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  On Probation

  Fiona Wilde

  (c) 2010 by Blushing BooksO and Fiona Wilde

  Copyright (c) 2010 by Blushing Books(r) and Fiona Wilde

  All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

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  Wilde, Fiona

  On Probation

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-60968-341-2

  Cover Design by ABCD Graphics

  Blushing Publications thanks you whole-heartedly for your purchase with us!

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  This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults. Nothing in this book should be interpreted as advocating any non-consensual spanking activity or the spanking of minors.

  Chapter One

  11:35.

  My appointment had been for 10:30, and here I was still waiting. Across from me, a fat woman in a NASCAR T-shirt talked in hushed and angry tones to her teenage son, who made a great show of ignoring everything she said.

  "If you break probation this time you step-dad and I ain't gonna hire you no goddamn lawyer," she said as she fished through her purse. She pulled out a pack of Marlboros, popped on in her mouth and let it dangle there as she continued to lecture. "You think this gang shit is playing but this ain't playin'. You keep this up and jail's going to be the least of your worries."

  She lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply, and then exhaled in my direction - a straight jet of smoke that expanded and thinned into a cloud as it drifted towards me.

  "No smoking in here!"

  The receptionist up front had slid open her glass window and was glaring at all of us, as if the lit cigarette were part of some waiting room conspiracy.

  "I don't see no sign," said the fat woman.

  "It's right up there," snapped the receptionist, pointing to a bulletin board containing not just a small 'No Smoking' sign but a number of other fliers on work release programs, drug treatment centers and anger management classes.

  "Fine. I'll just take it outside," said the fat woman. She lumbered to her feet and tugged on her polyester pants. "You stay put," she grumbled to her son, who smirked and looked away.

  I stood with her and as she walked out the front door I walked up to the receptionist's window, which was still open. When she saw me coming, she slammed it shut even thought here as no one else in the room.

  But I was determined not to let that deter me. I stood there, looking more patient than I felt as she shuffled papers and pretended not to see me. Finally I tapped on the window.

  She opened it. "Yes?" she said, her voice tight and snappy.

  "I'm Lauren Parker," I said. "I had and appointment for 10:30 with a Mr. Landry and was wondering if you could tell me how much longer I'll have to wait?"

  "You'll wait until Mr. Landry can see you," said the receptionist, giving me one of those looks that can only be perfected through years of looking down on people. "You need only look at today's society to realize probation officers like him keep very busy."

  She slammed the window - hard - and went back to shuffling the papers on her desk. I noticed as she did that she had a plaque beside her phone, a Bible verse that said, "Love one another." It made me want to slap her. But I was already in enough trouble so I just sat back down.

  It was 11:45 now and my stomach was both knotted and hungry. I rummaged through my backpack for the warm bottle of Sprite and pack of nabs I'd purchased in the courthouse commissary. I sighed. For a lunch it sucked, but at least it wasn't jail food.

  After washing down the last of the Sprite I perused the waiting room reading material and decided that a national must show that nine out of ten convicted people must prefer back issues of Car Driver and Cosmopolitan.

  I was halfway through an article entitled "How To Tell If Your Man Is Cheating" when I heard my name being called.

  "Lauren Parker." The receptionist said it again as I walked towards the door, as if it was the first time she'd seen it. I decided one day when I created the first every Parker Awards for Passive Aggression she'd be my first nominee.

  The hallway back to Mr. Landry's office was as glum as the waiting room, and I wondered if probation officers were so good at working with convicted people because they could identify with the life of the imprisoned. The walls were a greenish beige, the carpet gray industrial. Behind the row of closed doors I could still catch snatches of conversation.

  "That's bullshit, man...."

  "These are rules. They're not optional..."

  "You'll be expected to call in every Wednesday...."

  We stopped at the last door on the left and the receptionist knocked. "Mr. Landry, your noon appointment is here."

  Again, I found myself wanting to hit her. She's intentionally scheduled me an hour-and-a-half before my appointment. What a bitch.

  Mr. Landry, who was leafing through a folder, didn't look up or acknowledge me in any way as the Passive Aggressive Receptionist left, shutting the door behind her. I stood there for a moment, taking in Landry's office, which looked as if it didn't belong in the building.

  I'd expected a gray metal desk covered in leaning stacks of paper and dried coffee stains, diplomas in dust-covered frames holding diplomas from obscure colleges and certificates from mandatory workshops.

  I wasn't expecting an oak desk, tidy and neat, or freshly painted walls holding a Marine sword, framed medals and pictures of a smiling, handsome serviceman standing in a group of Iraqi children. "Desert Storm," a plaque underneath read, and although the man at the desk was obviously older, he was still exceptionally handsome. His skin was tan, his face angular and catlike in a way that made him almost too pretty to be a man. But the chest and arms beneath he neat, button-down shirt were obviously toned and well-muscled.

  He looked up suddenly, as if he could feel my eyes on him. I quickly looked away, embarrassed for staring.

  "Welcome, Ms. Parker. Please sit down." he said. "I trust you found our waiting room comfortable?"

  "Well, since you asked, I think your waiting room could use a lot of work," I said.

  "Oh?" H leaned forward, folding his hands and placing them on the open folder in front of him.

  "Yes," I said, feeling bolder than I'd felt all day. "The furniture is uncomfortable, the magazines are outdated and the 'No Smoking' sign needs to be larger and prominently displayed where everyone could see it."

  "Hmmm," Landry said.

  "And your staff could use a makeover, too," I went on. "Your receptionist is probably the rudest woman I've ever met in my life. She booked me an hour and a half before you were able to see me, and was completely rude to me when I asked about the wait."

  "Ah, yes," he replied. "Myrtle can be difficult. But --" he looked down at the folder. "She's never forged anything or embezzled from her employer."

  I flushed, realizing he was looking down at my record. "Neither have I," I said icily.

  Landry smirked. "Of course not. Like everyone else who has sat in that chair, you're entirely innocent."

  "I don't care what other people have told you. I am innocent." Suddenly I felt a lump rise in my throat. It was the same l
ump I'd been swallowing back since I stood before the Honorable Judge Sheldon Murphy on Monday morning and listened helplessly as I was pronounced guilty for something I'd not done.

  "I was set up," I said as tears spilled out of my eyes. "And if it takes me the rest of my life I'm going to prove it."

  Landry tapped his pencil on the top of my folder, saying nothing. He just studied me with intense brown eyes and I was struck anew by how beautiful his face was. There was no wedding ring on his finger, and in better days he'd be just the type of guy I'd seriously consider approaching at a bar or a party.

  But now he was just another person who saw me as A Class Apart - a woman with a criminal record, a convicted thief lacking credibility. A blinked back my tears and pondered my future as a hermit with a houseful of cats.

  Landry reached into a desk drawer, produced a box of tissues and held it out to me.

  "I know it's hard," he said, and I was surprised that his voice was so gentle. "It must be especially hard for someone who's never been in trouble."

  "That's what I've been trying to tell you," I whined, and blew my nose. "My record is spotless. Not so much as a traffic ticket. Doesn't that tell you something?"

  He sighed and looked at me. "It tells me that you are either telling the truth, and are in that small group of wrongly convicted individuals or it tells me that you're just an exceptionally good criminal who finally got caught."

  Landry sat back in his chair. "But let's get something straight, Ms. Parker. That doesn't matter to me. I'm not your judge. You've been before a judge and he found you guilty. So stop trying to convince me of your innocence because frankly, once your mine it wouldn't matter even if you are. All that matters is that you understand the rules of probation and follow them, because if you don't, you'll end up in jail. Is that clear?"

  "Yes," I said.

  "Yes what?" he pressed.

  I looked at him. What did he want? Then I glanced at the wall behind him. The medals still gleamed in their cases. The polished sword hung on the wall. A Marine. A man of discipline. A man of order. I knew what he wanted, and part of me thrilled to say it.

  "Yes sir," I said in a tiny voice and for a brief moment felt the return of that hidden part of myself that had helped put me in this mess in the first place - a part of myself I'd vowed to change when I learned in Judge Murphy's court that nice, obedient girls most certainly do not finish first.

  "Good girl," he said and I forced myself to push the enveloping submissiveness away. It had become a daily battle, pushing back the feelings that had defined me for so long, the feelings I'd just grown comfortable with before it had all come tumbling down.

  "Be hard," I told myself. "Be strong."

  So I tried to be strong, and serious as I listened to Landry - Ethan Landry if the nameplate on his desk was correct - explain the terms of my probation.

  Probation, he said, was a privilege and not a right. He reminded me again that to violate the terms of the probation would mean my 33 month sentence would not be served in my own apartment but in the state penitentiary, which was no Girl's Club.

  I was to stay away from illegal drugs and would be required to submit to random testing. Landry cautioned that because some prescription drugs and foods, like poppy seeds, could result in a false positive I'd be wise to educate myself to prevent unwanted trouble.

  I was not allowed to travel out of state without his permission. I could travel instate, but if I were to go more than fifty miles away he'd like to know. Landry pointed out that while this condition was optional, he would appreciate it since good communication made for an easier relationship between the convicted party and his or her probation officer.

  He said on Monday he would be contacting me to let me know which court-ordered community service project I'd be working on. In addition to my Saturday community service I'd be allowed to maintain my regular employment, both to support myself and to pay back the court ordered restitution.

  I laughed out loud at this.

  "Is something about these conditions amusing, Ms. Parker? Because I assure you this is no laughing matter."

  "No --no sir," I said. "It's not the conditions I'm laughing at. I just keep getting hit with reminders of the absurdity of my situation. I'm not longer employed." I didn't continue my thoughts out loud and tell him how ironic I found it that I was ordered to pay restitution for money I didn't take to a lying former boss who'd do his best, no doubt, to make sure I didn't get hired anywhere else in town.

  "And I'm not exactly courting tons of job prospects, either," I said glumly.

  Landry looked at me, his almond-shaped eyes hard to read. It was hard to tell whether he was sympathetic or curious as he asked the next question: "How are you financially, if you don't mind my asking?"

  "Not well and that's the scariest part of this," I replied. "I spent all my savings on a lawyer who doesn't bother to prepare my case. I'm in permanent debt to a man who set me up and my only option is one I don't want - to turn to my mother, who's far from wealthy."

  I found myself forced to again speak past the lump in my throat. "That's the last thing I want to do. She'd give me her last penny but where would that leave her? I'm supposed to be taking care of her. That was my plan. Just last year I told her I would be able to, that she could look forward to a future of being taken care of the way she'd always taken care of me....But now."

  To my horror I began to laugh again, a high, crazy sort of laugh. "So forgive me if I seem to be taking this lightly but frankly, Mr. Landry, it's the only thing I can do to keep myself from crying."

  He gave me a slight smile. "Yes, life can take some bizarre turns, can't it." He shut my folder and once again fell into his drill sergeant hardness. "But enough of that. Where were we? Oh yes. In addition to all that I've stated, you'll be required to come see me here every Wednesday. You'll also be required to consent to random visits and searches of your person and property at my discretion. Do you understand?"

  "Yes sir," I said, feeling more bleak by the moment. I tried to imagine what it would be like, to have Landry just "drop by" with several police officers while I was having my morning coffee, and turn my house upside down looking for God-knows-what.

  He must have read my mind. "I know, the idea alone must be upsetting. Like I said, I know it's hard."

  "Do you?" I asked. "You don't look like anyone who's ever been in trouble."

  He gave me a small smile. "You're right," he said. "But there is more than one way to lose your freedom. But you may end up surprised by how much discipline you can learn in the process."

  "If you weren't ever in trouble, how do you know what it's like to lose your freedom?" I asked.

  Landry jerked his thumb back to point at the wall behind him. "I was a Marine for fourteen years. If you think bringing freedom to others means you're free yourself then you're wrong. The Corps strips you, breaks you and rebuilds you. It specializes in taking men and women who think they've gotten it all figured out and shoving their nose in the reality that sometimes the only way out is to fight. But before a grunt takes on the fight you know what they have to learn to do first?"

  I shook my head, wide-eyed with fascination at my intriguing probation officer.

  "First they have to learn to be obedient," he said. "And that's what you have to do."

  He stood and came around to sit on the edge of the desk in front of me. He was tall, and powerfully built.

  "I sense in you someone chomping at the bit to change the verdict, to find justice. Eventually there will be time for that. But right now, Ms. Parker ---"

  "You can call me Lauren," I said.

  He seemed to consider this, before embarrassing me by rejecting it outright.

  "But right now Ms. Parker," he continued. "You have to obey the rules, and it's my job to make sure you do. So let me tell you how I work."

  "I thought you just told me," I said.

  "I just told you how probation works, not how your probation officer works. We're all differe
nt," Landry said. "My style is to start off strict, and you can be sure that over the next few weeks I'm going to be on you like the Wrath of God. You keep your nose clean and I'll ease up."

  "And if I don't?" I didn't to test him. It was entirely inappropriate to be a brat with this man. Would I never stop embarrassing myself around him? But he seemed to have predicted - and to almost welcome - the question.

  "If you don't you are going to be sorry I was picked to be your probation officer."

  He stood, and opened the door. "Wednesday at 10:00," he said. "Don't be late."

  "Yes sir," I said quietly and walked out the door.

  "And Ms. Parker..."

  I turned. "Yes?"

  "It's OK to have a good cry," he said. "So that's my first order. Go home, take a bubble bath have a good cry and try to get some sleep. It'll be good for you, I think. "

  Mr. Landry went back in the office and shut the door, leaving me standing there in the somber beige-and-gray hallway, listening to the voices through the walls and trying out how it had all come to this.

  Chapter Two

  I didn't exactly follow Landry's advice to the letter. I had my good cry, not in a warm bubble bath but sitting behind the wheel of my Dodge Camry. I'd made it to the parking garage OK, but when I turned the car on what should be playing on the radio but Fiona Apples' Criminal. I lost it.

  The cry was therapeutic, to be sure, but driving home afterwards was no picnic. The thing about having a really, really good cry is that afterwards it leaves you not just emotionally drained but physically drained as well.

  That's how it used to be after Kevin spanked me.

  Kevin. Kevin the Wise. Kevin the Protector. Kevin the Advisor. Kevin the Self-Serving who not asked - but ordered Submissive Little Me - to keep my job at Smith Brothers Contractors because the pay was good, who told me not to make waves. Kevin the Creep who was the first person to abandon me after I was set up.