ERIC'S REVENGE
Chapter eight
Eric had cuffed me for the short climb to the prison yard where my eight hours of unremitting hard labour started every day.
This yard was only for hard-labour prisoners who were being specially punished. The work was made worse by being pointless. You could never get to the end. You just carried heavy bricks, concrete, paving stones, sharp but heavy tiles and building rubble, for no purpose other than to work as a punishment. You stacked everything on one side of the yard and then carried them back to the other side again, and so on, at the double when ordered. Hard labour special punishments were never given to prisoners for more than a week or two to teach a quick lesson. My special punishment, far worse than all the others', was to continue without remission for my whole five-year sentence. Eric had made that clear. What was more, I was also kept naked and not allowed shorts like the other prisoners, or even allowed shoes or gloves for protection, and I had only half as many breaks, and I had a personal guard who beat me if he thought I was slacking, or just for fun.
When we entered the yard that morning, Eric attached me by my cuffs to a pole. When he quickly tied some rope around my balls and also attached them to the pole, I was totally exposed and I thought he was going to beat ne again.
In fact, both Eric and the black trainee guard, who supervised my hard labour, did in hit me a few times, but only casually to entertain themselves -- a nasty bash with a truncheon on my upper arm from the trainee, a quick but vigorous twist of my right nipple from Eric, a couple of kick with a steel-tipped boot on my right shin from the trainee. Then they brought a couple of chairs over to where I was tied and sat down, looking at me -- naked, vulnerable, pathetic, tortured.
There are going to be some changes in your regime. Are you listening carefully, cunt?' Yes, Sir, I'm listening carefully'.
First, we're adding vitamins and antibiotics to your breakfast. Mixed with my morning piss and that disgusting but apparently super-healthy gruel, the taste will be vile, but you'll eat it all and it'll keep you healthy. That means, shitface, that you'll be able to take more punishments and more pain -- good news?' Eric expected an answer Yes, Sir, thank you, Sir. That's good news, Sir'.
Eric smiled and continued, We're also going to give you occasional rest-days from hard labour -- you won't know when they're coming and they'll be so unpleasant for that you'll wish you were still back here hard-labouring -- but, again, they'll give you some rest of sorts and keep you fit so we can torture you more -- good news too?' Yes, Sir, thank you, Sir. That's good news too, Sir''.
Second', Eric continued in his matter-of-fact way, with his dimpled smile I had once loved but now dreaded, you'll get water as well as piss to drink during your hard labour. You'll drink a full litre and a half of fresh water at the start of both the morning and afternoon hard-labour sessions each session. You'll still drink piss with your pig-food at lunchtime. Understood?' Yes, Sir, thank you, Sir', I said.
Third, my colleague here will only paddle you at the end of the hard-labour day. Theoretically, he'll only paddle you if you deserve it but I expect you'll always deserve it. He will discipline you the rest of the time with this electric cattle prod -- he handed the prod to the black trainee guard. When he thinks you're slacking or just need extra discipline, he'll prod you -- he can choose anywhere but I've suggested that he mainly prods your balls where it'll cause you the most pain. Well?' Thank you, Sir. I deserve it, Sir, especially on my balls, Sir'. Shall I try it on your balls now?' I knew there was only one answer Yes please Sir'. Eric reached out to where my balls were tied to the pole -- I felt my whole body shudder as if something heavy had slammed into me and I thought I smelt burning, and then came the pain with my balls both intensely sore and aching as if from a powerful kick at the same time. `Good discipline', laughed Eric and the trainee laughed too, as he took back the prod from Eric.
Finally, we're going to make sure your hands hurt. I want it to be much more painful for you when you lift bricks and the other rubbish here. You're getting two hits each on the palms and knuckles of one of your hands from this trainee guard's studded belt before you begin work each day. Left hand today, right hand tomorrow, and so on. What do you think of that, cunt?' Thank you, Sir. I deserve it, Sir.' Eric raised an eyebrow so I added, `Please belt my hands very hard, Sirs, because I need to feel extra pain all the time.'
They prepared to torture my left hand.
With my balls still roped to the pole, the black trainee guard uncuffed my hands and placed my left hand on a high stool he had pulled across to me. It was a kind of wooden bar stool, where he often sat to supervise my hard labour. He turned my left hand palm up and told me to keep it still. Eric said: You won't actually be able to keep your hand still after he's hit it, but you'll have to get it back in position for his second hit within 10 seconds, or he'll repeat the first hit' said Eric. It could actually go on till your hand drops off if you don't obey', he added and laughed. The trainee smirked as he removed his belt and showed it to me up close. As an instrument of punishment it was fearsome -- thick black leather covered with metal studs. It was obvious that it would hurt a lot when the trainee whipped my defenceless hand with it.
The first time the belt whipped my left hand was like hearing a gunshot. I didn't feel it for half a second. I just heard the bang of metal and leather hitting soft flesh, as it echoed around the yard. Then an overwhelming stinging pain registered in my brain. The sheer cruelty of using a studded belt to whip my palm was beyond belief. I lifted my hand to my face and saw an agonisingly painful scarlet mark forming right across the hand. The pain intensified as I watched.
Then I realised that Eric was counting and somehow forced myself to put my hand back, now-tortured palm exposed again for the second violent hit. I could see my bruised palm-flesh on that wooden stool, which had been smooth and pink a moment ago, now had four or five circular crimson marks where the studs had done their work. They radiated indescribable pain. And now that belt, that hard leather, those unyielding metal studs, were again swinging downwards from above the trainee's shoulder, a look of concentration and hatred on the trainee's face. The belt smashed into the delicate flesh of my left palm for a second time. I pulled my hand off that plastic stool like I was pulling it out of a mangle -- I was in complete agony.
Turn your hand over', said Eric. Same ten-second rule applies'.
To beat my knuckles, I was actually relieved for a moment to see that the trainee was using the other side of his belt where, instead of metal studs, there was just the coarse stitching which held the studs in place. Then I realised that, although my knuckles wouldn't now be broken by the metal studs, this was going to be just as cruel. I screamed so loudly when the rough back of the trainee's belt tore into my knuckles that everyone in the yard looked round at me, even the prisoners carrying their punishment loads. Eric actually laughed. The belt had torn the flesh off my two most prominent knuckles and they were already bleeding slightly --the pain was so intense, especially combined with the pain in my palm, that I missed the ten-second limit. `The guard will repeat the stroke now', said Eric.
Two more torturing whippings with the back of the belt later, my hand felt as if it had been in molten metal. It was unbelievably sensitive. I tried to cradle it with my so-far undamaged right hand, was due to get the same treatment tomorrow, but even the cradling was agony. I had to just hold my tortured left hand in the air, knowing that somehow in a few minutes I would have to use it to lift and carry builders' rubble. `You won't enjoy using that left hand in your hard labour', smiled Eric.
OK', said Eric to the trainee, You did that well'. `Give him his 1½ litres of water -- you can still add spit or snot but please don't piss in it -- he'll drink piss later. Then get him to work. Don't forget to use that prod if he slacks off -- anywhere on his body -- if he pisses himself, you can get at the tip of his dick by pushing the prod through his cage if that's what you think he deserves', advised Eric.
Eric sprayed my belted hand with his antiseptic and pepper-spray mix, which of course made me scream more. Then the black trainee guard undid my balls from the pole and spat and blew snot from his nose into my drinking water before ordering me to `drink it all especially the snot floating on top, cunt'. Then he ordered me back to work.
I worked at my hard labour that morning with my tortured left hand. From time to time, I just couldn't help it dropping something -- maybe a shard would rub against one of the places where I'd been belted. So I had several encounters with the cattle prod on my well-beaten ass, on my balls and on the tip of my cock when I couldn't hold my piss any longer was the worst morning of hard labour so far. Near the end of the morning, when I was exhausted, the trainee ordered me to carry a heavy load at the double. I slipped and dropped everything as I tried to obey him, my cane stripes pulling, my hand in agony, but I fell. With the kind of sadism I thought only Eric was capable of, the trainee walked over to me and shocked the belted palm of my left hand itself. I can't describe the pain and horror of that hard-labour morning. It was horrendous in every way.
Relief at my pig-food break was short-lived. In pain everywhere, I had to kneel with a straight back on broken tiles to wait for Eric. When he came, Eric put on the floor in front of me my lunchtime pig-food. It was in the vomit bowl I had drunk from on my first afternoon. The smell of vomit overwhelmed the smell of the more or less inedible scraps Eric had put in the bowl. In the bowl today', Eric said, breaking out into his finest dimpled smile, you've got grey sludge made up from bits left on prisoners' plates the day before yesterday -- it was some unpleasant kind of mince and these are mostly sludgy bits they clearly couldn't digest and spat back. You've got the remains of a fried egg that got dropped on the floor and trodden on at breakfast this morning. And you'll find a couple of cigarette butts that were swept up with the egg and some other dirt off the floor -- it's all in your bowl, cunt.
`Eat it all, including some bits of vomit which I left in your bowl as a little extra punishment for you, shitface. Leave anything and I'll cane you. Start eating', said Eric.