Amelie Raimes was fresh out of college, and eager to start her new job as a junior parole officer at the Department of Corrections.

“I really believe that society bears a responsibility for the conditions that produced this crime,” she told her new boss, Mr Horner, earnestly on her first day. “I think we all have a part to play in breaking the cycle of abuse, and bringing these prisoners on a path back to reintegration with society.”

Amelie was pretty. She was young, she was blonde, she had bright, blue innocent eyes, and she clearly had no idea how the simple cotton dress she had chosen to wear emphasised the size of her tits. Mr Horner had been in the business of supervising parolees for far too long, and this cute young ditz’s fetching optimism both amused him and intensely irritated him.

So he gave her a very particular caseload: rapists, and nothing but rapists. No paedophiles, no mere perverts – only men who had violently assaulted and fucked innocent women.


Amelie’s first client was a man named Ray Batsby, who had worked at an accounting firm until the day he had abducted his female manager, kept her in his basement for a week, repeatedly slapped, whipped, and raped her, and finally impregnated her. He had made no attempt to evade capture, appearing somewhat remorseful for what he had done – but he had also uploaded the footage he had taken of his acts to the internet, and his file said that his victim now found it very hard to get work as any prospective employer who Googled her name inevitably found the graphic footage of her rape.

Ray Batsby was a bearded man in his late 30s. He sat across the desk from her, in her small office on the fourth floor of the department.

“Mr Batsby,” she said, “you told the parole board that you were ready to return to society, and they granted you parole.”

“Mr Batsby, sir,” corrected Ray.

“I’m sorry?” Amelie asked.

“I’ve got a mental health condition,” said Ray. ‘The paperwork should be all there. I’m not really in control of it. I just get so… angry… when women don’t show me respect. So, for the sake of my health, you’ll need to call me sir.”

“I don’t know…” began Amelie awkwardly.

“Otherwise you’re not making reasonable accommodation for my disability,” Ray added. He was smiling a little.

“I’m sorry,” said Amelie quickly. She did not want to be accused of discrmination on her first day on the job. “I mean, I’m sorry, sir.”

“That’s better,” said Ray. “And it feels weird, you sitting on the other side of that desk, like you’re in charge of me and better than me. You don’t think you’re better than me, do you?”

Amelie did in fact think that, but she wasn’t about to say it. “No, sir,” she said.

“Then come over here and kneel at my feet while we talk,” said Ray, indicating a spot on the carpet.

Amelie didn’t know what to do. This was such a strange request. But he couldn’t help what he needed. And she didn’t want to get into an argument in her very first meeting with a parolee.

Awkwardly, she got up, smoothing the hem of her dress, and went to kneel before Ray.

She immediately blushed. It felt so strange – and wrong – to be here on her knees in front of a man. A stranger, A rapist. It felt… slutty, somehow. And the little pulse of heat in her pussy seemed to agree with that.

But as soon as she looked up at Mr Batsby, she knew she would stay on her knees. Ray had been right. She could no longer feel like his equal or his better when she was down here on her knees before him. From this angle, he looked commanding, masterly. She instinctively wanted to agree with him. She wanted him to approve of her.

“Well,” said Ray, “I hear she delivered the baby I put in her while I was in prison. A little girl. And she never once brought it to see its father. I was thinking of going to see her, asking her why she thought that was appropriate. Maybe teaching her a little respect.”

Amelie’s eyes widened. “No!” she said. “You can’t! You absolutely can’t do that!” Panic tinged her voice. “They’ll send you back to jail.”

Ray looked at her, and she saw a hint of anger growing in his eyes. 

She swallowed, hard, and then said, “I mean, please don’t do that, sir. Please. I’m begging you, sir. Please don’t rape that lady again.”

“She’s not a lady, she’s a bitch,” growled Ray. “And maybe I don’t want to rape her. Maybe I just want to slap her across the face a bit.”

This was a disaster. Her very first client, and he was confessing to wanting to commit a serious offence, against the same victim as his last crime. Amelie knew she should report him, have his parole revoked, have the police intervene – but then her very first client would be a failure. And she knew her boss, Mr Horner, would smile at her in a way that said he had always known she was a stupid little cunt, whose ideas about reform could never work in the real world.

“Please don’t go anywhere near that lady… that bitch,” Amelie said. “Please, sir. Maybe…” she swallowed. “Maybe you could slap me across the face instead.”

Ray looked at her, sizing her up. “Are you serious?” he said.

“If you promise not to go anywhere near this woman, you can slap me across the face,” said Amelie. ‘And if… if you haven’t gone near her by the time of your next appointment, you can slap me again then.”

Ray laughed. “You’re much more dedicated than I thought a parole officer would be,” he said. ‘All right then. I promise.”

He reached out and caressed her face with one hand. Amelie trembled, but held still. From here, Ray was in control of her, and that felt right. She gazed up at him, and waited for him to do what he wanted to do.

He drew back his hand, and – SLAP! – struck her hard across the face.

Amelie gasped – a far sluttier gasp than she had expected, brought about by the sudden unexpected pulse of lust in her pussy. Had she just gotten *horny* from being slapped in the face? What was wrong with her?

She looked up at Ray, seeking approval – and found it.

“Hot damn,” said Ray. “You’re right, that *did* feel good. All right, honey, you’ve got a deal. I leave the bitch alone, and I slap you again next time I see you,” He laughed, and stood up from his chair. “I feel practically reformed already.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Amelie. She didn’t rise, because Ray hadn’t told her she could, and it didn’t occur to her that she could get up without permission.

“I’ll be good,” said Ray. “Don’t you worry. And next time” – he looked at her again – “how about you wear something that shows off a little more cleavage? And a shorter hemline?”

“Yes, sir,” said Amelie without thinking.

And with that, her client left the office, leaving her kneeling alone on the floor with a reddening cheek.


Her next client was a 19-year-old named Chris Swain. He had been diagnosed as having a chronically overactive sex-drive, leaving him horny around the clock. In the space of a short week near the end of last year, he had raped his female driving instructor in the car she was instructing him in; his female college tutor, in his bedroom, as she tried to improve his maths skills; his sister, in her bedroom – twice; and the female police officer who had first attempted to interview him about his crimes.

When he entered Amelie’s office, he didn’t sit at the chair opposite her desk. Instead he sat on the couch at the back of the room, prompting Amelie to make a fatal mistake: she went and joined him on the couch.

Amelie was already flustered before the interview started. Her cunt was still pulsing with each memory of her encounter with Ray – the feeling of kneeling submissively before him; the sharp, erotic slap of his hand against her face. She had briefly considered going to the female toilets to masturbate, but chided herself for such a slutty idea on her very first day on the job.

“Mr Swain,” she said, sitting next to him on the couch. Their knees were touching, and the angle of the couch kept bringing her legs back towards his whenever she attempted to subtly move them away.

“That’s me,” said the teen. His eyes were locked – as Ray’s had been – on Amelie’s large breasts. Amelie felt her blush deepening.

“The success of your parole is going to depend on having a structured routine, including accommodation, employment, and…” Amelie trailed off. Chris had unzipped his pants, taken out his cock – surprisingly large, she noticed – and had begun to stroke it, while still staring at Amelie’s tits.

“Mr Swain, that is entirely inappropriate!” Amelie snapped. The teen paid no attention to her, lost in a daydream, and so Amelie hesitantly tried the approach she had taken with Ray. “Please, sir, stop playing with yourself, and listen to me.”

“Huh?” said Chris, blinking. His hand stopped moving on his cock, and he appeared to have emerged from a daydream.

“I said, please pay attention to what I’m saying, sir,” said Amelie.

“I’m sorry,” said Chris. “I can’t help it. I just see a set of amazing fuckbags like yours – no offence – and my mind just starts imaging what they’ll look like. I can’t think of anything else. That’s probably why I get into all this trouble.”

“Well, I really need you to listen to me, sir, or else you’ll end up back in jail,” said Amelie anxiously.

Chris gave her a look that was heartbreaking. He seemed genuinely sad and sorry about his situation – and at the same time, completely unable to help himself.

“I just can’t help it,” he said. “It’s just looping through my mind. How big are your nipples? How big are your areolae? Are they light brown? Dark brown? Are you leaking milk? Do your tits sag without a bra or are they all bouncy? It’s all I can think about.”

Amelie thought, frantically. How could she help this poor boy?

An idea occurred to her. It was a slutty idea. On another day, she would have rejected it instantly. But her pussy had been pulsing for hours, and….

“Would it help if you… actually saw them?” she said. “Then you wouldn’t have to imagine.”

Chris’ eyes widened. “Are you serious?” he said.

She blushed… and undid the buttons on the front of her dress. When her lacy blue bra was exposed, she reached down and lifted each of her tits out of the bra cups, into full view.

As it turned out, her areolae were a light brown, her nipples were perky, they weren’t leaking, and she had a fairly good degree of natural bounce.

“That’s awesome,” breathed Chris, staring at her tits. “That’s so good.”

Amelie blushed. She liked the compliment. In fact, she kind of liked his focused gaze. It made her feel pretty, like a piece of art on display.

Then she frowned. Chris’ hand had gone back to his cock, and was stroking it again.

“Stop that,” she said, and slapped his hands away from his cock. And then, without really thinking through what she was doing, she put her *own* hand on his penis, circling it gently, and began to slowly masturbate him.

Chris groaned. His eyes widened – even briefly looking at her face, instead of her tits.

“Can you pay attention to me *now*?” she asked.

Chris nodded eagerly.

She began to tell him what would be required of his parole, as he stared at her tits and let her masturbate his cock. She asked him questions about it occasionally, worried he wasn’t paying attention – but to her surprise, he was able to answer quickly and intelligently.

“If my teachers had done this, I think I would have learned more in school,” he laughed at one point.

Amelie just blushed. Her cunt was getting wetter with every second that she pumped his cock and let him stare at her tits. She had never done anything like this – never even gone further with a boy than a kiss – and here she was masturbating a rapist, in her office, on work time.

As the meeting drew to a close, Chris eyes became unfocused, and it became clear he was no longer listening to her. Finally, he said, “I’m sorry, miss.”

“Sorry for what?” asked Amelie.

“For this,” said Chris – and he reached forward, put a hand on her throat, and pushed her back down onto the couch.

Amelie’s eyes widened, and she tried to struggle, but Chris was stronger and heavier than her, and he batted her hands away easily. He reached down, lifted her dress, and ripped her panties clean off her body, exposing her cunt – and a moment later he was on top of her, his dick sliding into her sopping wet fuckhole without resistance.

“Hush,” he said. “Hush.” He didn’t even bother to put a hand over her mouth, and it never occurred to Amelie to shout for help.

It only lasted a brief minute. Amelie had been teasing Chris’ cock all meeting – and, without realising it, inflating her own horniness as she did so. As she felt the rapist’s dick violated her pussy, she had a sudden powerful orgasm from the pure shock and horror of what was happening.

As Chris slid further inside her, and her tits were crushed flat against his chest, and he leaned down and forced his tongue into her mouth, she experienced a second orgasm, even more powerful than the first.

And then, after only a few swift, violent pumps, Chris was orgasming too, spurting his sperm up inside her, and when she realised this, she had a third, long, humiliating, orgasm, melting against him and kissing him back eagerly.

“Am I going back to jail?” asked Chris, when it was all over and he had pulled himself off her.

Amelie knew he should. Amelie knew what had happened was not okay. But Chris was really kind of sweet, and she wanted to prove she could work with her clients.

“No,” she said. “It’s okay. I won’t tell. Anyway, you felt me cum, right? No one will believe it was rape.”

“I guess not,” laughed Chris. “You’re real pretty. I’m sorry I couldn’t control myself.”

“It’s okay,” said Amelie – and it really was. She had *liked* the rape – there was no denying it. She felt relaxed, and happy, and soft. “I’ll make you a deal, Chris. If you can keep it in your pants until you see me again, I’ll let you do this again next time.”

“Really?” said Chris eagerly. Then his face darkened. “I’m not good with women. I just can’t help myself.”

“Just stay away from them,” said Amelie. “Stay indoors. Just go places where there are only men. And then you can take it all out on me when you see me next.”

“That might work,” agreed Chris. “Okay! I’ll give it a try!”

And he left, a happy, free man.


By the time of Amelie’s third – and last – appointment of the day, she was floaty. She had lost her virginity to rape – and enjoyed it. She went to the toilets, intending to clean herself up, and instead found herself dreamily transferring Chris’ cum from her pussy to her mouth, digging her fingers into her snatch and then licking them clean. It tasted good. When all the cum was gone, she masturbated to the edge of another orgasm – before refusing to let herself cum.

After all, what was she doing? She was being a slut. It was disgusting. She had to stop.

And she had to be able to think straight for her third parolee because, honestly, this one scared her silly.

His name was Gary Sands, but the media had called him “The Lightning Rapist”. He had operated for a decade before finally being caught, and over that time he had applied his unusual methods to nearly 30 female victims.

His modus operandi was simple. He picked out an attractive woman, aged between 20 and 35 years. He abducted her, and took her to the soundproofed basement under his house that none of his neighbours had apparently known about. There, he gave her a simple proposition – he would let her go when she was able to orgasm from having a Taser discharged into her pussy.

None of the women knew that in the first week of captivity they were given a drug that inhibited orgasms. He didn’t want them accidentally getting free too soon, did he? And then he would rape and degrade and abuse them, telling them over and over one constant message – this was happening to them because they were a disgusting cunt, and if he hadn’t done it, someone else would have.

He would discharge the Taser into their pussies twice a day, at scheduled hours, and he would give them a solid 90 minutes of “preparation time” beforehand. In this preparation time, they were strapped into a chair, with their legs spread and their arms free, and a TV was placed in front of them showing nothing but rape and degradation porn. They would be allowed to masturbate, with the idea of priming themselves to cum from the Taser and secure their freedom. Whether they did so was entirely up to them.

Each night, he would have them confess disgusting and degrading sexual fantasies about being raped and tortured by a specific man in their life. The man would change each day, and the fantasies would be largely confected, but he was careful after releasing each woman to place everything he filmed online on several different sites, publicly searchable to her name, so that her father, and brother, and boss, and male friends would be able to see the very specific ways she had claimed she wanted them to rape her.

Some few girls got free as soon as the orgasm inhibitor drugs stopped at the end of the first week. Some took longer. One lingered in his dungeon an entire six months, and he ended up having to drug her until she *believed* she had cum from the Tazer before releasing her.

Not one of his victims had gone back to their normal life afterwards. He had been exceptionally thorough in convincing every girl he raped that she was a sub-human sex-animal who deserved to be violated. Many started careers as strippers, or whores. Some deliberately sought out new, abusive partners. Several got in contact with each other, and started a support group for victims of the Lighting Rapist – which created a minor media stir when it was learned that the meetings mostly consisted of the girls raping and abusing each other in front of a framed painting of the Lightning Rapist himself.

He had served three years in prison, before being released on parole – and now here he was, Gary Sands, the Lightning Rapist, 40-something, salt-and-pepper hair swept back in a jagged shock, dressed in a suit, and exuding a terrifying confidence.

“Amelie Raimes,” he said, before she had even introduced herself. “You’ve got pretty tits, Amelie.”

She blushed, already thrown off guard. “Thank you, sir,” she said instinctively, and then cursed herself for beginning to submit to yet another client.

“I had an interesting chat on the way up to your office,” said Sands. “With a young fellow named Chris. He told me a fascinating story about how he raped you, and you just *let* him.”

Amelie’s eyes widened, and her heart jumped. Damn that stupid Chris! How could he not have been smart enough to keep his mouth shut about their little arrangement?

“I’m wondering,” said Sands. “Is this a story that your *boss* needs to hear?”

“No!” said Amelie. “I mean, please, no, sir.”

“Tell me, Amelie,” said Sands. “Do you let *all* your clients rape you?”

“No!” insisted Amelie. “It was just that once! Please, sir, don’t tell anyone!”

“Only once?” said Sands. “That doesn’t sound very fair, Amelie. Are you playing favourites? Is it *legal* for you to play favourites with your clients?”

Amelie felt tears in her eyes. “Please,” she begged. “Please, sir.”

“Can *I* rape you, Amelie?” asked Sands, grinning.

There was only one thing she could say. “Yes, sir,” she said, quietly.

“Take your clothes off, Amelie,” instructed Sands – and Amelie, reluctantly, obeyed. She pulled her dress up over her head, and removed her bra. She had no panties, because Chris had ripped them, which provoked an amused laugh from Sands when he saw her sluttily nude cunt.

“Put the clothes in a pile on your desk,” instructed Sands, and Amelie did, shivering as his gaze ran over her large, nude tits; the round curves of her ass; her shaved, wet pussy.

“Do you have birth control in your handbag, Amelie?” he asked next.

“Yes, sir,” she answered, not liking where this was going.

“Go and put it on top of the clothes,” he told her.

She dithered.

“Oh, please, Amelie, it’s only symbolic,” said Sands, disgusted. If you took a pill this morning, you’re protected, no matter what I do to you now.”

She took the birth control out of her handbag and put it on the clothes.

“Do you have membership cards of any women’s or feminist organisations?” he asked her.

She flushed – a little angry now. “The women’s collective at my university,” she said. “And because of my work, I have business cards for some women’s law centres and rape crisis organisations.”

“Take them out of your purse, cut them up with a pair of scissors, and put them on the clothes,” said Sands.

Amelie did, feeling small and vulnerable.

“Now, take the pile, and throw it out the window,” said Sands.

Amelie gaped. ‘But… my clothes… what will I wear home?”

Sands’ voice was harsh, cruel. “I really don’t care, Amelie. Shall I call your boss and have you explain why you’re naked in front of a client?”

Amelie squeaked. She practically ran to the window, opened it, and threw her clothes out. The window overlooked a narrow alleyway filled with dumpsters, and she watched her clothes, her birth control, and her feminist associations fall into an open bag of trash, four floors below.

“Good,” said Sands – and his voice was right behind her. Amelie started to turn, but his hand was in her hair, and suddenly she was being manhandled – manoeuvered, like an object – over to her desk, bent over the desk’s edge, and she felt the tip of an erect cock bump against her pussy lips.

But it didn’t enter her.

“Beg me to rape you, Amelie,” said Sands.

“What?” said Amelie.

“I don’t want to rape you,” said Sands. “You want me to rape you, so I’ll stay silent about your slutty behaviour again. I’m doing you a favour. I don’t have to rape you. I can go and talk to your boss, Amelie.”

“No!” squeaked Amelie. “Please… please rape me, sir. Please. Please rape me.”

“Very well,” said Sands – and pushed his cock deep into her wet pussy.

This wasn’t like being raped by Chris. Yes, Amelie was wet, and on some level she was enjoying it – but she was *scared* as she never had been with Chris. Gary Sands had taken complete control of her in seconds, from the moment he had walked through the door, and unlike Chris, who was a sweet doofus with poor impulse control, Gary Sands was *cruel*. He was enjoying her shame, and her discomfort, and her humiliation.

“Now, let’s talk about my parole plan, Amelie,” said Sands, as he raped her. “And the plan is this. I’m going to go right back to teaching little sluts like you their proper place in life, and you’re going to let me.”

“No!” moaned Amelie. “Please, sir! No!”

“In fact, I think you’re going to name one of your friends for me to start on,” laughed Sands. “Tell me, Amelie – which of your pretty friends most deserves to learn how to orgasm from a Taser?”

“No!” moaned Amelie. “No!” But she moaned quietly, so no one would hear, and come to discover her shame.

“Come on, Amelie,” said Sands. “Give me a name.”

“Please sir,” said Amelie. “Please don’t rape anyone else.” She was desperate – to protect her job, to protect her friends, to protect innocent girls from this man. She thought desperately, looking for a way to stop Sands without losing her job in the process – and an idea came to her.

“Rape me,” she told him. “Everything you were going to do to another girl, do it to me.”

He was silent – fucking her thoughtfully.

“I could just rape you anyway, Amelie,” he said. “You know I could.”

“I can’t let you rape other girls,” said Amelie. “If it means losing my job, I’ll accept that cost. I don’t want to lose my job, but I’ll turn you in and face the consequences if it protects other girls.”

“Well, well,’ said Sands. “How very brave. But if I rape you, you’ll stay silent about it?”

“Yes,” said Amelie.

“You must know,” he said, “that girls who I… work with… often have a very different perspective on life by the time I’m done.”

“I’ll take that chance,” said Amelie.

“Then it’s a deal,” said Sands – and a moment later he orgasmed, filling her pussy with his cum.

In response, Amelie, blushing, orgasmed as well, and Sands laughed cruelly as he felt her buck and spasm against him.

“Don’t worry, little Amelie,’ he said. “I’ll stay away from the pretty girls until our next appointment. And then, when I see you again, I’ll vent all my… frustrations… on you, instead.”

He zipped up his pants, and turned to leave. Amelie was already feeling the post-orgasm shame hit her, as well as the terror of realising she was in her office, with cum dripping from her pussy, and not a stitch of clothing to wear. She shook and trembled with humiliation.

“Oh, and Amelie,” said Sands, just as he was about to leave. “Next time I visit, I’m going to require you to have obtained a Taser, which you will keep in your desk drawer. After all, in your line of work, you never know when you’re going to need it.”

And with that, he was gone.

Cum was dripping from Amelie’s snatch onto the carpet. It would stain there, she knew, and then every time she saw that stain she would remember this rape.

She did her best to catch the dripping cum with her hand, and then, with nowhere to put it, she transferred it to her mouth. It tasted just as good as Chris’, if not more – but it made her sick with fear and shame.

But still, she had finished her last meeting for the day, and none of her clients had broken parole. Didn’t she deserve some praise – and maybe one more orgasm?

Her hand began to rub her pussy, pushing the rest of Sands’ cum deeper into her fuckhole, and her eyes crossed as she let herself tune out the outside world, focusing on the pleasure in her cunt. And as her orgasm approached, she didn’t even realise that she was crying – or that her mouth was forming the same two words over and over again.

“Please, sir.”


Enjoy this story? Then you’ll love my e-book Crime and Punishment – Stories of Law and Authority, available from for only $3.99 USD! 60 pages of erotica at one low price. Proceeds support the creation of new, free content. (Click here to view.)


4 thoughts on “Story: The Parole Officer, Part 1

Leave a Reply