The Session
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Sandra watched as the man walked across the office and go to the desk. He didn’t much look like an analyst, at least not what she thought he should look like. But what did she know? This was the first time she’d ever been to one.
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“Dr. Schmidt?” She finally asked when he paid no attention to her.
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“Um...” he paused with a start. “Yes?”
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“I’m sorry, I’m new at this. Should I just begin, or do you want me to answer questions?” His impassive look didn’t even begin to answer her questions. She decided to just jump in. After all, the precious seconds ticking away were costing her weight in gold.
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“Like I told your assistant, I keep have this weird dream that wakes me up in the middle. It used to happen every so often, but now it happens all the time.”
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The man stopped fiddling with what he was holding and turned to her. He still remained silent, but at least she had the floor now. With a deep sigh to shore up her courage, she continued.
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“It always starts the same way. I’m brushing out my hair. Gillian’s Island is playing somewhere in the background. I can hear Mr. Howell’s voice. I finish with my hair and slip into a blue nighty. It’s short and too small, always too small. I remember once thinking what a whore I looked like, but that doesn’t happen too often.”
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Still behind the desk, the man pulled out his chair and sat. instead of listening, he seemed to be looking for something. Finally, he fished out a cigarette and lit it. There was something about the whole scene; his dress, his mannerisms, the way he seemed almost lost, the whole thing seemed out of place. Sandra dismissed it as her own apprehension about baring her soul like this and moved on.
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“Anyway, he comes in through the window. I’m in bed by now, but I never see myself getting into bed. I just end up there. The noise of the window opening scares me. I used to wake up then. That was before the sleeping pills.” She stopped and dealt with something obviously unpleasant within her own self. It was a moment before she could continue.
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“Could.... could I possibly get one of those from you?” she inquired, pointing to the cigarette burning in his hand. He smiled and flicked the ashes into the wastebasket. One of Sandra’s eyebrows lifted at this, but the promise of a break in the tension was more than enough to veto the thought. She dragged deeply on the very first pull and sighed with an almost sexual satisfaction. Bolstered now, she forged on.
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“I feel the gun muzzle up against my nose. My eyes pop open and I see this dark form crouched over me. For a while I was waking up at this point too. Then he orders me to get up. I hesitate and he slaps my face. It, well, it feels good.” She paused, looking for a reaction, and found none.
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“He calls me by my name and tells me to take off my clothes. Sometimes I don’t and get slapped again. Usually, though, I just strip down bare right there in front of him.” At this, Sandra shifted in her chair. A flushed look started to rise around the gills.
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“I feel him staring at my body,” she continued. “His eyes burn my skin in the semi dark. I know he can see all of me, all the flaws I hide under my clothes, and I get embarrassed. He asks me questions.” She stopped.
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“What sort of questions?” The man finally spoke, looking directly into Karen’s eyes. She shifted again, with much effort, and looked to the floor.
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“He asks me if I ...um...masturbate.” She gave that sexual sigh again and tugged hard on the cigarette. “I tell him no. I tell him that I’m a good girl who doesn’t do such disgusting things. He slaps me and calls me a liar. I try to convince him, but his intense stare wears me down. Ya know? Now I confess that I do, sometimes, but that I don’t make a habit of it. He tells me I’m lying and raises his hand again. I cringe and confess that I’m a masturbator. “ Her head sank just the way it did every night in her dreams, then she continued, “That I play with myself every day and again every night. Then I start to cry.” A small tear formed in the corner of her eye, but pride refused to let it fall.
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“He calls me a whore. I tell him to fuck off and get slapped across the breasts. It hurts, but it turns me on, too,” She almost screamed, “ He tells me to show him. Of course I refuse, but he shoves me to the bed and puts the barrel of his gun in my mouth. I cry like a baby as my fingers start to seek my clit out and masturbate for him.” Sandra’s thighs parted and she moved about in the chair. It was obvious that she was heating up at the thought of all of this. The man stared intently at the gap between her thighs, trying to peer up her skirt.
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“I lay there like a slut and use my body for him to watch. I get really excited and grossed out all at the same time.” She shuddered. “Sometimes I even suck on the gun barrel like it was a cock, his cock. Every time I get close to cumming, he hauls me off the bed and throws me into the open window. ‘Tell them’ he says. ‘Tell them all what a whore you are.’ I remain silent. Every time, I don’t say a thing.” Her arms just missed the armrest as she flailed about, acting it all out.
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Sandra’s breathing was quick now. She was definitely horny at this point. One could almost smell her scent in the air. The man behind the desk lit another cigarette and shifted himself. Sandra thought he might be playing with himself under the desk, but dismissed the thought as silly. This man was a professional. She gathered herself and went on.
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“He pushed the gun barrel right up into me. I’m so scared I feel like I’m going to pee myself. Sometimes I wake up with wet sheets.” She stopped, the flush now fully in her face. “He tells me again, whispering now, to tell them. He wants me to tell all my neighbors that I’m queer for myself. I say it, but only loud enough for him to hear. He rams the gun deep in me. I scream in pain. ‘Now tell them!’ he screams at me.” She paused. “And I do it. I scream that I am a self-loving whore and that I can’t get enough of my own...cunt...that’s the word I always use. Cunt. I cry. My pillow is always wet when I wake up now. That’s where it ends. I feel ashamed of myself, and so turned on, and even more ashamed that this disgusting thing has gotten me so wet and horny.” She was exhausted and dropped into her chair in a lump.
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She crushed out her cigarette and stared at the floor, almost mumbling. “The worst part is,” she concluded, “that I play with myself when I wake up, every time now.” Spent, she let the sounds die in the air.
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It wasn’t until she heard the door close that she realized that the man was gone. A rush of hypersensitive emotion assailed her. Had she offended him? Was he in need of some special consult? Maybe he just needed to use the bathroom? But why, then, had he not said anything? Well, he had been acting strangely. Maybe that was just his way.
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Her self-interrogation ended abruptly when the opposite door opened. A strikingly beautiful older woman entered wearing a smart suit and a lab coat.
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“I’m Dr. Leslie Schmidt, Ms. Stuart. I’m sorry to have been delayed. I was on conference call. Don’t worry, we’ll spend a full hour in discussion today.”
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Sandra’s mouth dropped. She absolutely couldn't believe she could have been so stupid as to bare her very soul to a total stranger. Even worse, she had told her deepest, darkest secret to someone who had absolutely nothing to do with helping her in any way. She had torn herself open and showed her most private places to, to......... Sandra’s eyes closed tight as a small orgasm erupted in her pantyhose. She had to bite hard on her lip not to cry out. She only hoped to God that the good Doctor wouldn't notice that she was cumming.
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“I’m sorry,” Dr. Schmidt asked. “Was someone smoking in here?” With a knowing smile, Sandra chuckled to herself at all the possible answers.
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