Author's disclaimer: This story is a work of erotic fiction written for entertainment of adults. All characters are fictional and adult. The story is authorized for posting at the Erotic Mind Control Story Archive at www.storiesonline.net and may be downloaded for personal use. Reposting or other publication by express permission of the author only. All rights reserved. Comments and criticisms welcome.
Pamela continued the internal argument she had been having since she left her office. This was foolish. She should have brought uniforms. She should have just had him brought in and not come here at all. That was procedure. That was all that was expected of her.
But she just didn't want this case to go back to jail.
Now every case had a sob story; six years as a parole officer and she was all but immune to them. Most of them were lies anyway and easy enough to check. The only reason she still listened to them was to get an idea just how big a lie a parolee was inclined to tell her.
But José's story had gotten to her. He had just started his freshman year at USC--studying engineering on an academic scholarship--when he was arrested. The police report said he was acting 'nervous and guilty' when they approached him here in the neighborhood where he had grown up. They claimed they had smelled marijuana, though José denied he had been using when he was arrested. Whatever the initial evidence justifying the search, it was undeniable that a search of his backpack produced a 5 lb. bag of Acapulco Gold.
To make matters worse, he had a flat-head screwdriver in his back pocket. He claimed he had been fixing his grandmother's washing machine, which was probably true enough. Unfortunately, screwdrivers were also the weapon of choice among the cholos. They made a functional enough stabbing weapon but, up until the court caught on, hadn't been considered as such in legal proceedings unless the tool had actually been found bloody or impaling someone.
The judge in José's case was quite willing to call it a concealed weapon, however. José claimed the judge was racist and that he was sentenced more for his Mayan features and Spanish accent than his crime. It was certainly possible. You didn't have to convince a crippled black woman that there was discrimination in this world. Pamela knew of several cases of white boys at USC found with larger amounts of more dangerous drugs who had gotten off with probation and community service.
José was the child of poor Salvadoranean immigrants and his public defender had gotten him a 2 year sentence of which he served six months in the state penitentiary. Needless to say, his scholarship wasn't waiting for him when he got out.
It certainly wasn't fair.
But life wasn't fair. Pamela certainly knew that. She could hear her father's voice reminding her: 'If you've managed to live this long and still think life is going to be fair, you haven't been paying attention.'
No, she had no reason to believe life was fair, she thought bitterly as she grabbed up her cane. If life was fair, she'd still be on the force. If life was fair, she would never have been partnered with a jumpy, careless rookie. If life was fair, he would have shot off his own fucking knee.
But her own personal tragedy was no reason to condemn José. The kid might really have a decent excuse for having missed their last meeting, for not answering her phone calls. He might deserve a second chance which he wouldn't get if she had him brought in by uniforms.
She hoped she wasn't doing this because she thought he was cute.
She had parked as near as she could to her destination. Hopefully this time she would be able to hear her car alarm in time to see who had given her the free paint job. She doubted it though. She checked the power lines--the sneakers hanging there indicated that the area was still controlled by Maria Salvatrucha. Well, at least their taggers were a bit more artistic than the Temple Street gang.
She locked up her car as well as she could and made her way to the last known residence of her delinquent parolee. It was one of the ubiquitous large old houses near downtown Los Angeles,
nestled between slightly newer apartment complexes. These houses were the last remnants of that brief occupation of the original city of Los Angeles by white folk. The dispossessed had returned and once again made it their home. She knocked on the door.
It was answered by a young Hispanic woman with long curly dark hair wearing a ridiculously tight and short red dress. She was smiling broadly, looking at Pamela without really focusing on her. Not a good sign.
"Is José Aguila here?" asked the parole officer, hoping the woman spoke English--her Spanish sucked.
The woman smiled even more broadly.
"Chepe? Yeah, he's upstairs. Do you wanna do him too?"
Pamela didn't know what to say to that.
"I need to speak to him. I'm his parole officer." she said icily.
"Oooooh!" said the woman with unexpected cheer. "Chepe said you might come by. Come on up. I know he'll be glad to see you."
Not bloody likely, thought Pamela as she followed the woman in red up the creaking wooden stairs, trying not to blush as the latina's short tight dress revealed her lack of undergarments. Pamela strongly suspected drug use on the premises--that alone a violation of Aguila's parole. Damn. Maybe she had misread him and he had been playing her all along. Or maybe he'd just given up; he had seemed awfully depressed at their last meeting. Almost suicidal.
The woman knocked on the door and shouted out.
"Hey Chepe!!! That parole lady is here! You wanna talk to her?"
There was some high pitched giggling, followed by a hushing sound and some muffled speech. At last the door opened and two women wearing less than her guide stepped out. They glanced shyly at Pamela, trying to suppress giggles, then went off down the hallway. The woman in red joined them, saying something in Spanish. Half way down the hall, they turned to look at Pamela then scampered off in a torrent of uncontrollable laughter. Definitely drugs involved.
Pamela turned back to the doorway and her errant charge. The lighting in the room was subdued. It was clearly a bedroom--a large, disheveled bed in the center of the room left little doubt as to what the women and Aguila were doing. The young parolee approached her from out of the dim room wearing a silk robe. He was definitely on something but Pamela couldn't guess what. His eyes were red. Not blood-shot, red. The 'whites' of his eyes were a deep scarlet, his red-black pupils so wide that his brown irises were barely visible. It repulsed her, but she found she had difficulty not staring. It was just so freakish!
"Hello, Ms. Thomas," said the ex-con. "I'm so glad you could visit. Can I get you a drink?"
"A drink..." said Pamela, not quite understanding the question. A drink would be nice. She shook her head. Had to focus, not let his weird eyes distract her.
"This isn't a social call, Mr. Aguila." she said, trying to show that she meant business. "You completely blew off our weekly appointment Tuesday and haven't returned any of my phone calls. You know that our meetings are one of the conditions of your parole. One phone call from me and you're back in prison to complete your sentence. What do you have to say for yourself!"
She made the mistake of staring into his eyes again. She was accustomed to looking parolees right in the eye, staring them down, looking for signs of guilt or dishonesty. It usually worked like a charm, but the strange redness was putting her off her game.
"I'm so sorry, Ms. Thomas." he explained in a soothing tone, "Some weird things have happened this week and I got a little distracted. But you're here now so everything is all right. We can have our parole meeting here."
"Have our parole meeting here..."
That made sense. They could have the meeting here. Everything was all right.
"Why don't you come in and sit down?" suggested her parolee.
She tore her gaze away from the scarlet depths and looked into the dim room. She imagined José Aguila lying naked on that bed, his lithe body glistening with sweat, his long, dark hair flowing free, his hard member calling to her. A wave of heat rushed from her crotch to her cheeks, and she shook her head and tried to focus on her job. It wasn't easy. In her attempts to smell traces of marijuana, she instead found the distinctive smell of sex.
What was wrong with her? He was a case, for hell's sake!
"I really don't think that would be appropriate. Can't we sit down in the living room?"
Aguila stared into her eyes again. God they were strange. They were all she could think about.
"We could go to the living room, but it can be very noisy in there. It's quiet in here and private. And very, very nice. It's such a nice room. We should meet in here. It's nice and safe."
"Nice and safe..."
It was a very nice room. And she did feel much safer here now. It should be all right to just have a quick meeting with him in the bedroom. She walked in and closed the door behind her. They needed privacy.
He indicated an upholstered chair where she could sit, while he sat on the bed. His robe opened slightly and she could see his strong thighs. She quickly looked away and found herself staring once again into his strange red eyes. She tried to focus on business.
"So, Mr. Aguila, I think we both know that you've been using drugs again. Do you want to explain how it happened?"
That was good. Get him on the defensive.
.... There is more of this story ...