Prison Psychology (Flash Commission)

CW: Rape

“I guess I just don’t understand why I’m here,” Officer Galloway said, looking around at the psychologist’s office, there at the prison where he worked as a guard.

“Oh,it’s just a formality, really. I like to have regular chats with the staff here, and make sure they are mentally fit enough for the work. It can be…overwhelming for some, the things they see here, the people they have to deal with on a regular basis. It’s part of my job to make sure that you’re up to the task.”

“I mean, I’ve been working here for six months,” Galloway told the psychologist, “I haven’t had any issues, I don’t think.”

“Yes, well, you might not even notice them. Still…are you sure you have the…constitution for this kind of work? You seem…rather small, I suppose. Well, I’m not in charge of determining physical fitness, so I suppose we should skip that, now…”

Galloway was caught off guard by the slight insult, and he had a hard time remembering everything else they talked about during that first session, he was so focused on that. He wasn’t a small fellow by any measure–he’d played football in high school and college, and the warden had hired him in part because he was big. Intimidating, he’d said, in fact. And this doctor, this short, chubby fellow, didn’t think he was big enough? He laughed it off at first, until he saw himself in the mirror later, changing out of his uniform to go home. Nothing had changed about him–he was still the six foot two, 220 muscular guy he’d been–he even weighed himself to check…but the doctor had been right. He was…small. He could fix that though, he could get bigger–he needed to get bigger.

He added another two days at the gym, and filled his diet with protein, but it wasn’t…enough. By the time he had another appointment with the psychologist a month later, he’d given into temptation, and started using steroids he bought from some hefty fellows at the gym–just to give himself a boost. He was bigger now–230–but the psychologist still wasn’t impressed–and was worried about his job performance too. He was concerned that he was too…nice. That he had developed a bit too much camaraderie with his fellow prisoners. Again, he left the session questioning himself, trying to sort out the truth, re-remembering…everything. He had been too soft. These people were thugs, they were criminals. He couldn’t afford to let his guard down. He looked down at the pills the psychologist had prescribed him–allegedly something for his depression, regarding BDD, whatever that was. Something about…his body looking wrong, but he’d fix that soon enough.

The pills worked alright. He had more energy, and he used it all to work out. The increased aggression, from the steroids and from the pills, were helpful on the job as well, and he put the prisoners he’d started getting too friendly with back in their place, with his fists, if he had to. In a few more months, and with a few more sessions with the doctor, he was up to 260, the largest he’d ever been, but it still wasn’t enough. He still looked too small, and too soft. Sure, the pills were helping. He was hairier. His face…looked different. His jaw more square, his brow deeper, and even his eyebrows were growing together, his beard thicker. He should shave it, but he’d stopped caring about…hygiene, lately. Not showering, and no deodorant–he wanted men to smell him coming, wanted them to fear getting close to him. He could be scarier though. He had some savings he could use, and he booked the tattoo and piercing appointments right away, and got started on his full body tribal tattoos, and all the piercings he needed. He got…so hard, whenever the needle pierced or stung him, but he was horny all the time now, but he hadn’t been with a woman in…ages. He was fantasizing about…about men, about the prisoners, and his fellow guards. About dominating them, but he couldn’t…do that, could he?

The next session, a few months later, was a joint session, to his surprise, with another guard, Officer Mandel. He was a sorry looking fellow–very fat, easily 300 pounds, and he smelled about as bad as Galloway did, but…weaker. He was weak, and Galloway was strong, and their doctor suggested they do some roleplay–with Mandel as the prisoner, and Galloway as the guard. He knew he should have been worried, when he ripped down Mandel’s pants and fucked him–but it felt so good, after being alone for so damn long…he wanted more, he needed more, he deserved more. That’s what his psychologist said, and Galloway always agreed with him, no matter what.

It felt like something had been…unleashed in him, after that. He would smell a guy at the gym, musky and strong, and he…he had to have them. He resisted for a while, but one night, he followed one of them home, and raped him in his apartment–making sure he never saw his face. He loved it–and that helped calm his urges, for a while. Using prisoners was easier–they were more…pliant, the ones the doctor suggested needed his special kind of attention. It caught up with him in due time however. The trial was short–he was too stupid to lie, and close to a year after his first meeting with the psychologist, Galloway found himself back in the prison, but this time, as an inmate, serving twenty-five years with no chance of parole.

Prison did nothing to contain his urges. He was a brute, a beast, and he fucked every cellmate they placed him with, until they were forced to place him in solitary confinement. It wasn’t…so bad, not really. He could work out. The psychologist visited him regularly to give him his drugs, to make sure he stayed big and strong, like he needed to be. The doctor, or his master, as he thought of him now, would keep him safe, and keep him happy, as long as he served him, here at the prison. The psychologist would bring men to him, troublesome ones, resistant ones, and they would spend a day or three with Galloway in his cell, raped by him over and over again, until they were begging to be released, until they were willing to do anything master told them to do. He enjoyed fucking the warden. The old faggot would show up, let himself into the cell, and drop his pants, cock locked in chastity, and beg for the beast to plow him. For him, getting raped by the brute in solitary was a reward. Mandel visited often too, larger every time, now over 500 pounds, snorting and squealing like a pig.

In the mirror…he finally looked right. Bestial face with the heavy brow over his eyes, hair and beard hanging all around him, growing higher up his cheeks with each month. He weighed over 300 pounds now, all of it muscle, and he couldn’t speak–he’d been alone for so long, he’d forgotten how to use his words–though he could listen. He liked listening to Master, he liked it more than anything. Soon, Master said, he would be free again. Free to roam the halls of the prison as Master’s head guard. Free to take any hole he wanted. Patience, Master said, soon, everything would be exactly as it should be.

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