Doctor Pretty

Jane Pretty looked at the watch on her wrist. Girard Perregaux : a Swiss watch, tasteful and elegant. Like her suit: Chanel ready to wear; prêt à porter, chic and professional. Single, thirty-seven, a high-priced therapist, she spent her money on fine things. It gave her satisfaction to surround herself with them. She crossed her legs, the friction of her pantyhose like a faint shimmer of sound, her black suede pumps stretching her ankle attractively, but not erotically, the toes not too pointed. She leaned over and sipped from her bottle of water.

Joyce, her assistant, had filled the cancellation with a man named Alex Kennedy. Originally, when he had called he was told she had no openings for at least two weeks. Then Mrs. White had cancelled. Joyce had said Mr. Kennedy was thrilled to be squeezed in. Now Doctor Pretty wished Joyce hadn't booked it. She didn't need the three hundred dollars, and she would have loved to go to the gym early. She felt the need to sweat hard today - a steeper angle on the treadmill, a different pattern on the stationary bike. Oh well.

"Have a wonderful night, Joyce. Happy Birthday!"

Joyce looked up and smiled, excited about her "date" with her husband. Doctor Pretty hadn't minded letting her go early; god, he only took Joyce out about once every two months.

Dr. Pretty checked her wrist again. She adjusted the chairs in her office, angling them to face a large painting of a cottage on a windswept Irish coast. Patients liked to look up at it in many of their moods - grey-purple clouds, an isolated cottage, a chaotic sea, images that soothed the savage breast. The door of the outer office opened and closed, and she went out.

Alex Kennedy was what she called a "glossy" man: it turned out he was a successful stock broker, just over thirty. He had a squash bag under his arm, his tie undone and trailing down both sides of his open collar.

He looked at her, his gaze almost frozen. "Ah, Doctor Pretty. It's good to finally meet you."

"Finally?" She looked back at him, wondering what that meant. "Please come into my office. Should we have met before?"

"Oh no. No. It doesn't matter. Thanks." He came in and sat down. "Thanks for squeezing me in, Doctor Pretty. I'm a little warm from my game."

She took a bottle of water and placed it on the table beside his chair. "You look like you could use this." She sat down, self-possessed, a notebook on her lap, her legs crossed.

He looked over at her as he took a long drink from the bottle of water. "The name fits, Doctor Pretty. Thanks for the water."

She looked at him, completely unmoved. He was one of those men: handsome, active, successful, expensive clothes he didn't bother to look after. "So, Alex, what brings you here? So urgently."

He looked over at her, not speaking yet. She wondered how much she would have to draw him out. One of those men: uncommunicative. He had wavy blond hair, one strong hand on the arm of the chair, one rubbing his chin.

"Well," he began. Then he stopped. "Do you get many male patients, Doctor Pretty? I love that name. Doctor Pretty."

She uncrossed and crossed her legs, as if restating it was time to get down to business. She smiled disarmingly. "More women than men. Does it matter? Does it make you uncomfortable?"

He looked over at her, leaning his chin against the fingers of his left hand. His eyes went from her face, down her body, down her legs, to her feet. "No, not really, I guess. But it is a little embarrassing. Like - if the guys knew what I was here about." He stopped and looked away. She simply looked up, lifting her eyes expectantly, knowing people had an automatic need to fill silences. It was the therapist's best friend, silence. He smiled like a boasting boy. "Doctor Pretty, you know, me and the guys have coffee downstairs at Starbucks. We sit at the window and rate the girls. You're one of the ones that walks by. And you're right up there near the top of the list."

Visibly, she didn't react, but inside she was rolling her eyes. God; she waited till the end of the day for this?

"Did one of them recommend me, perhaps, Alex?" She could be arch, if she wanted, though it likely went right over his head.

"Sort of." he said quickly. "I was in the building once with a friend. One of them pointed out your name. He said you were one of the most expensive analysts in the city. It just made sense. Your office is close and convenient. I can afford the best. And then I sort of felt I knew you. I mean since you're one of the ones who walks by Starbucks. That's what I meant when I came in."

"Oh I see." She could feel a slight flush. Why? She had the habit of analyzing herself, almost as a professional habit. Men sitting at a table, watching her, assessing. Wondering what she looked like without clothes on. "I think we should get to your concerns, Alex. It can't have been easy for you to come in here, to talk about something personal. Something the guys would feel funny about, for instance. Why not just spit it out? Take a chance. You're a confident, successful man. No need to feel intimidated by the situation."

She thought he would feel challenged by that. Challenged into honesty. He leaned back.

He rested his chin on the fingers of his hand again. "Yeah, I guess you're right." He stared at her legs again. She had sort of got to him, under his skin a bit. He bent forward, his elbows on his knees. "It's like this, Doctor Pretty. I have these thoughts. Intense thoughts. About girls. I have this theory, you see, but I'm afraid that it will get me into trouble."

She looked up, stopped making notes. "A theory? Trouble? What sort of thoughts, Alex, what sort of theory? Go on. I've heard quite a few unusual stories in here."

He looked at her again, and wiped his brow. He shrugged out of his suit jacket and laid it on top of his squash bag. "All right, Doctor. These thoughts, this theory about girls." He paused.

She was really getting impatient. She started to kick her foot involuntarily for a few seconds, then stopped herself. "And the theory is?..."

He looked at her, his eyes focused and intense. "Yes. It's more than a theory, actually. It seems to be the truth. The truth about the way girls are."

"Go on."

"You see, Doctor Pretty, you know how girls like to pretend, like to play hard to get? What I think is that inside every female there is a girl who just wants to be taken, you know? Forced. So that she is helpless to prevent it. So that if she is helpless to prevent it, and if you just force it a bit, it gives her an excuse, you know? An excuse to give in, and to let herself be taken. Fucked I mean. So that she can't help it. And then it turns out, she wants it so bad she can't get enough."

She didn't know whether to laugh, or roll her eyes again. "So this is your theory. Or do you find it works out in practice as well? I suppose it depends on the girl."

His cool blue eyes fell on her hands then up her torso. "Don't you think girls are like this, Doctor Pretty?"

"It's not an unusual fantasy for women, or men, for that matter, to have those thoughts of helplessness."

"Not unusual, Doctor? It's like every girl I meet is like that. Like just the other night. I was out at Shaker's, the club just down the street. You know the one?"

She didn't. She rarely went out, except to the symphony, or to dinner with some friends, female friends, with whom she had good, cool relations. "No, but go on."

He didn't need much prompting. He looked at her legs, then her eyes. He almost can't help himself, she thought. The predatory male, she wrote on her pad. "There was a girl there, at the bar. Tight jeans, white blouse, big tits, almost too big for her blouse. Heels. Blond hair. And that careful look in her eyes. That's the key. I look for the ones with that careful look in their eyes. They have to have that look. Those are the ones that are trying to cover up their true feelings. I hit on her. She warmed up a little, but not too much. We danced a couple of dances. Every once in a while I pressed against her breasts. She didn't pull away. We kissed a couple of times. She didn't really let loose. I invited her to my place, which is close by here, just for a nightcap." He stopped and looked at her, as if it was his turn to be silent.

It is amazing how just one second, one look, can re-align the universe. Suddenly, at first, she was uncomfortable, in that silence. Then she felt frightened. Unaccountably. Her reason told her to be sane, that there was nothing to worry about. She breathed in deeply, and forced herself to listen to her reason. She uncrossed and crossed her legs. She cleared her throat. He was staring at her face, then at her neck. His eyes on the gap at the top of her blouse. Don't be ridiculous, her mind was saying. He's just telling you his issues. Then on her knees. Her calves. Then back up to the hem of her skirt, where her thighs met. It took all her willpower not to pull the hem of her skirt down. It was a conservative skirt, but, when she was seated, it came up quite a few inches above her knee. Besides, she must be 6 or 7 years older than him.

"Sooo... you know how it is, Doctor. A drink in my apartment. She is on my turf then, it's like an unspoken rule, you know? I can't get into trouble for telling you this, can I?"

She shook her head. "No, this is entirely confidential, Alex. So?" She felt the flush on her skin, moving up her chest. She used to get blotchy when she was younger, and easily embarrassed. Now it never happened. She had learned so much about herself, how to deal with her reactions, how not to be shocked. You got that way, in her profession. It was one of her strengths. Her ability to be dispassionate, to listen carefully, to ask astute questions, to give advice.

"So." He moved himself an inch or two closer on his chair, bending toward her. "So we are in my kitchen. I kiss her. She gives a little whimper when I kiss her. She puts her hand on my chest, just pushing me away gently. Like, yeah, right, she is going to be able to push me away like that? I'm pretty strong, you know, and about six inches taller than her. I kiss her again, pressing against her, harder. By now, my cock is hard, and I press it against her crotch. She pushes back, you know, and her arms are around my neck. Then after a while, I mean we're kissing really hot and heavy, and I squeeze her tit, and she doesn't stop me, then she does it again. With her hand. She tries to push me away, not too hard. Like she sort of has to, just to prove she is good girl, you know? But underneath I know she's a bad girl. A bad girl like all girls are bad girls inside, you know Doctor?"

Doctor Pretty made a pretence of jotting down notes, just to escape his gaze.

"So I do it over again. The whole routine. We do this about three times, and finally I grab her hair, and bend her head back, and she gets that look in her eyes, the one I know tells me what she is really like. She's scared but also she knows she can't really resist if she wants to, and she knows she wants it, and I can see it in her eyes and she knows I can see it in her eyes. I start to guide her back through the door, and then into my bedroom, and she is taking these little steps, saying nothing, just looking around like a scared rabbit, eyes darting everywhere. I start undoing her buttons on her blouse. Her fingers come up to stop me, sort of, but it's such a weak effort. Then her jeans. Then - and this works every time, Doctor - I slide my hand really fast down inside her pants and my fingers start to squeeze and mash her pussy. And she is like so wet. So wet. And she knows the game is up. And she closes her eyes. She sighs. She melts. She knows this is what she really wanted. What she really wants inside. What every girl seems to want, Doctor."

He didn't give her time to answer but just carried on. "So the next thing I'm hearing is her moaning. And she's saying 'yes, jesus, fuck me, please fuck me I am so hot.' And so I do. I can hardly get her clothes off fast enough for her. And she cums about four times. Scratches my back to hell. So that's what it's like." He leaned back, almost like a boy expecting to be given a reward.

Doctor Pretty took a sip of her own water, and wiped her throat with the ends of her fingers. She could feel how flushed her skin was. "And is it always like this, Alex? Do you think all girls are like this? Is this why you came to see me?"

He sat silent for a few seconds. "Oh no, I don't think all girls are like this, Doctor. They are like this. But that's not why I came to see you. It's the thoughts I have. They are a little more extreme.

"More extreme... All right, tell me."

"Are you sure you want to hear this, Doctor? You seem a little bothered by this."

She forced a smile and shook her head. "Oh no, Alex, don't worry. Believe me. I've heard just about everything." For some reason she felt the need to show she wasn't put off, wasn't afraid. Yes, afraid. That's what she was. And she didn't want to show it.

He leaned forward again. She looked at her watch. Fifteen more minutes. The building was silent. "My thoughts are more... ummmm... violent ones, Doctor. This is the problem. In my fantasies, I don't want the girls to give in so easily. I don't want them to give in at all. I want to have to cover their mouths with my hand before they scream. Gag them with my tie, or a scarf. I want to have to tie them up, tie them to a post or a bed or a chair. Rip their clothes off, cut them off with a knife. Force them. Really force them. Then I want to watch their eyes when I touch their cunts. Slide my fingers down their crotches, and watch their eyes when my fingers dip into their pussies and they are soaking wet. That is the moment of truth. I want to see it in their eyes. When they know I know what they are really like. All bad girls underneath it all. Even the nicest girls. Even the really good ones."

She maintained her balance. She gulped discreetly, and then picked up her water bottle and sipped from it. Ladylike. He did the same, only he gulped it. And wiped his brow. He pulled on the tie that hung down both side of his shirt. He was done. He sighed deeply and sat back.

"So you feel better now, Alex, talking about it?"

"Yes I do. But you see why I am worried. You see I think about this often. I look at a girl, in the street, you know, the ones we check out at Starbucks, or at a bar."

She recrossed her legs and pulled the hem of her skirt down . "So you have your own rape fantasy. Usually, of course, it's the other way around, but it's still a fantasy, Alex, and that's what we have to remember. Many people have all kinds of fantasies. Flying. Swimming under the ocean. Rescuing fair maidens from dragons. Killing aliens. You just have to remember they are fantasies."

He looked at her, rubbing his lips with his forefinger thoughtfully. He said nothing.

She looked her watch. She closed her notebook. "But you're afraid of these fantasies, is that it, Alex. Maybe even once you came close to living them out, is that it? We should talk about that, I think. Next time. But you feel better, at least, for now?"

He nodded. "Yeah. I do. So I guess time's up. That's how it works, I know." He reached down for his jacket, then his squash bag. She stood. He stood. She stepped aside for him to walk out. In the doorway to the office he stopped and turned. "Doctor, I have to ask you something. When I was talking, you were blushing, your skin got all coloured up your neck. It made you nervous, didn't it?" He looked at her. At her neck, which was colouring again.

"Alex, we don't need to talk about my reactions. They're -"

He stepped forward, closer to her. She stepped back. "You were afraid, Doctor. Because of the way you reacted?"

She was in fact very afraid, now. She summoned all her control. "Alex we can talk about it next time. For now, we are done, okay? That's why appointments are an hour. It avoids the patient getting carried away."

He was taller than her by about five inches. His eyes, she realized, were quite a steely blue. A few curls of fair hair crept out from the top of his shirt. Sweat was coming out on her forehead.

"You're flushing now, Doctor. All the way up your neck." He slowly pulled his tie from where it hung around his neck. She quickly put her hand up, her palm open, fingers splayed. She shook her head. Her mouth opened, but she was too slow. Everything, it seemed, was too slow, as if she were suddenly moving in a drugged universe.

The taste of the tie was not what she expected. It tasted like paper. Her eyes were wide with fright. She grunted, but he pulled the tie back in her mouth. He looked intense, possessed by that kind of demented sanity that knows exactly what it is doing. She could feel his breath on her face, but all she could smell was the smell of her own body, her own sweat, which was now beading on her forehead. He was pushing her back against her chair. His hands grabbed at the top button of her suit jacket. He ripped it apart and yanked it down over her shoulders. It immobilized her arms. Her vision was starting to get blurry, through her tears. He pushed her down onto her armchair. She kept her legs closed tight together. She grunted every few seconds, unable to make any other sound. Hoping he was just acting something out. Hoping he would wake up and realize what he was doing. He placed his hand on her chest, forcing to stay in place.

It dawned on her that she was very exposed, in just her bra, and her skirt. Her expensive La Perla bra, with the beautiful lace work, that fitted her 34C breasts perfectly. Her unmarked, 34C breasts.

"Very pretty, Doctor Pretty." He ran his fingers over her bra. She cried harder then. Tears streaming down. "Don't move." His hand moved up to her throat, and her eyes went suddenly wider, feeling his fingers around her neck muscles. He reached down into his squash bag, pulling up some straps. He held them up in front of her. "Boat straps," he said. "I had to pick them up from a friend who borrowed them. On the way here." He quickly disappeared behind her. Incredibly quickly she felt the strap coiling around her chest, over the top of her breasts, then down underneath, then pulled tight. So tight she felt the air expelled from her lungs. He moved in front of her. Took off her shoes. She then started to struggle in earnest, twisting, kicking. The next thing she felt was her head suddenly flying, like it had been torn from her neck. Then her cheek burned. She was dazed. For a second she even wondered where she was. He had hit her. Smacked her across the cheek. She went still. Still in a daze. When she felt his hands doing something with her feet. Tying her ankles. Then pulling them back. Her skirt riding up as her legs spread. God. She tried to close her legs but it was impossible.

He stood in front of her. "Very pretty, Doctor Pretty. You liked my stories, didn't you? I mean deep inside. You don't want to admit it. But we'll do a test, shall we?" He leaned over and pushed her skirt up. She cried. Tears streaming down her face. He leaned over, inches from her face.

"Listen." She could feel his breath on her face again. But still, all she could smell was her own body. Perspiring. Cold sweat. "Listen. We'll do a test. If your cunt is not wet, then I'll free you. But if it is wet... well then, Doctor Pretty... " He stopped and looked menacingly at her face, a cruel smile on his face. His hands slid slowly up her thighs, along her smooth sleek pantyhose. Only now, only at this point, with his hands sliding up her hips to grab the top of her pantyhose, did she begin to think about her vagina. Oh God. God. She prayed.

"Do you have matching panties, Doctor Pretty? Who are you trying to look so pretty for underneath this suit of yours? Do you think about us watching you walk by on the sidewalk, imagining what you might look like?" His fingers found the elastic on her pantyhose and started yanking it down. He forced it down, awkwardly, painfully. Once it was halfway down her thighs it wouldn't stretch further. He stopped, wiped his brow. Then looked at her panties. "you do have matching panties, Doctor Pretty. So pretty. Now then, Doctor Pretty, let's see if you're a bad girl. Shall we? Are you a bad girl? Are you going to tell me, or am I going to find out for myself."