There is no warning. No footsteps. No chance to react. Three leather clad female wardens grip me at once, each one strong, each one focused. Their uniforms catch the dim streetlight, black leather gleaming as they drag me toward an unmarked car waiting at the curb.
“Struggling will only make it worse,” one whispers against my neck. Her breath is warm. Her hands are not. She forces my arms behind my back and cold steel bites into my wrists as the cuffs snap shut.
Boots strike the pavement in a steady rhythm. Someone clips a leash to my collar. Before I can speak, I am shoved into the back seat.
“You are ours now,” another warden smirks as she slides in beside me. Her thigh high boots press against my legs, a silent claim of ownership.
The drive is quiet except for their occasional whispers. A private joke. A glance. A smile meant to unsettle. Whatever is waiting for me will not involve mercy.
The moment we arrive, they strip me without ceremony. Leather straps clamp around my wrists and ankles. My torso is pinned to a metal chair that chills my skin. Thick black straps cross my chest, locking me in place. I barely inhale before they push a heavy ball gag between my lips and buckle it tight.
“Much better,” one murmurs as she drags a gloved finger down my exposed chest. “Now we can begin.”
They circle me slowly, enjoying the rise of my breath, the tension in my throat. A sharp slap cracks across my face. My head snaps sideways. Their laughter is low and satisfied.
One warden grips my nipples and twists without hesitation. Pain shoots through me. She holds up a pair of brutal looking metal clamps linked by a short chain. She lets them sway in front of my eyes before fastening them onto my aching skin. My muffled groan makes her smile.
“I think he needs more encouragement,” she says.
A small electric shocker appears in her hand. She trails it down my chest in a slow glide, pausing just above my groin.
There is no warning. The jolt strikes like lightning. My muscles seize. Heat and agony explode through my cock and balls. I groan into the gag. They react with delighted smirks.
“Sensitive,” one observes. “Good.”
For a long while they take turns. A slap. A twist. A shock. Another shock. They work with methodical cruelty. They want me broken. They want me obedient. They want me ready.
“I think he is prepared for incarceration,” one finally announces. She unbuckles the gag but leaves the clamps where they are. “Let us see how he handles real punishment.”
They do not allow me to walk. A thick steel collar closes around my neck. A heavy chain attaches to it. They tug sharply, forcing me to stumble forward. Their boots echo through the concrete hallway as they lead me deeper into the prison. My hands remain cuffed behind my back. Resistance is not possible.
“Already struggling?” one taunts. “Pathetic.”
My cell is cold and bare. Four steel walls. A dim light. Nothing more. They shove me inside. My wrists and ankles are freed, but the collar remains locked.
“You will be summoned when required.”
The door closes. I wait. I do not know for how long.
When it opens, all three wardens stand there in pristine leather, smiling like they have been waiting for this moment.
“Time for discipline,” one announces. She cracks a long coiled whip against the floor.
They force me to my knees. My wrists are pulled above my head and secured. My body is stretched tight. The first lash hits my back. The pain is sharp and immediate. The second comes before I breathe. The third comes before I can brace.
They move lower. My backside. My thighs. Skin ignites with every strike.
Then one warden steps forward and aims for my most vulnerable place.
The first lash across my cock and balls steals every sound from my throat. The second warden follows with another that makes my whole body jolt. The gag returns to my mouth. My cries are reduced to wet, broken sounds.
Tears fill my eyes. They do not care.
“You take what we give you,” one whispers against my ear. Her gloved hand cups my aching balls. “Because that is what prisoners do.”
When they finish whipping me, they untie my wrists only to shove me down onto a padded bench. My ankles and wrists are buckled into place again, restraining me completely.
“You know what comes next,” one says.
She straps on a thick black dildo, gleaming with lube.
I try to shake my head. The gag steals every plea.
“No protests?” she teases as she places the tip against me. “Good boy.”
She pushes inside with slow force. My body tenses around the intrusion. She grips my hips and drives deeper. My groan is swallowed by the gag. She takes her time. When she finishes, she pulls out and steps aside.
The second warden replaces her. Then the third. They take turns. Each one thrusts with intent. Each one enjoys the sound of my muffled helplessness.
By the time the last one is done, my body is shaking. My mind feels unmoored.
One warden strokes my hair with a mock tenderness.
“You are learning,” she says softly. “But not quite rehabilitated.”
They unbuckle me only enough to drag me back to my cell. Time loses meaning after that. I endure what they choose to inflict. My freedom is nothing more than a word they own.
One day, they stand in front of me again. Arms crossed. Faces unreadable.
“You have been good,” one says. “Almost ready.”
Another smiles. “But perhaps one more night. Just to be sure.”
In this place, freedom is not earned.
Freedom is granted.
And only when they decide I am truly and completely theirs.
D.C. Chayne 