The Inspection
"New inmate. White collar crime. Three years minimum. The warden conducts personal inspections of all new arrivals—and she takes her time making sure they're properly... processed."
The warden is not what I expected.
I expected a man. Gray-haired, stern, career corrections. Instead, when the guards march me into her office, I find Warden Victoria Hayes.
Three hundred pounds. Fifty-two years old. Dressed in a uniform that barely contains her—buttons straining, seams threatening, everything about her excessive and overwhelming.
"Inmate 4447." She reads from my file. "Marcus Webb. Securities fraud. Three to five years." She looks up. "You're used to being in charge, aren't you?"
"I was a fund manager."
"Were." She closes the file. "Now you're mine."
She dismisses the guards.
The door closes. Locks. We're alone.
"Every new inmate goes through processing," she says, standing. Walking toward me. "Strip search. Medical evaluation. Psychological assessment." She stops inches away. "I conduct these personally."
"Personally?"
"For certain inmates." Her hand finds my chest. "The ones I find... interesting."
"Strip."
It's not a request.
I strip. Orange jumpsuit, white undershirt, boxers. Standing naked in her office, hands at my sides, trying to maintain dignity I don't have.
She circles me. Appraising.
"Fund manager." Her hand traces my shoulder. "You work out. Diet. Take care of yourself." Her hand slides lower. My spine. My ass. "But you've never been... handled."
"Handled?"
"Controlled. Dominated. Shown your place." She grabs my ass. Squeezes hard. "That changes now."
She pushes me to my knees.
I go without fighting. Something in her presence—her size, her authority, her absolute certainty—makes resistance impossible.
"You're used to buying what you want." She's unbuttoning her uniform. "Used to people doing what you say because of your money." The jacket falls. "In here, you have nothing. No money. No power. No choices."
"I have rights—"
"You have what I give you." She unzips her pants. Steps out of them. Stands above me in just her bra and underwear. "And right now, I'm giving you an opportunity."
"Make me come."
She sits in her chair—a massive leather throne behind her desk—and spreads her thighs.
"Use your mouth. Show me you can follow instructions." She grabs my hair. Pulls me toward her. "If you're good, your time here will be... comfortable. If you're not..."
She doesn't finish the sentence.
I lean forward.
I've never been with a woman like this.
Her thighs envelop my head. Her belly presses against my forehead. Her cunt is wet, hot, demanding. I lick because she tells me to, suck because she pulls my hair when I slow down, thrust my tongue inside her because her moans tell me it's working.
"That's it." She's grinding against my face. "You're trainable. I can work with trainable."
I can barely breathe. Can barely think. Her weight and her taste and her power are all-consuming.
"Make me come," she demands, "and I'll tell you how the rest of your sentence works."
She comes hard.
Screaming, shaking, flooding my mouth while her massive thighs clamp around my head. When she finally releases me, I'm gasping, dizzy, covered in her.
"Acceptable." She's catching her breath. "Not exceptional, but acceptable."
"What now?"
"Now you learn your place." She stands. Walks to a door I hadn't noticed. "In here."
The room behind the door is not in any prison manual.
A bed. Silk sheets. Candles. It looks like a bedroom, not a cell.
"This is where I keep my favorites," she explains. "Inmates who understand the arrangement. Who provide... services... in exchange for privileges."
"What kind of services?"
"Whatever I want." She pushes me toward the bed. "Tonight, I want you inside me. Tomorrow, I might want something else. You don't ask. You just provide."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then you go to general population." She shrugs. "Your choice."
It's not a choice.
Not really. General population is violent, dangerous, everything I'm not equipped to survive.
This is... different. This is being used by a powerful woman who wants me for reasons I'm just starting to understand.
"I'll do it," I say.
"I know." She's undressing completely now—bra, underwear, everything. Her body is massive, overwhelming, impossibly soft. "Now get on the bed. You have three years to become exactly what I need."
She rides me for hours.
Demanding, insatiable, using me like a tool. I come inside her twice, eat her to four more orgasms, let her grind on my face until I think I might drown.
By dawn, I'm exhausted. Used. Broken in.
"Good first night." She's fixing her uniform, preparing for the day. "You'll report to my office every evening at 8 PM. No exceptions."
"Yes, Warden."
"You're learning." She kisses my forehead. Almost gentle. "Three years is a long time, Marcus. But if you keep performing like this... it might not feel so long."
Two years later
I'm up for early release.
Good behavior. Model inmate. Glowing recommendations from the warden herself.
"You could leave," she says the night before my hearing. We're in her private room, tangled together after another session. "Go back to your life. Pretend this never happened."
"Or?"
"Or you stay." Her hand finds my face. "As a free man. Working here. Living here." Her thumb traces my lip. "Belonging here."
"To the prison?"
"To me."
I stay.
Not as an inmate—as an employee. Administrative assistant. Officially.
Unofficially, I'm Warden Hayes's property. Every night. Every morning. Whenever she wants.
The other inmates watch me come and go from her office. Some understand. Some envy.
None of them know what I've become.
And none of them know how much I love it.