Check-In
"Six months left on his parole. His new PO offers an arrangement—he keeps her satisfied, she keeps his record clean. What starts as survival becomes something he craves."
My new parole officer is a problem.
I know it the moment I walk into her office—a cramped space in the county building that smells like old coffee and bureaucracy. My old PO retired. This one is different.
Carmen Reyes. The nameplate says it all.
She's Latina, mid-forties, with black hair shot through with silver and pulled back in a no-nonsense bun. Her face is pretty but hard, like she stopped smiling sometime during her first year on the job. And her body—
Her body is the problem.
Carmen Reyes is thick. Not just curvy. Thick. The kind of thick that makes her county-issued polo strain at the buttons. The kind that makes her khakis cling to thighs that could crush watermelons. She's got to be two-fifty, maybe two-sixty, and every pound of it is on display as she gestures me into the chair across from her desk.
"Mr. Vasquez." She doesn't stand. "I'm Officer Reyes. I'll be supervising your parole for the remaining six months of your sentence."
"Yes ma'am."
"Let's establish expectations." She opens a folder—my folder—and scans it without really reading. She's already memorized it. "You were convicted of fraud. Non-violent. First offense. You've been a model parolee. Clean drug tests, steady employment, regular check-ins."
"That's right."
"That's boring." She looks up. Her eyes are dark brown, almost black. "Boring is good for my paperwork. Boring is bad for my day."
"I'm sorry?"
"Nothing." She closes the folder. "Weekly check-ins. Wednesdays at 10 AM. Miss one, I violate you. Fail a drug test, I violate you. Give me any reason to doubt your compliance, I violate you. Understood?"
"Understood."
"Good." She leans back. Her breasts shift under the polo, heavy and impossible to ignore. "You can go."
Week One
I show up early. 9:45 AM.
She makes me wait until 10:30.
"Mr. Vasquez." She doesn't apologize. "How's your employment situation?"
"Same as last week. Construction. Paying my bills."
"Staying out of trouble?"
"Yes ma'am."
She writes something in my file. I can't see what.
"Same time next week."
That's it. Fifteen seconds of actual interaction after forty-five minutes of waiting.
But as I leave, I feel her eyes on my back. Measuring. Calculating.
I tell myself it's nothing.
Week Two
Same routine. Early arrival, long wait, brief questions.
But this time, when I stand to leave, she speaks.
"You're in good shape, Mr. Vasquez."
I turn. "Excuse me?"
"Your record says you worked construction before your conviction. Manual labor." Her eyes travel down my body, slow and deliberate. "It shows."
"Thank you?"
"That wasn't a compliment. It was an observation." She waves dismissively. "Same time next week."
I leave more confused than before.
Week Three
She calls me at 9 PM on Tuesday.
"Mr. Vasquez. There's been a scheduling change. Your check-in tomorrow has been moved to 8 PM."
"Eight PM? The office closes at five."
"I'm aware. Report to my office at 8 PM. The building will be unlocked. Don't be late."
She hangs up before I can ask questions.
I arrive at 7:55.
The county building is dark except for a few emergency lights. Her office is the only one with the door open, the only one spilling warm light into the hallway.
She's not wearing her uniform.
Instead: a low-cut blouse that shows acres of cleavage. Tight jeans that hug every curve. Her hair is down, waves falling past her shoulders. She looks... different. Dangerous.
"Close the door," she says.
I close it.
"Sit."
I sit.
She comes around her desk. Perches on the edge, directly in front of me, close enough that I can smell her perfume. Something warm and spicy.
"Do you know why you're here, Mr. Vasquez?"
"You said there was a scheduling change."
"I lied." She crosses her legs. Her thigh brushes my knee. "I want to propose an arrangement."
"What kind of arrangement?"
"The kind that benefits us both." She leans forward. Her breasts strain against the blouse, threatening to spill free. "I have needs that aren't being met. You have six months left on your parole. I think we can help each other."
My mouth goes dry. "Officer Reyes—"
"Carmen. In this context, you call me Carmen."
"This is a bad idea."
"Is it?" She uncrosses her legs, spreads them slightly. "I control your file. I control your freedom. If I decide you violated parole, you go back to prison for eighteen months. No appeal. No review. Just my word against yours."
"That's... that's blackmail."
"That's the arrangement." She reaches out, runs a finger along my jaw. "You keep me satisfied, I keep your record clean. We both get what we want."
I should say no.
I should walk out, find a lawyer, report her to someone—anyone—who might believe an ex-con over a county officer.
But her finger is tracing my jawline, and her body is inches away, and I've been alone for a long time. Prison alone. Parole alone. Just me and my job and my empty apartment.
"What do you want?" I ask.
She smiles. It's the first time I've seen her smile.
"Tonight? I want you on your knees."
She guides me down.
I kneel between her thighs while she unbuttons her jeans, lifts her hips to slide them off. Under them: nothing. Just her—shaved smooth, glistening wet.
"You've been thinking about me," I say.
"Since the first day you walked into my office." She grabs my hair, pulls my face closer. "Now show me you're worth keeping out of prison."
I press my mouth to her.
She gasps—a sharp, hungry sound—and her thighs clamp around my head. She's thick everywhere: thick thighs, thick belly hanging over me, thick fingers gripping my hair.
"Yes—right there—"
I find her clit and suck. She bucks against my face, moaning, her whole body shaking.
"Faster—God—don't stop—"
I give her what she wants. Licking, sucking, fucking her with my tongue while she rides my face. She's loud—louder than I expected—her cries echoing off the office walls.
"I'm going to—ah—going to—"
She comes with my tongue inside her.
Her thighs crush my ears. Her body convulses, rolls of flesh shaking as she screams. I don't stop—I push through her orgasm, find her clit again, work it until she's coming a second time.
"Fuck—fuck fuck fuck—"
When she finally pushes me away, she's panting. Sweating. Her blouse is soaked through.
"Get up," she commands. "Strip."
I obey.
She looks at me the way I imagine she looks at case files.
Assessing. Cataloging. Deciding what to do with me.
"You're bigger than I expected," she says, eyeing my cock. "That's good. I hate being disappointed."
"Carmen—"
"On the desk." She stands, shrugs off her blouse. Her breasts fall free—massive, brown, nipples hard and dark. Her belly follows: soft, round, cascading in folds to her thighs. "Lie down."
I lie on her desk. Papers crinkle beneath me. She climbs up after me, straddling my hips, her weight pressing me into the wood.
"I've been thinking about this for weeks," she says. "Imagining what you'd feel like inside me. Whether you could handle all of this."
"I can handle it."
"We'll see." She positions me at her entrance. "Don't move. I'm in control here."
She sinks onto me.
She's tight. Hot. Perfect.
And heavy.
All two-sixty of her presses down on me as she takes my cock. I can't thrust—can only lie there while she consumes me inch by inch. Her thighs spread wide, her belly rests on my stomach, her breasts hang over my face like ripe fruit.
"Fuck," she hisses. "You fill me up perfectly."
"Carmen—"
"I said don't move."
She starts to ride.
Slow at first. Grinding, circling her hips, clenching around me with every rotation. Then faster. Bouncing. Her whole body rippling as she fucks me, uses me, takes exactly what she needs.
"This is what you're for," she pants. "This is—ah—why I let you stay out. Because I knew—fuck—knew you'd be perfect for this."
I grab her hips. Hold on while she moves. She's a force of nature—unstoppable, overwhelming.
"Touch me," she commands. "Worship me."
I cup her breasts. Massive, heavy, overflowing my hands. I squeeze them, find her nipples, roll them between my fingers. She moans and rides faster.
"Yes—yes—just like that—"
She comes again, clenching around me so tight I see stars.
But she doesn't stop.
She rides me through her orgasm and into the next one. And the next. Her body shaking, her weight crushing me, her voice rising until she's screaming.
"I'm going to—" I can't hold back much longer.
"Inside me," she gasps. "Every drop. That's part of the arrangement."
I let go.
I fill my parole officer while she comes one last time, her body convulsing on top of me. We collapse together—her weight pinning me to the desk, both of us gasping.
"Same time next week," she whispers into my ear. "And every week after that."
Six Months Later
I'm standing in a different office. This time, the door is open. The sun is shining.
"Mr. Vasquez." A different officer—some bureaucrat I've never met—stamps my file with a thud. "Your parole has been completed. You're a free man. Congratulations."
I sign the forms. Shake the hand. Walk out of the county building for the last time.
Carmen is waiting by my car.
She's not in uniform. She's wearing the same low-cut blouse from that first night, tight jeans, her hair loose around her shoulders.
"Congratulations," she says. "You made it."
"Thanks to you."
"Thanks to our arrangement." She steps closer. "Which is technically over now."
"Technically."
"So you're under no obligation to continue." Her hand finds my chest. "No leverage. No power dynamic. Just... whatever we decide."
I look at her. This woman who controlled my freedom. Who used me, demanded from me, took exactly what she wanted.
Who made me feel more alive than I'd felt in years.
"Wednesday at eight?" I ask.
She smiles. "I'll leave the door unlocked."
I pull her close and kiss her—the first time we've ever kissed. She melts into me, all that softness pressing against my body.
The arrangement is over.
Whatever comes next is something new.