13

***

Twelve

***

Jemma

"I didn't shower this morning."

"Why not?" the woman asked.

"Because I showered twice a day for the past four days. It's not healthy," I replied.

"How is it not healthy?"

"Seriously?" I snapped, "We're just going to do the 'questions forever' game?"

The woman didn't flinch or really change her expression. She was good. "What I'm trying to get at, Jemma, is do you think it's unhealthy because you think showering that much will harm your skin or your hair, or do you think it's another kind of unhealthy?"

"It's both, isn't it?" I replied.

"It depends on why you're showering that much. Someone who does a full workout in the morning and then goes to work at a construction site jackhammering concrete probably needs two showers a day for obvious reasons," the woman pointed out, "It may not be great for their skin but sleeping covered in concrete dust is probably worse."

"I don't work construction," I said, feeling stupid saying it even after I did.

We both knew what the next question was. I'd been in enough therapy the past few days to get the rhythm.

I avoided being admitted only because I convinced everyone I wasn't suicidal. I wasn't, though that first night I had gone looking for any booze Mom might have forgot (the Johnnie Walker bottle had disappeared) and I remembered thinking "how much do you have to drink before you die?" I honestly can't say if it's because I wanted a goal or a stopping point.

I'd spent the weekend in dual sessions; one individual counseling session, and then a group. I felt kind of guilty about the groups; a lot of those women had much more horrifying stories than I did. On the other hand, one of the therapists pointed out, it was a reason for hope; they got through worse, so I could get through what I was dealing with. On the other hand, I was getting therapy through Mom's survivor benefits, so it was tied to the military and almost everyone else there had served. I felt a little like an imposter, even though nobody treated me like that.

Well, there had been Angie, but she was a bitch, everyone agreed on that.

"I still feel dirty," I finally admitted.

"You know it's not your fault, Jemma," the woman said.

Lots of people talked about going to get therapy like it was a hair salon; either make an appointment or walk in and someone's there with a couch and a notepad. In reality, there are way more fucked up people than therapists, and those therapists needed breaks. I'd met with one woman, Barbara, over the weekend, but the last two days I'd had to see other people if I wanted to have a session every day. I'd been worried when a guy came in at first, but he was so stereotypically, flamboyantly gay that it didn't bother me. This woman looked like she was slumming it; she was much more put together than the other two, had better clothes, and I felt like she was reading my mind.

"You do know that, right?" the woman pushed.

"No," I said, "I don't! Come on, I was...my sister, Alexa, hell probably half my school knew the twins had promised I'd put out. Ruby told me they were figuring out homecoming dates and it would be a party. Alexa always fooled around with everyone at the parties but she was gone! I was still around. I mean, everyone there knew I was supposed to fuck someone."

"No, everyone assumed," the woman replied, "and you didn't. You didn't go there expecting to have sex. You certainly didn't go there expecting to be drugged. Even if some part of your brain thought that's what everyone wanted, you did not have to go along with it, and the fact that they made you puts them at fault!"

The woman's voice got a bit passionate and angry at the end, and it got to me. Everyone else had been gentle and soft.

"You didn't shower this morning. Is it because you didn't feel like you had to, or because you wanted to be able to come here and say you'd made progress?" she asked, pointedly.

I winced. "I'm sorry," I said.

"Don't apologize," she said, "If you want to shower twice a day, that's fine. I mean, don't wash your hair that often and moisturize after, but go ahead. Take three showers if it'll help."

"But...I mean..." I stammered, totally confused.

"Look, Jemma, if you need to take extra showers to feel better, that's fine. It's not self-destructive. You aren't trying to wash yourself in freezing or boiling water, and you aren't staying in there for four hours at a time. Is it unusual behavior suggesting a deeper issue? Sure, but we know what the deeper issue is, and you're working on it. That's your coping mechanism for right now. If you try to stop that you might pick another one, and I don't have to tell you how bad that can get."

I nodded slowly as flashbacks of my mother's "bad days" came into my head.

"The showers are the symptom. What you need to get into your head is what I said before. You. Did. Not. Want. This. It is not your fault in any way. You didn't want it, they ignored you. They drugged you to make sure you couldn't fight back. In court, they call that premeditation. That means this wasn't even guys getting all worked up and not paying attention halfway through. That means people

knew

you weren't going to agree with this and they decided they were going to ignore you even before you got the chance to speak up," the woman said.

"What if I liked it?" I blurted.

My chest suddenly seized up and I thought I'd gone blind. I lost time. When I came back the woman had her hand in mine and her arm across my shoulders, and my face was wet.

"It's okay Jemma. You're okay. Keep breathing. That's good."

I probably used up half my session just breathing and being held by her. It wasn't a full on hug but somehow she made half her arm and one hand feel like a stable blanket and a rocking hammock pushed by my mother.

"I didn't mean it," I cried when I got my voice under control.

"Yes you did," she replied.

"No! I couldn't...if I liked it then why am I here? Why is my head all fucked up!? I can't like it; nobody likes it."

"There are entire communities of people who like it," she countered, "They call it consensual non-consent. Some people just have their partner pretend to assault them and they do five minutes of fake protesting before they're going at it like dogs in heat. Other people have elaborate social networks where they do FBI-level vetting and let people sign up to have a random person break into their house, tie them up, threaten, and have sex with them as if it were a real home invasion."

"But...I don't want that. I've never wanted that. And don't you dare tell me I secretly did, not after that big soapbox about how I didn't want this!" I said harshly.

"I do let my passion show through a bit, I'm sorry," she said, "It's not really appropriate. But that's not what I mean. I don't think you have a secret rape fantasy. Even if you do, it doesn't matter; you still didn't ask for what happened. But that's not the problem. Here, I'm going to ask you a bunch of raunchy, inappropriate questions. I don't want you to think, I don't want you to analyze it, just answer instinctively, okay?"

"Okay..." I said hesitantly.

"Do you like masturbating?"

"Yes."

"Do you like someone else rubbing you off?"

I balked a bit at that question, but the woman just looked at me deadpan and repeated the question. I could tell she wasn't getting off on this and it didn't seem like she was judging me either, somehow. "Yes," I admitted.

"Do you like giving head? Do you like someone else going down on you?"

"Yes."

"Do you like sex?"

"I haven't really-"

"Don't split hairs, Jemma. I don't care if a live penis hasn't been in your vagina. Do you like sex?"

"Yes."

"Do you have orgasms when you're doing those things?"

"Yes."

"Okay. There's your answer," she said.

There was a moment of silence as my brain tried to unscramble itself. "What?" I asked.

"You are sexually active. You do that because you enjoy it. Your body responds to it. It feels good," she said.

"Yeah, but-"

"Let me finish," she cut me off. I nodded and she continued, "You were drugged and you were being sexually assaulted. Legally, you couldn't have agreed to anything; all of it was rape. Realistically, you probably said yes to some things that happened. The things that happened were sexual. You enjoy sexual things, and your body responds to them. I don't have proof of this and it's probably impossible to actually

prove

, but I'd guess the only reason you spoke up was because of your own deep-rooted determination to keep your hetero virginity intact. That belief was strong enough to break through the drug haze. If you hadn't been that against it, you probably would have let them do whatever, and you would have enjoyed it."

I slumped back as I tried to digest that, and she continued. "That's another little trap that gets a lot of us women. There's the age old 'she was asking for it' excuse that gets dragged out if the woman was dressed sexy or agreed to some level of sex but not whatever the person tried. Then there's the 'blurry line' if it was their boyfriend or husband or girlfriend or whatever. The really insidious trap is cases like yours. You said no, you didn't ask for it in any way, you tried to fight them off and couldn't. You fought the good fight. But some part of you still enjoyed it. You still felt pleasure."

Tears were streaming down my cheeks at that point, and I hugged myself as everything she said hit like a gut punch.

"Jemma, look at me," she said.

I looked up and saw her through tears.

"We can't turn off our body's ability to enjoy sex if we're alive. People get aroused when they're asleep. Hell, there's even some evidence that people in comas can feel sexual pleasure. It is also possible to force someone to have an orgasm against their will. People like to harp on the idea that women are less physical about sex and it's more mental, but that's garbage. If you stimulate the clitoris, there will be some level of pleasure, even if it's fleeting and changes to something else quickly. The fact that you felt something that you didn't actually hate during the assault? It's normal. It doesn't mean you wanted it, it doesn't mean you secretly like it, and it doesn't mean you're damaged."

The rest of the session was calmer; she asked about the other people in my house and my habits. We both knew it was to move away from the intense topic, but I needed it. I mentioned sleeping with Rhia, without going into too many details about who Rhia was, but the woman again told me that as long as Rhia didn't mind and I was still getting enough sleep, it wasn't a problem, at least for the moment.

I knew it was close to the end of the session, so I asked the question that had been bothering me.

"You're too good for this place, who are you?"

"No one's too good for anywhere people need help," she replied.

I just looked at her and she smirked.

"Fair. I'm actually Doctor Talia Lee, fully licensed psychiatrist. I have a private practice. I volunteer here though. My grandfather served in World War 2, came back, then two years later just walked out on my Mom and Grandma. Grandma never recovered, and my Mom was kind of messed up about it too. It always left me questioning as a kid: 'why would someone walk out like that?' 'What broke in my Grandma?'"

I nodded and said, "You didn't have to apologize before. Your 'soap box' speech hit me. It really did."

Dr. Lee studied me for a moment, then handed me a card. I looked and it had a cell number written on the back.

"Cases like yours are actually my specialty. Teenage trauma, especially sexual abuse. You should keep coming here; the staff are great, even though they're overworked and underfunded. But if you're really feeling off and people here don't seem to be helping, give me a call."

"There's no way I can afford you," I said, "My mom only just started working regularly again-"

"Don't worry about that," Dr. Lee said, cutting me off, "But make sure to take care of yourself, Robin. I want to see you again."

=-=-=-=-=

Group therapy didn't really register with me; there was a new therapist running it and they had trouble keeping control, so Angie ran away with the show. I didn't mind; I was still processing everything I'd talked to Dr. Lee about.

I came out feeling better than I had in days, but I got guarded again when I saw mom in the car. She seemed anxious.

"Heather Myers is coming by again this morning," she said when I got in the car.

"What's wrong, did something happen with Robin's arrest?" I asked.

I hadn't unpacked my guilt about that in therapy, but I had a good idea what everyone would say about it. Truthfully, I was more angry at the police for going hard after Robin when she was the least guilty out of everyone.

Except me. I wasn't guilty. There; I said it. In my head.

"I don't think so. Rhia texted me last night and told me to call her. She agreed to be here this morning. Fortunately my work is hybrid, so I can be home today. Rhia wouldn't tell me what it was about, but she carried Robin in last night and put her to bed. I think you were actually asleep, for once."

"Yeah, I've been getting a bit better," I said. My sleep schedule had been messed up; I slept with Rhia after she got back from the club (even if she was in my Mom's room, which we all just kind of...glossed over), but then I got up at six to go to therapy. It let me finish by eight so Mom could pick me up, drop me at home, and still make work. I usually snuggled back in with Rhia after that until she got up, but she hardly seemed to sleep, so it was more like a nap.

When we got to the house, Heather's sedan was there already. We went in and Rhia and Robin were already at the table with her, all of them looking at a busted digital camera, one of the "real" ones with the camera body and the lens sticking out of it.

"Where'd that come from?" I asked.

"Some creep trying to perv on people at 9 colors," Robin said.

The tone of Robin's voice threw me off. She sounded angry, like she wanted to go out and hit someone. That wasn't like her at all. Mom seemed to think so too because Robin looked up and saw both of us, then sighed and seemed to shrink down.

"Sorry...there's...well that's part of why we're here," Robin said.

"So the short version is, Rhia saw a guy creeping up on Robin and her friend when they were outside the club," Heather explained, "Rhia had never seen a camera before, and she was worried it was a weapon, so she...intervened."

"Oh God," Kathleen said, "Is he-?"

"He is alive when I finish," Rhia said.

"I was able to do a quick search with that ID you gave me," Heather continued, "He's got a PI license in the state, so someone hired him. It's not uncommon for lawyers."

"So what, they were trying to get dirt on Robin?" I asked.

"Or find out more about Rhia," Heather said, "Lots of the statements from the Hammersleys mentioned your mother having a girlfriend but none of them ever met her, so he might have been trying to identify Rhia. That or they wanted pictures of her so the assholes who she put down could identify her from them."

My mom slumped. "This isn't going to end, is it?"

"Remember, they're still sitting there thinking they've got an assault case that won't blow up in their faces. Nobody's made a move yet to press charges. Their lawyers probably want something ironclad before they go there. They know they can't charge Robin; they won't even need a jury, one look at her and anyone in their right mind will laugh at the idea of her taking down four football players," Heather said.

"That...may not be true forever," Robin said.

Everyone in the room except Rhia looked at her. "What do you mean?" Kathleen asked.

Robin sighed. "Stand up," she said to my mom.

Mom stood. Then Robin stood up next to her. Mom and I gasped.

Robin was taller than my mother. Noticeably. She'd always been slightly shorter. My mom immediately looked over at Rhia.

"Is this...?" she said, and Rhia just nodded.

"It's worse," Robin said.

"Can someone clue me in, please?" Heather interrupted.

"Um...This is kind of personal," Kathleen said.

"You already told me Rhia's probably not from Earth," she said, "If there's other shit going on I can handle it, but if it affects this case I

need

to know."

"Rhia's got a cock," I blurted out, "And a vag. If she fucks you...things happen. You change."

Heather looked at me suspiciously for a moment, then turned to my mom. My mom sighed, then shocked me by pushing her chest up. "You see these?" she asked. Heather nodded, then my mom continued, "Last week? I was a B cup, and they were drooping."

"So...you had sex with Rhia?" Heather asked Robin. When Robin nodded, she said, "And now you're getting taller?"

"Something...else...happened with me. Oh, fuck it, this is taking too long. Enjoy the show."

Robin shocked everyone, I think, but definitely me when she stood up, pulling her pants down in one move. Nobody paid attention, though, because her shirt came off next and her boobs bounced free.

I'd caught Robin topless a few times for various reasons, and I knew what to expect under her shirt. The giant, perky melons pointing their hard nipples at us was not it.

My mom's gasp drew my eyes away from her tits so we could all notice the prominent bulge under her panties. Mom kept glancing back and forth between Robin and Rhia before finally blurting, "What did you do!?"

"She just...fucked me, Kathleen," Robin said, "It wasn't any different from you."

"Well clearly it was. Put your clothes back on for God's sake," my mom said. She made it sound like a scolding, but I thought I heard something different in her tone. I didn't want to admit it, but her breasts were hella distracting, and when I glanced over I thought I saw a bit of a flush on the lawyer, too.

"This happens," Rhia finally said, "Not a lot. But happens. After first time, girl can change to futa. I knew this happen. Did not know why."

"I thought you said there were women in charge of monitoring changes. Don't they warn people about this?" Robin asked.

"I not know; I never woman. Maybe they warn women. They not tell futas we cause change," Rhia said.

"Sounds like these women have carved out an information monopoly," Heather said, "Given how little other power they have, that makes sense. So what's going to happen, you're going to look like Rhia in a week?"

"Not know. Change not done; she is small for futa. May be different from here," Rhia said.

"Wait...is she going to be a superhero like you too?" I asked.

"No!" Rhia said, sounding excited, "I think out. Gravity! Different gravity. I have more."

There was a moment of silence as I think everyone tried to understand what she said, then Robin said, "Oh, okay. That makes sense."

"Objection your honor," Heather quipped, "that statement is bullshit."

"No, I think what Rhia means is her planet's gravity is higher. She's so stupid strong compared to us because she's used to higher gravity, and so are her bones and muscles."

"Wait, I've heard you and Brad talk about this stuff in the car. If she was from higher gravity shouldn't she look like a dwarf or something?" I asked.

"That's only if there's a huge difference. If she's used to, like, 1.5 gravity then it wouldn't be like that," Robin insisted, "In theory anyway; obviously we haven't found anyone that lives on a higher gravity world, and we don't have any colonies..."

"Yes, we got it," Heather said, "So you aren't going to turn into Wonder Woman but you're still going to show up as a six foot tall tranny."

"Actually...um..." Robin said, but Heather waved her off.

"If they see boobs and a crotch bulge they're going to think tranny, and unfortunately ignorant people assume trans women are all former bodybuilders. It makes our case harder, but the video's still our trump card. Are there any other differences?"