Officer Strong

SWF, 30-SOMETHING, RAVEN-HAIR, ATHLETIC, LAW ENFORCEMENT OFFICER.  STRONGER, FASTER, AND SMARTER THAN YOU.  ISO M PRISONER FOR LONG-TERM DETENTION.  PREPARE TO SURRENDER.

He turned back to that page over and over again.  The ad was perfect.  It was probably a fake, a game, someone looking for a cheap call or some college student doing a paper in Psych 101.

Then again, what if it wasn’t...

He called the number at The Personals and got her message.

“This is Officer Strong.  I’m a member of the security team of a local prison.  I am seeking a strong male to take as my own prisoner, to be kept a cell I’ve created...somewhere safe.  I will arrest you, incarcerate you, and break you.  If you are ready to surrender, leave your number.  Don’t waste my time if you’re not serious.  There’s no backing out.”

He didn’t leave his number.

But he did call again.  And again.  The message was intoxicating. 

And finally, he did leave his number.

Nothing happened for a while.  Her message continued to run in the Personals section. 

He called again.  “Officer Strong, I like your ad.  But I don’t think you’re serious.  Call me and tell me more.”

And call she did.

“I am a powerful woman,” she began, “I’ve locked up over 200 inmates so far, in my ‘day job’.  But I’m looking for something more, something more powerful, with fewer rules, if you know what I mean.”

“You mean no other guards to turn you in, no rules against rough contact with the inmates?”  he asked.

“You’re starting to understand,” she said.  “The prisoners have rights, they have lawyers, and they usually have witnesses.  I am building my own small prison, where I can have complete control.”  There was a cool and deliberate pause.  “Let’s just say that in my prison, the rules are changed a bit.  The guards are always in control, and their desires, all their desires, are satisfied.  Inmates are nothing.”  Her voice trailed off.

His curiosity was winning him over.  She was good, but was she real?  She certainly knew what she wanted.

“Where can we meet?” he asked.  “Lunch in town somewhere?”  Something innocent, public, somewhere where she’d feel safe.  No threats.

She chuckled softly, then sighed.  “No, that’s not how it’s done.  Inmates don’t get to choose.  I’ll tell you where and when, next time I call.”  She hung up.

He hoped that next time wasn’t too far away.

But the days stretched on into weeks.

Another call.  “Hi Officer Strong, it’s me again.  I was just wondering, I guess you’re going to choose where we get together, so just let me know and I’ll work it in.  Uh, bye.”

And another week. 

Calling again.  “Uh, yeah, it’s me again.  Just hoping you were still serious about this, but I guess it’s a game with you, so, call if you want.”  Ugh, that didn’t go so well.  Can you delete these messages?

Another week.

Her ad was no longer in The Personals.

But she called.  It was Wednesday.  Voice mail.

“This is Strong.  Steven’s Park, Thursday night, 11PM.  Wear jeans, boots, orange T-shirt.  Be standing at The Point.  Take Friday off.  Prepare to spend the weekend.  Call and confirm with the word ‘Surrender.’  One word only.  Call by 5PM Thursday.  This is your one chance.  Prepare to surrender.”

His heart was in his throat.  He played it back over and over again.  Tomorrow?  The weekend? 

He thought this was crazy. One rule in the lifestyle : know your partner.

The night was agony.

The next day found him poorly-rested and very anxious. 

“You feelin’ OK?” asked his boss.

“Ah, didn’t sleep so well last night.”

“Humidity.  Did you have the AC on?”

“Ah, no, that must be it.”

“Well, it’s a slow week,” said the boss.  “Why don’t you take a sick day tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” he said, “thanks.” 

So now Friday’s open.  Too easy.

Thursday, 4PM.  4:30.  4:45. 

His stomach is in knots.

4:55.  “Surrender.” he says. 

He hangs up the phone.  His stomach sinks.

7PM.  Dinner sits uneaten on the counter.  He drinks water.  He drinks scotch.

8PM.  In the shower.  He’s turned on by his fantasies.  Still, he shudders when he thinks about it.  3 hours. 

Is she a maniac?  Will she show?  What if she is real and really arrests him, say as part of a sting for Johns?  Is this illegal?  What if his company finds out?  What is his boss is in on it?  He did suggest taking tomorrow off.

He can’t possibly think of any way to safely go.

He sends an email to some friends, to get together for lunch Monday, a block from work.  “If I’m not there, come on over to the house.”  He leaves a map on his kitchen table with Stephen’s Park circled.  The post-it note reads “11PM, Thursday.”  It has her Personals voice number on it.  One of the lunch friends has a key.

10:15.  “It can’t hurt to drive to the park,” he reasons.  “I can stay in the car, look for her.  I’d be a fool not to do that much.”

10:45.  The Park is all but deserted.  There’s nowhere to park with a clear view of The Point.  He leaves the car at the lot and walks to another vantage.

10:50.  Time to leave of throw up.  His stomach makes the choice for him.

10:55.  The wave of submission overpowers him.  He clasps his hands behind his back and walks slowly, face down, to The Point.  He feels like the condemned prisoner walking to the cell for the first time.  He has no idea what the future holds, only that the absolute, intangible need to submit has taken control of him, just as he has always wanted.

11PM.  Nothing.  The waves lap up against the rocks.  There is no moon, only the faint, hazy glow of the sodium lights in the distance.

He continues to stand, hands behind him, eyes closed.  He is burning with the need to submit.  She has already taken him.

“Don’t turn around.” she says. 

His heart stops.  His sweat turns cold. 

“Don’t move at all.”  The voice is more powerful than on the phone.  His mind is racing.

“Assume the position.” she commands. 

The position?  Hands on the hood?  There’s no car.  His mind is a blur. 

Through the clouds comes the second wave of submission.  He feels it overtake him, like a sail filling with a great breeze.  Everything is clear and peaceful.

He raises his hands and slowly interlaces them behind his head.

“On your knees,” she says.

He drops slowly down into the cool grass.

He hears her approach from behind.  She lays a firm hand on his head, bending it forward and making him more off balanced.  She kicks his feet apart farther.  There’s a sharp pain in his knees as he fights to keep from falling.

He hears the first cuff open.  His spine straightens so slightly, but she keeps the pressure on his head to keep him off balance.  He feels the crisp coolness as the cuff slides against his right wrist.  He hears the ratchet closing, slowly, past each stop.  She is taking her time, allowing him to feel his submission deepen with each deliberate, methodic click.  He feels it close against the wrist, at first snug, then secure, then tight.  He can feel the other cuff dangling against his neck.

She pulls his right arm down and brings his wrist to the small of his back.  He feels her loop the free cuff through his belt before pulling down his left arm.  The second cuff clicks shut as engages it tighter and tighter.  He feels her engage the double locks.  He is cuffed with his palms facing away from each other; even with the keys, he could not get free.

He feels something being placed over his head, then covering his eyes.  A headband of some sort, but it makes an excellent blindfold in this case.  She puts a hat on his head and pulls the brow down low, to shield the headband from any potential spectators, at least from a distance.

“On your feet,” she commands, grabbing him roughly by the arm.  She leads him slowly to another section of the park, away from the water.  Walking is awkward, being blindfolded and cuffed, across the uneven grass.  She holds his arm fiercely, less to balance than to control him.

His mind is a blur, struggling between fear and ecstasy.  Even if he could break free, where could he go?  If he asked her to stop, what would she do?  He would never get this chance again, so he had to go on.  The conflicting thoughts filled him with thousands of images.

He felt the ground turn from grass to pavement.  After a few short steps he heard the jingling of keys and the opening of a car door.  Firmly she pushed his head down and helped him into the seat.  He heard the click of the seat belt, then felt her pull it tightly across his lap and chest, pulling him back into the seat.  He felt her attaching leg irons to his ankles.  Finally, he heard the door close.

After a moment, the front door opened and he heard someone (her?) get inside.  Without a word the engine started and they pulled away from the park.  Away from the point of no return.
 
 

26.08.02 

story continues in Officer Strong: First Weekend

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