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.”