Corrections 2

(All participants are over the age of 18.)

A woman I know works as a corrections officer in a state prison. It is a demanding, difficult, poorly-paid, and sometimes repulsive job that requires her to be firm, fair, and assertive at all times. Not only must she be alert for physical violence, but she also has to avoid giving inmates any opportunity to cause trouble by claiming that the officer had violated their rights or any of hundreds of other rules.

As a result, she does not associate her occupation with anything romantic or sexual. Moreover, when she is off duty she has only intermittent interest in being the one who is assertive or initiates sexual contact, because she is somewhat tired of always being "in charge."

I, on the other hand, can't help thinking about the sexual imagery and fantasy involved. Most men find women in uniform to be somewhat erotic or attractive—at the very least "cute," but often somehow commanding, in control. This is especially true if your sexual preferences tend to dominance and submission. Both my lover and I are "switches"—we like to play mild forms of dominance and bondage in which a power transfer is involved. Either she dominates me or (more frequently) I control her, restraining her in different positions while I fondle and penetrate her body for our mutual satisfaction.

You can see where I'm going with this. Although she has been a corrections officer for years, I've recently become fascinated with the image of this woman in uniform, using her experience on the job as well as her handcuffs to take charge of me, rendering me helpless and subservient in a way that involves sexual punishment and (eventually) mutual pleasure with her in control. This is pure fantasy, of course, since being a prisoner would be extremely unpleasant in reality. That's especially true in her state's institutions, where inmates are forbidden to have any kind of sexual release, even by masturbation. Still, she knows I think about such things, although we've never acted on the idea. Here, however, is an example of what my fevered imagination produces . . .

I come home from my work one day, anticipating spending time with her because her schedule makes this an "off" day. For my money, she is drop-dead gorgeous, with a beautiful smile and killer body—she's not tall enough to be a traditional model, but her limited height only exaggerates the effect of her large cleavage, and she has shelf-like buttocks to match. In other words, to me she is built like the original pocket Venus, a very attractive and affectionate woman. In this imaginary situation, however, I'm surprised to find her standing just inside our door, in full uniform, holding a clipboard full of papers and wearing her game face—that "don't f___ with me" expression she puts on when she is determined to have her way. Her first words tell me that she's decided to indulge my fantasy; my shaft immediately becomes rock hard at the thought:

"O.K., mister, you've violated your parole, so I'm here to take you into custody. Don't make this worse than it has to be—do exactly what I tell you, do you understand?"

Startled and aroused, I nod my head—for all I know, my mouth is hanging open. But a nod is not good enough for "Officer Smith."

"Let's try this again. When an officer asks you a question, you respond immediately and remember to show respect for her position, got it?"

(Gulp—she's serious. I want to have fun, not piss her off.) "Yes, Ma'am," I reply, meekly.

"That's better." She glances at the clipboard. "OK, prisoner, tell me your name, date of birth, and social security number."

I promptly recite the required information, not forgetting to finish my sentence with "Officer."

"OK," she responds, "You're my pigeon. We have recently introduced new security rules for transporting inmates, so I have to get you ready. Take off your shoes and socks."

Her glare stops me from asking why; instead, I hastily shuck off my footwear, scattering them all around me.

"Tsk, tsk," she says, in the voice of a disappointed mother or teacher. "That's no way to take care of your belongings. Put the shoes neatly, side by side, with the socks laid out on top."

By now, I am so excited by her assertiveness that I obey immediately. When she demands that I remove my shirt and undershirt, I am careful to fold those neatly and pile them on my shoes.

"You're learning," she comments, with a hint of a grin—obviously, she's beginning to enjoy controlling me. "Now, turn around, face the wall, and lean forward, with your hands above your head."

When I comply, she kicks the inside of each of my shins, forcing my legs wide apart. I find myself in the traditional position for a body search, expecting her to start feeling me up, but she has one more step before she gets to that. At her direction, I move one hand at a time behind the small of my back, where she cuffs my wrists firmly, tightly. This leaves me with my forehead pressed against the wall, my neck straining to keep me from falling over. Now, at last, she begins to indulge the sensual aspects of the situation. Stepping between my legs, Officer Smith reaches around my waist, unbuckles my belt, and in one swift jerk, pulls both my trousers and my briefs half-way down my legs.

Keeping in character, I timidly ask why she did that. She whacks each of my buttocks with her clip board, in a way that is more startling than painful. "Isn't it obvious?" she replies. "Since we began transporting all prisoners in the nude, escape attempts and indiscipline have dropped to zero. Now shut up and follow directions—if you keep bothering me with dumb comments, I'll have to gag you, as well. I'm not going to waste all night transporting your sorry ass [which she is fondling, squeezing, and goosing as she speaks] to prison."

Her roving hands move around to fondle my testicles and my rigid cock. "Humm. Somebody seems to like being naked and handcuffed. Well, I bet you'll like the next step in the procedure even more." She helps me stand upright, then orders me to squat down with my legs well apart, a position that is very difficult to achieve with my hands behind my back. I hear the snap of a rubber glove being stretched, after which I feel two fingers, well lubricated, thrusting upwards into my rear passage. She reams me thoroughly, eliminating any lingering doubt as to who is in charge. To my embarrassment, this invasion of my most private entrance arouses me even more than before. Then, she tells me to stand up while I hear her walk away, discarding the glove into a wastebasket. Craning my neck over my shoulder, I watch as she picks up a long length of nylon rope, the kind we often use in bondage games, and returns to stand behind me.

"Don't move a muscle," she admonishes, quite unnecessarily. The tugs on my bound wrists suggest that she is tying one end of the rope to the short chain between my cuffs. This guess is confirmed when she steps to my side and shifts the rope from the hand behind me to that in front. She pulls the rope snugly but not too tightly between my legs, forcing it between my butt cheeks in the process. Under the circumstances, it's obvious what she intends to do next—Officer Smith ties a simple overhand knot around my scrotum, separating my testicles from my cock, and then ties a square knot over the top of my cock. She gives a trial tug on this leash, which instantly gets my attention by applying pressure onto both my genitals and the crevice between my rear cheeks. Her grin gets even wider as she enjoys having full control over me.

I can't resist making a wise-guy comment. "I can see how this would prevent the escape of male inmates, but what do you do with females?"

The officer looks at me with a mixture of exasperation and impatience. "Not that it's any of your business, wise guy, but we tie a rope belt around the woman's hips, then run the rope from the cuffs down between her butt cheeks and under her crotch, then up to her cleavage. To hold the rope there, we run a chain between two nipple clips, so that any pull on her leash will affect both her nipples and her crotch." [As she speaks, I have a sudden, highly-erotic image of a naked Officer Smith rigged up like that with me holding the leash. Her next words bring me back to my own predicament, however.] "Since you can't keep quiet, I'll have to gag you. Open wide."

She takes a long scarf, thrusts it between my teeth, and ties it snugly behind my head. I can still make noise, but it's a constant reminder not to talk. To emphasize that point, my dominant corrections officer adds, "Any more noise and I'll use a ball gag—having one of those between your teeth will make your jaw ache. Now turn around and bend over again, legs wide apart."

When I comply, balancing with difficulty in that exposed position, I feel another penetration of my rectum; After the initial stretching, my anus snaps back, holding what is obviously a butt plug. I feel her fingers moving my crotch rope over the end of this plug to hold it inside me. Meanwhile, the officer gives me another sharp slap on my butt and makes some comment about this plug getting me ready for prison life. My mind tries in vain to avoid the images of anal rape that this remark awakens. Then she bends down and ties the ends of a short rope (in lieu of real leg manacles) to my ankles, hobbling me to about an eight-inch stride.

Tugging on my rope leash, the grinning officer begins leading me towards the door, and I have no choice but to follow. Along the way, she alternately encourages and reprimands me with phrases such as "good boy" and "come on!"—all delivered in the tones one usually uses to instruct a dog or perhaps a horse. She stops part way to the garage door, however, and ties the end of the rope to a chair. It is only a simple, overhand knot, but with my hands secured behind me and the leash tied snugly to my cock and balls, I am completely immobilized. This action demonstrates that I am no better than an animal, as restrained as any horse whose reins are tied to a hitching post.

In a moment, the officer returns and drops two flip-flops in front of me, instructing me to put them on. She then unties my leash and continues her trip towards the door. I soon learn that she had diabolically tied the rope with just enough slack that the plug will shift a fraction of an inch inside or out, each time I take a step. In effect, I'm fucking myself as I walk, and going downstairs with this plug and my hobble is a constant challenge.

She leads me into the garage, which fortunately has the doors closed, but I am still apprehensive about someone on the street looking through the windows to see me exposed like this. She pulls open the back door of the car and makes me sit down inside, doing the traditional police gesture of holding my head so that I don't bump it as I sit down. Then she removes the hobble rope and orders me to lie down and wriggle across the car seat until my head reaches the far side. As I move, the officer takes advantage of the situation to fondle and grab my cock, testicles, and ass. The butt plug also shifts back and forth. I end up facing the seatback, lying on my side. Now, at least, I won't be immediately visible from outside the car.

My captor takes the final steps in restraining me—she uses the hobble rope to bind my ankles more tightly together, then runs the free end upward to connect it to my cuffs. Fortunately, she allows a little slack, but I'm still naked, hogtied, plugged, and gagged. After closing the car door, she comes around to the door by my head, where she slips a sleep mask over my face and tosses a blanket over my defenseless form, covering me entirely. She sarcastically tells me not to go anywhere—as if I could—and then closes the door. A moment later, I hear the driver's door open. Someone—presumably my darling—climbs in, starts the engine, and activates the opener on the garage door.

My pulse races—she's not pretending, she really intends to take me out in public like this, and there is nothing I can do about it! At one level, I realize that Officer Smith is playing a sex game to excite me. Still, I am really blindfolded, gagged, cuffed, butt-plugged, and hogtied, lying completely naked in a car, with absolutely no control or defenses. This is both terrifying and incredibly arousing.

Afterwards, my favorite officer tells me that we only spent about 20 minutes in the car—she was concerned about leaving me so tightly restrained for any period of time. But I had no way of measuring time, and only my sense of hearing to determine what was going on. At one point, the car halted, the driver apparently got out, and the door slammed shut. Sounds outside the car suggested that she was pumping gas into the tank. Another time, though, the car halted, the driver dismounted, and the door closed. I heard the tell-tale "beep" of a car alarm being set, and I was left apparently alone, naked, and completely helpless. The sensation was simultaneously arousing and terrifying, (The lady later told me that she just walked a few feet away and watched the car for a few minutes before returning, so that I was never really abandoned.)

Finally, the car comes to a halt again, and the sound of a garage door leads me to hope that we've returned home. That conclusion is confirmed when the rear door opens, the blanket is jerked off me, and the sleep mask slides off, showing her smiling face. "Are you all right, boy?" she asks, deliberately belittling me but using a tone of voice that almost breaks character out of concern that I might be uncomfortable. When I nod vigorously in the affirmative, she resumes her cover story of transporting an inmate. Walking around to the other car door, she opens it, removes the rope connecting my cuffs to my ankles, and instructs me to crawl backwards out of the car. With my hands still restrained behind me, this is quite difficult, but the officer "helps" me by grabbing onto my cock and butt and pulling me across the seat. I am conscious that my naked rear is bobbing in an undignified manner as I crawl.

Once I finally stand up, she grabs the rope "leash" attached to my genitals and pulls me firmly into the house. Although my ankles are no longer hobbled, I still feel the plug sliding in and out of my butt as I walk, especially when climbing the three steps into the house. Pausing only to close the door behind us, Officer Smith leads me over until I am standing some three feet from the end of a low coffee table, about two feet wide by four feet long, that has figured frequently in her previous bondage games. Next, she deposits a thick pillow at my feet, ever solicitous of my comfort. She wants this to be enjoyable if humiliating, not pointlessly painful.

Then her hand slaps my rear end sharply, reinforcing the instruction to kneel on the pillow, facing the table. Not surprisingly, I feel her tying my knees to the table legs, immobilizing me again. Only then does my captor remove my scarf gag, warning me not to say anything unless she asks a question. Finally, she pushes my torso forward so that my chest presses against on the table. She promptly straddles my waist, pinning me down while she removes my cuffs and then ties each wrist to the legs at the far end of the table. I am left, kneeling and bound to the table, unable to move as she dismounts me and stands behind my vulnerable ass.

"OK, inmate, there are a few more important procedures we have to complete before you join the prison population. First is the matter of discipline. You were sloppy disrobing, slow to respond to instructions, and insolent in your speech. We'll deal with that right now. I think about 20 strokes should teach you the importance of cooperating. After each stroke, you will announce the number—one, two, three, or whatever—and respectfully thank me for disciplining you. If you fail to answer promptly or count incorrectly, we'll start over at one again. Do you understand me, boy?"

By now, she is obviously enjoying her control over me, so I respond promptly, wanting to make her happy. "Yes, Ma'am, I understand."

With no warning, the clipboard lands hard on my right butt cheek. I am startled, but remember to respond "One, thank you Ma'am." Succeeding strokes alternate between my cheeks. Although any one blow is not that hard, collectively these strokes build up the discomfort in my rear end, causing me to squirm helplessly against my bonds. In my mind's eye, my butt is becoming a deep shade of red. I am almost gasping when we reach the twentieth stroke: "Twenty, thank you Ma'am."

I am startled by yet another blow, harder than any of the previous ones. "That's to remind you of the serious consequences of disobedience. Next time, maybe I'll use my belt on you," she comments with a hint of menace.

The officer continues onward, speaking calmly as if nothing unusual has happened. "Your rear end is nice and red, now. But that's only a taste of what can happen to you at my prison. Listen carefully to me as I explain your options in this facility."

"As you may have heard," she continues, "we have a growing problem with inmates assaulting each other." [In fact, I know that her prison is run very strictly, but she is using the urban legends of prison for purposes of her game.] We do try to keep everyone safe, but we can't be everywhere at once. With a nice, soft white ass like yours, you are a natural target for younger, stronger inmates who want to get their rocks off. So, before I transfer you into the general population of inmates, you need to consider your options. Do you understand me?"

"I think so, Ma'am."

"By the way—you aren't gay, are you?"

"No, Ma'am." I reply, indignantly.

"Too bad—that could have made your future life easier. Because there is a very real possibility several of these weight-lifting, hardened young thugs will corner you in the shower or some other place where we can't stop them immediately, and have their way with you. It will take us a few minutes to lock down the other prisoners and assemble a response team to break it up, and by that time, I hate to say it, you will be fucked. Literally and painfully. If you don't press charges for the first assault, everyone around you will regard you as a slut, available to anyone. If you do press charges, we'll put you in solitary, as protective custody, for several months until the public trial, at which time you will have to describe, in detail, how these guys violated you—and their defense attorneys will try everything to suggest that you were asking for it. Not a pretty picture, is it, boy?"

"No, Ma'am." For the first time since we began our game, my prick softens, turned off. This fantasy is becoming a real downer! "So, what's the alternative?"

"The alternative is unofficial—if you ever submit a complaint about it, every corrections officer will deny any knowledge of it. But it exists. To use the slang term, you become our boy, one of our bitches. We'll put you in a cell very close to a control booth and a surveillance camera, so we can watch you all the time. We'll make a special effort to warn the predators away from you, and tell any male corrections officers not to hassle you too much. And what will you do for us in return?"

"Cooperate in every way I can think of?" I suggest.

"Yes, but that's a given. You will obey every instruction and run errands for us as required. But you will also need to show your gratitude much more specifically and intimately. When one of the female corrections officers feels like having fun, especially at night, you will offer any kind of sex she wants. Usually, it will be oral sex, with you on your knees, hands cuffed behind you. Sometimes, she may use a dildo on your mouth or butt, but she'll be much more careful and gentle than Bubba would be. And, if she feels like it, she may even let you fuck her in the normal way, although most of us prefer to ride on top rather than letting the inmate mount us. Are you interested?"