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Logan was nervous. Well, any sane person would be, under the circumstances. Here he was, parked on the side of the road, sitting and waiting for a man whom he'd never seen, specifically a man driving a white van marked “Samson Security” on the back. He was wearing an orange prison jumpsuit, which was sure to get police attention if they noticed him. One cop had driven by already, and Logan tried to sink down low, but the cop didn't even look his way. And a little later, a white van, but not the right one. He was beginning to think it was all for nothing, and then it came: a white cargo van with a grille visible through the two back windows, and “Samson Security” lettered on one door. It had slowed as it passed, and Logan started his car and followed it, as instructed. A few blocks later, the van turned and pulled into one bay of a two door garage; Logan drove into the other and parked, again per instructions. The garage doors rattled down, and when they were closed, an intercom voice said, “get out of the car and kneel behind it with your hands on your head. Leave your keys and wallet and anything else on the trunk in front of you.” So Logan got out, and emptied his pockets, and piled it on the back of his car, and then knelt on the cold concrete. Still nervous.

“Look straight ahead and do not move until you are instructed to do so.” Logan heard the van door open, and then footsteps. Then the voice spoke directly behind him.

“This is your last chance to back out. You can say no now, take your things, and get back in your car, and drive away. If you don't, there's no going back.”

“Yes sir,” said Logan, a little timidly. “I mean, no, I'm not backing out.”

The voice said nothing more, and he felt a hand reach out, take his right forearm, and pull it around and behind his back, where a cuff was locked on it. Then the other arm, and he was cuffed with his palms out, exactly as he had fantasized. Then he felt a cuff ratchet over each ankle.

“You can stand up now, prisoner,” said the voice, and a hand grasped his elbow as he stumbled to his feet. He turned his head; the hand belonged to a man dressed as a prison guard: his jailer, and his executioner, because tomorrow, or the next day, he had an appointment to be hanged. So yes, he was nervous. What sane person wouldn't be?

But then, what sane person would have responded to the ad, carefully and elliptically worded? Who would have conversed with a stranger about what it was that Logan wanted, and how he was going to arrange getting it: namely, a rope around his neck, and a short drop, and (most importantly) someone to let him down before it was too late? The idea had tugged at him for a long time, maybe even since before high school, and now that he had an apartment (albeit in a house with three other guys) he had gotten the jumpsuit, and his own cuffs, and of course a hank of rope. And he had cuffed himself in his jumpsuit, and tied a noose many a time, and put it around his neck, and tightened it; but he could not bring himself to take the final step off a stool or something and into the air. He wasn't going to risk tying the other end off, and when he held it himself, the last step—he couldn't do it.

So instead he fantasized, and he read forums online, and followed various sites, and one day found a sympathetic voice, a suggestive ad. And he responded, and they talked, and eventually he was told that arrangements could be made, and so Logan made those arrangements, to be on the side of the road at a certain place and time, and to look for a certain van and to follow it. And here he was, and the man opened the back doors of the van, and there was a mesh panel with a mesh door in the center of it, and the man opened that door, and there were bench seats facing each other, and the man reached in and pulled out a small metal case like a tool chest, and opened it; and Logan watched as the man opened it and took Logan's effects and put them in the case and shut it and padlocked it. He slid it back into a recess on the floor, and then he turned to Logan and said, “Get in.”

“Yes sir,” Logan replied, and with the man at his elbow again he stepped up and ducked through the doorway, and crouching, maneuvered himself onto one of the benches. “Slide up against the wall,” the man said, and he climbed in himself and buckled a seatbelt across Logan's waist. Then he clapped Logan on the shoulder and said, “Welcome to your limo. It's the real thing; a buddy of mine uses it to transport prisoners between jails. And you got the deluxe version here, with working AC and seatbelts and everything.” Then he clambered back down, shut and locked the mesh door, and closed the van doors over that. Then Logan heard the driver's door open, and the van started up, and then everything went dark for a moment as the garage lights were turned off, and then it grew light again as the garage door opened and the van backed out, and they were off.

Logan lost any sense of time, but they drove maybe an hour before the van disappeared into another garage. It stopped and then the doors were opened, and the man clambered in and unbelted Logan. “Go through the door and stand on the yellow footprints,” he said, and again there was the awkward climbing out with a chain between his ankles and nothing to hold onto (or with); the man pulled a door open and directed Logan through it, into a small room with some shelves on one side and another door in the opposite wall, and a shower set into the other wall. And there were the footprints on the concrete floor, and Logan stood on them, waiting, nervous.

The man started unlocking the cuffs, saying, “you will address me as 'sir'; you will answer with 'yes sir' or 'no sir' or 'I don't understand, sir.' Is that clear?”

“Yes sir,” said Logan, who was rubbing his wrists.

“Take everything off and put it in that crate, then wash yourself off in the shower. You have ten minutes. When you're done you will put on the clothing I will have for you, then stand on the footprints with your hands on your head. Is that clear?”

“Yes sir.”

The shower was lukewarm and the soap hard; there was no shampoo. When Logan emerged there was a towel, a fresh jumpsuit, white boxers and T-shirt and socks, and a pair of slip-on canvas shoes. He dressed as directed and stood on the footprints again, and the man wrapped a belly chain around Logan's waist, slipped the cuffs into it, and locked Logan's wrists in front of him. Then it was up against the wall next to the shower for mugshots, and through the door down a short hallway to a second door, except there was no wall here, but only bars, and the door was a gate of bars too, and when the man unlocked it, it slid to the side, and the man shoved Logan through and shut it with a crash.

Yes, the man had his own private jail, with two cells: old-fashioned steel-barred cages with a two bed bunk and a toilet/sink combo in each. They opened, if that were the word, into a room with a metal desk as its only furnishing. Everything was painted an institutional gray except the plumbing fixtures, which were equally institutional stainless.

The man guided Logan to stand in front of the cell on their left, then unlocked it and slid the door open. “Stand in the center of the cell and face me.” Logan complied, and the door was slid shut and locked again. “Put your hands through the slot.” He did so, and the cuffs and chain were removed. “All right, so here is the drill. You will receive meals three times a day; lights out will be at 9 and will come on again at 7. Here are toiletries”—he handed a small plastic bag with a toothbrush, a bit of soap, toothpaste, and a razor— “and if you want something to read we have various books and a few magazines. Because it's going to be very boring.”

“Sir,” started Logan—

“You have a question, prisoner?”

“Yes sir. When is it going to be?”

“Your execution? When it's time, I'll come for you.” The man turned and went through the bars, and closed the gate with another crash, and Logan was left alone. It was very boring. By Logan's reckoning, he'd been picked up in the early afternoon, and by now the clock mounted high on the wall read 3:42. There was nothing to do except watch the clock, or maybe do a few pushups, as the cell was barely big enough for that, or sit on the bunk and contemplate his folly. About every forty-five minutes the man reappeared at the gate, opened it, came in and looked into the cell, and then left again without a word, punctuated by the now-routine crash of the gate. Dinner arrived at 7 in the form of a microwaved frozen meal and disposable plastic cutlery and a plastic cup which Logan filled from the sink, all slid through another slot at floor level on a plastic tray; and when Logan finished, it was all slid back through the slot and collected. Logan noticed a set of small cameras mounted high on the wall, one of which he presumed was being used to watch him. After dinner he decided he might as well shave. That ate up fifteen minutes, and then he was left to his thoughts again. He wondered how death row inmates could stand it, all the waiting, waiting for the day they had marked on their calendars; but then again, each day of boredom was another day of life. He'd read somewhere that in Japan they didn't have a date set; one day the guards just came and that was it. At least he had only a day or so of uncertainty. He imagined for the dozenth time what it was going to be like. Then the lights switched off, and he laid himself out on the bunk's thin mattress, with a pillow but no bedclothes. Sleep did not come easily; he was too keyed up.

Then with the crash of the gate, he was ripped from slumber. The lights came on, and the man came in and stood before the cell, bearing a leather belt and cuffs. “Stand up facing the wall, your hands on your head,” the man ordered, as he opened the cell door. He reached around Logan's waist with the belt and buckled it behind, then he came around to face Logan and locked his wrists in the cuffs dangling from the belt. “Spread your legs,” and he fastened leg irons on Logan's ankles. “OK, let's go.” And he led Logan out and through the gate, halfway down the hallway, to where there was a door, which the man opened and pushed Logan through. And there it was.

Half the room was taken up by the gallows. It wasn't as big as what Logan expected: the platform was maybe six feet square and only four feet or so off the floor, and there was a railing only around the sides and back. But otherwise, it was to spec, with a thick crossbeam and a noose already hanging from it. Logan only got a moment to contemplate it before the man pulled him over to the steps at one corner, following Logan as he climbed. “Stand on the square,” and Logan put his feet in the box that was marked near the center of the front edge. The man bent down and wrapped a leather strap around Logan's knees, forcing his feet together as the man cinched it tight. Then he took the noose, which had been brushing against Logan's face, pulled it over Logan's head, and tightened it on Logan's neck—not enough to choke, but its touch went all around. Logan's heart was pounding with anticipation, and nerves. The man went to one of the uprights and tied the rope off, tight enough for Logan to feel the knot push up against his head, behind his ear. Then the man came and stood at Logan's side.

“Prisoner, you have been sentenced to hang by the neck until dead, sentence to be carried out forthwith. Do you have any last words?”

“N-, no sir,” said Logan, who was shaking half with excitement and half with fear.

“Very well. I have one last thing.” He pulled out a quarter. “Heads, you hang for thirty seconds. Tails, for the regulation hour.” Fear shot through Logan as the coin tumbled in the air; the man snatched it and slapped in on the back of his hand. “Tails it is.” And he stepped over to the lever.

“Wait, no—“ but the man had pulled the lever, and there was the clunk of mechanism, and the trap dropped, and Logan's cry was cut off as the rope clamped down on his throat like a steel cable. Sheer panic erased every other thought, and Logan tried to kick, tried to reach for the noose, but his cuffs held, and tingling numbness was already filling every part of him, and his arms and legs quickly failed to obey his brain. He could sense his desperate thoughts failing too, and then suddenly nothing

he awoke in a box—a coffin! Except there was no lid, and then the man was kneeling by him and helping him sit up. He tried to feel his face—his hands were still cuffed to his waist. The noose was still around his neck, not tight enough to choke but still putting pressure on it. His knees were still strapped together; he moved his feet and heard the rattle of chains. Then he realized that his jumpsuit was wet in his crotch and down his legs. Warm wet.

“You've only been out for a minute,” the man said, and he loosened the noose and took it off. “And the coin always comes up tails. Scared the piss out of you, didn't it?” He shifted and undid the knee strap. “And you are a complete idiot for trusting me. Haven't you ever heard of John Wayne Gacy? Jeffrey Dahmer? Who knows you're here, anyway?” The silence said it all. The man wrapped one arm around Logan's neck, and Logan felt the other come behind his head. “You know what Gacy did? He tricked the kids into handcuffs, and then he strangled them. Thirty-five kids.” And the man's arms tightened, and Logan's throat was squeezed shut again, and the tingling came over him again, and his arms flailed uselessly, still cuffed; and then the man relaxed his hold. “I can knock you out right now, and if I don't let go, you will die. Do you want to die?”

“No! Er, no sir!”

The man let go and stood up. “Let's get you out of that coffin, then.” He helped Logan to his feet and guided him as he stepped out (the chain between his ankles was just barely long enough). “You're still my prisoner, though. Time to go back to your cell.” And he took Logan by the belt and led him out the door and back to the shower, where he removed the restraints and set them aside. “Rinse yourself off and there'll be a fresh uniform,” said the man.

“Yes sir,” said Logan, still embarrassed. He took a perfunctory shower and dressed again, then stood on the footprints.

“You're quite the model prisoner,” said the man as he cuffed and shackled Logan's wrists and ankles. “Right, back we go.” And back through the door they went, and down the hallway to the gate, and through the gate, and to the cell, and when it was opened they went through the ritual of uncuffing yet again, and then the man slid the cell door shut and locked it. “Get some sleep,” he said, and Logan looked up at the wall clock, which read 3:37, not twelve hours since the first time he had been locked in this cage. The man went back through the gate and locked it, and the lights went back out.

Logan rolled onto the bunk, not counting on sleeping, but once again he was jarred awake by the crash of the gate opening, and when he looked at the clock, it was 7:30. He must have slept through the lights going on. The man was carrying another tray, this time with a paper plate and a very stubby plastic coffee cup, which he slid through the slot as before. Breakfast was going to be a pair of sorry looking sausages, a piece of already buttered toast, and yes, it was coffee. Black. Not what Logan would normally drink in the morning, but prisoners can't be choosers. And he was hungry. He polished it off quickly and slid the tray back out; a short time later, the man came to fetch it. “Clean yourself up and we're going to have an interrogation,” he said, so Logan brushed his teeth and crapped while the man was out; then it was belly-chain-and-cuffs time again, back through the gate, and through one of the doors on the wall opposite the gallows room. The room it opened into was more like a diner booth, with a small table and a bench on either side. It actually had a window, high up by the ceiling, but frosted over. The man sat Logan down and pulled out a padlock, which he used to hook the belly chain to a ring mounted on the wall at Logan's back. Not comfortable, but clearly he wasn't going anywhere. The man shut the door and sat down on the other side of the table.

“So, let's start with the basics. How old are you?”

“Nineteen, sir.”

“Still in school?”

“College, sir, just finished my first year.”

“Whatcha studying?”

“Agriculture and botany. Sir.”

“Funny, you don't look at all like the farmboy type. How'd you get into that?”

“Always been interested in plants, and I thought I could do better if I could tie it to the ag business. I have an uncle who works on growing new apple varieties, and I've been helping him since I was fifteen.”

“Interesting.” He paused. “Do any sports in high school?”

“Just cross country, sir. I tried out for wrestling but I was too scrawny.”

“Yeah, I can see that. You've definitely got a runner's build. Were you any good?”

“Not great, sir, but I was usually third or fourth on the team. I made varsity as a sophomore.”

“That's decent.” Another pause. “Do you live on campus at school?”

“No, sir. I have an apartment in a house just off campus, with three other guys.”

'And do they know about this?”

“They don't know I'm here, no, sir. They know I have the prison uniform because I wore it on Halloween.”

“Got your own handcuffs?”

“Yes, sir. Not good ones, though. But they aren't tinplate toys.”

“Who knows you have them?”

“Nobody, sir.”

“Well that's no good. A set of cuffs is a great party icebreaker. Get yourself a good pair—Smith & Wesson, or Peerless.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I take it then no leg irons?”

“No sir. Can't afford them, not even sure where to get them.”

“Ever been tied up?”

“Not really, sir.”

“No? Maybe we need to fix that. Have you thought about being tied up?”

“A little, sir.”

“But nobody to do it?”

“No sir.”

Another pause. “Are you a virgin?”

'What?”

“That's 'I don't understand, sir,' and it's not a hard question. Are you a virgin?”

“Um, yes sir.” Logan looked away.

“It's nothing to be ashamed of, everyone starts out that way. Girlfriend? Boyfriend?”

“No sir.”

“How about in high school?”

“No sir.”

“Ever masturbate? Jerk off? Whatever you call it?”

“Uh, yes sir.”

“In that prison jumpsuit you came in?”

“Yes sir.”

“Tell you what. We're going to check something.” He stood up, reached behind Logan, and took off the padlock. “Stand in front of the door, facing it.” Logan complied. The man reached around, undid the cuffs and the belly chain, and then recuffed Logan's hands behind him. Then he opened the door and pushed Logan through. “We're going back across the hall.” And he opened the door to the gallows room, and guided Logan through, and up onto the scaffold. “You know where to stand,” he said, and Logan put his feet in the square. Then the man pulled the noose down and put it around Logan's neck again, but he didn't tighten it.

“So what's your dick telling you now?”

“I don't understand, sir.”

“Is it getting aroused? Or too frightened to be noticed?”

“I don't know, sir.”

“OK, then, let's go a little further.” And he tightened up the noose, and went over and took out the slack, so the knot was up against Logan's ear. “Turn and face me.” Logan shuffled around. The man came up close, and looked down, then looked Logan in the face.

“Looks like the needle is starting to move on the sex meter,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” said Logan, and looked away.

The man grabbed him by the chin and turned his head back. “So now you have a problem. You're standing on the gallows, ready to hang again, and your dick is sticking just about straight out. So it looks like you think this is very sexy, standing here in a noose. Did you ever do this at home?”

Logan swallowed, and then muttered, “yes sir.”

“Oh really? But there's nothing you can do about it now. Do you need something done about it?”

“No sir,” Logan muttered.

“Is that so? I think we can wait and see about that. Maybe take in a little more rope?” He pulled Logan up onto his toes. “How's that feeling? Dick still stiff?” He looked down, then back up. “Sure you don't want some help?” Logan was struggling to stay up, his teeth gritted. A minute passed, maybe two; then he said, faintly, “okay.”

“Okay what? 'Okay, sir, please jerk me off.'”

“Okay, sir, please jerk me off. Sir.”

“On one condition: you shoot, and I pull the lever. I promise it'll be a wild ride.” Logan took a second before he nodded. “What's that you say?” the man said, his face in Logan's.

“Go ahead, sir,” whispered Logan.

“Right,” said the man, and he first went and let out a little slack in the rope, so Logan still had to keep on his toes but he didn't have to strain so. Then the man pulled out a bottle and squirted some gel on his left hand, and he undid a couple of snaps on the jumpsuit down at Logan's crotch, reached in and grabbed around Logan's balls and his dick, and pulled them all through; and his dick was full and hard. The man started to work, and it wasn't long at all before Logan was moaning softly, and every few seconds he would forget and drop down on his heels, and the noose would pull up under his jaw and tighten, and Logan would have to push himself up again, and he could feel things coming to a head, and suddenly he gasped and his body clenched, and his dick started to pump, and the man stepped back and pulled the lever. Logan dropped a few inches, but he almost didn't notice as the orgasm blurred into the snuffing of his mind, until the ecstasy faded and the pain and panic of strangling took over; but by then his movements were degenerating into spasms.

This time he awoke on the floor; the noose was already off and the man was crouched beside him. When he stirred, the man helped hims sit up. “How was that?” he asked.

“I, I don't know sir. It was—intense.”

“Well, think about it. The way I see it, you've got five ways to go here. Number one, you decide you hated it and you never do it again. Number two, you decide it was something that doesn't bear repeating, and you never do it again. Nobody ever picks that one, hardly anyone is like that, but there it is.” He paused. “Number three, you can't wait to repeat it and you try it again alone. Those people end up dead in embarrassing poses unless they have a close enough call to scare them off, and even then it's hard to stop. Number four, you find a partner who's into it, or at least into doing it to you, and with a little care you can repeat safely. But they need to be a partner first and your private executioner second, or you stand a good chance of falling in with another Gacy. Or finally, number five, when you have to have another swing, you get in touch with me. And you know, you may never get that urge again. But at least for now, I'm here.” He helped Logan to his feet. “So prisoner, it's time to go back to your cell, where you can think about this until lunch, which is a couple of hours off. And after lunch I'll have your own clothes clean and ready, and I can take you back to your car; or that can wait until the morning, if you want some more of the jail experience. There's no yard here and I can't take you on a perp walk, so unless you want me to drive you all over town in the back of the van—which some guys like—if you stay you're mostly stuck in your cell. Like I said, I have things to read if you get bored. Ever read The Ox-Bow Incident? Classic. Or An Occurrence as Owl Creek Bridge?”

“We saw a film of it in English class.”

“And I'll bet you got all hot and bothered. Well, I have both and plenty more. And if you want to talk more, we can do that too. But right now, prisoner, you're going back to your cell.” And he took Logan by the cuffs, and back out the door and down the hall and through the gate they went, and the man opened the cell and locked Logan in again, and had him stick his hands through the slot to be uncuffed. And when he was done, when Logan was rubbing his wrists, he asked, “Sir, am I gay?”

“You mean, because I could give you an handjob? All that means is you aren't so het that having a man handle your parts is a complete turnoff. So, back when you were in a locker room in high school, was all that naked boyflesh a turn on?”

“Not really, sir.”

“But there were a lot of guys you wished to be because you were a scrawny cross-country guy with no muscle.”

“Yes, sir.”

“It's not too late to put some meat on, and besides, there are lots of people who like skinny, bony partners; trust me on that. Plus, staying muscular is a constant project. So, about girls: in high school they went after muscle-bound jocks, right? But that's over now. You're in college now, and the field is a lot wider, and hardly anyone is just marking time til graduation, and the real athletes are off in their own little world. And I bet there were girls in high school that you didn't have the nerve to talk to.” Logan just nodded, but the man let it pass. “But now you've shown you do have some nerve. You put your neck out and got in touch with me, instead of letting it stew inside you, and yes, like I said, it was a stupid thing to do, but there's a great deal of stupidity in bravery, because a lot of the time something that takes nerve to do isn't prudent. So look inside, and find that part of you that gave you the will to come here, and put it to work. Don't be afraid of friendships that get out of hand, and don't be afraid to take them there. Whether it's with a girl or a guy—though it sounds to me like you don't have much of a gay side, but hey, some people like both.”

“Are you gay, sir?”

“Is that a question to ask your jailer, prisoner? Get down and give me five pushups.” Logan complied, with some difficulty: his upper body strength needed work. “So the answer is, yes, I have a boyfriend whom I've lived with for five years now, and sometimes he helps me with this though it's really not his scene, but when there's two it really takes a second person sometimes. I did have a girl right after high school but it didn't work out and was a bad idea really. At the time I didn't know any better. Anyway, I've given you plenty to think about. I'll be back in an hour and a half with lunch.” And he went through the gate and locked it.

Lunch was a ham and Swiss sandwich, half an apple, and a sugar cookie, the last of which Logan left half of. The man took the remnants away, then came back and asked Logan, “OK, so here it is after lunch. You've got three choices: stay overnight and I release you in the morning; I take you back to your car right now and we're done; or if you have something specific we can talk about that.”

“Sir, I think I'm ready to go back now.”

“OK, then. Prisoner, turn with your back to me and put your hands through the slot.” Logan did so and was cuffed, then the cell door was opened and he was led back to the entrance room. “Here's your clothes. Put them on and then stand on the footprints.” Then it was cuffing again, wrists and legs, and back out to the garage and into the van, and back across town to the other garage. Having clambered back out of the van, Logan was almost surprised to see his car sitting there, just as he had left it, back in his old life. The man took off the cuffs and then reached into the van and pulled out the case with Logan's things, unlocked it, and set it on the floor of the van. After Logan retrieved his wallet and stuff, the man stuck out his hand. “You did better than you believe. If you want to come back, you know how to get hold of me. But next time, wear normal clothes. That way we can go out afterwards.”

Logan smiled, and shook his hand. “Thank you, sir. I know it's stupid to say, but I'll always remember this.”

“Well, it's something most people will never know. So hold it close. Good luck.” And with that the man went to open the garage doors, and Logan climbed in his car and drove off.

That evening, the man was lying in bed with his partner after a romp, and his partner asked, “so, how did it go?”

“Confused kid, wanted to experiment, didn't dare, had a good ride. Twice. Wondered if he was gay.”

“Is he?”

“Probably not, just repressed because he's a small skinny guy who's too shy to talk to a girl. Maybe I talked him through it.”

“You do seem to get those.”

“Yeah, well, I gave him the Gacy lecture too but maybe he'll get some backbone out of it. Anyway, I'm going to need your help because Mister Prison Rape is coming again in two weeks.”

“Ugh, him again? Am I being the guard or the inmate this time? Why do you put up with him anyway?”

“Because I can get him to pay through the nose, that's why. And I'll be the inmate because you had to do it last time. Anyway, the POW guy is coming two weeks after that, if you want to get in on that.”

“I'm going to need the van, so no go. Got two loads to transfer and I won't be back.”

“Damn. Maybe I can get him to reschedule.”

“Or you can just shove him in the back seat. He's reasonable. Hell, if I were going to be in town I'd join in the fun.”

“Yeah, he is fun. And he pays too.” He thought a minute. “I think the week after that I have another newbie.”

“Hanging?”

“Yep. Another frustrated kid. Probably straight too.”

“You need to join forces with a dominatrix.”

“Yeah, no, that would be a fiasco. They want a nice, sweet girl, not a terrifying bitch. They're all scared of women as it is. If they want BDSM they want it from a guy. It leads to a screwed up sex life but I can't help that.”

“So the kid today, is he coming back?”

“No idea. Maybe. He really needs to join the marines, or go ROTC. Don't know how interested they would be in a botanist though.”

“Botany??”

“Yeah, he at least seems to have a solid life plan lined up for that. But unless he's going to go carving his way through the jungle with a machete in search of obscure orchids, not the most macho profession. He actually has plans to get into ag research.”

“Maybe he'll slap some clodhoppers on his feet and wear his flannel shirts unbuttoned. And a Deere hat.”

“That would be effective camouflage. Speaking of which, it's time to pretend I have a day job. See you in the morning.”

“COUNSELING AND REMEDIATION CLASSROOM”, STATE REFORMATORY FARM: Part 2

After a few minutes of face slaps, ball slaps, and tit torture by four laughing sadists, Jimmy was turned over to the exclusive use of the dreaded “Counselor (guard) Bob” for “private counseling” (brutal torture) .

“Counselor Bob” had noticed earlier that Jimmy seemed to especially hate torture to his nipples……so he immediately made the delinquent’s tits the focus of the next 4 hours of torment.

Photo Source/Credit: Trevor Povey