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...”   

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.”

Probation I

Probation

Copyright 2016

by Chris Bellows

Bureau Chief Abby Bates reviews the week’s new cases. It’s tedious, mostly involving standard stuff... boys being boys... bar fights, vandalism, open container violations... all misdeeds in which the presiding judge decides jail time is inappropriate, the taxpayer not to be burdened with the cost of incarceration. Thus there comes the need for probation, a given interval of time when boys will be good boys... or its off to the pokey. And therefore the cases come to the Probation Bureau and gain the attention of Abby Bates.

So the cases are reviewed... who is to be assigned to monitor compliance with the judge’s orders. Some can be challenging and those are assigned to the experienced officers. Some involve little effort... assuring that community service is indeed offered. It’s judgmental, but after twenty years with the bureau the judgement of Abby Bates reigns.

File after file, Abby reads quickly then affixes an officer’s name to the routing sheet on the front cover. Alas, there comes a pause... a case of interest!

Indecent exposure! One Peter Delano exhibiting his peter, Abby smiles to herself. This needs careful review, perverts are typically repeat offenders. Is Peter Delano a pervert?

The case files are detailed, every known fact concerning the infraction plus everything there is to know about the defendant, divulged willingly and under oath in attempting to avoid jail time. 

Abby reads more diligently. Peter Delano, age 30, is single, self employed as a financial consultant, apparently a gifted investor. Ivy league education, MBA from the University of Chicago, lives in a modest bungalow but the stated income is impressive, obviously choosing to keep his lifestyle expenses limited in fear or anticipation of market pressures, client setbacks.

No prior arrests. Traffic tickets here and there, the dates suggesting youthful driving indiscretions while in college.

Physical attributes... he’s slight, 5 foot 5 inches, 135 pounds. His photo... boyish, belying his 30 years. Not the type to be starting fights, bullying, intimidating.

So what happened?

Abby flips to the case section of the file. An inebriated Peter Delano and friends ended a long Friday evening by visiting a local bar. Known as a pick up place, their reasons were obviously prurient. They began talking to some girls. There came a wager within Peter’s group as to who could first score with one particularly cute patron. The girl rebuffed all advances, Peter’s included. This drew the ire of the group and Peter chose unwisely to advance both his proposal and his attributes. To the cheers of his likewise inebriated buddies he pulled out his penis to impress and assure in the fog of alcohol of his sincerity and prowess.

Peter ran into a confluence of events which made his emboldened action particularly foolhardy. First, whereas the girl’s friends were indeed impressed, no doubt infused with alcohol themselves, the targeted girl was dead sober, anointed for the evening as the group’s designated driver. Second, the girl was so designated because she was not old enough to drink... matter of fact deemed a minor under the law. Third, cell phone cameras are ubiquitous. Sobriety enabled the girl to quickly snap Peter’s peter as he drew it from his zipper and to the encouraging shouts of his cheering friends did ‘the lasso’, swinging about a long flaccid appendage as one would a length of rope.         

‘Tsk, tsk,’ Abby finds herself sympathizing. Yet, the lad is fortunate, the judge deciding to suspend the addition of Peter Delano’s name to the sex offender registration list if he maintains good behavior during probation. One year of home confinement, electronic ankle bracelet to be worn at the discretion of the Probation Bureau... other restrictions if deemed appropriate to protect the public.   

Interesting, the Bureau is empowered. Now, who in the Bureau is best to interview Peter Delano and decide on the necessity of electronic monitoring?

Then Abby Bates turns to the final page. It is the photo evidence... a graphic snapshot. With modern technology, the digital photography of even the simplest of cell phone camera’s is incredibly revealing. It shows that nature has compensated Peter Delano for his slight stature, Abby quickly concludes. For his right hand holds his flaccid penis at the base, yet an amazingly long cylinder of flesh is being flipped high in the air at the moment of the photo. Judging from the size of the hand, Abby approximates a full eight inches of penile flesh protrudes beyond the grip.

Abby senses twinges, moisture forming within her loins. Her psyche reverts. Presently in her late forties, a career in law enforcement has stifled certain... predilections. But now such return.

In closing the Peter Delano file, her pen hand moves to the routing sheet atop. The case officer assigned... Bureau Chief Abby Bates.

The imposing woman of size and determination sits back in her large office chair and smiles, imagining the restrictions, fantasizing as long repressed desires return.

New short story

Look tomorrow morning 7/30/16, for the beginning of a new short story. Female dominant /male submissive.

Meanwhile, what safe word does Bill use when frolicking with Hillary? Any one have a guess?

Indentured to the Davenport Irrevocable Trust

For those who enjoyed 'Tie Me Chicago', I have posted a sequel... 'Indentured to the Davenport Irrevocable Trust'

http://www.lulu.com/content/e-book/indentured-to-the-davenport-irrevocable-trust/18725801

Some 13,000 words, $4.00

 

Tie Me Chicago XVI

This will be the last posting from this story. As a reminder the entire book is available from Lulu.

$4.50.

http://www.lulu.com/content/e-book/tie-me-chicago/18036036

****************************************************************************

I’m not sure why, when encountering intervals of duress, the memories of Miss Eve begin to percolate. But there comes much concern... mental and emotional stress... as Miss Theresa guides me to an opposing wall, quite plain in its unmarked whiteness. There I stand, Miss Monica proximate with a very expensive looking digital camera, lens impressive in both length and girth. 

“Hands at your sides, face the camera, no smiling,” the commands of Miss Theresa coming by rote.

There come a series of clicks. When Miss Monica nods in satisfaction, Miss Theresa commands again, directing me to turn for profile snapshots of my naked, oiled form. I feel I am to be incarcerated, the poses meticulous, the clicks many.

As I turn again, photos of my backside, then bend for more clicks, then part my cheeks, the photos become more and more explicit. And yes, Miss Eve comes to mind.

As stated we became an item about the local Chicago suburb. Miss Eve would pick me up after school many days per week, driving to the gym where I would disrobe. Workouts were performed in the nude, penis enshrouded in the steel mesh to bring comfort to those followers of Sapphos.

And yes, Miss Eve kept the key... and kept me locked, hormones raging, the craving for Friday afternoons in mom’s bathroom thereafter becoming stronger and stronger. I became oddly proud when permitted to perform for her, my ultimate eruptions at times spurting well beyond the length of the tub... Miss Eve attributing such shows of obeisant virility to her demanding gym work.

Thus my addiction became stronger and stronger as well. There was no teenaged social life... and I wanted no teenaged social life. I was hers.

Then came graduation... high school for me... college for her. Like my sister, I in turn went off to college. Miss Eve found employment, as a physical therapist/trainer, a personal advisor to a wealthy family, the money from what I was told, bountiful.

As stated, in college I learned... really forced myself... to date, mingle with girls in a more conventional manner. But the laving hands, the knowing penetration, the prostate manipulation, the streaming warm water on a stiff penis untouched, the count to three, were... have been... will be... forever etched on my mind... my libido... my warped libido.

I never again saw Miss Eve, never again ejaculated for her, her gentle commanding touch so much missed.

So I find myself standing naked, two authoritative women... the clinicians of Tie Me Chicago... having their way... being photographed most obscenely... most explicitly, like a prisoner. And it brings the memories.

Finally, the photo session ends, Miss Theresa stepping forth, sizable anal plug in one hand a thick strip of padded nylon in the other.

“The plug will ensure you put on a good performance, though from what we’ve seen it probably is not necessary. The collar... for your safety. It’s not within the Kinbaku tradition, but Midori will quickly have it covered.”

It is indeed a neck collar... institutional. As Miss Theresa encircles I find it is high, comfortable and no doubt safe. And most importantly, my throat and the ability to breathe will not be impaired.

“You’re to be suspended. Though the tapes are edited to eight to ten minutes, the attending patrons demand more... and deserve it.”

Next I am plugged... anally... finding that I am not the first the dour woman has impaled. With the abundance of mineral oil, the stout cylinder of black rubber slips inward with embarrassing ease.

It is then that Miss Midori returns, rope in hand. In silence, she ties to my neck collar, uttering the commands to place my hands atop my head, further spurring memories of Miss Eve, and to follow. Again I feel as if being led to the gallows, and again the swelling returns. I am distraught... I am happy... I am excited... I am aroused. And the notion that I understand so little of these conflicting emotions yet women of Miss Eve and Miss Midori’s ilk understand so well... distresses.    

Tie Me Chicago XV

“Sit up,” Miss Theresa commands.

Deemed glabrous, I rise from lying where the clinicians have tended to my nakedness, turning to dangle my feet and legs over the sides.

Miss Theresa and Miss Monica stand to my right and left, bottles of mineral oil at the ready. I am massaged, many fingers work to both bring an attractive gleam and search for any unruly follicle escaping the razor.

There is an ingrained reaction, the many years of Miss Eve similarly grazing my nakedness with a soft soapy cloth. Yes I begin to harden, my imagination listening for the count to three.  

It is then that Miss Midori Matsumoyo enters, her splendid form covered in tight black leather.

She casually strolls to stand before me, eyes examining. For some reason I know to remain silent... obediently silent.

“Nicely built, as I expected, good pectorals,” reaching to graze her hand over my oiled right nipple. “My intention was for you to visit, see more of my work, talk a little about your interest, your reaction to my demonstration of Shibari at the county fair. Instead it seems you prefer to immerse yourself.”

Distracted by her beauty, I had not noticed before a sheet of paper in her right hand. She lifts her hand and reads.

“Matthew Donzinger, 556 Michigan Avenue, apartment 13 D. Accounting Manager for Sterling Industries...”

Miss Matsumoto reads from the profile sheet completed in the reception area. In sitting naked before her, my vulnerability becomes dismayingly apparent... and my stupidity. She knows all! Employer name and address, my work phone, name of supervisor. I must have been delirious to divulge so much. 

“Six foot two, 220 pounds, penis of eight inches... confirmed by staff... uncircumcised,” finally completing the litany of information, stuff one does not divulge on the internet these days.

“So... you want to model for me, Matthew Donzinger,” more statement than question. “At least I hope you do. I have patrons expecting a show tonight.... including viewers in Japan. There’s a hole in my schedule I need to fill. Plus I need fresh video material,” handing the profile sheet to Miss Theresa. “What are your intentions? Interest piqued?”

“Will I be hooded... masked?” my question lame, the features of every model on the website fully shown.

As expected Miss Midori simply smiles. It is a sinister smile.

“You need to better understand the art form of Kinbaku, Mr. Matthew Donzinger. For many patrons... most patrons... it is the haji of the kyaputibu which most interests and enthralls. Covering your face, bringing you the comfort of anonymity, would temper that. There are others who wish to see your humbled reaction to josei no pawa. The kutsujoku of submitting to josei no pawa.”

I nod, stupidly, not understanding a word of Japanese other than Kinbaku, learned from the Tie Me Chicago website.

“Your penis is firming, Matt, once again indicating you enjoy the role of kyaputibu... of being my captive.”

It is. All the stress... realizing the woman knows so much about me, denying the comfort of a hood or mask... and my somatic reaction is to become erect! I am shamed.

“You’ve signed the releases. It’s now a simple matter to walk with me down to the studio. From that point, you have no more responsibilities... no more cares. You will be under my power... my control. And I think that excites you. For the evening there is a stipend of $500. Many use the money to reconcile their subconscious... their guilt... that they only subject themselves to the caprice of the Nawashi because of the money. So you may use that to justify your decision. But here at Tie Me Chicago we know better. You have needs, Matthew Donzinger... I can fulfill... I will fulfill.”

She knowingly accepts my silence as concurrence.

“Photo, plug and collar him, Theresa, then post his profile. The customers always like reading about our new kyaputibus. The studio is packed. I need to show him off.”