Parole Officer Milks ExCon Client

Chapter 1

My name is Ricardo Santiago Perez, Jr., but you can call me Ricky, Junior, JR, or pretty much anything else other than “Ricardo.”  

Ricardo is my father, so don’t call me Ricardo… and I’m nothing like him.

You see, my father has what we call “Machismo” in Spanish.  He’s VERY macho.  Growing up in Mexico before taking the long trek to the United States for a better life, all he knows is work that involves getting dirty and using his hands.  My 3 brothers and 2 step brothers are the same way… So you could imagine what it was like growing up in a household with 6 other men who love sports, beer, cars, and pussy was like for a gay guy like me.

I’m 22, about 5’5” and weigh about 135.  I’ve always been pretty small…not on purpose, but just because I’ve always been pretty active with swim team and gymnastics all the way through high school and college. I’ve also been pretty transparent about my sexuality with family and friends since graduating high school.

Though I’m gay, I’m also Catholic.  This means, I don’t give in to my gay thoughts.  Well, I have in the past, but it’s been a little over a year that I haven’t had sex of any kind…and that includes jacking off.

Yes, it’s made me a sexually frustrated ball of stress at times, but it’s what I’ve committed to.

I spent my last year at Sam Houston State University working as a correctional officer  at a local prison through an internship to get my Bachelor’s degree in Criminal Justice.  Basically, if you worked part time, it counted toward your final credits AND you got paid for it… Win-win, right?  Kinda…

That’s how I ended up in the fucked up position I’m in right now: about to lose my job as a parole officer.

Yes you read that correctly, I now work in parole in the Greater Houston area.

After walking across the stage at graduation, I traded in days in the sweltering heat of the prison unit wearing a uniform, to the luxury life of a parole officer—working in the air conditioning and getting to wear my own clothing.

This all started after about 6 weeks of being in the field.

The first few weeks were mostly orientation and training, before going in the the field shadowing more experienced parole officers.  My boss is this mean bitch named Cynthia who’s been working for the parole division over 20 years, and ALWAYS checking up on my paperwork with a “resting bitch face.”

Anyway, when they finally let me off training, I was now able to go into the field and do visits…and on other days, the clients would come in the office to check in as required.

It’s going to sound kinda dirty, but this all started when Jamaal, one of my clients,  came in for a regular check in… 

Jamaal was serving the remaining two years of his 10 year sentence on parole after being released from prison after 8 years behind bars.

I’d administered many drug tests in training.  They’re pretty simple.  The parolee has to wash their hands and clear their pockets before going behind a curtain or into the restroom to give a urine sample.  They zip up, screw the top on the container, then hand it over to me.  I’m supposed to first look at the temperature sticker on the side to make sure it’s body temperature.  Some guys are dumb enough to try to cheat the system by covering their hands with a chemical that will throw off the test… or a million other ways.

If they fail, they are either written up and given a warning, or, if this wasn’t their first time… or if they are on a heightened level of supervision, we call the sheriff right then and they get locked up.

And that’s where Jamaal comes in.

First, let me tell you about him.

He’s 28 years old, about 6’5” and weighing in at about 220.  He’s nice and lean because he’d been in prison lifting and playing basketball for the past 8 years.

Below his right eye, there are two tattooed tear drops, under his left eye, the name “Tamiesha” tattooed in bold letters… his hair in an unkept “bush,” at the top of his head…and a mustache surrounded by stubble.  He was surely giving “hood guy” vibes” from his neck down, he’s completely covered in tattoos…

On his feet, ragged timberland boots.

He wore a thin, white wifebeater that was a little stained with what appeared to be engine sweat.  His basketball shorts were long and baggy, but sagged a little in the front revealing his white, state-issued boxers he took from the prison…which also sagged just enough to see the remnants of a bush in the center of the athletic “V” shape leading into his boxers.

When he entered the room the first time, my jaw dropped at the sight of him. 

I think he noticed.

“Hi Jamaal, I’m Ricky, your parole officer.  We’ll be working together for the next few weeks until your supervision level is lowered.  This means you’ll have to come up here once a week, and I’ll be doing visits at your home for about the next 6 weeks or so, do you understand,” I asked.

He just smirked and mumbled “Yeah, whatever,” under his breath.

I sat down at the small, makeshift table about the size of a short bookshelf, and told him he could take a seat on the other side of it.

As I looked up, Jamaal was looking directly into my eyes with a piercing, menacing look.  And once again, that smirk.

Jamaal sat down in the chair, much too short for him, with his long, lean-muscled, tattoo-covered legs spread wide revealing the obvious print of his long, thick, flaccid penis hanging between his thighs.

I continued trying to be professional…turning through the intake paperwork…with him leaning over to inititial in some places, and sign in others.  I nervously flipped pages as his sweaty, musky scent filled my nostrils.

When we were finished, he stood up—his hanging baby maker print at eye level across the short desk…. I looked up at him saying, “We’re all done,”

At that point, what he did next made me almost lose it right there… with his hands folded, standing… he looked down at me… right into my eyes… in a moment that felt like it lasted forever… and took his right hand to scratch his stomach… just a bit into his shorts/boxers, right where the bush met the stretchy fabric of his boxers.  He paused… and rubbed his stomach below his belly button as he replied, “Aiiight den, boss,” before putting my pen in his ear—stealing it—-as he walked out of my office.

I was so aroused, I could’ve shut my door and jacked off a load right there… my heart was beating so fast.  I’d never been so seduced with so little.

I finished the rest of my caseload and headed home more sexually frustrated than ever.

—————

Chapter 2

Fuck, fuck, fuck!!!

I’m so fucking behind on everything.  I didn’t mean to curse, but… I don’t know.  This parole thing seems to bring the worst out of me.

It’s been 3 weeks since I’ve been handling my caseload on my own and it’s just too much.

How do they expect me to see all of these clients, then, turn around and do house visits?

I’m just so wound up right now.

Over the past few weeks, I’ve been on my own, and it’s been a roller coaster.  For the most part the clients that come in are pretty chill—especially the ones that have been on parole for a while.  It’s the new ones that give me a hard time.  They don’t know that there are checks and balances that make sure I’m doing my job, so if they don’t come in for a piss test, I don’t have the accompanying paperwork with their signature to turn in to my boss… and if I don’t write them up for missing their appointments, I get written up instead. 

Some of them get pretty upset when I have to write them up for failing a drug test, or failing to show up to one of their appointments. 

One time, I had this older, white, trailer trash guy, Jake, get really angry—balling up his fist and banging on the the little book shelf that I use as a desk.  

Jake is built like a WWE wrestler… he’s nothing by biceps, shoulders, quads and glutes… Some of these guys are so physically attractive. 

“I’m so tired of this shit,” he yelled. 

And it was kinda scary because he was my last appointment for the day and I was in the office alone that evening.  

Sometimes I have to stay after others to make sure I get all my work done.  

According to Jake, another right up would cause him to have to pay more fees and keep him on the tether longer which impacts the projects he can take on at work—-essentially making him make less than he could have with a lower supervision level.  

Anyway, I’ve got a ton of house visits to finish to day, and our friend Jamaal is on my list.

To be honest, I’ve been nervous about seeing him again. 

I would’ve seen him last week, but I got caught up and didn’t send the email/text/and follow up call to remind him…

I mean, nothing inappropriate happened during our first meeting, and from his vantage point.  

No big deal, I could just get the urine sample from him the next time I saw him in the office, or, during our first house visit.

I mean, Jamal doesn’t know that I’ve fantasized so much about him over the past few weeks in my spare time… laying awake late at night… or sometimes during the day.

To be honest, I’ve always fantasized about BBC… Big Black Cock… but again, I’m celibate… not giving in to my urges.

I saved Jamal for my last house visit of the evening.  I could knock this out, then head back to the office to enter all the info online, then relax for the weekend.

I drove across town to one of the rougher parts of Houston called “5th Ward” to Jamaal’s parole address…

The closer I got to his address…with the GPS giving me the prompts, I looked around as the surroundings got worse and worse…

This was surely the ghetto.

I pulled into the apartment complex he paroled to, and it’s clearly a housing project.

The entrance and exit gates both broken… young kids, teenagers, and adults outside as if it were a sporting event.  

I’d never seen so many people outside in one place.

I parked my 2015 Toyota Camry in a parking spot close to the stairwell for building 17 since he lived in apartment 1706.

My heart raced as I took a deep breath and got out of my car to head to his door.

I stepped past a group of folks on the edge of the sidewalk and walked toward the building.  I could see that 1706 was upstairs, but there were about 10 guys on the stairs smoking cigarettes…well, I initially thought they were cigarettes until I got a whiff of the familiar scent marijuana.

As I said “excuse me” and walked past the group, I they didn’t move—instead staring me down with bloodshot eyes.  I walked around them and up the stairs… tripping on one of the steps…dropping my cheap zipper portfolio in the process.

I nervously caught my balance, and headed toward 1706.

As I got closer to the door, I could smell marijuana and hear loud music blasting.  I tapped on the door using the little door knocker thing.

Nothing happened…

I did it again.

Just as I was pulling my phone out to call him, I could feel the heat of someone walking up behind me… one of the guys from the stairs walked up behind me… what was about to happen???

Was this guy about to try to rob me?  I didn’t have any cash on me, and I only use the beat up android cell phone during work hours and visits…

“You gotta knock harder than that,” the young man from the stairs said before beating on the door like the FBI.”

An older Black lady came to the door “How can I help you, baby,?” She asked… 

“I’m here for Jamaal,” I said, causing her to look me up and down…confused…

I guess Jamaal doesn’t have too many people coming to visit wearing a shirt a tie.

“I’m his parole officer,” I continued.

“Oh, he’s out hopping right now,” she explained.

“Hooping?” I asked…

“He’s playing basketball, baby,” she finished.

I told her I was scheduled to come and do a home visit and a urinalysis…and that this was the second one in a row, unfortunately.”

She asked what that meant, and I told her he’d probably get a warrant out for his arrest.

“Oh don’t do that baby, he’s not too far,” she pleaded.

I explained that it’s really not my choice…that there’s an app with time stamps where I have to take a photo of him and certain rooms, and take a video.  Apparently parole officers were cutting too much slack and there were too many instances where parolees committed crimes, so they had to implement a new system.  I told her that if I didn’t submit the photos in real time that are geotagged, it automatically sends that info to the sheriffs department, and there’s a warrant put out… especially for those on tether like Jamaal.

“My grand baby can’t go back,” she pleaded.

“ I know… it’s just that…there’s nothing I can do,” I continued.

It almost broke my heart to hear her plead for Jamaal… a black man who’d spent 8 years in prison for drugs and assault… and who had only been out about a month…

I turned around and headed back to my car so I could drive to the office and close out the day’s work.

I parked at the office and the lights were off already.

We’re supposed to be opened until 7:00p, but most of the parole officers adjust their schedule so they have house meetings and the end of the day.  They can knock those out pretty quick and leave early on fridays.

I went in, turned the lights on, and went to my office to finish my work for the week.

Just as I was rounding the bend with my weekly report, I heard the “ding dong” alert of someone entering the office.

I was a bit afraid, not knowing who it was…and it was own fault because I was trained to lock the door whenever we’re in the office alone…

And furthermore, I wasn’t in the reception area where everything is video recorded… instead, I was in the back where the files are with my laptop…taking shortcuts by looking at the paper files for some of my report.

“Who’s there?” I asked…

There was no response.

“I said who’s there!” I exclaimed…this time with a noticeable tremble in my voice.

Just then entered Jamaal… sweaty Jamaal…

Tall, shirtless, fresh from the basketball court—Jamaal.

“It’s me, Ricky… I’m sorry bro… I was hooping and lost track of time,” he finished… 

“I ran over here as soon as my grandma sent my cousin to come get me and send me here,” he said.

“There’s really nothing I can…” I couldn’t get the words out…

I looked closer and it was clear he was freeballing—even more evident because the top of his burgundy thin basketball shorts were drenched with sweat…the sweat of an athlete who’d been playing basketball for hours…

An athlete with the stamina of an animal…

Without saying a word, he walked over to me as I sat in the chair with the laptop and a Manila folder in front of me… as he walked beside me, I turned to look up at him… causing the folder and all of the papers in it to fall… I got on my knees to pick them up… further explaining the process to Jamal as I gathered the papers…

“It’s not up to me Jamaal… there’s an app that automatically…,” and before I could finish, it happened.

A huge lump grew in my throat as I realized Jamaal was hard as a rock.

Right in front of me was the hardened result of the print I saw on the first day…

He looked down at me…as I looked up at him.

Without a word said, he reached down and grabbed my right hand, slowly bringing it up to the massive, hardened stick now tenting his basketball shorts.

I trembled…

“No, we can’t..”

With that, he grabbed the back of my head like a basketball…totally palming it… and brought it toward his hardon, still in his shorts.

I gasped.

“I know this is what you want, and I want you to have it…” he said.

Then, without even pulling his shorts down, he pulled his throbbing uncut 9.5 inch dick through the bottom of his shorts.

Then as I was admiring it, he looked down at me and said “Look at me, let me see them pretty fuckin’ eyes,” as he held his cock like a baseball bat.

“Stick your tongue out,” he commanded…

I sat there… froze

“Stick your fucking tongue out,” he repeated…

I did.

“I haven’t had my dick sucked in 8 years,” he said…

He jacked his foreskin softly, causing salty, slimy precum to gurgle up the slit of his penis… 

He rubbed the pungent, salty liquod across my top lip first, then on my tongue…

Then, it’s like all my sexual frustration took over and opened wide deepthroating his cock while looking up at him… 

His eyes rolled to the back of his had as he mumbled “ahhh fuckin’ bitch” and forced my head even further…

He held my head…forcing his thick baby maker all the way down…constricting my airflow…

I was now choking…gasping for air…

All this as he looked down at me…grunting…

I could tell he hadn’t had this type of attention in a long time… Jamaal was also sexually frustrated…

Then, I felt his heavy, plum-sized balls tense up…

And his abs began to constrict…

Jamaal was cumming down my throat…

“Take my babies,” he mumbled…

I could feel the first three ropes going down my esophagus as Jamaal convulsed up against the wall…

It was as if he were having a seizure…but standing…

He heaved… exhausted… falling back against the wall as two more long ropes striped my face… a little getting into my eyes and nose… a bit getting into my mouth…

He slid down to the floor… his shorts now around his ankles…

His cock pointed straight up… still hard…and throbbing…as he lay there…

I continued gasping to catch my breath and embrace the moment.

I looked over at him, realizing this beast was now dozing off…

“Jamaal, you have to go,” I said.

He opened his eyes, got up without saying a word, and slowly walked out of the office as I sat trying to realize what had happened…and wondering what would happen next.

I didn’t wonder about the cameras…

I didn’t wonder how I would deal with what had just happened…

No.

I unbuttoned my slacks, pulled out my 7-inch cock, and jerked off while fingering my soft, tight, Latino bubble ass…

Still savoring remnants of the cum that had just been deposited directly into my stomach…