By Nick Ensign

***NOW***

I strode outside the prison entrance, towards my car, just as the lower rim of the sun touched the distant mountains. Evening, and I was off shift for 3 days. I stopped for a moment to watch the sun. In the California desert, the sun’s light ripples through the bands of rising heat. At this time, the cusp of evening, it is a fiery orange ball. I never get tired of this display. The sun may be doomed to repeat this performance for billions of years, but it is the most glorious sentence ever.

I unzipped my windbreaker a few inches in the hopes of catching even a slight breeze on my neck. It was far too hot for a jacket, but regulations are regulations. The CDCR jumpsuit uniform is only authorized to be worn on duty, at a prison facility. So, like 90% of my fellow corrections officers, I threw a windbreaker on before heading home. There are facilities for changing into and out of uniform on site, but I’d rather be in uniform as long as possible. Hell, that jumpsuit uniform was half the reason on signed on with CDCR.

It was particularly clear as I put the walls of Chukawalla behind me step by step. In an hour or so, I’d be able to see the lights of Blythe in the distance. Beyond Blythe was the Arizona border. In every other direction there wasn’t even a whisper of civilization. Chuk dominated the landscape like a bully looking for someone to beat on.

My shift sergeant, Mark Carter, waited by my car. He’d pulled his car around next to mine and stood there, swinging his keys around on one finger. Rumor was that he’d started cutting his hair in a flattop on the day he’d pinned those sergeant’s stripes on. I’d once heard another C.O. ask him why the flattop, and the only response he got was, “Shut up, Pyle.” Tough, loud, and fair was how most of the C.O.s thought of him. I’d gotten to see a different side of him.

He eyed me up and down as I walked towards him. “Boy,” he drawled, “You walk that slow at your post? You’re slower than a goddamn con.”

“Yes, Sir!” I snapped back at him. As I came to a stop in front of him, I threw him a sharp salute, which he returned immediately. My sergeant was dressed in his Class A uniform, silver tan shirt over olive drab trousers. The badge on his chest shone with reflected sunlight. I could feel the tightness growing in my the crotch of my jumpsuit.

“Boy, I think you’re due for an attitude adjustment,” he said quieter. “You WILL have time for me tonight, right?”

“Yes, Sir!” I said again, all grins.

“Good, good.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small piece of paper wrapped around a key. “This gets you into my place. Do not take your time. Do not go home first. I want to see my favorite young corrections officer waiting for me when I get there. I’ll be about 30 minutes behind you.”

It would be an understatement to say I was excited as he passed the key to me. The throbbing in my jumpsuit was a sweet ache. “Sir, yes, Sir!” was all my over-excited mind could think to say. He winked once at me and then strode off back towards the prison gate. I hopped in my car, punched his address into my dash GPS, and sped off.

***THEN***

CDCR Academy was the hardest thing I’d ever done in my life. I’d been thrown out of a job after the economy ground to a halt. I saw it coming. I’d been working in title insurance, but hated every day of it. I had no idea what I wanted to do, but I reported to my desk every morning because it was a good job until I figured things out. Turns out my lack of enthusiasm, however, put my neck first on the block when the layoffs swept through. I wasn’t the only one to be let go, but I imagine I was the one they most enjoyed eliminating.

I got a fat compensation check. Between that and unemployment insurance, I could cruise through a year or so. Southern California is ridiculously expensive to live in, but my car was paid off, and i was renting a cheap apartment in a near-slum neighborhood. The first few months flew by quickly. I poked around, looking for any job that might be interesting, but no one was hiring. About month 4 I started to get nervous. The money was not an issue, but I knew that it could take months to go through a hiring process. I knew that I didn’t have a lot of cushion.

That was when I ran into Sgt. Carter. Or, it would be more appropriate to say, that was when he ran into me. I was exiting off the freeway, curving sharply towards the right, when I put my brakes on suddenly because traffic in front of me was backed up. I heard a loud screech of tires, then I felt a soft bump from the rear and my car lurched forward.

I looked in the rearview mirror, which was filled with a white van. I could see the driver motioning me to pull off onto the side. I did so and when we were well off the lane of traffic, I stepped outside.

“Jesus Christ!” was all I heard shouted at me. I didn’t even register his own door slamming shut. “Are you trying to kill someone?!” He stomped up to me, shouting.

“No…” was all I could say. Truth be told, it was all too much for me. There was the accident, then the shouting, but I was instantly hypnotized by the uniformed man standing in front of me. He was dressed in his Class A’s, a sharp cap on his head. I didn’t know what department he was with— I couldn’t focus that clearly yet— but my body wanted to be with him. My brain was agog, and all I could do was mumble “No” again.

“Are you talking to me or the dirt?!” he shouted. “Look up at me when you’re talking to me!”

“Yes. Yes, Sir, “ I said, surprising us both. I looked him square in the eye, not defiant but confident, and that stopped him.

“Good,” he said in a reasonable tone. “Now we got to figure this thing out. Follow me.”

When he turned around, I knew I would follow that uniform, that man, anywhere. I could feel a hard-on growing in my jeans. He went back to the passenger side door of his van, opened it, and grabbed the radio mic from its place on the dash. That was when I saw the CDCR logo emblazoned on the side of the van: California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation.

“Mobile CH twelve to Base,” he said.

“Base to CH12, over,” came the response a few seconds later.

“Minor accident in road ahead,” he said into the mic again. “Advise transfer I will be… tardy. Over.” He looked at me as he finished speaking.

“Confirmed, CH12. Advise transfer of delay. Over.”

The uniformed man hung the mic back on the dash and turned to me fully. “Now what are we going to do about this situation?” he spoke slowly, drawling a little for effect. He flashed a wolfish smile at me, and I wondered if I might just faint right there.

***NOW***

In the present, the GPS led me right where I needed to be. My Sergeant’s house was a medium-sized ranch house off a dusty road on the outskirts of Blythe. Most of Chuk’s C.O.s lived in Blythe. You could never spend a night out on the town without running into someone who shared your shift. My Sergeant’s house would be a safe place, however. His nearest neighbor was several hundred feet away.

I let myself in and stood for a few minutes in the dim foyer. I’d shrugged my windbreaker off in the car and stood there in my dark green uniform. My boots clopped audibly on the tiled floor inside the front door. All I wanted to do was breathe. I’d never been to his place before and him inviting me meant that tonight was going to be special.

There was no motion and little sound around me. I could hear one or more clocks from different rooms. Lighting was dim as dark had descended during my drive. A far light coming from the kitchen beyond the living room gave me enough light to make my way safely.

After breathing in the aura of his house, I found a light switch on a wall a few feet from me and sat myself down in an easy chair. I pulled the zipper of my uniform down a few inches to make myself more comfortable.

***THEN***

He asked me to follow him down a few streets and past a few lights so we could get everything sorted out. There was no obvious damage to either my car or his van so it seemed safe to conclude our business in a safer spot where we didn’t have to talk over traffic. Once we cleared the traffic of the offramp, it only took a few minutes for us to find a boarded up restaurant. we parked on one side, between a side of the restaurant and a row of ragged cedars.

When I got out of my car, I examined the back bump and lowered myself to the ground to look under the rear. I’m no mechanic, and I’m well aware that not all damage in a situation like this will be visible. But, the car had driven OK— no new squeaks or weird noises— so I was sure there was no damage other than a few extra scratches on the back bumper.

As I lay there on my back, looking up at the underside of my car, he walked up and nudged my legs apart with a boot. Then he stood between, making it suddenly difficult for me to go anywhere. “Anything?” was all he grunted at first.

“Nope,” I said. Then after a few seconds, “Nothing, Sir.”

“Need me to take a look?” he asked, bending down to a crouch. The dark green tie of his uniform dangled just above my crotch. My breathing hitched as I looked at him squatting there. I scrunched up just a bit, as if trying to wriggle back out. My crotch raised a few inches until the end of his tie lay flat atop it. I imagined I could feel his tie for just a brief second.

My head was getting light again. “No… no, Sir.”

“That’s good,” he said slowly. “I don’t want to get my uniform fucked up. You don’t want me to get my uniform fucked up, do you?”

I could see that wolfish grin again. I shook my head, which was momentarily painful there on the rough asphalt. Then I tried to scoot forward again, but he was completely blocking me.

“Going somewhere?” he asked mockingly. Then his right hand came and, palm down, he placed it between the end of his tie and the tent of my crotch. He brushed my fly, and I could feel the warmth radiating from his hand. Then the hand, held very flat, moved slowly forward, under the loose hem of my shirt. In a moment he rested the palm against my belly. The fingers barely moved. He simply kept his hand there.

I ached to move forward and clasp him, but my position was awkward. I couldn’t raise my head because it was under the rear of my car. I couldn’t move forward or to the side because he was crouched between my spread legs. I gasped audibly as his hand rested against the skin of my stomach.

“Sir…?”

“Shhh, boy,” was all he said. His hand moved back and rested atop my crotch again. He left it there just long enough for me to wonder what was going on and then he began to massage my cock slowly through the denim of my pants. He did this for 15, 20 seconds until I wanted to start bucking in the throes of sexual ecstasy. That’s when he stopped and said, “Boy, you’re wiggling more than two snakes fucking. I believe I know the perfect way to keep you still.”

***NOW***
I sat in the quiet of my Sergeant’s house, breathing and staying focused. This was a technique I’d developed in the last year. Focus was a talent that kept me alive, and by ‘focus’ I don’t mean on a single object. Rather, I use the word to denote an awareness of my environment, my immediate surroundings. Through breathing I could achieve a hyper awareness of everything happening around me. As I said, it kept me alive in a hostile environment.

I heard a deep throttling sound come up the driveway, and I knew my Sergeant was home. I got up and waited for him just inside the door.

“Boy,” he said with a grin, “You are a sore sight for eyes. I believe my tired body could use some of your special stress relief right now.”

The front door was closed behind him and he leaned back against it. My eyes told him “Yes, Sir!” as I began to tug the zipper down on my uniform.

“No, no, boy. Just like you are. I want one of California’s finest corrections officers giving me this very exceptional service to my cock.”

So, I stayed in uniform and got down on my knees in front of him. I began by extending my tongue and slowly licking the crotch of his uniform pants. I started down below the fly and came up a few inches. Then I leaned forward and sealed my mouth around the same area, tasting the fabric of his trousers. Already I could feel something growing behind the cloth. He put one hand on top of my head and began running his fingers through the bristle of my flattop.

After leaving a wet spot on his crotch, I reached up to his belt and began to undo the buckle. The smell of duty belt leather was a turn on for me, but my Sergeant had removed his, leaving only a simple basketweave belt to hold up his trousers. When I worked the buckle free, his trousers dropped to his ankles, and I could see the outline of his hardened cock in his white briefs. I used my mouth again on his straining briefs and a dab of precum began to seep through the thin material. I sucked at the spot through as my Sergeant moaned, “That’s it, Boy.” His fingers stopped playing and he cupped the back of my head with both hands harshly, pulling me in tighter.

With my face mashed against his crotch, I hooked one finger over top of his briefs and pulled the lip down just enough so that the head of his cock emerged. With little option I popped this head into my mouth. I could taste the salty precum that was still oozing from him. My tongue licked the head all over. After a few moments of this, he relaxed his grip a bit and allowed me to back off a few inches. I used this space to tug his briefs down all the way, and his cock sprang towards me, fully erect.

I took the head of his cock in my mouth again, and his hands stiffened on my head. Then, slowly, I moved forward, sliding my lips further and further down the shaft of his cock. With a lazy rhythm, I began to move up and down that shaft, giving a hard suck to the head periodically. His moans increased. “Boy…” he started, but his sentence went unfinished.

I increased my rhythm, and after a few minutes, his body took over. He grabbed my head firmly again and began moving me back and forth to his natural rhythm. I stayed relax, using my tongue to keep his shaft moist, and giving an extra whenever the head of his cock neared the front of my mouth. A few minutes later, it was over as he shot his fiery cum down my throat. As much as I love the taste of a man’s cock, cum is not my favorite experience. Still, I never refused to swallow every drop my Sergeant shot into me. In this manner we both knew that he was my superior in all ways. If such a thing were possible, I would belong to him.

***THEN***

After allowing me to wriggle my way out from under my car again, I followed the uniformed man back to his van. He slid open the side door on the passenger and motioned for me to take a look inside.

The van had been heavily customized by the CDCR. The ‘normal’ interior seats had been removed— or never installed— and there were only two specialized seats remaining. The rear seat was mounted only a couple feet inside the rear doors of the van. Several feet ahead of that was a second seat a couple feet behind the front cab. The seats were otherwise identical. There was a thick steel mesh, floor to ceiling, separating the back compartment from the front cab.

I examined the forward seat closely. There was thin padding in the interior of the seat, enough to keep a sitter barely comfortable. Other than that, the seat was constructed of welded steel. It looked enough like a real seat in shape, but there was nothing friendly or refined about it. A steel eyebolt was welded into the outer side of the arm facing me. I assumed an identical one was welded on the opposite arm. I could see another eyebolt welded to the floor in front of the seat, and when I looked behind the seat, I could see a final eyebolt welded at the top of the backside. There was no hiding the purpose of this hardware.

“You want to try it out, Boy?” I heard from behind me. I felt a hand rest on my ass as I stood there, leaning into the van.

It seemed to me like I hesitated, but must have fairly blurted out, “Yes, I do! Yes… Sir.”

He chuckled. “That’s good. I know you won’t give me any problems. Now grab the top of that door frame, Boy. Hands as far apart as you can make them.” His voice had gone steely, and it sent a thrill down my spine. When I did as he told me to, he gently kicked my feet apart with one of his boots. A moment later I felt his hands roughly patting me down. I was confused, not knowing how much of what was happening was real and how much was show. His right hand felt the keys in my pocket, then it slid over and cupped my hardened cock. I thought he might make some sort of joke about carrying a concealed weapon, but he just grunted in my ear. Finished, then, pulled my left hand down from the door frame, folded it behind my back, and slapped a cuff around the wrist. This startled me. The action was quick and efficient, a little uncomfortable. A few seconds later he repeated the action with my right hand, and suddenly I was standing in front of the van door, handcuffed tightly. My heart leapt into my throat. I was excited and terrified.

“Wait there, Boy,” he said, disappearing around the back of the van. Looking through the interior, I could see him open the rear doors and then duck behind the rear seat. The obvious sound of chains clinking followed him as he returned to stand behind me.

“Boy, this is how we transport prisoners. Do you acknowledge that you are my prisoner for the time being?”

His voice spoke into my ear. It wasn’t loud or soft, and it held little emotion. The throbbing and dryness in my throat had become painful. My body didn’t know whether to stay aroused or dissemble in complete terror. I was shaking but I managed to croak, “Yes. I acknowledge that I am your prisoner. Sir.”

“Good,” he said again in my ear. He put a hand on my shoulder. “Now relax, Boy. This is supposed to be fun.”

I heard the chain rattle and a moment later there was a ratcheting sound from my right ankle. I felt the shackle snap tight. Then the same noise and tightening clamped around my left ankle. I looked down and saw my ankles shackled together. I’d seen this before, on TV, in movies, but now it was happening to me. I felt as if I had become a genuine prisoner somehow. The chains affected me mentally.

Next his hand snaked around my belly with a chain, and soon thereafter I heard the firm metallic sound of a lock clicking into place. The chain was locked about my waist, and, looking down, I could see it drop between my legs, where it attached to the shackles. He unlocked my hands then. I heard him put the cuffs back on his belt. My hands didn’t remain free long, however. One after the other he locked them into cuffs attached to either side of the chain at my waist. In just a couple minutes I had been cuffed and shackled completely. I tried to remain calm.

“Now let me have a look at you,” he said, grabbing my arm and spinning me in place. When I was facing him, he stepped back and flashed me that wolfish grin of his. “Prisoner, I do believe you and I are going to have some fun.”

A small step was folded into the van. He swung it down then, grabbed my arm again, turned me about, and propelled me up the step. “Have a seat, Prisoner.”

I ducked and stepped forward awkwardly as I had never walked in shackles before. I had to be conscious of taking smaller steps. Once inside, I turned towards the front and lowered myself into the seat. There was enough slack at my wrists for me to rest each hand atop the low armrests. He stepped in after me, also bending low. From a pocket he grabbed a lock and soon my shackles were locked to the eyebolt in the floor. My right arm swiftly followed, locked to the eyebolt on that armrest. He stepped out of the van then and soon opened the opposite side door, quickly locking the chain attached to my left cuff to the armrest eyebolt as well. I was now secured to the seat. I remembered then that there was a fourth eyebolt at the top of the seat behind my head. I couldn’t imagine what device would attach to that one.

After closing the left side door, he came back around and entered from the right side again. “Prisoner, you are now ready for transport. I hope you were prepared this morning to end your day locked in a prison cell because that’s where you’re going.” With that, he backed out of the car, closed and locked the side door, and walked around the front of the van. When he climbed into the driver’s seat, he looked back at me in the rearview mirror. “Nothing to say, Prisoner?”

The blood was throbbing painfully in my throat again. I didn’t want to say anything— I probably couldn’t. I wanted to believe he was bluffing, but my head was jumbled by the steel locked on my wrists and ankles. All I could do was shake my head timorously. He grunted in a satisfied way and started the engine. A moment later we were rolling out of the parking lot. I was trussed up in the back of a prison transport van like a common prisoner, apparently on my way to a cell.

The windows were darkened enough so that I knew no one could see me inside. I could see out, however. It took me no time to figure out where we were going. On the north end of town, where the city gave way to desert scrub, the County maintained a large jail facility. This was probably where he had been heading in the first place. Only now, in addition to picking up a prisoner, he seemed to be intent on dropping one off as well.

It took us about 10 minutes to drive up the narrow road paralleling the freeway and then turn down the long road that arrowed out to the jail. When the jail complex appeared in front of us after coming up from a dip in the road, he stared at me again in the mirror. “Look, Prisoner, it’s your new home.”

I managed then to squeak out, “Sir…?”

“‘Sir’ what?” he demanded, suddenly stern.

I just stared back at him via the mirror.

“Did you think we would just drive away from that little accident? Did you think about things from my point of view? I’m a professional corrections officer. I have a reputation for doing things the right way. Did you think I was going to fuck that up?”

By this time we had pulled to a stop and parked in the lot out front of the jail’s main entrance. I saw a County deputy manning a small enclosure just 30 feet ahead of us. My freedom would disappear a couple car lengths away.

“Now wait here, Prisoner, while I go prep the paperwork for your arrival.” He grabbed a metal clipboard from the passenger seat and exited the van, locking the door behind him. I watched him walk up to the deputy, show his identification, and then gain admittance. As he disappeared inside, I wondered what lay in my future.

***NOW***

I stood up, brushing off my knees. My Sergeant tucked his cock back inside his trousers and re-zipped. Then he opened his arms and I leaned into the embrace. He was a few inches taller. I nestled my head on his shoulder as he clasped me. After a few minutes, he held me upright and declared, “Boy, I am too hungry to stand here all night. Let’s get to fixing ourselves something to eat.”

***THEN***

I waited in the van, chained and helpless. I felt as if my fate was being decided in some secret room just out of reach. I couldn’t participate. To make it worse, it was growing hotter in the van by the minute, parked under the afternoon sun. I was beginning to sweat from a mixture of heat and nervous anticipation.

The head trip was unimaginable. I pictured myself being grasped by one arm and then led into the jail. I could see my slow, shuffling gait, my natural stride restricted by the shackles on my ankles. I could see myself being fingerprinted and photographed. I could see myself stripping and being searched. It seemed that I could even feel my ass being invaded by a rubber-gloved hand. As my imagination ran wild, I was issued a set of orange jail clothing. I could even see myself, an inmate, being locked in a cell. My heart raced at everything that awaited me only a few minutes in my future.

The corrections officer, the man putting me through all this, appeared out of the same door nearly half an hour later. I was drenched in my own sweat and lost inside my imagination. I hardly noticed him walk back out to the van until he yanked open the door and sat down in the driver’s seat. In a moment he had the engine on and the AC cranked. He looked at me in the rearview again.

“Boy, you stinking up my van?”

“Sir, I—” I tried to speak, but the words caught in my throat. I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t let him see that.

After a moment he drove the van out of the parking lot. Instead of heading to the drive-thru gate, however, we exited out the way we had driven in. I was confused. A minute or two passed until we reached a bigger road.

“Turns out their man ain’t going anywhere today. You wanna know why?”

I thought about it for a moment then shook my head No.

“Good. Now ain’t you got something to say, Boy?”

“I,” I started. “Sir, I’m confused.”

“Ha. You really thought I was taking to jail, didn’t you?” He smiled, proud of himself. I could see his merry expression in reverse. “I just wanted to keep you off your guard. And I want you to be happy and grateful when I get around to releasing you.”

I breathed deep. “You scared the shit out of me, Sir.”

“Did I, boy? That’s good. You remember that feeling. I want your heart to jump madly whenever you see me.”

I could see that we were headed back in the direction we’d come. In no time we were back at the abandoned restaurant where my car had been left. After parking, he came into the back compartment and crouched in front of. There wasn’t much room for him.

“Boy, I should’ve put you in the back seat. Give myself some more room.” His grin re-appeared. Then he leaned in and pressed his lips to mine. His tongue darted into my mouth. We kept that kiss going for a few minutes, me unable to put my arms around him. Finally he broke off and began freeing me from the chains. “I hope I didn’t get you fired,” he said mischievously while unlocking my ankles.

“No. No, Sir, that is. I don’t have a job right now.”

“Don’t have a job? What are you, a lazy fucker? You seem fit enough.” As he stared at me I started to explain, but he held up his hand. “Some other time.” Then he took a business card out of a shirt pocket and write something on the back. He tucked the card into the hem of my boxers. “You call me,” he said. “Soon. Don’t be a little bitch and play coy with me. We both know I got what you want. Now get out of here.”

I was free again. I stood, slightly crouched, and hopped out of the van. As I remained there, rubbing my wrists where the cuffs had been, he closed up the van, got back inside, and drove off. Just like that, he was gone. But, I knew that my life had changed in the last 90 minutes. I got back in my car and headed off as well. I knew where I was going that afternoon, but the days ahead had become an exciting mystery to me.

***THEN***

My Sergeant and I came to know each other quickly. It was evident that he saw something in me that attracted him, and I there were oh so many reasons that I was falling for him. I had never known a man so confident in his actions or firm in his convictions. He knew what he wanted and expressed his desires clearly. Every time I met with him, I was thankful afterwards that he’d come into my life.

We usually met at my apartment or. Occasionally we met at a restaurant or someplace similar. I preferred meeting at my apartment because that almost always meant we would be in bed at some point. Regardless of where we met, however, he was always in uniform when we got together. I began to think he lived in that crisply pressed uniform. He identified with it strongly, and through him I grew to love that uniform as well. In fact, whenever we grew passionate together, he would remain in full uniform during most of our foreplay. He would have me strip to my socks and then rejoin him on the couch. I would lightly place my hands all over his uniformed body, sometimes resting my head against his chest, feeling his badge against my skin. On many nights we never made it to bed, preferring to watch a movie together like this.

I shortly learned of my Sergeant’s other big passion for men who are locked up. I never asked— nor did I ever truthfully find out— if he had ever been with inmates at his prison. (He was already working at Chuk at the time.) I just knew that he was turned on by a man behind bars or a man securely locked up in chains. I guess that should not have been a surprise, given our first meeting. Maybe the second or third time he came to visit me we were making out on the couch when he stopped me. He stood up and pulled me up as well. “Hands on your head, Boy,” he barked at me. “Lock those fingers together. Feet apart.”

I smiled and he turned me around. Then he began frisking me. It seemed ridiculous and curiously erotic to me at the time. I was wearing nothing but my socks. He was in full uniform. I felt his hands all over me as if I had been clothed. After completing the search, he grabbed my left arm off my head and a moment later I felt a cuff snap around the wrist. The right wrist followed quickly. I was cuffed again. This time, however, I had no fear. When he turned me around to face him, my cock was already gaining altitude.

“Now, Boy, that is what I like to see.” He grinned, showing teeth, then sat back down on the edge of the couch. He loosened his belt and unzipped the fly of his trousers. A moment later his cock, already growing to life, sprang out. I knew my part and eagerly dropped to my knees. Although, with my hands locked behind me, I did so clumsily. This only seemed to arouse him more. I quickly dove down on him with my mouth.

We continued like this over the next several get togethers. He was visiting me three or four times a week already. At some point the handcuffs would come out and I would submit to be locked up. There was never a question on my part that I would comply. I soon learned that I enjoyed being locked up. After a couple weeks he would start cuffing me as soon as I let him in the door. My hands would be locked in front of me for most of the evening. Although, he would usually lock them again behind my back when we made out or fucked.

We did begin fucking pretty quickly. Again, my part was clear. He was top and I was bottom. There was no confusion in our roles. When he wanted to use my ass, I let him. I wanted him to. The more I submitted to his desires, the better I felt about myself. There was clarity and joy in submitting to him.

After a month or so, he came in one night and tossed a zippered bag at me. “Put that on,” was all he said. I unzippered the bag and discovered a set of prison wear inside. CDCR inmate wear consists of dark blue pants with an elastic waist and and an oversized light blue shirt. CDCR PRISONER was printed down one leg and printed across the back of the shirt, both in yellow 2-inch letters. I changed as rapidly as I could, my cock straining the inside of the trousers. When I stood before him again in inmate uniform, he snapped the cuffs on my wrists. Our evening went as normal.

From that time on it was understood that I would always wear my inmate uniform around him— as long as we were at home. When we went out, we behaved as any other couple except that he was always in uniform. By ‘any other couple’ I only mean that we didn’t do anything outrageous or engage in circumspect behavior. We didn’t hold hands nor would he even put his arms around me. I believe this made him honier, however. After evenings out we invariably fucked afterwards, and he would take me roughly. After just a few months I had taken countless loads of his hot cum in my ass. He was medically tested at least once a year so I had no qualms at letting him ride me bareback. I wanted his cock in me bare. I wanted his cum shooting up inside me.

During this time, my Sergeant was also helping me get my life back on track. The first night he came to visit we started discussing my lack of job. He showed me the CDCR’s job site on the web and told me to read the literature and begin the application process. I did so eagerly after he left. Over the ensuing months then I completed a written test, a physical test, several rounds of interviews, and even consented to a background investigation. The process was a long. My reserve of money was nearly depleted when I was finally accepted into the CDCR Academy. Eight months had gone by. My Sergeant and I were steady lovers the entire time. Seeing him in uniform night after night was a constant reminder to keep my eyes on the goal.

*****