Probation Officer #49: White foam

Posted on August 9, 2013 by jaime

I undid the catch of Sa’afia’s jeans and pushed them and her briefs down her thighs. Once I’d undone my zip and stepped close so my cock touched her, I pushed them further down so that she could step out of them. She hadn’t worn a belt.

I smacked her bottom again, hard, though she was a good and blameless girl who had done no harm, to give her something to contemplate while I condomed up. She was wet when I touched her folds, and while we joined she puffed like a weightlifter psyching herself for a snatch and lift.

She said, “hooooooo”, when we paused. Then I said it too. I ground her, my soft brown mortar, and we made paste. A wet, sloppy paste. I did not stop, or speed up, for a long time. Eventually, I’m proud to say, Sa’afia screamed. The kind of scream that rattles windows, makes cats run for their lives and worries neighbours.

I decided not to come yet, and save it for later. I stroked her back and praised her. I said, shakily, “oh yes,” which was banal but at least it was something. She didn’t speak at all. She didn’t need to. She reached her hand back towards me and I held it.

I don’t think that Sa’afia had ever been bent over a kitchen table, or perhaps any table, and fucked before. It added something that I was still dressed while she was naked. Men can be criminally, pathetically, negligent. Those things should not have been left undone for so long. She’d liked them.

I decided that she’d spend a lot of time bent over that table. And a lot of time naked, in my clothed presence. Those seemed easy commitments to keep. They’d worked: there was white, girly foam at the front of my trousers. I hoped I could get it off with a wet cloth before I went to work tomorrow.

She wanted to finish her cooking, once we’d recovered. I refused to let her put her clothes back on. It turned out that she didn’t own any aprons. I let her wear my shirt.

My beautiful white shirt, for making curries. Greater love, or lust, had no man.

Probation officer #48: Just her

Posted on August 8, 2013 by jaime

There was a picture of Minnie Mouse pinned to Sa’afia’s front door. I took that as a message to me. On Sunday she’d wondered why I had a framed, signed picture of Minnie Mouse on my toilet wall, and I’d claimed that I thought she – the mouse, that is – was sexy. Sa’afia’s printer was running out of pink, which is a bit of a disadvantage if you want to print out a picture of La Minnie. But it was a nice thought.

Instead of knocking and waiting I tried the door. It was unlocked so I let myself in, locking the door behind me.

A huge tapa cloth, tan, white and black, covered most of the left corridor wall. I knew the words “‘aiga” (family) and “alofa” (love), but I couldn’t make out what it had to say about those things, beyond that it likely to be favourable. There were doors to the right but I followed my nose and ears – I could hear Sa’afia humming – through to the back of the house and the kitchen.

Sa’afia wasn’t naked. She was leaning over the stove in baggy jeans and an ancient tee-shirt that must once have been red: Bic Runga, Pacific Voice. It had to be a bootleg, but that only made it cool. That’s enough connoisseurship from me, for a while? But I watched her rump wiggle in the baggy denim for a few long seconds before I said, “you must have a couple of glasses.”

“Jaime!” She charged me with a wooden spoon she’d just pulled out of something yellow and chilli-savoury. I put my bottles on the table and took the spoon off her, balancing it on the edges of a fruit bowl before I let her wrap herself around me. I was wearing a white shirt, and I’ve never been lucky with white shirts and yellow curries. I put my hands on her jeans and then slid them under her jeans to cup her ass, left and right, before I said, “Girl.”

I nuzzled her. I liked her flat nose. It was pretty, though it showed mine up as kind of pointy. “Yeah, you look good. You feel good.”

“You feel good.” She said it like an accusation.

I smacked her arse, something that despite her urging I’d not dome to Ana. It felt good and she didn’t stop kissing me, so I smacked her again. “You aren’t naked.”

“You’ve seen me naked.”

“Oh, that was it, was it?”

“And you’ve seen me in my party things. And you’ve me wearing your clothes, pretending to be a good Christian girl. Well, I thought you could see … me. This is just… me.”

I smacked her arse again. I had no excuse for that. “Well, just you looks pretty fucking good.”

She said, “Just you feels … Oh.”

She said “oh” because of the erection that confirmed what I thought of just her, and because I pulled her tee-shirt up and – she raised her arms – off. “I’m cooking!”

She had to say that because I’d turned her and pushed down over the table, and undone the catch of the bra.

I turned the stove off. There were curries. They would keep. And poured a glass of wine. We could share it. Then I said something so cheesy that even now the memory of saying it makes me cringe. “So am I.”

Probation officer #47: Good day sunshine

Posted on August 7, 2013 by jaime

Pants pants. Ana hated them. She was right, though I didn’t say so.

This time Ana didn’t stay when our time ran out. Her work clothes were making her uncomfortable. It wasn’t so much that they were physically uncomfortable, though they were that. She didn’t like me seeing her look so sexless. So I broke some more rules, this time doing the right thing, by giving her another hug before she left. I whispered in her ear that she’d be okay tomorrow.

And I growled, “banana smoothie.” So I got a split-second smile and a nod before she left.

I got home feeling bleak. I’d picked up some of Ana’s mood. I thought I’d call Sa’afia and see if she was free on Friday.

But my phone rang before I’d had time to have a shower. It was Sa’afia, with promise and meaning in her voice. Her mother had gone out, and had just called to say she was looking after a friend and wasn’t coming back tonight.

Good day sunshine

So would I like to come round? To Sa’afia’s house? To help her have dinner? Possibly bringing her some wine?

I said I had sunshine on a cloudy day, and she said what in the world, and I said I’d be right there, and she said, oh! but it isn’t remotely like the month of May, and I said, May, Schmay, will you be naked, and she said, maybe, but there was only one way to find out.

It doesn’t take much to cheer me up.

Oh, Rodriguez? When I’d found him, back on Monday morning, he said he’d missed his anger management class because he’d slept in. I said that if he thought the course was crap, that was exactly why he had to go to all the sessions. He had to show that he could put up with annoying things without going nuts, if he wanted me, and cops and lawyers and judges to stay out of his life. He asked me for a lift to work, and if I’d drop his kids off at school, since that was on the way. That was to annoy his wife. She didn’t approve of my van.

But I liked my van, and Rodriguez’s kids thought it was hilarious. They made sure everyone at school saw them piling out of the sliding doors when I stopped by the school gates. So he got his matrimonial victory. I told him he could pay me back by going to his stupid course.

And on Wednesday evening I put on a new shirt and got into my van. Then I thought more about the tone of Sa’afia’s voice, and went back inside to pick up spare socks, underpants, another shirt and a toothbrush.

Probation officer #46: Electrical banana

Posted on August 6, 2013 by jaime

“Okay, good. There’s something else you should know. You feel like shit right now, right?”

“Oh god yes.”

“It started on Tuesday?”

Ana looked puzzled. “Yes, it did. What about it?”

“It’s the eccy. Eccy come down is a bit like a hangover. Not as painful but more depressing. It usually hits on the Tuesday after the Saturday night. They call it Eccy Tuesday.”

“Oh, that’s Eccy Tuesday. I thought people took eccy on Tuesdays. I couldn’t work out why.”

“Eccy-taking Tuesday. Yeah. Anyway, your eccy drop’s going on a bit longer than usual, that’s all. Maybe because you had a lot on your first go. But drink lots of water, have a banana smoothie and get an early night tonight, and I can just about guarantee you’ll be feeling fine tomorrow.”

“Does it have to be banana? Mango’s nicer.”

“No. Banana works better. With a bit of lime. Or lemon. You’ll have banana. And like it, girl.”

Since the smoothie was a placebo anyway, it would work better if I was specific and positive about the ingredients. Also, she’d called me “sir”. It had awoken the desire to have her obey me. The more arbitrary it was, the sweeter the obedience. In bdsm flirtation can get extremely obscure. In a probation service interview room, I hoped it was so damn obscure that Ana wouldn’t notice.

“Okay.” Ana smiled. “Banana it is.”

Bdsm flirtation turned into clowning around, almost as if there’s not much difference between them. “Damn right it is. You’ll do as you’re told.”

“If you say so.”

I pulled myself together. “So. How are your classes going?”

Probation officer #45: Aegean Sea, Augean stables

Posted on August 5, 2013 by jaime

I said, “Ah huh.” I wasn’t sure what Ana’s father had to do with her eccy consumption. I let that pass, for now, but it alarmed me.

Alarm came out as anger, as it tends to do. “Ana, eccy’s illegal. You know it’s a stupid law, I know it’s stupid. But there are cops who’d love to bust you for possession. There’s a judge who really wants to put you in jail. I don’t want you anywhere near eccy again. You don’t take it. You’re not to have it in your pockets. You’re not to have any in your bag. When a nice guy at a party who wants to fuck you gives you some?”

That was a question. Ana said, “Yeah, it was something like that.”

“Well, next time you tell him you’re allergic. Or something. Look at this glamorous room you’re in.”

Ana looked at the chipped old desk stacked with files and the poster advertising holidays in the Aegean, the domestic violence poster and the poster giving numbers to call if you thought you were pregnant. “It’s one hell of a room, all right.”

“Well, the justice system has worse rooms than this. Much worse. So just until you’re out of trouble, Ana, don’t fuck with the law any more. You can’t afford it.”

Ana smiled. “Yes, Mr Probation Officer Sir.”

“No. I’m serious.”

“No. So am I. Sir.”

I don’t know if she noticed that second “sir”. I felt it, of course.

Probation officer #44: Fast food and slow drugs

Posted on August 4, 2013 by jaime

Oh, what happened when I dropped in on Rodriguez? I’ll tell you later. Maybe.

But on Wednesday Ana came to her session, wearing the corporate clothes of a Chickin Lickin customer service operative. There were black pants with a crease, and a blue cotton shirt. The pants looked scratchily uncomfortable, and if Madrid is the sexiest city in the world, then those pants were from Christchurch, New Zealand, the Antipodes of Sex. They were tight on her ass and the seam disappeared up her bumcrack, and they still managed to be unflattering.

Until she worked out a way to get changed before our sessions, I figured, the game of sexually torturing her probation officer would be suspended.

She gave me a hug once we were in the interview room. The door was ajar, but there was enough privacy for that. She had none of her usual jigging, electrical energy. I sat her opposite me, and kicked off by asking her how her course was going. She said it was fine. Work turned out to be fine, too.

I remembered her at the party, buzzing warmly, in love with everyone and everything, and ready to fuck, oh, quite a wide range of people, including her probation officer. I said, “How was Manaia?” She looked at me, startled. “I mean, how is he?”

“Ah, he’s fine. I haven’t seen him since Sunday. And he was all right. I guess.” She looked at me and frowned. I wondered if she remembered that we’d come very close to fucking that night. And that when Manaia had turned up I’d practically thrown him at her. But she looked down at her knees. If she remembered that part of Saturday night, she gave no sign of it. “Actually, I feel shit. I just feel like I’ve fucked everything up. My whole stupid life.”

Fast food girl

“You’ve got a job. It sucks, as jobs go, but it’s a start. And they give you money just for being there. You’ll get a better one, so cheer up. And you’re going to finish school. You bloody well will finish, or …” I couldn’t see any way that that sentence would end well, so I left it.

“Yeah, I guess. It just doesn’t feel, ah. It’s just all bullshit. I feel like, who cares, you know?”

“Hang on. Ana, have you done eccy before?”

“Oh, no. Dad wouldn’t let me.”

I blinked, just a little surprised.

Probation Officer #43: How submissive?

Posted on August 3, 2013 by jaime

In my dream Sa’afia held Ana’s arms while Ana knelt, ass up, on my bed. She watched with interest while I took my belt to Ana’s arse, and leaned forward to be kissed while I positioned my cock against Ana’s little asshole. Ana’s strapped skin burned to the touch as I closed contact with her, though the sheets in which I dreamed were cool.

So were Sa’afia’s imagined breasts as she drew me into a tight hug while I pushed forward into Ana’s ass. The dream couldn’t sustain that level of detail. I drifted forward into a female world, a sequence of visual and tactile moments, of Ana’s softnesses and Sa’afia’s. When it all became too improbable, and too much mental work to sustain, I woke up.

It was morning. I was back in a world in which I couldn’t have sex with Ana, and I shouldn’t really have a threesome with two cousins. They’d probably find it quite awkward, in practice. I didn’t let that worry me overmuch until, eyes closed to keep the images, and with spit and my cock in my hand, I came. Decorously, into tissues.

In the shower I remembered the certainty I’d felt, while Sa’afia and I were fucking, that if I hurt and subdued her once she was excited she’d find a whole set of sexual pleasures that she probably didn’t know about, let alone know that they were in her. She’d seemed ready to let go of her own control, and to go under, to submit. That, or I’d imagined the whole thing.

But there was an ethical issue. One that was more relevant to the real world, or my real world, anyway, than whether to involve cousins in a threesome. If I was right about Sa’afia I could easily get her consent.

I could smack her ass just before she came, something a lot of vanilla lovers do to their vanilla lovers. It doesn’t need a separate consent. But I could smack her, and if it went well, do it again. If she became really excited, I could ask her consent to smack her harder.

Under those conditions, if the fuck is good, just the word “harder” can trigger a woman’s first submission-flavoured orgasm.

Submissive women are all different. There’s no “key”. That approach will never work with someone who doesn’t like, desire and trust the person who smacks them. But it had worked for me, though I only did it when I already had some reason to believe that some small, self-revealing, steps into bdsm territory would be welcome. I wasn’t entirely comfortable about knowing things like that. It felt manipulative. Because it was. But it was also true that I’d done it accidentally, and then done it deliberately, and I’d been lavishly rewarded by the responses I’d gained. Submissive women had shown me something that some of them liked, and I’d paid attention.

But if I was right about Sa’afia, should I make any move to reach into her and show her her submissiveness? What about all the changes that bdsm would be likely to bring to her life? How long was I likely to be in her life? Maybe I should avoid changing her. Maybe I’d imagined that feeling between us anyway. Or maybe I hadn’t imagined it. What the hell did I know?

I got out of the shower and got dressed. I decided to go looking for Rodriguez before I went to the office, so I could catch him before he went to work. I called the office to tell them to expect me later. I didn’t call Rodriguez. I should be a surprise.

Probation officer #42: Hard cases, bad law

Posted on August 2, 2013 by jaime

Chrysothemis finished her song and burst into tears – which she did beautifully; it was Clare Watson from the Solti recording – and I took the recording off before Clytemnestra turns up. I put on Don Giovanni instead, just the tracks with Zerlina. I’ll explain why some other time. And I made another cup of tea.

Ana’s probation sessions with me were on Wednesday afternoons. Unless she came in early, and I thought she probably wouldn’t, I wouldn’t see her for another three days. In the meantime I had other clients. There was a woman who’d tried to hold up a chemist with a syringe of her blood. She needed subsidised housing if she was to have any chance of getting her children back from foster care. She was off drugs, and she was probably a better bet for her two children than foster care, where the kids were miserable. Their life would only be marginally better with their mother, as far as I could tell. But margins were all she and they had.

There was Rodriguez, who had a soft, humorous manner and the saddest, gentlest, wisest eyes I’d ever seen. It was impossible to spend time with him and not like him. But Rodriguez had been at a party where he was nearest to the man who happened to announce that the beer keg was empty. He’d beaten that man almost to death, and then used the top strand of a barbed wire fence to slash his stomach open. He’d left the man broken, draped over the wire fence. Somehow the man had survived, so that Rodriguez wasn’t a murderer.

I still have no idea, no clue, no insight, no guess, into why that apparently gentle man had done that horrible thing. Rodriguez had served his prison time for it. I’d recommended that as a condition of his release he have to do anger management courses, and that had been accepted. I didn’t think anger management courses addressed whatever the hell had happened, but no-one, including me, could think of anything better. He’d skipped his course last week. If he skipped this week he’d go back to jail. So on Monday I’d have to find him and talk to him.

A man holding his lance, though he’s not doing the flashing. The painting is The Knight’s Dream, by Richard Mauch.

And there was Lance. The flasher with the ridiculous name: Lance Holder. (The names I give in this blog are never real names. Lance’s real name was a ridiculous name for a flasher to sport, but it wasn’t Lance Holder. Or Dick Wagger. But you get the idea.) Maybe because of the comedy name and the fact that he seemed to be physically weak and extremely timid, I wasn’t yet as worried about Lance as I should have been.

I’d heard, not through legal channels but through friends, that he’d been seen masturbating out in farmland, well out of town. I’d have to confront him, and find out what was happening in his head.

So that’s what I thought about once Sa’afia left. When I’d had dinner, and got everything ready for the working week, I went back to bed. I needed an early night’s sleep.

In bed, drifting to sleep, I thought about Sa’afia’s breasts. And then Ana’s ass. And then every centimetre of both of them. I dreamed about them too. Sometimes dreams are kind.

Probation officer #41: Submission and self-knowledge

Posted on August 1, 2013 by jaime

A few minutes later, I was looking down into Sa’afia’s eyes. Her knees almost touched her breasts, and she made a little “hooo” noise each time we closed and took each other deep.

She kept her eyes open and on mine while we fucked. There was a kind of anguish, perhaps pleading, in her brows and mouth.

Because of the conversation we’d had, in which she’d urged me to spank Ana, helped along by wishful thinking, I had the sudden conviction that if I reached down and smacked her buttocks and the backs of her thighs while we fucked, firmly enough to resound in the room, to mark her and hurt, I’d get an astonishingly strong, ferociously excited response. If I growled at her and held her down, she would come, hard, from somewhere deep in her gut. I imagined her a little embarrassed by her response, but responding just the same.

This might have been completely misreading her, and it might have been a true intuition. Anyway, I didn’t act on it. Consent can be complicated but that wasn’t: I didn’t have consent. But the thought had excited me and I fucked her hard until Sa’afia came, noisily enough. She still looked earnestly up at me as though I was torturing her. I was sure I wasn’t.

Afterwards I followed her into the shower, soaping under her arms as an excuse for holding her slippery breasts, and we cuddled while the water pelted down. We agreed, getting dressed, that we’d see each other again soon.

Then I drove her home, so she could get changed and attend the day’s second round of church. I stopped my ludicrous old van a couple of houses from her home, so her mother didn’t see her climbing out of a vehicle that couldn’t possibly be passed off as something a woman might own.

At home, alone on a Sunday afternoon, I made myself a cup of tea.

I put on Strauss’s Electra, and listened to Chrysothemis’s song. Chrysothemis, Electra’s sister, sings about how she doesn’t want to be in the middle of a lot of events, or do any fighting, or kill her ghastly mother, or do anything strong or dramatic. She just wanted to make babies and make a nice, safe home.

Ana and Sa’afia were both, in their different ways, dramatic women. Just then, I identified with Chrysothemis: I wanted a quiet life, and I knew I wasn’t going to get one.

Probation officer #40: “Why spank her if she’d only enjoy it?”

Posted on July 31, 2013 by jaime

I was puzzled by Sa’afia’s suggestion – demand, really – that I spank Ana. I knew that if I did I’d have a good time, so long as Ana was having a good time too. But I had no reason to think Ana was submissive, and if she wasn’t going to enjoy it what would be the point? I couldn’t imagine spanking someone who didn’t want it. So I said, “Why should I spank Ana? Do you think she’d enjoy it?”

Sa’afia looked at me. I’d said something genuinely strange. “What? Why would she enjoy getting a spanking?” She frowned. “If she was going to enjoy it, why would you do it? That’s…” We looked at each other, having achieved mutual incomprehension.

Then Sa’afia said, “Oh.” She laughed. She was still stroking my cock. “Oh, you mean, like a pervy sex thing? Oh Jaime, you palagi, you’re filthy.”

(Palagi is pronounced “pah-lang-ee”, where “lang” sounds like the German word “lang”, or perhaps “larng”, if you say larng quickly. Palagi can mean “anyone who isn’t Samoan”, but mostly it means “white people”, especially English-speaking ones. It’s not a derogatory term, though if you hear it snarled at you in a certain tone of voice, it might be a good idea to duck. Sa’afia said it affectionately.)

I said, disingenuously, “Well, I don’t know. I know some people enjoy it. Spanking or getting spanked. Or they do both.”

Not boney. Bonny.

“Palagi think everything comes down to sex. No, I meant you should spank Ana because she’s been messing with you. That’s disrespectful. She deserves it. Put her boney little ass over your knee.”

“It’s not a boney little ass.”

“It’s not like mine. Yeah?” Sa’afia wriggled. She was facing me, but that wiggle worked on my imagination.

Both asses were perfect, as far as I could tell, but Sa’afia’s slightly more womanly ass was the one on my bed. I said, “Oh yes. Yes, your ass is very very very fine.”

“Thank you.” She poked a finger at my chest. She was vehement about this. “And once you’ve got her over your knee, you get whatever she’s wearing off: right off. That’s how it works. And you smack her. And you do it right. Not so she enjoys it. To make her behave, silly man.” She glanced down at my cock.

I didn’t want attention drawn to my cock just then. And I didn’t want to think about where this sudden fervour for the discipline of her cousin had come from: Was she jealous of Ana? Was it something she, Sa’afia, wanted herself? Or had Ana put her up to the whole thing? I’d have to explore that some time, but not now.

I said, “You’re a fine one to talk about being filthy. For starters, you’ve got lettuce on your …” And I dived and took a little fold of belly, and the lettuce shred, between my teeth. I bit lightly and shook my head like a terrier, so that she shivered. I speared the little piece of lettuce with my tongue and made it go away, and veered downhill, the further two inches to her cunt. Salty girl, she was.

Sa’afia put her hands on my head and fell back with a whumpff of pillows. So that conversation was over.

And though she’d stopped thinking, I now had a perfectly good explanation and justification for presenting her with an erection.

Jerusalem Mortimer: Between the Lines

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