By Nick Ensign

I should have recognized him for what he was the moment I laid eyes on him. But you know how it is when a man — any man who fits your ‘type’ perfectly — can knock the sense right out of you. I was at Starbucks, catching up on some emails and Facebook messages, when he walked in with a few of his friends. His hair was cut back into a short flattop, maybe the sexiest haircut a man can wear, and his moustache was thick, dark, but not overgrown.

His companions sported short haircuts as well but didn’t catch my eye in the same way. One had upper arms so thick they stretched the hems of his sleeves, but the man I was eying had only a normal physique — that is, strong and hard but not over- or under-sized anywhere.

I should have folded my laptop at that point because I could no longer concentrate on my writing. I tried, but every few seconds my eyes darted furtively back to the flattop-ped man. I could see him generally eying the other patrons as well, and once or twice we locked eyes briefly with me flicking past as soon as I could as if I were only looking casually about the room.

Half an hour later and hard as a rock, I gave up. I couldn’t think of anyone or anything but him. So, I re-stowed my laptop, threw my books in my backpack, and headed back out to my car. Deep in thought, I didn’t hear the crunch of boots on pavement behind me until I began fumbling with my keys at the car door.

“Don’t run off,” I heard a deep and smooth voice say behind me, near my ear. Then, before I could turn around his arm appeared to the left of me and his palm slapped against the glass, holding the door shut. I was startled and excited. My heart leaped into my throat in a mixture of stimulation and sudden fear. My eye recognized the color of his sleeve, however, and in the glass of my car door window, I could see the ghostly reflection of his face and haircut. Taking a moment for a deep breath first, I forced myself to relax and then I leaned backwards ever so slightly.

“I– I’m not going anywhere.”

“That’s great,” he said with a low rumble in his throat. His right arm snaked around my right side, then, and his right palm was also flat against the glass. This maneuver brought him in close behind me. In my memory I can smell him, but I don’t know if that memory is true. My head was pounding with excitement. I barely heard him at first as he whispered into my right ear. “You were pretty obvious back there. Did you see something you liked?”

His breath in my ear was too much for me. I wanted to arc my back, but he was too close, pressed up against me. So, I nodded, once, twice, maybe a third time, before I could stutter a whispered “Yes.”

“Me too,” he whispered again, and I could feel his crotch shift forward, pressing harder against my ass. We stood there a moment before his right arm disappeared. Several seconds later it reappeared and I saw a white square for a moment. Whatever it was, he stuffed it into my front pocket, his fingers so tantalizingly near my cock. His hand pulled out again swiftly, and I heard him whisper one last thing to me. “You make sure to use that. And use it quickly.” Then, before I could react, he added, “Wait until you get home.” With that, I felt the soft moist pressure on the back of my neck from his lips. Then, playfully, his teeth softly grazed my skin. Frozen in the moment, I couldn’t react when his left arm withdrew. I heard his boots crunching across the pavement again and saw his reflection walk back towards the cafe. Tingling, shaking even, from head to foot, I got in my car and drove the few miles back home.

Once at home I grabbed the souvenir from my pocket and discovered it to be his business card. Even more than the promise of his body, I was excited to see the imprint of a San Bernardino County Deputy Sheriff’s badge. I could not believe my luck– I had not only been given the number of one of the hottest men I’d ever seen, but he was a deputy to boot. On the back, written in a hurried fashion, was a 10-digit number.

A million thoughts ran through my head at this point. I wanted to call immediately, but then I pictured him still sitting there, drinking a coffee with his friends. Finally, I remembered his words to act quickly and grabbed my phone. I watched, as if from a mile up as my finger slowly pushed the numbers. It was shaking so, and I feared it would mis-dial. But, after the last number was pushed, there was a series of tones, and then I heard his voice say quickly, “Leave a message.”

I told him my name then left my phone number. Then I repeated my name again, afraid I hadn’t said it right the first time. I even repeated my phone number again, slowing down to sound out each digit. I was a mess, and when I hung up, I felt a colossal fool for all the repetition. For a second time, I forced myself to take a deep breath. I set the phone down to one side, within easy reach, and pretended to read for a while. However, after re-reading the same sentences and paragraphs a few times, I gave up on the book and thumbed the remote for my TV.

I sat there in the latening night, program after program beginning and ending. I wasn’t aware of time passing, and every so often I checked my phone to see if I had somehow missed a call. There was no voicemail icon, no missed call icon. Eventually, my senses slowed down to match real time. I saw one of the very late-night hosts on my television and knew the evening had passed. My body was stiff from having sat in one place on the couch for so long. It occurred to me then to be disappointed, but I told myself that he hadn’t meant for me to call immediately and that I shouldn’t expect a call back from him for at least a day or two. Shrugging off the excitement of the evening then, I started making myself ready for bed.

That was when I heard the loud rapping at my door. It was so loud and so sudden that I nearly jumped out of my skin. A moment later I heard a loud voice say “Sheriff’s department! Open up!” It took no time at all from me to recognize the voice, though, and I ran to the door, forgetting that I was dressed only in a pair of boxers. I nearly yanked the door off its hinges as the loud rapping started a second time.

“Stand aside!” he said from the porch. I had forgotten to flip the porch light on, but he was illuminated by the lights in my living room. My head was instantly pounding again to see him in full uniform.

In my book, there are fewer uniforms better looking than those worn by the SBSD. Silver tan shirt over forest green trousers. A big gold star on the chest. I would get a headache if my head continued to pound longer or harder.

He strode past me, socketing his baton in a side holster. Unlike the casual shirt I had seen him in earlier, this shirt, his uniform shirt, fit him like skin paint. I could see the outlines of his body armor. Inside now, a step past me, he heeled around, and one arm reached out and shut the door behind me. I was apparently too numb to think of these things. Then, allowing the first smile I had seen to reach his lips, he said, “I hope your neighbors are sound sleepers.”

I mumbled something and before I could finish, he stepped forward, pushing me back up against my front door. “I don’t have a lot of time. I’m glad you live close by,” he said as he placed both hands against the door, on either side of my head. That’s when he leaned forward and pressed his lips against mine. I gave in totally, all rational thought leaving me. When his tongue starting pushing its way through my lips, I resisted, then let him fully in. It surged into my mouth and forcefully engaged my own tongue. How long we stood there like that, I don’t know. I was completely lost until I felt one hand dropped from the side of my head and later reappeared as a hot probing sensation in my boxers. I felt his rough fingers cup my sack then rub along my stiffened cock.  He pulled back then and completely detached himself. “I’m glad to see you’re paying attention,” he said, never wavering his look from my eyes.

I took that moment to scan him from top to bottom, and there was no doubt that his own cock was hard as well. So, I grabbed one of his hands and led him back into my darkened bedroom. There, I sat him down on the corner of my bed, making sure his legs had plenty of room to spread wide. I knelt there in front of him and saw a gaping smile dawn across his face as I looked upward. With one hand I then began to message his cock inside his uniform trousers. I reached back, shoving one finger forward, under his crack, and then drew it forward. Then I leaned forward and began to lick his trousered cock. In a few minutes I could sense the dampness coming from within. At this time, he grabbed my head with both hands and held me back. Then he released me and reached for the buckle of his duty belt. Behind the duty belt was a trouser belt, and following that he zipped downwards. His cock sprang out then, magnificent.  I was high on the smell of leather and the slight tang of his pre-cum at this time. I dived forward with my mouth, wrapping it around the head of his cock. I massaged the head alone for a few seconds and then began working my way down the shaft. After a few minutes, I started to work up and down the shaft, from the head of his cock to the base, in a slow rhythm. It didn’t take him long to join in the rhythm, and his cock began to plunge back and forth. Finally, his hands re-gripped the sides of my head, and our rhythm accelerated to a near violent level. I knew he had lost sight of me as a person, and I was just a moist useful sex toy to him from that point forward. A few minutes later, it was over as he exploded hot salty cum in my mouth and down my throat. I was unable to protest as his hands held my head tight. I acquiesced then and swallowed his whole load, nearly gagging at times on the tang of the hot goo.

Finally, his cock already withdrawing, he released my head. I withdrew my mouth and leaned my head to one side of his crotch, watching the now drooping cock. As it dripped a few times, I snaked my tongue out and caught the drips. In short time, all liquids having dried up, I looked upwards at him. He was looking down at me, not smiling but grinning, if you take my meaning.

Without thinking about what I was saying, I said the first thing that came to mind:

 

“I would gladly be your prisoner anywhere, anytime.”  

 

It seemed like such an innocuous and necessary thing to say there, him in full uniform, my head relaxed in his crotch. But, I could see a look dart across his eyes, a look I didn’t understand, before a leering smile replaced it.

“Is that really what you want?” he asked. “Don’t lie to me.”

More than anything it was what I wanted! My heart doubled its pace instantly at his response.

“Of course it is,” I panted. “Make me your prisoner.”

He stood up then, tilting me backwards on my knees. Towering over me, he re-zipped his uniform trousers and re-buckled his belts. Then he said to me sternly, without a smile, “Stand up.” We switched places as he walked behind me. I wanted to turn to face him, but he pushed me down face first onto my bed. Roughly, he grabbed my left arm, and I felt the sting of a handcuff slap itself around the wrist and lock into place. He repeated this procedure with my right wrist and I could feel my wrists locked together! I next felt his hands at my waist as he picked me up a few inches and shoved me completely forward onto the bed. I was lying half face down and half curled to one side.

“Don’t go anywhere until I get back,” he said gruffly. Then I heard him leave by the front door.

We had played for thirty or forty minutes only so it was still the middle of the night. I lay there in the dark the rest of the night, occasionally turning one way or another to remain comfortable. The pressure of the handcuffs was steady. At first it was comfortable, reminding me what I had gotten myself into, but it grew uncomfortable after awhile, and I had to move my hands to keep the blood flowing. I must have gone to sleep at some point, despite my excitement and fear, but I doubt I slept long. The night passed like a fever dream with me unable to focus on anything other than my handcuffs and the recent events.

Some time later, I came into fuzzy focus again and could see the purple of dawn through my window shades. I also heard the front door opening and soft footfalls coming towards the bedroom. They stopped in the doorway and all was quiet. Finally, unable to take the anxiety, I twisted so I could view the doorway. He stood there, watching me, dressed again in casual clothes. When my eyes met his he said, “How did you sleep, prisoner?” There was a seriousness to his voice that overlaid a taunt. I knew he was enjoying himself but didn’t want to show it.

“I slept… fitfully… Sir.”

My cock was hardening again, for what seemed like the 100th time that night.

“Good. Prisoners get no comforts from me,” he said. He then stepped forward and one hand reached for his now casual belt buckle. His pants seemed to drop instantly as I watched him step forward. My view of him was distorted, looking sideways as I was, but I couldn’t mistake the hardening of his own cock. He reached out and grabbed me with both hands, pulling me backwards until my legs draped over the side of the bed. I was on my chest again, face into the bedspread. I felt his bared legs straddle my own, and moments later a hard pressure began to probe my ass.

I breathed hard as the bulk of his weight settled atop me. His left hand came up front and clasped itself across my mouth. I could smell his fingers and I moaned into his hand as he used his right hand to guide his cock into my ass. There was a sharp pain and I wanted to cry out, but he stopped there, clamping my mouth shut with his hand, his cock head inserted into me. After a moment, the pain having passed, he pushed himself forward, sliding deeper into my ass.

His rhythm began slowly as before, and what had been pain on my part a moment before turned into ecstasy. I was hard as a rock myself, feeling his cock slide in and out of me. He continued his pace, not as frenetic as earlier, and I knew he meant to fuck me for a while. Gradually, he thrust deeper and deeper, finally finding the right spot deep inside me. Pinioned by his weight, unable to do more than moan, and with my cock flattened underneath me against my belly, I burst in unbearable delight, shooting a load there into the bedspread. He sensed the change in me and whispered “Good little prisoner” in one ear before changing the momentum of his thrusts. I immediately felt the difference as he slowly brought himself to his second load of the night. In a matter of moments I felt his hot cum surge inside me. His rhythm fell off then. I heard and felt his sticky cock slide out of me. He lay it across one of my ass cheeks as it shrank and dried.

We lay there like that for a few minutes, neither of us speaking. His hand had relaxed from the clamp across my mouth. After a few moments in this paradise, he pulled himself off me and stood up.

I heard him say, “Do you still want to be my prisoner?”

I rolled over and pushed myself back up onto my bed fully. Looking up, all I could say was “Yes, Sir! Very much, Sir!”

“It’s your lucky day then,” he said. “I used to be a patrol deputy, but I gave that up to go back and work full time in the county jail. You know Glen Helen, right?”

I knew it well, of course. It was one of the jails run by the county and only a few miles from where I lived.

“That’s where I’m stationed,” he added after I nodded. He was picking up his trousers and refastening them around his waist at this time. “I think we’ll both have fun with you as my prisoner. But, remember this, you volunteered. Unless you tell me otherwise, I’m going to continue thinking of you as a prisoner. If you ever want to change your mind, you have to tell me.”

That seemed needlessly mysterious to me, but I was caught up in the moment. “Yes, Sir. Of course, Sir,” I said.

Then he walked back to where I lay on the bed, unlocked my wrists, leaned over and kissed me full on the lips. I closed my eyes, but he withdrew quickly and left the room. A moment later, I heard the front door open and close again.

We met like this a few nights a week over the next couple months. Most nights he let me know when he was planning to come over, but some nights were a complete surprise. I would be awakened by the loud rapping of his baton on my door. Several times he visited me again in the early morning, but many nights I only saw him the one time. Regardless, though, he always addressed me as “Prisoner” even though I figured out that he knew my full name. In fact, given his resources, I guessed he knew a lot about me. I was eventually allowed, in return, to address him as “Deputy” and use his last name.

The handcuffs came into play more and more often and one time he whipped out a pair of shackles for my feet as well. I lay there in bed most of the night, completely locked up, in dreamy lust for him. When he returned that morning, he was particularly rough with me, barking orders at me before he fucked me hard.

Then, one night after I satisfied him orally, he got up without saying a word. I heard him go to his cruiser before returning to me. He threw a plastic sack at me, and barked, “Change into this, prisoner!”

Nervous, my heart beating, I opened the sack and found a set of orange jail gear, top and bottom. The back of the shirt was marked SBSD CORRECTIONS and one front leg was abbreviated SBSD CORR. There were boxers and a tee shirt, marked as well. I put on the undergear, and then nervously slipped into the orange inmate clothing.

“How do you feel now, prisoner?” he asked, nearly emotionless.

I didn’t know how to feel. I was excited and scared at the same time.

He didn’t wait for me and stepped forward, shoving me against the wall. “I said, how do you feel now!”

One of his arms was pinned against my back, holding me there. I could smell his hot breath. I turned my head and stuttered, “I feel like a prisoner, Sir.”

That was his cue to begin frisking me. Without another word, he placed one of my hands high on the wall over my head and then placed the other up there as well. He frisked me indelicately from top to bottom. Then, grabbing my left arm, pulling it down, and folding it behind me, he began reciting my rights to me. When he was finished, he ‘arrested’ me by cuffing the left wrist and then pulling my right arm down and cuffing that as well, much as he had done on the first night. I was stunned, not knowing what to do or say. He sensed I was excited and reached one arm under my crotch and grabbed my stiffening cock from behind. He held it there for a moment before releasing me.

“You know the drill,” he said then. “Get into that bed and wait for my return.” As he left I sat on the side of the bed, my hands locked firmly behind me. Then I swiveled to the side, finally laying myself flat. As he ordered, I lay there the remainder of the night, waiting for him. When he returned in the morning, he found me fully alert.

It only took me few seconds to see that something dangled from one hand, and as my eyes went down to it, he said “I’ll be taking some photos of my prisoner. Do not disappoint me.” He helped me up from the bed and positioned me against the wall. Then he flipped on the lights. “Don’t smile,” he said, taking a few pictures. Then he turned me to the right for a profile shot and took a few more.

I was, of course, ecstatic. The more and more he treated me like a real prisoner, the more and more I got into our ‘scenes.’ He seemed to enjoy them as well, but at times it seemed like he was growing more and more remote. I let the situation slide, however, doing what I could to please him. That morning, after taking my pictures, he jerked the pants down around my ankles and fucked me without taking the cuffs off. Before he left he told me “I expect to see you wearing that from now on.”

He visited me a few more times and I dutifully wore my inmate uniform each time. Because I didn’t know what nights he was going to barge in, I got in the habit of sleeping in that uniform. On the nights when he didn’t appear, I would look at myself long and hard in the mirror, evaluating myself as a prisoner.

Shortly after this, however, he surprised me in a way that made me question where we were going. He appeared at my door, unannounced, late one night, and when we got back to my bedroom, he tossed a dark brown file folder at me. There were several papers fastened inside. Without waiting for me to give him the customary oral satisfaction, he told me to read the file. I flipped it over and folded the cover back gingerly. I was suddenly nervous, picking up on a cue of hardness in his voice. The first thing I saw were the pictures of me, one facing forwards and one in profile, at the top of a form. Reading, I found my name, address, and a lot of other info about me typed in the form. Another page down I saw empty squares for my fingerprints. I flipped past a blank Evaluation page and came to another form in the file.

At this point he bent over me and pulled the file from my hands. With a ripping motion, he pulled that last form out of the folder. “These are your commitment papers,” he said, matter-of-factly. “I have ‘arranged’ for you to spend one weekend working with the other inmates out at Glen Helen.” He was positively leering at this point. “Don’t worry. You don’t have to spend any time locked up. You get to spend your sentence working two days, that’s all.”

He cupped my chin with one hand then and tilted my head up to meet me eye to eye. “You can handle that, right? You’ll be working with other weekend inmates, not the real scum. I know how much you’ll enjoy this if you relax and go with the flow.”  I don’t know how I reacted to his words as I could barely hear my own thoughts over my pulsing heartbeat.

“Good prisoner,” he continued. Then, unexpectedly, he began to leave. We hadn’t enjoyed each other at all. He stopped at the door before leaving though. “Here’s the thing. Your commitment is in the system so you don’t really have a choice at this point. You have one month to complete your sentence. Before doing that, you’re going to have to report to the jail and complete this record.” He waved the file a bit. “If you don’t the system will automatically spit out a warrant for you, and it will be much worse.” He had his hand on the doorknob at that time, about to leave, when he added, “Oh, and I’m cutting you off until you show me how good a prisoner you are.”

That was it. He left then.

I stood in the doorway to my bedroom, looking at the closed door. The commitment form lay on my bed, tugging at me like a fishhook at the mouth of a fish. I had so many questions, and my body, expecting a different time, was confused and filled with unused sexual energy. Unable to resist, I turned and strode back to my bed. I picked up the form and scanned over it quickly, but it made no sense to my current state of mind. I threw it aside and lay back on my bed, not bothering to crawl under the sheets.  In the morning, the world made enough sense for me to figure things out. The commitment form had a date on which I was to report to the jail. A date a few weeks after that was listed as the date by which I was to have finished serving my sentence. I read it top to bottom several times and left it on the table.  The next several nights went by without me hearing from my deputy. It seemed he meant what he said. I tried to go about my normal days, but the commitment and its harsh words were always in my mind. I debated ignoring the commitment and the report date, but his caution about a warrant wouldn’t leave my head. At some point I decided he wasn’t joking, and I knew I’d have to report on the day in question.

However, when the actual day rolled around, the debate arose sharply again. I was nauseous at the thought of even going near the jail. I sat at my morning table, a cup of coffee growing cold for one hour, then two hours. In the early afternoon I realized that I couldn’t put it off any longer. The thought that made me stand up and leave the house was the idea that, whether or not he was lying about a warrant, I might never see him again.

So I drove to the jail, which, as I said, was only a few miles away. I’d never been there before so I slowed down when approaching the front. The jail at Glen Helen is really an entire complex of buildings, encompassing the county sheriff’s training facilities as well. Eventually, amidst confusion on my part, I spotted a sign which pointed Weekend Inmates to drive around the back. Assuming that meant me, I circled around the back and parked. I could see a few other people lined up near a window on one side of a secure building. Others were walking to and from that window so I figured it was the place to go. I grabbed my commitment form and marched up, my stomach turning around and around with nausea.

I handed the paper and my ID over to an inmate who was working the window. She had me then fill out some more paperwork, which was nothing more than basic identity and address stuff. She grabbed it from me, however, before I was finished. “We already got a file on you. Just wait over there,” she said, nodding at some tables set in cement. I saw several others waiting there.  The window and this waiting area were both behind a 15′-high chainlink fence topped with razor wire. I had walked through a gate to get inside, a gate which could be hastily locked if necessary. As I sat and waited, the precariousness of my situation began to sink in. I was inside the gates of an actual jail, filling out paperwork to serve an actual, though short, sentence. These thoughts rolled endlessly through my head, and I was simultaneously aroused and disgusted.

Every few minutes a deputy would open a thick door from the inside, lean out, and call the last name of someone at the table. They all returned a few minutes later, usually marching straight off to their cars afterwards. Eventually my name was called and my feet responded. My head seemed to be a thousand miles away, and I almost imagined myself observing the scene from afar. I walked steadily up to and through the door that was held open for me. A few seconds later it closed solidly shut and I knew I was locked inside a jail, even if it wasn’t an actual cell.

The room I was in was entirely clerical. There were computers and filing cabinets everywhere. I stood in one corner as a uniformed deputy pushed a rolling table up to me from a few feet away. On top there was already a fingerprint card positioned, and he quickly inked me and then rolled my fingers across the card. Then he handed me a cloth to wipe my fingers with and bade me look up, towards a camera mounted a few feet away. He snapped my picture once, and then took my profile shot. I waited there only a moment before he reached down and grabbed something shiny from under another machine. He handed it to me, and opened the door for me to leave. “6:30 AM Saturday. Don’t be late.”  I looked down into my hands as I walked off. I was holding an inmate ID with my name and picture on it. It also had an inmate number on it. Just like that, I was an inmate in the San Bernardino County system. I don’t know how I got home because the trip back I was in a complete state of shock.  I won’t bore anyone with the details of my two days spent at the county jail hauling rocks. Behind the jail it is fairly wild country, a rocky plain. I and nearly four hundred other weekenders spent two days hauling rocks- some the size of your fist, some the size of your head- from one pile to the next, further down the road. Part of the day I was manning a wheelbarrow piled full of rocks, part of the day I joined a long line of men, swinging the rocks along like a giant bucket brigade. Both days I returned home filthy, sore and tired.

At the end of the second day, those who had finished their sentences, including myself, joined a small line back at the rear window, wherein we returned our inmate IDs. As quickly as it had come upon me, I was once again free. I drove home, kicked off my boots, stripped out of my dusty, grime-encrusted clothes, and plopped down on the couch in my boxers. I promptly fell asleep there.

I was awakened that night by the baton-on-door rap which I was so accustomed to. I stood up, groaned with soreness, and opened the door slowly. My deputy was there, beaming with delight. He kicked the door close and immediately bear-hugged me.

“I’m so proud of you, prisoner,” he said. Then, for the first time, he spent his middle of the night lunch break tending me. He drew me a hot bath and lowered me into the tub. Stripping off his uniform shirt and body armor, he then grabbed a wash cloth and began washing me while standing outside the tub. In a few minutes I was again peaceful and drowsy. When I was thoroughly clean, he grabbed a towel and dried me off. Then he led me to my bed, pulled back the blanket, and bade me lie down. That was the last thing I remember, as I passed quickly into sleep. When I awoke late in the morning, the sun already quite high, I found him naked and asleep next to me. My stirring brought him around, and he reached an arm out around me. “Shhhh,” he said, without raising his head. “Let’s enjoy this.” So we lay there together a few more hours, each of us dozing on and off.

That was the one and only tender moment we enjoyed. A few nights later he resumed his regular visits, but his sex was rougher than ever. He barked orders at me night after night, and I followed them, holding on to the memory of our one tender day together. Make no mistake, now that I had served a brief sentence, I also got rock hard in an instant every time I saw him in uniform or every time he addressed me as ‘Prisoner.’ I fairly begged to be cuffed and shackled while in my uniform.

This all came to a head about a month later when he tossed the file folder to me again. I figured he might do this again so I was ready for it. But, I was shocked, when I read the commitment this time. Apparently I had turned felon and was about to serve a sentence of three to five years. I gasped, and he grinned at me. “Don’t worry,” he said. “That record will be cleaned out of the system after a few nights. We’ll have you home safe before you know it. A couple nights behind bars will do you good. I’ll even make sure you have your own cell.”

He could barely contain his excitement, but I was terrified. I sat there dumbfounded until he added, “You’ll be a good prisoner, right?” Him calling me ‘prisoner’ melted me right away. I made myself relax. That was when I noticed that my report date had already passed. When I mentioned this, he simply said, “Yes. Be ready in two nights. I’m going to come by with the transport van. As far as anyone else is concerned, I’ll be transferring you from West Valley Detention to Glen Helen.” He further explained that by ‘be ready’ he meant for me to be dressed in my inmate gear.

True enough to his word, I heard the chortle of the van as it pulled up two nights later. I was thankful for maybe the 50th time that my driveway was secluded from easy view by tall shrubs. I met him at the door. I was nervous, but I could see that his excitement was barely containable. He kissed me once, then turned me around and locked my wrists together behind me. Then he led me out the door, turned out the light behind me, and shut my front door.

I could see the van door was already open. He led me to it under the light of the moon. My steps were nervous, almost faltering, but he whispered support behind me and kept me going. He unlocked my wrists at the door to the van and had me step inside. There were six seats evenly spaced in the rear of the van, and each looked to be a bondage device. I sat in the first one, and he locked each of my wrists to a cuff bolted to the side of the seat. Then he pulled the seatbelt strap across me and buckled it. Finally, he slid the door shut. A moment later he got into the driver’s seat and we were off.

There was no doubt I was excited, but I was scared as well. I kept catching his glance. He was watching me in the rear view mirror. There was little time for talk as we arrived at the jail just a few minutes after leaving my house. He only told me that if I woke up in the morning and found a piece of paper on my cell floor, I should read it quickly then shred it and flush it.  Unlike the previous time, this time I got to go in through the front. After unlocking the van door and releasing me from the seat, he re-cuffed my wrists together. Then he grabbed some ankle shackles and bound me below as well. It seemed that I was to learn how to shuffle like a prisoner already. He placed his hand lightly on my back and propelled me forward. We headed straight for a manned gate and booth. He stopped me directly in front of the gate while he talked to the uniformed deputy in the booth. Solid glass separated them. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see my deputy slip my file folder through a slot in the glass and then say loudly, “Prisoner transport.”

A few seconds later, I heard a loud buzzing and then the gate in front of me drew to the side. I heard a voice say “Step inside!” I did so and a moment later I could hear the gate sliding shut again. A different deputy stepped forward from the side and, as my deputy had done, he propelled me forward down one hallway and then another with a hand on my back.

When we reached the end, he ushered me into a small room. There he unlocked my cuffs and shackles. I wanted so badly to massage my wrists, but before I could start he ordered me to strip. While I did so, I could hear him snap on a pair of rubber gloves. He turned me to face the wall and placed my left hand high on the wall above. “I want you to grab your penis and testicles,” he then said from behind, “and lift them upwards. Hold them up until I tell you to drop them.” I did as he ordered and immediately felt a lubed finger slide up my ass. It probed around for a few seconds before withdrawing. “Fine,” he said. “You may let go.”

I did so, relieved, but again, before I could fully relax, he ordered me to turn around and face him. “There is a new uniform and a mattress for you on that table. Get dressed.” I followed his finger and got myself dressed in seconds flat. I picked up the mattress and waited for him to tell me what to do. He re-cuffed and shackled me and we walked to the far end of the room, where he rapped on the thick glass. When the door opened, he propelled me through as before.

This time we began walking past cells and through other locking doors. I knew I was deep inside the jail at this point. After what seemed like forever he led me up to a cell and stationed me against the opposite wall. He pulled the radio speaker off his shoulder and simply said “Five-twelve” into it. In no time, the door slid open. He unlocked my wrists and ankles and then ordered me into the cell. By the time I could turn around, he had already spoken into his radio again, and the door was closing. When it shut, I heard an audible click, and that’s when I nearly shit myself.

I was in a cell, deep inside a real jail. Somehow a few weeks of sex with a deputy sheriff had gotten me here. I spread my mattress out on the hard, lower bunk and sat there. After a few minutes the full lighting snapped off.

There was still dim lighting, enough to see by, coming in through a small pane of glass in the door. I continued to sit there on my bunk in the dim light, going over events in my head from beginning to end.

Sometime during the night I lay down and slipped under the thin blanket that had been rolled with my mattress. I thought I heard a sliding metal sound at one point, but it was finished before I could react. Morning eventually rolled around, marked by all the lights flickering on again. I knew I should get up. I knew that someone would soon be looking in on me and would expect me to present myself as being awake, but I lay there. Eventually, the light was too much for me, and that was when I saw the piece of paper lying on the floor near my cell door.

I snatched it up, hardly having to move far from my bunk, the cell was that small. It merely said “Good prisoner” on it. I wanted to smile, but I wasn’t yet able to make myself enjoy this trip.

I’d no sooner had the note ripped up and flushed when I hear that metal sliding sound again. A tray of food was being pushed through a slot in the door. It came to a stop, resting on a shelf mounted on my side of the door. The food was thin and evil looking, but I nibbled at it and eventually ate it all. I’d always heard that anyone eating prison food for the first time can expect a good case of diarrhea shortly afterwards. As I finished the last bite of the foul food, I wondered when it would hit me.  The rest of the day proceeded with little change. I occasionally saw a face in the window. The breakfast tray was collected and later a lunch tray was inserted. This procedure was repeated at dinner as well. Sometime during the day, I discovered that I could turn on the small TV mounted into the wall by thumbing the big soft buttons in front of it. Most of the channels were static, but I watched a little day time television. When the lights went out, I lay there in the dark again but eventually fell asleep.

There was another “Good prisoner” note waiting for me in the morning. I disposed of it right away. This second day was remarkably like the first except that I began pacing to release some energy. I walked back and forth most of the afternoon. At one point, early in the afternoon, the lights suddenly went out. All the power was dead. I remained in near-total blackness for what seemed like hours. A few emergency lights were on in the hallway, but they did not cast enough light in my cell for me to do anything with. The air quickly heated up, and I found that I had to pace calmly again to keep myself from panicking. At the point where I nearly lost it, however, the lights came back on and I could hear the hum of the AC again. Dinner arrived slightly late, again with no fanfare.

I began to think that my deputy was surely going to have me released soon. In fact, I counted on it. As I lay there that night after lights-out, I repeated that thought to myself like a mantra. He couldn’t leave me there much longer.

The next morning there was a longer note. “Computer rebooted after power outage. All active records being reviewed and matched against inmates. Individual access passcodes have to be re-issued, beginning in 48 hours. If anything happens, just go with it. Be a good prisoner.” I re-read this note several times trying to understand everything he was telling me. Eventually satisfied that I had gotten it all, I destroyed it as normal.

The third day passed with no changes. I spent part of the day dozing and dreamed of running. That dream was easy to interpret! That night, however, sleep wouldn’t come. I tossed and turned and happened to be awake to hear the gentle metal sliding noise. I could just make out my deputy’s face before he walked off again. Not waiting until morning, I grabbed for the note and held it close to the door window so I could capture the faint light. Dimly I read “No access to system yet. Expect delay of 24 hours yet. Be patient.”

This angered and frustrated me. I balled my fists and punched my mattress, then I stared to cry. Before falling asleep like this, I destroyed the note as I had done the others.

I was awakened in the morning not by the lights but by my cell door suddenly sliding open. A silhouetted figure said my name, and that prompted me to jump out of bed. I barely saw the cuffs and shackles before they were locked on me.  As this new deputy led me back largely over the same route I’d been through before, he said, “Lucky you. It’s moving day.”

I could tell he was teasing me, but I bit and mumbled “Moving day?” back at him.

“Certainly,” he said. “We can’t keep an important man like you here. You’re serving three to five, which means you’re moving up to the State’s care. A record review caught the mistake. If we hadn’t had that power outage, God knows how long you would have wasted County money.” He then fairly pushed me into a final room where several other inmates were already lined up. I could see a man dressed in a California state uniform standing near the far door with a stack of files in one hand.

There isn’t much else to say. This new van trip was much like the first except that I shared the van this time. There wasn’t much talking. We drove for about three hours, far out into the desert. Eventually the driver / C.O. welcomed us to Chuckawalla, our new home. The intake process was similar to what I’d already been through. We were stripped and searched again. This time we were given new uniforms to reflect our status as prisoners under the CDCR. As a new inmate, I was placed in a cell by myself for three days for observation. Technically, it’s called a `suicide watch.’ Tomorrow I am scheduled to be let out into the general population. I don’t know what will happen after that. Yesterday I discovered this paper and an ink pen with which to write. I hope that my deputy will figure out how to fix this all soon.

I’m ready for my prisoner fantasy to end…

 

THE END

 

copyright 2009 by Nick Ensign, posted with permission