Wednesday, August 31, 2016

Probation VI

Peter’s thoughts are diverted. His normal rigorous attention to the market wanders, thinking about the strict protocol mandated by his home detention.

After being diapered and cuffed, Miss Abby returned to the kitchen. There she emptied every drawer of utensils, every cabinet of plates and glassware. All food removed. Refrigerator emptied. Admonishing in pointing out the many things Peter failed to move to storage, his neck collar was zinged in punishment.

Not even a knife and fork remaining for use, all went to the garage. Peter then noted that it was padlocked. In returning, she took the time to lock both bathrooms, taking the keys. Then gave her last directive for the evening.

‘Leave the house unlocked. There will be deliveries... workmen.’
So yes, his thoughts are diverted. How in diapers... smelly diapers... is he to greet visitors... delivery men? And what workers? And then there’s the neck collar to explain...

The doorbell rings. Peter’s heart leaps. What to do? Before deciding he hears his front door open. A husky male voice calls out.

“Delivery! Any one home? I have instructions to put this in the basement.”

“I... I’m sick in bed. The basement door is to your left. Should be open.”

What is the delivery? Though insatiably curious, Peter dares not show himself... collared... naked but for the smelly diaper. How can he explain himself? He begins to realize that his home detention is more limited then imagined. Even in the small spare bedroom he fears neighbors seeing him through curtainless windows.

Some market trades occupy his mind, not hearing the delivery man leave. Besides there is no need to check on anything. All possessions are locked in his garage.

Within an hour the doorbell rings again. This time a crew of men enter, calling out their presence and moving to the basement without further comment. For hours the rumble of heavy tools and machinery can be heard, again rousing curiosity. Whatever modifications Miss Abby has contrived are being timely initiated.

At midday there come reminder zings on his collar. Alas the recharger has been left in the den office!

With sunlight blazing throughout the house, not even comfortable slinking in the small bedroom, Peter faces a dilemma. The shyness brings reservation. Yet the growing agony as the reminder shocks become stronger and stronger demands response. There comes analysis. Neighbors may be few at midday, perhaps a dash to the den will be unnoticed. But the workmen remain toiling in the basement.  

A debilitating shock forces Peter from his desk. He has no choice. The recharger must be found and connected. He tiptoes to the stairs checking out the windows. Nothing. He descends. Then comes the ultimate ignominy. Having held his bladder since the early morning mishap, a unbearable jolt comes. He stutter steps, catches himself, but urinates, the power of the electrical device bringing loss of control.

He pauses, lets the flow finish, regaining composure. Oh the humiliation, a woman’s hand controlling from afar. Yet the warmth, overriding the irritating cold wetness, feels good.

Miss Abby said he would acclimate. He begins to understand.

Continuing, the delay has consequences. There come thumps of work boots on the basement stairs. Peter ducks into the den, veiling himself from the workman but exposing his diapered form to passersby on the street. He curses the floor to ceiling window, installed to offer invigorating daylight in his place of work. Now it brings distress.

“Know you’re in there. Caught a glimpse of the... well whatever it is you’re wearing. Almost done. We’ll have the water turned back on so you can... shower.”

The male voice is craggy, aging. Apparently a plumber. And Peter quickly concludes the odor of his twice soiled diaper permeates the house as he moves about.

The offer of a  shower is appealing. But both bathrooms are locked.

“Thank you. I’m not feeling well... not dressed.” Peter desperately plugging in his neck collar as he speaks, hoping the man will not seek a face to face talk.

Lying supine on the den carpet to best cloak his presence, Peter hears the front door open and close. Within minutes there are more footsteps, another opening and closing and gratefully the house turns to silence.  

It’s a long day.

Saturday, August 27, 2016

Probation V

A short segment today. Look for more on Wednesday 8/31/16 as recompense.


Peter arises early. In the predawn light he can move about the house unseen through the large picture windows. In peering out, he curses the early morning dog walkers. He had not before noticed there were so many. Thus he dares not turn on any lights. Still, the rising sun offers enough light to find his way about.

Though attempting to focus on the task at hand, he has urgent needs. Throughout the night he has been able to delay responding to nature’s call, but his bladder is full, the morning ritual of standing before the toilet infeasible with the wickedly tight locking garment.

So though the goal is to move his office... not to the basement but instead to a second floor spare bedroom, fenestration somewhat limited, his bladder begins to ache and the sight of passing neighbors too frequently causes him to scurry from the den window.

Computer disassembled and moved... office chair... the desk proves to be a burden. He lifts and turns, positioning the smooth flat top surface on the rug. With the resistance minimized, he pushes and it readily slides. But the straining motion finally brings the overwhelming need to empty his bladder. He cedes, wetting himself.

Curious how it initially feels so good, the warm wetness coating his scrotum... with his untoward penile length, he feels the flow on his anus as well.

Peter finds himself pausing from the task at hand, oddly reveling in the sensations, the inner cloth liner most absorbent. Gratefully, nothing leaks. But when he returns to the desk, the night’s excretions rapidly cool. By the time he positions the desk at the stairs, he senses irritation, the acidic moisture beginning to inflame the pink flesh of his anus and scrotal sac.

No wonder infants cry when change is needed, comes an initial thought. Then he realizes, in being locked, Miss Abby not expected until the end of the day, the torment of his wetness is only beginning.

Pulling the desk up the stairs, Peter completes the move well before the stock market opens. At least he can work, he thinks in comforting himself. But then comes the smell, the odorous urine seeping about, the stench to remain for the day.


Saturday, August 20, 2016

Probation IV

It’s mid day. Peter works on the computer in his near empty house. The market is soft, not much trading needed. He daydreams. Then comes distraction. The sound of a heavy diesel engine... squeaky brakes. He moves to the curtainless window of his den. A tow truck is backing into his driveway. When the driver exits, Peter hastily moves to the front door, exiting cautiously, aware of his collar. He curses himself for not having it covered. There is not time to do so.

“Hey, that’s my car!”

The driver holds up paperwork.

“It’s to be confiscated. Probation Bureau demand, authorized by a judge. This copy’s for you.”

The burly driver, unkept, unshaven thrusts forth grease stained papers then begins hooking up the car. Peter reads. It appears all legit. And he need not get into an altercation while on probation. Still it is painful, the auto paid for in cash the year before... $65,000.

“Nice collar... woof, woof,” the driver mocks in pulling a lever.

The sardonic words bring awareness. Neighbors are not to see Peter Delano with electrified collar. As a winch turns to tighten a connecting cable, he retreats, nothing to be gained by further observing his car departing for the impound lot. His thoughts turn to a demand on the list of Probation Officer Abby Bates... title to the auto.


“There was no mention of my car being confiscated, Miss Abby,” Peter trying to sound as humble as possible.

“I decided it’s for the best. You’re not going anywhere. And funds will be required for... certain home improvements. The title?”

A shaking hand passes the demanded document.

“Empty the refrigerator. You’ll only have the food I provide. There will be wine, but it is only for me. Any amount missing from the bottle will be met with punishment.”

With that, a smirking Abby Bates makes a show of pointing the remote control and pressing. Peter feels somewhat grateful that only a reminder jolt bursts at his cerebral cortex.

“And was I not specific that all clothing was to be placed in storage... in your garage,” the tone rebuking.

“Well... it’s all there.”

“No it is not,” Abby scolds, her hand reaching to gather a fold of Peter’s shirt. “You need to learn discipline and obedience, Peter. Had the judge decided on jail time, that’s what you’d be subjected to... and that’s what’s going to happen during your probation. Your first infraction of the rules.”

“But I can’t... I need to work... and before you... without any...” Peter sputters.

“You’ll appear before me as I demand... as I desire. You certainly had no qualms exposing yourself to a young girl. And I’m an adult... with experience... with perverts. Now strip. You’ll wear what I want you to wear.”

“But there are no curtains... the neighbors!”

“Yes, they are close by... and you have many windows... large. Curious that you now find reservations in showing yourself. Well, I’ll offer a reprieve. Come to the basement. I want you naked... then I’ll dress you. And you’ll not be doing your lasso trick... disgusting boy.”

Peter finds himself oddly grateful to be led to his windowless basement. He notes Miss Abby brings with her a bag. And he also feels another reminder shock, the collar distressingly effective.

“Come, come... get those clothes off... now!” the command coming with a third jolt.

A panicking Peter complies, sloppily tossing aside pants, socks, shirt... pausing in his jockey shorts.

“Everything,” the menacing word hissed with another shock.

The briefs are added to the pile.

“Now, before dressing you, I’m going to talk. I have boys get very attentive when naked and vulnerable before a woman... a stern woman with directives.”

Peter finds himself nodding, compliance readily offered.

“First, you may wish to move your office... perhaps here in the basement. Your choice.”

“Second you’re to be diapered... and that’s all you are to wear for me. I will bathe and change you. When you receive a reminder shock at day’s end you are to come to the basement. You will put these about your wrists, Posey cuffs, comfortable yet ineluctable. Then don this hood over your head. I’ll want you blindfolded. Come do it for me... hurry up.”

A shocked Peter hastily obeys, discovering indeed that his wrists find surprising comfort with the foam lined cuffs. A black cloth hood follows, gratefully there is a large opening for the mouth and nose.

“Good boy. Now, there will be some men coming to install... well... certain apparatuses to augment my care. I’m going to have some plumbing done... paid for by the sale of your car. When the work is completed you will come to the basement and kneel. Steel bars will be installed for you to grasp. It is in that position you will await my arrival. You will not know precisely when I am expected... but I will find you here in the basement, kneeling, hooded and cuffed for me. Is that clear?”

“Yes Miss Abby.”

“So kneel... on all fours, thighs well apart.”

It is then that Abby finds herself pausing... admiring the amazingly long penis of the drunk flasher Peter Delano. It swings about heavily, Abby amused to see the tip just about grazing the basement floor. She is also amused to see it begin to firm, the intense humiliation of being under the command of a fully clothed woman having the expected effect on these miscreants... those with soft eyes and puppy dog looks.

“We have complementing penchants... you and I. I like caring for boys... like having them perform for me in gratitude. Like it when they beg a little... finding my attention to be... exciting,”

With her words Abby reaches to her bag. Therein is an absorbent cloth diaper. With her years, the many demented years of diapering her teenaged brother... the photo of him in make up and panties utilized for a long interval in extorting his abject obedience... Abby stoops, readily placing her charge in the soft fluffiness.

“It’s termed adult baby syndrome. And I think a pervert like you will readily adapt. But in case you don’t there are precautions.”

With that, Abby removes from the bag the coup de grace. A rugged outer diaper, canvas, lockable, shards of steel sown within to preclude cutting. With equal dexterity, Peter finds his waist encircled. Then comes discomfort. Abby gleefully palms the tip of his expanding penis and gruffly presses back, smiling in noting that the extraordinary length brings the tip past his anus.

He’ll suffer well in pooping on himself, she thinks with a laugh.

Working quickly, the locking strap, permanently attached to the front, is drawn between the thighs, up the gluteal cleft, pulled to breathtaking tightness, buckled and locked.

“It’s too tight,” the words coming as music to the ears of Peter’s defacto governess.

“It will be as tight as I want it... not as tight as you want. You’re no longer in control... of anything.”

“But I can’t pee... can’t use the toilet.”

“Yes, wonderfully daunting is it not. You’re going to soil yourself... and be in need. I will visit to care for you... every night. You’ll be bathed... offered some time out of your diaper so you can perform for me, then powdered and diapered again. Yes, it is wicked... and odd. But most oddly, you’ll come to enjoy. I know boys like you. Know of your needs. And you’ll be thanking me every day for addressing them.” 

“But I look ridiculous... in a diaper.”

“I agree. It’s temporary. We’ll be making some changes over the next few days... more of the exposure you so much enjoy. But for now I want to begin acclimating you. It takes time to mold the male psyche... have you cede to maternal care. But it can be done. I had my brother in diapers for years... until he went to college.” 

Wednesday, August 17, 2016

'A Cuckolded Gimp'

Just came across a story I wrote a year ago... only posted two snippets on the blog. August 29, 2015 and September 5, 2015.

'A Cuckolded Gimp'.

Available on Lulu ( $3.50.

My miserably brief synopsis....

Philandering with the maid! How shocking! Learn of the comeuppance meted to trust baby William Charles when a domineering wife reeks revenge for his disloyalty. Not to be read by those unfamiliar with D/s erotica.

Think it's an extreme story but thought provoking and never really sold well. Probably got lost in the wave of stuff I released shortly thereafter. But it's Female Dominant with bondage, humiliation and obviously cuckolding for those who may have interest.

Tuesday, August 16, 2016

'Probation' published

For those who wish to read ahead, the complete short story, 21,000 words, is now available on Lulu. $4.50.
Segments will continue to posted here to September 10th... but not the complete story.




Saturday, August 13, 2016

Monkey Milk

My good friend Dr. Rylie, of R &R Tantra Intimate Remedies, has developed special lubricants which could be propitious while reading the blog.

Monkey Milk, personal lubes and massage creams.

Probation III

Peter Delano takes a deep breath, sighing in relief as the dark blue sedan of the Probation Bureau backs from his driveway. This imposing woman, Miss Abby, strongly suggested he begin working on the list, the house to be conformed for the rigors of home confinement. The demands are strange, but who is he to quibble? The judge was gracious in his sentencing, record of his arrest to be suppressed... permanently... if the one year of probation is completed with perfect behavior. And impudently questioning instructions on the first meeting would certainly earn rebuke.

Registered as an investment advisor with FINRA... the Financial Industry Regulatory Authority... convictions must not only be disclosed to the regulators... but also to clients... the wealthy, upper crust snobs who pay his fees in managing their funds. An arrest and conviction for indecent exposure... and to a minor...will certainly not fly... no matter his investment prowess.   

So the tasks begin, no questions asked.

First his car. A one year old Mercedes, he backs it from the garage, careful not to step from his property, the electronic collar not to be tested, in leaving the vehicle at the end of his driveway.

Next, all furniture is to be removed and stowed. The garage offers ample room and Peter, though slight of build, lifts and moves most. There are permitted exceptions... the mattress from his bed to remain on the bedroom floor. The desk, chair and computer where he daily works, monitoring the large accounts of his clients, remain in the first floor den.

He notes that the instructions are specific concerning his clothing. The clothes closet is to be emptied, the garage again offering storage space.

All curtains are to be removed. An odd requirement, but Peter assumes that the house will be better monitored from the street. Perhaps there is such a thing as drive by surveillance for those in home detention.  

Space is to be cleared in the basement. Easy compliance with that requirement... the chamber is practically empty.

At day’s end, Peter calls a neighbor. Assistance is needed for the heavier items of furniture and Peter, donning a turtleneck sweater to cloak his collar, cleverly informs that there will home improvements coming, painting the interior quicker and easier with all furniture removed. His arrest and probation is not to be disclosed.

Finished, Peter views his empty house in deep thought. He imagines that a prison cell, though smaller, would offer equivalent stark ambiance. This home detention may be more daunting than anticipated.

Still, he’ll keep his clients, his revenue stream, his livelihood. In that he finds relative relief.


Bureau Chief Abby Bates smiles, pleased with her performance. Peter Delano not only bit, he swallowed the bait whole. Not even a question about the electronic collar, much less the extensive and exacting list of tasks to prepare his home. It’s designed for dogs, modified by a friend with electrical skills.

On the drive back to the office, her mind reveling, there come recollections, comforting recollections of times risque yet fun and festive.

Brought up by a hardworking single mother, a young Abby was anointed with the task of caring for younger brother Bobbie, many years her junior. Yes, she learned to bathe and change diapers at an early age. And Bobbie enjoyed her tenderness, stubbornly resisting potty training until kindergarten days. Such proved to be telling.

Mother was unaware that Abby, tiring of the constant need for changing, had Bobbie prancing about the house naked for most of the afternoons under her auspices. He came to enjoy her supervision... yielding readily to her authority... her control. And in knowing not to soil the carpeting, sans clothing and diaper Bobbie’s bathroom needs became better monitored.

Then came school for Bobbie and the hijinks ended... until...


“Bobbie, what are you doing!”

Older sister Abby has surprised. Arriving home from college early... and unexpectedly... brother Bobbie, a pubescent teen, is caught in flagrante delicto. He’s in her bedroom wearing a set of her panties, sheer and sleek. Worse, there is nothing else, except Mom’s make up. Bobbie has prettified himself.... lipstick, rouge, even trimmed his eyebrows.

“You little pervert. What is mother going to say?” Abby’s admonishment continuing. “It’s been awhile since you had a bare bottomed spanking.”

“Please sis, you won’t tell her.”

Bobbie became precocious as a teen... a rascal. There have been many years suffering from his obnoxious adolescent taunting. And now Abby senses an opportunity... for the return of power and control. The times of bathing and diapering offered a girl of Abby’s ilk such a sense of satisfying empowerment. So she pauses, arms akimbo, scheming. Brother Bobbie has needs, she realizes. Studying such in college, her major psychology and criminal justice, she has read of deviance, the warped needs of males... particularly those with raging hormones. Bobbie has an illness... as big sister she will nurse it... perhaps nurture it.

She steps forth, calming. She smiles, her hands reaching to cradle Bobbie’s prettified head. She comforts, speaking softly, noting the tears of remorse.

“I’ll not tell. But we’ll make an agreement. I want a picture Bobbie. No picture, no deal.”  

Bobbie nods. He has no choice, his mind racing as Abby moves to a dresser drawer, there to retrieve a camera.

“What are you going to do with it?” Bobbie’s tone one of pitiful desperation.  

“I’m going to assure you are a good boy... or perhaps I should say a good girl,” the camera clicking, several photos snapped.

“Now let’s get you out of my panties. Mom won’t give you a bare bottom spanking... I will. And after, you’ll need to be washed up. I haven’t bathed you in a while. And you so much enjoyed it years ago...”   

Saturday, August 6, 2016

Probation II

Abby Bates reviews her list, contrived under the guise of court ordered restrictions. She nods to herself approvingly, tossing the page into her brief bag, stuffed with recent purchases. She next checks her Glock, assuring that the holstered weapon on her hip is conspicuous, projecting her image of authority.

She steps to a closet and opens. The inside door offers a full length mirror, reflecting her broad shouldered near six foot frame. Never considering herself beauteous, her size deflecting from what would be considered glamorous femininity, she finds handsomeness, looks which portray an aura of confidence, of authority, void of the nonsense of girlish fashion.

Short and brushed back, guys term it a ‘duck tail’, her raven hair yields to streaks of gray which she stubbornly refuses to color. Yet her physique projects relative youth. Limited fat, Abby works out constantly, impressing local gym rats with her weight lifting. A flat stomach enhances the bulge of her breasts, proportional... thus of size. Given an opportunity, she is convinced with time and attention she could evoke male attraction... sans badge, gun and staid professional attire.

Satisfied, closing the door, she grabs her brief bag. To the Bureau sedan, out of the parking garage, to the streets, to 127 Oak Lane, home... now defacto prison... of sex offender Peter Delano.

Her appointment is for 11:00 a.m. During the drive she rehearses, her demands will be considered uncommon... perhaps curious... perhaps bizarre. Therefore she must communicate such with straightforwardness... no hesitation... no vocal tremulations. And the more she considers the more stimulated she becomes.

She has this Peter Delano... she owns. She is empowered. No one else in the Bureau knows of his case, knows of Bureau Chief Abby Bates’ interdiction in the monitoring of his probation. Being his first offence, he has no conception of what to expect... what is the norm. But he does understand the need to stay off the list of registered sex offenders. And that is crucial, for Abby Bates will assure that he does... given the complete capitulation and abject obedience she will demand of him.

Pulling into the driveway of 127 Oak Lane, Abby is heartened to see the long stretch of pavement leads to a detached garage at the rear of the property. She makes a mental note... to purchase a padlock for her next visit.

She rings the doorbell. As expected, a contrite Peter Delano opens the door promptly.

“Officer Bates, Probation Bureau, Mr. Delano. Are we alone as per our instructions?”

“Ah, yes... Ma’am.”

Abby represses a smile. Peter Delano is better looking then his arrest photo, such never being flattering. He’s boyishly cute, and the eyes... soft... brown... yielding. He may be a tiger in trading and investing securities... but his persona is all pussy cat.    

Abby brusquely steps within, no permission requested, intentionally manifesting her position of authority. She wordlessly moves to the living room, placing her brief bag on an end table.

“All alcohol removed from the house... no weapons? Don’t lie, we’re obligated to check... and we do,” Abby assuring her gun is in plain view.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Good. Here’s a list of things that need to be done. Have it all completed by tomorrow evening. I’ll be visiting regularly. I suggest that ‘Miss Abby’ will suffice in addressing me. And you’ll be Peter, drop the formalities.”

“Yes Ma’am... ah... Miss Abby.”

“You’ve read the court’s directives. Electronic monitoring... at the Bureau’s discretion,” Abby moving to a well stuffed comfortable chair.

“Yes Miss Abby,” Peter Delano moving to sit opposite.

“I did not say to sit down. I want you here, standing in front of me,” the words stern and admonishing.

“Sorry,” Peter stepping forth.

“Sorry what?” the tone even sharper.

“Sorry... ah... Miss Abby.”

Abby smiles to herself, reaching to the brief bag. There a meaty hand grasps a collar.

“We’ve recently made some procedural changes. The electronic ankle bracelets are expensive. And though able to monitor do not have the capability to offer... discipline,” a hand gesturing, suggesting that Peter kneel.

Frightened, not knowing what to expect, Peter complies as Abby holds up a strip of nylon laced with wiring. It is thick, with a pod in the middle.

“Come,” Abby wriggling her finger come hither.

Peter shuffles on his knees, humbly presenting himself.

“It’s electronic... though good boys won’t feel its full power.”

Large effeminate yet powerful hands work to encircle the neck. The strip is buckled. Then comes a click... locked in place. Abby next produces a remote control.

“Hopefully you’ll only feel this once,” a finger daintily pressing a button, mocking with the ease of actuating the device.

Peter Delano involuntarily yelps, spasmodically falling to the carpet with the instantaneous pain.

“Curious, is it not? Dogs seems to have the same reaction, make the same sound. Ha, ha, ha,” the snicker wicked.

The fingers adjust, turning a dial.

“That is deemed a punishment shock... there are lesser settings... best termed reminders and warnings should you move about unauthorized. Now here is the charger. Plug in your collar twice per day. It’s cleverly programmed to offer jolting reminder shocks as the power drains... so be diligent in keeping it charged.”

“Yes Miss Abby.”

“Good. Now you sit and stay like a good boy while I check the house. It’s fortunate you work from home, Peter... can make a living during home confinement. It will be a year... initially.”