Ray Ch. 01: Control

"Hey!" The boy not quite a man yelled through her window again from the driver's seat of his nineties black Mustang. "I think I'm in love with you."

She smiled at his bold charm, lifting her sunglasses up and rolling her window down the rest of the way. In ten years he would be just her type, over-confident and over-bold with the looks to match. "How old are you?" she asked.

"Almost seventeen." His dark eyes were hopeful, his tongue even more so as it danced behind his lips.

"What a shame..." she sighed. "If you were eighteen I'd of fucked your brains out."

His cheeks reddened at her statement. "I won't tell if you won't."

Unfortunately for him she wasn't interested in breaking boys. She preferred breaking men. "Shouldn't you be in school young man?"

"Yes," he replied.

"Yes, Mistress," she corrected him.

He hesitated for a moment, the scarlet in his face deepening further. "Yes, Mistress."

"Good boy." She winked at him then stepped on the gas, rolling forward through the light. When she glanced back in her side mirror she watched the Mustang turn left then disappear out of sight.

She smiled to herself as she rolled up her window. Her hand reached forward again to turn back up her radio. When the metal melody of In This Moment reached her ears she spun the volume hard to the right.

"Sing my soul, Maria," she said, letting the music drown out the thoughts from her head.

Thirty minutes later she pulled her car into one of the parking spots at the prison. The concrete walls only accentuated the hopeless aura surrounding the building. It was a place she found herself more often than she had ever imagined. She reached over and grabbed the stack of papers off the passenger seat then straightened her posture and headed inside, reminding herself of her purpose with each hollow step.

She patiently followed procedures at the metal detector, slid her driver's license under the bulletproof window to the secretary on the other side, then went and took a seat. For the first time she glanced at the paperwork in her hand, scanning over the first page.

Ben Whitmore. Causasian male. Age- twenty-nine. Brown hair, blue eyes. Height- seventy-three inches. Weight- two forty-seven...

"Ms. Morris?" She looked up and found an obese man in a uniform standing over her.

"Yes, that's me," she replied, getting out of her seat and holding out her hand to accept his handshake. His eyes quickly looked over her slacks and button-up blouse. It was a male move she was familiar with, and one she was frustrated society had deemed was okay.

"I'm sorry, you weren't what I was expecting," he said, a coy smile flashing over his face.

She had heard more comments on her appearance throughout her life than she could ever keep track of. Comments on her mind, however, she could count on one hand. "Do you always have expectations for a person's appearance?"

His forehead scrunched up, his eyes crinkling in confusion. "No, not at all."

"Then what an odd statement for you to make."

"I'm sorry, Ma'am," he said, scrambling to correct himself. "It's just I know you run a treatment program for sex offenders, so I was surprised—"

"Are you done with your assessment of my appearance, Officer... Gordon?" she cut him off, looking at the name tag on his uniform. "I'm here to assess Ben Whitmore, not discuss the unjustified reasons you feel I may not be appropriate for my position."

He pulled back his shoulders and puffed out his chest as if defending his birthright to look without touching. "This way," he directed, turning away from her.

She followed him down the long hallway she had walked many times to the room she had sat in many times. Officer Gordon pulled up a chair next to her, the tension in his body doing its best to make her as uncomfortable as he was. She ignored it, remaining silent until the side door opened. The man walked in wearing a grey jumpsuit, his appearance true to his file. He was escorted by another man in uniform who made himself comfortable leaning back against the wall behind where the prisoner sat himself.

She remained motionless. Legs crossed, hands folded on the small stack of papers on the table between them, back straight, facial expression neutral. Always neutral, regardless of what words may come out of his mouth. She'd been doing this a long time, and maintaining her composure now came much easier than it had in the past. She didn't consider herself numbed as many of her staff told her, usually right before they submitted their two weeks notice to her. She considered herself impenetrable.

"Hello, Ben, I'm—"

"My name isn't Ben," he cut her off, his nails digging into the armrests of his chair.

Her fingers quickly flipped through the papers in front of her. Ben Whitmore was the name typed in black ink on all the pages. "What's your name?"

A feigned smile was forced onto his face, revealing his slightly yellowed but perfectly straight teeth. "Alias."

"Alias?" she repeated back to him.

He nodded, his eyes glancing down at the stack of papers before moving back to her face.

She tilted her head slightly, debating which path to take. "Do you know who Ben Whitmore is?"

His feigned smile disappeared, his voice lowering. "That was the old me. Alias is the new me."

"Why did you need a new you?"

He leaned across the table, his voice so low she could barely hear him. "Because the old me did bad things."

She ignored his attempts to close the proximity between them, holding her position even if he decided to crawl across the table. The game had begun, and she would never weaken. "What kind of bad things?"

"They say I have problems with impulse control," he replied, gesturing to the officer next to her then the one behind him.

"Do you think you have problems with impulse control?"

He sat up straight, rubbed his hand over his chin and raised his head theatrically towards the ceiling. Then he shrugged.

"Do you think hiding behind a different name changes who you are and erases what you've done?" She watched his mind spin, curious what his go-to tactic was to save himself.

His eyes burned into hers, silently threatening her to the best of their ability. His muscles stiffened, his shoulders straightened. She followed suit. He could throw his size around all he wanted, she would not be intimidated.

"I've been doing this for a long time... Ben." She spoke slowly, watching his teeth clench at the sound of his name. "I know the manipulation game. I know the grooming game. I know the triangulation game. And I also know the intimidation game. So do all my staff. I like to be honest with potential clients, and I'm going to be honest with you. If I allow you into my program, there will be no more minimizing, no more victim blaming, no more grooming, no more attempts to intimidate. If there are, the police will come get you and bring you back here. Do you understand?"

His eyes remained narrowed but the forced smile found its way back to his face. "So when do I get to move in?"

***********************

He reached in and grabbed his sweatshirt out of his locker, pulling it on over his head. He avoided undressing at work. His life as a slave was none of his colleagues' business, and he imagined more would be horrified than intrigued.

"A few of us are gonna go grab dinner. You coming?" Garrett asked, stuffing his uniform in his locker then pulling on a t-shirt.

"No, thanks," he replied, fishing his car keys out of his pocket.

Garrett slammed his locker shut then spun the dial on the combination lock. "Come on, it isn't like you have a girlfriend to run home to."

He smiled and began walking towards the door. "I have a lot of girlfriends, and all of them are in need of my attention."

Garrett laughed, following behind him into the parking lot. "If any other guy said something so ridiculous, I'd call them a liar to their face."

He waved as his friend pulled out of the lot then turned on the ignition to his own car. He didn't have a girlfriend to run home to, but he did have a château full of dommes who demanded his service.

The sky was already dark when he pulled onto the street. It wasn't one of his required days to serve at the château, but since his release day he had been tormented by the emptiness. It had taken him years to stop questioning his needs. Years to stop trying to make sense of the only fantasies that could bring him to climax. The fantasies where he was teased and denied for days, weeks, months- the longer the better. Fantasies where he was tied up or tied down, forced to submit and forced to please a goddess who was far superior than himself. For years he had tried to tear away at the branches, but they always grew back. Expanding and multiplying, making the forest of his fantasies so dense and dark he would never make his way through to the truth. But then he realized that much like a woman they weren't meant to be understood. They were meant to be respected.

The pull under his sac started, the cage pressing into his skin. He was halfway to his destination when a thought, a passing memory, made him make a u-turn at the next light. He made his way back the way he had come then turned down a side street. His heart pounded the closer he got to where he hoped she would be. He needed to taste what he had been denied.

The ache was returning by the time he reached her door. He raised his hand and knocked on the teal painted wood.

"Hello, Officer Ray," she said with a smile when she answered. "What a pleasant surprise. What are you doing here?"

He was here to be tortured, but she already knew that. "I just wanted to check and see if there was anything you needed, Mistress." He kept his eyes on the smooth, pale skin of her legs, trying not to get caught running them up until her short robe stopped the perfect view. The smell of soap and steam lingered towards him from her flesh.

"What is it you thought I may need?" she questioned. She could always see right through him, down to the darkest parts he thought he hid so well.

"I'm not sure, Mistress." His thoughts scrambled for something, anything that would get him in the house. "A foot rub?"

"You don't have a foot fetish, Officer Ray," she replied, shaking her head. Then she smiled and turned, walking back inside without closing the door.

He stepped in, shutting the door behind him then knelt down on the floor. He crawled behind her on hands and knees, pausing when she turned back towards him. She stared down at him, her blonde hair drying into soft waves around her face. It was so light it was almost white, glowing under the dim light of her entryway.

"Since I had a very unpleasant day at work, I actually would enjoy a relaxing massage," she said, then crossed her arms over her chest. "You got lucky this time, Officer Ray."

He followed her into the living room to the oversized grey armchair she preferred to sit in and pushed the ottoman out of the way. Once she had made herself comfortable, he picked up her foot in his hand and pressed his thumbs into the soles of her feet. He didn't have a foot fetish, but he did have a service fetish.

"If you want to talk about it, I'd like to hear about it," he prompted.

She sighed, her head rolling against the back of the chair. "I went to assess a guy at the prison today and I'm not sure what decision to make."

"What did he do?" he asked, though he already knew what type of treatment program she ran.

"I don't know," she replied.

He paused and looked up at her face. "Isn't it important for you to know what you're getting yourself into?"

"I'm sure he's the same as all the rest."

His muscles tensed, his frustration beginning to take over his mouth. "I'm sure a woman with your education and experience can get a better job elsewhere."

She met his gaze, her eyes hardening. "Why do I need a different job?"

He took a minute to decide if the words he was about to let spill out of his mouth were worth potentially resulting in him being locked up even longer. "That isn't a safe place for you to be working."

"Because I'm a woman?"

He knew she wasn't expecting an answer, but even if she was his face would tell it to her.

"I'm beginning to think I would enjoy you much more with a gag in your mouth."

His hands began caressing her foot again, but his lips refused to remain sealed. "One day one of them is going to hurt you—"

"Even predatory offenders don't offend in places they're at high risk for being caught," she cut him off, jerking her foot out of his hand. "They aren't stupid. They know if they attack me, or any of my staff, they'll spend the rest of their days in prison."

"A desperate man is a stupid man," he replied, grabbing her foot back.

She glared down at him for a moment then her face softened. Her hand reached down and ran over the trail of hair on his chin. "Do you know how wet I get knowing you worry about me, Officer Ray?"

His prisoner jumped in its cage. The anger in his chest began disappearing as his blood rushed lower. "No, Mistress."

She stood and untied her robe, letting it fall to the floor where he knelt. "If I had your key I'd let you out so you could fuck me, but I don't."

His prisoner didn't seem to register her lie. It pushed against its bounds, desperate to break free.

"Do you think I should have to go without because you're locked up, Officer Ray?"

"No, Mistress." He shook his head, the ache that had been missing beginning to throb through him. Once again he had come here knowing she didn't have his key, and knowing even if she did, she wouldn't allow him inside.

"Come."

He followed her to her bedroom then stood up to strip out of his clothes.

"Such a shame I don't have your key," she said, her fingernails teasing the flesh pressing out between the slits of his cage. "I think you would feel so good inside me."

He grunted while he watched her stroke him. His length was trying to harden in her hand, but its attempts were pathetic at best.

"I want you to fuck me."

He already knew what that meant. She released him and turned towards her nightstand. His face reddened with shame at the same time his sac clenched in anticipation. He stood still while she buckled the strap-on to him, then looked down to see her running her hand over the realistically sculpted silicone.

"What a nice cock you have, Officer Ray," she teased, pressing her lips to the flesh colored appendage. She climbed onto the bed and remained on all fours, looking back over her shoulder to him.

His eyes ran over her body. Over the downward curve of her back to the upward curve of her hips, then to the bare folds between her legs waiting for his touch. He climbed onto the bed behind her then ran his tongue between her legs. She had her own rules, ones he knew well. His tongue caressed her swollen skin, careful to demonstrate his worship in a way she would find acceptable.

A moaned curse word fell from her lips when two of his fingers pushed inside her. She was tight around them, her body clenching and unclenching against them. He curled them, pressing them into her skin, pulling them out slightly then shoving them back in. The movement wasn't in his wrist, it was in his whole arm as he thrust them into her. Humanity had no place here. This was meant to be raw and hard and rough. Her body pushed back into his hand, her need soaking down the insides of her thighs the harder he went. The sound it created would haunt his dreams for days. He imagined how it would feel to be inside her, his sensitive skin warmed by her heat as it slid through her arousal. The thought made his cage almost too painful to bear.

"Fuck me. Now," she groaned, her words making his sac clench.

He shoved into her, trying his best to get his rhythm with the flimsy device. His eyes fixated on the appendage that wasn't his, watching it disappear inside her then come out slick and shining. The ripple of her backside every time his hips connected with hers teased in his peripheral vision. His prisoner swung helplessly in its cage, its only pleasure the brief seconds it hit against her body as he thrust into her.

He ran his hand underneath her, his fingers softly but rapidly tapping against her clit. It was a movement he had perfected specifically for her. In all the times she had tortured him in this way, he had never known her to be able to come without the use of his hands. And he craved her climax as much as she did. He often wondered if he craved it more, but he was only certain he craved it more than his own.

Her moans became nothing but breaths falling from her mouth, her silence a loud warning. He maintained his rhythm, both in his fingers and his thrusts, careful not to change even the slightest movement. He watched her fall to her elbows, his sac throbbing as her body convulsed.

"Enough," she finally gasped, collapsing onto her stomach.

He sat back on his heels, memorizing the sight of her exhausted from the pleasure he had brought her.

She rolled onto her back then spread her legs playfully. "Do you want to taste my pussy?"

"Always, Mistress." He bent forward, ready to taste the results of his efforts.

"No." Her legs slammed closed, bringing his tongue to a stop inches from its destination. Her hand grasped his hair, pulling him back into a seated position as she sat up. Then she smiled and reached down, unhooking the strap-on. "Open up."

The silicone slid slowly past his teeth and over his tongue, not stopping until it hit the back of his throat. He closed his mouth around the shaft, sucking it as she pulled it back out.

"How does it taste?" she asked.

"Delicious, Mistress."