Professional Discipline

Dr. Harold Masters was sipping his scotch thoughtfully as he paced casually back and forth before the huge stone fireplace. Looking relaxed and at ease in his gray business suit and open-necked shirt, he glanced around his spacious library with satisfaction.

He turned to the door as his servant entered.

"Dr. DiGiacomo is coming up the drive now, sir," he announced.

"Oh, good. Get her a drink and show her right in, Briggs. I expect she'll have a Campari. You can bring me another Laphroaig while you're at it."

The throaty rumble of the car's exhaust blurred with the sound of tires skidding on gravel as his step-daughter pulled up in the driveway. After a minute or two of murmured conversation in the hallway, Briggs showed her in gravely, left the drinks, and withdrew.

"Cara! You look absolutely stunning."

Dr. Cara DiGiacomo was in her early thirties, a little taller than average and quite slim without being anorectic. Her soft dark hair framed a classic Mediterranean face -- large eyes, high cheekbones, and full lips. She was wearing a dove-gray top under her black business suit, an elegant ensemble of a well-cut jacket and a short matching skirt. Together with her patent-leather high heels and sheer nylons, Dr. DiGiacomo's outfit could have fit as well with a sales talk as with an informal gathering of psychiatrists. Or with a movie set, come to that.

As she was wearing her spike heels, Cara's eyes were on a level with Masters' as he lightly kissed her cheek.

"Briggs doesn't change much, does he? However hard I try to chat with him, he keeps up that reserve, that air of polite detachment. Spooky guy!"

"I wouldn't have him any other way, dear."

"So, Papa, tell me about your new chief resident. Quite a hot ticket, is she?"

Masters laughed.

"You remind me so much of your mother when you talk like that -- just that delicate hint of disapproval of another woman, and the accent, of course. Though you're sounding more and more American every day!"

"Don't change the subject, Harold."

"Very well. Her name's Cheryl Hascombe. And she is very much the 'hot ticket,' as you put it. She knows it, too. You should see the male residents fawning all over her. Faculty, too, come to that. Anyway, I have very high hopes for this one. You'll see."

"You're not going to do anything tonight, are you?"

"Don't see why not. There's something about her that tempts me to take the risk. Besides, what's the worst that can happen?"

"Lawsuits, the newspapers, public disgrace..."

"You worry too much, Cara. Trust me!"

Dr. Cheryl Hascombe strode purposefully toward the front door of the large house. Small dinner party at six, Masters had said, at his place at the edge of town. Partly social, partly to discuss the new forensics program. Just the program committee -- Masters himself as the residency director, of course, one or two members of the faculty, and the Chief Resident. That was her. Her chance to prove she was more than just a well-qualified new doctor. Her chance to show she could take action, make things happen, get a million bucks in federal grants. She gave a wry smile at the thought of a million bucks. Judging by the BMW and the red sports car parked in front of the ivy-covered brick wall of the house (House? Mansion, rather!), she was about to join the moneyed classes right now.

A pleasant, warm Saturday evening in late summer. A small, congenial group of colleagues. Cocktails in the library. Rumor had it that the old guy actually had a butler. Cheryl laughed aloud. Wow, this was going to be unreal.

A thick oak door opened to reveal a large and very muscular man in a dark suit. His hair was drawn back into a tight, short ponytail. His face was expressionless.

"Good evening, Dr. Hascombe. My name is Briggs. Dr. Masters is expecting you, of course. Please come this way."

The bulky man led her inside. Cheryl looked around the huge hallway as she followed him across the stone-flagged floor. High ceiling, dark wood paneling reaching halfway up the walls, Oriental rugs, expensive looking art work.

Frowning slightly, she stepped along behind Briggs through a long, richly-carpeted corridor. Connie Shapiro, the nursing supervisor at the hospital, had hinted not too subtly that some women found Dr. Masters to be a little Aeccentric@ from time to time. To judge by the rumor mill, and by the nervous giggles and averted glances whenever anyone mentioned get-togethers at Masters' house, 'eccentric' was quite an understatement. Probably some form of sexual harassment, Cheryl had surmised. No problem. She had had plenty of experience handling that.

But it was a little disconcerting, even so. Though there were several female residents, there was apparently only one woman on the faculty, and the men were all middle-aged or older. This would be the first time she had met any of them socially.

As Briggs ushered her in, Cheryl was relieved to see an elegant young woman standing beside Masters at the far end of the room. Room? The whole place was like a palace. Bright sunlight was slanting in through the tall west windows, lighting up a rack of medieval shields mounted high on the stonework of the chimney. A tapestry in muted colors softened the adjacent wall and emphasized the sumptuous richness of the furnishings: leather couches and armchairs, mahogany table, the pile on the carpet an inch thick. The guy must have money to burn.

Masters was of average height and slim build, distinguished-looking with his full head of curly iron-gray hair and ruddy complexion. Cheryl guessed he must have been in his late fifties. He was the epitome of elegant good manners as he greeted his guest with an engaging smile.

"And I'm delighted to introduce you to my step-daughter and colleague, Dr. Cara DiGiacomo," he was saying.

Cheryl noticed the accent immediately as Masters' companion said hello.

"Lovely to meet you, Dr. DiGiacomo."

"Cara, please! I know Harold can look rather intimidating when he's here in his lair, but we really don't have to be stuffy and formal all evening!"

They laughed politely.

Cheryl asked,

"That sports car outside -- it's magnificent, is it yours?"

Cara laughed again.

"Oh, yes. I guess I can't run true to form as an Italian divorcee without a red Ferrari to add some excitement to my dull life!"

Masters was complimenting Cheryl on her appearance. Petite, slim, and attractive in an athletic way, she was below average in height, but perfectly proportioned, with a trim figure and an elfin face. Her silky dark hair fell far below her shoulders. She was wearing a gray business suit -- a shortish skirt and double-breasted jacket over a green turtle-neck sweater. And spike-heeled shoes. Frowning again, Cheryl recalled that Masters had made a point of asking her to dress that way.

"Now, Cara, you be careful," Masters was saying in jocular tones. "Let me remind you that you are not permitted to prey upon the latest recruits to our residency. Cheryl, don't let the 'divorcee' business fool you. Dear Cara has swung both ways since she was in her early teens."

"Oh, Papa, the things you say! You know very well you're not embarrassing me, but unless Cheryl is unusually broad-minded, you are running the risk of having her run right back to her Ivy League medical school without a backward glance!"

Cheryl laughed, easily and naturally.

"Please don't worry about me in that regard, Cara. I'm far from being homophobic."

"There you are!" said Masters. "I knew she'd be all right. Didn't I tell you, dear?"

Father and step-daughter smiled at each other.

The remaining guest arrived a few minutes later. Masters introduced the man as Dr. Dermot Cairns, another psychiatrist on the faculty of the residency. He was overweight, balding, and short, perhaps a little younger than Masters. To judge from first impressions, Cairns' characteristic facial expression appeared to be a broad grin. Looking up at her with enthusiasm, he pumped Cheryl's hand as he greeted her effusively.

They made polite conversation as Cheryl sipped red wine and the men drank scotch. Cara DiGiacomo had retreated to the back of the room and was out of earshot, apparently in hushed and earnest conversation with Briggs.

Masters said,

"I think it's high time we ended the small talk and proceeded to the main business of the evening. Now, I did mention that we would be dining quite late? Didn't I?"

Cairns and Cheryl nodded their agreement.

"Good. Then we have plenty of time, and of course we won't be interrupted. Unless anyone cheated and still has their pager with them?"

Forced laughter, hasty denials. Masters said something about a change of plan; instead of talking about forensics, he suggested, they would leave their work at the hospital and enjoy themselves for a change. He said something about having lives outside the profession, added a line about intimate relationships, then unashamedly blurted out a remark about Cheryl taking her clothes off.

She laughed spontaneously, automatically making some suitable retort ("In your dreams, Harold!"), but then realized how quiet it had become. Cairns looked sideways at Masters, winked at him, then resumed gazing at Cheryl. She had become pale, her lips compressed. The thudding of her heart was almost audible in the strained silence. The men were tense, unsmiling, attentive, still staring at her. Cairns cleared his throat and started polishing his eyeglasses with his handkerchief. Masters' expression was distinctly grim as he carefully enunciated his next words.

"Dr. Hascombe, we have a slight misunderstanding here. I was not making a whimsical request, and I was not being jocular. I was issuing a serious directive. Now, to reiterate, we would be most grateful if you would take all your clothes off immediately. You can put them on that chair over there by the sideboard, under the tapestry. When you have done so, you can join us again by the fireplace and I'll refresh your drink for you."

Cheryl was utterly stunned. It was surreal. For a moment she wondered if she was dreaming. But the stab of emotion in her chest, her racing pulse, the sudden reeling in her head as if she were about to faint, were undeniable confirmation that she was awake, alive, and very much a part of a vivid, here-and-now reality. Yet how could this possibly be happening?

The men continued their steady gaze. Cheryl fumbled for words.

"Harold, you can't possibly mean it, this is a most unfunny joke, there's no way you can actually expect me..." Her voice trailed off. She knew with certainty that he did indeed mean it and that he was very serious indeed. He actually laughed.

"Well, I suppose your reaction is not entirely surprising, dear Cheryl. But I assure you I am quite in earnest. We simply want to view that magnificent body of yours unencumbered by all those clothes. Take them off. Every stitch. And right now, before we become impatient with you."

Cheryl was finding it hard to get her breath. She was trembling slightly, and she could do nothing to stop the crimson blush that was spreading over her face and neck -- or, for that matter, the involuntary rush of undeniable sensual arousal that had suddenly overtaken her. But despite her weakness at the knees and the dampness between her legs she had to resist.

"Harold, you know this is absurd, ridiculous. Of course I won't agree to it. Now, please, explain. What on earth is this all about?"

Masters sighed. He made a show of exaggerated patience.

"Cheryl. We want you to strip for us. If you don't, we'll have to call upon Briggs over there to compel you to do so. Surely you must realize that it is entirely within our power to force you to comply?"

She could not speak at all at that point. A pulse was hammering in her throat. Her mouth was dry. She looked desperately toward Cara at the rear of the room, but she was lounging against a sideboard, insouciantly lighting a cigarette as if she were waiting for a bus. Then Cairns spoke in his light, crisp voice.

"As Dr. Masters has explained, you really don't have any choice, my dear. But there will be no need for anyone to -- er -- overpower you."

Cheryl shuddered. Cairns continued,

"We can supply ample motivation for you to accommodate us willingly, even gladly. It's all here, in this folder. Dr. Masters?"

Cheryl looked on, helpless with paralyzing emotion, as Masters threw a sheaf of papers on the table. Cairns continued,

"Take a good look, Dr. Hascombe. As you can see, it's a clinical record from the unit. It contains several of your recent entries. I'm afraid that it plainly documents your professional incompetence in the most unambiguous of terms."

Breathing hard, Cheryl grabbed the folder, opened it, and looked intently at the contents, shuffling rapidly through the pages as her frown deepened. She sighed. Her shoulders slumped. Wearily, she tossed the papers aside.

Minutes later her clothes were in a heap on a chair and she was standing nude before the men. Nude except for her high-heeled shoes; Masters had insisted that she put them back on. Cheryl's trembling had nothing to do with feeling cold. It was, in fact, very warm in there.

The record was on a patient named Tattersall, a chronic schizophrenic. Cheryl had put him on Clozaril. As soon as she saw her last handwritten entry, her heart sank and she nearly fainted. She realized at once that this could not only get her thrown out of the residency; it could also guarantee that she would never be licensed to practice medicine anywhere, in any form. And when Masters started talking again, it became clear that it was worse even than that. A monstrous civil suit against Cheryl and the hospital. Masters said,

"You see the problem, my dear. You examined the patient, you issued the prescription, you documented it. All well and good. But there's absolutely no record of any kind that you ordered any follow-up testing. A clear violation of the most elementary standards of practice."

At that point, Cheryl had no shame. She had pleaded with him.

"But, Harold, I remember distinctly, Connie Shapiro was going to arrange for the follow-up and note it in the chart. She was there the whole time I was with the patient, she saw me write the scrip, she always does the follow-up stuff!"

"Poor Cheryl. I'm quite sure you're right. But if Connie falls down on the job, the responsibility is yours, agreed? You=re the doctor, she's the nurse." Masters paused, managing to look even more severe. "When I was on call last night Tattersall was admitted to the ER. His blood levels were off the scale. He's in intensive care; he may not even make it. His lawyer has already contacted the hospital administration."

Cheryl was utterly defeated. She knew she had done everything right, but she could imagine how it all would sound if it came out in court. Quivering with emotion, she lowered her eyes, then slowly began to unbutton her jacket.

Masters was suddenly beaming. Cairns was looking on enthusiastically. As Cheryl stripped, Masters addressed Cairns formally, waving his hands for emphasis.

"Of course, Nurse Shapiro was quite, quite negligent in failing to comply with Dr. Hascombe's clear orders to arrange for those blood tests. She will receive a formal reprimand. Dr. Hascombe cannot possibly be held responsible for the negligence of others. And I think we can agree right here and now that Connie Shapiro will be the guest of honor at our next little get-together here in a week or two."

"You bastards. That's what you do, is it? Engineer some professional breach for every attractive woman in the program, then blackmail them into satisfying your kinky desires?"

"Very perceptive, Doctor. Why should we deny it? You have it precisely. Now, carry on, don't stop. Remember, every stitch, or your career is over."

Trying to maintain what composure she could, Cheryl slowly removed the rest of her clothes as the men looked silently on. She kicked her shoes off before letting her skirt fall around her ankles. Wearing only her underwear, Cheryl paused, looking warily for a moment at Masters before his impatient gesture had her hurrying to remove her bra. She stopped again, and looked at him helplessly. Masters smiled, then his expression darkened.

"Cheryl, take your panties off."

He maintained direct eye-contact with her, tight-lipped and frowning, until she wavered. With a curt shrug, she briskly swept her undies down and kicked them aside, then stood defiantly before the two men.

Masters' delight was obvious.

"That's much better, dear. Now we can all relax again."

Cairns gasped audibly. As Cheryl Hascombe stood naked before him his eyes were drawn to her dense mat of auburn pubic hair. A thick tuft projected downward into the wide gap between her legs. Her stomach was perfectly flat, her breasts ample, her long hair brushing her nipples. Hoarsely, Cairns made a comment about the evenness of her suntan. Cheryl scowled at him.

Masters continued,

"In return for your full compliance with everything we wish of you this evening, Cheryl, the Clozaril incident will be completely forgotten and you may resume your unblemished career."

His voice again became crisp and cold.

"But you must not doubt for one instant that we will ruin you utterly if you displease us in any way. And displeasing us would include any attempt by you to disclose this evening's events outside this room. A moment's reflection will convince you, of course, that no-one would believe for one minute any allegations you did try to make against us."

The logic of his words was not lost on Cheryl.

"All right. Then I'll have another drink, please, Harold. A scotch this time. A large one."

Masters was looking delighted, pleased with himself, as he handed her the glass. He actually started up the small talk once again, but Cheryl interrupted.

"This is all very cozy, of course, gentlemen, and I hate to put a damper on things, but I have to ask what comes next in this little scenario you have created. What's it going to be? Big gang rape scene, I assume, with my lips forever sealed by the threat of professional ruin?"

"Cheryl, no, of course not! How can you imagine such a thing? Nothing will happen here tonight that you do not accept willingly and voluntarily."

"Like I willingly and voluntarily stripped for you? Just like that, Harold?"

He looked disappointed, not even trying to answer. A little victory for her. Standing before the men Cheryl was conscious of little breezes wafting over her breasts and between her legs, whispering at her bottom. She was glad it was so warm in there. And, still, that unmistakable feeling of growing sexual arousal. She was feeling very, very sexy indeed.

Cheryl continued,

"So, let me be sure I understand all this. All I have to do is to entertain you gentlemen by spending the rest of the evening stark naked, and in return my lapse of professional judgment will be completely forgiven and forgotten?"

"Ah, not entirely, my dear."

Cheryl's heart sank. Masters continued,

"Your stripping for us is a kind of a forfeit, an enjoyable little prelude to what comes next. Necessary, but not sufficient, I'm afraid. My colleagues and I agree that some additional punishment is in order. The particulars we will leave to Briggs, who has been instructed in precise detail as to what he is to do. You will go with him while we continue our cocktail hour right here. It won't take long. We'll dine when you return."

Masters beckoned to Briggs. Cara had left the room. Briggs approached, looking at Cheryl in an utterly matter-of-fact manner, as if attractive nude women were a routine part of every social gathering in his employer=s library.

"Briggs, take Dr. Hascombe out to the barn and carry out your instructions."

"Yes, sir."