Wheels of Sisyphus by Hayden, Illustrated by Manflesh – Book One (Complete)

Chapter 1 – Minos

Approaching the middle of the 21st century, the uncertainty of the economy, and the ever increasing gap between the rich and the poor, resulted in a pandemic of social ills. Unemployment was high and crime was rampant. The criminal justice system had reached breaking point: Prisons were overcrowded and law enforcement utterly helpless or too corrupt to enforce discipline within these facilities, and order on the streets.

A government task-force was assembled desperately to find a solution to the overcrowding of prisons. Private prisons, run by corporations for profit, were also invited to join the discussions held. At the very beginning, it was determined that crimes should continue to be punished with severity. After all, the law of the land, surely, was not at fault? Just because the number of felons had increased, did not mean that the country should cater to these scum? No, the punishment must continue to fit the crime.

Instead, an idea was brought forth during those discussions. A way could be found to reduce the length of a criminal’s sentence. Turnover could be quicker, thereby freeing up more space for new inmates.

A trial run was conducted at a private prison out in the desert, far away from any major population centres. It was a resounding success! Prisoner turnaround was increased, which increased the private contractor’s profits and reputation, and showed the plan could be used to solve the chronic problem of prison overcrowding. Reincarceration rates dropped in the nearby towns as well due to new rehabilitation techniques discovered during this trial run. The program was extended to 500 prisons across the country. The task force was applauded for finding an innovative way to solve a crippling problem that had plagued the country for decades.

But what was this innovation, this bright idea that was conceived? The average citizen didn’t bother, didn’t even care. All he heard was that there was a problem, and a solution was found. Move on to the next distraction. Sure, there were reports, experts claiming amazing success of lower crime rates in cities closest to the prison chosen for the trial, your average family saying they felt safe again walking on the streets at night.

But no one had asked the opinion of the convicts undergoing the trial. No one even bothered to, anyway. If they did, every prisoner would have begged eagerly to return to the older system with a longer sentence. For to compensate for the reduced time of their sentences, the intensity of their incarcerations were increased…




“Due to your lack of remorse, your contempt for the court throughout the trial and unwillingness to cooperate with the proceedings, this court has no choice but to punish you to the full extent of the law. You are hereby sentenced to ‘three million revolutions’ as part of a Servitor Unit with no chance of parole. Your sentence will be carried out at Sisyphus Penitentiary. Throughout your sentence you will be placed in solitary confinement, except where the local staff deems fit to allow you some form of society. Court is adjourned!”

With the banging of the gavel, a low murmur is heard in the courtroom, as viewers discuss the proceeding and begin exiting the room. I bow my head in defeat and anger. I’ve lost the case against the Senator. This case has been a minor media frenzy in this part of the country. I was charged with assaulting his daughter. Obviously, I didn’t do it, at least not the utterly exaggerated version of events that were now accepted as gospel truth by everyone here and will be declared as such by the media by the next day.

I did however expect to lose. I couldn’t afford a lawyer with a silver tongue, unlike the rich and powerful senator. I was not born wealthy. But I certainly was born with good looks and a good brain between those shoulders. I knew how to weasel my way into the affections of rich and powerful heiresses. Live the good life with them, get to know their other rich friends, and then take off for the next target, taking with me as much cash off her as I could. The senator’s daughter was my 4th iteration of the plan. Unfortunately this time, she had a powerful father, who, upon discovering I was conspiring to make off with the family wealth, orchestrated a little accident with enough circumstantial evidence to incriminate a poor man who has had to rely all his life on his charm and wits to get by. And true power always beats charm and wits. The entire case fell apart the minute it began.

From the dock, I look and watch the Senator smiling back at me. I show him a face of contempt and spit in his direction. Just then, a guard’s baton hits me square at the back.

“Have you no decency? This is a public building!” says one of the guards who has been guarding me at the dock since the start of the trial. He proceeds to put me in handcuffs. “Decency?” says another standing beside me. “There ain’t no need for decency, Stan, not now that he’s bound for Sisyphus Penitentiary. Haven’t you heard what goes on in there?”

“Woah…hold on. What goes on there?” I ask, slightly nervously. Prisons are awful, sure, but every place is different. And some are more awful than others.

“ You don’t know? You commit a crime and you didn’t even check what the risks were?” asked Stan.

“Fuck you, I did nothing. This was a set-up. And I’ll have my revenge on that piece of filth Senator,” I say angrily.

“”So you don’t know what you’re in for?” replied the guard. “Didn’t you hear? You got 3 mil! And that ain’t in years. It’s revolutions! Don’t you know what that means??”

I shake my head.

I’ve heard about some prison reform plan in the news lately but I didn’t know the details. Something about reduced prison sentences in exchange for some hard work on the part of the convicts. Anyway, why should I have been bothered about this one month ago, as I laid on the deck of the senator’s yacht, making love to his daughter, while scheming to transfer 20 million dollars to an offshore account of mine?

“Oh boy, then I’m not spoiling the surprise,” he grinned cunningly. ” May that body of yours serve you well over there.”


He was right. That part about my sentence being 3 million sounded strange. So 3 million revolutions was something I would have to perform. I did have a feeling it would be hard labour. After all, that’s what everyone’s been talking about since they started reducing the length of the prison sentences. But it wouldn’t be that bad, really. A free workout everyday. It might get hot out there in the desert but I wasn’t one to shirk from physical tasks.

Like I said before, I took good care of my body. My broad shoulders and narrow waist gave me a enviable V-tapered back that made me look much larger than I actually am. I regularly work-out my arms, which is proven by veins and sinews that criss-cross my lower arms, biceps and triceps like ribbons. I trained my abs to such an extent that they always rippled under my shirt as I walked. My legs are huge like a sprinter’s, thigh and calf muscles clearly visible under my tight jeans. Besides the gym, I regularly did all kinds of sports: kayaking, swimming, tennis, running. I was always out on any given sunny day, pushing and training my body to physical perfection. I was also gifted with a 6’3″ stature with good posture and clear crystal blue eyes, and hair like the colour of copper wires. If all that failed to entice a lady, I just told them about the jewels that laid under my pants – a penis just short of 7 inches and two well-rounded balls to complement it. At 25 years old, I knew i was a piece of raw man that many would find irresistible, and I’ve always used that to my advantage. Even in this prison, my toned-up body will serve me well in completing my sentence. If I’m supposed to do 3 million of something, then a strong virile body like mine can easily complete the task that much quicker. With looks like mine, I could easily attract the attention of any person I met. Thankfully, solitary confinement might actually be a blessing in disguise, protecting me from unwanted attention, those unsavoury types.

Whatever this court and the senator had planned, is going to fail. Yeah! Instead of punishment, they’ve sent me to a gym, my playground. I’ll have my fun, and come back stronger than ever. This isn’t the last you see me, Senator, I think to myself.

Just then, as if he read my thoughts, the senator, standing there pristine in his 2000 dollar 3-piece suit, replied from across the room, “Enjoy your stay in prison,” He grins and walks out of the court, accompanied by the cacophony of reporters and his lackeys. All at once, the courtroom is silent. Just me, and two guards.

I’m lead to the basement of the court to the holding cells, happy that the court had chosen to sentence me to hard labour but a shorter sentence. Thankfully, I fall under this new prison reform system. I’ll be out and about before I know it. I assure myself that it’s better than a longer sentence, wasting away behind the bars of some overcrowded cesspool of a prison. And after three million revolutions of a “Servitor Unit”, whatever that means, I’ll be free.

And yet, that final farewell from the senator and the remarks of the guards fill me with foreboding, as I lay there in the dark of the cell, waiting for tomorrow to be transferred to Sisyphus Penitentiary, where my sentence will begin.


Chapter 2 – The River Styx

The bus produces a terrible dust trail as it speeds along the badly paved road on the way to Sisyphus Penitentiary, which was located in the desert upstate and some three hours away from the nearest city. It was an unproductive land, suitable neither for agriculture nor for industry. And so far from civilisation, the landscape devoid of any remarkable features, it was a forgettable place. Or a place to be forgotten.

These were my thoughts as we skirted along the path. I, along with 3 other prisoners that were also in the court’s holding cells last night were herded in here at dawn. We were handcuffed to the armrests of our seats to prevent escape. One dude was sent next to me, the other two at the back of the bus. Accompanying us on our journey were 4 other guards, each one in charge of a prisoner. I got Stan, the same dude that was guarding me last night at the courtroom, the one that said he didn’t want to “spoil the surprise” that awaited me at Sisyphus.

The last vestiges of civilisation, an old gas station, and an abandoned barn, had been passed by ages ago, and the expanse of the desert made no sign of changing on account of my whim. Out of boredom, I turned to my left to talk to one of the other prisoners here, apparently destined to share the same fate as me. He was a young, scrawny looking guy with short blonde hair and a sharp face, his cheekbones very nearly visible. His eyes looked wet and his expression was one of distraught.

“So what’d they book you for?” I asked.

“I tried to rob a store. I just needed some money. Just some money…” he began softly. “And now I’m fucked. 2 mil. This isn’t fair. How am I gonna make it out alive?”

“Oh come on, it’s not so bad” I said. “Work hard, eat well, keep your head down. You’ll be fine. Think of it as the gym. I’m in for 3mil and I’m not scared,” I say with a grin.

Instead of comfort, the face of the young lad changes to one of shock, mouth wide open. Not the response I had hoped for.

“The gym?” said my old friend the guard, sitting on my right. “Hahaha. You think this is like one of those beauty salons where you pump iron and gossip about the latest protein shake with your other bodybuilder friends? Your muscles so big they took up the space of your brain? Hahahaha….you’re in for the big one, buddy!”

The other prisoner replies, “3 mil! That’s cruel. I didn’t know they gave out such harsh sentences.”

Make it? Ok, I’ve heard about prison politics and how factions and gangs can form. And every once in awhile, one of the inmates loses their cool in that all-male environment and stabs the other to death. But this ain’t suppose to be like that. Thankfully, I’ll be in solitary. I’ve always been a sort of loner anyway, it’s the only way to do what I do. Avoiding rabble in the prison is probably for the best anyway. Who knows, maybe the Senator has moles within that could beat me up or stick a knife through my gut if I were suppose to join the prison population there, I assure myself. I’ll just concentrate on the work I have to do and I’ll make it out of here in no time.

Feeling humiliated, I remain in silence for the rest of the journey and admire the scenery outside. The barren desert makes one contemplative. By now, the harsh sun has risen in a cloudless sky and the glare blocks my eyes from seeing too far out. The land is utterly flat, and I can’t make out any other living thing apart from us inside the bus.

Eventually, the boundless desert finally gives way to something new. I see in the front window a building like an old abandoned fort of a previous century. Like a mirage it appears slowly in the horizon, blurry and wavy at first, but then it is plain as we draw nearer that this vision is reality. Its imposing walls are made of unpainted concrete, grey and foreboding. The perimeter is further secured by barbed wired fencing. Three guard posts are visible at the front facade, with guards around the perimeter, as well as above, on the walls. Guards come out to talk to the driver as he halts at the gate. He mumbles something to them and they give the ok to open the gates. We have arrived.

The bus drives into the compound. Inside are more guards, mostly just in a relaxed position, enjoying a smoke under the shade provided by the shadow of the concrete structures. But some fully armed with guns come presently closer to the bus as it stops in front of the main building inside – a middle-sized three story building, longer than it is tall. The two top floors have barred windows, while the third floor is only half way so. The other half of the highest floor has large window panels, similar to those of skyscrapers. Despite the glare of the sun, the silhouette of a large man stands at the window looking down at us, though I am unable to make out the man’s face in the glare. No other inmates are to be seen on the compound. Only guards who are all dressed in the same light blue cotton shirt and dark blue pants and black leather shoes designed for heavy duty work.

We are unlocked from our handcuffs and made to put our arms behind our heads. We were then whisked out of the bus one by one and told to remain silent and stand next to one another. Another four guards stand across, looking menacing with their weapons and batons. Myself and the other guy I talked to complied with the instructions without question.

However, the two other soon-to-be prisoners, the ones that sat behind us, were determined to make a fuss. Cursing and brash talking, totally ignoring the instructions of the guards, the two strolled down the bus, middle finger in the air, and waving it to each of the heavily armed men before us.

The two of them looked very similar, possibly siblings. Both were similar in their stature – large, brawny types with a liking for mischief. They had wide faces, not unpleasant, one of them spotting a 5 o’ clock shadow with black hair like soot, the other with long brown hair down to his shoulders. They didn’t mind annoying the guards and it seems they were planning to cause trouble during their sentence here. The guards took no notice as long as they managed to get us in a single file as we marched into the building, the four stronger guards basically dragging the two brothers. That guard from the courtroom stood at the bus and he shouted to me from there,” You’re their problem now. Good luck in there! You gonna need it! And no matter what happens, never stop pulling! Hahaha…”


Inside, I was surprised to find a neat, clean reception area. The air warm but not stale and it was well-lit, I thought. A woman sat at the reception table. She was busy when we entered the room and she did not look up from her paperwork for some time. We were all gathered around her, with guards in-between each prisoner, the guards of the brothers finally managing to hold on to them by pulling one arm up the back and gripping tightly to their biceps.

After a while, she stood up and addressed all of us politely and in a cool voice. “Hello, everyone, welcome to Sisyphus Penitentiary. Here, you have been sent to serve your various sentences, in compliance with the new prison reform laws. As part of “PLP Industries”, we have worked hand in hand with government authorities in addressing the issue of prison overcrowding. The facility you are in right now was chosen as the pilot project, which concluded successfully last year. The innovative ideas tested here are now being implemented throughout the country as we speak. At Sis-Pen, we are determined to provide you with the necessary tools and motivation to help you achieve full rehabilitation into society. Firstly, you are to be assigned a number, which will be used here throughout your stay. You will also receive a mentoring guard for your the duration of your stay.”

To the scrawny kid she said,” Your convict identification number is 32. Your mentor is Warden Jimenez. Please walk through that door to begin processing. Warden Jimenez is waiting on the other side.” The kid was in tears as he was led into the designated door. It would be some time before I saw him again, and by then, I would hardly recognized him.

I was assigned the number 33, and the Assistant Chief Warden of the facility, known as Torque, was to be my mentor, much to the surprise of the other wardens and the secretary. “Well,” she said and smiled. ” Looks like you were a special request. Warden Torque is known to be one of the best in the facility, and the most experienced here. Your rehabilitation will be swifter than anticipated.”

Special request? That does not sound good….sounds like this was arranged..by the Senator?

The twins mischiefs, were assigned the numbers 34 and 35 and a Warden with the name of Beetch, which naturally made the both of them laugh. The other wardens grinned. One of them said,” You can have your fun. You don’t know what you are up against. He’ll make you serve your 2 mil well.”

So they, too, were sentenced to two million revolutions. I was obviously given a more severe sentence thanks to the influence of that no good senator. This makes me feel even more uncomfortable, and I don’t even know yet what my sentence means!

My thoughts are disrupted by the smooth voice of the secretary. “Number 33, please step through the door there to begin processing,” she said. ” Warden Torque is waiting for you on the other side.”

I take another look at her. Her pleasant face, warm eyes and auburn hair. If we were in a different setting I would totally try banging her. She certainly has something for me, judging from the twinkling in her eyes. I flex my sore arms behind my head and smile at her as a small gesture, as I am escorted to the other room by two guards, each at my side holding one of my upper arms. She is the last chick I will see for a long, long, long time.


Chapter 3 – Tartarus /Processing

” Welcome to Sisyphus Penitentiary. You’ll address me simply as Torque. I am assistant chief warden of this facility,” said the huge man standing in front of me. He looked young, at most 30. He was slightly taller than me, by about an inch or two. What was surprising was that he was so much broader than me, and larger, certainly bulk wise, considering I myself am rather large too. His uniform was similar to the other wardens, but his physique made his clothes seem very uncomfortable, like it was a size too small for his ripped body. His sleeves looked like they were about to explode, his large biceps and triceps bulging with every movement of his hands. His two hairy and thick forearms, criss-crossed with snaky veins pulsing underneath the dark, tanned skin. His face was just as tan, and chiselled. He looked eager and sharp, probably due to his clear blue eyes that stared at me as I entered through the door from the reception hall. His brown hair was trimmed to a military buzz cut, but the lower half of his face had a slightly more noticeable shadow of well-groomed stubble. From his broad chest, a few hairs stuck out from his collar. The skin here too was tanned, just like many of the guards I had met outside, caused probably by the desert sun.

“Follow me,” he continues. “We’re going to get you processed.”

We walk along the corridor – him in front, followed by me, and the two wardens that had come with me, on each side, holding my arms. They are all unarmed, unlike the guards outside. Surrounded like I am, there is no point in causing trouble. Perhaps this might put me in their good books. First impressions are important.

The first corridor we enter is rather normal looking, like a typical office building. We enter one of the doors which turns out to be a common shower area. The floor is tiled light blue with several shower heads on the other wall. It is menacingly empty.

The assistant chief warden says,” Alright, Number 33, the first step here is to take a shower. So strip.” I begin undressing. As much as I would have enjoyed some privacy, it is obvious the wardens weren’t going to look away as I got naked. I get it: typical prison shake-up. Show the prisoner he is nothing by making him strip naked and embarrassing him. Thing is: I don’t give a fuck. I got the body of a Greek God and I ain’t afraid to show it! I hand over my civilian clothes to one of the wardens, and proceed to stand under the shower.

“Alright, Warden Phelps, turn on the water,” says Torque. “5 minutes, Number 33.”

The cold water seems so refreshing after that stuffy bus ride. I proceed to lather up with the disinfectant soap conveniently placed there. As I do so, I notice the 3 guards staring at me, perversely, watching the water flow smoothly down my sculptured physique.

“You certainly take good care of your body, 33” says Torque.

“Yeah,” I said “it’s what I use to make my living.”

“Is it? Well, nothing is going to change then,” he replies, coolly.

“Yeah? I think it will.” I answer cockily.

“You seem rather calm for someone sentenced to SisPen,” he says after a while.

“Well, what can I say?” I reply. “I’ve got a mind to get out of here a.s.a.p. And this body’s going to get me out faster.”

“From what I’ve heard, seems like you don’t even know what you’re up against. That’s pretty stupid if you ask me. Hm…well, most of the others quickly build up muscle like yourself after a while at their labours. But you already have the physique of a convict here. It’ll be a pleasure seeing what we can do with what we already have here.”

The other wardens grin slightly, as they watch me process what has just been said. This talk about “doing” things to me makes me feel very uncomfortable. Not to mention calling me by my number! I continue to shower in silence.

Just when I am enjoying the cold shower, the water is turned off.

“Sorry,” says Torque, “but water is precious here in the desert. We can’t just be squandering our resources and energy we have up here.”

He then orders the other warden to get the delousing powder. Before I know it, they throw copious amounts of it at me, and then order me to turn to get my back.

“Rub it in good, 33.” says Warden Phelps, as I proceed to do so. “Make sure it gets in every crevice: joints, the pits and your asscrack. Speaking of which, spread ‘em!”

Humiliating though it is, I expect enough to know that a check for contraband smuggled anally is typical. I bend over, holding my buttcheeks aside, hoping this is the worst I will have to face in this prison. I feel the cold rubber touch my rim, and the warden prods a bit around whilst holding a flashlight in the other hand. Thankfully it ends quickly.

“Alright, seems in order. You gonna be so obedient all the time, 33?” chuckles Warden Phelps.

Deloused, the guards then lead me back to the corridor.

“Hey, what about my clothes?” I ask nervously.

“Oh that,” says Torque matter-of-factly. “You’ll be assigned your prison uniform shortly. We still have to get one last thing done.”

Stark naked, I am led once again to the end of the corridor. There are two flights of stairs. On the left of us leading up is one pleasant looking one, made of plastic planks and a light metal railing, with sunshine lighting the way up. I suspect there are more offices there. The other flight of stairs, however, are hewn of stone, like those found in a medieval castle. It is much narrower than anything I’ve seen before in a building, certainly one that had any hope of not being shut down for fire code violations. It spiraled downwards, leading to a dark unknown. My heart sinks as we take the stairs going downwards, marching in single file and with our bodies sideways due to the narrowness, with Torque leading the way, and I sandwiched between the two other guards. A gut feeling starts rising within me that the place is a lot less pleasant than the ground floor or the reception area made it seem.

We are one floor below ground and enter a corridor much like the one above, only darkly lit. There is no sunlight here, only old fluorescent lights. It takes some time for my eyes to adjust to this. On each side of the corridor are metal doors of similar built, the entrance to the prison cells. The corridor goes on for about 50 meters, before making a right turn. What is beyond that is a mystery to me because we enter the first room to the right, containing no locked door but just a frame.

Upon entering the room, the third warden turns on the lights to reveal a room with a low ceiling and various old junk all clustered on the far side of the room. The floor and walls are made of dull grey concrete. It’s a store room of some sort, I think. In the middle of the room is a dentist’s chair with straps located on the armrests and the ankle area. A fire is burning on one side of the chair with metal poles sticking out from the coals.

“What’s going o-” I try to say but before I have a chance to react, Warden Phelps hits me hard on the back of the head with his baton, stunting me for a split second.

This gives just enough time for the other wardens to drag me to the chair where I am fastened securely with the straps on my arms and legs. The speed by which this is achieved indicates that the wardens have had some amount of experience in this maneuver. A tough leather strap is placed over my neck, preventing my head from arching forwards too much. I am quickly immobilised, naked and at the mercy of the wardens.

“Hey, what the fuck is this! Get me out of here!” I shout.

“Ooh,” Torque says raising an eyebrow inquisitively. ” what happened to that bravado up there?” his demeanour has changed and he looks alot more sinister under the incandescent lights.

“There’s no way this is legal! Did the Senator put you to this? If this let’s out his and your ass will be shut down!” I shout in fury, struggling against my bonds, futilely.

“What are you talking about?” Torque says. “This is part of the program. We’re just getting you your convict identification number.”

One of the wardens reaches for a nasty looking poker in that barbeque grill filled with coals already warm.

Phelps smiles and says sinisterly,” I just heard from Jimenez that that other convict, 32, squealed his throat out alright, here just 10 minutes ago. Let’s see if you can take the heat.”

I notice that the poker is in fact a branding iron. At its end is a large number “3”. As it begins to glow red hot, Torque proceeds to lift it from the coals. The other two wardens now push me tightly against the chair. I feel the warm sizzling of my chest hair just a half second before I am enveloped in a flashing white light of pain. I let out an involuntary growl as the branding iron is placed on my left pec, permanently damaging the flesh there.I struggle against my bonds but to no avail.

The branding iron is lifted from my chest and placed back among the burning coals, leaving a nasty scar in the shape of a “3”. One of the guards leaves the room and returns shortly with hair clippers.

“What the fuck you guys think you’re doing? Branding prisoners? ” I shout amidst my pain.

The wardens ignore my comments and proceed to remove all the hair on my body. From my head to my thighs, the hair clippers cruelly explore the surface area of my skin, leaving no spot unviolated by the buzzing sound of the clippers.

Now naked, strapped in and bald, I’m given one last humilitation – the final brand. The “3” had been warming up whilst my hair was being removed. Torque thrust it quickly and holds it in place on my chest, soliciting yet another involuntary scream from me. I take deep breaths and pant as the branding iron is taken away.

“Looks good” says Torque. “Despite your squirming we were able to make a good mark on you. You should thank us for that. Botching it up would just mean we’d have to repeat the procedure on your other pec.”

The wardens give me some time to breathe before unstrapping me, dusting out the hair that has collected on my body and leading me out of the room. Still dazed, I offer no resistance to the wardens. We continue down another two flights of stairs. Turns out, this prison is a lot bigger than it appears above surface!

As we descend, Torque says, “Hey, 33, I’ve been special requested to give you our executive suite here. That means one of the cells on the lowest level. You certainly fucked the wrong people up.” Heh heh heh, he chuckles.

On this lowest floor of the building is once again another corridor. This time however, no fluorescent lights welcome us to this level.

“Xantos, get the light, would you?” Warden Xantos takes out his flashlight and hands it over to Torque. “You see, 33,” Torque says as we walk along. “This floor is for the ones who society wants to forget. The neglected. We didn’t even bother to install lights here since it isn’t expected that you will be entertaining many guests in your prison cell.”

As we walk on, however, I notice that the faintest bit of light seeps in from under the doors that line the hallway, indicating that at least my cell will not be in total darkness. I also notice that there is a panel located beside each of the doors, and electronic lock, glowing eerily blue and green in the narrow walkway. As far as I can discern, doors line the corridor, heavy doors made of steel, rusty, possibly due to their age or the unusual humidity in the air, best described as acrid. The doors look ominous, without no windows to look into except a large handle to pull the door aside. In front of each cell is a small slot for a coloured paper card with a number stenciled in white paint on it. I can barely make out in the poor light the numbers 46, 52, 81, 5 on the left side of the corridor. The numbers are irregular…

Finally, we almost reach the end of the corridor, where the wardens stop me. On the paper slip on the door are the small numbers stencilled in white “33”. I notice here also that the doors have a thin slip at the bottom, possible for sliding food in. So there will be absolutely no communication with other prisoners? This really is solitary confinement?!

Torque types in a code at the door panel, a beep sounds and this releases the lock on the door. Just at that moment, I hear a scream of pain coming from somewhere up the corridor, coming from the other side of one the closed doors. The scream is blood-curdling, one of pure agony, sending shivers up my spine. What the fuck is going on here?

“PULL!!!” a voice shouts from within that cell.

“Huh, sounds like number 32 has officially begun its sentence,” says Torque, before the warden forces my head to look forward. With some effort, Torque slides the heavy metal door of my cell aside to reveal the horror that awaits me.


Chapter 4 – The great reveal

I am frozen in fear at what I see before me. In the middle of the cell, I see for the first time what they have been calling “the Servitor Unit” – the device which I am to perform 3 million revolutions on. Three million fucking times!

The Servitor Unit is a millstone approximately 6 feet in diameter and 3 feet high. It is placed above an immovable bedstone of the same material slightly wider and about 2 feet high. The millstone contains a single protrusion which is a large wooden beam extending out another 5 feet to one side.The millstone and the grinding surface look like they are made out of solid granite yet this was not completely so. It had to have a hollow core to accommodate the shaft for turning. On the outside, a digital display was fixed indicating the number of revolutions that had been taken. This digital counter currently showed the pathetic amount of 0. Above the display were stenciled the words in white:


The other side of the millstone was also stenciled with these words, freshly painted:




“Welcome to your cell, 33. This will be your home during your stay here,” said Warden Torque.

The three wardens force me into the cell. I naturally struggle against my captors and their grip, shouting and cursing at them, despite the futility of fighting three armed guards, each with a baton close at hand. My struggling merely invites more blows on my head and my gut, causing me to stumble. The wardens were probably experienced with this procedure and hardly lagged in their work. I was completely immobilised.

Overpowered, they drag me across the room to the second piece of punishing equipment – an X frame. A fucking X-frame to crucify the convict! It is hewn from rough wood, conveniently left unsanded and rough. Fixed on the wood itself on each of the ends are four shackles, clearly intended to immobilize the unfortunate soul hanging on the cross.

I am made to stand with my back facing the X-frame. My arms and legs are forced apart into a spread eagle formation, my wrist and ankles where the shackles are. Despite my fidgeting they manage to hold me in place. Once in position, Torque, holding one of my legs and one of my arms, faces the wall where the cell door is and looks up. There above the cell door is a camera. I notice in fact that there are four, one along each wall.

“Control Room, the convict is in position, ”

“From the ceiling a voice comes. A speaker somewhere, though I am unable to find it. The voice is crisp and loud, as if the man that speaks it himself is with us here in the cell.

“Roger, Torque.”

In a flash, the shackles close in, locking me in, securing me to the X-frame.

“What da fuck do you think you’re doing?!” I shouted, struggling against the restraints, my body testing their strength. I broke into a cold sweat.

“And where is my prison uniform? I demand to see the chief warden!! You can’t just lock me up here!”

With great precision, Warden Torque lands a hard kick on my balls, forcing my breath out and making me double back in pain, if I weren’t secured taut to the frame. I stop my complaining.

“Shut up, 33. The day is dragging on and we are already behind schedule for your first day of servitude.”

Servitude? What the fuck is he talking about?

He continues, “But before you begin your service it is vital you understand and follow proper practice and protocol whilst fulfilling your duty here. I will show you once and then I will hand over the Wheel to you.”

As he says this he paces away from me and towards the Servitor Unit, a.k.a. the Wheel. His brawny arms reach for his shirt and he begins to unbutton it. Removing his shirt he reaches for his belt whilst getting out of his shoes. He’s stripping, whatever for, I wonder.

Meanwhile, he continued, “And you can forget about that silly nonsense about clothes. The right to be clothed belongs to citizens. By committing such a terrible crime, you have forfeited this and other rights, and currently hold the status of Convict – a non-person whose purpose is to repay the debt it has to society through hard labour. Upon completing your sentence, you will receive the aforementioned rights of a citizen again. But until then and no sooner, you will be known as convict 33, whose sole purpose here is to turn this wheel using the only thing that is useful about it in service to decent society – its body.”

The way the warden said those words sent chills up my spine. But I begin to really dread what would come as the warden finished undressing. The man stands stark naked, revealing a taut body, suggesting he too was accustomed to physical activity. Broad and muscular, there was very little fat on him. His muscles stuck out like cannonballs and his chests like barrels on his lean frame. On his left pec branded, was a number 2 with another brand in the shape of a an ‘X’ obscuring it. On his right pec an elaborate tattoo of a naked woman holding a scale and a sword. But what added to his raw masculinity, the intimidation and toughness his markings portrayed, was what his back looked like as he turned around to put his clothes neatly on the floor. That broad back was utterly damaged, criss-crossed with welts, and welts upon welts, like he was flogged or something, and very severely in fact. Scarred, he was, from the bottom of his neck down to his ass cheeks, the latter of which seemed to be the worst affected. On his upper back, across his traps, were tattooed in large in a prison stencil font “INFRACTIONS”.


“What the fuuuck?” I let out. “They beating the guards here too? ARRRGHH!”

“I said shut up,” said Warden Phelps as he hit me in the gut with his baton. “Assistant Chief Warden Torque is going to show you how to properly handle the Wheel. Don’t want you breaking your back halfway through your sentence, eh?”

“Now, we need to pick up one last piece of furniture for your new room,” Warden Xantos mocks, as the wardens (Torque unabashedly naked) exit the cell into the dark corridor. This gives me time to look around.

The cell is about 20 by 16 feet, made of solid concrete, left unpainted. The rough grey walls, the floor and the ceiling, mark the boundaries of my new home. Being so far down, there is not a window in sight for natural lighting. Instead, harsh white industrial lights shine down on the floor from the high ceiling, which is about 10 feet high, filling the room with blinding light and banishing any shadows. The heat of the lamps was already a stark contrast to the cool of the corridor outside. The air inside was stale and warm and smelt of disinfectant, new applied generously throughout the cell.

In terms of amenities, it was totally sparse. At the far corner on the ground lay a dirty mattress. On the opposite side, to the left of the cell door, a small pipe protruded from the side of the wall, with an unusually wide depression in the ground, though no more than a foot in diameter – what likely is the shower (and also, I would later learn, the toilet). A small ventilator fan was located at the top, above the shower pipe. The fan was not currently turned on.

Besides these features, the Servitor Unit and X-frame take centre stage. Here I would be spending most of my time, my hands on the handlebar pushing the millstone forward, and the X-frame likely for punishing me for bad behaviour. As I would soon find out, my guesses were wrong on both accounts.

The wardens return – Torque, naked, stridding in first. Xantos and Phelps, panting, carried between them a large oval-shaped object which they place in front of the pole jutting out of the millstone. It looked like it was made of cast iron about 3 feet wide and 2 feet broad at its widest. It was, in fact, made of 2 pieces of metal, connected together via four pistons at the centre of the oval and two at each edge furthest away from the middle. It was about 6 inches in thickness.There were three holes on the object: One fairly large one between two smaller openings, the pistons lining each of these in symmetry. Stenciled around the larger opening were the words



The number of the convict, its crime and sentence, just like on the millstone!

And on each of the smaller openings on the side were the letters L and R stenciled in red.

Torque lifted it up, and began putting it on himself, his biceps rippling to accommodate the weight. It was obviously very, very heavy. He put his head in the middle holes, and his left and right lower arms at the openings marked L and R respectively. The huge metal frame was now resting on his broad shoulders, lifted up by that damaged but clearly strong back. Without hesitation, he walked lithely to the front of the wooden handle and shouted at one of the wall panels “Ex-Convict 2, reporting for duty!”. A reply came back from the loudspeaker above, “Roger! Stand by for servitude!”. A sound came from the yoke like the release of energy from the pistons. The holes slowly narrowed, trapping the warden’s lower arms and neck in them. His upper body now immobilised, the other wardens came over and brought chains. These were industrial chains, large heavy links of solid steel, which they used to connect between the wooden handle and the yoke. Another chain was wrapped around the waist of Torque, which was also connected to the wooden handle. Throughout all this, Torque remained passive, his face stoic, looking at the other wardens in silence.

In the end, what stood before us was a prime example of male muscled virility, completely naked and chained like some common beast of burden to an impossibly large and cumbersome stock. The yoke made it nigh impossible to turn the neck, blocking any peripheral vision. It obviously took huge effort just to maintain the weight of the yoke, as the veins on the wardens neck began bulging and his shoulders started glistening in perspiration.

Naked and chained, the Warden Torque began speaking. “Listen carefully, 33, because what I’m about to tell you may save your back and your life. More so due to your long sentence. The key to pulling the wheel is to lean forward.” He began doing so and slowly moving forward. His body started turning red and muscles began appearing all over the tensed body. He growled. He wasn’t pushing, but PULLING the wheel!

“Use gravity to help -ugh- propel you forward. Also, give 100% in every pull. That means every -ugh- muscle: your arms, shoulders, chest and abs, -agh- back, hips and legs must be fully utilised. Finally -ugh- maintain a straight back if you don’t want to get killed within the first year here.” He made a full revolution, making sure I observed every move he made by going slowly and deliberately. His bright eyes were fixed constantly at a point in front of him while his muscles rippled under his skin with every stride he made. His manhood dangled between those mighty legs that propelled him forward with each mighty stride. One of the wardens spotted a bulge at his crotch as all of us were transfixed on this young, well-muscled officer.

He finished one round around the wheel and then addressed the same wall panel, “Ex-convict 2 protocol overwrite”. “Roger, Warden Torque, welcome back!” came the reply as the yoke released his thick neck and arms and he gently put down the massive yoke. He spoke to me as he began putting back his officer’s uniform.

“We call this contraption here the Penitent’s collar,” pointing to the cast iron yoke. It represents the burden of the crime you’ve committed. Your convict identification number and your crime are stenciled on the yoke, to always be before your eyes as you work, that you are always reminded of the reason you are here. We’ve found this drives the convicts crazy. But we’ve noticed that they sometimes get attached to their collar in a weird way. Heck, some crazies even ask to have their collars after the end of their service as a momento. We usually allow it, since each one is made to fit specifically to each convict. I personally felt no attachment to mine.”

“Yours? So what, you were a slave here too? AARRGH!” I asked and was hit by a warden’s baton on my left oblique.

“You are in a penitentiary. You are a convict, not a slave. We don’t take too kindly to this mistake,” Warden Phelps said.

“That means, 33, that you willingly engaged in activities which directly led to you being a convict, thus landing you here to repay your debts through service. A slave does not have this choice. Failing to notice this difference is a sign of a lack of penitence, and is thus subject to punishment.” added the Warden Xantos, with a mischievous grin. He was the one with the bulge in his pants, though this had somewhat subsided.

I muster up my courage. Apparently asking the wrong questions can get you hurt here too.

” So all of you’s former inmates here?”

“Actually just me, 33,” said Torque.

“And now you working for the dogs?” I said, fully anticipating a blow from the wardens. Preparing to defy them. It looked like Xantos was about to strike me again, but it didn’t come.

“I’ll allow it.” said Torque. “Sort of. It’s a good job and it pays the bills. I might tell you the full story someday but not now. Now, it’s your turn. The first revolution I made is on me. But I expect nothing less than full commitment from you today! Fellahs, chain him to the wheel!”


Chapter 5 – Day 1 – Revolutions: 1

The wardens lose no time unlocking me from the X frame. They twist my arms behind my back, trapping me in their firm grip. Completely immobilised, I’m led to the position where Warden Torque had left the yoke.

“Pick it up!” ordered Phelps.

“Where are my clothes? I was promised clothes in my cell!” I yelled in reply.

“You are mistaken, 33,” replied Phelps. “You were promised a prison uniform. The Penitent’s Collar is the uniform of the convict. You will wear it when on duty. So get to it!”

I pick up the yoke from the ground. Damn, it’s heavy! I’ve done yoke lifts before in the gym but this was something different. For one, this was suppose to be worn for an extended period of time. The thing weighs probably around 50 pounds. Holding it from both ends, I lift it above my head and then slowly slide my head though the largest hole. I then proceed to insert my left and right arms in the smaller openings located on each side. My arms form 90 degrees at the elbow. The collar is supported by my biceps, broad shoulders and neck muscles. The odd position I am in means my chest is puffed up, with my V-tapered back spread out like the head of a rattlesnake . My legs are shoulder width apart and my cock and balls limp in between. I am completely vulnerable.

“Now,” said Torque, “face the camera over there on the wall and say ‘Convict 33, reporting for duty’.”

I look around and feel a deep sense of insecurity when I see there is a camera built into every wall, the four sides of the cell, to record my labour, and to make sure no moment of my suffering would be missed!

I face the camera as instructed and with a sense of dread say the words I am commanded to say. “Roger, 33, standby for servitude,” came the reply. The servos are activated in the collar, filling me with dread, as the two halves of the metal oval close in, slowly trapping my arms and head in its jaws. The membrane within the holes fills up with air, further restricting any movement to rotate my arms or neck. This is the point of no return! Trapped in the collar, chained to a pole protruding from that damned millstone, I start taking deep breathes to prepare for the ordeal which surely is to come.

After the yoke is secure, the wardens double-check the chains connecting the yoke to the pole. A chain is brought to me and is looped twice around my waist before being pulled taut and hooked to the metal brace embedded in the pole. When everything is set, the go is given. Above me, a loud siren sounded.

“You may begin, Convict!” yelled the wardens. I remain still.

“You can’t fucking make me do this!” I yell in reply. All the while, the siren rings, drowning out our voices. The whole situation escalates. The room choking with tension.

“I won’t fucking do this!” I shout.

“Get…moving…convict!” yells Phelps as he walks to me, and proceeds to hit me with his baton repeatedly. The pain of the blows do not dampen my resolve and while I may be trapped in chains, I remain standing, an immovable statue, slightly arched over from the weight of the yoke, watching them waste their breath attacking me while I curse them back.

“STOP! You idiots!” yells Assistant Chief Warden Torque from across the room. Phelps stops hitting me.

“33, I thought you would begin your internment here at Sisyphus more gently. it seems I misjudged you. If pain is what it takes to make you move the wheel, We will be happy to oblige.” With that, he brought out an electronic device from his pocket. It was circular, thin and metallic in appearance, and fit neatly on his palm. It was a matt grey and bore no remarkable features. He comes over to where I am standing and before I can react at the shock of being violated so nonchalantly, he proceeds to jam the ring onto my genitals. He reaches quickly, cupping my balls, and tying the second device around them. My cock is equally shoved in through the hole. I didn’t have time to react, nor could I even see it happen, my sight being blocked by the yoke.

“Now, 33, it is currently about 3 in the afternoon. Half the day has already been wasted getting you processed and informed and frankly a little more cooperation from you would have sped things up alot more. So this is the deal here: the wheel and you, known here in technical terms as the “Servitor Unit”, will be fully operational until 10pm tonight. So long as that wheel is turning, electricity will not be fired through your cock and balls. He reveals in his hand a remote control and presses on a button.

This sends jolts of electricity coursing through my body. My manhood feels the burn and the shock of the attack. Anyone who has not yet been shocked does not understand what a torment it is, as your body attempts to find some place of solace from the pain. But it is futile, as it is within the body itself that the current is coursing. And it envelops me completely. My muscles contract and I fall to the ground at the pain of being shocked via my balls for the very first time.

The other wardens grab me and drag me up, pushing me forward till at last, I lift my right foot forward and begin pulling. I let out a cry and contract all my muscles in an effort to pull forward, all the while with current flowing through me. With the combined effort of the wardens and every muscle fibre in my body, the pole finally moves two inches and the current stops. I let out my pent up breath, which escapes my lips as a moan.

“Don’t stop now, 33, or you will be punished!” threatens Torque, his finger already close to pressing the button again. I struggle to catch my breath and quickly resume lurching forward, this time without the help of the guards. Unbelievably, the grinding wheel starts to rotate, and I fight to maintain the momentum we won earlier.

“By the way 33, that shock you experienced was a level 2 of 10 possible settings. I’d never use the setting 10 since it comes with a precaution that it may be lethal. No, our purpose is to preserve you so you can serve your sentence fully. Nevertheless, that was the last time I use a ‘2’. Further infractions on your part will be dealt with with a ‘3’ or higher.”

“Now, continue doing your duty whilst I provide you with some more information about your time at Sisyphus.”

“I’m…ugh….listening…argh..”I grunt as I take slow steps forward, dragging the pole of massive wood along with me, and slowly turning the wheel. It take me a full 2 minutes to make the first revolution. Fuck!

The wardens remain silent until I have completed my first revolution.

“My my…” says Warden Torque. “your time is atrocious. You’re gonna have to do way better than that if you want to complete your sentence within your lifespan. If you need motivation I’ll be happy to assist”, he grinned, dangling the remote control in front of my face. I scowl back.

“Just tell…agh..me..argh..what I need to know” I said.

“Of course. Your allocated time for hard labour is 16 hours a day, every day. The morning begins at 5am with the siren. You have one minute to get your ass under the pipe over there to shower. Since water is precious here the pipe will only be turned on for a minute. After you are soaked, proceed to soap yourself up with the antibactial soap over there,” pointing to the bathing corner.

“You have one minute for that. Then, the water will be turned on again for 2 minutes for you to rinse yourself up. There are no towels here by the way, but you’ll dry it all off quickly under the heat of the these industrial lamps. Then, the 1st meal will be served through that slit over there. It will be a high caloric meal, filled with energy, protein and vitamins to ensure you remain healthy throughout your stay here.”

“How…ugh…fucking…thoughtful” I remarked.

“Yes,” said Torque, ” we are aren’t we? Anyhow, you have 15 minutes to eat and place the bowl at the slit for collection. Then, you are given 10 minutes of free time in which you can shit, piss or do some strecthing excercises for the task ahead. And yeah, you shit and piss while working, 33. No stopping.”

Shit, this is turning into a pretty sick institution, I think.

“At half past 5 a siren will be heard. You are to assume the spread eagle position in front of the X frame and say ‘Convict 33, reporting for inspection!’ You will then be remotely locked onto the X frame, where you will hang for half an hour. This time is taken for either medical checkups by our prison doctors, or for meeting out punishments for infringements the previous day. Doctors are of course necessary to ensure the convicts remain healthy throughout their time here. 2 minutes before 6 you will be released and you are to go to the wheel. First, chain yourself up on the waist and then put on the Penitent’s collar. Face the wall like just now and say ‘Convict 33, reporting for duty.’ The other side will give you the go ahead and lock you up. When the signal is given, begin pulling. Do this for the next 16 hours. When the allocated time is reached, known also as State or Service Time, S-time for short, a siren will be heard again and the yoke will come off. This is then known as Penitent’s time, or P-time. Your 2nd meal of the day will be provided consisting of the same stuff as in the morning. Additional supplements may be given, depending on doctor’s recommendation. You will be given 20 minutes to finish your meal before lights out. That should provide about 7 hours’ rest and then, the next day, more of the same. This is your day, every day, until you hit the magic 3 million mark. Any questions?”


Chapter 6 – Day 1(continued) – Revolutions: 2

I begin my third revolution around the Wheel.

“This is inhuman!” I yell.

“As a convict you do not have the status of a ‘human’ in this country. So yes, it is in that sense inhuman.” answered Torque.

Turning to the other wardens he says, “The rest of you can go back to your usual duties. I’ll be watching this one…personally…”

The other wardens exit the cell in obedience and lock the door behind them, leaving me with this ex-convict turned officer.

“For the first week,” he continues, “I’ll be here to guide you and ensure you maintain proper posture and technique required for performing your duty. Since you are no longer legally a man, but a convict – a mere beast of burden- it is fitting that your education be done with the use of proper instruments, such as with the punishment unit, which you are currently wearing on the your cock and balls. For the next few days however, I will train you with something finer.” He then presented a riding crop and began whacking my abs. The pain brought me to attention.

ARRGH! I screamed.

” Abs are important in maintaining posture and core strength. You are not utilising them to their maximum potential!”

As the day dragged I fell into a haze, punctuated by the shouting of Torque and my screams as I made the superhuman effort of turning the Wheel. The riding crop was used on any part of my body that seemed to him to not be performing at an optimum level. It no longer became a matter of making the rounds but merely of avoiding more pain.

Put your back into it!


Shoulders back and chest displayed!


I want to see more force from the legs!


Keep your head facing straight and avoid distractions!


I wanna see every part of that miserable body serving the Wheel!


Sweat poured from every pore of my skin and flowed down as rivulets, crossing my back and chest and flowing further down to my abs. They became meandering little streams by the time they reached my groin and flowed swiftly down my legs to the ground, which was utterly soaked by my musky sweat, the product of male muscle under hard labour.

Approaching an hour turning the wheel, ice cold water began pouring from the ceiling. It cooled me down and washed away some of the stink. I drank deeply from the water.”Unofficially,” said Torque, “we provide the convicts with a minute of rest every hour, mostly for drinking and pissing…but also to wash away the stink from the sweat, blood, shit and piss you will be producing here. However, I suggest you continue making the rounds, since restarting after losing momentum is alot harder than just going on walking. And remember, if you are found a second late after the watering minute is up you will be punished with the electrical Punishment Unit.”

I begrudgingly plodded on, believing the advise of this former inmate.

And so it went on. I walked along the rounds, maddeningly turning the wheel over and over again. The combined weight of the granite wheel and the heavy metal yolk was very nearly unbearable. It was only possible due to the primitive urge to avoid Torque and his implements of torture. I drew from inner reserves of strength, strength I didn’t even know I had. From my gut to my back, from my neck muscles to my feet, every inch of my body was tensed up, straining, pulling, tugging, all in service to the Wheel.

As time dragged on, my strength began to fail. The intensities of Torque’s whip increased. The slightest show of a slow down was met with a lash on the offending body part. Lashes were laid all over my body and welts formed. There was only a single object in my mind: avoid more pain. And so I went on.

A water break….more work….and pain….Rinse and repeat.

Till at long last the siren sounded. The yoke was released and I collapsed to the floor. Torque unchained my limp body and dragged me to the heavy metal door where food was brought in. He spoon-fed me as I was too weak from my labour.

“You’ll need to eat if you wanna survive here,” he said. “You made 302 revolutions today after 7 hours. That’s pitiful. You’re gonna have to do better than that tomorrow if you wanna make it outta here alive.”

After I finished the bowl of gruel, he dragged me to my mattress at the corner of the cell.

“Sleep well, 33. Tomorrow we begin your first FULL day here at Sisyphus.” he said as he walked out the cell and locked the door behind him. The lights went out and I fell into a dreamless sleep of utter exhaustion.


Chapter 7 – Day 2 – Revolutions: 302

A loud siren fills the cell with deafening noise. It shocks me to my senses -and at once I feel the pain of the previous day. I groan as my consciousness informs me that what I feel now is real.

Within seconds of the siren ringing, Assistant Chief Warden Torque barges in, riding crop in hand, the veins on his head clearly visible on his crewcut head, shouting at the top of his lungs.

“Rise and shine, convict! Get the hell under the showers, NOW!”

I attempt to stand up but accidentally fall back on my cot. I wince as I feel the effects of yesterday’s labour. Bruises and welts criss-cross my skin and muscles scream in agony from their strain as a result of my first day on the wheel.

Torque adds one more dose of pain to that by beginning to whip me on my torso. “Get moving!” he yells.

I make a double effort and manage to get myself standing under the shower, which is nothing more than a open pipe. Directly below the pipe, is the small depression and the drain, doubling as a toilet. I place my feet on either side of the small hole in the ground. The siren stops and water begins to flow. It’s freezing and shocks me up to full consciousness. About a minute in and the water stops.

“Now, soap yourself up. I want every part of your body lathered up!”

I oblige and reach for the bar of brown disinfectant soap I find on the ground. It smells nasty. I make an effort to soap up behind each ear, under the armpits, my groin and every other crevice, my body glistening under the white industrial lights.

“Now rinse it all off, 33,” said Torque as the water begins to run again. Another minute and the water stops. .

At the same moment, anonymus hands slide a tray of food into the room via a slit on the metal door – opened and immediately closed in great efficiency.

“Now eat, 33,” said Torque as I go over to the door and sit in front of it, ignoring the sight of Torque. I pull the tray closer and begin munching down the tasteless food in a metal bowl. I could tell that it was really healthy stuff put in there, designed specifically for heavy workmen needing to burn lots of calories per day. But it was bland and came as a mushy grey paste. At least it was warm.

After eating, I return my bowl to the tray and push it near the slit for it to be collected. Then, I head back under the shower to the toilet, nothing more than a hole in the concrete ground. Looking at Torque, I said, ” Do you mind turning around? I can’t do this in front of another dude.”

He replied,” Then you’re just gonna have to learn. Even if I turn my head, there are cameras watching you, and people behind those cameras. I suggest you forget your shame and just work to satisfy your base urge to pee. You’ll be peeing and shitting while chained to the wheel anyway.”

Red with shame, I force myself to take a piss under the watchful eyes of the warden.

“Alright, no more loitering,” commanded Torque. “Go stand at the X-frame and yell ‘Convict 33, reporting for inspection!’”. I comply without question.

“Roger, 33, standby for inspection” came the reply from the speakers overhead.

Once again I was chained to the X frame.

” Now, 33, listen up. The prison doctor will be here to do an inspection on your health. I suggest you cooperate fully with him because failure to do so will mean a very very bad day for you today under my watch.” said Torque.

Presently, the cell door opened and a man came in carrying some papers and tools. He was dressed in the same uniform as the other wardens.

“Hello 33, my name is Warden Smith. I’m the resident doctor here at Sisyphus and it is my duty to know the medical condition of all inmates to ensure they can fully serve their sentences. Also, additional punishments that convicts have incurred upon themselves must be approved by me beforehand.”

He begins by measuring my temperature and taking blood pressure. He also took some samples of blood and piss and gave me some pills which I was told to swallow. Finally, he took up something that looked like a bicycle pump, connected to a glass cylinder about 12 inches long, with a metal shaft contained within.

“Now we will collect a sperm sample.” said the doctor with a grin. He attaches the contraption to my manhood, grabbing it in one hand and slowly inserting the metal shaft into my slit.

“Fuck! ARGHH! You maniac!” I started to shout.

“Now 33, either you let me do this peacefully or struggling will rip your dick right off!” said the doctor menacingly. Behind him was Torque, standing there, crop on one hand and the remote control for the Punishment Unit on the other.

I calm down and settle on a whimper as the metal sound is pushed deeper into my shaft. Simultaneously, the doctor begins to rub my crotch and play with my balls, as my dick slowly reacts to the stimulation by lengthening. Eventually, my 9 inch long shaft fits snug in the glass container, the metal sound stuck inside my penis.

The doctor turns on the pump and the screaming begins. I’ve never had anything shoved up my pissslit. Strobes of electricity pulse through the metal sound, sometimes as low electrical hums of pleasure, followed by waves of unbearable jolts.

“FUCK!!!!” I scream into the air, cursing the stimulation. It is unbelievable as the jolts of pain mingle with the most intense of pleasure, all performed by a thoughtless piece of machinery. My hips jerk in and out as I shake all over, very threatening to unloose myself from the cross. It’s the most intense feeling I’ve ever had since sleeping with the senator’s daughter. That bitch!

5 minutes of stimulation between pleasure and pain fries my brain as I struggle with my bonds. The whole cell echoes with the shouts of abuse and the rattles of chains. I am so caught up with it that I do not realize as the doctor turns off the machine, and releases my penis from that terrible metal stick. After removing it, he quickly brings out a jar and puts it directly under my throbbing manhood, as cum flows down from it.

“Wow, that’s a good sample, 33. You clearly are a virile man. It will be a pleasure to watch your progress in service at Sisphyus.” said the doctor.

He puts the jar in a package containing my urine and blood sample as well.

“I’ll be heading off to make some tests on these samples,” Warden Smith says addressing both me and Torque. “And I believe you have to be on your way to work now, 33. Good day. We will see each other again in one month intervals, when samples will be regularly collected.” he said as he packs his things and exits the cell, leaving me panting and gasping for breath, hanging exhausted on the X-frame after my ordeal from the milking machine.

” That was some struggle you put up there, 33″ Torque says. “I hope you haven’t used all your strength up because the day is just beginning.”

Torque lets me hang there for a while. By the time the cuffs are released I have recovered my breath.

“Ok, 33, to the wheel.”

I go over, hate and anger in my eyes, staring at the sick officer who seems to show no compassion. He looks bored as I was milked there on the cross. Pleasure, shock I could accept. but boredom! That was too much!

“Piss off!” I say, as I first wrapped the chains around my hips. I then proceed by putting on the Penitent’s Collar on my shoulders.

“Normally,” said Torque, “I would reply that remark with a level ‘6’ electrical shock. But you’ve just had your first sperm sample extracted from you for your stay here so I’ll be nice. Chain yourself up and report for duty.

I do as he commands, saving my strength for later. I announce in the direction of the nearest camera,”Convict 33, reporting for duty!”

“Roger, 33, prepare for servitude” comes the same damned reply as yesterday. I hear the servos close to my ear as they spin within the yoke, locking the hinges together, trapping me within its rough jaws.

The signal is given to start pulling.

With my right foot planted forward, standing on my toes, I lurch forward and let out a manly grunt. Biceps and shoulders tense up. Back straight. Chest and abs puffed up. Cock and balls held tight in the Punishment Unit and penis limp from the ejactulation. The sound of granite against granite fills the room as I begin with great effort to move the Wheel. And do so, for the next 16 hours.


Chapter 8 – Solitary confinement – Revolutions: 32096


A loud cry echoes throughout the 20 by 16 feet cell. The sound is coarse and rough. The sound uttered by a man in pain.

It is my voice!

I have begun to slack, which informs me painfully, that it is approximately 2pm. Not that time matters here. The only measurements of time a convict at Sisyphus Penitentiary knows are the sweat soaked toil of state time, or S-Time; and the sweet sleep of utter exhaustion of penitent’s time, also known as P-Time. I know it’s roughly two in the afternoon because that’s about half way into my 16 hour workday. Around this time, my strength begins to fade, which is replied with rude shocks from the Punishment Unit. This will intensify in frequency and severity as S-Time draws on.

It used to be that the shocks occurred earlier in the day, but were less severe. I have since grown in strength, but the shocks have increased in severity. I’ve lost any last ounce of fat, and my muscles bulge out prominently under my water-starved body; veins pulsing and rippling beneath the taut, dried-out skin. The shoulders and back have broadened to great proportions to accommodate the weight of the yoke, or Penitent’s Collar, as they call it here in this hellhole. My legs have grown in girth and no longer ache after the long marches along this well-trodden path round and round the wheel. It’s the first of my body parts to grow accustomed to the daily toil. The main problem however is the Punishment Unit, the cock ring located between my legs, wrapped around my cock and balls like a venomous snake, a horrid piece of leather, metal and electronics curled around my manhood, waiting to inflict pain at a moment’s notice.


Fuck! Another shock is delivered to my balls. This one really took me off guard. It wasn’t so much the pain than the surprise that I let out a yell. Fuck the Punishment Unit. I’ve since been able to detect the various levels of pain that can be inflicted on me. This was just a level 3. Probably because I had taken a much smaller stride than was usual. I make an extra large step with my right foot to show them I get the message.

Them? Him? There is no one else in the cell. Ever since the first week, I have been left alone in my cell, as is required by my sentence – Solitary Confinement and 3 million revolutions as part of a Servitor Unit. The only regular human contact I have had since that week under Torque’s supervision is the early morning reply from the other side when I have prepared myself for inspection and S-Time. Other than that I have been left alone to rot down here.

Instead of a guard in my cell, my progress is constantly monitored by four cameras located on each wall, leaving no part of the cell unseen, and me completely naked and exposed. I don’t know if they are recording this, or even if anyone is watching me, naked and humiliated. Forced to slave away like some beast of burden in the basement of some dilapidated old building in the middle of the deser-


A Level 5 shock!

I try to stifle my cry of pain. A little piss escapes my tortured cock, leaving a trail on the floor. There’s no stopping the Wheel for bodily functions. I remember the first time I had to take a piss at the wheel it was quite the struggle. I danced around trying to hold it in. Eventually, it got on the nerves of Torque.

“Just get on with it,” he said. “Here, let me help you.” He turned on the Punishment Unit, sending a shock to to my balls. I let out an involuntary stream of piss, wetting the ground I was walking on. “And no slacking!” he said, turning the pain one level higher. This forced me to fight what I had done my whole life, what every man has always done – being stationary while pissing. Instead, I had to ignore the stream flowing between my thighs and concentrate my mind and body at pulling the Wheel.

Now, it’s become natural. I let out a steady stream of piss, and continue on the never ending journey around and around the designated path.

Piss isn’t the only thing that wets the floor around me. Sweat pours from every pore, from my head to toe, the evidence of my exertion. It’s saltiness stings my eyes and floods my nose with an acrid smell of man sweat. My body glistens under the lights coming from above and the industrial lighting only increases the temperature of the room, an added torment, constant and enduring.

Once an hour, cool water pours like a shower from the piping above me. I drink to my fill and let it wash away the filth on the ground and the sweat of an hour’s labour. But the water doesn’t stop the sweating. In fact, the heat of the cell makes evaporation that much quicker, turning the room into a hot, humid jungle-like environment, adding to my suffering.

And if that wasn’t enough, there are also the mental punishments. Firstly, solitary confinement and the loneliness is itself taking a toll on me. There are no other sounds except the buzzing of lights, the grinding of the wheel, the flow of fluids (some man-made), and my cries and shouts and screams.

Secondly, the mockery of the Penitent’s Collar. On my yoke are stenciled in red my convict number and crime, etched in my brain and always present in front of me during my toil. A constant reminder of my mistake of falling into the hands of powerful people, and my failure to get away from it all.

Thirdly, the annoyance I feel that I have lost all track of time. The only measure of time is the pain I feel, and the revolutions ticker on the Wheel to measure the days. At 32000 I reckon around 30 days or so, though I can no longer be very sure. Days of being alone, naked and chained, strained till every ounce of energy is taken from you, and then collapsing in a blackout at night just to repeat the same thing again the next day, have left me completely unable to keep track of how long it’s been. It might be a year, who knows? Hmm…if I were to pull 1000 revolutions a day, which is entirely in the realm of possibility at the current state of my body, and I have 3 million revolutions to my sentence, that would take me…


My back arches and my arms shake so violently that I scrap them on the arm slots of the Penitent’s Collar, chaffing the skin. That Level 7 shock tells me I’ve let my mind wander around too long and my muscles have not been straining enough for the pleasure of the cameras. I forget my calculations. Deep down in the dungeons of Sisyphus Penitentiary, the brain is the only muscle that shouldn’t be working. Every other piece of male muscle meat should be fully utilized to turn the Wheel. And so I pull.


Chapter 9 – An Anniversary – Revolutions: 99989

The sound of footsteps stopping in front of my cell was followed by the beeping of buttons, the code for the lock. A loud ‘thud’ sound was heard as rods within the door were given the approval to unlock. The loud creaking made it seem that the door had not be opened for some time, as if it was unwilling to open, as if the cell refused to allow any possibility that its occupant might escape it. From the darkness of the corridor entered Assistant Warden Torque. His uniform is crisply ironed. The light blue of the wardens and the heavy set of pants clinging tightly to his body looking like it’s made of spandex., his entire musculature accentuated by the tight uniform. His hair is kept at a convict style clear cut, whilst keeping a properly well-kept 5 o’ clock shadow, making his chiselled face stand out even further, like a marble sculpture. He is wearing a pair of sunglasses to block out the industrial lights that shine on my glistening, sweat-soaked body. Obviously, he is one of those that takes obsessive care of his image. Clean and crisp he stands at the door looking at the cell he just entered.

In stark contrast to this neatness is the other individual, the occupant of this cell. Some time has passed since I was first thrown in here. My hair has grown back in patches like unkempt grass under a tropical heat, sticking irregularly on my head, chin, pits and pubes. A light fuzz has returned to my chest, legs and thighs. I reek slightly of ammonia after having to piss today and also from shit, after having to crap about an hour ago. The piece of crap was still lying on the floor on my well-trodden path as the water from the ceiling had not yet been turned on for the regular hourly washing away of the filth. The veins of my body stick out like a bad tattoo job all along my body, blue under my red skin, providing needed nourishment to my muscles to perform their herculean task.


“Hello, 33. How’s your day going?” Torque says. His thin lips hardly moving and letting out the words like a soft coo in mockery.

I glance back at him but am too tired to answer back. This, obviously, does not faze him. At 6 feet 4, the lean muscled Warden looks tough as nails, with a body that looks like he just completed his sentence on the Wheel yesterday.

” Don’t be mean. Otherwise I won’t be paying you so many conjugal visits.” he threatens. It’s the first I’ve seen him since the first week. In fact, the first time I’ve seen anyone for a while, three, maybe four months. I can’t really be sure anymore.

“What are you…erghhh…doing here….Warden? I’m…eergghh…a little busy,” I reply under heavy breathing.

“Well, look here, here’s got a tongue after all,” says Torque. “Ah, I saw that you were approaching 100000 revolutions, so I thought I’d drop by to see it live.”

“G’d nothin’ better to do?”

“You’d think so, 33. But a man has the right to enjoy his handiwork.” He looks at me slyly.

“What ‘d….fuckyou…talkin’bout?” I ask.

“Well who’d you think has been prodding you along? Providing you with proper encouragement all this while? Who do you think is looking behind those cameras? And when it seems every day when you are just about to give up, I’ve been the one to give that extra, um, buzz to keep you going!” he says with much enthusiasm.

“You are one perverted fucker, Torque,” I hiss.

“I’m hurt,” says Torque with mock sarcasm.”Look at you. Those fine muscles trained and honed for your task. If it weren’t for me, you’d still be pushing just 500 revolutions a day. Now, you’re doing 1000 on average. In fact, I’m betting you could do 1500 daily in a year. With those muscles and stamina, I’m going to train you to be a model convict!”

“The others..ugh..must suck pretty..ergh..bad, then.”

“You have no idea,” he says. “Just the other day, one fellah collapsed at the Wheel and didn’t wake up, even after a level 9 shock with the P.U. The Level 10 was what did him in. And it happens to about half the inmates here.

“Half the prisoners don’t make it?” I inquire.

“Yeah. Afraid that’s so. Most of the fellahs serving 1 mil sentences do survive. But the survival rate drops drastically for those doing more.”

“That’s barbaric,” I say, angrily. Then, with a little concern, I ask, ” Do you think I will make it?”

“Hmm…that remains to be seen.” he answers coolly. “You’re going to be our longest serving convict, actually.” Then, with a sinister sound to his voice, he says,” And that’s why, it’s important that I train you hard, if you want to make it, Convict 33!”

He takes out from his pocket the remote control of the Punishment Unit. I cringe when I see it, knowing that pain surely is to follow. The ticker on the millstone clicks to 100000.

“Congratulations, 33, on hitting a milestone,” he says. “Or shall I say millstone?”

“I’m not one for puns or anniversaries, warden.”

“That will change,33. Anniversaries and “birthday presents” are all you have to look forward to here.” he says. “In fact, here is your first gift. I’ll tell you now that you have spent officially 115 days here at Sisyphus. At the rate you are going, you will leave this penitentiary in 10 years!”

Ten years?! Fuck this! I thought the new law was supposed to shorten sentences!

“Then we’ve more time..ughh…to get to…know one another,” I reply, trying not to reveal my shock at this precise calculation.

“Sure we will, 33.” he replies. “But I’m sure, you’d love to get out of this dump sooner, wouldn’t you?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I mock.

“I thought so. You’re a realist. So let’s make this dream a reality. To do that, we gonna need to work on your speed. It’s waaaay too slow. I wanna push up to 1200 a day soon. So as a start, I’m gonna give you a second birthday present now. I want you to make 100 revolutions in as fast a time as possible. Beginning now…”and with that he presses on the remote control, sending shockwaves of pain via the Punishment Unit throughout my entire racked body.


My cry echoes out to the corridors through the unlocked metal door of my cell.

“For the next 100 rounds the juice will flow,” says Torque slowly and deliberately. ” The only way to end it is to complete the task. More power will be given if I see any slacking. Now, pull you lazy maggot!” Torque increases the voltage a notch, which controls not only the pain in my body, but the volume of my screams. Like a galley slave when the hortator hits out a quicker beat, I find that superhuman strength that comes from fulfilling the most basic of human urges, to avoid pain. The blood flows through my body like a bullet train, and I can hear the thumping of my heart pulsing under my chest, as electricity flickers through my nerves, sending jolts of stinging anguish through every fiber of my body.

I begin a brisk jog around the wheel, biting my lower lips and closing my eyes tightly, refusing to utter a shout, a scream and refusing to see Torque and that instrument of torture he has in his hand, which at this moment controls my entire existence. Round and round and round I go, my muscles burning in an inexhaustible fire of acid and electricity. Bright lights flash before me and I feel faint. Yet in my mind’s eye I see are the red stencilled letters that spell out my sentence, painted onto the Penitent’s Collar, as a mockery of my efforts.

Convict:33. Crime: Assault.

Yet the pain has done something. My muscles pull with superhuman vigor, strength I did not know I possessed. I pull and pull, oblivious to everything else, until at last, the pain stops, and I fall to the ground, panting and wheezing uncontrollably.

Torque walks up to me and places his heavy black left boot on the Collar as I struggle to catch my breath. I look up to him but the glare of the lights makes me unable to see his face.

“That took you 60 minutes exactly. See, it can be done. We’ll push 1500 a day yet! Dreams can come true,” he says.

He lifts his boot and walks to the door.

“Take 5 minutes, 33. Then, get your ass back to pulling, or so help me I will turn the shocks back up for the next 1000 or until your balls fry off!” And with that, he walks out into the darkness of the prison corridor. “Bang!” go the pistons within the door, locking the cell back up, satisfied that the convict it contains remains within its walls, groaning and writhing on the ground.


Chapter 10 – P-Time – Revolutions: 234677

Surely but ever so excruciatingly slowly, a day passes by in this underground dungeon. The monotony of my daily labor is punctuated by the shocks from the Punishment Unit whenever an infraction is observed via the cameras that line my cell walls.


And just when I think of it, the pain comes. It’s not that thinking is a crime here. It’s just that the cameras are very attentive to any form of slacking. And after some time, whoever observing me upstairs has figured out that whenever my mind is allowed to wander, my body tends to hunch slightly and my legs move just a second too slow. I’ve been trying to stop this habit to reduce the number of shocks I receive but it’s not been too successful. Although to be honest, I think it’s done just to shake things up, to keep the convicts on their toes.

Occasionally, I can hear the other convicts. Their cries and screams come from outside my cell door, sounds of torment from those who have slacked in pulling their wheels, or whatever forms of punishment have been allotted to them. I’m sure they, too, can sometimes hear my screams, the loudness of which corresponds to the shock level received from the Punishment Unit. There has never been a session of State Time that I have not felt the electricity coursing through my massive body, jolting me from any wandering thoughts I may have, and spurring my muscles to step-up their efforts.

Particularly so, as the day comes to an end. At least I hope that it is coming to an end. I’ve made about 1400 rounds already today, a personal best. My body screams for me to stop and just collapse on the ground. Needless to say this will not be allowed to occur. The Punishment Unit and the wardens will make sure I fulfill my obligation for the entirety State Time.

On one occasion, I had fallen to the ground from utter exhaustion after some 14 hours on the wheel. Despite the powerful shocks sent to my head and balls, I had refused to get up, preferring to lie on the floor screaming profanities and about the unfairness with which I had been treated with. Four wardens quickly got into my cell and proceeded to beat me up good. Badly bruised, I was straddled on their arms and lifted up, yoke and all. There, they pushed me roughly forward to regain momentum and forced marched me along the well trodden track. One of them had a bullwhip with which he proceeded to sliced my skin and back. Blood started dripping on the floor as the shock of their brutality filled me with horror. They remained then in my cell for extra supervision, with generous amounts of lashes and shocks applied to my lacerated skin and aching balls.

The next day, Assistant Warden Torque came in and berated me for being “uncooperative”, “ungrateful”, and lazy. I was given another 10 lashes of the bullwhip, this time on my front, as I hung from the X-Frame before beginning my 16 hour shift for that day….


The loud klaxon rings through my cell to signify the end of the day. By this, I mean of course the end of S-Time since it’s 10 at night and the sun has long gone down in the outside world. The membranes on the yoke locking my arms in place deflate and the pistons of the cast iron Penitent’s Collar release the hinges connecting the two sides of it. With great effort, my upper body muscles strain to lift the Collar from my head. I then remove my arms from their respective slots. I wiggle them a bit to allow the blood once again to flow through my arms unimpeded. They are allowed to rest on my sides limp, after having to maintain their upwards, flexed up position for the last 16 hours. I then begin to untie the chain around my hips, which leave nasty indents along my abs and pelvic region.

Like clockwork, a slit in the door is opened and metal bowl filled with food is placed there. I drag myself to the door and begin chowing down the grey mush. Based on my poor guess, the food is a blended mix of beans, bone meal, bad quality meat scraps, and vegetables, all blended with starch and coagulated fats to form some clumpy gruel. There are no utensils given, so I just scoop the mushy substance into my mouth with my hands.

After eating, I wipe my mouth on my left arm and put the bowl in its original position. I then crawl to my mattress and lie there. The ventilator fan at a corner of the cell turns on for several minutes.

After some time, the slit opens and the bowl is taken away. The ventilator fan is turned off as well as the ceiling lights, leaving the cell in pitch black darkness.

My mattress is thin and designed merely to keep my body from being in contact with the cold concrete floor. It is also very dirty from absorbing my liquids – sweat and blood and occasionally semen. It smells awful and was very clearly badly made. My body hardly fits on it, with my lower legs touching the cold cell floor. Laying on my back, my arms are also not on the mattress, unless I fold them on my chest. However, this was not so when I first arrived here, and my labour has made my shoulders broader and my arms thicker than they have ever been. Yet even in our rest, efforts have been made to provide discomfort to the convicts.

As my eyes slowly adjust to the darkness, I think about how long it has been since I last saw the outside world. How long has it been since I’ve touched a woman? Or even seen one? How long has it been since I’ve seen trees, and buildings and the sky, rather than the ugly four concrete walls of my cell? How long has it been since I’ve seen my friends? Have they even thought about me? How long since I’ve heard my name being called, instead of a disgusting random number? To be acknowledged as a person, not a convict?

And as I lay there, for the first time since my sentence, I let out a sob. I’m not sure why tonight. I was not treated particularly harshly, or given any additional punishments on top of the usual ones. But perhaps tonight, I thought of myself naked and locked in a small hole 3 stories under the earth, in the middle of the desert. I have not had any news of the outside world, or heard from anyone about anything. I have been forgotten. The only company I’ve had are the cruel wardens of this facility, whose sole purpose it seems has been to add more suffering to the pitiful inmates housed here. And for the first time since arriving, I feel at last the utter loneliness and helplessness of my situation, as I cry myself into a dark sleep.


End of Book 1


Books 2 & 3 to Follow





















3 thoughts on “Wheels of Sisyphus by Hayden, Illustrated by Manflesh – Book One (Complete)

  1. seeing #33’s nipples bulging lusciously in the artwork, it’s like they’re begging to be clamped and weighted! maybe as added punishment?

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