Ever diligent, when the plane touched down on the private airstrip attached to my base of operations, my intake crew was ready for the next step in processing the inmates. Some commenced the handover of data and medical performance for the four hapless men. Others moved to the cabin that held the docking stations and their debased contents. Even though my teams had performed this exercise on numerous occasions, nothing really prepares one for the sights and smells of the docking stations after a couple of hours’ use.
The cabin stank of sweat, sex, piss, and shit. The four exhausted men hung limply in their bondage; no longer able to summon the strength to attempt to expel the hated dildos. Our intelligence showed that all four men identified as cis/het (probably not words they’d have used), but their ordeal, buttfucking themselves in a fruitless attempt for relief, gave my psychology team much to work with.
Our team obviously has access to prison records. Howes was recorded as having a predilection for making lesser inmates suck him off. The bleached-blonde, acne-scarred thug came the closest to ejaculating during the docking station exercise. All of the inmates were limp, yet reddened, from the overstimulation of the process and yet Howes still dripped pre-cum even though flaccid. A management plan was drawn up based on these observations.
Rodriguez was 100% out of his depth. His crimes were gang-related and involved the murder of several rival local gang members. Being penetrated was new for all of these men, but Rodriguez, for all his machismo, was in a state of shock. His resolve and resilience during the flight, and the indignities perpetrated against him, were noted by our Psych team for exploration.
Ratherson presented as the least understood member of the cohort. My service rarely accepts serial killers, as this is a specialist area. Breaking violent murderers down for rehabilitation is, following years of research and trials, relatively straightforward. Serial killers present more of a challenge because their urges are bone-deep. My agency had taken on Ratherson’s case as a favour to the prison. He had killed 3 of his fellow inmates in as many months, and the prison warden was desperate.
Finally, Ivan. The one-eyed ex-para had become one of the most successful arms dealers in the state and had left a wake of dead rivals behind him. Of all of the men, Ivan was the one whom my team had the most security protocols for. Were he to become free before the conditioning took effect, he could do great damage to my staff and facility alike.
One at a time, the four men were removed from their docking stations, checked for physical well-being, and had their garments and the dildos removed (one of the above with the accompanying squelching noises one might expect). The gags remained in place. All of the men were given a pen-jab injection of a concoction that our Bio Team had devised, to ensure the next fifty minutes would be unpleasant in new and humiliating ways as they progressed to the actual Intake Area of the base.
Rodriguez couldn’t support himself, and the four agents assigned to his transition had to work with him at ground level as they stripped him of the rubber uniform, removed the soiled dildo, and wrangled him into his new attire.
By the time inmates reach our facility, they are often in this state. By making the change, from docking station paraphernalia to next steps, in front of the remaining arriving prisoners, we are telegraphing an authority and systemic control of the intake. Even the most determined man learns, from this process, that resistance is futile and that all opportunities for escape have been meticulously precluded by our teams.
Howes groaned as he slumped into the waiting arms of the team. The removal of the uniform seemed to give him relief, for he was incredibly sweaty. The discharge of the offending plug elicited a moan of pain, mixed with yearning, and his reddened manhood discharged a further slew of pre-cum. He was soon accommodated in the same vein as Rodriguez and placed on the ‘waiting bench’.
Ratherson was next, and our Psyche team scrutinised his non-verbal interactions and reactions with the processing team (as they had via footage throughout the flight). His eyes darted everywhere for potential opportunities, and even his gagged pleas were situationally directed towards specific members of the team. This potential pre-manipulation rendered him no wins as the team wore reflective visors (mainly to protect from unwanted seminal discharge; it has happened, in the early days). The killer was quickly hustled from his rubber outfit and the unwanted intruder into his next equally humiliating attire.
Ivan was next, and his muscled shoulders gleamed as he was stripped of the rubber ensemble. He grunted, once only, as the dildo was worked out of his brawny arse. His exhaustion showed in the sweat dripping from his frame as he too joined his compatriots in his new garb.
Soon, each inmate was ready for the next step of the journey to the facility. All were now dressed in a flimsy, thin, white Lycra bodysuit that hugged their bodies intimately. We achieved this with measurements taken during the intake process at the prison to ensure maximum snugness.
The inmates still wore the stimulation rings around their exhausted cock and balls. A specific opening, in the front of the suits, allowed said members to flop obviously. Other than this, the suits were neck-to-toe seamless and captured every muscle group and crevice. Each man, unceasingly gagged, was shackled with a short, collar-to-cuff, solid iron restraint that brought their hands up high in front of them and prevented protective or aggressive movement. Or modesty.
Separately, the men had probably experienced prison restraint systems, but the solid metal devices signified that their current situation had nothing to do with respect for their prisoner status or interest in their own potential for self-harm. If the messaging from the docking stations hadn’t been clear, they were in no doubt regarding their present vulnerability.
The bodysuits were another specific item in the program. Designed to clothe the sweaty, defenceless men while drawing their own attention to the deficiencies of the garment. Sweat stains were already rendering the uniform transparent at the pits, and the recent invasions meant their suits’ anal areas were quickly becoming saturated with lubricant and mucosal fluids. Awkward discomfort was the order of the day.
Men are men. Exposed manhood is embarrassing but easily disregarded.
The sense of leakage is another matter. The uncertainty regarding what was happening with their own bodies and, more importantly, what was visible to others was the current predicament that the convicts were facing. All the while, unable to protect their dignity and avoid people observing their demeaned situation. Even as they were lined up for the next steps of their processing, they all moved gingerly; an unpleasant semi-waddle caused by a combination of pain in their abused holes and the squelching, sticky sensations between their butt cheeks.
The inmates were then ushered into the Corridor. A darkened cavern of a room with only a dimly indicated path leading to a door at the other end, about 60 yards ahead. Just inside the entrance to the room, a sturdy metal pole with four evenly spaced attachment rings at just below neck height awaited the hapless men. Each man was secured to the pole via a sturdy screw clip that brought their shackled hands up and out of the way. My operatives watched as each man (except Ratherson, who seemed somewhat bemused by their current situation) tested the strength of the attachments and the pole.
At ground level were rooted shackles that were attached to the ankles of the men, prohibiting any lateral movement.
The positioning of the men around the pole meant that they could all see each other’s situation quite clearly, and they were trying to achieve a level of communication with each other that was thwarted by the rubber ball gags.
Checks completed, the operatives left the Corridor. The prisoners watched them go with no uncertain trepidation. Once the entry door had been shut and secured with the sound of heavy bolts being activated, the next stages of the conditioning began.
Underneath the pinioned men, the floor, and the pole began to slowly turn. Light sources, above and below the men, activated and illuminated them fully; their awkward squatted stances, their lube-stained butts, the pitted-out back, chest, and armpits of their uniforms, their reddened dicks, the sweat coursing down their furrowed brows.
Slowly, they revolved in place, yanking and tugging at the restraints that kept them anchored to the carousel. Our cameras, trained on the men from all angles, recorded the bloating that was occurring in each man’s belly as, over the course of five minutes, they sweated and wrestled with their bonds uselessly. Microphones, placed within the revolving floor beneath each man, awaited the next steps.
Ivan was the first to succumb. His sole eye widened with disbelief as he let out an enormous, long-drawn-out fart. Even as he grunted in shock and embarrassment, the sound of hands clapping and cheers filled the space, and the walls lit up to display individual screens that held upwards of 100 people watching the unfortunate inmates. Each viewer was silhouetted, so no distinguishing detail could be seen, but the reactions beamed into the Corridor gave the helpless convicts no doubt that they were being observed by an audience. An audience that was revelling in their discomfort. Ratherson then also let loose an offensive blart that echoed around the chamber. The viewers shouted their excitement even as the Lycra around his arsehole darkened obviously.
When the Facility was first opened, many years ago, we did not have access to modern technology such as Teams. The advent of such easy tools, to ensure abject humiliation, led to the creation of the Corridor, and our Comms Team pride itself on their ability to source those individuals who most enjoy the subjugation of our inmates. Some have been with us for years. We undertake extreme background checks to ensure that all of our viewers are discreet, trustworthy, and hugely turned-on by the events of the Corridor. They never let us down, and the inmates experience the ultimate humiliation as they embarrass themselves in front of a baying crowd. Relentlessly. The sixty yards to the exit door take an hour.
The screens are laid out in such a way as to ensure a wall of onlookers (5 wide by 10 high, either side of the rotating carousel). This arrangement repeats throughout the length of the Corridor and is broken only by larger screens (2 wide by 4 high) that focus on the captives’ individual cams. These feeds cycle and are focused on crotch, butt, face, and overview. Inmates being processed can watch themselves and each other, as they fall foul of the medications received during the preparation for this stage of processing.
Rodrigues, muscles bulging as he fought against his shackles, groaned like a steer as he surrendered to the gas in his innards and parped, long and loud, into his sweaty outfit.
The crowd went wild.
The platform, ever revolving, started to infinitesimally move towards the exit door. As the rotunda slowly moved, it was clear that Howes was in distress. Of all the inmates, his gut was the most distended. He was struggling ferociously against the shackles, and his groans of discomfort were dominating the space. The viewers, for their part, were commenting on his (and others) froglike stance, the now-regular flatulence from the inmates, and the staining of the anal areas of the prisoners’ Lycra outfits.
Howes’ face was beet red. His gut was massively distended. After the dildo experience, and with a weakened sphincter, it was inevitable that one of the prisoners would lose control and void themselves first. Howes seemed to be the candidate. With a moan of disgusted relief, Howes unleashed the biggest raspberry of a fart.
His face wracked with increasingly panicked effort, Howes’ evacuation grew ever wetter until the only sounds reverberating around the space were the crackle of an enormous bowel movement that filled, stretched, and stained the white Lycra of his uniform. Even as he lost control, Howes’ eyes telegraphed the struggle to remain continent and avoid soiling himself in front of the assembled throng of gleeful watchers. As he tented the thin Lycra with an endless, flatulent, bowel movement and the white material darkened and stretched as it struggled to contain the mess, applause and cat-calling narrated the blond thug’s embarrassment. Howes was unaware that he had bent as low as possible within his shackles and that his beautiful arse was presented to all as he loaded up the uniform with dark, moist logs of effluent, the stretchy fabric expanding and conforming to the huge, unwanted load.
Amid the noisome background of the other inmates, reluctantly, expelling gas, Howes loaded up his suit. The rear of the white garment distended, obviously, to accommodate the enormous coil, and he was left, still farting and voiding, crouched and mortified with no opportunity to block the view of his embarrassment. The rear of his Lycra suit hung low and dirtie,d and there was no ignoring that the inmate had shat himself, loudly, for the audience to gleefully take in. The muscled hunk, squatting low as he shat himself, couldn’t ignore that his criminal brothers were privy to his predicament even as he unleashed another, sludgy load.
Thanks to the cameras and the viewing wall, Howes was left under no illusions as he watched himself shit relentlessly and fill the rear of the garment. Gagged and shackled, incredibly discomforted, he had to watch as his costume bloated and filled, and his noisy excrement started to fill out the rear upper leg of his outfit, even as he felt the warmth of his unwanted bowel movement fill every space. The other inmates had no choice but to watch, appalled, as Howes crapped himself; horribly aware that this was inevitably to be their fate within minutes.
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