Date: Fri, 03 Jul 2020 17:17:26 +0000
From: jordanproject@protonmail.com
Subject: Prison Correction Chapter 4

This story is fiction. Any resemblance to real people is purely
coincidental. It's copyrighted 2020 by The Jordan Project, all rights
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* * * *

The next day – or maybe two or three days later, for all he know – he
woke up. He cleaned himself out, and the junior corrections officer
inspected him with the rubber glove as before, but without allowing an
erection. He was fed, and given drug-laced "water."

He noticed there was no jumpsuit in the room, only a t-shirt. The officer
pointed to it and said, in a mocking tone that recalled a high school
bully, "There's yer clothes, little one. Ya want a jumpsuit, ya earn
it. 'Til then, we'll all get to look at just why little half buck is little
half buck."

The prisoner cringed.

"Yes sir," he replied, softly.

"One more thing," the junior corrections officer said. "Get on yer knees."

The boy complied, and the corrections officer stepped up toward him. He
unzipped himself, inserted his erection into the boy's mouth, and screwed
roughly. In short order, he ejaculated into the prisoner's mouth, this time
without praise or sounds of pleasure. It was strictly mechanical. When the
officer was done, he zipped back up as the boy continued to kneel in front
of him.

"Follow me," he instructed.

Clad only in his t-shirt, Randy was led back to the corridor. They stopped
at the office, and the junior officer presented him to his senior partner,
who glanced up and smirked.

"Put him to work," he said, and went back to his paperwork.

The junior corrections officer led him back to the cell he had so
thoroughly and meticulously cleaned. Randy was shocked by what was
there. Mud, dirt, oil, and God only knows what had been thrown inside. It
was beyond filthy. He suppressed the urge to say anything.

"Mop the floor," the officer said, recalling his instructions a few weeks
ago. "Then scrub by hand. Start over in the corner. Go the width of yer
arms stretched out in each direction. Spread water. Squirt soap. Scrub
floor. Spread more water. Use the rag to dry the floor. When yer done with
that corner, let me know."

"Yes sir," the boy replied.

As the officer turned to walk away, the boy looked at the tools he'd been
given and called out.

"Sir, where's the brush?" he asked.

"Look under the rag," the corrections officer called over his
shoulder. "Little fella, little brush. Make sure to keep it clean."

After the officer left, he peered under the rag and found a toothbrush, and
moaned to himself.

"This will take forever," he said, before starting on his work.

From time to time, he'd hear one or the other corrections officer,
sometimes both of them, walk down the corridor past his cell. They ignored
him, talking about this or that bit of prison business.

A couple hours after he'd begun, the senior officer walked down the
corridor. He heard the steps and thought nothing of them, expecting the
officer to continue down the hallway. But this time the corrections officer
stopped, peeked into the room, and caught the prisoner's eye.

"Over here," he said, curling his finger toward the boy.

Randy walked over toward the officer.

"On yer knees, look at me with yer mouth open," the corrections officer
said.

"Yes sir," the boy said, moving to comply.

The officer unzipped his fly and hauled out his soft penis, which the
kneeling boy against noticed that, in its flaccid state, was far longer and
thicker than his own while fully erect. The officer urinated, aiming the
stream into the boy's mouth.

"Swallow it," he commanded, evenly.

The boy complied as much as he could, but much of the officer's piss wound
up on his face, his head, and his shirt, leaving him feeling
drenched. After 30 seconds, the officer was finished. He zipped himself up.

"Back to work," he said, and left.

At lunch, the junior corrections officer gave the inmate his meal. But
instead of including water, he handed the boy a cup and ordered him to hold
it in front of his fly. He unzipped his trousers, hauled out his flaccid
penis, and filled the receptacle as the boy watched.

Later in the afternoon, the junior corrections officer interrupted the
work, brought the boy back to his room and ordered him to shower thoroughly
and clean himself out again. When it was done, he performed another
inspection with a lubed-up rubber glove, then led the young inmate back
down the corridor to a different cell that was identical to the one he'd
been cleaning.

The boy recognized the duffel bag, and the straps and chains.

"Ya know the drill, so get to it," the officer said roughly.

When he was secured in the restraints, the junior corrections officer
forced the boy to piss into the cup that contained his afternoon dose of
Correctol, then drink the mixture. Then called to his partner, who walked
down the corridor in a businesslike fashion and quickly entered the cell.

This time there was no beating, nor was the inmate permitted an erection at
any point. Only the same deep screwing, followed by the same order to lick
up the ejaculate forced from his prostate by the senior officer's enormous
pecker.

Few words were exchanged. When it was over, the senior corrections officer
left the cell, and the young inmate was allowed to recover. That evening,
the senior corrections officer delivered dinner, and pissed in the boy's
cup, as the junior officer had. His soft dick was enormous, and he smiled
mockingly as he saw the boy looking at it.

"Yer lookin' at somethin' you'll never have, little fella," he said. "Ya
learn yer place, things'll go okay. Ya mess up, they'll go badly. Ya keep
messin' up, ya lose them little balls. Whatever happens'll be be yer own
doin' and nobody else's."

The boy's eyes filled with tears, and he stammered.

"Sir, I'm ... I'm ..."

"Sorry?" the senior corrections officer asked. "You best shut yer little
mouth and do some deep thinkin' about yerself, Matthews. I'm putting ya to
bed now, and the lights are goin' down."

"Yes sir," the boy said, as he began to whimper. The officer left the
cell. Darkness closed in, as the boy began to cry softly and search for his
thumb.

Time as Randy had known it ceased to exist. His sleep seemed heavy and
profound. A routine developed. The junior officer would wake him up, use
his mouth, and see to it that he gave himself an enema. He'd be fed piss
during the day, with his meals and between them. In the late afternoons,
the senior corrections officer would have the junior officer bind him
tightly before screwing him.

Whatever personal connection that had seemed to exist was gone. Randy now
felt like a thing, a freak, a receptacle. Still under the influence of
Correctol, he was hyper sensitive to their tone. He knew his insolence had
offended them, but now it seemed to go deeper. They showed their contempt
at every opportunity, pushing him down, down, down.

There were days and days of it. Randy tried to avoid the worst, and
eventually his nights were less unsettled. One night, he discovered that
sounds carried in odd ways in the old prison. In one corner of his cell, he
could hear the officers' private conversations in the office.

At first, it was a secret thrill to hear what they really said to each
other. He figured find out how the place really worked, and what these Men
who were fucking his mouth and ass day in and day out were really up
to. Were they just queers in uniform, or what?

Over time, though, his eavesdropping became less satisfying. He heard
things about the prison, the Men, himself, and life that he found
unsettling, sometimes profoundly. Sometimes, he was simply jealous of the
Men: their power, their masculinity, their freedom. But he couldn't stop
eavesdropping, as much as he might try.

One night, he burned with humiliation and envy as he heard the senior
corrections officer chatting with his partner as he pretended to complain
about his wife.

"Janie is wearin' me out, I'll tell ya," he told the junior officer, as
Randy pressed his ear toward the point where the toilet's water intake pipe
emerged from the wall.

"I swear that woman has a dick addiction!" he laughed. "I kid ya not, she
measures my pecker every week. Guess what? I'm still 10 and a quarter
inches long and 7 inches around. I've been 10 and a quarter inches long and
7 inches around for the past 17 years of marriage. Ha!"

The junior corrections officer laughed.

"Okay, well now I guess I know why ya want me to grease that bad boy up
before ya stick it up the prisoner's butt," he said. "Ya can't get yer hand
all the way around it?"

"Nah," the senior officer answered. "I just don't wanna get that stuff all
over my uniform. Easier when someone else greases it up."

The junior officer spoke.

"Little fella down here, what, he's three inches hard?" he said, his voice
tinged with a mixture of amazement and derision. "Little fella got made
wrong, I'd say."

"Kinda reminds me of my youngest boy in his cowboy clothes," the senior
corrections officer answered. "But heck, even little Cody Sanders has got a
bigger whang at age of six than our prisoner does at the age of 22."

They both laughed, and the senior officer continued.

"Or was it 23?" he said. "Or 13? Or nine? Ha!"

Another night, Randy heard them discussing his psychological report.

"Did ya get a load a-the supplement sheet that came with the boy's psych
summary?" the senior corrections officer asked one night.

"What ya talkin' about?" his partner answered. "I never heard of such a
thing."

"Oops, guess I didn't show ya," the senior officer answered. "Sorry 'bout
that. One a-the little secrets 'round here. Doc upstairs talks to everyone
and then writes somethin' out by hand. Can't be traced, but tells the real
story."

"Oh man, I'd love to see that!" the junior corrections officer said.

The sound of the senior officer rummaging around in drawers carried through
the pipes.

"Here it is," he said, laughing.

"Jason Hornbeck: Boy or bitch?" The older officer kept laughing as he read
from the sheet. "Just listen to this, and tell me it ain't true!"

"Physical: Cute little fella! Better put him with the meanest fucker on the
block, otherwise you'll have the Men killing each other over who gets him
first. His brothers apparently named him 'little half buck' and told him
he'd never be a Man. True enough! His bones have stopped growing, along
with everything else. This one's going to be 12 years old forever. Not
deformed, but just this side of defective by the medical definitions.

"Psychology: Mouthy little brat! Mentally pretty quick, which makes him
trainable. Doesn't hear voices, so we won't compete with the ones inside
his head. His big problem is what you'd imagine. Can't stop thinking about
being the smallest, shortest, littlest little kid in the room. Not
homosexual, but might as well be. Can't take his mind off Men and their
equipment. It's not an exaggeration to say that he thinks about it all the
time.

"The trick will be getting him to accept what it means in a custodial
setting. Must be confronted with reality. Coax him if you can, beat it into
him if you must. If none of that works, castration's an option. Meantime,
I'd recommend placing him with Robert Dell Warren. As good a match as
you'll find. Warren's a tough but stable Man who has had a reasonably good
track record with his boys. But don't throw him in there without
considerable advance prep. Warren won't give the little fella too many
second chances."

The junior corrections officer chortled.

"Dang, I wondered what pairin' him up with Warren was all about, boss," he
said. "Makes some sense. Warren's probably the only one who can keep the
little guy alive up there, anyway."

"Yeah, I think so," the older officer answered, thoughtfully. "I been
thinkin' about yer idea of geldin' him, but I don't want to rush it. Not
real sure it'll need to get that far."

The younger corrections officer shook his head, not convinced.

"I don't know, boss," he said. "I look at that little half-pint and wonder
if he knows how close he is to losin' them little balls a-his."

"Patience, my friend," the older officer replied. "Just a hunch, but I
think we might be gettin' through. And a couple days ago I was able to go
talk to the gal he called his girlfriend, and to his brothers. Very
interestin' stuff they told me."

"Oh yeah, what did they have to say?" the junior officer asked.

"Well, it's getting' late, and I ain't got the time for it now," his
partner answered. "Let's just say that things ain't quite what the little
fella wanted a buncha people, includin' us, to think."

The eavesdropping young prisoner froze. He wondered how much the
corrections officer had learned. What had Angel told him? And his brothers!
His stomach felt hollow with a mixture of panic and humiliation, which
intensified as he heard the senior officer's familiar mocking chuckle.

"Just wait'll ya hear the rest a-the story," the crouching boy heard
through the pipes, imagining the senior officer leaning back in his chair,
legs spread, a lump in his uniform and a conqueror's confident smile on his
face. "Can't wait to see the look on little half buck's face, anyway."

The officers' conversation was over, and the young prisoner returned to his
bed and drifted off to asleep, in a confused haze, humiliation and
attraction blending with curiosity and dread over what the senior
corrections officer had learned.

A few days later, as he was cleaning the cell, the senior officer appeared
at the door. As he had done before, he caught the boy's eye, crooked his
finger, and said, "Come here."

Randy walked toward him, expecting to service the officer in some way.

"Follow me," the corrections officer said, walking toward the office. As he
entered, he saw the junior officer sitting on the couch facing the
desk. Papers had been cleared off, and a large television had been set upon
top of it. The senior officer grabbed a remote control off the the desk and
sat on the couch, opposite his partner.

"Sit," he said, gesturing between them. The prisoner moved toward the
couch, and was stopped by the senior corrections officer.

"On the floor between us," he said.

As the boy sat, he felt the cold linoleum against his bare ass. The junior
officer had taken to shaving the prisoner every couple of days, adding to
the humiliation of wearing nothing but a t-shirt.

"We're gonna watch us a movie, little fella," the senior officer said.

"It depends on what you mean by 'boyfriend,' I guess. In high school, does
anyone really know what that means?" the young woman on the screen
said. She spoke carefully and thoughtfully, yet in a detached manner that
made clear she had moved on. She was sitting in a booth at a quiet
restaurant.

"I'm sure Jason ... oh, right, he's Randall now, isn't he? I'm sure Randall
thinks I was his girlfriend for most of the time we were in high school,
but I don't think so. We were something anyway. Maybe just friends?"

There was a stark contrast between the woman in the video and the boy who
cowered naked on the floor. While both had attractive features, only one
was a poised and self-confident adult. The senior corrections officer's
voice could be heard, talking to the woman.

"Thank ya for agreeing to meet with me," he said, smoothly. "I was
pleasantly surprised when yer fiance contacted me, and said you'd meet. I
want to assure ya that whatever we talk about will never be used or seen
outside of our facility, period."

The woman smiled.

"Thank you for telling me that, but I wasn't worried," he said. "Ike told
me how you met, and that's enough for me."

The woman's husband-to-be was in his early 30s, and had served in a special
forces unit with the senior corrections officer. When she had reminisced
about how her strange and troubled high school friend had wound up at
Banner Creek, her fiance convinced her to let him contact his old buddy who
ran the vulnerable inmate training program.

On the tape, Ike explained that it was federally financed and on the
cutting edge, designed to keep young, long-term inmates from being murdered
within prison walls by adjusting them to the realities there before
releasing them into the general population.

It used a variety of psychological approaches to break through the defenses
erected by youthful inmates, confront them with their true selves, and use
the breakthroughs to help them adjust to their new lives. It didn't always
work, but some successes had been achieved. Not only might you help that
old friend of yours, her intended told her, but maybe it'd help put
everything behind you. He was aware that Angelica Dawes had been seriously
spooked by her first relationship.

"It was the typical athlete and cheerleader sort of thing, at least at the
start," she said. "If you can believe it, the wrestling team had
cheerleaders. I thought Jason ... I mean Randall ..."

"Don't ya worry about that, Miss Dawes," the officer interrupted. "Ya knew
him as Jason, so ya might as well use that."

"That makes sense," she said, and continued. "Jason was a cute boy, and he
had such a nice smile. I was new at the school. My parents had moved, and I
was a little lost. Jason was polite and well-mannered. So when he asked me
out to one of the dances, I said yes."

She soon had doubts.

"He was just so ... so ... angry," she said. "He hated his father and his
brothers, and he had a chip on his shoulder against most of the other
athletes in the school. I couldn't figure it out."

Over time, she began to realize that her boyfriend was deeply conflicted
about other boys.

"At first, it was about their height," she said. "Any boy who was taller
was a target, which meant just about everyone. He was always comparing
himself. It was all he could talk about. He thought that the tall guys were
out to get him, and he wanted to get them first."

After they'd been dating for six months or so, things turned "kind of
strange," she said.

"I noticed a big bulge in his trousers one night," she said. "It was
freakish. I tried not to notice, but it was kind of hard to ignore. He told
me he was tired of all the guys with big ... um ... things and their
attitudes, so he'd have a big one too."

Her boyfriend had found a penis sheath, and started wearing it on dates.

"But he never wanted to do anything more than kiss," she said. "What really
ended it was when I tried to unbuckle his belt one night. He said vicious
things to me, and the look on his face really scared me."

Shortly thereafter, he was arrested in the mini-mart holdup and went to
prison.

"I never knew about the other things he had done until then," she said. "We
were just kids. I was new there, and so many of the other girls were
jealous and petty. I didn't talk to many of them, and I'm not sure I'd have
trusted anything they told me even if they did warn me."

After he landed in prison, she bumped into one of Jason's brothers, who
filled her in on much of the boy's story.

"That's when I decided it would be over with," she said. "Somehow, he was
able to get me into the prison. Once I was there, he wanted me to spend the
night. I told him that I had come to break up with him in person, not to
sleep with him, especially in a jail cell."

The young prisoner took the news hard, but then asked her to stay overnight
anyway.

"He started crying. He begged me to stay, and promised not to touch me,"
she said. "He told me it would help his reputation inside the prison, and
keep him from being hurt. I felt sorry for him, so I agreed to stay on the
condition that he not touch me and that it was over between us."

The corrections officer's voice was heard on the tape.

"So ya never had any sex with him?" he asked, quickly adding, "I'm sorry to
pry, Miss Dawes, but he has claimed the two a-ya slept together. And he
spoke a-you like yer still boyfriend 'n girlfriend."

She laughed softly.

"Oh, no. We were never boyfriend and girlfriend, and we never did anything
more than kiss," she said, lightly. "And from what his brother told me, I
don't think there was much there to have any sex with."

The corrections officer could be heard chuckling.

"Harsh, but true enough," he said. "According to the doctors, he's got the
sexual development of a 10- or 11-year-old. Right on the edge of deformed,
I'd say. Report says a bit more than 3-1/2 inches erect. Poor little
fella."

The woman's eyes widened, and a smile crept across her face.

"Little fella!" she said. "Oh, I remember that! His brothers used to call
him that, and it drove him just crazy. Some other names too. But what you
just told me explains a lot. Poor little fella! I wonder if he was
homosexual."

The officer changed the subject.

"So now yer getting' ready to marry my ol' buddy Ike, I see," he
said. "Don't wanna talk outta school here, Miss Dawes, but I don't think
yer gonna be haulin' out any magnifyin' glass with him."

She smiled broadly.

"I know," she said, sweetly chuckling. "Ike's all Man. God only knows what
would have happened if I had fallen for that little Jason!"

Just then, her intended could be seen walking toward the camera. Tall,
handsome, with a crewcut, dressed in a crisp Army uniform. It was closely
tailored. From his perch on the floor, Randy instantly calculated that he
was at least nine inches long, hanging to the right.

"So when the two a-ya tyin' the knot?" the corrections officer was heard
asking his friend.

"A month from now. Got me everything I need," he said, turning toward his
girl with a smile. "Hope you do too, babe."

She smiled back.

"I do, honey," she said, in a mischievous tone. "Everything I need, and
then some."

She turned back toward the corrections officer.

"Have I told you what you need?" she asked.

"Yep," the officer answered. "No surprises, really, but ya been
helpful. And I do thank ya."

"I'm glad," she answered. "What will happen to Jason?"

"That'll be up to him," the officer answered. "He's been doin' a lot of
pretendin' over the years. If we can get him to let go a-that, he'll be
fine. Otherwise ... it'll be tough. Real, real tough."

"Pretending is right," the corrections officer's old buddy said. "That
little fella coulda done some real damage to my girl here. He wasn't ever
gonna be any kinda Man. Get him to face up to it, and go from there. Just
like some of the ones in our unit."

"Ya got it," the officer answered. "Ya got it exactly right. Tryin' to turn
it around, and show him how to behave. We'll get there, I think. Anyway,
Ike and Angelica, thanks fer comin'. Lookin' forward to attendin' yer
weddin'. Yer gonna invite me, I hope!"

Angelica laughed.

"Of course you'll have an invitation, but on one condition," she said. "I'd
rather not hear anything more about that boy. Jason, Randall, or whatever
he's called. Alright?"

"You got it," the corrections officer said. "All over with."

"Thanks," the husband said. "It's about time we cleaned that little bug off
the windshield. See ya next month."

The video jumped to the prisoner's two brothers. They walked toward the
booth. Both were ruggedly handsome, Matt in an Army uniform and Luke in a
state police officer's uniform. They were much larger than the prisoner
sitting on the floor. The police officer brother showed a large bump below
his belt buckle.

They sat down, and preliminaries were exchanged. Matt was acquainted with
Angelica's fiance, Ike, and in fact had arranged their first date. He had
served with Ike in the Army after the prison corrections officer had left
the Army and joined the staff at Banner Creek.

"I felt bad for her," he said. "She's a sweet, intelligent gal, and she
never deserved to hook up with that little shit who used to be my
brother. So when Ike complained about the women he'd been meeting, I told
him I knew of someone he ought to consider.

"Those two hit it off right from the start. It was just about love at first
sight. And talk about your going from famine to feast!"

The senior officer laughed at the reference to the fiance's dick.

"They used to call me 'tripod' in the squad," he told the seated
brothers. "Once Ike got there, they all said our squad now had two
tripods. We wound up pretty much leadin' the Men. You know what they say
about how big dicks rule! Seems to work out that way, don't it?"

Matt smiled.

"Once ya left and I got there, people were talkin' about how three makes a
tripod," he said, laughing. "Ike and me ran that squad by dick length, I
guess!"

Luke, the trooper, spoke.

"I'm sure the kid has told you all about how mean we were," he said,
spitting out the words. "Well, kids will be kids. But he was no angel, let
me tell you. He brought most of it on himself."

Matt explained that it was Jason who had the obsession with height, and
later dick size.

"For a long time, we'd try to tell him that it was okay, and that he'd grow
out of it," the brother said. "But he just wouldn't let go. It got worse
and worse and worse with him."

What about the cruel nicknames, the corrections officer asked.

"You mean 'little fella' and 'little half buck' and all that?" Luke
asked. "Guess what? He nicknamed himself! All we ever did was use them."

"Huh?" the officer could be heard asking on the tape. "Yer tellin' me he
made up his own insults? Now that's a new one."

"Yeah, well it's true," Luke said. "One night my father was talking about
how in some countries, the bills were different sizes based on their value,
but that in the U.S. a $100,000 bill was the same size as a $1 bill, a
little over six inches long."

Matt spoke.

"Oh yeah, it's coming back now," he said. "I remember him saying something
about how if a dollar was 6 inches long, he'd go for about 50 cents. We
laughed it off, but not long after that he got to feeling sorry for himself
and said maybe he just as well ought to be called 'little half buck.' He
came up with 'little fella' not long after."

Luke described a highly conflicted youngster.

"He had a real complex about it," he said. "I think he felt that if he only
tried harder, his dick would grow, so those names were his way of beating
himself up so he'd get on the stick and make it grow. I know it sounds
weird, but I think that's what was going on."

Aside from that, Luke added, Jason had been the worst kind of spoiled
tattletale as a boy. His parents, especially their father, had a blind spot
on the issue.

"It was just outrageous. We were constantly being punished," he said. "He'd
make shit up out of whole cloth just to screw us up. That's when the
so-called cruelty started."

But it did sound pretty bad in the reports, the corrections officer said.

"Okay, true enough," Luke said. "Holding him down, calling him 'baby boy'
and making him rub my hardon. Making him suck his thumb and telling him
he'd never be a Man, that was pretty rough. But the little shithead had it
coming. I didn't do any of that until he'd been tattling and making up
stories for a couple of years."

Why did the problem start, the officer asked.

"A couple things, I think," Matt said. "He actually had a different
father. Our dad was a real rat bastard, and before she died my mom told me
that she'd had an affair.

"The dude was everything Dad wasn't. Quiet, timid, and much
smaller. Probably accounts for the kid not looking a whole lot like us, and
for his, uh, shortcomings."

Luke laughed, and chimed in.

"Look at us," he said. "I'm 6-2, and Matt is 6-3. Dad is 6-3. All of us
with dicks to match. I can't blame the little fella for being upset, but I
swear to you that we really tried to ease the way for a long while."

But their youngest brother's resentment finally became too much to bear.

"It was the only way to keep him in line," Luke said. "All I had to do was
hint at what I'd made him do, and he'd shut it down."

Matt spoke.

"Okay, I'll admit we had too much fun calling him 'little fella' and
'little half buck' at times," he said. "But you've got to understand, it
was payback. The little bastard would stand there and watch our Dad beat
the shit out of us for things he'd made up."

"The two a-ya seem like yer still pretty mad at him," the officer
said. "Not castin' blame here, but didn't ya get yer payback a long time
ago?"

Matt answered.

"You know what did it for us?" he said. "It wasn't the kid stuff, 'cause
you're right about the payback. It was what he did to our folks."

"But ya said yerself that yer father was a rat bastard, if I can quote ya,"
the corrections officer answered.

"No question about it, he was," Luke answered. "But we made our peace with
him. The bargain was that he'd support our desire to leave the family
politics business, and we'd try to understand the pressure of it."

Matt laughed.

"I can't say those conversations were smooth or easy, but they did happen,"
he said. "Our father wound up telling us that he respected us as Men for
going our own way. He asked us to find a way to forgive him for being such
a bastard, and I've got to say that we've gone a long way down that road."

"But what about your brother?" the officer asked. "Don't he deserve
forgiveness too? After all, your father ..."

"No," Matt said quietly but firmly. "Our father went out of his way to be
easier on Jason. He tried to protect the kid. A lot of the shit he pulled
on us was to protect that kid."

Luke spoke.

"What really did it was when our mother and grandmother went to that first
prison and visited him," he said, bitterly. "They loved him like crazy, and
he kicked them each in the teeth. He killed them, I'm telling you. Flat out
killed them!"

"And then there was Angel," Matt said. "At one point he called her a whore
and a bitch for wanting to go beyond a make-out session. It was all about
his not wantin' her to see his little dick, and he put all his crap on
her. That torqued me off, bigtime."

The officer nodded sympathetically.

"So, when ya visited him at Duffy Correctional, what happened?" he asked,
naming the minimum security facility where the prisoner had been confined
after the convenience store robbery.

"We tried to bury the hatchet and tell him he was in real danger," Luke
said. "Little shithead got all full of himself and told us to fuck off. We
were still ready to wait it out, but when he destroyed our mother and
grandmother, that was the end."

"So that's when ya talked it over with your father, huh?" the corrections
officer asked.

"Oh boy, you should have been there," Matt replied. "Dad was ready to have
him killed inside, and I've got no doubt he could've made it happen. We
were the ones who came up with the ideas of cutting him out of the family
but giving him a chance to stay alive by sending him to you."

The corrections officer spoke.

"That does explain a thing or two," he said. "When the warden tried to set
up a meeting with yer father fer me, he refused. Said it'd be okey-doke to
talk to the two a-ya, but he never wants to hear about the kid again."

Matt nodded.

"Not sure we so either, to be real honest about it," he told the
officer. "The reason we came was because of Ike. He spoke highly of you,
Jake. Comrades in arms, you know. But as far as this so-called brother of
ours, I think I can speak for both of us when I tell you that we don't give
a damn past wanting him to have one more chance to stay alive."

Luke fixed a stare at the corrections officer.

"He'd better never contact his father, or his high school girl, even by
letter, or he will die," he said, calmly. "My dad will make sure of it, and
if he doesn't, then we will. You can make bank on it."

The officer replied, "I understand. I really do. It won't happen. The mail
is censored in both directions. The little squirt ain't gonna be writin' to
anyone we don't want him to write to, and he won't be sayin' anything we
don't want him to say. You can make bank on that, Luke."

"Thanks for listening to us about that," Matt said. "And thanks for showing
us the reports. When I think about it, I guess we hit it on the head about
how he'd never become a Man. That's the nub of it, I guess, if you'll
pardon the pun."

The two brothers and the officer shared a chuckle.

"From what I understand about prison in general, and Banner Creek, I can
guess what his future is," Luke said, cracking a slight smile. "I always
figured him for queer anyway."

Matt, the one in the Army, spoke up.

"I've got to disagree a little bit," he said. "I don't think it's so much a
queer thing as a matter of the rank order. Maybe it amounts to the same
thing as 'queer,' but like I say, I look at it a bit differently. Hard to
put it in words, I guess."

The corrections officer spoke.

"I see it just the way ya do," he replied. "It's pretty simple, but that
don't make it easy. If it was just about havin' a dick in him in prison,
there'd be no need for the trainin' we do."

Luke spoke.

"Call it what you will," he said, with a laugh. "I'd always tell him that
he had to suck it up. Guess he'll get that chance now, anyway!"

The video was over. Now the corrections officers knew everything. The lies
had been unmasked. The full extent of his brothers' hatred shocked him. And
there was the news that he wasn't even his father's son. The boy sat on the
floor in a puddle of his own urine. He had pissed without realizing it. He
was frozen in place, shaking, barely breathing.

The senior officer reached down, scrunched up the boy's t-shirt, and lifted
him in the air.

"Looks like our little fella has got some explainin' to do," he said to his
partner. "Lyin' little brat."

He set the youngster back down in his puddle and looked town at the him,
contempt written all over his face.

"Looks like someone made a mess on my floor," he said to his
partner. "Wonder who it might be. You do it, Deke?"

"Nope, musta been someone else," the junior corrections officer answered,
as he lightly slapped the back of the prisoner's head. "Maybe he'll own up
to it."

"I did it, sir," the youngster said.

"What did ya do?" the senior officer asked.

"I couldn't help it," the youngster said, whimpering.

"I know that, little fella," the corrections officer said. "Now ya tell me
what ya did."

"I urinated on the floor, sir," he answered.

"Ya pissed on 'the' floor?" the officer asked, rapping the prisoner's head
with his knuckles, causing him to flinch. "Whose floor would that be?"

"It's your floor, sir," the young prisoner replied.

The corrections officers sat, saying nothing, as the seconds ticked by.

"I'll get a rag and clean it up," the boy finally said, with desperation in
his voice.

"Whose rag would that be?" the senior officer asked.

"Your rag, sir," the youngster answered, his voice shaking.

"Yer tellin' me that you will will use my rag to clean up yer piss?" the
senior officer asked, incredulously. "Yer tellin' me that yer just gonna go
get a piece a-my property and use it to mop up what ya did there? That's
what yer tellin' me?"

The prisoner sat silently, and the corrections officer rapped his knuckles
on his head again, harder.

"Ya mean to tell me yer gonna do that without even askin' me?" the officer
said, his voice rising.

"Sir, may I use your rag to clean up the mess I made?" the prisoner asked,
his voice quavering in a high-pitched whine as he struggled to maintain
control.

"Permission denied," the senior officer barked. "What are ya gonna do about
yer mess?"

"Sir, I want to clean it up!" the youngster said. He began to cry. "What
should I do, sir?"

"Think!" the senior corrections officer said, rapping the boy's head again.

The boy scanned the room wildly with his eyes, his head moving from side to
side. At last, he had an idea.

"My t-shirt, sir! Can I use my t-shirt?" he cried.

"Permission denied," the senior officer barked. "Deke, go get yer prod."

The junior officer rose and went to the desk. He opened a drawer and
withdrew the same electric prod he had used on the first day. He walked
back to the couch and sat down.

"Got a mess to clean there," the junior corrections officer said,
softly. He turned the top of the prod, producing an audible click. "Maybe
this will help ya figure out a way."

The boy was panicked now. He began muttering to himself. "What can I do?
What can I do," he said, in a soft whimper.

The junior officer leaned down and whispered something in the boy's ear.

"Sir," the youngster pleaded, turning to the senior corrections
officer. "Can I lick your floor clean, sir?"

"Ya want to lick yer piss off my floor?" the officer asked. "That's what ya
want to do?"

The junior corrections officer turned the prod's control another click.

"Yes sir," the boy cried. "Please let me lick up my mess, sir! I'm sorry
sir! Please let me lick it up, sir!"

The senior officer looked down into the boy's teary eyes and smiled.

"Ya gonna make sure and get it all?" he asked. "Every last bit? That's what
ya wanna do?"

"Yes sir, I want to do that, sir!" the boy cried.

"Okey doke, get movin' with it," the officer said.

The boy got on his knees and elbows and began rapidly licking the
floor. His urine had mixed with his tears.

"That's right, little half buck, ya get my floor good 'n clean," the senior
corrections officer said.

When the youngster was finished, the senior officer again grabbed the
crying boy by his t-shirt, held him at arm's length, carried him to his
cell, and he dumped him on his bed.

Then, he backed away and faced the prisoner from five feet away. He
unzipped his fly and took his flaccid, yet enormous, dick out and began
pissing on the floor. When he was finished, he put it back inside and
zipped up.

"There's a mess on my floor," he said. "What ya wanna do about it?"

"May I please lick your floor clean, sir?" the boy answered.

"Go to it," the corrections officer answered.

The boy clambered off the bed, knelt down and licked the floor as the
officer watched. At last he was finished. The officer spit on the floor.

"You missed that," he said.

"Yes sir," he boy said. "May I please lick it up, sir?"

"Go to it," the officer said, chuckling.

The corrections officer repeated his game over and over, prompting the
humiliated youngster to move faster and faster. As he moved from spot to
spot, the officer made sure to nudge the crawling prisoner's tiny balls
with the tip of his boot. Finally, the game was over. He nudged the boy's
balls once more.

"Yer on thin ice, Matthews," he said, coldly, before turning around and
leaving. "Time to turn out yer lights."

"Y-y-yes sir," the prisoner stammered, fearing the darkness.

Alone in his dark cell, exhausted by the shattering emotional breakdown
prompted by the video, and the humiliation of being manipulated into
begging to lick piss and spit off the floors while the officers watched,
the prisoner cried, sucked his thumb, and slept.