Archive for inappropriate doctor-patient relations

The Parking Lot

The elevator doors opened and revealed Cheyenne standing in the hall outside Dr. F______ office.

“Ms. B______,” she said. “Welcome back. The doctor will see you now. Allow me.”

She stepped into the elevator, inserted a key and pressed one of the basement buttons. Once it lit up, she straightened herself and looked up at the progression of floors.

She was wearing a heather gray wool jacket and straight skirt. Her hair was pulled back in a severe bun. She did not look at me or address me beyond her initial instruction.

The elevator arrived at the specified floor after what felt like hours and when the doors opened, I turned to Cheyenne, who did not step forward. She motioned simply into the darkened parking lot with a hand.

I rolled my eyes and stepped out. As predicted, Cheyenne keyed the doors shut and disappeared in the silver tube, leaving me alone in the creepy basement place. I looked at my mobile phone. No reception. Of course not. I lit a cigarette and began to walk across.

There were few cars. Most of them were covered, but all of them were good looking cars. I know nothing about cars, but I do know about aesthetics and these cars were very visually appealing. I touched one with my fingers: dust. An old man’s abandoned toys–as depressing as a teddy bear lying on the side of the road.

I lifted one of the covers and looked at a gorgeous machine, the sort of thing in which a treacherous, villainous woman would have herself chauffeured, which I would later discover was a Bucciali TAV 12, of which only two are known to exist in the world, one in France and one in the United States. Right here. Somewhere under Los Angeles.

I took a long drag of my cigarette before crushing it under my heel and began to pull the cover off the car. Its body was black and square. I ran a hand over the red line that ran across its side and my eyes focused on the peculiar image of a silver bird with gold wings on the side near the grille.

A sudden burst of force suddenly knocked me into the car, the impact of which caused a series of alarms to go off around me. In a motion, my hands were behind my back and I was motionless, pressed against the long hood of the car, my face staring into the empty windshield of the Bucciali. My focus on the reflection of my assailant in the vague reflection of the dusty car prevented me from going into a panic.

I was so focused on it that I didn’t realize he’d tied my hands until I felt him working the rope around my fore-arms. I pressed my pelvis against the car, trying to manipulate myself out of his grasp.

Dr. F______ put one hand on my back and flattened me into the car again.

“Do you feel trapped?” he asked.

“No.” I responded.

He put a hand under my belly and flipped me over so I was looking up at him. He pushed up my skirt a bit and began to bind my thighs with a rope with such dexterity, I was unable to react in a way to prevent it.

“Do you feel trapped?” he asked.

“No!” I said, obstinately, though I could not move my limbs from the knees up.

He took me by the front of my coat and threw me to the ground.

“Do you feel trapped?” he asked once again, the alarms still echoing around us.

“You can tie me up all you like, Doctor,” I said with a smile. “But you can’t keep me.”

He knelt beside me. His face came close to mine.

“I can’t keep you,” he repeated. “And why is that?”

“Someone would notice. Your office is the last place on my planner. They would know it was you.”

“And who is they?”

“The police.”

“What if I don’t mean to keep you?” he asked me.

What is he going to do? I wondered, feeling my impertinence shrink and fear begin to take hold. What good was the police after the first forty eight hours? If he doesn’t mean to keep me–would he dispose of me?

In the dim light, Dr. F______ looked like the perfect serial killer. Well-kept, in black lambswool sweater rolled up almost to the elbow, showing impressively shaped forearms. The stuff of Bret Easton Ellis’s twisted mind.

F_____ looked down at me and smiled, it was almost a kind smile. Except, well, you know, he’d tackled me, tied me up and thrown me on the ground. F_______ nodded and then he placed a blindfold over my eyes.

Darkness. I don’t know how long I lay there. With the sound of alarms fading fast, the cold pavement smelled like the silence of the forgotten.

A movement suddenly pulled at my shirt and I felt the cold harden my nipples. I tried to sit up, but was met with the force of his sole.

Oh, my god.

In time, the weight of his foot disappeared, but I didn’t dare move and invite it back. I wondered whether rolling would give me enough time to get up. Just then, I felt something cold, I thought it was a hand but it rolled between my exposed tits and down my side and I realized it was water. No, not water, water doesn’t move up a breast and circle a nipple. Ice.

I hate cold. I wasn’t joking when I told him Russia’s winter sent me running. It’s one of my least favorite sensations. My teeth clattered from my shivering.

“Do you feel trapped?” F______ asked.

“Yes!” I screamed. “Yes, I’m trapped! I’m trapped.”

“Do you think saying that will compel me to untie you?”

“No, but can you at least cover me?”

“Why would you like to be covered?”

“Because I’m cold,” I said. “Please.”

“You need to be cold right now.”

“Why?” I demanded.

“Because that’s what I want,” he responded. “From now on, we’re going to do what I want.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“What I want is for you to be cold and be still. Do not move until I give you express permission to do so.”

There was a pause, then the sound of footsteps fading away and finally the ding of an elevator and the swoosh of doors opening and closing.

Silence. Cold. I lay still for a long time. My lower back, which was resting on my bound elbows, screamed with pain. I couldn’t feel my elbows or arms. Every once in a while, a fit of shivers would send pain shooting up and down my arms.

Finally, when the silence convinced me no one else was there, I rolled on my side. Immediately, all the pain in my arms that had been numbed by the lack of circulation made itself felt. I winced and bit my lip, afraid to make any sound.

I shimmied, my face to the ground, trying to loosen the fabric around my face. Finally, it began to slip until it was around my nose. I looked around for him. He wasn’t there. He’d literally left me in the middle of the parking garage. Still on my side, I pulled my knees up and began to gnaw on the knot F______ had made. If I could free my thighs, I would better able to move, perhaps find an object against which to loosen the ropes holding my arms.

It’s amazing. The instinct that propels flight in creatures shoots such incredible quantities of adrenaline into the body that suddenly, every physical concern fades. No pain, no fear, no system of analysis. All I could think about was escaping.

I was at that rope forever, finally, it began to loosen. I wasn’t able to fully untie it, but with it loose, I managed somehow to slip a leg out of it. Getting up, I shook the rope off the other leg. I looked around. Not a sign of him. Not a sign of anything to help me remove the rope holding my arms. And certainly not any kind of fire escape.

Is that even legal? Shouldn’t every building have one?

I knew it was pointless, but I still ran to the elevator and tried to call it down. At first I thought I wasn’t pushing hard enough–hard to do with my hands tied, and certainly when I can’t quite tell after having turned around where the button is. Then I noticed the card slot. Of course. You need an access key.

So I’m stuck in a basement, tied up, by myself either with a psycho or a brilliant therapist.

Is it naive that I want to believe this is some brilliant form of therapy, of illustrating what it means to have no control?

The elevator made a ding and I jumped, my heart pounding like a chariot without a charioteer against my ribs. I quickly turned around and flattened myself against the wall.

I felt the swoosh zip through my body as the elevator doors opened. F______ stepped out and took a couple of large steps forward before he paused to pan the room.

I quietly inched along the wall and began to back into the elevator.

One of my coat buttons hit the mirror when I pressed against the inside of the elevator. I held my breath, but after a couple of quick steps, a hand landed heavily on the doors, causing them to open completely.

F______ peered in. He had a look of mild amusement on his face.

“I was hoping you would be a good girl and do as you were told,” he said to me. “But I was also hoping you would misbehave so I could show you what happens when you don’t do what I tell you.”

The doctor reached into the elevator, took me by the hair and dragged me back to the parking lot, where he threw me face-down on the dusty hood of a Bentley.

Holding me in place with his own body, he pulled up my skirt until it was around my waist. When he pulled a way, a hand remained tangled in my hair, holding my face down. What was he going to do?

Slap! A palm landed evenly on my ass. I couldn’t believe it. Was he spanking me? Slap! came the answer. Yes. Slap! He hit me hard, each sting searing through my body. He hit one cheek, then the other, then alternated again. I began to feel raw.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asked me.

I didn’t know what to say. If I said yes, would he stop?

He slapped me again.

“When I speak to you, you will respond. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I responded.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” I said.

He paused.

“You want me to keep going?”

“Yes.”

“Spread your legs.”

“What?”

“Do it.”

I spread my legs slowly.

SLAP! His hand landed square on my pussy.

“OW!” I screamed, closing my legs.

F______ pressed down on me again, crushing my arms into my back. I could feel his hot breath against my neck as his free hand battled with my legs to push them apart. I fought him. I fought him with my hips. I fought him with the strength of my ass cheeks and thighs. But he got through.

And when he did, he found I was soaking wet.

There was a pause in his movements. Finally, a breath escaped his lips and rushed against my neck.

“Do you like this?” he asked me, in a different tone.

“I–I don’t know,” I confessed.

He said nothing, then rose. My arms were pulled this way and that as he untied the rope. When he was done, he turned me around so I was on my back. We looked at each other in uncomfortable silence.

I’m not really embarrassed by anything but this, somehow, was a bit mortifying. The man had been abusing me, teaching me what it was like to have no control and instead of understanding my situation and giving in to terror and impending death, I’d become aroused.

I’d ruined my therapy. Again. Fine. Whatever. It had its benefits.

“Fuck me,” I said looking directly into Dr. F______’s green eyes.

He simply stared.

Taking his sweater with a hand and pulling myself up so my face was inches from his, I looked at his lips before looking into his eyes and repeated, “Fuck. Me.”

He brought a hand to mine and I released my hold on his sweater. I could smell myself on his fingers. I brought his hand to my mouth.

I sucked his fingers, one by one and he watched, with no expression. Finally, when I had finished, I released his hand and he bent to pick up my purse from where it had slid during the first struggle and handed it to me.

“Cheyenne will contact you in regard to a next appointment once I review the conclusions reached today,” he said simply.

I dropped my purse on the ground and looked at him.

“What, that’s it?” I asked. “You assault me, you tie me up, you spank me, you feel my cunt and then you send me home?”

“It is enough for today.”

“Oh, no,” I said. “It is not enough. It is not even close to enough.”

I pulled him to me by his belt. He took both of my hands in one of his and looking at me with a small smile, asked, “do I need to tie you up to take you out of here?”

I sighed and pushed my skirt down. Three of my buttons were missing, so it was impossible to button up my blouse. I removed the blindfold, which was now around my neck, and buttoned my coat over my torn blouse. I pulled a clip from my purse and pinned my hair up.

If I had been a little mortified before, now, I wanted to die. As I followed him into the elevator, I began to freak out. Who the hell asks her therapist to fuck her? What’s wrong with me?

He said he’s going to “review the conclusions reached today”–what does that even mean? Is he going to have me committed? I hope at least he medicates me something decent.

We don’t exchange a word on the way up. In the lobby, he gives me a nod as I exit and that’s that.

When I look at my phone, I realize I’ve been “in therapy” for four and a half hours.

Slave Material

I waited for Cheyenne’s call all week. There was always a degree of apprehension–would she call me to the office or some other place? It was impossible to tell what would happen with F______, but as a general rule, places other than the office were more exciting.

Today, I didn’t get a chance to stare psychotically at my mobile because Cheyenne called me at exactly 7:00, just as I was getting out of the shower.

“Your appointment is at 3:00PM. Dr. F______ will be waiting for you in his consulting room.”

I ended the call and threw the phone on the bed.

+++

When the elevator doors opened, I didn’t go through the waiting room. I turned left and headed straight for the door that led to F______’s consulting room. I slid my patient key on an unobtrusive panel beside a nondescript landscape painting and the door opened with a small screak of wood.

Inside, F______ was standing at one of his bookcases.

“Hello, Zita,” he said, distractedly.

I took a seat on an ottoman.

F______ pulled out a book, flipped through it, then placed it back. He went over to his desk, looked over a paper and brought a hand to his face.

I observed curiously. I had never seen him working before. He had that look that academics get when they have finally reconciled some impossible fact with reality.

“You might be ready, Zita,” he said. “You might be ready.”

“Ready for what?” I asked him, crossing my legs.

“Something else.”

“Something else?”

Had he decided there was too much risk in what we were doing? Was I becoming a liability to him despite the fact that I only saw him when requested and knew nothing about him? Or was he bored with it and ready to get me off his hands?

“Are you going to tell me?” I asked, getting up and walking to his desk.

He walked around his desk and pulled on the steep v-cut of my jersey dress to expose my tits.

My heart jumped in my chest, I was sure he must have heard it beating insanely inside me as he inspected me.

“You still have considerable bruising from our session two weeks ago,” he said. “Even some scabbing on the underside where you bled.”

“Does it still hurt?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

He pressed down on a bruise.

I gasped.

“You have done much talking about submission and discipline, Zita,” he said. “Is it a metaphor for a selflessness and humanity you otherwise fear you do not possess or a real desire?”

I didn’t know what to say.

“You throw around the word ‘Master’ as though it’s a game, a though that is something you grant a man. For all your academic musings on Natural Order and the flaws in modern pornographic works depicting BDSM, you seem to have entirely missed the point.”

He had my nipple tightly between his fingers.

“Do you really think that you could be a slave?”

“Y–yes.”

He walked around me, touched my hair, my hands, my shoulders, my waist. His are hands that please and hands that break, hands that conquer and hands that caress.

“Get into position,” he whispered in my ear.

I dropped on the ground in the position he taught me.

He examined me in place.

“I do like this position,” he said.

He pressed down on my back, felt my pelvic bones, my ribs, my vertebrae.

“There is so little of you,” he lamented. “You will always bruise. Up.”

I sat up.

He knelt before me and took me by the neck. He looked at me. I closed my eyes.

“Look at me.”

“Yes, Master,” I responded opening my eyes.

“Don’t call me Master. I have not decided whether you are fit to serve me. Call me Elias.”

Slap! He slapped my face.

“Thank you!” I said before the pain registers.

He slapped it again.

“Thank you!”

“What is my name?”

“Elias!”

He slapped the other side of my face. Then the other side. I thanked him. My cheeks stung.

“Stand up,” Elias said, rising, still holding me by the neck.

I stood. Elias reached under my dress and took hold of my cunt. I gasped, pressing my hips against his arm.

Elias removed his hand and, still holding me by the neck, pulled me into him. I felt his large chest against the left side of my body, rising and falling as he breathed. We stood pressed together like that for a moment before he took my hair with his free hand, pulled my head back and kissed me.

I gasped into his mouth. For some reason being kissed by him felt like a bigger deal than being fingered and slapped.

He didn’t notice or if he did, he didn’t care. He kissed me, first just lips, opening mine like peeling a rosebud. Then I felt his tongue, rough and cold. The kiss was soft but somehow, incredibly violent at once. I moaned and struggled and he held me and kissed me and kissed me and kissed me.

Kisses are for lovers. Dr. F______ is not my lover. How could he kiss me? I felt confused, I felt high, I felt lost, I felt so good, so good, so good. Kiss me. Kiss me. Kiss me. Kiss me.

When he pulled away, I was shaking. I was breathing so hard, I could’t think. I was almost crying. My lips were swollen and bleeding.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

Elias slapped me.

“Thank you, Elias!”

He slapped me again.

“Thank you, Elias!”

He slapped me and slapped me and with each slap I felt less lost. With each slap, I found my way back.

Yes, yes, yes, punish me, I thought. Punish me. I shouldn’t want you this much. Punish me. Punish me. Punish me.

“Sit down,” Elias said.

I sat in the chair before his desk. He knelt before me. And, taking one of my feet in his hand, pulled it up and removed my shoe.

“Are you ticklish?” he asked.

“No.”

He tickled me. Nothing.

“You have strong feet,” he remarked.

He slapped my right sole.

“Thank you!”

He slapped it again.

“Thank you!”

Elias put my foot down. I lifted the other.

“You little pain slut,” he said, betraying a smile. “You want more, don’t you?”

I sat silent, wide-eyed, feeling betrayed by my body.

“I will take only what you see fit to give me,” I said, too late.

Elias reached between my legs.

“You’re so wet,” he said. He could feel it through my pants.

“Ask me,” he said. “Ask me to give you more so I can punish you.”

“Give me more, Elias,” I begged.

He punishes me and it feels so good.

“That’s enough for today,” Elias says, finally, rising.

The Orange Grove

“Good morning, Zita,” came Cheyenne’s voice over the phone. “Today you are to meet Dr. F______ on the corner of South Doheny and Whilshire at 3:00PM.”

I thought for some reason we would have a late lunch at Kate Mantilini’s until I noticed the waiting smoke beige Saab sedan. I walked to it and without waiting for whoever was inside to open the door for me, let myself into the passenger seat.

F______ was behind the driver’s seat, alone.

“Hello, Zita,” he said, pulling a kerchief from his pocket and waving it. “Face the window so I can blindfold you.”

He smoothed my hair and stretched the silk kerchief around my face, ensuring that the area around my face was covered. I felt the pressure on my face as he tightened it and opened my eyes. I could only see specks of light through the dark fabric, like millions of distant stars on an ink black sky.

The car began to move. It slowed and sped up as its made its way through light early afternoon traffic. Eventually we hit a constant speed and I realized we were on a freeway, but by then, I had lost track of the streets and had no idea what direction we were going.

I was already aroused.

“Can I smoke?” I asked.

I heard my window roll down partially.

I reached into my clutch and felt for my cigarettes and lighter and sat back.

As I lit it, I heard a click and a voice–not F______’s–took over the speakers.

“Our models of the universe,” the man said, “our glosses or gambles have at least the following limitations and constraints upon them: one, Genetics. Our DNA happens to have evolved out of standard primate DNA and still has 98 percent similarity to chimpanzee DNA and 85 percent similarity to the DNA of the South American spider monkey. We basically have the same gross anatomy as other primates, the same nervous systems, basically the same sense organs, etc. Our more highly developed cortexes allow us to perform certain higher or more complex mental functions than other primates but our perceptions remain largely within he primate norm. The DNA and the sensory neural apparatus produced by the DNA creates what ethologists call the unwelt, world-field–perceived by an animal…”

I took a long drag. It sounded like some kind of a lecture on sense perception. It was a logical follow-up to the discussion on perception as illustrated by the notion of an assemblage point. I couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed. I didn’t want to walk about my unwelt, I wanted F______.

Without my eyes, there was no way to perceive F______ beside me–not without reaching out. I wasn’t about to do that.

“Two, imprints. It appears that animals have brief periods of imprint vulnerability in which their nervous systems can suddenly create a personalized reality-tunnel unique to itself. These imprints permanently bond neurons into reflex networks which seemingly remain for life. The basic research on imprinting, for instance, for which Lorentz and Tinbergen shared a Nobel Prize in 1973, demonstrated hat the statistically normal snow-goose imprints its mother, as distinct from any other goose, shortly after birth. This imprint creates a bond and the gosling attaches itself to the mother every way possible. These brief points of imprint vulnerability can literally imprint anything. Lorentz, for instance, recorded a case in which a gosling, in the temporary absence of the mother, imprinted a ping-pong ball. It followed the ping-pong ball about, nestled with it, and on reaching adulthood, attempted to mount the ball sexually…”

I laughed and took another drag.

“How and when our pubertal sexuality gets imprinted, similarly, seems to determine lifelong programs of heterosexuality or homosexuality, brash promiscuity or monogamy, etc. In both common sexual imprints like these and in more eccentric imprints–celibacy, foot fetishism, sadmasochism, etc.–are bonded brain circuitry seem quite as mechanical as the imprint which bonded the gosling to the ping-pong ball…”

My ears perked at the sound of sadomasochism, but the discussion on the topic shifted once more to umwelt and went into other aspects that programs one’s perceived universe, including conditioning and learning.

I lit another cigarette and began to zone out, thinking of how hard his dick had been during our last session. It looked like it could have burst through his pants. I wanted to see it. I wanted to see his cock and put it in my mouth and…

What’s stopping me? What’s stopping me from flicking this cigarette out the window, pulling off the blindfold and diving into his lap? What would F______ do? What could he do while he was driving?

But I didn’t do anything. I didn’t dare.

A couple of minutes later, I felt the car slow to a stop. F______ killed the engine. He pulled off the blindfold and I saw we had parked on a forgotten road among orange groves. Orange groves in California. It could be anywhere.

Dr. F______ stepped out of the car, walked around and opened my door. I stepped out, thinking we were about to go on a hike, but he opened the backseat door.

Confused, I got in. F______ came around and got in through the other side.

“Turn around.” he said.

I did and he pulled up my top and unclasped my bra.

“Take off your shirt.”

I took it off.

“Take off your pants.”

“May I remove my boots?” I asked.

“You may.”

“May I remove my socks?”

“No,” he said. “Keep them on. It’s embarrassing.”

I looked at him in surprise. It really is embarrassing.

“Turn around again,” he said.

I turned.

He slapped my right tit, hard. He smacked the left one. He smacked the right one. Smack, smack, smack! One, then the other. Smack, smack, smack!

Then he pulled me to him, bent me over his knee and spanked my ass and pussy until I was raw.

It was brutal, intense. He hit me like no one has hit me before. I cannot tell you what other atrocities he did to me because I don’t recall very well. I floated into a trance. At one point he asked me something and I, crying and moaning at once, whispered, “where am I?”

As I write this, I try to understand my kink. Is it that I’m a masochist? Do I just want to be spanked? Or is there something else?

I think about Eric again and the reason things didn’t work out between us. There was plenty of pain in our interaction–and sex, too. No one has fucked me like Eric fucked me. I doubt anyone ever could. But Eric was lacking. Why?

I think about the scene in that car bent over F______’s knee again as his hand lands on my ass and cunt again and again and again. I think about the way I floated away at his violence, enraptured. I transcended.

There was no transcendence with Eric, I realize. There was nothing holy. This here is holy. When I am writhing in pain under F______’s hand, I am with the martyrs, living the ecstasies of devotion.

F______ made me a penitent worshiping before him.

“You are going to perform a duty for your Master,” F______ said that afternoon in the car after he had spanked me raw.

So I knelt before him in the cramped space of the car, waiting, unquestioningly as he unzipped his pants.

“Suck my dick,” he said.

“Teach me how,” I said, in supplication, opening my mouth over his cock.

F______ took my hair and guided me. I sucked his dick, his perfect dick, his solid, pulsing dick. He liked it when I gagged, asked me to thank him for gagging me, so I made myself gag on him and thanked him over and over as I sucked him off.

Then he picked me up and threw me on my back next to him in the seat. He came over me, took my nipple in his mouth, sucked on it, bit on it with his hand in my pussy.

He descended on me, sucking on my clit and labia, fingers still deep inside me until I was writhing and creaming. I could feel my thigh muscles tightening against the flexing muscles in his neck. I began to float away into pleasure, again, began shaking uncontrollably, like I was freezing, but it was just the power of the release as I came.

F______ looked up when I stopped shaking. I lay in place and watched him arrange himself.

“We’re done for today,” he said. “Dress so I can blindfold you again.”

Master

As I’d said, everything went into the little notebook that Dr. F______ had asked me to keep, even little pieces of fiction that I would come up with during the course of the day. These didn’t really have anything to do with being broken–they were written specifically for him, little missives full of want. Like playing with paper airplanes, I directed them at him by creating the master in the story in his likeness, from his head to his shoes.

I imagine him circling me without a word, his footfalls heavy on the wood as He inspects every inch of me as one would a thoroughbred. I take into account what I can with eyes downcast. Ferragamo shoes. I can tell by the length of the pants that He’s wearing a classic cut but I just can’t help myself. I let my eyes move up the length of His suit.

Prada. The Devil wears Prada, they say. I don’t know. I do know, however, that Pope Benedict does. I could recognize those shoes anywhere.

Mmm, Popes are fascinating. The passions of the Borgias taught me to appreciate my Catholic heritage. Under the debauchery, we’re all hungry masochists looking for a God in front of whom to prostrate ourselves.

Is this my God?

I realize I’m looking into His eyes. The Stranger takes my braid in a single motion and pulls hard so my head is thrown back.

“Have you not been taught you are not to look a Man in the face unless so ordered?” He asks, with a sneer.

“Forgive me, Sir,” I reply.

He moves closer so He’s looking down at my face.

“Do you really think a weak little cunt like you could become everything I need in a slave?”

I say nothing.

Suddenly, I hear a lash. It takes a moment for my tits to register the pain. I’ve been too engrossed in the suit to notice He’s holding a dog quirt in one of His hands.

“Do you really think you could be my slave?” He asked again.

“It would depend entirely on Your Constitution, Sir,” I respond insolently.

And as He lashes me, I have hope that He’s finally found me.

It excited and unnerved me to watch him read the notebook. That’s how we were doing it now: I would meet with him and he would look over the notebook and then we would discuss whatever he felt was pertinent.

This time, after he finished reading, he rose from his seat and came over to where I was sitting on the daybed in his consulting room.

He untied the scarf from my neck.

“Did you bring me this, Zita?”

I nodded.

“Do you like to be strangled?” he asked, putting it back around my neck so it worked as a noose and pulling it until it was tight.

I felt the oxygen intake decrease.

“Spread your legs, Zita.”

My heart jumped in my chest. I spread my legs, the scarf growing tighter.

“Tap me if it’s too much,” he said.

I felt his fingers inside me. I put my feet up; one on his desk and another on a shelf and angled my hips forward.

“Very intuitive, obedient Zita,” F______ said, fingering me.

I was so wet, it was ridiculous. I hadn’t realized I was so turned on. When did it happen?

He fingered and fingered me, harder and faster, pulling the scarf tighter around my neck. I don’t know how long I was without air before I tapped him.

“Get up,” he whispered.

I stood, the blood rushing to my head and making me feel dizzy.

“Now bend over with your legs straight and your elbows on the chaise.”

I bent down, three and a half feet of leg into two and a quarter of body at a breakneck angle.

He ran a finger up my leg. “Such a perfect frame, my little thoroughbred.”

I felt like we’d stepped into a story. I moaned.

He spanked me. He hit me so hard I almost fell. It felt amazing.

“Thank you.”

He spanked me again, harder.

“Thank you.”

He spanked me again, other side.

“Thank you.”

He spanked me again on that side, harder.

“Thank you.”

He knelt and observed my cunt. He put a finger in and moved it about, as doctors do when they’re feeling for your ovaries.

“You have an incredibly tight pussy.”

“Does Master like it?” I ventured. I couldn’t believe I had called him that.

He didn’t respond. He didn’t have to. He finger fucked me in both holes until I was raw.

“Do you want a break, Zita? I think you need a break.”

“Thank you, Master.”

I stayed in place though my calves stung from the strain of being up like this.

“Now, Zita, before we finish, I want you prostrate yourself before me. Sit with your legs folded under you, Zita. Sit on your feet, your shins parallel to the floor, and ass resting on feet pointing backwards.”

I did as he told me, making sure my ass was exposed for him to see.

“Now bow down, make sure your ass is still touching your feet,” he continued. “Yes, very good. Bow further, until your forearms are resting on the ground before you. Put your head down and close your eyes.”

As I went down, I saw his cock, hard, pressed against his pants. I couldn’t believe it. I’d turned him on.

“Very nice,” he said.

“Does Master want to cum on my face?” I asked him without looking up.

There was a short pause and then F______ asked: “Don’t concern yourself with it. That aspect of it isn’t as important as this.”

With that, he picked me up by the hair, reached into my slip and pulled out my tits. He took a nipple between his fingers and pinched me so hard, I came.

“You little pain slut,” he said with a smile. “I think we’re done for today. I like using alternative tools to hurt and subdue you. I think you ought to include ideas in the notebook along with descriptions, images and places where these can be obtained. Start with the quirt, since it had such a charming debut.”

Sole Possessor

Le foie gras aux groseilles,” F______ said to the waiter without waiting for me to answer.

The waiter regarded me with a cocked brow. I still said nothing–Dr. F______ had instructed me that I was not to speak to anyone but him tonight, and only when he asked me a direct question. He listed a few more items.

“That is all,” F______ said.

The waiter retired.

“I have been considering what you revealed to me in our recent sessions,” F______ said to me. “Your fascination with being broken, as you call it, reinforces the conclusions I reached. Tell me, are you familiar with Carlos Castaneda?”

“I haven’t read his works, no,” I responded.

“He posited that reality is multi-dimensional and that a person can only see a very limited amount of of it. Two major concepts are that of the nagual and the tonal, a non-ordinary or unknown reality and a mundane reality respectively, which exist as dual aspects. He spoke much of something called the assemblage point, which I like to use to illustrate a transition from rigidity in patterns to unpredictability. In the human body, reality is assembled at this assemblage point–depending on the location of the point, a person perceives a specific reality. Castaneda believed that in adulthood, the assemblage point has a strong tendency to become fixed in place. If one can move the assemblage point, however, one has the ability to experience a change in reality. Ultimately, a more fluid assemblage point allows for a multi-dimensional experience.”

I said nothing.

“Zita. I require an immediate, elegant, detailed response from you.”

“But you didn’t ask a question,” I remarked.

“You will be more intuitive,” Dr. F______ said, leaning forward and pinching my nipple through the thin fabric of my dress.

I felt face heat up and knew I was red.

“It’s a very–” I cleared my throat. “It’s a very colorful metaphor. Is that what we’re doing then? Shifting my assemblage point–where are we going to put it?”

“There is no specific location or goal to the therapy,” F______ said, still holding my nipple. “The main thing is that it moves, that you relinquish your grip on your established patterns and stereotypes.”

“I see.”

A server came by and poured more water in his glass. He paused briefly when he saw F______’s hand pinching my nipple, but quickly averted his eyes and pivoted.

“Now,” F______ said. “Let’s talk about what you’re wearing.”

I regarded my lap where the yellow fabric of the Bluemarine jersey dress met the darkness of my legs.

“Is that is all you have on?” the doctor asked.

“No,” I replied.

“Go to the restroom right now, remove anything else you may be wearing and bring it back to me immediately. The men’s restroom, Zita.”

“The–” I began.

“Do not make me repeat myself. Bring back your panties in your hand.”

I rose, flushed, but I refused to show it. I strutted decisively to the men’s room hoping no one would see me. There was no one inside it. I slipped out of my thong and walked back out.

At the table, I put a hand on F______’s lap and tried to give him the piece of lingerie. He regarded me coolly.

“Doctor,” I said in a whisper, reaching my hand toward him further.

“Put it on the table.”

I paused for a moment, then placed the thong unceremoniously on his bread plate.

Dr. F______ smiled, “very intuitive. I’m pleased. Why don’t you wear a bra?”

“It’s unflattering to the deep v-cut of the dress.”

“Are your tits real?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“And what size shoe do you wear?”

I blushed. More quietly, I responded, “10.”

“You like shoes, don’t you, Zita?” F______ asked me, lifting up my chin. “You think of fashion as a real form of self-expression. It’s one more layer to push through. From now on, I will be the one who tells you what you wear.”

I was flabbergasted.

“And Zita?” he added, looking at me. “From now on you may only wear your beloved stilettos with my express permission. Otherwise, you’ll wear tennis shoes.”

“I don’t own any.”

F______ placed a box on the table.

“Your delicate frame gives the impression of a much smaller foot,” he said. “But I like that I got them two sizes too small. Let the pain remind you that your fashionista sense is now entirely mine.”

We ate in silence. I spread my legs thinking that at any moment he might begin to finger my pussy but he didn’t.

Dinner came and went and not another word was spoken.

As we were leaving, I reached for my thong, but he signaled with his hand to leave it.

So I did, like a tip.

He opened the door to let me out and caught me a cab in the street. As he opened the door for me, he looked in and said, “I think it would be beneficial that you begin to write everything that comes to mind in regard to this matter of being broken. Do it in a notebook and bring it with you every time we meet.”

The Mountain

When we arrived at the chosen location, I heard a door open and the sound of footsteps on gravel. My door opened and a cool breeze blew in.

“Hello, Zita,” I heard the doctor’s voice.

“Hello,” I responded.

“Take my hand,” he said and I felt a touch on my upper arm.

I took his hand and he helped me out. He guided me from the car and then stopped.

“Put your arms up before you,” he instructed.

I did, and hit what I thought was his chest. It wasn’t–it was his back.

“On my shoulders,” he said.

I put my hands on his shoulders. They’re wide, set on a strong frame.

“I am going to guide you. The ground is uneven; to avoid falling, drag your feet.”

We begin to walk. Being unable to see anything, my other senses come to life. I begin to take in all the information around me, the dryness of the earth beneath my boots, the way it easily gives way, the crunching leaves and dead grasses. We’re outside somewhere, perhaps a park.

We walk for some time before he stops.

“Let’s take a little break,” he says.

“During our last session,” I tripped a little over the word, uncertain of what the incident in the garage was. “During that event, you said you had to review conclusions you had reached. What are those conclusions?”

“When I asked you who you were in our first session, you told me you didn’t know, but you have a very rigid self-definition. You act in stereotyped ways and attempt to manipulate others to act in particular and fixed ways towards you; or else you redefine their actions to fit with your pre-established stereotypes.”

“How–how do you mean?”

“The events in the parking garage formed a pattern outside of your comprehension. You asked me to fuck you, a pattern you understand.”

I blushed powerfully.

“Your lack of acceptance of the spontaneity holds you back and possibly makes dealing with particular life events very difficult, if not impossible.”

His voice was still clear, but more distant now, as though he’d walked away some ways.

“So you’re basically going to have sessions with me where we do new, spontaneous things?”

“Even that is a pattern. Neurosis, Zita, is fixed predictability. I want to facilitate you to become unpredictable.”

Suddenly, I felt something ice cold hit my chest and thighs with a powerful force. It’s a sprinkler. I’m drenched.

“Put your hands on my shoulders,” F______ says to me. His voice is close again.

I do as he says. We walk on. The path is winding and slanted. I’m tired.

“I never hike anymore,” I say.

“Why is that?” he asks.

“I don’t know.”

“Do you like it?”

“It can be fun.”

“When was the last time you did it?”

“College,” I say, remembering the endless four hour hike. “An ex-fiance thought it would be sweet to propose at the top of Stairway to Heaven in Oahu.”

“Tell me about it.”

“It’s a metal stairway on the windward side of the island that runs along the cliffs surrounding the Haiku Valley all the way to the peak of the Koolaus crest at Puu Keahi a Kahoe. It was originally built for the Coast Guard to enable them to maintain radio towers up there; it’s endless, there are probably close to 4,000 steps. It was made forbidden to climb because those stairs sat in disrepair since the late 80s, making them extremely dangerous. Fortunately, the City and County of Honolulu repaired the stairs in the early zeroes, some time before I took the hike. It’s still forbidden, though not as dangerous. It’s not an easy hike, even with stairs because it’s so long and at moments it feels like you are literally clinging vertically to a cliff. The drops are terrifying. But the view from the top–you can see the highways like little bands of spaghetti below, and a 360 of the island. It’s breath-taking.”

“What do you mean when you say ‘a fiance’?”

“I mean one of among others.”

“How many are there?”

“Three.”

“All right,” Dr. F______ says, stopping.

I run into his back and feel how sturdy it is. He turns around and I feel his hands on my shoulders.

“It’s time to conduct a more formal review,” F______ said, his voice even closer.

“Review?”

“Yes,” he responded. “Of your physical person. Remove your coat.”

I did as he said and he took it from me.

“Lift up your dress.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Up until this moment, I’d thought I’d made an error, that we were engaging in some kind of very experimental therapy, that somehow that phone call between the parking lot and now had been an aberration, a sort of fluke engendered by the demand of an attractive woman to be fucked during our previous session. Was I wrong?

I wanted to be wrong. I lifted up my dress.

“Lift up your dress.”

Erotica books always talk about the humiliating experience of being poked, prodded and searched by man like a piece of meat, and at first, I did feel a sliver of panic. A vestige of Catholic shame? No, vanity. I have always counted on the lust of a man to grant me the status of the embodiment of Venus. Most of the time, men are so hell bent on fucking you, they wouldn’t notice if you were missing a limb. OK, maybe they would notice a missing limb, but I’ve had guys date me for years and never notice scars or moles.

Men usually look at you appreciating and anticipating what they’re getting. It’s all about fucking. They usually are thrilled with the fact you’re not hideous and that’s it.

But here was one who was going to inspect me to make sure I was perfect. I’m attractive, a beautiful sum of ugly parts. A flat ass. Uneven ribs. A spine that is crooked as a serpent. A sunken coccyx. Big feet. I bite my nails. I get black heads in my ears. I have an oily scalp. My toenails crack. My elbows are always dry. I don’t shave the little blonde fuzz I get on my legs…

“Remove your panties,” Dr. F______ said.

I was horrified. I wanted something to happen, but I wasn’t sure what was happening. I didn’t want to venture further without–

Suddenly, I remembered what F______ had said earlier: “your lack of acceptance of the spontaneity holds you back and possibly makes dealing with particular life events very difficult, if not impossible.”

I slipped my panties down and stepped out of them. I reached for the knot behind my neck holding up my dress and untied it. I pulled my dress down to expose my tits and then down further so it dropped to the ground. I was naked except for my shoes, my nipples hard in the cold spring day.

I raised my arms so F______ could “review” me.

I felt his hands on my breasts.

“How big are they, Zita?” he asked. “B? 32, 33B?”

“32B,” I couldn’t believe what he was doing.

He took a nipple between his fingers with his free hand.

“How sensitive are your nipples?”

He pinched them until my breath caught in my throat.

“You have an incredible pain threshold,” he remarked.

He slapped my tits.

I let the pain of his palm feather over my skin and reach beyond my ribs. My nipples were warmed by the contact.

“Turn around, Zita.”

I rotated in place and he guided me a few steps away from where we’d begun.

“There is a boulder in front of you. Touch it.”

I reached up and felt its pock-marked texture with my hands. Then I let my hands run up along its rough surface until my arms were raised over my head. I spread my legs.

“You have a phenomenal ass,” F______ said. “You don’t look like you do at all, but when you position yourself, you have the most perfect, delectable ass.”

He slapped it.

“Thank you.” I said, remembering the phone conversation.

He slapped it again.

“Thank you.”

He slapped it harder.

“Thank you!”

He slapped the other side. He came back to this one. Again and again. The sound of each slap ricocheted off the face of the rock before me; they sounded enormous, like thunder claps.

Again and again I thanked him until I had no voice, just moans and whimpers. I could feel my ass stinging like an open wound. Sensitive, burning skin juxtaposed against the cold of the day.

“Zita,” F______ said. “What a lovely red ass you’ve got. Turn around.”

I turned. I could feel him looking at my ribs, my tits.

“You have impossibly long legs,” he commented.

Then he inserted his fingers into my pussy.

I stood motionless, in shock.

“Offer your pussy to me,” he commanded.

I slowly leaned back against the rock, one hand behind me me to steady me and the other gripping an edge of the wall. I felt with my shoe for a surface and finally found a small rock on which to prop myself up so my cunt was facing him.

He rose and fucked my pussy with his hand, leaning toward me, and it feels so good and so wrong, it’ disconcerting and—and—and—well, what kind of therapy is this?—Not any real—oh, yeah, oh, God, oh, God, yes, yes, yes, yes—

I leaned against his shoulder, I could smell him, awake, alert, alive, erect. He took one of my nipples in his mouth and he sucked on it and I closed my eyes, delirious, ready to pass out.

“Zita,” he whispered hotly in my ear.

“Yes?” I responded in a moan.

“All your pain comes from me,” he said. “Say it. Tell me all your pain comes from me.”

I moaned, “all my pain comes from you.”

“All your pleasure,” he whispered into my face, which was now cradled against his shoulder, “comes from me.”

“All my pleasure comes from you.”

“Louder.”

“All my pleasure comes from you,” I repeat, this time louder.

He finger fucked me harder, faster, deeper.

Then, he stopped, almost as abruptly as he had started.

“Zita,” he said. “Come down.”

I could hardly move my legs from having them in that position so long. F______ put the hand that had been in my cunt to my face and wiped it on me. I licked it. I licked and licked it as he wiped it until it was clean.

“Turn around,” he whispered.

I turned.

“Bend over.”

I bent over the rock. F______ was still. I sensed nothing for some time. Then I felt his hand on my ass.

“You have some redness and bruises, but nothing of concern.”

He stuck his fingers in my pussy again.

“You have a tiny little cunt,” he remarked.

“Thank you.”

“You’re not used to big objects being inserted into it.”

I blushed, not knowing how to respond.

Without removing his hand from my cunt, he pulled me upright by the hair, then put his hand around my neck. My naked back was pressed against his wide chest. I could feel his breath in my ear.

I realized I was on the edge of orgasm.

“Zita,” Dr. F______ said. His voice was a wave that crawled down my spine to my pussy and made the walls of it reverberate. I could at that moment feel my sexual response cycle begin, one cycle stronger than the one before, like little ripples that welcome the tidal wave, it’s coming and it’s coming and it’s coming—

He said my name again.

I came. Then I fainted.

F______ says the last words I said were, “oh, God.”

When I came to, I was kneeling on the dirt, still blindfolded, and he had me by the shoulders.

People say their lives flash before their eyes when they come close to death. I think mine was swapped with someone else’s between here and there because I saw lily pads, daisies, silks, fuchsia and ocelots.

F______ lifted me up and sat me on a rock.

“Can you die of pleasure?” I asked him.

“Is that what you felt?” he asked. “That you were dying?”

He untied the blindfold. I shut my eyes against the sudden light. When I opened them, F______ was looking into them the way a doctor does when he examines a patient.

“Am I dying?” I asked.

“Yes, you are. You have been dying since you came into this world.”

I said nothing, my eyes slowly coming into full focus and taking in the breath-taking view of the city below us.

The Call

There was no call from Dr. F______’s office the following week or the week after. Finally, I caved and called, but there was no answer. I waited for a machine, but it seemed there was none. Frustrated, I hung up.

Not two seconds later, my phone rang.

“Cheyenne?” I asked, my heart racing.

“Open your legs,” Dr. F______’s came over the line.

“Excuse me?”

“Zita.”

“Yes, Doctor?”

“Lay back and spread your legs.”

Excited, I did as he said.

“I want you to slap your inner thigh,” he told me. “Slap it hard, over and over until it’s red.”

I slapped it. I placed the phone between my legs so he could hear it.

Slap! Slap! Slap! Slap! Slap! My thigh was bright red. My hand stung.

“Did you hear it?” I asked.

“Touch your pussy,” he responded.

I couldn’t believe he had said that. I was so hot, when I touched my pussy, I found I was soaked.

I moaned.

“Good girl,” F______ said. His voice grew quiet, to a near-whisper, “harder and faster.”

I moaned and whimpered, fingering myself.

“Now use two fingers.”

I fucked myself hard and and deep and vicious and violent, just as I wished he would have fucked me in that empty basement.

“Now three.”

I moaned, turned on my side, my legs spread wide and put in another finger.

“Now remove your hand and slap your pussy. I want to hear it. Loud.”

I slapped myself. Fuck, it hurt.

“Louder! I want it to hurt!”

SLAP!

“Thank me!” F______ commanded.

SLAP!

“Thank you!” I screamed, moaning.

SLAP!

“THANK YOU!” I was breathing so hard, I thought I was going to pass out.

SLAP!

“THANK YOU!”

SLAP! SLAP! SLAP! “THANK YOU! THANK YOU! THANK YOU!”

I moaned, long and hard.

“Are you about to cum?”

“Mmm,” I responded, “Doctor.”

“Good girl, now you’re going to cum for me.”

And I did cum. I came for him, came hard and long and hip-quaking, earth-shaking, spine-splitting. I laid there breathing hard for a moment, with him on the other end of the line.

“Bye,” he said finally and hung up.