An Offering, to MH
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It was well after dusk--one of those gray, seemingly endless Winter evenings when snow blankets cushioned and cloud veils covered, leaving only a narrow wedge of cold space between for life to go on. Lauren sat in her office chair, staring out the window behind her desk, wondering about that life.
It had been productive overall thus far, she thought, but there were still some challenges to meet; goals to reach.
Holes in her soul to fill.
Sighing deeply, she spun her chair back into position at the desk, flipping the file she'd previously been reading closed. So many of her patients were people just like her, she thought. People with missing pieces in their lives. Every human being was a puzzle--their state of mind and therefore their place in the world largely depended on nothing more than how many pieces of them were missing, and where those pieces fit.
Missing pieces of the frame meant an unstable nature; more unpredictable and much more difficult to treat. These were the psychopaths, schizophrenics and MPD'ers. Missing pieces of important internal scenes--victims of abuse; personality disorders--were easier to treat, quite a bit more if the patient was smart and eager to heal, or the disorder could be helped along with a short term medication. And then there were those whose frame and bigger pictures were intact, people who just had some normative life disruption and needed help short term to make the adjustment. Parents losing children to marriage or college; the death of an elderly parent; the pain of a broken marriage.
Standing and stretching, Lauren slipped her heels back on and closed the blinds against the dreary charcoal landscape. She was sure her frame was intact and thought most of her big picture was as well, but her life hadn't experienced any of those normally troubling little bumps lately...she hadn't moved, divorced, changed jobs, lost a loved one or even gotten a traffic ticket. Hell, her life was as smooth as the glassy ice on the pond behind her office.
Why, then, was she so certain that something was missing?
Sighing, she put the question away. Her linen skirt and silk blouse were rumpled so she opted not to put on the still fresh-looking jacket that hung on the hook near the door. Her heavy overcoat would be enough.
Putting her hands to the small of her back, Lauren groaned. Finally....another week had come to a close and she was free to lose herself in her own special brand of escapism. Bending to retrieve her purse from the bottom drawer of her desk, she heard the door open and close, felt a rush of cool air from the outer office, and looked up, her breath catching on a gasp.
She had never seen the man standing on the other side of her desk. He lifted his hand. Pointed at her. "Don't speak."
Words turned to ice in her throat. She saw what he held in his left hand and a wild tremor of realization shook her. Realization of who he was; what he wanted. What he might do with the glinting metal instrument in his hand if she failed to perform precisely as he demanded.
"Come here." He swung his empty hand, finger still pointing, to direct her to the spot directly in front of where he stood, between her desk and sofa.
Without speaking, Lauren moved around the corner of the desk, purposefully keeping her gaze lowered to the spot he pointed to. When she stopped, her whole body a scant five or six inches from his, she could see the soft brown leather of the loafers he was wearing, the strong lines of his legs encased in buff colored trousers, the dull gleam of his belt buckle; the hard ridge pressing out the placket of his zipper. She swallowed. Hard.
He shifted and the glint of silver in his left hand snagged her attention; fear rippled anew through her tummy.
"Give me your hands. Wrists up," he said firmly.
Shaking, she did so, holding her hands together, palms up, gasping, wondering what he would do. Her breath came out on a hot rush when he put his left forearm under her wrists to support them, using his right hand to unfasten the buttons of her cuffs. Against the pale peach silk of her blouse, his hands were wide, well shaped; masculine in a way that made her jaw clench nervously.
Finishing his task with efficient precision, he used his right index finger to nudge open the peach lips of her cuffs, exposing the tracery of blue veins running hot blood under her skin. Touching each in turn, he seemed to be testing her pulse.
"You're nervous," he said matter-of-factly. "Don't let that get in the way now." Dropping his hands, he took a full step backward. "Now....remove the rest of your clothes. Start with this--" With his left hand, he grazed the lowest button on her blouse not tucked into her skirt, the flash of silver so close to her skin making her shudder.
She didn't want to think again about what might happen if she didn't do what he told her to, exactly the way he ordered...
After gently, slowly drawing her blouse from the mooring of her skirt, she put her fingers on the little ivory button at the bottom, pushing it backward through its anchoring slit, freeing it. The bottom edges of her blouse parted; she moved her hands to the next button. Slipped it out.
Peach silk whispered more fully open, tickling her skin, revealing her navel. Tears stung her eyes and she closed them against the proof of her shame.
Surely, she thought, he'll stop once the clothes are off...surely he'll turn away and leave me. Lauren knew that her face and hair were her best features--soft, thick auburn hair and smooth skin, at least for a woman her age, and lovely, long-lashed, blue-green eyes that could spill over with mischief as easily as pain or laughter or intelligent consideration. Those things, and her sensual, loving nature, were the only things she saw as beautiful about herself--certainly her body was lacking. As she slipped another disc from its anchoring silk slit, exposing her belly and the bottom edge of her white satin bra, she felt the wet burn of tears and whimpered, trying not to cry out.
Fingers fumbling, the next button, which lay between her breasts, slipped from her grasp. While she shifted nervously, trying to dry her damp fingertips and get a hold of the button again, she could see his right hand move up slowly, his fingers curling inward until he made a loose fist, knuckles toward her. She flinched when he touched her skin just below her navel.
"Don't stop," he told her, the order both firm and surprisingly gentle. He dragged the knuckle of his index finger around her navel and her skin tightened in response. She waited for taunting or laughter at the very least, but it didn't come.
The last button jumped from her fingers, popping free of its mooring and the blouse parted fully. Lauren's full, plump breasts, softened by nearly 40 years of life and motherhood were encased in snug, white, cleavage-enhancing satin. Too big, Lauren thought. Just like her. Too generous...too soft.
Ugly.
