A Conflict of Interest

"And whatever you," cautioned our instructor at the parole and probation academy, "don't become socially involved with any of your offenders. Big no no."

Twenty-two years old and just out of college,I thought that being a P&P agent struck an ideal balance between social work (wanting to help people) and law enforcement (keeping our community safer). The pay wasn't bad, the medical benefits were good and the job offered the type of flexibility I craved. We made field visits, testified in court, wrote reports, etc. We weren't tethered to our desks all day, a welcome change from my previous part time job as a telemarketer.

For my first few years on the job, I hadn't given much thought to the instructor's lecture on the social taboo when it came to offenders. After all, common sense told anybody with, well, common sense, that keeping a professional distance was vital. Interacting socially with people on your caseload could not only compromise your position, but open yourself up to blackmail. Sure, I had supervised a number of attractive young women, admiring their assets. But I was discrete doing it. Some were your classic manipulators, the ones who knew they were hot and tried in subtle—and sometimes not so subtle ways to flirt if not seduce. It didn't work with me, no matter how horny I was or attractive they were.

That is, until I laid eyes on Lindy Danielle Stevens.

She was sitting in the office reception area, a large room with several rows of benches. Armed with basic information from her case file, I still didn't know what she looked like, only that she was a twenty-one year old college student on probation for marijuana possession. She had reported per my letter. "Lindy Stevens," I called out amid the mass of people waiting to see their agents.

A soft, pleasant voice answered. "I'm Lindy Stevens." She raised her hand, holding a copy of my letter. "Are you agent Brad Renshaw?" Awestruck, it took me a few seconds to respond. In a room filled with mostly street-hardened druggies, she stood out like a rose in a trash dump.

I led her into my cubby hole of an office, a ten by ten foot space filled with a desk, Dell laptop and file cabinet. I tried hard not to stare, to not look like every guy who spots his "image of the girl he hopes to find," to quote a lyric from that old Safaris ballad (Image of a Girl). How to describe Lindy: wavy, dirty blond hair that dropped to the middle of her back, high cheek bones, lovely skin, hazel eyes. She stood about five-five, about average height for a woman, and well proportioned. I recall what she wore that day—a white blouse and a blue denim skirt hemmed just above her knees. Movie star, Michelle Pfeiffer kind of gorgeous she wasn't. Rather, she was very cute, adorable, I thought. In her own unique way, Lindy was just as cute as a young Sally Field or Meg Ryan. It was all I could do to keep it together, to get on with business. What was a nice looking girl like her doing in a place like this? A cop had pulled her over for a blown tail light and found marijuana on the front seat of her car. Long story short, she was found guilty of possession and placed on one year probation. The judge ordered regular drug testing.

"But I don't have a drug problem, Mr. Renshaw, so I don't see why the court wants me tested," she whined, clearly irked that she'd be required to pee into a cup every time she reported.

"But the judge thinks you do," I said, "and we might as well start today."

"Fine," she mumbled, shooting me a look of resignation and contempt.

While a female agent took Lindy into the ladies room to take her urine specimen, I mulled over the situation. Here I was, madly attracted to a girl that I was forbidden to pursue, forbidden to express any emotion or sentiment unrelated to the job. Could I handle that? I reckoned so, mindful of the discipline that had allowed me to obtain an advanced academic degree, that kept me in the gym several times a week to insure that my six-foot plus frame stayed hard and muscular. At age twenty-nine, I weighed a solid two-hundred pounds, the same as my senior year in high school. Never married, I was a single guy playing the field, a couple years removed from my last "serious" romance. Emotionally, I felt ready for another deep, long-term relationship, but with a woman out on her own and closer to my age, not someone like Lindy, a twenty-one year old college student with a drug charge under her belt. Okay, a misdemeanor drug charge, but still...

Lindy returned to my office and stood by my desk, arms folded against her chest, all attitude. "Well, is there anything else?" I gave her reporting instructions, then told her to expect a home visit. Per agency policy, agents were required to verify an offender's residence. "Hmm, interesting," she said, and began to twirl a strand of her hair. "What should I wear? I mean, you might catch me in the buff." She giggled.

"What you have on will do," I said, trying not to look too eager at the thought. "Don't worry, it will be during normal business hours."

And it was, too, around nine in the morning a few days later. She lived with a student roommate in Walton Woods, a garden style apartment complex filled with students from her college. Probation agents are the last people offenders want to see at their door. Some express that with a nasty look, while others flash a phony smile. Lindy gave me the smile routine, though I couldn't deny that it looked more genuine than others I'd seen. A good actress, I thought. "What a pleasant surprise," she beamed. "Do come in."

She had just eaten breakfast and was dressed for a late morning psychology class. Well, if you call tight white shorts hiked to mid-thigh and a pink halter top dressed, though not atypical of what college girls wore on campus in warm, late spring weather. I loosened my tie as she led me into the kitchen. We sat face to face less than a foot apart at her kitchen table, and I tried mighty hard not to stare at her slender, shapely legs and bare midriff, not to mention her nipples pressing against the thin material of her halter.

"Well, you can see that I live here," she said, propping her elbow on the white Formica, chin in hand. "Listen, can I get you something to drink? I'm stocked with all kinds of juices. Apple. Orange. Toma—"

"No, but thanks," I said, now positive that her warm welcome was no more than a game of manipulation. Agents aren't allowed to accept paperclips from an offender, much less food or drink.

"Well, okay," she said, leaning back and crossing her legs. "By the way, I like your blue tie. It matches your eyes."

"So tell me about your major and where you hope to find employment," I said in an awkward attempt to change the subject. She smiled, seemed to enjoy my discomfort. Then she gave me a brief rundown of her plans, how she would be graduating in another month with a degree in psychology and had already been accepted into her school's master's program starting in the fall. Come summer, she'd be doing what she did the last few summers, lifeguarding at a community pool. Agents weren't supposed to reveal personal information. However, having majored in psych myself, I fell easily into a discussion of my own academic resume. We discussed the work of Freud, Jung, Pavlov, Skinner, et al, people that all psych majors are required to study. Lindy was obviously smart as well as beautiful, a chick I wouldn't hesitate to pursue under different circumstances.

She followed up our academic discussion with more flattery. "You look in great shape. You work out, I bet." After telling her about my gym regimen, Lindy revealed that she was an aspiring triathlete. She swam and ran, and was shopping around for a bike. I was getting more impressed and attracted to her by the minute—my professional façade was starting to wilt.

I got up to leave. "Well, it's been a nice visit, but now it's time for me to get back to work."

Lindy stood and said, "Before you go, you might want to check out my bedroom." She paused for effect, then added, "Just to show you I don't stash any weed in there."

"I don't think that will be necessary," I said, now aware that I was becoming aroused. "Really, I've got to get going."

"Oh, come on," she insisted. Then she grabbed my hand and led me down a narrow hall to her bedroom. She obviously knew I couldn't find drugs in there even if I wanted to. Typical of the controlled chaos of a college student's dorm room, things were scattered about, clothes on the floor, books piled high on the desk. I stood in the doorway while she sat on the edge of her bed and crossed her legs. "I just wanted you to know I've got nothing to hide," she said. "Not drugs, anyway. "

"Oh, something else I should know about?"

"Maybe you already know." She shook her hair out of her eyes, then slid her tongue seductively across her lower teeth.

It was becoming nearly impossible to conduct business as usual is what I knew, watching this sexy college girl giving me not so subtle hints that she was prepared to offer me more than just fruit juice. Discretely, I placed my hands over my crotch to hide my throbbing hard-on. "Well, whatever it is, Lindy, make sure it's legal. Meanwhile, I've really gotta go."

She pouted. "Aw, so soon? Well, okay, I've got to get ready for class anyway." Barely thinking rationally, I could hardly resist the urge to hug her at the door as we said goodbye. Another home visit like that, I thought while pulling out of the parking lot, could land me in some real deep shit. Then again, unless she moved, I wasn't required to make another home visit. My contacts with Lindy for the duration of her probation would be in the office.

Or so I thought. Only days later, early Saturday morning, I was driving to the gym on a route not far from Lindy's apartment building, when I saw a female runner in green shorts suddenly collapse on the shoulder of the road and grab her foot. It looked like Lindy, though I wasn't sure until I pulled up in my black Chevy Camaro. "Lindy, is that you?"

"Mr. Renshaw?! Fancy meeting you here." She told me she stepped on something and twisted her ankle. Wincing in pain, she tried to stand, then sank back to the concrete. She began to cry in frustration after realizing she forgot her cell phone and therefore couldn't call her roommate to pick her up.

"No problem," I assured her. "I'll drive you home. But you might want me to take you to the ER first." She rejected that idea, mindful of the long wait in emergency rooms. Bending down to get a closer look, I could see the ankle beginning to swell. "Well, at the very least, you need to get an ice pack on that thing." She wiped away her tears and nodded. After I helped her up, she leaned against me, standing on one foot. I wrapped my arms around her, inhaling the sweet sweat glistening from her body. On impulse, I gave her a quick peck on the neck. She began to turn her head to face me when I scooped her into my arms, carried her to my car and settled her in the front seat. An awkward silence followed in the few minutes it took to reach Walton Woods. "I feel really safe in your arms," she finally said as I carried her up a few steps into her apartment.

Her roommate, a tall, slender girl named Samantha, gasped at the sight of Lindy in the arms of a strange man. Lindy introduced us, then described what happened: "And Mr. Renshaw, my chivalrous PO here, was kind enough to take me home. He rescued me." Had we been alone, I might have done more than just kiss her. Instead, I helped Samantha prepare an ice pack, then left.

She limped into my office the following week on her scheduled report day. She showed me her ankle, still swollen but obviously on the mend. She looked relieved after I told her that her urine had returned from the lab clean. "See, I told you I was keeping out of trouble. Well, last Saturday excepted," she added, drawing her mouth into a mock look of embarrassment. Then she confronted me: "Speaking of which, right before you carried me to your car, you kissed me, didn't you?"

Normally honest, I hesitated, unsure of where she was going with this. She might be thinking blackmail, I surmised, a way to coerce me into letting her court-ordered conditions slide in exchange for keeping her mouth shut. It could be my job if management got wind of what happened. I hemmed and hawed. "Well, I, I..."

"Come on, admit it," she prodded.

I looked away for a second, then turned back to face her. "Yes, I kissed you," I said grinning, feeling like a boy caught with his hands in the cookie jar. Then I turned serious. "Look, you were in pain and scared, and I did what anybody might have done if—"

"There's no need to make excuses or apologize Mr.—can I call you Brad?" I nodded. Folding her hands on my desk, she looked me straight in the eye. "Truth be told, Brad, I was about to kiss you back. But then you turned away and lifted me up, so the moment was lost. But maybe now it's time we admit there's something going on here irrespective of my legal problems."

"Huh huh, and what's that?" Still guarded, I played naïve.

"What's that? Something called chemistry." She gave me one of those looks that said, AS IF YOU DIDN'T KNOW. "You feel it as well as I do, from your sexy blue eyes to your big broad shoulders."

"Think so?"

"Come on, dude,I picked up on it the first time I reported. The way you looked at me, your body language. That kiss only confirmed it."

"You're on probation, Lindy, and I'm your probation agent," I said, squirming in my seat. "It's taboo for agents and offenders to socialize, much less date. You have to know that."

"Fine. Then we'll forget the dating part. Let's just sleep together." We both roared, and it came as a welcome relief from what had been a tense moment. "But seriously, Brad," she said after we calmed down, "it wouldn't hurt if we got together for lunch, would it, one little lunch?"

"Well, that WOULD count as a community contact," I said, watching her face light up. In addition to office and home contacts, management gave Brownie points to agents who saw their offenders at least once in the community, though meeting for lunch was a stretch. I could picture Mr. Lewis, my supervisor, cringing in dismay. Nevertheless... "Okay, where do you have in mind?"

We both agreed on Applebee's, nothing fancy but it had the right atmosphere, light and casual. One can rationalize anything to absurdity, and I did, picking a week day during normal business hours. This was, after all, ahem, a "community contact." Right? Anyway, Lindy showed up wearing a short yellow dress with a cleavage-revealing neckline. Her hair was up, a change from her usual down-the-back doo. I wore dress-down casual, khaki pants and a form fitting white nylon sports shirt. As always, Lindy looked beautiful and sexy and from the leering looks she got, I wasn't the only one who thought so. We both ordered the Oriental salad and a small bottle of Zinfandel. Initially inhibited by the taboo factor, I loosened up by the second glass of wine. Technically, this was socializing, though I still felt on safe ground as long as it didn't go any further. In fact, my afternoon itinerary called for more field work, all home visits. All in a day's work, I reasoned, including this "one little lunch" with Lindy. What I should have anticipated or at least thought about was that pesky little law of unintended consequences.

This became clear after I walked Lindy to her car, an old blue model Civic. "I had a great time," she said. "Thanks for lunch." The next thing I knew, her lips were pressed against mine, her arms wrapped around my waist. Pulling away was an option I lacked the discipline to choose. She felt too good and tasted too good and smelled too good for that. We smooched close to a full minute on the parking lot, the bright May sun beating down, making us hot in more ways than one.

"My roommate's in class and I'm free this afternoon," she said. "If you know what I mean. And I think you do." I did. I also knew I had home visits to make, not to mention the insane risk involved in taking her up on her offer. But then I figured if management found out, I could always plead temporary insanity, an accurate prognosis in light of what I did next; namely, follow Lindy back to her apartment.

"This time," she chuckled, "I hope you'll actually come IN my bedroom instead of standing in the doorway."

"Lead the way," I said, my cock rising in anticipation.

"Well, before I do," she said, placing her hands on my shoulders, "I just want you to know that I have no ulterior motive for bringing you here, other than you get my juices flowing. On several levels, I might add." I nodded, relieved and grateful that she sensed my concerns. By then, though, the taboo factor no longer scared me. On the contrary, it enhanced the turn-on.

She drew the shades, leaving the bedroom in shadows and soft light. Then she pulled out her barrette and shook her head, letting her long locks fall down her back. I held her face and kissed her, then ran my hands through her hair, then dropped them to her butt. "You're not wearing anything," I said, feeling no panties through the material of her yellow dress.

She smiled, lifted her dress and placed my hand over her pussy. "If I was, they'd be soaked by now." She moaned and her legs buckled when I gently pushed my middle finger inside her. Her wetness felt more like a deluge. Reaching behind, she unzipped her dress and pulled it off in one fluid motion. Then, after snapping off her bra, she reached for my belt buckle. I threw off my shirt, kicked off my shoes, then stepped out of my pants. Fully disrobed, we kissed another couple minutes before bedding down.

She stroked my fully erect cock, then ran her fingers over my six-pack. "Your abs feel almost as hard as that shaft of yours," she quipped. That shaft of mine, eager as it was to get busy, would have to wait while I explored her body, athletically firm, yet feminine. Extreme musculature in women, while aesthetically interesting, didn't do much for me sexually. But that wasn't Lindy. She had curves and breasts and great skin—tan, satin-smooth, baby-soft. She also had runner's legs—no surprise there—long and firm, yet smooth and shapely, the sort of gams made for the track as well as the bedroom. She wrapped them tightly around my waist as I unleashed a tongue lashing over her entire body, working my way down from her nipples to her pussy. Her delicious feminine scent, a mix of her natural aroma and a trace of sunscreen, gave me an olfactory thrill that I'd never before experienced. Her moaning as I worked over her clit drowned out the soft hum of the AC.

"Now Brad! Give it to me now!" she demanded after about five minutes of that. Spreading her legs further, she guided me into her, then clamped her legs around me once again. Somehow I had the presence of mind to wonder if she was using protection. Caught by surprise, I'd left my Trojans home. It was tough to relax while thinking of a tactful way to ask. Then, much to my relief, she said, "I'm on the pill, by the way. Just in case you're wondering."

"It did cross my mind," I admitted. "Thanks for the heads up. No pun intended." She laughed, then lost herself in the moment. I could have come anytime, but held out while we changed positions. She seemed to like topside best, where she had more control, if not greater feeling. With my hands on her hips and buttocks, I lifted her up and down, adding additional thrust to her own turbo-charged rhythm. Like I said, the taboo factor enhanced the whole experience. Agents were supposed to keep a professional distance from their offenders. And here I was, humping one of them in her own bedroom. Somehow I held back, watching her come, watching her shriek with delight, her face a picture of orgasmic wonder. Then I shot my own load.