Enhanced Prison - Epilogue
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Benjamin Howard, a free man, sat nervously at the coffee shop. His latte sat untouched as he eyed the door nervously.
His phone buzzed. He checked; just some work things. He texted a few people back.
When he looked up, Ben Galveston was sitting across from him.
“Hey there,” Galveston said.
Ben Howard felt his face turning red. He had not seen the guard since his release some six months before. Tucked inside the pocket of the suit he’d worn to court at his sentencing, the clothes he’d been wearing before being transported to the prison, he’d found a number.
Just a phone number. No name or any other sort of note. But he knew what it was. He’d put it in his wallet and got it out sometimes, ready to call, then folded it carefully back and put it away. But one night Ben Howard had had such a vivid dream about being back in the prison that he sent a text, hoping to get an answer back.
“Hey it’s Ben H,” he’d said. “You up?”
“Yeah,” came the reply. “Coffee tomorrow?”
So here they were. Ben Howard was dressed in a suit; he always wore one to the office, this one in soft gray and with blue socks and soft, brown leather shoes. Galveston wore jeans, a red t-shirt with some logo design on it, and the black leather jacket he’d worn while torturing him.
“It took you long enough,” Galveston said.
Ben Howard started to speak several times, then stopped, and started again, until finally on the fourth time he managed, “I’m really glad to see you.”
“Hey man, me too.”
“I’m not even really sure what I wanted.”
“Well,” Ben Galveston said, “I was the only person you saw for almost a year. You were my full time job. And you’re bound to have some PTSD from the whole thing. You got through one of the most fucked up things I’ve ever seen.”
“You think it’s fucked up?”
“Of course it’s fucked up.”
“But you were a pretty active participant in it.”
“That’s my job now, by the way,” Galveston said. “I train new guards. I teach them how we did it, how you and I did it together. I sit at the Warden’s weird god console and check on everybody, make sure they’re pushing just the right amount at just the right time.”
“You certainly pushed me in just the right way.”
Galveston frowned. Then, with a wry sort of expression, “I’m sorry,” he said. “I really did do a number on you.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Ben Howard replied. “It’s fine. You did your job. You did it well,” he added. “I will never fucking break the law again. I am one fucking hundred god damn percent rehabilitated. I won’t even jaywalk.”
They chatted for a little while about where their lives were. A couple of hours passed, and Ben Howard was sort of afraid that at the end of the conversation, he would never see Galveston again. Somehow, seeing him now, the idea of not seeing him again was unbearable.
As they got up to leave, he asked him, “We can do this again, right?”
Galveston chuckled. “Hell yeah, dude.”
“It’s not, like, unprofessional or anything?”
“No! Here. Let’s just go ahead and set something else up. Come have dinner with me tomorrow night. I’ll grill some burgers, we’ll drink some beers. We’ll play cards or some shit. Sound good?”
“Yes,” Ben Howard said. “Yes it does.”
* * *
The next evening, Ben Howard put special care into how he dressed. He hadn’t been this nervous since that first night at the prison. He wanted to look casual but respectful, and he desperately – and wasn’t this pathetic? – wanted Ben Galveston to think he was cool. Brown leather jacket. Jeans, blue hoodie. Black Converse with black socks.
He showed up at the address that Galveston had texted him. The house wasn’t in the best area of town, but it was one of those huge old Victorian numbers that had fallen out of, and back into, style. In five years, gentrification and the repairs Galveston seemed to be doing would make the house double in value.
He found Galveston out back, tending the promised grill. “Hey!” he said. “You made it!”
“Yeah,” Ben said. “I brought some beer?”
“Awesome. Put it in the fridge and come back out and talk to me.”
A few lawn chairs circled the grill. Ben Howard sat in one. Ben Galveston continued to flip the burgers.
“So I have to ask you something,” Galveston said.
“Yeah?”
“Did you ever get that cock cage off?”
Ben Howard really did blush this time. “No, no I didn’t,” he said.
“So you’ve just been wearing it? All the time?”
“Yes.”
“And you haven’t cum in – what? – like 15 months?’
“That – that sounds right?”
“Why haven’t you gotten some tools to take it off?”
“It’s the weirdest thing,” Ben Howard said. “Every time I start to think about it, I just feel all – all wrong, somehow. I can’t do it. I want to do it. I want to jerk off so god damn bad. But I can’t bring myself to do it. It’s almost like … I’m not sure how to describe it? … like I’d been …”
“Maybe,” Galveston said, turning his attention to the hamburgers, which he was finishing and putting on the buns, “like you’d been hypnotized?”
Ben Howard paused. “Come again?”
“Do you remember selecting the ‘hypnosis’ option on the torture menu?”
“Well, yeah,” he said. “But we never did it.”
“Yes, we did.”
“No,” Ben Howard said slowly, “we did all sorts of fucked up things – I seem to remember you smearing shit under my nose one day – but we never did the hypnosis sessions.”
“Or,” Galveston said, handing Ben Howard a paper plate, “you just don’t remember any of it.”
Ben Howard thought carefully. There were giant gaps in his memory, but he attributed those to the monotony and the torture. But as Galveston sat across from him, hamburger grease dripping down his mouth, Ben Howard knew it was true.
“You rotten bastard.”
“Hey,” Galveston said, his mouth full, “you signed on for it.”
“What did you program me to do?”
“Just the most important thing I did,” Galveston said. “I taught you to understand that you don’t deserve to cum. You won’t take the device off because you know, deep down, that it’s better if you wear it.”
“Ben,” Ben Howard said, “come on. I’m done. Can this be reversed?”
Galveston shrugged. “Probably? I dunno. If you really want, I can help you take the device off. Go get us a beer, dude. I’ve got some tools in the basement. We’ll knock that thing off after we eat and you should be able to jerk off as much as you want after that.”
* * *
The basement of Ben Galveston’s house was mostly unfinished. Calling it a “basement” at all was generous – it was more of a cellar, although it was clean, had electricity, and had a concrete floor. It had a bathroom, a couch with a TV, and a workbench in the corner.
But as Ben Howard descended the stairs, he saw that it also had a pretty familiar sight.
“What do you think of this?” Galveston asked.
In the corner of the basement, Galveston had set up a complete “dungeon” space. Manacles and handcuffs hung on the wall. Floggers, hoods, a straight jacket, a medieval pillory, a whipping post. And in the corner was a chain anchored into the floor, and at the other side of the chain was a thick, steel collar.
Ben Howard’s heart leapt as his cock got hard.
“You’re – pretty into this stuff,” he said.
“You are too,” Galveston said. “It’s why you’re here, right? It’s why you texted me.”
Ben Howard said nothing.
“You’re what you are, Ben. I am what I am. It’s okay if we enjoy it.”
“What do you have in mind?” Ben Howard asked slowly.
“Well, we came down here to knock that cock cage off. I guess we could do that.”
“Or?”
“Or,” Galveston said, walking over to the corner with the collar. He picked it up. “Or you could put this on. I think you’ll find it fits you perfectly.”
“If I put it on,” Ben Howard said, taking it reverently from Galveson’s hands, “is it ever going to come off again?”
“No.”
“Never?”
“Never.”
“You’re really serious.”
“Yes I am. I want you down here. I want to keep you chained up all the time. I want to own you.
“So let’s be clear,” Galveston said. “If you put that on, all your rights are gone. There’s no way out. This isn’t a bondage weekend. This is a life sentence. Is that what you want?”
Ben Howard fingered the collar slowly.
“Yes.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes. I don’t know what you did to me, but I think about you all the time. I will never be happy again unless I know you’re coming to torture me. You’ve got me really, really fucked up, dude.”
“It won’t ever be as bad as it was in the prison,” he said. “But that time, you knew it would end. This won’t end. I won’t ever let you cum again, bro. And years from now, when you beg me to let you go …”
“You’ll put a shock collar on me and tell me to shut the fuck up?”
“You’ve got the idea.”
“You’re putting me in manacles and shackles again, right?”
“Absolutely.”
“And I’m never getting released?”
“Never.”
“And I’ll never cum again?”
“Nope.”
Ben Howard hesitated only for a moment before he put the collar around his neck and, with a dreadful click, snapped it shut forever.
“Fuck. Yeah.” Galveston practically beamed. “Fuck yeah, dude!”
His enthusiasm was infectious.
“Hey,” Ben Howard said, “I just become your slave.”
“How do you feel?”
“Fucking great,” Ben Howard replied. “I have never been as happy as I am right now.”
And as Ben Howard got undressed so Galveston could get the manacles and shackles ready, the ones he’d wear for the rest of his life, Ben Howard began to cry from relief, released from the burden of freedom, safe in the knowledge that the person he worshiped the most would be his jailer and torturer for the rest of his days.
The End
