Today was my parole hearing. I started the afternoon with the cocky optimism of a model inmate. Shirt ironed, nerves steady, already planning my victory lap back to the cellblock, waving smugly at the less deserving. They always say parole is a formality when you’ve served your time. But I should have known that nothing is routine in this place, and nothing is fair.
The first red flag came when the guards steered me past the usual hearing room and straight to the torture chamber. My stomach dropped, this wasn’t going to be a paper exercise after all.
And then, there she was: Warden Helen Ryder. I’d met her before, unfortunately. The woman who inducted me months ago: sadistic, unrelenting, and with a glare that can make even a lifer lose hope. Today, she looked even more formidable. Black regulation prison shirt, tight leather skirt hugging every curve, fishnets and those knee-high boots: heavy, studded, and designed for breaking spirits, or at least tailbones. Warden Star was in attendance, too. The rookie: military hat perched just so, immaculate white shirt, short leather skirt, and stiletto boots that climbed halfway up her nylon-clad thighs. She’d transferred in, hungry for a taste of real discipline.
“You won’t be needing clothes for your hearing… get them off. Now.” Warden Helen’s voice cut through my bravado like a hot wire. I hesitated for half a second, but the look she gave me made undressing feel like the safer option.
Stripping in front of Helen was one thing; being inspected by the new warden was next-level humiliating. She eyed me like fresh meat in a butcher’s window. As if that wasn’t enough, her hands found my nipples, and she pinched. Hard.
“Anything to confess, Davina?” Helen’s question was almost playful. I shook my head, barely managing a “Nothing.”
“I don’t believe you,” Helen replied, already reaching for rope. Before I could brace, my cock and balls were roped up, the surplus passed to Warden Star, who gave it a testing tug. No gentle learning curve for the new warden, she was all-in.
“On the floor, Davina,” Helen commanded. “Kiss our boots and give them a good clean. We want to feel that tongue working.” I was on the floor before I’d even finished processing the words, face flushed, tongue sliding over leather, laces, buckles, even the glinting stiletto heels. While I cleaned one pair, a boot pinned me to the floor; swapping meant the other warden stepped on me, stiletto biting into my flesh. Star’s boots took longest. Thigh-highs, toe to top, all under the rookie’s cold gaze.
Once they were satisfied, the parole “hearing” moved, inevitably, to the spanking bench. They strapped me down, belts over legs, wrists cuffed, a large ball gag forced between my teeth before I could protest too much. Bare palms began to sting my exposed arse, one after another, sometimes together. I shook my head, mumbling behind the gag, hoping for mercy, but this was just foreplay.
Out came the paddles, three or four. Standard issue, one Helen called her “slipper,” and a perforated beast that spanned both cheeks. They took turns, relishing my muffled pleas. When Helen tired of my noises, a hood came down over my head. Something silky, cool at first, then stifling as it clung to my face and made every breath a struggle. My world shrank to darkness, sweat, and the sharp, measured impact of their toys.
They paused to take selfies, presumably for their own sadistic amusement, or to share with the entire staff WhatsApp. When the paddling resumed, it was both at once, a perfect storm of pain that had me sobbing into my gag.
Relief, finally: the hood and gag off, straps loosened only for dread to crash back as I saw them buckling on enormous strap-ons.
“Let’s see if you can take both, now you’re so nicely stretched,” Star said, brandishing hers, the longer of the two. Helen’s was thicker. They forced me to my knees, shoving them in my mouth, alternating, sometimes both together until my jaw screamed and my eyes watered.
At that moment, the Sex Pistols came blaring from the radio. Anarchy in the UK. Helen couldn’t resist. She caught my eye, smirking, and belted out her own version, mocking me as I struggled at her feet:
“I am a dirty bitch
I love sucking cock
I know what I want, and I know how to get it
I wanna take it up the bum”
Their laughter, sharp and wicked, mingled with the crash of punk guitars as the two of them used my mouth, making sure the humiliation was absolute.
When they grew bored, I was hauled upright, wrists cuffed behind a post, body exposed. Star worked my nipples, tugged the rope around my balls. Helen, not to be outdone, pushed her worn gym knickers down between her legs and peed on them, then smeared the soaked fabric across my lips and stuffed them in my mouth. The taste was vile, the humiliation total.
“Suck it. You wanted knickers, now you have them,” Helen taunted.
I gagged on the taste, already humiliated. Then Star peeled them from my mouth, added her own fresh indignity with a deliberate stream, and stuffed the sodden fabric back between my lips. Helen was ready with the tape, wrapping it tight around my head and sealing my mouth shut.
I struggled, distracted by taste and shame, while they tormented my cock: flicks, slaps, never enough to finish, always enough to keep me raw.
“Ready to confess, Davina?” Helen asked, peeling off the tape and damp underwear. Desperate for escape, I blurted, “I’ve been dreaming about stealing knickers from washing lines.”
Helen didn’t buy it. “Onto the bed. We’ll extract a full confession.”
On my back, wrists locked into mittens, ankles tied, rope pulling my balls up tight. The wardens chatted as if I wasn’t even in the room.
“What was your last facility like, Warden Star?” Helen asked.
Star gave a little shrug, never taking her eyes off me. “The equipment was quite basic, to be honest. Nothing like this place.”
Helen smirked. “We have electro-torture here. Works wonders.”
She handed Star the violet wand. Star wasted no time: nipples, balls, cock-head, each in turn. The more I screamed, the wider her grin grew.
“Confess?” Helen asked, voice almost casual. I managed a stubborn shake of my head, tears blurring my vision. “That’s a shame. Warden Star, sit on his face while I get him ready.”
Suddenly my world narrowed to darkness and the scent of leather as Star straddled me, her boots pinning my arms while she lifted her skirt and pressed her crotch over my face. The fabric smothered me, stealing my breath as I squirmed helplessly beneath her.
I could only gasp as Helen worked between my legs, tightening thick rubberized loops around my cock, each connected to the machine and ready to channel whatever punishment she dialled up. The threat was unmistakable, even before the machine was switched on. I felt Star’s weight shift off my face just as Helen twisted the dial. The first electric jolt made me arch up, a sharp pulse that snatched the air from my lungs.
The dial clicked up. Another shock, more savage. My cock burned, nerves screaming. Helen’s eyes met mine, her hand steady on the dial. “This’ll get the confession we need,” she taunted.
Each time the voltage increased, the pain leapt from bad to blinding, a raw, tearing agony that radiated from my cock through my gut and up my spine. I was bucking, writhing, the restraints the only thing keeping me on the bed. I could barely draw breath, barely form words, and then, just when I thought I couldn’t take any more, their gloved hands closed around my cock. The sensation, stroking, rubbing, squeezing, turned agony into something primal. Even the slightest movement set off a chain of lightning through my cock. They seemed to take delight in this, rubbing and jerking, the shocks peaking with every touch.
I screamed, sobbed, begged for mercy. My resolve broke completely under the relentless current and their pitiless hands.
“I’ll confess! I’ll confess!” I choked out, desperate. “I stole knickers off a washing line!”
“How many?” Helen demanded, her hand still hovering over the dial.
“Seven! There were seven! Please, please stop!” I was almost incoherent, lost to the pain and humiliation.
But Helen just grinned, clearly wanting more. “Oh, I’m sure there’s more filth in that head of yours. Get the hot wax, Warden Star. Let’s see what else we can drag out of him.”
What followed was a brutal layering of torments. Candle flame first, then molten wax dripping onto my nipples, then lower, coating my cock and balls. Each drop pushed me closer to the edge, my body trembling, my resistance thinning but I was still holding on.
Then Helen returned to the machine.
She turned the dial again. And then again.
The electric agony came back worse than before, sharper, deeper, ripping through me as if every nerve had been rewired to scream. I broke completely, wrung out and helpless, sobbing as the current surged through me. “I sniffed the stolen knickers,” I gasped at last. “That’s why I took them.”
Helen’s smirk was pure triumph. “Parole denied,” she declared, the words dropping like a guillotine. “Back to your cell. No clothes allowed, not until I say so.”
Relief, twisted and unexpected, flooded me. Incarceration was better than this torture. I thought it was over, but Helen had other plans. The ball gag returned, spat on and forced in.
“We like to drain our prisoners before sending them back,” Helen explained to Star, pouring lube over my cock as her gloved hand pumped mercilessly. Star latched onto my nipples, yanking and twisting. I was suspended between wanting and not wanting, humiliation and surrender. Until finally the orgasm was ripped from me, ecstasy drowned by pain as Helen kept going, torturing my oversensitive cock until I writhed and howled. Only then, at last, did she relent.
My humiliation was sealed: gloved hands scooping up the mess, squeezing it between my lips and the gag. They led me back to my cell, Star chattering about how much she enjoyed her first torture session, and whether there were any other inmates on the schedule.
Parole denied. Sentence extended. And, somehow, I was grateful.
D.C. Chayne 