She sat at her desk, listening to the man drone on about his wife. About how the wretched woman just didn't understand him. How she never wanted to have sex anymore. How life had become totally empty, devoid of all meaning, all happiness.
She looked at this little maggot and wanted to laugh. 'Have you looked in a mirror lately, you fat slob,' she wanted to say. 'Who'd want to fuck you? Who the hell would want to understand your pathetic, empty life? Jerking off to porn in the basement at two in the morning? Not even having the balls to jerk off in her face? Hiding in the shadows, afraid of your own shadow – all the shadows in your life...'
"Well, Mr Peterson," she said after she'd listened to about as much as she could, "it looks like our hour's about up. I'd like you to reflect on some of the strategies we discussed today, and keep writing in your journal."
"Okay. How do you think I'm doing?"
"Fine, Mr Peterson. Just fine."
"How many more sessions do we have?"
She looked at her appointment app, scanned his court-ordered sentence. "Another eight weeks 'til your next mandated evaluation. Then I make my report to the court."
"You think I'll do okay?"
"I can't discuss these matters with you, Mr Peterson. You know that, so please don't make me remind you again."
"Yes, doctor."
"Now, it's time for you to leave. I'll see you on Friday, at ten."
"Yes, Ma'am."
He even walked like a worm, she thought as he stood and made to leave, but he turned and looked at her – tried to look at her, anyway – but she was behind her desk and so denied him the view he sought.
He'd been sneaking down in the middle of the night to jerk off to online porn for years, then one night his wife came down – quietly – and caught him in the act. She belittled him for days after, until one evening he couldn't take it anymore. After a long string of insults he snapped, and he pushed his wife against the wall and screamed at her. He'd fallen to the floor, crying, and she'd called the police.
Domestic violence wasn't tolerated in this city, Judge Thornton Thomas told him at one point during his sentencing, and in addition to the twenty-five hundred dollar fine – as well as all court costs – he'd been sentenced to six months of psychiatric counseling – again, at his own expense. And of course, his wife had filed for divorce, so now he was living in a flop-house near a warehouse district by the airport. He could at least walk to work these days, flipping burgers at a nearby fast food place, which was a good thing – as he'd lost his car after being fired from his job.
But now he was infatuated with this psychiatrist – Dana Devlin – and her endlessly long legs. She usually left her office just after their session, and he knew this because he waited and watched for her, and a limo would usually be waiting for her just outside her office building. It would whisk her to TV studios downtown, where she had a syndicated noon-time call-in self-help program, where she would discuss issues surrounding domestic violence and substance abuse – with a nationwide audience. He liked to watch her as she left the building, liked the feeling of hiding and watching her surreptitiously, but he loved looking at her long legs and high heels most of all.
So he was waiting for her downstairs this morning, behind some trees not far away, and he watched her as she walked out, watched her legs as she turned and climbed into the limo, and he relished that one fleeting moment most of all – when, with one leg remained outstretched her skirt rose up, revealing stocking tops and garters. He shuddered when he caught that glimpse this morning, wanted to crawl home and turn on his laptop.
But no, not today. Today he wanted to see more, so he caught the bus downtown – with a smile on his very happy face.
+++++
"Yes," Devlin said, "bi-polar disorder has become, I'm afraid, a too-broad definition, a catch-all phrase being used to justify all manner of inexcusable behavior. Like a doctor's note to get you out of gym, it's become almost trendy, and now, today, people are calling themselves bi-polar without any sort of formal diagnosis, thinking their swings in mood can be excused away with a shrug and a smile – and a hastily contrived diagnosis. So, the point I'm trying to make is simply this, if someone is indeed bi-polar, they need medication, they need treatment, and that won't happen without seeking help from a qualified medical professional. Absent that, people need to stop self-diagnosing the problem, and applying labels they simply do not understand."
"Okay," the show's host said, "this has been The Help Desk, with Dr Dana Devlin. This is Dick Durban, and we'll be back next week with a frank examination at post-pubescent bed-wetting, and what you can do to move on from suffering the consequences of this humiliating nighttime scourge."
The lights dimmed and Devlin unclipped her mic and set it on the desk in front of her, then leaned over and thanked Durban.
"You coming tonight?" she asked.
"Oh, wouldn't miss it," he said, smiling.
"Good," she said, then she left the studio, stopped off at the gym before going out for the evening. She did not, apparently, notice she was being followed as she went inside.
+++++
He had been planning this night all week, and now it was time. He was going to follow her, wait until she was alone then take her. He'd been looking on from afar for too long, he told himself, and she had given him the courage he'd need to see this night through. He was sitting in the back of the taxi he'd called when she came out, and it fell in behind her Mercedes as it took off from the gym.
+++++
They had been waiting until night fell, and perhaps a half hour after the sun set a rope dropped noiselessly from the roof, and two shadows slipped through the night and into Peterson's grimy little room.
They left a half hour later, the contents of his computer downloaded onto a card.
+++++
He looked up as a jet roared by just overhead, and barely made it in a back door without being caught; he followed the driving beat of the music down into an obscure basement and slipped unnoticed to the back of the room, his heart racing as he looked at the action on the floor. He saw her down there, dressed in latex and PVC – everything black, everything shiny, almost wet looking – even the huge phallus she had just strapped-on was shiny-wet and black.
Then he saw the judge – his judge – down there on the floor, strapped down to a high bench. She was whipping him – savagely, too, he thought – then she moved between the jurist's splayed legs and planted her strap-on over his anus – and plunged-in – then began mercilessly pounding the man's ass. When he cried-out in pain she only whipped him more fiercely.
He pulled out his phone, slipped it into video mode and began recording, and after just a few minutes he slipped back out of the building and disappeared into the night.
Shadows within shadows watched his movements, and one broke off and retraced his steps into the building, into the basement. She came out a few minutes later and her team disappeared into waiting shadows.
+++++
The next week, at his scheduled therapy session, she noticed he was looking at her differently – almost leering at her, she thought.
"What would you like to talk about today, Mr Peterson," she started, unsure of his mood.
"I'd like you to call me Pete."
She smiled. "Oh? Why?"
"First, could you tell me the difference between love and lust?"
She seemed amused at this new line of thought. "What's on your mind today?"
"It's a question that's been on my mind a lot lately, and I've been thinking about what might be different between the two."
"Well, what do you think the difference is?"
"That's not my question, Dana."
"I've told you before, Mr Peterson, I'd prefer that you refer to me by my title."
"I really don't care what you want me to call you, Dana. I would like you to tell me the difference between love and lust."
She looked into his eyes and unconsciously crossed her arms over her lap, then caught herself and sighed. "The difference, you say?"
"Yes. How are they different?"
"Well, love is about continuity, about seeking permanence in your life, while lust is all about the moment, impulses and needs. I'd say lust is more about impermanence, instant gratification, while love is about long term fulfillment. Now, Pete, what's this all about?"
"I'd like to show you something, and I wonder if you could conjure up a definition of hypocrisy out of your black hat." He stood, took out his phone and came close to her desk, turned it on and opened up the video player. He put the phone on her desk and pressed play...
She leaned over, picked the phone up and watched the images unfold; her hands began to shake, a line of perspiration formed on her brow. When the recording stopped he took the phone and returned to his chair.
"Interesting," she said. "So. You've been following me."
"No, I've had a private detective following you and Thornton."
She smiled at his bluff. "What do you want?"
"Right now? Right now, I want to fuck you in the ass. When I'm finished I want a letter from you making all this go away. A week from now, I want to read about that fucking judge's resignation from the bench, and it better be front page news."
"Oh, is that all?"
"Yes, that's all. And I'm assuming you think I'm a moron. That I haven't taken precautions to make sure this video shows up all over the internet if something happens to me. I could disappear, you know, or men in white coats could show up at work, throw me to the ground and put me in a straight-jacket, take me to the funny farm. Just let me tell you if anything like that happens to me, you and the judge are going viral. Youtube city, if you get my drift, and that'll be just for starters."
"And if we comply?"
"I hit delete."
"Simple as that, huh? And we get to trust you, that you won't publish?"
"Simple as that."
The shadows listened intently now, confirming all their recording devices had good signal.
Devlin turned in her chair, hit a button and all the drapes in her office closed, the lights dimmed.
"Pete?"
"Yes?"
"Take off your clothes, Pete. And from now on, when you answer me, you'll say only 'yes, mistress,' or 'no, mistress.' Is that understood?"
"Sorry, but no. I'm not playing that game with you."
"Pete? Please? Just play along a little, would you? Make it easy for me?"
"Well..."
"Pete? Get your clothes off, then I need you to come over and lick my legs, suck my toes."
"Uh...well...if you insist..."
"Oh, Pete...I had no idea your cock was SO big..."
And still the shadows listened.
+++++
He wasn't exactly sure, but to him it almost looked as if someone had been in his room. Nothing too out of place – not exactly – but just enough, and he had to admit he hadn't counted on this. He went to his laptop and opened it up, and everything – seemed – okay... So why this feeling?
He saw a shadow, or thought he did, and he turned, looked out the window –
"What the fuck!" he screamed. "Who the fuck are you?!"
It, what ever it was, looked like a giant, black owl – like something out of one of those Whitley Strieber books he'd used to read.
An alien, he said to himself, now sure someone, or something, had been in his room – and suddenly he rubbed the back of his head again and again – for he had been sure, once, that he'd been abducted, and that they'd implanted something in his skull.
Now, the more he thought about it, the more aliens made sense. Who else could have told Molly he was in the basement? How else could he have run into a psychiatrist as warped as Devlin, a judge as twisted as Thornton? They had to be in on it, all of them, and he bet they had been, for years, from the beginning.
That spot on his head was itching now, and he was sure he could feel it getting hot. They had to be transmitting now, transmitting instructions to him. Again. That's why it was getting hot – that had to be the reason. He felt the room spinning, his eyeballs starting to itch – and he wanted to scratch them out of his head – because the noise was getting so loud now, the voices so insistent...
+++++
