THE STATE NEVER MAKES MISTAKES (Several M/M)

[Xtc]

As I have written elsewhere, I am in no state, at present, to write anything that doesn't turn nasty.
However, as a catharsis, I shall post a story that was written some time ago.
No smut in this one but I am posting it in the adult section due to its unpleasant content.

[blackbound]

Sounds good to me.

[Xtc]

THE STATE NEVER MAKES MISTAKES (1)


Patrick Heinz

He’d always agreed with the “two strikes and you’re out” law. Scum like that deserved to die.

That’s why Patrick was brought up so short when the knock came at his door. Well, not the knock so much as the aftermath. He opened the door only to see a silver badge shoved into his face fractions of a second before the stifling black hood was dropped over his head and fastened round his neck with the characteristic clicking sound of a cable tie being pulled tight. His resultant hyper ventilation, being impeded by the heavy, double layered hood, that had been fastened far more tightly than necessary round his neck, did nothing to prevent the skinny youth’s collapse.

When he came round, his capture was complete and he knew he wasn’t even going to get a trial. There was no need. The state never makes mistakes and the video evidence was bound to be incontrovertible. The hood had been removed but his wrists had been cuffed in metal manacles and hoisted so far up his back that they were nearly between his shoulder-blades. Every time he even tried to move his wrists, the chain holding them in place tightened around his neck until he raised them again thus relieving the pressure on his neck. The pain, as something seemed to be tearing into his lips, could be explained by the presence of the fairly thin triangular bit that had been drawn so tightly between his jaws.

It wasn’t until he’d appraised his own condition and realised that he was no longer wearing the dressing gown that he’d thrown on to answer the door that he looked over to where Jeremy was lying on their bed. He was still naked as Patrick had left him but he had been cuffed into a hog-tied position and had a vicious ball gag forced into his mouth. He’d already lost control of his bladder and his despairing attempts to tell Patrick that he loved him were completely in vain.

“Is your name Patrick Heinz?” The question was a mere formality.

“Is this yours?” It was obviously Patrick’s stash-bag but he didn’t think that possessing such a small quantity of weed would attract the attention of the Guards. He was wrong.

The place that the young couple shared wasn’t always the home beautiful but at least it wasn’t usually a shit-heap like this; the Guards had tipped out the contents of just about every drawer and cupboard and even emptied some food cartons onto the floor. For fuck’s sake, he’d have told them where the stuff was if only they’d asked. Everyone who was guilty of any offence had got used to the idea that confession was wiser than denial if they were to avoid further penalties and, as I’ve written earlier, the state doesn’t make mistakes!

The Arresting Officer showed Patrick the CCTV footage that cinched his guilt. Nowhere was free from the damned things but he hadn’t expected one in that particular alley where he had done a small deal with a friend; and one of the Guards had obviously filmed his colleague discovering the plastic bag in the pocket of Patrick’s discarded skinny jeans.

“Do you admit the offence or do you want to go to trial?” The cameras on the Officers’ helmets would count not just as evidence but also as poof of guilt if the offence was admitted. At least a confession would halve the sentence that Patrick could expect. He nodded. The video would be taken as his admission of guilt.

With no need to interrogate the prisoner, that bit-gag could come out and a more effective one could be inserted until the convict was safely lodged in the cells. Jeremy already knew how agonising that must be and only wished he could be of more comfort to the lover whom he would be unlikely to see again for a long time. His attempt to wriggle towards Patrick was very ill-advised: one of the officers simply went over to the naked man writhing on the bed and dragged him onto the floor before applying a size ten to his midriff. Following the spasmodic reaction, Jeremy lay almost still, except for his desperate snorting as he struggled for breath.

Patrick automatically tried to rise from his knees and make for where his boyfriend was lying but the previously un-noticed shackles round his ankles immediately brought him to be face down on the floor. The Arresting Officer pushed his foot down onto Patrick’s back or at least onto his chained wrists, and calmly asked if he should add Resisting Arrest to the charges. Jeremy despondently shook his head and tried vainly to shout “No” past his gag whilst still frantically trying to regain his breath. Patrick stopped struggling and the Officer’s boot released the stress on the chain that was threatening to strangle him.

From then on the proceedings were almost prosaic. The offence was repeated to Patrick and he was given a chance to withdraw his “confession”. After that, things were inevitable. Patrick was grabbed by the handcuffs and hauled to his knees where the bit was pulled roughly from his mouth and left hanging around his neck while the Arresting Officer forced a ball gag of such a size into Patrick’s mouth that it took all his force to get it past his teeth. He looked desperately over to his battered lover; at least Jeremy was the last thing he saw before the heavy, double thickness black hood was forced over his head again and tightened alarmingly round his neck. Patrick was ready for the “meat wagon”.

One of the Guards called for “transport for one” and the other explained to Jeremy that, once the convict had been removed, he would be released. He would be given a contact number to use if he had a complaint about the arrest or about his own treatment but that he should realise that any such complaint would delay the start of his boyfriend’s sentence. Jeremy knew that such periods on remand are never discounted from the subsequent sentence. It only then dawned on him that neither of them knew what that sentence was to be.

The Remand Cell

The word came in the Arresting Officer’s ear-piece and he pulled Patrick to his feet by grabbing his handcuffs once more. That was obviously to be the way in which he would be guided to wherever he was going. Keeping hold of the youngster’s cuffs, the Guard pushed him forwards with shuffling steps and more than a few near-trips, which were prevented only by the “support” that he was providing. Patrick obviously recognised the moment when he had left his apartment but he could only guess which of his neighbours’ voices he could hear discussing his predicament as he was paraded past them. Even naked and with a hood over his head, Patrick’s slender frame was easy to recognise but he knew that he’d have worse things than shame to cope with before long.

The convict soon found himself with his shins pressed against something. If only that bastard Guard had told him they were steps, he could have coped better with them. Two steps up and someone hooked their fingers under the tie fastening the hood round Patrick’s neck and yanked him forwards. As the knuckles pressed into his throat, Patrick thought he was going to be throttled. He knew that his unfortunate kink would probably betray him now, and it did. He felt himself go hard almost immediately in spite of his predicament. It went unremarked.

He heard a formal exchange of words between the Arresting Officer and the Transit Officer transferring responsibility for the criminal from one to the other followed by the rolling down and slamming of what was obviously the tail gate of a panel van. The new Guard slammed Patrick against the side of the van and undid the padlock to the chain that was keeping his wrists hoisted so painfully high. Even though it was wrapped completely round Patrick’s neck, there was insufficient friction, once one end had been released, to prevent the criminal’s wrists dropping rapidly with the resultant distress as the chain scraped itself round his neck. In spite of the abrasion, Patrick needed to drop his wrists but such relief was short lived as they were hoisted high again and the free end of the chain was passed through a staple in the ceiling of the van and padlocked onto the cuffs once more. As the van drove off, Patrick was left with the choice: stand up straight or hang from his wrists. Some choice. At least this time he shouldn’t strangle.

The journey to the Guard House was mercifully short and, once the van had stopped, Patrick heard the rear door open and another formal exchange of words as he was transferred to the “care” of the Custody Officer. The padlock was unlocked and Patrick’s arms immediately fell once more. So did Patrick. He was rolled over onto his face and the chain was wrapped completely around his neck again. It would have hurt less if the cunt had forced his wrists up first instead of pulling the chain tight once it was already wrapped around his neck. Once more, Patrick had the choice: strangle or force his own wrists as high up his back as possible. Once more his kink, as he thought he might strangle, manifested itself noticeably. Once more, he was more dragged than marched out of the van and into the Guard House.

The remand cells were notorious. They were only just about big enough to fit a person in – as long as he was sitting on the raised bench - and all surfaces were metal mesh so that they could be hosed down every day if the prisoner was in there long enough. Patrick was folded into one of the cramped cubicles and his abdomen was pushed down onto his thighs as the padlock and chain were removed completely and his arms could, once again take their ease. The Guards had learnt long ago that, if a prisoner is driven stir-crazy, he will crash his head repeatedly against the back wall, and the paperwork necessitated by any consequent concussions or worse took time that could be better spent, so Patrick found something tight and solid being forced over both his head and the hood. The padded fibre glass helmet not only prevented any impact damage to the wearer, it also rendered him effectively deaf. Patrick sat up, the barred door was locked and Patrick was left still gagged and hooded. Rumour had it that any new prisoner could expect to be left like that while checks were made and paperwork prepared. Problem: it was late at night and the Arresting Officer probably wouldn’t complete his documentation until late the next morning.

The sensory deprivation sent irrational thoughts swirling indistinctly through Patrick’s mind by early morning, and the near-asphyxiation whenever he moved in certain ways caused him to get hard and, once he had come to believe that Jeremy had imprisoned him, his body nearly gave him the much needed relief that he craved. Nearly, that is, until the force of the cold water from the hose brought him from his stupor. Even when the deluge stopped, Patrick found himself near to being asphyxiated as the sodden front of the heavy hood clung closely to his face. It was as though he was being water-boarded.

Nothing was said but someone did at least reach through the bars and loosened the vampire hood from Patrick’s nose and mouth before they abandoned him to his thoughts, delusions, pain and fantasies for several more hours. In his lucid moments, he knew the remand cells were to be feared but such moments were becoming fewer and farther between.

It must have been towards mid-day when they came for him. The cage door was opened and he was doubled up again prior to the tortuous chain being wrapped round his neck and reattached to his handcuffs. At least this time his wrists sat in the small of his back when he sat up. The helmet was un-buckled and he was wrenched from his seat. After that period of sensory deprivation Patrick had no real idea of his situation. He thought that, perhaps, he was being dragged somewhere by two people who gripped his thin arms just under his armpits, surely Jeremy would come and release him soon, as he usually did in the morning, carry him in his arms and kiss all his hurts better?

TBC

[blackbound]

Well, he's a proponent of the rules...

[Xtc]

There are so many rules . . .

[Red86]

High probability of being caught and strict punishment without a trail, sounds like an awesome place to live if that's your thing

[Xtc]

As I said: as long as the State never makes mistakes.
It does seem, however, to deal with the "justice delayed is justice denied" dilemma.

[Xtc]

THE STATE NEVER MAKES MISTAKES (2)


The Induction Cell

When the helmet had been removed and the stifling hood unstrapped, Patrick realised gradually why he was no longer able to move. The induction cell was equipped for “interview” and medical examination. He found his ankles restrained by a metal bar that was fixed rigidly about ten centimetres above the floor and his wrists once more hauled high but this time someone had ensured that his arms were straight so forcing him to bend forwards at the waist. The Medical Officer found that conformation of the prisoners to be the most convenient for the inevitable cavity search. After a cursory medical examination, the MO removed the ball gag and replaced it with a dental gag before examining Patrick’s oral cavity and then intruding more intimately into Patrick’s body. For the first time, Patrick started to cry. The MO then certified that Patrick was fit to serve his sentence and left.

That left the Custody Officer and the Corporal Assessor to do their jobs. The Assessor asked the Custody Officer to re-adjust his charge so that his wrists were once more hammered high up his back but at least he could stand upright to hear his assessment and sentence.

The next proceedings were formulaic. The Custody Officer removed the metal gag that was forcing Patrick’s jaws apart and the Assessor asked if he wanted to change his plea. Patrick’s tortured lips just about managed to confirm that he did not and a beaker of water was offered to the convict’s mouth. There was no hurry as Patrick was gradually allowed to finish the draught. At least the ball that formed part of the panel gag that was then padlocked over his face was less demanding than the one he had worn overnight but it was still an efficient way of telling a prisoner he that he no longer had a say in anything.

The Assessor outlined the various possible penalties he could impose. Having ruled out the more extreme ones, he seemed to be left with a combination of imprisonment, enslavement, flogging and prolonged exposure in the pillory, a punishment that, since its reinstitution, is gradually increasing in popularity amongst the general public. Even if he wasn’t naked, Patrick would have shivered at the thought of having to suffer the strictest of the available sentences.

With the sentence decided, although not confided to the prisoner, Patrick was given back into the care of the Custody Officer, and the Assessor departed. Without explanation the hood was replaced and Patrick’s ankles were released from the clamp. The next stumbling walk took him out of the building and into the cold outside before he entered another building. As he was “escorted” through the building, Patrick could hear obvious, if indistinct, sounds of other people. Not all of them sounded particularly happy.

Patrick was forced down onto some sort of seat, his handcuffs were released from his neck and his ankle cuffs were removed. “Right, just settle in. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.” Patrick heard the cage door slam and the key turn in the lock. In spite of the noises, and smells, betraying the presence of nearby humanity, Patrick felt very alone in the dark.

The still indistinct sounds gradually resolved themselves into several different types: the clumsy movements of restrained prisoners, the noise of chains and even what sounded like voices. The clearest sounds seemed to be boots passing in front of him at regular intervals.

The Custody Cell

As Patrick sat and his mind wandered, there were many times when he was brought up short as he realised that he was not about to be released from his bondage following a loving caress. In his more lucid moments he brooded on the fact that he didn’t even know what his sentence was to be yet. He didn’t even know whether he’d be informed about it or whether he’d just find out as he suffered whatever ordeal had been prescribed.

Patrick had no idea how long he had been left before a Warder arrived and removed the hood. He had left a bowl of some unidentifiable gloop on the floor and jammed a tubed water bottle between the bars that formed the front of Patrick’s cell. Patrick noticed that he was in a cell that was no more than a two-metre metal cube with a barred door at the front. He had been sat on a raised, slatted platform that ran along the back of the cell and, other than that, there was just an oval hole in the floor near one wall and a grille over a hole in the middle of the floor. Patrick could guess what the oval hole was for and concluded that he was likely to be in the cell for quite some time. The Warder pulled Patrick’s head down and unlocked the panel gag. Before removing it, he lifted Patrick’s head by his dark, died hair and warned him that, if he didn’t want to starve for the next twenty-four hours, he would remain absolutely silent. He didn’t wait for a response and pulled the slobber covered black ball from Patrick’s mouth. He didn’t manage completely to suppress the groan.

The Warder left and Patrick just sat taking in his surroundings for some time before the Warder returned and entered his cell. “Use it or lose it.” he announced as he picked up the bowl and exited the cell. He locked the door and removed the water bottle. “The prisoner will stand.” Patrick stood. “Come here and turn around.” Patrick approached the cell door and turned his back to it. “Back up.” As Patrick came into contact with the bars, the Warder unlocked his handcuffs. “Be a good boy and these”, with this he clamped the cuffs round a bar, “and this”, he did the same with the gag, “stay here. However . . . Understand?”

Patrick indicated that he did.

The Warder left and eventually Patrick returned to his seat.

The repetitive routine of food arriving by being slipped under the door and water being positioned in the door and then being removed again after a short while established itself over the next few days. The only relief from the tedium was provided by the sight of other prisoners passing the front of Patrick’s cell, always hooded and chained and most of them returning some time later in a visibly worse state. Patrick remained silent and "well behaved” in spite of the tedium of his existence. He had never been a fan of exercise but he’d probably do anything now to be allowed to run or swim or even walk under an open sky. With unremitting bright light in the cell Patrick soon lost all track of time.

Patrick didn’t know how long he’d been there when he plucked up the courage to ask but he just had to know: how long would he have to spend in this bloody cell? He didn’t even realise that, with no idea of the passage of time, the information would be meaningless in any case. But was it days – or weeks - - or even months? Surely it wouldn’t be years?

The Warder came with Patrick’s “dinner” and Patrick approached the door and said quietly, “Please.”
The Warder jerked his head round, “Please, Sir.” As Patrick was spooked by the no longer familiar sound of his own croaking voice, the Warder went for something on his belt.

Patrick didn’t even notice before the Warder said, “Bad decision, boy.” and fired the taser darts into Patrick’s bony torso.

-----00000==========00000-----

He couldn’t breathe and his body went into spasm as Patrick fell, narrowly avoiding hitting his head on the bench at the back of his cell. “A really bad decision” repeated the Warder as he called for backup.

Another, obviously well set-up, Warder arrived and the two custodians entered Patrick’s cell as he still flopped helplessly on the floor. The other man had obviously brought a standard set of equipment with him and Patrick was soon handcuffed, this time with his hands in front and encased in leather cuffs and oversized plastic mitts that denied him the use of his hands. A wide leather belt was buckled tightly round Patrick’s already skinny waist and the cuffs were attached to the belt at two points no more than ten centimetres apart leaving his wrists practically immovable.

Before he could recover, Patrick’s ankles were hobbled about twenty centimetres apart with a fairly heavy chain and two padlocks. He was still totally incapable of resistance and his breathing had still not settled. Even the confusion caused by the electronic assault could not completely anaesthetise Patrick to the realities of what was happening to him. But why? Wasn’t he being polite? What would they do to him next? He thought about the men he’d glimpsed briefly as they were being returned to their cells. What had been done to them before they returned?

The gag was quickly forced onto Patrick’s face, but not before a larger ball had been fitted, and locked tightly into place, and the seemingly inevitable hood was tightened around his neck. Patrick heard the door of his cell locked and he was left to recover.

TBC

[Red86]

He was so well behaved in the beginning but now he's gone and messed up by talking. Breaking rules here has consequences but I guess he's figured that out the hard way now lol.

[blackbound]

He was so well behaved in the beginning but now he's gone and messed up by talking. Breaking rules here has consequences but I guess he's figured that out the hard way now lol.

Nothing to add here except they absolutely set him up for this. I almost feel bad.

[Xtc]

I'm sure they didn't set him up for it. He merely made an unwise decision. Now his poor carers will have to do some extra work.

[gag1195]

Trying to catch up on some stories I've missed, and I'm glad I gave this one a read!

RULES ARE RULES! Rule breaking must be appropriately punished! I wonder what other rules will be broken, and what punishments await Patrick!

[Xtc]

On never knows; perhaps Patrick will learn?

Thanks for replying to the tale, it made me feel better.