Warden Conroy. Inside, despite his angry blustering, struggles, and questions, he is led implacably by silent armed guards to Conroy's luxuriously appointed office. Conroy is standing at the French windows behind his desk, staring out at the rising thunderstorm. Jameson furiously demands to know what is going on. Conroy turns to him, smiling thinly.
"Good evening, Mr. Jameson. I am Warden Conroy. I trust you had a comfortable journey."
In his late forties, Conroy is coldly handsome, with longish upswept black hair highlighted by a broad white streak. He wears unrelieved black on his lean but muscular frame. His complexion is pale and waxy, his features aquiline, his pale gray eyes like twin icepicks. His hands are long, the fingers almost unnaturally thin and prominently jointed.
Snarling, Jameson glares at Conroy, his green eyes flashing with anger. "What the fuck do you want with me?"
One of the guards takes his baton and cracks Jameson upside the head with it.
Conroy frowns. "Now, now...he can't be expected to know the rules yet, can he? My apologies, Mr. Jameson. The fact is, we do not use the word 'sick' inside these walls. Nor do we use 'inhumane', or 'sadistic', or 'torture', or even 'suffering'. There is no suffering here. Sacrifice, definitely, but no suffering."
Shaking his head, Jameson tries to stand straight despite his shackles. "What's your game?"
"You'll find out, Mr. Jameson. Take those shackles off him."
The guards obey, leaving only Jameson's battered orange scrubs and knife scars to mark him as a criminal. He rubs his wrists and swipes at the blood still running down his face. Conroy picks up the file folder on his desk and peruses it.
"You've accomplished quite a bit in your short life, Mr. Jameson. Barely old enough to vote and you have a record that would do a seasoned lawbreaker proud. A little bit of everything...robbery, gang violence, drug dealing, forgery, fraud, assault with firearm, assault without a firearm, stalking. And then there was that unfortunate matter with your ex-girlfriend. Her name was...Alexa. She left you. Can't blame her. You put her in the emergency room four times. But you always did fail to grasp things from her perspective. All that mattered was how her exit had bruised your poor, sensitive ego. So, you broke into her apartment one night and slit her throat from ear to ear. As if that weren't enough, then you went down the hall and duplicated your handiwork on her six-year-old daughter."
Jameson's jaw clenches, his eyes darken. "You're one to talk about bruised egos. You're the one hiding behind a desk and a bunch of guards."
"Hiding? From what would I be hiding, Mr. Jameson?"
Jameson sneers. “From the kind of man I am. The kind that does what he needs to get by. The kind that doesn't need this fancy shit to feel powerful."
Conroy lights a cigarette in a long holder. "Powerful. Do you like to feel powerful, Mr. Jameson? Is that what means the most to you?"
"It's what keeps me alive in places like this. So, yeah, I guess it does."
There is a tap at the heavy wooden door, which then opens. Another guard, tall and roughly handsome, shoves in a young boy, wearing nothing but a pair of stained, mutilated white briefs. He hugs himself as though cold, and indeed, he is trembling, although whether from chill or fear is not discernible. He is very thin, even emaciated, his skin pale and unhealthy-looking. His face is haggard, and his eyes are deeply sunken, ringed with exhausted hollows. Conroy smiles again at the sight of the newcomer.
"Ah, Borland. So sorry to disturb your rest, but I wanted our latest resident to learn about the rules in our happy home as quickly...and vividly...as possible. You don't mind serving as an object lesson, do you?"
The terrified boy, who could be no more than eighteen--although he looks younger--shakes his head spasmodically, his eyes huge in his gaunt face.
Conroy steps closer to Borland, exhaling smoke. "Mr. Jameson, Borland. One of the newer arrivals. From Idaho. I wonder that anyone could find trouble to get into in Idaho, but rest assured, he did. Got drunk one sunny day and plowed his car into a school. Five children died."
Borland's mouth twists in a rictus of grief and he stares at his bony feet, in worn sandals.
The warden's mouth tightens. "I'd seen such cases before. I saw him tried and convicted and weeping crocodile tears in the courtoom. I heard the sentence--fifteen years to life. Can you believe that, Mr. Jameson? He struck down five innocent children while drunkenly joyriding in his brother's sports car, and all he got was fifteen years to life. With almost a guarantee that he'd be out in, what...eight years...for good behavior? After all, he was always such a nice boy. No criminal record at all, not even a detention in school. And that angel face. Who would stand for seeing it harden and darken for long decades within stone walls, most likely corrupted beyond redemption, all potential vanished, lost forever? Who could sleep at night knowing they were responsible for such a thing?"
Conroy puts down his cigarette in an ashtray and now slowly, deliberately begins to caress Borland's cock, barely contained by his tattered briefs and which began to stiffen as soon as Conroy approached. Borland gasps, throws his tousled head back, and moans loudly.
Jameson's eyes widen in shock. "What the fuck are you doin'?"
Conroy ignores this, instead putting his mouth close to Borland's ear. "How long has it been, Borland? How long since you last spilled your vibrant young seed?"
Borland’s trembling intensifies, his voice is a bare whisper. "T-too long, sir...too long."
Conroy gently pulls the boy's now gigantic erection from his skimpy covering and strokes it sensually, slowly. "Really, now? Hmmmm. Did you like the movie today in the commons? The pretty Asian girl doing the striptease?"
Borland whimpers, nodding. "Y-yes, sir..."
Conroy grins, continuing to stroke. "You didn't touch yourself while watching her, did you?"
Borland shakes his head, a tear escaping one eye. "No, sir. I knew...I knew I'd get in trouble."
Conroy reaches down to tickle the youth's swollen balls. "That's right. Only bad boys here touch themselves. And you know what happens to bad boys who touch themselves, don't you?"
Borland bites his lip, and nods fervently. "Yes, sir...they get punished."
Conroy catches the dripping precum and uses it as lube on the kid's raging shaft. "Do you want to get punished, Borland?"
Whimpers. "No, sir...no."
Conroy's hand increases its speed, expertly squeezing and pleasing the overripe masculinity in its grasp. "Then why do you appear so close to climax?"
"I-I don't know, sir. It just...feels so good."
Conroy lightly runs his fingertip around the slick head. "Yes, of course it does. Every boy wants this. Every one. That's the spot, isn't it? Pleasure is fine...when I grant it. But release is quite another matter. You wouldn't dare release without permission, would you? After all I do for you here, and all I provide for you, you would never dare violate my first and foremost rule, would you?"
The young inmate's eyes widen, and he gasps. "No, sir, never..."
Conroy nods, pleased, then goes back to slowly, maddeningly stroking Borland's quivering cock. "What part of the movie today did you like most, Borland? What part made you most want to touch yourself? What did that little Asian slut do that most tickled your fancy?"
Borland's breath hitches as he tries to hold back his orgasm. "I-it was when she...when she...spread her legs and showed...everything..."
"Aaaahhh. Yes. She wasn't shy, was she? And you had to stand there, hands behind your back, and suffer, stripped of all dignity, even your right to relieve your body's urges...your masculinity completely disarmed and conquered...and want...need...desire...but nothing more, though you wanted it sooooooooo baaaaaaaad...."
Borland's knees almost give out. "Please, sir...I can't hold it...please..."
Conroy leans in close, nearly snarling. "What...did...I...just...say? Tell me, Borland. Tell me now, you fucking little kid-killer!"
In a strained voice, Borland cries out. "You said...no release without permission, sir!"
"And? What does that mean for you now, dribbling all over my hand like a little wet baby?"
Tears are flowing down the boy’s face. "It means...it means...I can't...I can't...I won't..."
Jameson, who has been watching the spectacle in utter shock, whispers, "Jesus Christ."
Conroy brings the boy deliriously closer to the edge. "WON'T WHAT?"
Borland can't even speak.
"ANSWER ME!!!"
Finally, with a desperate wail, the young inmate forces out the words. "I won't...I won't cum, sir...not without...without your...permission..."
But he does. With a guttural howl, Conroy's prey lets loose a veritable geyser of thick, whitish semen, squirt after squirt, each one shooting farther than the last, nailing the desktop, the wood floor, Conroy's black jacket, and his still tugging hand. Borland undergoes a fantastic dance, almost a seizure, in the violence of his expulsion, still howling, hips gyrating, legs giving way so that he drops with a thud to his bony knees. His shrinking cock is dripping like a gutterspout. Finally, his meager shoulders sag and he breaks into sobs, his head hanging low, shamed and defeated.
Conroy steps back after a moment, staring down at Borland in abject disgust. "I'm very, very disappointed in you, Borland. I really expected more, after your promising start here."
Sobbing, the young man whispers. "I'm sorry, sir. I'm so sorry..."
Conroy looks around at the mess, shaking his head. "And now...the cleaning bill for my jacket...the papers that will have to be retyped...and that puddle on the floor's going to discolor the wood finish. Well, you'd better get started on it."
Borland slowly, still weeping, lowers himself on his hands and knees and starts licking up the pool of cum.
Jameson stares in horror and revulsion at Conroy. "What the fuck is with you, man? This ain't right."
Conroy looks at the new arrival somberly. "Who says it isn't, Mr. Jameson? You? You of no conscience whatever, who thinks nothing of bloodshed in the interest of getting even with the woman whose life you'd already ruined? And her little girl? Fuck that, Mr. Jameson. I won't say fuck you, because you're already fucked. You were fucked the moment you stepped through those front gates tonight. And that's because your fate was sealed. You're here forever. Like all of the fifty inmates, I hand-picked you for the privilege of breaking you...my way. There is no agony like that of denial, of frustration, of tension...and my way is to explore that. Powerful? You can kiss that daydream goodbye. Going forward, I will control your body's every move. You stand and sit when I tell you. You work and rest when I tell you. You eat and shit when I tell you. But most of all, you will only enjoy relief of the fleshly furies when I decree. And after just a little while, you'll come to understand that nothing more is needed to possess your very soul. Even if you don't have one."
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