Three years.
Three years of good behavior, clean reports, and model citizenship in the Neo-Denver Correctional Facility. I did what they told me. Worked in the prison library. Kept my head down. Avoided the gangs, the fights, the endless spiral of violence that swallows most inmates whole.
And now, finally, I'm up for early release.
The interview is in the warden's office.
"Mr. Nakamura." The guard gestures toward the door. "She's ready for you."
She?
I wasn't expecting a woman.
Warden Patricia Holloway is nothing like the men who usually run these places.
Fifty-four years old, according to the plaque on her desk. Twenty-eight years in corrections, the last ten running Neo-Denver with an iron fist wrapped in bureaucratic efficiency.
She's also built like something from a different era.
Two-sixty, easily. Maybe more. Curves straining against a uniform that wasn't designed for bodies like hers—breasts threatening every button, hips overflowing the chair, everything about her screaming power in ways that have nothing to do with her title.
Her hair is steel grey, cropped short. Her eyes are ice blue. Her face is lined with decades of dealing with men far worse than me.
"Sit, Mr. Nakamura."
I sit.
"Your record is impressive."
She reviews a tablet, scrolling through what I assume is my file. Everything I've done for three years, catalogued and measured.
"No incidents. No infractions. Work assignments completed with distinction. Several inmates credit you with helping them get their GEDs." She looks up. "You've been a model prisoner."
"I just want to go home, ma'am."
"I'm sure you do." She sets down the tablet. "But early release isn't automatic. It requires... advocacy. Someone in a position of authority willing to vouch for your rehabilitation."
"And that would be you?"
"It would." She stands, moves around the desk. Her uniform creaks with every step. "The question is whether you've truly earned that advocacy."
"I've done everything asked of me."
"You've done what was required of you. That's different." She stops in front of my chair. Close. Too close. "Genuine rehabilitation means going beyond requirements. Demonstrating... exceptional willingness to serve."
"What kind of service?"
I know what she's suggesting. The way she's looking at me—hungry, assessing, like she's evaluating me for something that has nothing to do with parole—makes it obvious.
"I've been running this facility for ten years," she says. "Do you know what I've learned about inmates? About men in cages?"
"No, ma'am."
"That some of them—the smart ones, the survivors—understand power better than anyone on the outside. They know when to fight and when to submit. They know that survival means reading the room and giving people what they want." Her hand finds my chin, tilts my face up. "Are you a survivor, Mr. Nakamura?"
"I've made it three years."
"That's survival of circumstances. I'm asking about survival of choice." Her thumb traces my lower lip. "Would you do anything to get out of here? To see your family again? To rebuild the life you destroyed?"
My heart is hammering. My cock is hardening.
I hate myself for both.
"Yes," I hear myself say. "Anything."
"Then let's test that."
"Stand up."
I stand.
"Remove your jumpsuit."
I hesitate. Just for a second.
"Mr. Nakamura." Her voice is ice. "The men who hesitate in my office are the men who stay in my prison. Is that what you want?"
I remove the jumpsuit. Stand before her in nothing but boxers and the shame of my own arousal.
"All of it."
The boxers join the pile. I'm naked. Hard. Completely at her mercy.
She circles me slowly. Catalogues every inch.
"Impressive." Her hand traces down my spine. "Three years in here and you've kept yourself in shape. Most inmates let themselves go. But you—" She squeezes my ass. "—you've been preparing."
"For release."
"For something." She moves to face me. "Now. Show me what you're willing to do for freedom."
I kneel.
It's not degrading. It's survival. That's what I tell myself as I reach for her uniform—unbutton her pants, pull down the zipper, reveal flesh that strains against regulation underwear.
She's bare beneath the waistband. Thick thighs, wide hips, a belly that spills over the elastic. When I pull down her underwear, I find her already wet.
"You've done this before," she observes.
"A long time ago."
"Show me you remember."
I lean forward and taste her.
She's musky and sharp—something primal, something hungry. My tongue finds her folds, her clit, and the sound she makes—a low, rumbling groan—tells me I'm doing something right.
"That's it." Her hand finds my head. "Right there. Service me."
I service her.
I eat her out like my freedom depends on it.
Because it does. And because—somewhere beneath the survival instinct—I want this. Want the weight of her hand on my head. Want the power she radiates. Want to be used by someone who knows exactly what she wants and isn't afraid to take it.
"Harder—you can do better than that—"
I do better. Suck her clit between my lips. Work it with my tongue. Feel her thighs begin to tremble on either side of my face.
"Three years—" she gasps. "Three years of good behavior—and this is what you were saving—"
She comes with a growl. Grinds against my face. Uses me.
I swallow everything she gives me.
"On the desk."
She's panting. Flushed. But her voice is still steel.
"Turn around. Bend over."
I obey. Press my chest to her desk. Feel the cold metal against my skin.
She moves behind me. I hear fabric rustling. Then her hands on my hips—soft, warm, gripping with unexpected strength.
"I'm going to fuck you," she says. "Not the way you're thinking. But I'm going to use you, Mr. Nakamura. The way you've just used me."
Her hand wraps around my cock from behind. Strokes slowly.
"Is that acceptable?"
"Yes—" I gasp. "Yes, ma'am—"
"Good answer."
She works me like I'm a machine.
Her hand strokes my cock while her body presses against my back—soft belly, heavy breasts, all that weight pinning me to her desk. Her other hand grips my hip, controls my movements, makes sure I can't thrust, can't speed up, can't do anything except take what she gives me.
"This is power," she murmurs in my ear. "Not the violence the other inmates understand. Not the fear I have to project for the cameras. This—" She squeezes. "—is real power. Making someone want what you want. Making them need it."
"I need—"
"I know what you need. And you'll get it. When I decide." She strokes faster. "Tell me you understand."
"I understand—"
"Tell me you're grateful."
"I'm grateful—fuck—so grateful—"
"Then come."
I shatter.
We end up on her office floor.
Somehow—I'm not sure how—we've both ended up naked. She's straddling me, all that weight pressing down, and I'm inside her, and the ceiling is spinning.
"I wasn't planning this part," she admits.
"Neither was I."
"But here we are." She moves slowly. Grinding. "Three years of watching you through the cameras. Three years of wondering what you'd feel like." She groans. "Better than I imagined."
"You watched me?"
"I watch everyone." She speeds up. "But you—you were different. Patient. Controlled. Building yourself into something better while everyone around you fell apart." Her hands find my chest. "I wanted to see what would happen if I gave you something worth building toward."
"Freedom?"
"Me." She rides me harder. "Freedom was always coming, Mr. Nakamura. I just wanted to make sure you earned this first."
She comes twice more before she lets me finish.
Each time she makes me work for it—changing positions, issuing commands, testing my endurance until I'm shaking with the effort of holding back.
"Now," she finally says. "Now you can let go."
I let go.
And on the floor of her warden's office, I come harder than I have in three years.
"Your release is approved."
She's dressed again. Composed. Every inch the professional warden, no sign of what just happened on her office floor.
"Just like that?"
"You demonstrated exceptional willingness to serve." Her smile is thin. Sharp. "The board will have no objections."
"And... us?"
"There is no 'us,' Mr. Nakamura. There's a former inmate who earned his freedom and a warden who occasionally requires... stress relief." She hands me my file. "But if you find yourself in Neo-Denver after your release, and if you're interested in a professional relationship—"
"Professional?"
"I have a security company. Private contracts. The kind of work that requires men who understand power. Who know how to follow orders." She meets my eyes. "And who are very, very good at service."
I look at her. At this woman who just used me in ways I'll never fully process. At the power she wields with casual cruelty.
And I realize I don't want to leave.
"When do I start?"
I'm released on a Tuesday.
By Friday, I'm back in Neo-Denver. Working for Holloway Security Solutions. Living in an apartment she owns. Spending my nights learning everything she's willing to teach.
"You came back," she says one evening.
We're in her penthouse—she lives far from the prison, in a world of luxury that no one would associate with corrections. Her body is soft against mine, her head on my chest.
"I didn't have anywhere else to go."
"You had everywhere else to go. Family. Friends. A whole world that didn't contain your former warden." She looks up at me. "Why did you choose this?"
"Because you saw me. In that prison, surrounded by men who were invisible to everyone—you saw me. You made me earn something I didn't know I wanted." I pull her closer. "And because I've never felt more free than when you're giving me orders."
She laughs. Soft. Surprised.
"You're either very broken or very wise."
"Maybe both."
"Maybe." She kisses my chest. "Get some sleep, Mr. Nakamura. Tomorrow we have work to do."
"Yes, ma'am."
The world thinks I'm her employee.
Her bodyguard. Her driver. Her very professional, very distant security consultant.
They don't know about the nights in her penthouse. The weekends at her mountain cabin. The way she uses me—endlessly, creatively, demanding—and the way I give her everything she asks.
"I love you," I tell her one night.
"That's inadvisable."
"I know."
"I'm your employer. Your former warden. Old enough to be—"
"I don't care." I pull her on top of me. "I love you, Patricia. I've loved you since you made me kneel on your office floor. Maybe before."
She's quiet for a long moment.
"I love you too," she admits. "God help us both."
And in a penthouse in Neo-Denver, a warden and her prisoner build something that looks nothing like rehabilitation.
It looks like home.
It feels like freedom.
Sentence complete.
Case closed.