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It looked like a normal prison, or as normal as a prison could look.

Art knew it wasn't.

With the compound nestled between two hills in the woods a couple of miles outside of town, scaling partway up a tree on the western rise offered him a perfect vantage point to watch the comings and goings. Two tall fences topped with inward-leaning barbed wire created a clear space that made it easy to see the drab concrete block that formed the prison, along with the parking lot and the loading dock and the roads leading to each. And while guards came and went when their shifts changed and trucks delivered supplies to sustain the place, no prisoners ever came out to the recreation yard.

Still, he knew Damian must be there even if the anthro hadn't emerged from the building for him to put his eyes on himself, for state records had on file that he'd been incarcerated at Greylock Prison, and there was the prison's name for all to see on the entry sign.

What the horse he'd been hired to locate had done to earn his place there was less clear. There were no records of an arrest or a trial, no warrants or convictions, just a location and a sentence, plus a mug shot he'd shown to his client to confirm it was the right stallion. She'd said yes, that was him, but by the time he'd contacted her to report his next findings—lack thereof, really—she'd mysteriously lost interest in the pursuit. When she'd first hired him she'd been near frantic with worry something had gone wrong; she'd described changes in his interests and obsessive, nearly single-minded behavior that centered around them, and her worry that his focus had led him to accidentally trap himself in a dangerous situation, and on learning he'd found his prison record she'd been shocked! But a couple of days later she'd acted as if it had made perfect sense, and no, she did not need a private eye to keep looking into the matter and help her get back her lost boyfriend, no thank you, goodbye.

She'd stopped paying, too, but by then Art was hooked.

That was the nature of the business. Investigation wasn't about paying the bills (although that helped), it was a presence in his blood. He needed a quarry, he needed something to hunt, facts to find, leads to follow and clues to link together, and this investigation had brought him a most tantalizing mystery. He'd found dozens of police files that named people who were incarcerated at Greylock: men and women of all sorts of anthro species and backgrounds, all residents who lived within a 10-mile radius, none of whom had a crime listed as a reason for their confinement.

He'd tried, both subtly and less so, to get both a couple of guards and a couple former inmates to talk about the place when he'd managed to catch them at bars or other public spaces, but neither drinks and an air of friendly gossip nor a show of dragon-fangs had loosened any lips further than acknowledging that there was a prison, and some people were locked up there. That's how prison worked. What more needed to be said?

An awful lot, in his mind, and the threads were compelling enough that getting all wound up trying to weave them into a theory of what could be going on had made him shed a few green scales. That's how he knew this case was good.

If only his original client was still paying him to dig. Had someone gotten to her? Unlike her imprisoned boyfriend, she wasn't a local, so perhaps there was some unspoken rule in town that demanded all keep quiet about the place, and she hadn't known when she'd first hired him. Well, he had the blood of a dragon—even if he was an anthro and not a full dragon—and he wouldn't be intimidated into calling off his hunt.

And having run out of other ways to get information, it was time to try the direct approach and see where it led. There was little harm in driving brazenly up to the gate and asking to speak to someone, after all: the worst that could happen was that they'd say no. Sneaking in, now that would bring trouble, but no need to resort to that just yet.

The road to the gate snaked up and down over the eastern hill, and he had it all to himself. The day was beautiful: the air cool and breezy, the sky blue, and the trees that ran along each side of the road starting to turn their leaves yellow and red, heralding the change of season. It'd have been a perfectly comfortable day for a stakeout, or a day off to hike perhaps, but he was too driven to solve the mystery to take the time for something like that! Today called for, he hoped, bringing his investigation indoors, and as the fences and the gatehouse loomed ahead he took a calming breath. Prisons had visitors, if not frequently. Granted he was neither an inspector nor family nor counsel of an inmate, but he could act a pretty good lawyer even if such a claim wouldn't hold up to scrutiny. He'd see what was needed.

The tiger working the guardhouse gave him an appraising look as he rolled his window down. “State your business.”

“Good morning. I'm here to see the warden in charge.”

One eyebrow raised. “Is this a scheduled meeting?”

He hesitated. “No. But I need to speak with them about one of your inmates.”

After asking his name, the tiger said, “one minute,” before sliding his own window shut to block sound and beginning a conversation with someone on the other end of his intercom that he could see occurring but not hear. He glanced at the passenger seat, where a folder of information he'd gathered about Damian lay, then at the building, where once again there was no activity outside. Did the inmates ever get recreation time? Were they even at this building? That the place was a front for something illegitimate had entered his mind a fair few times, and seemed one of his more likely theories, if not for the fact that they had a government contract that went back for decades. Surely such a facade could not have been maintained for so long.

The window slid open again. “The Director has time to see you shortly. Park in the visitor spots and head inside, Liz at reception will point you in the right direction. If you got any weapons or contraband, you leave them in the car. Unless trouble's what you came here for?”

It was a jarring question to be asked so casually; Art supposed the lack of visitors made gatehouse duty mind-numbing enough to ask provocative questions. “Not at all!” he managed to blurt without hesitating more than a moment, and the tiger smirked but lifted the gate to wave him on into the compound.

He felt as if his mind was spinning as he drove the short distance to the lot. Was it really that easy? He could have done this a week ago if he'd known they would let him right inside without even asking more than his name! Clearly not a high-security facility, he thought to himself as he backed into one of the visitor spaces near the front door, wincing as the sun reflected into his eyes off the windshield of one of the guards' vehicles in the next row of the lot. Now that made his head spin when he flinched and looked away.

Out of the car and up the path to the door he went, folder of information he'd scrounged about Damian in hand, and on opening he found a security checkpoint: x-ray scanner and metal detector, not much of a surprise, staffed by a ewe. “You Art?” she asked, which helped forestall the excitement making his heart race: he was in the building. When he nodded she gestured brusquely for him to put his things on the conveyor for the scanner. “Anything metal, keys, belt, watch, the works. Hopefully you aren't one of those metal-scaled dragons, cause I can't let you through without a clean scan.”

He put his folder, keys, phone, and wallet on the belt, then when prompted stepped through the metal detector, taking a chance to get his bearings as security squinted at the x-ray of his belongings on their monitor. It was much to be expected: tiled floor, bare white sheetrock walls, hard ceiling, with no decorations on the walls and only a couple of uncomfortable-looking chairs between the security checkpoint and the reception desk. It was a bare, sterile space, and the blank emptiness of it felt only still more harsh under the cool white lighting, the bright stark whiteness everywhere giving him a headache.

“All clear,” said the guard, and he turned to scoop his things up off the far side of the scanner belt and return them to his pockets. The raccoon behind the reception desk wore a distracting smirk as he approached, as if she knew a joke he wasn't in on, and looked him up and down before gesturing vaguely in the direction of the only hallway when asked where he could find the Director.

“First door on the left there,” she said brightly, almost giggling. “He's expecting you!”

Something about her demeanor struck him as odd, but he couldn't put his finger on why... what she'd said had made perfect sense, certainly—since the man at the gatehouse had told them all who he was here to see—so it wasn't that. Perhaps she was simply excited to have a visitor for a change in an otherwise dull job? After all he knew from his stakeout that they hadn't seemed to have any other visitors in the past week.

A dozen strides brought him to the door pointed out from reception, and he hesitated to reach into his pocket and hold a button on his phone to tell it to start recording, then tapped a finger on the open frame before entering. With the stoat sitting behind the desk already looking up at him it hardly seemed necessary, and they smiled, gesturing invitingly to the guest chair across his desk. “You must be Art,” he said. “Why don't you come on in and tell me why you're here?”

Art stepped inside, though the far softer pastel blue of the walls did little to abate his building headache, and took his time threading his tail through the tail gap of the chair to take stock of the place. The Director sat behind a quality wood desk, with easy access to a computer, drawers, the neatly stacked papers on his desk, and a row of filing cabinets; some personal memorabilia, photos, and a couple of landscape art pieces on the walls helped to cozy up the room, and on the far side of the office was a second, heavier door with an access reader, presumably one of the ways into the business side of the prison. The Director himself had more of an air of an office manager than the burly guards he'd encountered thus far: his fur short and sleek, a reedy build, and pair of small glasses he took off and folded into his shirt pocket as Art sat down, reaching across the desk for a brief, gentle handshake.

“Welcome, Mr. Verde. I'm Stewart, I manage operations here. How can I help you?”

Art sat his folder on the table; he didn't open it yet. “I'm here regarding one of your inmates, Damian Jones.”

This didn't seem to be what he expected to hear, for he frowned and hesitated for a long couple of moments. “I see. Are you his legal representative? From species, I know you're not family.”

“I represent a concerned family member,” he lied. Used to represent a potential future family member, more like, though Damian and his former client hadn't been engaged.

Stewart rolled his chair to an adjacent filing cabinet, pulling open one of the drawers to begin fingering through the papers there. “Hmm. Is this family member local?”

Years of practice kept excitement from showing on his face: surely that confirmed one of his theories! If he was surprised that a local would send someone looking for a prisoner, that had to mean that ordinarily whatever organization this place might be a front for would threaten people into silence, and must have gotten to his client after he'd started sniffing around. He tried not to get too distracted as his mind spun through the implications and potential dangers that now might lurk here, also suppressing a grimace as the many threads to pursue worsened his headache. “They are not.” Another lie, but as he'd learned Damian's parents had moved away five years ago, at least it was possible he was being honest. He tried to put the attention back on what he was here for to give the Director fewer chances to probe back at him.

“Damian's criminal records are incomplete. If I'm to appropriately assist his family, I'd like to get additional information from you, or to visit him directly.”

“Well, let's begin with his file, and see if this answers your questions.” Stewart at last seemed to find the papers he was looking for, and opened a folder of his own to slide across the desk. On top was a typed form, with a picture paper-clipped in the upper corner: a mug shot, it seemed, of a stallion wearing a bridle and a cowed expression. His heart thudded in his chest: aside from the straps, it matched the pictures his client had given him for identification and the (not bridled) mug shot he'd found in state records. He leaned forward to pick up the paper, only to discover a second picture beneath it.

This was a full body photo, also clearly taken at the prison: Damian wore the same bridle as before, along with an orange jumpsuit, but also wore a thick steel collar linked to heavy manacles. A chain ran down his chest, then looped his waist, linking to handcuffs at his wrists so he couldn't reach them far from his stomach, and then dangled further to also connect to shackles around his ankles. His heart thudded again: that was the sort of restraint used on a high-security inmate, and while Damian was a big guy, that alone didn't mean he deserved it!

So he focused back on the form hoping to find out whether he really did, having a little difficulty reading it between excited butterflies lightening his belly and the continuing ache behind his temple. Damian's name, birth date, vital statistics were all familiar, as were the five-year prison sentence. The rest of the information here was hand-written, and seemingly in shorthand, for it was just scattered numbers and letters: N.U., this underlined; 2E, O/M, 2H/W, and other acronyms that didn't have any meaning to him. What it didn't have was the information he'd also discovered missing in the state's records, and he turned the paper over to check the back—nothing there—before setting it back down next to the picture of the chained horse.

“This is still light on information. There's no notes here about what he was locked up for. Unless any of these notes refer to that?” He tapped the handwritten section.

“Those are for internal use only,” Stewart said mildly. “What puts an inmate here is not our concern, only their good behavior while behind bars, and what we believe is the best approach to prevent any future recidivism once they leave us.”

“Recidivism means being arrested again for a similar offense. How can you prevent that without keeping track of what that offense was?”

The sharper tone didn't prompt a similar rise from the stoat, who remained relaxed. “Just because it's not written down doesn't mean we don't ask them! And then, if it's a topic of frequent discussion, well then it's never far from anyone's mind.”

It made sense but only to a point; he frowned, and rubbed the side of his head with a couple of fingers for a few moments hoping it would ease the dull ache beneath his skull. No luck. “How many inmates are here?” he asked, to try to lead him towards his concern without being too directly challenging—that might just get him threatened too, which regardless of his ability to handle himself would put an end to his answer-gathering.

“We have 100 beds for anthros, and five for dragons.”

That answer totally derailed his train of thought. “There are dragons here?” How was that possible—the building was tall enough, perhaps, and at least the main entry corridor outside was large enough, but the sort of facilities required, the minuscule recreation yard outside compared to the space a dragon would need for proper exercise... And how could none of the off-duty guards he'd met in town have resisted boasting of such a thing, especially to a dragon anthro like himself?

Stewart hesitated again; if the shape of his small ears hadn't made it so easy to tell he wasn't wearing an earpiece, Art would have suspected he was listening to instructions before responding. “Only two at present.” He swiveled back over to the filing cabinet, opened a different drawer with far fewer files within. “They don't typically get into trouble with our laws, plus there are so many fewer of them, but we do indeed have certification to oversee their incarceration.” Two more files hit the desk, concealing the one that had brought him here, and the Director flipped them open.

The first was a red dragon, simmering with fury in his heavily muzzled mug shot photo. The vital statistics that followed were as unusual as to be expected: length instead of height, a weight well into four digits, plus a more severe but not too outlandish decade-long imprisonment. More handwritten marks followed, though in a different hand than Damian's file: the N.U. appeared again, with a heavily triple-underlined N.O. adjacent to it, among the other indecipherable annotations. Lifting the file revealed another picture underneath, and this prisoner was bound far more heavily than the last: a straitjacket pinned the great beast's wings and front legs, a sack of canvas bound the back legs together, and a hood smothered his head. He could see the dragon struggling in the image, back and neck arched in opposing directions, tail twisting where it was strapped to the other bonds, presenting another piece of gear to the camera: a snug metal plate fit between its hind legs.

Something clicked in his head, though regrettably it wasn't the headache abating: chastity. His client had told him Damian had become obsessed with it prior to vanishing, and while Damian's photo had shown him clothed and hid whether he'd been treated the same, this dragon was clearly chaste. What sort of prison enforced wear of something like that?

If this whole investigation just turned out to be uncovering an elaborate haven for kinksters, he was going to take a break from work for a while.

Shaking his head and trying not to growl, he turned his attention to the second file, but this time he didn't make it past the mug shot—in fact, he hardly even took in the entire picture, arrested as he was by the vivid purple of the dragon's eyes. It felt to him as if they looked out from the photograph with their own awareness, and the dragon's gaze bored into him; the pressure on his temple increased, and he couldn't seem to make himself turn away. Keep staring, it seemed to impress on him. Look deeper. Let me in. It was only an image, and yet, and yet...

Somehow after a few moments longer he managed to place a hand over top of the image, finally breaking eye contact, and he slumped back with a long sigh; Stewart tilted his head a little to one side but said nothing, which he was glad for. He needed a moment after... whatever that had been. He shook his head, wishing to be rid of his headache, and dared scan the rest of the page only to blink in confusion: nothing was filled in, no name, no date of birth, no sentencing, not even the handwritten notes! Holding the page by the mug shot so he couldn't see it, he lifted the paper and turned it over as if the empty back of the sheet could hold the answers. Instead he just found another picture beneath, though he relaxed a little when he saw that in this one the violet dragon was blindfolded and he was safe from those penetrating eyes.

“There's nothing here,” Art finally managed to find his tongue, gesturing with the empty form. “How could you have a dragon held prisoner here with no information? Even if you discard all the other irregularities I've seen—I have no idea how the state hasn't investigated you—are you holding them forever? What are you doing?” He was being too direct, referencing oddities he hadn't even asked about, but he'd lost patience with his aching head. Despite his protests over the blank file he felt somehow relieved to see this particular dragon secured in thick heavy chains with glowing blue runes of magic engraved upon the muzzle, the cuffs, the collar, and even the chastity belt.

Again with the chastity. But merely wanting to build a play-dungeon could never come close to bringing in the kind of investment it'd take to get their hands on impossibly rare and incomprehensibly expensive magical relics like that!

“We're doing our jobs. Keeping prisoners where they belong and protecting the public, so they can live in safety, free from worry, even in the towns just a few miles away.”

“What part of... public safety, involves something like that?” He poked the chastity belt in the photo with a blunt claw.

“Here, I'll show you something.” Stewart took the purple dragon's file from him, and moved the red's out of the way, to return the attention to Damian, then flipped over the photo of him in his manacles.

There was another image on the back. Damian's prison jumpsuit was now unzipped, and his hands chained behind him instead of in front, which exposed both his well-muscled chest and his groin, showing how he too wore chastity, which for him was in the form of a small cage locked over his shaft. He looked up at Stewart in confusion, but on the way there he saw the mysterious dragon's photographed eyes on him again... narrowly avoiding getting trapped in that disconcerting staring contest once more as he refocused on the Director.

“How does that answer my question? Why any of them, why, him... too...?”

He shook his head again, and to his relief this time the headache cleared. Oh that felt so much better! Stewart was saying something about the purpose of incarceration, of punishment, of reform, of focus, but it seemed to be going in one ear and out the other; instead his eyes slid back down to Damian, the sturdy base ring and snugly fit steel cage keeping his endowment strictly bottled up. It did seem right to see him locked up there, he decided, and the two dragons as well; it was simply fitting for the place where they'd found themselves.

Improbably, his arousal stirred, at least concealed by the desk between them and the folder he'd brought with him, still unopened, that rested in his lap. He realized after a moment that the Director was watching him expectantly, and he felt his snout burn at being caught distracted. He needed to focus... He couldn't for the life of him remember what Stewart had just said. “So... you're preventing recidivism with... chastity?” he managed to stammer to conceal the worst of his wandering attention.

He chuckled to himself, glancing at the group of photographs. “I suppose that's one way of looking at it.”

Art wondered whether spending one's sentence locked up like that would make a prisoner eager to behave, or unspeakably frustrated; then he found himself wondering what it felt like. His lust built a little higher as the thought circled around in his head, of having something so intimately in his way that he couldn't control, couldn't remove... Only all his practice kept his face blank, but his cock pulsed against his pants no matter how well he mastered his expression.

What was his next question? Greylock Prison didn't feel like such a mystery anymore. He was surely forgetting something, he just couldn't think of it. Not when he kept wanting to look back down at the prisoners in their chastity. He shook his head again. Maybe he just needed a moment to collect himself, think through his notes, and return for more questioning.

“Just a minute before we continue,” he managed to say. “Which way to the restroom?”

His smile felt too knowing, but he said, “to the left, across the hall.”

Art hadn't even really meant to tend to himself in that way; he had just felt a sudden need for a moment of privacy. But with every step he took across the hall he felt himself grow harder, straining against his pants in a way he hadn't remembered himself feeling in a long time, and by the time he got himself into the immaculately clean single-person bathroom and locked the door, he found himself needing to do something about it. Now.

He unzipped and unbuttoned, fighting briefly to get the elastic band of his boxers past his erection as he yanked both layers down and out of the way, then grasped himself with a hand and barely managed not to growl. Damn that felt good. Maybe it wasn't timely, maybe it was inconsiderate for the incarcerated deeper in the prison—he just needed to do something about this, and when he started to stroke his body and mind both agreed that yes, rrr, that was what he needed to do right now. More of that. When he last enjoyed himself like this? He pumped his hand slowly again, then again, gritting his teeth as a little shiver ran up his spine. Too long, obviously far too long...

He'd been so focused on the investigation. It had consumed him, he hadn't taken a moment for himself, but now he'd finally made it in and found some answers... H-hn. Had he? He decided to keep going and worry about that in a few minutes. Finding some satisfaction of his own was what he needed to do right now. It certainly didn't seem like he'd need long with how strongly he felt each short stroke, already throbbing between his fingers, the motion up towards his tip pushing him closer, closer already, and he hunched forward a little, paused just for a moment to make sure his arm was ready, then resumed, faster now, come on. Nnn. He needed this!

He was interrupted by the door he thought he'd locked bursting open. “What—” he yelped, caught with his pants quite literally around his ankles, but while he was for a moment frozen by being so unexpectedly interrupted, the three guards barging in didn't hesitate at all despite finding him in such a state! They all shouted overlapping commands at him that echoed off the close, tiled walls: “Freeze!” “Up against the wall!” “Hands behind your back!”

Absurdly it was the last he wanted to do the least—he was close and wanted to keep jerking, damn the interruption! But he wasn't given a choice about any of it: the three of them muscled him against the wall hard enough to knock air from his chest, and though he snarled and lashed his tail to try to clear himself space they were big and sturdy enough to keep a grip on him! “Get— off me!” He coughed, trying to get his breath back and fight at the same time as they grabbed for his wrists, but three against one and with him caught so on his heels it was hardly a fight! It took them only moments to get his hands cuffed behind his back, and though he continued to snarl they forced a leather muzzle over his snout as well.

Art kept trying to struggle anyway, bracing himself and pulling against the metal cuffs, but while his scales kept the metal from cutting him despite the pressure, they didn't give him the strength to break anything! And the restraint made it still easier for them to push him around; one stood on his pants to make him step out of them when they turned him for the door, now handcuffed and muzzled and yet still hard as his scales, nearly dripping from having been so wound up prior to their interference! “Lnnt gmm nfff mm!”

“Quiet, prisoner,” snapped a bison, and though he kept growling anyway, he couldn't do it very loudly!

“Told you he was here to stick around. Everyone who shows up does.”

The bear dragging his other shoulder grumbled. “He looked so much more professional though. Usually they can hardly contain themselves when they make it this far.”

Their conversation would have been a treasure trove of clues if Art could think straight; but whenever he wasn't watching the heavy access door ahead loom closer he was looking down at his dick and wondering if they'd stop him from using his tail! Nnngh! Couldn't they have just waited thirty seconds?

Couldn't let you leave, a voice seemed to whisper, as they buzzed him into the next room: clearly an intake room, with the lineup stripes on the wall, plus a rack of jumpsuits, muzzles, collars, cuffs, and other gear just waiting to dress new prisoners in. He looked around wildly, but before he could try to figure out whose voice he'd heard, the gorilla said nearly the same thing.

“Exactly why he couldn't leave! If he'd told someone...”

Told someone what? Were the prisoners held here for some other reason? Were they still alive? What was going on and couldn't someone just take a second to get him off! He braced himself, yanked on the handcuffs again, and got nowhere, glaring at the three; but trying to threaten them with muzzled mumbles to take off the cuffs right now didn't even get a laugh, they just got to work processing him.

“I grabbed his ID, that'll get us started on the forms.” The bear tossed his wallet on the desk. “How secure?”

Art struggled harder between them, trying to turn for the exit, but they held him in place. He realized the doors were closed, and he'd need one of their access cards to get out, surely... How was he going to manage that!

He heard no answer, just a response as if someone else had told them: “makes sense with all this fighting.” Then they got to work: the gorilla pulled a bundle of thick orange canvas off a rack that soon revealed itself to be a straitjacket, and though Art's eyes widened and he twisted harder between the other two, it only seemed to arouse him more—even though he had no clue how he'd ever touch himself wearing that!

“Dnnph— Dnnff dnn mmnf! Llnn mm mnnf!” he yelped at them, which did nothing at all to dissuade the guards: instead with one holding each wrist they unlocked the handcuffs and swung his arms forward again, forcing them into the sleeves of the straitjacket despite his struggles and muffled protests. “Nnn! Nnngh!”

They only let go of his wrists at some unspoken signal which prompted them to yank the front of the jacket to his chest, too quickly for him to pull his hands back: they were stuck in the overlong, close-ended sleeves, and even then they didn't let up! One held each arm while the third went behind him to tighten up the straps behind his back and through either side of his groin, to lace it up to tighten the canvas even further, then they forced him to cross his arms so they could tighten the remaining thick, sturdy straps as tight as they would go, pinning his arms so tightly to his torso that they could hardly budge an inch.

The process took several demoralizing minutes that only made him feel helplessly weak and also far too horny, but now he had no options: they even strapped his tail into a little sleeve behind his back to keep him from swinging it around! “Cm nnn... hnn gmmfn llnn mm gmm!”

With Art now kept far more securely under control, one of them went to the desk and rifled through his wallet to find his ID, while another knelt down—no, not to suck him off, to add padded leather cuffs linked by a strap to each ankle.

“Persistent, isn't he? Toss me an ice pack would you?”

The bison reached under the desk and lobbed a reusable freeze pack to the bear, who'd just returned from the equipment rack with— Art shuddered. A chastity cage! He shook his head frantically and stumbled back a step only for the third guard to catch him, stopping him from retreating further despite his attempts to wriggle out of their grasp. The one saving grace to spare him from that cage was that he was still desperately raging hard... at least he was until the sudden cold against his flesh felt like such a shock that it made him yell!

And then, to go flaccid, despite his need, despite how bad he wanted to stay erect, the cold sensation just made him ache and want to withdraw, as the near-painful cold turned things unpleasant and uncomfortable and forced him to soften up...

“There. Sheesh.” They put the pack down and perhaps less gently than he would have preferred worked his balls and then his cock through the base ring—no no no don't lock him in he still wanted to cum! His silent pleas went unanswered, and the small barred steel cage followed, cool and made slippery but a little lubricant but at least not near as cold as the ice pack! The feeling of their fingers easing him in making him grunt and squirm... and then shudder, when they got him in and locked the two pieces together.

“That everything?” the gorilla said; Art tried not to whimper, looking down at himself. The cold was already fading, letting him try to grow again, but now the cage was in the way and it just made him ache, and twitch, no room for that arousal to stand so proud as it had before. Just the thrilling squirm-inducing sight of his own dragonhood thus imprisoned!

Prying eyes...

“Ah yes. Got to keep those prying eyes from seeing too much.” The bear went back to the rack and grabbed a heavy leather hood. Art still had nowhere to go, held firmly everywhere by now, and he felt near dizzy as he watched the hood. Was some sort of sixth sense making him guess what they'd say before they said it? Or could they hear the voice too? He couldn't ask!

“Don't get carried away. Mug shot first.”

“Right, right. Seems a bit antsy about this one, but gotta have the record.” He was muscled over to the lineup, turned to face a mounted camera that could get a picture of him with his height in the background.

“Artemis Verde,” read the bison. “Male, dragon—biped,” he corrected himself. “Sentenced to...” Ten years... “Ten years at Greylock Prison. 3 edging sessions per week. 1 hour per session. 1 orgasm every other month. Do not unlock.”

What? This—it was some sort of kink thing all along—a forced kink prison? What sort of real, legal incarceration would torment inmates like that! “Nn-nnn!” he shook his head, tried to figure out something he could do in the straitjacket, groaned as every attempt seemed to make his cock throb harder—was that what they were talking about not unlocking!? He shuddered wide-eyed and backed up until he hit the wall as they approached with the hood, but what could he do? He had to do something but he couldn't think couldn't resist...

They took off the muzzle first. “You can't do this— Let me go! You gotta let me—nnnn!” No amount of shimmying his shoulders and turning his head to the side kept them from hooding him for more than a moment. The thick material shoved his snout shut again, enveloped his head, blanking his vision and muffling his hearing too, the sound of laces tightening echoing over-loud inside when it could compete with his rapid breaths and desperate, muffled moans. They even locked a heavy steel collar around his neck, securing the hood even tighter.

“Try snitching from in there.”

A loud buzz followed, then he was marched forward in darkness; half-carried, in truth, as he was even more reluctant to walk when he couldn't see where he was going! He must have been in the cell block now, past processing and on the way to a cell of his own, but he didn't get to see the inside of either one, just the deep void within his hood. He was at last deposited on a padded surface, and his legs folded under him, slumping to the side until his shoulder hit a wall that also felt padded, so he couldn't bump into it and hurt himself.

“Nnn, nn, nnmmm! Lnnmmm!” he cried out, but all he did was drown out any possible parting words from the guards: all he heard after that was the heavy sound of a door slamming shut, and then just as distinctly locking into place.

Art hunched forward and fought. He yanked against the sleeves, he kicked against the cuffs, he twisted and he pulled and he howled, his cock throbbed and strained in the cage, gasping faster and faster breaths as he went. This couldn't be happening, he was trapped, he was blind, he couldn't break free he couldn't get hard he couldn't even touch himself now! His tail thumped on his back, he sat there fighting and aching with his mind whirling far too rapidly to even think, trapped, couldn't get hard, couldn't see, muffled, couldn't cum, panicked hyperventilation just making him dizzier!

He found himself on his stomach trying to grind against the floor, steel sliding against the padded surface under him and imparting hardly any stimulation, just a little pressure against his groin that only made him more frustrated. So horny, throbbing, as stuck there as everywhere else! What was he going to do?

Got you now...

He shuddered. There was even less to distract him from that voice now, for it felt a little louder in his head. Another pulse of lust ran through him, and he struggled, unable to even touch his cage, let alone his cock itself...

Can't let you tell. You won't tell.

“Nnnngh! Lllnnfff mmm... mmmffff...”

You'll agree with me. So much time to convince you...

Art shuffled to a wall, leaned against it, groaned. He realized he had no idea which wall even had the door, no idea if there was a handle on the inside at all, or a window, or any way out. It was just padded walls all around, just his straitjacket, just the strict steel chastity cage that he throbbed against endlessly! And no way out of it, no way out, no way, just a prisoner who no one would look for, a prisoner who belonged there... Was so excited to be locked away...

He tried to reach for his groin, but couldn't get anywhere close to his aching, needy, already so pent-up shaft. He couldn't take it but couldn't do anything about it! And his sentence had only just begun.

~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~

Greylock snarled deeply, neck arched, forelegs pulling against their chains that held his mittened paws against the collar at the base of his neck. The lust racing through him from the new inmate's mind was intense, panic and desperation making it spike still higher, and his length throbbed mightily within his slit despite all the long years he had been locked there. “Rrnnhh. Nnngh. Rrrrrgh...”

No use longing for anything else; all he could do was grind the enchanted steel of his belt against the floor. If only the psychic impressions of ecstasy the prisoners released when they were allowed to cum did anything to sate his own endless denial! He writhed, he groaned, but having spent so much effort breaking down the private eye's surprisingly strong mental defenses he let himself really bathe for a while in the echoes of trapped lust from the inmates all around him at his prison's heart. He'd been able to feel that mind sniffing around the outer reaches of his mental reach for weeks, worrying him, too strong at a distance for him to influence, but now the danger was past. No blown cover, no sudden surge of new, untampered minds coming to interfere with his long-enacted revenge. What a relief.

So the heavily chained violet dragon thrust firmly for a while more, growling into the darkness of the blindfold that had only managed to keep his mind control at bay for a matter of weeks before he'd overcome that particular enchantment, his cock pulsing powerfully in rhythm with the needy, trapped straining of all the prisoners he'd lured in to join him. Rrrrnngh...

If only the permanence in the shackles and the muzzle and the chastity belt had been so easy to defeat, but still they bound him, so many years later. No matter. With his mind unchained, he'd managed to get his vengeance anyway.

Vengeance on the wizards who'd defeated him... and as they hadn't been forever trapped in chastity to stop them from making another generation that might inherit their powers, vengeance on their descendants. And their descendants, and on, and on... Let them feel the same helplessness that he could never escape. Let him savor how they struggled, how they yearned, how they were forced to accept defeat.

Let all their need fuel his arousal as far as it could be pushed. He sensed an urgent thrill of longing run through the rare dragon he'd managed to snare and he writhed too, as one of the staff entered their cell to begin an edging session that always felt extra intense drawn from a mind that much more similar to his own—and for that to happen on today of all days, as he was still quivering from the powerful emotions of his new catch!

Greylock's neck arched and he huffed, claws curling within mittens, muscles straining against enchanted manacles, his tip pressed hard to the rigid inside of his chastity belt as a vibrator began to tease his prisoner's slit through their own chastity. Neither of them would cum, but he would enjoy this all the same, as he did the torment of every mind drawn into his snare!