Amelie was not sleeping well.
It had been a week since her first day as a parole officer, and every night was the same. Her dreams were filled with images of her first three clients – all of them rapists, all men who she had let abuse and dominate her in their very first meetings.
She dreamt of Ray Batsby, his bearded face twisted in smug satisfaction as Amelie begged him to slap her. She dreamed of masturbating Chris Swain’s stiff cock, and then struggling as he pushed her down and raped her. And most of all she dreamed of Gary Sands, “The Lightning Rapist”, who had stripped her nude, and raped her – and then told her to have a Taser ready for him to use on her cunt at their next appointment.
Some nights she woke up screaming. Other nights she woke up orgasming. She wasn’t sure which was worse.
She was aware of the predicament she had gotten into. She had behaved inappropriately with three of her clients – all criminals that she was supposed to be supervising. If the story of her interaction with them was told to her manager, she would be fired – or worse. She needed to keep these three men happy – but she also needed to stop them committing more crimes and breaking their parole, or there was every chance they would disclose their interactions with her before returning to prison.
She had gone out the very morning after her interaction with Gary Sands and bought a stun gun. It wasn’t technically a Taser – that brand fired barbed hooks that remained lodged in the skin, whereas this one was more like a small cattle prod – but it would do the job. They were supposed to be regulated, but all it took was a discreet enquiry at a military surplus store, and minutes later she was walking out with a high-voltage electroshock weapon in her purse.
She told herself it wasn’t because Gary had told her to get one. She told herself it was to *protect* her from Gary, or anyone else who tried to molest her. It went straight into her desk drawer at work.
Only… every time she looked at that drawer now, she felt her pussy get a little bit wet. She would blush, and look away, and try to pretend she hadn’t reacted that way.
It soon became clear to her that she had been assigned a caseload of rapists, and nothing but rapists. When her first appointment on her second day was a man who had raped two cheerleaders behind the bleachers at a football game, she felt sure that she was about to be dominated and molested again, as she had been the day before.
Except she wasn’t. The man discussed his plans for gainful employment, updated her on his psych counselling, and left.
Her next appointment was similarly bland. And her next one.
The events of her first day ran through her mind on a loop. She felt like she could still feel Chris Swain’s cock in her hand, his lips on her lips. She felt like her cunt was still penetrated by Gary Sands’ dick, as she quivered in fear while he raped her. She found it hard to think of anything else.
And each time the loop played, her cunt got wetter, and wetter. She found herself using her lunch break to masturbate frantically in the toilets, and she repeated the performance at night as soon as she got home.
On her third day, she still encountered no problems. Her clients were actually very polite, eager to show how they had reformed.
She experimented with calling them “sir”, as Ray Batsby had liked, to see if that shifted the power balance. They didn’t seem to notice.
Finally, on her last client of the day, she asked, “Aren’t you worried you might rape someone again?”
The client was Jerome Walker, a large, well-muscled black man in his late 20s. He had been a professional footballer – until he had raped a stripper at a post-game party, and done a short jail sentence.
Walker looked puzzled. “No,” he said. “No way. That time – I was really drunk, I’d done some drugs – it wasn’t like me. I mean, I really regret it, and I’m staying away from the booze now, and getting counselling – I think I’m good.”
Amelie pressed on. “But are your sexual urges being satisfied?”
Walker laughed. “Miss, I’m a good-looking man. If I want my pole polished, it happens, you know?”
Amelie blushed – but continued. “That’s excellent – but consensual sex isn’t quite the same as forcing a woman, is it? What about those urges?”
Her client shrugged. “A struggling woman is hot – but it’s a crime, isn’t it? My cock gets enough pussy, and I’ve got no intention of going back to jail.”
Amelie blushed harder, and said, “I really want to help you avoid jail, so I think maybe the best thing is for you to satisfy those urges… on me.”
Walker looked her up and down, surprised. “Bitch, are you serious?” he asked.
Amelie nodded, shyly. She knew she was being a slut. She told herself this was a sensible decision, that it was looking after her client. But her cunt was so wet, and nobody had even disrespected her since Gary Sands had left two days ago…
“Like… what do you want me to do?” he said.
“Whatever you want,” said Amelie. “I mean, just… force me.”
Walker paused, and then said, “All right. We’re doing this.”
And before Amelie could react, Walker was unzipping his pants, reaching forward, grabbing a fistful of her hair, and forcing her face down on his cock. Amelie gagged as his large cock was jammed down her throat, and she started to struggle, afraid that she couldn’t breathe, but Walker held her down, and began to thrust.
She had made a terrible mistake. She was being raped. She was being choked. She was being used as a cum toilet by a man she hardly knew – a convicted rapist.
It was bliss. The more she struggled, and felt herself completely unable to escape Walker’s strong grip on her head, the wetter she got. The more she tasted his pre-cum on her tongue, the more she moaned, and when Walker finally grunted and ejaculated straight down her throat, she had an instant, powerful hands-free orgasm that left her twitching and drooling around her client’s cock.
When he was done, he pulled her off his dick, and then wiped his penis clean on her cheek.
“Thank you, miss,” he said. “I’ll just think about that next time I get the urge to disrespect a woman.” He chuckled, zipped up his pants, and left.
Amelie said nothing. She just sat on the floor, cum on her face, cum in her mouth.
The endorphins of sex were fading, and without the effect of endorphins there was nothing left in her but guilt and self-disgust. What had she just done? What kind of woman was she? She had just – what, seduced a client into raping her? Eagerly swallowed a rapist’s cum? Orgasmed from being violated?
She started to cry. She hated herself so much. She had become a parole officer with the best of intentions, and not even a week into the job she had become a whore.
She left Walker’s cum on her face as she drove home, to remind her what a disgusting slut she was….
… but by the time she had gotten home, she was wiping it off her face and pushing it eagerly into her mouth, desperate to taste her violation again while she frantically, pathetically masturbated her fuckhole.
The guilt and shame of her interaction with Jerome Walker kept Amelie well-behaved for the rest of the week, and her remaining clients didn’t give her reason to be otherwise. She briefly fantasised about encouraging one particularly handsome young man to violate her, but didn’t follow through on it.
Then a week had passed, and her first three clients were back for another check-in.
Amelie dressed up. Ray had told her to. Something that showed a little more cleavage, and a shorter hemline. She found a blue dress that she sometimes went nightclubbing in, and wiggled into its tight bodice. She thought it could pass for a business outfit if she put a jacket over it until she got to her office – although that hemline was *very* short. She would have to be careful bending over.
Actually, she would have to be *very* careful, because she wasn’t wearing underwear. She told herself it was because Gary Sands had thrown her underwear in the bin last time. There was no sense losing expensive lingerie. She felt like a slut with her pussy bare, especially in such a short dress – but she was a slut, wasn’t she? After what she had done with Jerome?
No. She was a good girl. She was just trying to help these men reform their lives. She had gotten into a bad spot, but she would get out of it, and do her job. She had done well with all the rest of her clients that week (except Jerome). These three men were just an… aberration. She would set things back on the right path today.
And, after all, if things got out of hand, she had a stun gun in her drawer.
Ray Batsby was first, and to her credit, Amelie tried to reassert a normal relationship with him. When he came in, she was sitting behind her desk, and she greeted him with, “Hello, Ray. Have a seat.”
Ray frowned. He carefully closed the door to her office – and remained standing.
“Excuse me?” he asked.
“I said have a seat, Ray,” said Amelie. Her voice shook a little.
In a blur of movement, Ray was on top of her, on her side of the desk. His hand flashed back, forward – SLAP – hitting her hard on the side of the face.
“What the FUCK did you just say, bitch?” he snarled – not quite a yell, but not quietly. His face was red, and his eyes bulging.
“I’m sorry!” squealed Amelie. “I’m sorry!”
SLAP! He hit her again – and she felt her traitorous pussy wetten, as it had the last time he slapped her.
All thoughts of the stun gun in her drawer were gone. She raised her hands to defend herself, but Ray pulled them down and slapped her a third time.
“I’m sorry, who?” he growled.
“I’m sorry, sir!” shrieked Amelie. “I’m sorry, sir!”
He grabbed her hand and yanked her out of the chair, sending her sprawling to the ground. Her skirt rode up, exposing her bare ass, but Ray hadn’t noticed it yet.
“The deal was you show me respect,” said Ray, “and I don’t go teach that lying bitch who put me in jail a lesson. You want me to rape her? You want me to beat her?”
“No!” sobbed Amelie. “No! Please, sir!”
He kicked her – in the tits. Amelie shrieked.
“Then show me some fucking respect!” he roared.
She didn’t know what to do. Her face was pressed against the floor. All she could see was his shoe – brown leather, with a “new shoe” smell. Desperately, pathetically, she crawled forward and began to kiss it.
Ray laughed. “That’s more like it, bitch,” he said. He let her continue, pressing her face against his shoe, licking at the leather.
Amelie was too scared to feel awful. She just wanted to please Ray and make him stop shouting. And it was so hard to think when her pussy was so *wet*.
Amelie wasn’t the only one thinking about her pussy. Ray had spotted her state of undress.
“Well, well,” he said. “Look at what you’re not wearing.” He pulled his shoe away from her, and moved around to stand behind her. Amelie stayed where she was, frozen, head against the ground, on all fours, her naked ass pushed upwards into the air.
“Is your cunt wet, slut?” asked Ray.
He could see her cunt. He already knew the answer. “Yes, sir,” said Amelie, quietly.
“You know what I really want to do?” said Ray. “I want to kick that lying bitch who put me in jail in the cunt. Should I do that, girl?”
Amelie made a choked sound, and then said, “No, sir.”
“But she deserves it, doesn’t she?” asked Ray.
Amelie paused, and then gave him the answer he wanted to hear. “Yes, sir, she deserves it,” she said. “But you’ll go to jail if you do… so you should take it out on me instead.”
Ray laughed. “You want me to kick you in the cunt, bitch?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” moaned Amelie.
And he did. He drew back his foot, and kicked Amelia hard, right in her wet pussy. There was a squelching sound, and Amelie squawked in pain. Then he kicked her again, and she almost went flat on the ground.
But it felt so good. The stimulation in her cunt was delicious. If only he would kick her again…
He did, and she almost orgasmed.
Then he did something different. He held his foot against her pussy – and began to push the toe of his shoe into her fuckhole.
She gasped. It hurt – and yet it made her feel so *full* – so amazingly *violated*. She had a man’s shoe in her cunt, against her will – and it just made her want to cum.
He pushed further. He must have had the whole toe of the boot inside her. It was stretching her. It was painful. She moaned.
Then he gave one last push – a kick – right into her fuckhole… and Amelie felt herself cum.
Twitching. Moaning. Drooling. Her cunt spasming pathetically around the toe of a man’s leather boot.
Ray began to laugh at her, and she felt herself cum again.
He withdrew his foot and went to stand in front of her again.
“The bitch’s name is Taylah,” said Ray. “And she deserves to be raped, doesn’t she?”
“Yes, sir,” said Amelie, barely conscious of where she was. “Taylah deserves to be raped.”
“Well, maybe I will and maybe I won’t,” said Ray. “I guess it depends on how much respect you show me next time. But this time you started out on” – he chuckled – “the wrong foot, so I think you need to pay a price. How about next time I see you, you give me Taylah’s address? She’s moved house while I was in jail, and nobody will tell me where she lives now – but you know, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” moaned Amelie. She could find out. It would be on the file.
“Good girl,” said Ray. “Now, clean up your mess.” And he pushed his foot out.
Like a good girl, Amelie began to lick, cleaning her disgusting slut juices off Ray’s nice leather shoe. She felt guilty that she had made his shoe so messy. She felt embarrassed that she had cum like a whore when he was just trying to discipline her for being disrespectful. She felt confused, and pathetic.
And, if she was honest, a large part of her felt satisfied. She had received what she had been needing all week.
Except the day wasn’t done yet, and she still had two clients to see.
How could they possibly be worse than this?
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