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.

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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...

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“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...”