Probation Officer #64: Jock the director

Posted on August 24, 2013 by jaime

Jock, the director, said, “You’ve written a report? That’s something. Give it here.”

Jock took my report and turned away to skim it. I hate it when people do that with anything I’ve written. I like to read their faces while they read me. Jock was a terrifying bastard, with a big red face, a gorilla’s arm muscles and a pigeon’s chest. He’d passed the mandatory age but no-one had the nerve to tell him to retire.

He spun his chair back to face me. “It’s good in a way. And it’s bullshit.”

“Bullshit?” I was more surprised than offended. I thought I’d written something honest.

“Yes. Read that and it’s clear that you’re to blame. You probably think writing that’s a noble … gesture or something.”

“It’s just what I think was happening.”

“Ah, bullshit, Jaime. Actually, I expected you to produce some bullshit. Just, I thought it’d be something that covers your arse. Since you’re a clever bastard. But this isn’t even clever.” Jock was known to take some of the cockier young offenders to the Police and Citizens boxing ring, to show them that a man in his sixties could beat them. He said he was demonstrating that violence is meaningless. Really, he thought it got their attention.

I was getting annoyed. “I was trying to protect my colleagues.”

“Y’arrogant little weasel, you think the people here need your protection? We’ve been doing this longer than you’ve known how to tie your own laces. You thought it’d be romantic to throw your career away. Make a big gesture, take all the blame and walk. That’s no use to us. We’d rather you turn up to work every day. Do your share.”

“Well, Lance is going to jail. He’s not going to do very well there. That’s down to me.”

“Well, Jaime, it aint. Guess who’s fault it is? It’s Lance’s. You can’t mind him every minute of his life. You couldn’t stop him from fucking his life up when you weren’t around, because you’re not god. Contrary to what you seem to think. Here, take this report back. Keep it somewhere, and have a look at it if you ever start thinking you’re clever again.”

Probation officer #63: Freedom of speech

Posted on August 23, 2013 by jaime

Sa’afia said, “Someone can hear you? You’re in the office?”

“Yes. That’s absolutely correct.”

“Hah. Ok, the sticky item will be on the table, at six. And I better let you go.”

“Excuse me a moment.” I took off my jacket, made it into a tight bundle, and threw it hard at the door. It shut. “And Sa’afia.”

“Yes?”

“I expect you to be waiting for me naked. Standing naked by the table. Ready to get the stick across your slutty little ass. And for me to fuck you afterwards.” I heard her gasp. I hung up.

Authority is a complicated thing. I put my jacket back on and went to see the director.

Probation officer #62: Agenda item

Posted on August 22, 2013 by jaime

Sa’afia hesitated, or she pretended to. “Yes, sir.”

“That’s better. Now, what am I going to do if you don’t please me?”

“You wouldn’t spank me?” It was a tone of voice that went with batted eyelashes and other signs of utter sincerity.

“Sa’afia, you know I won’t. I’m not going to use my hand. What will I use?”

“The stick.”

I wondered what “the” stick was. It sounded promisingly specific. I said, “Now, do you think I’m pleased with you?”

She sounded very solemn. “No, sir.” She was laughing at me, and yet I knew that if I touched her she would shake. Just as I was both amused and excited by her.

“So what are you getting?”

“You’re going to give me the stick, sir.”

“Exactly. Hang on.” The director had stuck his head in my office door, and mouthed, ‘my office’. He’d only heard me say, “so what are you getting”, which might sound like a probation officer thing to say.

I said, “I’ll see you at six.” The director had left the door open, and I wasn’t sure how far away he was. I assumed I could be heard. “And that item we discussed -“

“The stick?”

“Yes. That item will be on the table for our meeting.”

Probation Officer #61: Holding his own

Posted on August 21, 2013 by jaime

I didn’t have much time to think about Sa’afia once I got to work. The manager of a farm about ten kilometres out of town had caught Lance Holder masturbating behind a barn. When the manager challenged him Lance had run for it. The manager had caught up with him near the barn entrance, and punched him a couple of times while Lance got his pants up.

Wanker!

The manager had tried to lock Lance in the barn, so he could call the cops. Lance had hit him with a garden stake. The manager fell over, and Lance ran. Another farmhand called the police, who’d picked Lance up while he was hitchhiking back to town. The farm manager had provoked a pointless incident, and he hadn’t really been hurt, but he’d shown that Lance had more violence in him than anyone had thought. Lance’s career as a comic figure was over.

His violence had arguably been provoked, it was relatively trivial, and it was only indirectly connected to his sexual behaviour. But he was now a violent sexual offender. He was in police custody.

I got to see him after waiting three hours, but he had nothing to say. So I went back to the office and started a report on what the probation service had been doing with him for the past year, including the four months he’d been on my caseload. Because that was a question someone was going to ask.

There were many ugly aspects to the situation, but one of them was that I could see that we’d been wrong to think Lance wasn’t capable of violence, but I couldn’t see what we could have done to prevent that incident. Lance wasn’t in jail. If I wrote a report that really did say what I thought had gone wrong, it’d be referred above my head and get re-written. But even if I can’t write the full truth I like to have an idea what the full truth is. In this case I didn’t know.

So it was a bad day. Sa’afia called me in the afternoon. On my office phone. She’d been expecting to hear from me. She wanted to tell me off for not calling, and putting my mobile on “Do not disturb.” I stopped her.

“Have you heard from your mother?”

“Yes. She’s still out. So you can come over tonight. If you still even want to.”

“Sa’afia, you can stop that right now. I expect you to call me and tell me whether your home is available or if you’re coming to me.”

“Yes, but -“

“Is that understood?” There was silence. I found myself cheering up, though I kept any trace of that out of my voice. “Do you understand, girl?”

“Well. Yes.”

I considered asking if she’d just bitten her lip. She would have if I’d been there to see it. But there were parts of the game that couldn’t be played over the phone. Instead I said, “Yes, what?”

“Yes, indeed.”

I had to grin. Sa’afia didn’t have a bratty bone in her body, but it was a good try.

Anyway, she wouldn’t see the grin. I made myself sound angry. “Sa’afia!”

Probation Officer #60: The opposite of blushing

Posted on August 20, 2013 by jaime

I tried to look fierce. “I’ll spank you till you can’t sit down.”

“Oh no,” she said. I thought she was mock-begging: ‘please don’t spank me’. She said, again, “oh no.”

So I said, “Look, there’s really no getting out of it. Of course I will.”

The game was wicked enough. So was the girl.

“Oh no. If I don’t please you, you should use a stick.”

“Oh.” We’d been playing some kind of game. Sa’afia had just overtaken me. It’d still be a game if I had the right to punish her when I felt like it. It’d still be a game if I had the right to hurt her more than I could with my hand. But it’d be a much more serious game.

I expected that I looked very white, just then. In the sense of being intensely focussed and pale. The opposite of blushing.

“Absolutely I will use a stick.” I kissed her. “Across your arse.” Sa’afia looked a little too untroubled. “And the backs of your thighs.” Still complacent. “That pretty little belly of yours.” Now she drew in a breath, but she was shiney-eyed. I frowned, since though this was good news, there was a lot to be thought and said about it. But I kissed her again and turned away. I’d have to get to work now, if I were to be able to get away at all.

When I reached the bottom of the steps, and turned back to wave, Sa’afia laughed again. Joyfully. “Oh god, look at you!”

I didn’t glance down. I thought about the ear structure of the African elephant again. I wasn’t noticeably erect, I guessed, by the time I got the gate open. I managed the walk to the van almost casually. I started the engine, and glimpsed myself in the rear-vision mirror. I rubbed my face, trying to get some colour back.

My heart was still thudding by the time I reached the Probation Service carpark.

Probation Officer #59: Laundry tips for modern lovers

Posted on August 19, 2013 by jaime

I woke up because I felt absence where Sa’afia should be. It was still dark. I looked for a clock, but couldn’t find anything in the unfamiliar room. Including my phone. Or my clothes.

But Sa’afia came back with cups of tea, and said it was six o’clock and time for me to wake up. But I shouldn’t be sitting up, because she’d wanted to wake me up with her mouth on my cock.

So I lay back and faked a snore. We didn’t get around to drinking the tea until after seven.

The tea was cold. I spanked her for that, or because she’d made it with sweetened condensed milk. The reason didn’t matter. But demonstrating that Sa’afia was forgiven, and that Sa’afia was good and clever, distracted us until it was after eight.

We just had time to shower and get dressed. I’d get some breakfast at work.

I kissed Sa’afia with the front door open, but with an eye out for neighbours who might say something to her mother. I remembered my shirt, the one she’d splashed with curry, and I made to dash back inside and get it.

“No, it’s okay.” Sa’afia put her hands on my chest, the nicest way of saying go away. “I’ll wash it. You can collect it tonight, if my mother’s not coming back.”

“It needs laundering. Someone seems to have got it…”

“No, it’s okay. It’ll be all white and shiny. Just like your girlfriend.”

“Girlfriend?”

“Beak girl. Daisy Duck.”

“Maybe I’m going off her. You’re my girl.”

“Mm hmm.”

“Can you actually get all that yellow out?”

Sa’afia looked angelic. “It’s tumeric. It gets a shirt quite … yellow. Doesn’t it?”

I didn’t often spend much time discussing laundry, but there was something about Sa’afia’s expression. I said, “Yeah. But you put it there, you’ll get it out. I don’t want to be able to see there was any tumeric, or saffron or what the hell. You’ll get that shirt white, girl.”

Sa’afia looked at me, expectantly. So I said, “Or else.” I got eyebrows, and an expression that expected more from me. So I said, “Or else I’ll punish you.”

“You’ll punish me?” She looked shocked. I took it that I’d guessed wrong, and I was about to turn it into a joke, ho ho, when she said, “Well, now. So you should.”

Probation Officer #58: Sex beak

Posted on August 18, 2013 by jaime

Sa’afia said, “Daisy Duck? White girl? With a beak? You fancy her?”

“Yup. Uh-huh.”

“Bullshit. You don’t. The beak’s a deal-breaker. Even for a pervert like you. Can’t be done.”

“Wears a little top. No pants at all.”

“That’s what you want, I can do that. And I don’t have a beak. Let me go to sleep.”

“I think I’d like both of them. At once.”

“I don’t care what colour the other girl would be. I don’t do girl on girl. You want a threesome, you’re going to have to start with two other girls. I sleep now.”

“G’night, dormouse.”

“Nnnnn.”

In a few minutes Sa’afia began snoring lightly. A little, snug, animal sound. I held her, because I knew I was lucky to be in her bed. I lay awake, listening to her sleeping noises, the low notes and the occasional brief, mysterious, keening sounds. She was dreaming.

I’d shirked it this evening, but I’d have to start asking soon what she knew about Ana’s father. And about him and eccy.

Probation Officer #57: Samoan skin

Posted on August 17, 2013 by jaime

“Am I out of trouble yet?”

Sa’afia grunted, but she sounded affectionate. “Maybe.”

“‘K, I’m going to dump myself back in. Fact is, I do like it that you’re Samoan. Because I think your skin’s gorgeous. I love the contrast with mine. It just seems hot. And your nose. I was thinking about your nose being pretty before. But that’s because I think everything about you is hot.”

“You’re allowed to like my skin. And my nose. I like yours, actually.”

“My nose?”

“Sure. It’s noble.”

“Fuck’s sake. No-one’s ever said that. Anyway, I didn’t know I thought Samoan skin was incredibly hot until after we’d spent Saturday night together.”

“I liked your nose straight away. You’re just slow. Anyway, what about my ass. Is it hot?”

She pushed her hips back against me. I pushed back against her ass, hoping I could manage some show of penile appreciation. But my cock was wet, soft and comfortable. I was fucked out for now, and it stayed soft. I had to make do with words. “Your ass is hot. Damn hot. Fucking hot. And beautiful. Like a rose. Maybe a magnolia.”

“Magnolia! That’s nice. A purple one?”

I put my hand on her breast. “Yup. But it’s sleeptime now. G’night, dormouse.”

“’Dormouse’. You can call me ‘dormouse’. Good night.”

I was out of trouble. But I felt like coming back from the defensive. I felt a push from what RL Stevenson called the imp of the perverse. I put my hand on her warm ass, which was also hot, and slapped her lightly, squeezing a nipple with the other, breast-cupping hand. And I bit her ear lightly. Sa’afia stirred. “Nnnnn?”

“Mind you, I fancy that Daisy Duck too.”

Probation Officer #56: Negritude and muscutude, or: Minne Mouse is black

Posted on August 16, 2013 by jaime

I thought about the picture of Minnie Mouse on my toilet wall. Was Sa’afia right? Was Minnie black?

Early Disney still of Minnie Mouse dolling herself up. Patched clothes, loose shoes, black skin, in a 1930s illustration..

Minnie had a whitish face, but the back of her head and all you could see of her body was black. That wasn’t all that uncommon with racist caricatures, if the black woman was being depicted as attractive.

So Minnie was a black girl. It was odd that I’d never even thought of it before. “Bugger me,” I said.

“Don’t pretend to be an idiot. You knew that.”

Sa’afia, while not angry, was less amused than I was by the thought that I might have a thing for black women. I came back to alertness and lifted my head off the pillow.

I was pretty sure I’d never specialised in women from any racial group, though most of my lovers had been white girls. Most people in the cities and towns where I’d spent most of my life were some kind of white. But all that Sa’afia knew about my sexual history was that I fancied her and her cousin Ana. So, taking La Minnie into account, I might appear to be a sort of racial souvenir-hunter, some coup-counter, making a specialty of black women.

There seemed to be more disreputable reasons than admirable ones for white guys to be chasing black women in particular, and Sa’afia was asking me if one of them was mine. There were racists who assumed that black girls were easier, and there was a reality that they were likely to be poorer and less powerful, so a man who wanted a less independent woman might think that was a good place to look. There were tiresome ideas about black girls as darkly sexual and savage (“black girls just want to ball all night; honey, I aint got the jam”). There were white boys who fetishised black women, or who sought them out because of white guilt or because they wanted to prove that they weren’t racist. Those things were tiresome too, because they weren’t personal. Any black woman would do, for that.

I said, “I had a girlfriend. She called herself Cherry Jones, because she was trying to make it as an actor. She did some revues, and some awful independent theatre, while she was with me. And she’d played Juliet, she’d played Lady MacBeth even, and that woman whose name isn’t Virginia Woolf in the play about people being scared of Virginia Woolf.”

“Martha. The Liz Taylor role.”

“For fuck’s sake. Yeah, probably. So Cherry went to Europe, and she found that the only gig she could get was Minnie Mouse. At Disneyland Paris. I’ve got a photo of her in the costume. She asked me, ‘So does my bum look big in this stupid fucking plastic prosthetic mouse-arse thing?’”

“Ok. I bet it did.”

“Couldn’t deny it. Anyway, Cherry sent me the signed Minnie Mouse pic.”

“So you didn’t go for us Samoan girls because we’re Samoan girls, is what you’re saying.”

“Ana just happened to me. I didn’t put her on my caseload. And then so did you: happened. I mean I met you through Ana, and I’m pleased I met you, any way it happened. But you were sexy at a party. I reckon I’d have gone for you anyway.”

“Sexy at a party. Ok.”

Probation Officer #55: The great woman of the night

Posted on August 15, 2013 by jaime

It was after one in the morning.

I lay on my side with Sa’afia spooned against me. I had my arm round her, and my hand cupped her breast. A soft breast, with a hard purple-black nipple. It moved when she breathed. It was tender, in my hand, a reason why men might love women.

Her bottom glowed pleasantly warm now, but it had been burning hot not so long ago.

When I’d last seen it, her ass had been a beautiful brownish red. But the night had got colder while we’d fucked, and eventually I’d let her slip under the bedcovers. While we’d fucked I’d spanked her, just with my hand but hitting hard till it hurt her.

She’d sworn, and bitten my forearm while I hurt her, and claimed all of my cock inside her. We’d fucked hard, and we’d found that so long as I gave her cunt plenty of attention she didn’t seem to have a point at which a hand spanking could hurt her more than she liked.

Some time early in the night she said she’d lost count of her orgasms. I didn’t know how many she had, either. But she screamed her pleasure over and over, politely thanking me each time, as if I saved her soul when she came. More prosaically I came just three times, but they had left me happily exhausted.

We lay breathing together with the light out. The half-moonlight flowed through Sa’afia’s window, catching highlights in her hair and the shiny sweat on her face. There were photographs above her bed, scenes of a Samoan village, in a wooden frame studded with seashells. There was a poster of the young, wet-lipped Mick Jagger, and a charcoal drawing, simply framed, of Hine-Nui-te-Po, the Great Woman of the Night, goddess of death, feeding her children.

Hine-Nui-te-Po was a Maori goddess, not a Samoan one, but the drawing was somberly beautiful. I knew why she would want to have it. I suspected it was quite valuable. The furniture was simple and old, in mahogany or whitewashed. There was something nautical, sailorish, about the taste and style.

I squeezed her breast affectionately. People who worked in the morning needed to fall asleep soon. Sa’afia was a gofer at a local law firm, where they liked having a well-presented Samoan woman regularly walking across the reception area. In fact she was studying chemistry, but there were no relevant jobs in a small city. She didn’t want to work at a chemist.

Sa’afia wasn’t ready to sleep, though. I could see she was frowning.

“You said you think Minnie Mouse is sexy.”

I didn’t realise immediately that this was dangerous ground. “Yeah, it’s the bow. And the clumpy shoes. And she’s always flashing her knickers.”

Sa’afia said, “and she’s black. Have you always liked the black girls then?”

“Minnie Mouse is black?”

Jerusalem Mortimer: Between the Lines

Jerusalem Mortimer wants a word

Category Archives: The Probation Officer’s Tale