Officer Harlan

by Sam H Arnold 4 months ago in fiction

Officer Harlan helped me cum to terms with prison life.

Officer Harlan

Are you meant to get turned on from a strip search? That was the first thing that entered my mind when I was taken to prison. Not what would the food be like, not how will I survive the next two years inside.

My first thought was, Oh God, please don’t come, not now. It wasn’t that I was a deviant; it was just that the guard doing the searching was hot. When she asked me to bend down and pulled my cheeks apart, it was all I could do not to lose control.

”Get dressed,” she barked after she had searched all my crevices.

Officer Harlan was hot with her fierce expression. Her trousers fitted around a plump bottom. Her shirt gaped slightly as she bent down. Just visible was the black lace of her bra. I guessed she was at least an H cup. I always preferred my women a little bigger.

She took me to my cell, pushed me roughly in from behind and shut the door, leaving me with my imagination and a lot of time. I thought of her as I started to rub myself. I felt the pressure build as I finally found my release. Thinking of Officer Harlan going down on me sent the quivers through my body.

I didn’t see her again for a week; thoughts of her kept me warm though, or should I say, wet.

The night she appeared, I had a rather vivid image of her riding me with a strap-on, my hands down my prison grade pants as always. One hand rubbing my clitoris, the other had two fingers buried inside me, moving back and forward. The door opened and in she walked, smirking.

I stopped with embarrassment, and looked up into those eyes.

”Oh, no don’t stop on my account,” she whispered.

I smiled at her, feeling the red flush starting to glow on my face.

Her face changed.

“I said, don’t fucking stop.” This time she growled the order. “I have been watching you most nights, you bad girl. Now I want a better view. I told you to fuck yourself now.”

She stood there watching, until I finally found my release. Saying nothing, she turned around and left the cell, as the last moan left my lips.

The next night, I lay awake waiting for her to enter my cell again. She didn’t come, and nor did I. Although, I was sure I could hear her breathing outside my cell door.

Two night later, I heard the lock disengage, and in she walked. Closing the door behind her, she didn’t say a word.

She walked over to me, and roughly flipped me onto my front. Taking the handcuffs from her belt, she cuffed both my wrists to the metal bed. I felt the bed sag as she climbed on behind me.

Lifting my arse, I felt her start to rub my clitoris with her baton, slow deliberate strokes up and down, applying pressure to my clit in even strokes. I could feel the wetness soak into my pubes. The baton slipped up and down until it finally entered me.

In and out it went, and feeling the tip rubbing my G-spot, I started to come. As soon as I started, she stopped. Chuckling to herself, I felt her move off the bed and then I heard the cell door lock.

She left me like that for the rest of the night, unable to finish myself off, hanging on the edge of ecstasy. She finally released the handcuffs at 6 AM.

”Get dressed. It’s breakfast.”

She waited for me to leave the cell, frustrated and unsatisfied.

I remained frustrated for the next week. Even masturbating didn’t allow me the release I craved.

On the three-week anniversary of my incarceration, she appeared in my cell again. This time, she threw me on my back and handcuffed my hands above my head to the bed.

Ripping my prison tracksuit and pants off, she threw them into the corner. She stood above me staring at my naked body, smiling.

She took the baton once again out of her belt, and started flicking the tip of my nipple with it. I felt it harden and start to burn. When it had turned red, she bent down and took the tip in her mouth. She swirled it around with her warm tongue, nibbling the tip ever so slightly. I started to moan, and she placed her hand over my mouth.

”If you make a sound I stop, understand?” she growled in a husky voice.

I nodded agreement, and she placed her mouth back onto my nipple. This time she sucked at it, running her tongue in larger circles around the areola.

Oh, how I wanted to scream and groan as I felt the pressure start to build in my groin. I knew I couldn’t; I didn’t want her leaving me again.

I tried to lift my groin to grind it into her leg, but she pushed me back down. As she did, her fingers brushed my clitoris ever so slightly. A quiver went up my body.

Keeping her mouth on my nipple, she started stroking my clit. Slow circles at first, increasing in speed as my excitement grew. I felt my buttocks clench as I came with a ferocity I had never experienced before.

Once I was done, I tried to buck her off and move her hand away from me. She took her mouth off my nipple and shifted her weight to trap one of my legs under her.

She was still rubbing my clit and the pressure was becoming unbearable. I went to ask her to stop, but she stopped the words coming out by forcing her mouth onto mine, and her tongue into my mouth. I tasted coffee and everything good about her.

Using her free hand, she found her baton again. She felt between my legs and slipped it inside me. There she sat astride me, one hand on my clit, the other moving the baton in and out of me.

It was too much; the pain and pressure were released into a tidal wave of ecstasy. My orgasm crashed again and again through me, like waves onto a beach. She stifled my moans with her mouth.

I lost count of how many times I came before she finally released me. She smiled at the juices on the baton before putting it back into her belt, and releasing the handcuffs.

She left me there, naked and exhausted on my prison bed.

That was pretty much how my two years in prison passed. During the day, I kept my head down, and at night, I waited for the sound of a key turning in the cell door.

Sometimes she let me come once, sometimes many times, and sometimes not at all. I was never allowed to touch her or talk to her. On special occasions, she even made me come with her tongue.

When I was released two years later, I didn’t even know her first name. I went back to my husband. The poor man never managed to satisfy me, not like Officer Harlan did.

fiction
Sam H Arnold
Sam H Arnold
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