Cruel And Unusual

This is my first attempt at a story that plays with chronology. It mirrors the structure of the movie "Memento" (which you should rent, stream, or steal, if you've never seen it). There is a sequence of events in the present which is interrupted by a series of flashbacks. But the flashbacks themselves happen in reverse order. That is, each flashback is earlier in time than the previous flashback. So each flashback helps to set-up and explain the previous flashback (the previous one that you read), and the chronologically earliest events happen in the last flashback that you read.

Like all my stories it's centered around erotic spanking and humiliation, but it's only the second one I've written in which the recipient of the punishment is male.

The Present

"What?!? Fuck!" Chazy said out loud as he read the note on the door of the darkened building:

DUE TO A WATER PIPE LEAK AND FLOODING, THE DEPT OF HEALTH HAS CLOSED THE BUILDING. NO MEETING TONIGHT. WE'LL CONTACT YOU WHEN WE'VE GOT A NEW MEETING PLACE.

— CREEKSIDE ALUMNI ASSOCIATION

"Shit!" Chazy nearly shouted as he slammed his hand on the door in frustration.

Chazy's real name was Charles, but he'd been named "Crazy Charley" by his classmates in grade school for his chronic troublemaking. By the time he was in high school, he was the leader of a gang of toughs who had merged "Crazy" and "Charley" into "Chazy." The title stuck and he'd been "Chazy" ever since.

He hadn't seen the gang for over three years, not since before he'd gone to Creekside; but he occasionally heard of them. Def-Mad was their leader now. They were still into the same shit; petty theft, beating up homos, a little drug dealing — anything that could that pull in a little cash or stir up trouble. But they rolled without Chazy now. He was steering wide of trouble these days, ever since Creekside. And, like everyone who'd been to Creekside, he had secrets now, secrets that Def-Mad and Jer and Loosa and the rest of the gang mustn't ever know.

But now, tonight, he was horny; very horny. The alumni meeting was supposed to take care of that. That's what the meetings were for, after all. But it had been two weeks since the last one and Chazy was so randy, he could hardly concentrate on his job at the warehouse.

How could they have cancelled without warning?

Chazy thought as he trudged up the street with his left hand fingering the ping pong paddle in the pocket of his rain jacket.

They know we have no alternative. We can't even jack off. Not after Creekside. Fuckin' Supreme Court! Damn

Gosling vs. Idaho

! Mutha-fuckin' Chlorinated Sulfate! Cocksuckin' Ammonium Crystallite!

Two Weeks Before

The chairman of the Creekside Alumnus Association was speaking.

"Before we begin tonight's playtime," he said, looking out at the 30 or so sullen men — they were all men in the association — sitting in rows of metal fold-up chairs, "a reminder:

everyone

must stay after playtime to help with clean-up. No excuses."

"Also," he continued, "remember to take your toys home with you. After our last meeting, I got a call from the city's community services director. One of you left a paddle behind and it was found during a meeting of Girl Scout leaders."

There had been a time in his life when Chazy would have gleefully shouted out a lewd suggestion or two about Girl Scout leaders and paddles, but he didn't. Neither did anyone else. Creekside alumni don't talk much. They tend to look down at the floor and avoid meeting each other's eyes.

The chairman was still speaking.

"... took a lot of effort to convince the director to let us use this room in the basement of the community center, so let's try not to piss him off."

Finally, the chairman announced that playtime could begin. He held up a bowl filled with scraps of paper.

"Has everyone put their name in?" he asked.

There was no response, so he began randomly picking out the slips one-by-one and reading the names out loud. He paused after every third name and the three men whose names had been drawn would get up from their chairs and gather together near one of the walls of the large meeting room. There were over a dozen old tables, couches, stools, and stuffed chairs around the edges of the room. Each group of three would lay claim to one of these.

When Chazy's name was called, he rose, there were only tables left unclaimed, so he walked, head down, to one of them. He didn't bother to listen to the two names of the men called after him. He knew they would follow him to the same table.

When all of the names had been called, and all the men were standing with their play partners; playtime began. Chazy watched as, around the room, paddles and switches appeared suddenly from jacket pockets as if three dozen magicians had pulled rabbits from their hats all at the same time. Shoes were kicked off and pants dropped. Many of the men were already half-erect. It had, after all, been two weeks since the last alumni meeting and these men had not had an orgasm in all that time. Indeed, like Chazy, they

could not

have an orgasm ... not without the help of their fellow alumni.

Fuckin' Chlorinated Sulfate and Ammonium Crystallite,

Chazy thought to himself, as he had thousands of times in the last three years.

The three men in Chazy's group played a couple of rounds of

Rock, Paper, Scissors

to determine the order in which they would play. Chazy won.

"I'll sub first," he told the other two, "and I'm a 7."

The other two nodded in understanding. The alumni association had developed a system of numeric codes that summed up what each man needed to be sexually aroused. They knew what a "7" meant.

Chazy pulled a ping pong paddle from his jacket and handed it to the larger of the two men. Then he stripped completely and bent nakedly over the narrow table. His hands gripped the far edge and his head hung over the opposite side. The smaller man stood just in front of him, his crotch just inches in from of Chazy's face. From his vulnerable position, Chazy glanced back over one shoulder and then the other. All around the room, men, bent over like he was, were being spanked, paddled or switched. Some were holding their ankles, others were bent over furniture. On one couch, a red-faced man wearing only pink frilly panties was being spanked across the lap of another man.

"Come on," the man behind Chazy said impatiently, "you're a 7, so you should know how to start."

Chazy did know how to start, but no matter how many times he'd done it, it didn't become any easier or any less humiliating. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes tight, and stammered.

"Puh- Please paddle me ... huh- hard."

SMACK!

The paddle landed on Chazy's left bun, and he grunted. Before he had time to think, it landed again on the right. Paddlings were always fast and furious at Creekside alumni meetings, especially the first one in any trio of play partners. The two doms were horny, too, and they hurried the delivery so they could take their own turns as the sub and have a chance to come themselves.

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

The paddle snapped down relentlessly. Soon, Chazy was gasping in pain. But he began to feel something else too, and his prick hardened in response.

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

After a couple of minutes, Chazy's bright pink buns were clenching and his hips twisting, but he held his position. Tears, of shame as much as pain, dripped down his face. His dick was now rock hard.

I could pound nails with it,

he thought. He desperately needed to come.

But Chazy knew that he could be paddled all night and he still wouldn't come, not from a paddling alone. He was a 7. He needed something more. He needed to turbo-charge the humiliation. Even as the paddle continued to pepper his burning butt, he let go of the edge of the table, reached out and opened the pants of the man in front of him. In seconds, he had freed the man's prick. Once again Chazy scrunched his eyes shut at the shame of what he was about to do, but he was too horny to stop. He gently wrapped his mouth on the prick and began to suck.

He was careful not stroke the man with his hands. He knew, that the man, like himself — like all Creekside alumni — could not get erect anymore from stroking. Indeed, stroking by hand prevented arousal. That was one of the intended effects of the programs at Creekside.

Chazy licked and sucked and bobbed his head like a whore who loves her job. But Chazy hated what he was doing. He wasn't gay. None of the Creekside alumni were gay. They were here because, after serving a term at Creekside, they could not climax except when submitting to humiliation.

The two men dominating him knew what Chazy, as a 7, needed, and they began to taunt him.

"He's a great little cocksucker, isn't he?"

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

"He loves it. Look at him gobbling me down."

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

Chazy's face burned at these words. He wanted to stand up and slug them, but he wanted even more to climax, so he continued to minister to the prick in his mouth. It had grown hard but Chazy knew the man would not come. Indeed, he could not come, not while he was dominating. His climax would have to wait until he was, in turn, being degraded and spanked ... or paddled ... or switched.

But Chazy's turn was now and he could feel himself reaching the pinnacle, even as his hips and butt danced uncontrollably.

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

Finally, his climax crashed and Chazy lifted his head in open-mouthed, gasping, ecstasy. His cum spurted onto the floor beneath the table. Two weeks had gone by since his last orgasm, so his cum was a jet.

His two play partners allowed him only a few seconds to catch his breath, before they impatiently demanded that he straighten up and take his turn as a dom. As soon as he did, the man who he'd sucked handed Chazy a long plexiglass paddle and took off the rest of his clothes. He took Chazy's place bent over the table. The larger man went around the table to stand in front of the him. Chazy raised the paddle in his right hand while he rubbed his own sore butt with his left.

The Present

As he walked, Chazy tried to think of someone or some place that could give him what the alumni meetings give him; that special treatment he craved now. But what he needed was hard to find even with a personals ad in the weekly alternative newspaper.

There's nowhere,

he thought,

where I can just walk in from the street and ask someone to— Wait! Son-of-a— There is!

Chazy stopped dead on the sidewalk at a corner, oblivious of the people passing him by, trying to think of the name of a bar he remembered. He squeezed his eyes shut and pictured it, but the name was just a blur.

It doesn't matter,

he thought,

I know how to get there.

Spinning abruptly to his right, Chazy strode rapidly and purposely down the street, headed for a place he and his gang had visited years before, more than once.

6 Months Before (5 ½ months before the previous flashback)

Chazy heard the drone of a low-flying plane passing overhead. He didn't dare look up. There were guards around, and here at the California Men's Correctional Facility at Creekside, prisoners were required to look down at all times. As knelt on the ground waiting for orders from Officer O'Brien that it was time for his test, he envied the people on the plane and wondered what Creekside looked like from their point of view. From that height, it would appear to be an ordinary prison work farm. There are rows and rows of single-story wooden barracks. Surrounding these are fields, orchards, and barns. Encircling it all is an electrified fence.

Did the people in the plane know what Creekside would look like at ground level, Chazy wondered. They would see some oddities at Creekside. For one thing, the prisoners' uniform is simply a G-string. Creekside is far enough south that it never really gets cold, year-round. Even more surprising is the fact that at this men's prison farm the guards are all women.

Chazy guessed that a visitor would find the guard uniform fairly conventional, consisting of a khaki tank top, matching shorts, tough hiking boots, a khaki baseball cap, and "Cool Hand Luke"-style shades. Each guard is armed with a stun gun. The guns are not in holsters. Instead, they are strapped to the guard's inner forearm, making them ready for instant action. And Chazy knew that the guns also had Smart Gun technology: the hand grips contained palm print recognition sensors, so that a gun could be fired only by the guard to whom it had been issued.

There were, however, a few features of the guard uniform that would startle visitors, Chazy thought. For one thing, the khaki shorts are very short, not much longer than hot pants, and they were tight, as were the tank tops. The socks rose only millimeters above the tops of the hiking shoes, so the guards' legs were long expanses of bare flesh. The point, as Chazy well knew, was to tease the prisoners and keep them in a state of sexual frustration. Many of the guards enhanced the effect by wearing no bra under their tank tops.

But what would really rivet the attention of a visitor, was that each guard carries a second weapon that hangs from her uniform belt. For some, it is a paddle; others prefer to carry a switch.

"Time for your test," Officer O'Brien interrupted his thoughts. "Let's go."

He stood up and walked in the direction she pointed. He knew that she'd take him to the north end of the barracks area where the recent arrivals at Creekside were housed. These were men who had been at Creekside long enough to learn, usually the hard way, that they must obey every command from a guard. But they had not been here long enough to understand how Creekside worked. They didn't yet know about the programs, or the tests that prisoners had to pass to graduate from a program. Like Chazy had once been, they were naïve. Graduation tests were always conducted in front of these newcomers precisely because, being ignorant of the Creekside system, they would have no sympathy for test-taker.

As Chazy expected, O'Brien led him to a spot, between two barracks, where dozens of prisoners were being gathered by guards for the long walk to the fields.

"This is a good spot," Officer O'Brien said.

"The new prisoners can watch you take your test. Won't this be fun?" She laughed.

The guards who had been herding the prisoners stopped them to let them watch.

Chazy was in no position to argue. He had been in the Special Assistance unit of the Toleration program for a year now. He tried repeatedly to pass the test that would allow him to graduate the Toleration program and be released from Creekside. Tests were given once a month at most, but guards could postpone a prisoner's test as long as they liked. If Chazy failed again, it might be months more before he got another chance.

Chazy didn't need orders to know what to do next. He stood at the grassy spot O'Brien had picked and pushed his G-string down to his ankles and stepped out it. Now naked, he spread his legs a little, bent over at the waist and rested his palms on his thighs.

"Please, Officer O'Brien," he said, "paddle me as I deserve."

The surrounding prisoners were stunned. They could not believe this veteran prisoner would bend over and proffer his butt to a female guard like this and beg to be spanked too. When they recovered from their astonishment, they began to laugh and insult Chazy. "Wimp" was the one of the kinder terms they used.

Chazy turned red with humiliation. He wanted to straighten up and scream at them, "I have to do this. I have to. This is the only way out of here!"

But that kind of rebellion would get him at least another year at Creekside, so he held his tongue and stayed his bent over position.

"Alright," O'Brien chuckled loudly as she stepped over beside him, "since you asked so nicely, I'll help you out."

Then, speaking only loud enough for Chazy to hear, she reminded him of the rule that he knew well from his many failed attempts to pass the test.

"You've got 15 minutes to climax while you are paddled. You can't graduate from the Tolerance program until you can do that."

She didn't need to add that he was forbidden from jacking off during the paddling. She knew, as he did, that doing so would not help anyway. It was no longer possible for him to arouse himself by touching his own dick. Indeed, after two-and-a-half years at Creekside, stroking his prick would have the opposite effect. The Chlorinated Sulfate and Ammonium Crystallite had ensured that.

O'Brien pulled her paddle of her belt, raised it with both hands, and slammed it down in the middle of his butt.

Smack!

Chazy jerk forward and winced, much to the amusement of the watching prisoners. After a short pause, O'Brien settled into a slow but steady pace of hard swats, with pauses of 4 to 5 seconds between each.

Smack! ... Smack! ... Smack! ... Smack! ... Smack!

Before long, Chazy was making "ow!" and "ah!" sounds that grew louder and louder. As O'Brien continued, he twitched and jerked with each blow. At first, he tried to look down so he wouldn't have to see the other prisoners laughing at him, but soon he was involuntarily jerking his head up and they could see his red face.

Smack! ... Smack! ... Smack! ... Smack! ... Smack!

Well into the fifth minute, he began to twist at the waist. His noises grew longer:

"Owww! Unnnh! Uhhh! Errggh!"

Chazy's eyes had grown big and red with moisture, but O'Brien was relentless.

Smack! ... Smack! ... Smack! ... Smack! ... Smack!

After the seventh minute, his dick began to grow. Chazy had not been a masochist when he came to Creekside, or even in his first two years here. But after nearly a year in the Special Assistance unit of the Tolerance program, he had come to associate pain and humiliation with sexual arousal. It had taken daily practice having his dick sucked by other men while he was spanked or paddled or switched. He, in turn, had to assist the other prisoners in the unit, so he spent much of each day, when he wasn't working in the camp's fields or orchards, giving blow jobs to the others while they were punished in turn.

It had worked, a paddling or switching now reliably got him hard, but though he taken the test several times, he had not yet been able to come in the required 15 minutes.

Smack! ... Smack! ... Smack! ... Smack! ... Smack!

Near the end of the eighth minute, he began to buck his hips and twist as he tried to shake away the pain. The surrounding prisoners chortled and gapped in fascination as her Chazy's buttocks clenched and unclenched spasmodically. By now, his erection was unmistakable and he heard another cascade of catcalls from the other prisoners.

Smack! ... Smack! ... Smack! ... Smack! ... Smack!

"Huhh-hunk! ... arggghhh! ... oooowww! ... [gasp] ..."

Smack! ... Smack! ... Smack! ... Smack! ... Smack!

His prick felt like it was about to burst right out of its skin, but Chazy could not get over the mountain. He could not come, and he knew why.

In horny desperation, Chazy called out a desperate plea, "Please Officer O'Brien, may I give you a rim job while I'm paddled? Please let me."

"Sorry but I'm just not in the mood," O'Brien chuckled, and then added, "Four more minutes."

"Oh, God!" Chazy sobbed, "then please let me suck a dick. Please, I'm begging you."

"Very well," O'Brien sighed and shook her head, as if Chazy was a chronic failure. "You," she said, snapping her fingers at another prisoner standing nearby. "Feed him your shlong. Now!"