Eighteen months ago...
Her surprise upon first meeting Doctor Jacobsen in her downtown office must have shown on her face.
"Are you looking for a couch, Mrs. Crane?" The young blonde woman seated across from Nicole smiled sympathetically at her through of heavy black-framed glasses.
"I'm sorry, what?" Nicole said.
"You'd think the stereotype would have gone and died long ago, but a surprising number of patients expect psychiatrists to work with a couch. I only know one therapist who uses one for his patients, and he's quite elderly."
Lindsay Jacobsen was far from elderly; in fact, she looked barely old enough to have completed a doctor's education. She was very slender, a little taller than Nicole, dressed in a conservative lavender silk blouse, navy skirt with matching pumps, and dark hose. At first glance she looked as if her people were from northern Europe, Denmark perhaps, but there was something indefinably exotic about her features that suggested more diverse ancestry.
And there was no couch in her office. Other than a plain metal desk and swivel chair the furnishings included green plants in terra cotta vases, a pair of bamboo end tables, several colorful woven wall hangings, and two comfortably upholstered modern chairs in which Nicole and Doctor Jacobsen sat facing one another.
Nicole said, "I guess I expected someone..."
"...Older. More motherly. More...experienced?" the young psychiatrist's eyes twinkled as if at a private joke.
"I'm sorry, Doctor. I didn't mean—"
"Relax, Nicole. Call me Lindsay, please. Now, why don't you tell me how I can help you today."
Nicole exhaled deeply and began describing in general terms her "affair"—that was how she termed it—with young Luke Gable. She wasn't sure how long the doctor—Lindsay—let her talk uninterrupted, but something about the young woman's open and direct manner engendered a sense of safety and trust in the older woman. Lindsay listened with keen interest, making occasional notes in the black book she held in her lap.
When Nicole had finished, Lindsay said "Let me ask you one or two things. On how many occasions have you...seen Mr. Gable?"
"Mister—? Oh, Luke...seven. Eight."
"And are you in authority over him?" Sensing Nicole's confusion, Lindsay elaborated: "You're not his employer. Or a teacher—"
"No!" Nicole reddened at the memory of watching her son with Elaine Moore. Feeling exposed, she anxiously tugged the hem of her floral print jersey dress further down her bare legs, suddenly wishing she'd worn something less clingy...more modest.
"And the young man is of legal age," Lindsay said. "Nicole, you need to be more specific with me about what's troubling you."
"I'm twice his age!" Nicole protested, suddenly doubting the wisdom of having come here at all. "I'm married..."
"It's not my role to judge you," Lindsay said. "I simply want to understand the real source of your emotional distress. You say that your marriage is troubled..."
"Miserable is more like it," Nicole said, surprised at her own vehemence. "George is a workaholic. I can't complain about him as a provider, but the time he doesn't spend at his father's factory he 'rewards himself' by drinking. He's seldom home, and when he is, he's either loudly drunk or sleeping one off."
"And your sex life is..." Lindsay prompted.
"Nonexistent. For years."
"Well, then." Lindsay said, "ordinarily I'd say that your primary problem is the state of your marriage rather than this affair."
"I feel so guilty. About Luke," Nicole insisted.
"I don't think that's it." The young leaned forward, her warm blue eyes gazing directly into Nicole's. "You react with visible excitement, and may I be so bold, pleasure when describing your time with Luke. I believe that the shame that you feel is somehow displaced."
Lindsay glanced down at her notes. "How old is your son? How old is Brandon?
It was as if someone had struck Nicole a blow right between her shoulder blades, knocking the wind out of her. "He's...Brandon is eighteen. He's a high school senior."
"You mean that Brandon is Luke's age." Lindsay closed her notebook, an enigmatic smile tugging at the corners of her full, pink-frosted lips. "Nicole, do you think of your son when you're with Luke?"
"Do I think...?"
"Do you think about Brandon when you're fucking his best friend?"
Lindsay's sudden bluntness stunned Nicole, but not nearly as much as what the young psychiatrist said next.
"Nicole, dear, relax. Any sexual feelings that you have for Brandon are completely natural and nothing to be ashamed of."
Nicole's eyes flickered up to meet Lindsay's. "How can that be so?" she asked.
"Why do you suppose the incest taboo is so strong in our society...in every culture?" Lindsay asked. "We don't have to make harsh civil and religious rules against behavior that people don't want to practice. In fact, the most forbidden of acts are those that most tempt and call to us. Those we most long for."
"That is logical," Nicole conceded. Still troubled but with the beginnings of hope she asked: "So you're saying that the fantasy is harmless?"
Lindsay paused, then said, "There's more to it than simple fantasy, isn't there? Have you ever experienced sex with a family member?"
Lindsay seemed to take some private glee in the question. It's my imagination, Nicole told herself. She needed to trust this young woman. Despite misgivings, after a moment's hesitation, she slowly nodded. "Yes. My father."
"I see." Nicole braced herself for a series of concerned and probing questions. Instead, Lindsay simply asked, "Nicole, would you be willing to explore your...emotional responses in a safe setting?"
"I'm not sure what you mean."
"Roleplaying. Re-enactment. I would guide you through sexual scenarios under controlled conditions, in this office, with the assistance of a surrogate."
"I...I guess. When would we...?"
"No time like the present." Lindsay stood abruptly and stepped over to her desk, picking up the phone.
"Right now? This afternoon?" Nicole was on the verge of panic.
"Anthony, would you please come to my office?" Lindsay said into the headset. She looked back and Nicole, fairly grinning as she said, "You truly need relief. The sooner, the better."
A young man whom Nicole had seen earlier in Lindsay's otherwise empty waiting room entered her office. He was stocky, fair, and of medium height. He looked very young. "I-I thought you were the receptionist," Nicole stammered.
"Tony assists me in this sort of therapy. He has some very specific qualifications." Lindsay explained. "Tony, please lock the door." She glanced at her patient reassuringly. "We'll want complete privacy. Now, Tony must disrobe in order to proceed. Y may remain fully clothed at this point in the procedure if you prefer."
Tony kicked off his loafers and stripped out of his socks and his blue oxford shirt. He was a lean, muscular youth with a smooth and nearly hairless body. When he removed his khaki pants and undershorts Nicole saw he had no pubic hair at all.
Lindsay Jacobsen noticed her patient's fascination. "Yes, depilation is much more manageable and hygienic in a clinical setting," she said curtly, standing beside her assistant. "I understand that some young men also shave because they believe it makes their genitals appear larger."
She snickered and placed her hand on Tony's cock, moving it gently back and forth, causing the flaccid organ to rapidly engorge and stiffen. "I don't think that's something Anthony has to be concerned about. Will he function adequately as a substitute?"
"Substitute for what?" Nicole said absently, absorbed in watching the young man's erection grow.
"For whom. Can you pretend that Tony is Brandon?"
The fires of the red-haired mother's lust were kindled now. This whole situation was so strange...and yet compelling.
