The Warden's Daughter - Chapter 1

I'm jumping ahead, though. For you to fully understand the horror I experienced during this period, I have to start at the beginning. The institution in which I served my time was mostly filled with political prisoners, as this particular country is quite unstable and teeming with revolutionaries. However, because I was incarcerated on a "mere" drug charge, the usual atrocities you hear about from ex-cons were almost a non-issue for me. I was kept in a separate building reserved for those who had committed non-political offenses--mostly dope-heads who had been as stupid as I had, and so much younger than me they could have been my own children. The isolation was the worst thing. Communication was minimized between prisoners on my quad and almost non-existent with inmates in other areas. As a result, practically all the information I received--little as it was—came from rumors that had been passed through so many people they were virtually useless.

Most of the rumors concerned the "administrator" or warden, as we would call him my own country. According to the inside buzz, the man was a holy terror. Prisoners were regularly beaten within an inch of their lives and, every now and then, outright killed. Or so the stories went. You never knew what to believe in that place. But, if the rumors were true--and it may shock you to hear this--his teenage daughter was even worse.

Ironically, the other cons and I knew more about her than the warden himself. We only saw him once a month, but we saw his daughter almost every weekend, at least for the first few months I was there. I will call her Claudia. She was only 14 years old, but was apparently quite advanced for her age. For example, she had already become quite accomplished at fencing. Two of the guys on my quad were also good at the sport, which was very popular in that country, and the warden would have one or the other of them spar with out in the exercise area. The girl was talented, no doubt about it. And good-looking as hell, at least from what I could see through her head-to-toe fencing outfit. Tall, with long, chestnut hair, she was strong, lithe, and well proportioned. I heard a rumor that she was capable of thrusting her sword with more force than most grown men. After watching her defeat both of our guys, I didn't doubt this was true.

Another rumor--totally unsubstantiated--was that she was a "genius" in science and biology and had already been accepted into the pre-med track of the country's most prestigious universities. Hard to believe, at only age 14. However, I did know that she occasionally assisted with the nurse in the prison infirmary (we had no doctor, unfortunately), so that particular rumor may well have been true. Actually, after what I went through, I have no doubt about it.

A more bizarre rumor--one that I gave no credence to initially--was that Claudia had certain prisoners brought to the infirmary on the weekends, when no one was there, in order to "do things to them." That's all the information I ever got, but it was always passed along with a dirty connotation. Also--supposedly--she chose the men based on the size of their genitalia. Even though this prison is old and decrepit in every way, the one aspect that's modern--and for which no expense is spared--is the security and surveillance system. There are video cameras everywhere, even inside the showers and toilet areas. The rumor was that Claudia somehow got access to tapes these cameras made and watched them to choose her victims.

Again, I paid little mind to all these "warden's daughter" rumors, at least not at first. I attributed them to nothing more than the pitifully twisted fantasies of a bunch of sex-starved convicts. But later, verifiable bits of information began to add up. For example, I did find out that the warden was out of town on political business most weekends--I had proof from several old newspaper articles which I managed to slug through (we were allowed newspapers that were a month old, but only in the country's language, which I was struggling to learn). Another tidbit that gave credence to the rumors: the infirmary was indeed locked up all day on Sundays; I had discovered that fact myself when I badly needed antibiotics for a sinus infection. But the most unnerving piece of the puzzle was the day the inmate in the cell directly across from mine was called out about 11 a.m. . . . it was a Sunday morning. Two guards I had never seen before showed up and took him away, refusing to tell the man where they were going. He was scared to death, too, and I can hardly blame him. He was quietly brought back to his cell about eight o'clock that same night. It was only by sheer luck I happened to get a glimpse of him through the three-inch window in my own cell, or a glimpse of the lower half of him, I should say. It was long after lights out but one of the guards had a flashlight. Just as the man turned to back to my door, I noticed a red splotch on the crotch of his blue prison-issued trousers. It looked black in the dim light, but I was sure it was blood.

What bothered me even more was that the guy was normally quite aggressive, but after whatever had happened to him that night, he was utterly cowed. That's the only way I know to describe the change. I tried to find out exactly what had happened to him, but communicating with anybody except your immediate cell neighbors was impossible. From what I could glean, the guy wasn't talking, anyway. Whatever had happened to him, he was keeping it completely to himself, and it seemed to doing so out of fear. He continued to act differently after that day, different in a way that made me uneasy. He seemed to have lost all his spunk.

Anyway, back to my story--after that incident, I began to have nightmares. I would dream that those same two guards came for me. They wouldn’t tell me where they were taking me, but we were clearly headed for the infirmary. Just as we reached the door, I would wake up trembling, in a cold sweat. The strange thing, though, was that I also awoke with a hard on.

I soon began to worry during the day as well. I became self-conscious in the shower and toilet, wondering if "she" would later be watching me on tape. I was particularly concerned because of the size of my manhood. Now, I'm not going to tell you I've got a 16 inch cock (this isn't Penthouse Forum, after all), but I am a very big man and am unusually well-endowed, even for my size. Several women have told me that my member is not really so long, it's the girth that makes it look huge. "Hung like a horse" is the expression the sight of it seems invoke, and my full, heavy balls seemed to add to that imagery. Or used to. But here I am getting ahead of myself again.

Even though I was uneasy, I also had to admit that I was quite turned on by the thought of Claudia, the pubescent daughter of the warden, watching me naked on tapes made by the video cameras. Several times I actually began to get that first inkling of an erection and had to think about the roaches around my cell shit-hole to calm it back down. I wondered if any of the other inmates shared my worries or fantasies, but I guess I'll never know that.

Then, just about the time I was forgetting about the whole thing--you know how it is--it happened.

One Sunday morning, just after my group was escorted back to our cells after our coveted once-a-week hot water showers, the same two guards that had come for the guy across from me showed up at my cell. My hair was still wet, and I was shirtless.

"Get dressed," the bigger one said, in his native tongue.

I was instantly terrified. I reached for my shirt, but hesitated. I asked, in a rather meek voice, where I was going.

"Just get your shirt on," the big one repeated, giving me a jab with his stick.

I knew better than to resist or ask any more questions. I put on my shirt, aware of my heart thudding heavily, and glanced at my face in the broken mirror, at my wet, uncombed hair. "She likes them clean" I thought numbly.

When I slipped on my sandals and stepped out into the corridor, I noticed the guy in the opposite cell was watching, the guy who had disappeared on a previous Sunday--one curious eye was pressed up against the little window. The smaller guard automatically whacked his club on the hole and we moved down the hall.

After going through two sets of double-locked doors and making another turn, I knew for certain where we were headed.

My heart began to pound even harder. The infirmary was in the basement of Administration Building II, on the backside of the grounds. My thoughts raced ahead accompanied by bizarre, pornographic images of what was in store for me.

We went down the steps, into the gloomy bowels of the building, and came to the dull gray infirmary door. The big guard knocked on it. A few seconds later I heard the lock click open. The door opened. Yes, it was Claudia. I had never seen her up close. The lanky teenager was dressed in a tight-fitting turquoise jumpsuit, her long, silky chestnut hair sloppily held up in the back. She looked like an ordinary 14 year old, ready to do her homework or hang out with her friends at the mall. Her black, stacked sneakers made her seem even taller, and I remember noticing--don't ask me why--that she wore glittery blue polish on her nails and had some kind of charm bracelet on her left wrist.

She looked me up and down as we entered. It seemed that the two guards already knew what to do. There was a steel support girder in the middle of the room and they pushed me over to it.

"Hands behind your back," the big man said, shoving my chest with his club so my spine was up against the pole. I felt the other guard roughly tying my wrists with rope that felt like it was made of steel wool. The big guard produced a leather belt from one pocket and put it around my neck and then behind the pole; the other guard fastened it. I could not help thinking of the movie "Deliverance." The belt was just loose enough for me to breathe but tight enough so that I could barely see my feet, which were still in sandals. Both my legs had started trembling. Now I was really scared. What the hell was going on? Were these two thugs going to beat me up for her entertainment, or what?

Both guards stopped moving, momentarily, and I glanced around the room for the first time. Claudia was standing a few feet away, watching with an unreadable expression on her young face, her green eyes gazing at me intently. She somehow seemed dangerous in that tight jumpsuit, the zipper undone a bit in the front, her budding breasts squeezed hard like two ripe apples. Beside her was a stool and a table on rubber wheels, a white cloth draped over it. There were lumps in places outlining things that could only be instruments. Holy shit!

The two guards were looking at her as if waiting for direction.

"Get his pants off," she said irritably, as if they both should have known to do it without being told.

They glanced at each other, looking a little uneasy themselves, and sprung into action. I was so scared now I was almost frozen. One guard grabbed my about the waist while the other ripped my sandals off, followed by my thin blue prison-issue trousers. I was now only in my jockey shorts, feeling extremely vulnerable, standing barefoot on the cold concrete floor. Claudia stepped to one side and reappeared with what I knew was called a "leg spreader"--an adjustable-length steel rod with two U-shaped flanges on either end, attached to which were thick leather straps. She handed it to the short guard and he placed it between my knees, forcing my legs so far apart that something popped in my thigh. I gasped, but they paid no attention--they busied themselves securing it with some rope, running it behind the pole, tying it to my hands. My legs were now at about a 90 degree angle to each other. The big guard looked at Claudia.

"Farther," she said, staring at my crotch.

The big guard unscrewed the tension bolt and, grunting, forced my legs apart even farther. There was another popping sound in my thigh, loud enough for everyone to hear, and the guard re-locked the spreader. I stifled a gasp. Claudia ignored whatever pain it was causing me, never even looked up at my face--her gaze was riveted on my crotch.

The big guard looked at Claudia for her approval.

"Tie his waist to the post, too," she said. "The last one moved around too much."

The guards glanced at each other again. The big one said, "With what?"

She went over to a drawer, withdrew what appeared to be a coil of bungie cord, and tossed it to the guard. He glanced morosely at the other man, then tied the cord to the post and began wrapping it around and around my waist, making sure it was stretched to the limit each time. During the final pass he wrapped it around my wrists, too, then tied it off behind my back.

"Does that suit you?" he asked Claudia sarcastically.

"Get out," she snapped, motioning to the door. She followed the two men out of my line of sight. I thought I heard the faint paper rustle of the country's oversized banknotes. Then I heard her say in a lowered voice, "You keep your mouths shut, or you know what will happen to you."

The big one muttered, "Whatever you say," as if he wasn't intimidated, but I could hear the uncertainty in his voice.

Claudia locked the door and returned to me, making long, lanky strides in her stacked sneakers. She looked more confident now that the guards had gone . . . but I certainly wasn't. My throat had gone dry as sandpaper. I had no idea what to expect. This scene was weird. Really weird. All those rumors I had heard were dancing round and round in my mind.

She took one step towards me, and there was something menacing in her movement. But she just stood there, watching me. I became very still. I was painfully aware of my vulnerable position, naked except for my underwear, my legs forced rudely apart. Claudia's green eyes locked on my own. Her gaze slowly moved down my bare chest, my stomach, and finally, to my crotch. My heartbeat quickened even more and noted the tightness with which I had been bound--the only parts of my body I could move were my elbows, and those only slightly. I noticed my legs were still trembling, my knees partially bent--the awkward position made me feel completely at her mercy.

Claudia broke the silence. "Are you afraid?" To my surprise, she had said spoken these words in English, with almost no accent. I had no idea how I should answer. I swallowed with some difficulty, trying to hide my fear. Claudia said, "You should be." She pulled a yellow pencil from her pocket, twirled it between her long, pretty fingers, and looked at me with a twinkle in her eye. "Do you know what I am going to do to you?"

I meekly shook my head. My god, the pencil looked sharp. Surely she wasn't going to . . .

She smiled, watching my expression. She held the pencil up with one hand, her fingers now laced around it. "I'm going to break you." Her hand curled into a fist and there was a sickening SNAP as the pencil broke in two. She tossed it across the room. It landed in the corner and lay in a V-shape on the dirty concrete floor, the wood splintered. "I enjoy breaking men."

She watched me intently as if to gauge my reaction, those green eyes so alarmingly confident. I was determined not to show any more fear, not to let her get to me. I made a concerted effort to appear expressionless. Still, I had a feeling I was not fooling her. Who wouldn't be scared in this situation?

A trace of a smile cross her lips. "Do you know HOW I'm going to break you?"

This time I didn't answer, I only swallowed--dryly.

She lowered her gaze to the bulge in my underwear, then looked back up at my face. With those steady green eyes locked on mine, she edged closer to me. She reached out and slipped a youthful, sparkly blue-tipped finger under the waistband of my jockey shorts. She looked into my eyes for another moment, then pulled the waistband away from my body and peered down into the gap. My penis was neither hard nor soft, somewhere in between, draped in the white cotton material in a U shape, as if in a hammock. She just stared at it, her expression cold. Yet there was something lustful and sadistic about it, as if a twisted, breathless excitement lurked just under the surface. My stomach knotted with fear.

She's just trying to scare you, I told myself. Don't be afraid--whatever you do, don't show your fear to her. She's not dangerous, not really, she's, she's just a kid, that's all, a kid trying to scare you . . .

Still stretching my underwear towards her, she reached down with her other hand and pinched the top side of the shaft just behind the head of my cock. I let out a gasp as she firmly pulled my dick upwards, the way a cat picks up a kitten, stretching the loose skin up around the head. Then she began to slowly pull it this way and that, to the left, to the right, firmly, then more firmly, then downright roughly. She never looked back at my face, she just stared at my organ as she pulled and twisted, as if curious about the effect the treatment was having on it. Despite the pain, I could feel blood flowing into it; it was getting harder. She was standing very close to me now, so close I could faintly smell her perfume, some fruity fragrance that seemed appropriate for an adolescent. The brutal yet sensual way she was handling my cock was making my head spin . . . she seemed to be commanding it to get hard with the threat of increasingly severe punishment if it didn't obey . . . she was too young to be doing this, too young to understand the male psyche so well, something was terribly scary about her, I remember thinking. Then she was pulling my rapidly stiffening prick straight up, still firmly grasping the tender skin behind the head. Her other hand was pulling my underwear down farther. She flipped that hand upside down and used the back of it to push the waistband down more so that the gap was wide under my balls. She leaned forward and peered down at my hanging nuts, just staring unabashedly. I was trembling again, aware of the cool basement air on my distended scrotal sack. She slowly cupped her warm, teenage hand underneath my heavy, manly gonads. There was an expression of fascination on her face--she lifted the glandular mass gingerly, as if to test its weight. I heard a little "mmm" escape her lips, and then she let them drop back down. That "mmm" sent chills through my body--there was something decadent and foreboding about it. Yet my cock was now almost fully erect--I could feel the blood gushing unimpeded into it now, the touch of her incredibly soft palm had done it, had caused me to become lightheaded with lust. I hadn't even been around a female, let alone been touched by one, in well over a year.

Without warning, she withdrew both hands from my crotch and let the waistband of my underwear snap loose. The garment caught my dick just above its base, and the swollen organ slapped crudely against my abdomen. I gasped again, dizzy with raw horniness. She half-smiled and stepped away. For the first time I glimpsed her from the back--what an incredible ass she had! Slim hips and one of those tight, stick-out butts you only see on young teenage girls. Christ! I could see her panty lines clearly outlined by the skin-tight blue material as she bent over the table . . .

The table . . . I had almost forgotten about that. The table with the cloth draped over it. My lust-induced haze faded and I found myself facing the stark reality in front of me. Claudia had reached under the cloth and grabbed something, and now was coming back towards me. Whatever it was, it was slender and shiny. She smiled as she opened it . . . oh my God . . . it was a straight razor!

She pulled the waistband of my underwear away from my body again, roughly this time, stretching the thin white material as far down as it would go. She gazed flatly at my dangling balls. Her eyes seemed to turn into two tarnished dimes. I could feel my scrotum draw up, my heart slamming in my chest. She raised the sharp instrument in the air.

"No, please--"

Whack!

I cried out, anticipating the blinding pain my crotch. But . . . I felt nothing. The blade had only sliced through the waistband of my underwear and the rest of the material down to my right thigh. Another whack, and she had cut the other side away. She yanked what was left of the garment from my body and tossed it over near where the broken pencil lay. Smiling, she closed the razor.

I thought I would pass out.

She looked very pleased with herself for scaring me half to death. "You didn't think I was going to just slice them off with a razor, did you?"

I was too drained to respond to this. I was breathing hard, sweat trickling down my forehead.

"You have a LOT of suffering to do before we get to that stage, believe me."

I felt dizzy again. I slumped in my restraints, not caring that the belt was half-choking me. All my muscles were aching--I realized I had been in a rigidly tense physical state ever since I had been tied up. This couldn't be happening--it was unthinkable. Unthinkable to be at the mercy of some perverted 14 year old girl . . . at 44, I could have been her father! I was starting to get mad. The little bitch . . . who the hell did she think she was? She had scared the living shit out of me! I felt myself becoming furious. I watched her as she rolled the cloth-covered table towards me. Is this the way the spoiled brat got her kicks, picking out prisoners while her dad was away and terrorizing them?

Totally ignoring me, she picked up the stool, set it directly between my legs, then pressed a lever and lowered it until her face was just above the height of my crotch. From underneath the table, she produced a thick black textbook. It appeared to be some kind of medical text, written in her native language. She opened it to a marked place and set it on one side of the table--I could make out, from my limited view, a diagram of the male reproductive system. She studied the diagram for a moment, then turned to me, a curious expression on her face. Again, with her left hand, she pinched the skin just under my cock-head and firmly it up and out of the way . . . apparently, she was now interested in my balls. With her right hand, she began to probe my testicles, her fingers searching, pinching, searching again . . .

Uneasily, I managed, "What are you doing?"

She continued to ignore me and finally focused her pinching on a tender knot she had found on the backside of my ball. She rolled it between her fingers and a dull ache spread up into my abdomen--having seen a urologist about prostrate problems a few times in the past, I knew what it was--the epidydimus gland. She glanced at the textbook and then said a short "mmm" again, though this time it was as if she had confirmed something. She glanced up at my face and squeezed again, and when she saw me wince, she seemed pleased. She then felt around my left testicle and located the twin gland, giving it the same treatment with her strong able fingers. The nausea she was inducing me feel impotent and vulnerable. After a moment, she looked satisfied, then began feeling around between my legs. Her index finger found my prostate and she began rubbing it, then poking at it, harder and harder. I finally gasped and she glanced up at me and smiled, then let go of me. My cock flopped back down and bobbed a little bit. She gazed at it thoughtfully for a second, then shut the medical book and looked at me with a frank expression. She pulled away the cloth that covered the instrument table, then looked back at me. "Shall we get started?"

"Oh my God," I said under my breath.

On that shiny steel tabletop lay the most wicked-looking set of instruments I've ever seen in my life. At first glance they had the appearance of the tools dentists use to probe around your teeth, only bigger. Each had a tubular steel handle and then a wiry pick of some shape protruding from it . . . and all had sharp points. One was straight, another curved and sickle-shaped, another was shaped like a corkscrew . . . I turned away. I could not look at the rest.

She chuckled. "Don't you like them?"

I could not look at her, either. I felt tears coming to my eyes. This couldn't be happening. It just couldn't be. The reassuring thought that she was only trying to scare me was becoming more and more difficult to believe.

"I made them myself," she went on. "Just for you. Or for men like you." She picked up the first one, the long, straight one, and held it out in front of my eyes. "See?" She waited patiently until I finally looked at the wicked thing. Now I could see that it was hand-made, a bit crudely, using a bent hypodermic needle as the "probe" end. There was a look of pride on the girl's face, as if she had done this for a school science project and had received an A+ on it.

Twirling the nasty-looking instrument in her hand, she looked down at my cock. It was half-hard, still slightly pulsating, red blotches under the head from the rough treatment it had received. She extended the index finger of her left hand, as if a bird might land on it, and placed it beneath my dickhead, then slowly raised the abused organ in the air. "Where should we begin?" she asked, looking back up at me.

The room seemed to spin--this was really happening. I looked back at the instruments on the table . . . I was now absolutely certain that this young girl didn't just want to scare me--she intended to bring some serious pain to my genitals, maybe even do serious damage.

"You're insane," I said, panicking. I bucked violently against the restraints.

She only laughed. "You aren't going nowhere." It was the first mistake I had noticed in her English. That little mistake made the situation all the more vivid . . . the crazy girl didn't know what the hell she was doing, it was obvious. I glanced over at the medical book. It was almost like the Nazis had done in the concentration camps--she was using helpless prisoners for her own perverted entertainment, trying to pass it off as something related to medical research. It occurred to me that she had picked up her father's sadistic, dominating nature, and her budding pubescent sexuality had become entwined in it.

She was sick . . .

These thoughts were interrupted by a pleasant sensation. She had started moving her finger back and forth, very lightly, just underneath the head of my cock. "He's afraid," Claudia cooed, talking to it rather than me. "But there's nothing to be afraid of . . ." She lowered her awful, home-made instrument to one side and kept rubbing her index finger across the underbelly of my cock. It began to respond.

"Yes, there's nothing to be afraid of," she told it. The delicate rubbing sensation began to send bigger and bigger waves of pleasure through my body. I felt my eyelids droop a bit, and I dazedly looked at the girl, her soft, youthful skin, her high cheekbones . . . I noticed for the first time how striking her eyes were, with thick, dark brows and long lashes. Under other circumstances I would have thought her lovely . . .

Oh, the pleasure . . .

"You like it, don't you?" she whispered. Only not to me--she still seemed to be talking to my dick. God, how I wanted her to take my cock in her hands, to stop teasing me with that one pretty finger . . .

As if she had read my mind, she turned her hand up and let the shaft of my penis rest in her oh-so-soft palm. She began lightly squeezing me, letting me bounce up and down on her hand. Oh, the pleasure! I had forgotten how incredibly soft the skin of a young person is, especially a girl. My dick was rapidly engorging to its full hardness.

"Yes, he likes that, doesn't he."

Again, for reasons I cannot fully explain, I felt my eyes well up--I was on the verge of tears. I think it just felt so good I wanted to cry . . . it had been SO long since . . . since . . .

She made quick movement with her free hand, the one that had been holding her home-made tool. In a flash, she had reached under the cloth and had exchanged it for something else. I almost did a double take--if the wicked instrument had been on the table, I hadn't seen it. It was a needle, a spinal needle. It was at least 10 inches long, with a little pink connector on one end. Before I could protest, her left hand shot out and grabbed at the top side of my cock, all four fingers digging into the skin, stretching it tight. I gasped. She roughly pulled my rock-hard prick towards her and, with her other hand, lined up the sharp needle tip with my pee hole.

"Hey!" I cried. "What are you d--" I was writhing around so much, my cock pulsating so heavily, that my urethra opening barely managed to evade the needle's sharp end. Claudia made her fist tighter and pumped my prick firmly and a bit frantically, yanking its skin forward and backwards, still trying to line up the needle with my reluctant little hole. I could feel my prostate contracting over and over, in anticipation of the pain, yet thriving on the forceful pleasure her other hand was giving me. "Hey, don't--"

It was too late. I saw the needle tip disappear into my urethra A second later, I felt a bright, searing pain a little way down the inside of my shaft. I screamed and bucked, but the girl ignored me, continuing to pump with her left hand and push the needle steadily in with her right thumb. "Ohhhh," I moaned, feeling the sharp steel efficiently tear its down the shaft. Fortunately, the pain was not quite as intense as it made its way downward. I felt dizzy again, watching Claudia steadily push more of the thin, cold steel down into the hole. Her expression was one of intense concentration, her determined green eyes never leaving her work. I could no longer feel much of anything as the instrument passed the midpoint and headed towards the base of my manhood. As it progressed, Claudia twisted the skin of my penis this way and that, bending the organ as if to keep my urethra as straight as possible so the needle would stay more or less in the center. Every now and then she stopped pushing for a second or two and I felt her fingers probing the shaft of my cock, to see how far down the needle had gone. During one of these periods I saw that blood was dripping out of my peehole. This scared me, and I closed my eyes. As I felt the sharp tip finally through base of my penis and into my body, I suddenly wanted to come, wanted to come so badly I cried out, but this growing pleasure was offset by fear: there was still an inch or so of cold steel left under Claudia's persistent, pressing thumb. I knew the sharp needle point would soon enter my prostate. I could feel that dull, thick sensation already . . . and I realized that what she was doing was dangerous as hell! I could be seriously injured; she might hit something she should, a major blood vessel, a big nerve . . .

Despite her pumping, my cock began to shrink at this fear. I writhed around more, begging her: "Please, no . . . stop . . ." But it was clear she intended to bury every bit of that devilish needle into my poor dick. She kept pumping with her left hand, the skin bunched in her grip now numb from the pain . . . but she finally stopped pushing on the needle. It was almost all the way in, the little pink connector sticking out only about an inch.

Thank God.

But her other hand had stopped pumping, too. With that, I felt like I had awoken from a dream. I hadn't meant for her to stop the pumping . . .

She was fingering my prostate again, checking to see where the tip of the needle was. "I might let you shoot out your stuff," she said, "if you stay still and let me push it all the way in. If you don't stay still, it might go off course." She raised her thick eyebrows and began pumping again. "Don't you want to shoot your stuff?"

I closed my eyes, trying to resist, but the pleasure was overwhelming all my reason. The fear about my prostate seemed distant, less important.

"Don't you want to shoot your stuff, your white stuff, onto my nice soft hand?"

That last phrase did the trick--for that last, I would do anything, would make any sacrifice. I became very still and let her pump in her brutal, skin-twisting way. Oh, yes . . . the pleasure . . . the pleasure. My eyes began to close again, and the room started spinning. I began to have that familiar feeling of a helpless tumble down a long, dark tunnel . . . that incredibly thirsty sensation . . . that headlong race towards total satisfaction . . .

There was a dull, spreading pain somewhere deep inside me, and I opened my eyes. Claudia was pushing the needle again, now with her index finger . . . steadily, steadily . . . I again felt that sweet yet thick ache in my prostate . . . yes, the needle had entered that pulsating gland, I could feel it poke through the barrier . . . oh, I could feel it . . . that sweet prostate-pressure sensation of having to pee but not really having to . . . oh, she was pumping my cock now . . . pumping firmly . . . almost all of the needle was in . . .

I was going to come. I HAD to come . . .

At that instant, I felt like my mind had somehow floated above my body and I was watching the scene in a movie. As I looked down at Claudia's two adolescent hands, I again noticed the sparkly blue fingernail polish, the charm bracelet on her left wrist, which I could now see had little silver dolphins and starfish dangling from it . . . my God, it hit me: the utter wickedness of it all! This pretty 14 year old girl, with a grown man in front of her, stripped naked, bound, his legs forced wide open, brutally torturing his penis with needle-like instruments she had made expressly for this purpose . . .

It wasn't right . . .

It wasn't natural . . .

It was downright EVIL.

"Yes," Claudia faintly whispered to herself, and she drove the needle all the way in--she even forced the pink plastic connector down into my urethra, pushing so firmly my cock-head looked inverted, caved-in. With that last, I felt the needle tip lurch forward into the inner reaches of my prostate.

"Ahhhhhhhhhhh!"

That orgasm was unlike anything I've ever experienced before or since. I didn't actually feel the normally intensely pleasurable contractions of my prostate at first--my whole being seemed to spiral heavenly crescendo of pure ecstasy. My cock, balls, and prostate simply felt numb. I remember being surprised when I saw, as if from the haze of a dream, a bullet of bloody semen shoot out of the head and splatter against Claudia's young palm--she was ready for it, holding her hand out in front of her like a traffic cop, blocking the spray from soaking her. Next, there were several pulses of fine red droplets--I saw a few crimson specks appear on Claudia's wrist. Again, I did not feel this second wave of pulsations--it was almost as if my genitals were over-stimulated from all the stress and abuse. I also realized I was yelling continuously in a helpless kind of groan. Then, finally, the main load was delivered--everything before that had only been "precum." Hard bursts of muddy-looking semen shot out of my swollen cock-head, some splattering across Claudia's upheld palm, others oozing out the hole and stringing down from the protruding needle tip to the floor. I slammed hard against the restraints during the peak of another wave of pulses, almost against my will, as if my body insisted that every ounce of jism be expelled. I was amazed at the sheer quantity that had built up inside me. Another half-dozen smaller spurts and gurgles came out--finally a whitish color, now--before I finally collapsed in exhaustion, hanging from the pillar as if crucified, unable to support myself any longer.

After a moment, I was vaguely aware of water running--Claudia was somewhere on the other side of the room washing her hands. I looked down at myself--the long needle had begun to work its way out of my tormented prick on its own, as the organ was slowly shrinking. She walked over to me, looked down at it, then grasped my cock-skin as she had before slowly pulled the needle the rest of the way out. It hurt, in a far-off, numb kind of way, but I was too spent to utter a sound. I saw blood dripping from my pee-hole, heard it tap-tap-tapping on the concrete. I closed my eyes . . . . then I smelled alcohol--Claudia was swabbing the end of my cock with a cotton ball. It burned, but the blood stopped dripping.

She rose again and picked up the medical book. She looked me over. "I guess you're no longer a virgin," she said, with a giggle. She turned and walked back across the room, that tight young ass pumping as if to propel her along. She opened a door that led to some other part of the infirmary, and glanced back at me. "Don't go away," she said, then laughed again and went out. I heard the door lock behind her.

I continued to hang from my bonds in silence, unable to try and stand on my own feet. I slowly turned my head and, on the concrete, saw the slashed up remains of my jockey shorts. Beyond them, alone and discarded, lay the broken, splintered pencil.

I may have been bent, but I was not broken.

Not yet . . .

(to be continued in Chapter 2)

Note to readers: this is my first submitted story. I will post the rest of it only if I receive significant positive feedback. If you liked this first chapter, please send comments to: [email protected]