The Doctor Is Listening

[Miltone]

OOC: Although all are cordially invited to read along, this is a closed thread that will explore the relationship between a psychiatrist and his newest patient, created by the lovely Mistress Jorja. If, as you read along, you feel that the good doctor and his staff may be able to help you with a particular psycho-sexual problem, feel free to PM me or Miss Huffmeister, played by the deeply sensual Captivate, to schedule you for an appointment in another thread.

IC: Dr. Konrad Binkenfelter, Ph.D.

It began as a typical Monday morning at my long-established psychiatric practice. Miss Huffmeister, my constant and capable assistant, had arrived early as usual and laid out my schedule of appointments on the large mahogany desk. She was just stirring the cream into my coffee as I entered the office through the side door, as is my usual practice. She acknowledged my presence with a simple bow of her head as I set down my Louis Vitton briefcase on the credenza behind the desk and slipped my St. Laurent overcoat from my tall, lanky frame. I opened the hidden closet door and hung it up, careful to tuck the sleeves in to keep them from getting wrinkled. I adjusted my glasses on the bridge of my nose as I turned in the direction of my assistant.

“Good morning, Doctor,” she said, her German accent clipping at her words slightly. “I trust you had a good weekend?”

“Yes, very nice,” I replied, closing the door. “The performance of Die Fliegermaus Saturday evening was a joy to behold. But then there was a horrible draft near our table at Bennetino’s afterwards that spoiled the entire evening.”

As I briefly looked in her direction, I thought there was a question forming in her icy blue eyes and perhaps a hint of a smile on her full red lips. She ran a hand through her pure blonde hair and smiled faintly as I pulled the chair out from the desk. Then she looked down and away and carefully set the coffee cup down on the wheat stone coaster.

Taking my seat in the wine-colored leather chair, I took my usual survey of the room, while Miss Huffmeister went to pull the patient files. The cleaning people came in on Saturday afternoons and always put something out of place. My eyes grazed over every detail of the office, richly decorated in the art moderne style that I adored. The smooth curving shapes, the booked mahogany veneers, the carved brass fixtures all signified class and elegance, and set forth a peaceful atmosphere that never failed to relax my patients. I noticed that the books were all carefully arranged in even rows on the shelves; the Remington Bronzes had been dusted and were still set at the precise angle to best reveal their detail from the lighting I preferred; my framed diplomas and numerous professional organization award certificates were all in order. Yet, something was amiss, and I searched for the cause, finding it a second later when I discovered that the Matisse was canted at an inappropriate angle. I got up immediately and hurried over to straighten the picture.

“I’m sorry, Doctor,” Miss Huffmeister said apologetically. “I should have seen that and straightened it for you.”

“That’s quite all right,” I replied, shooting a stern but sympathetic look her way, as I returned to my chair. “It’s not your fault that the maids have no eye for perfection.”

Taking a sip of the Jamaican coffee that was the only pleasure I allowed myself in the morning, I gazed at the appointment list.

“Who is this 10 o’clock appointment, Miss Huffmeister?” I asked. “I don’t recognize the name.”

“Miss Kingsley is a referral from Dr. Portnoy’s office,” she responded efficiently from memory.

“Another referral from there?” I huffed loudly, not surprised to hear. This was the third or fourth one in the last few months. “What do they do there anyway?”

“Certainly not anything significant with their patients,” she replied, bringing over a modest armload of folders for my review. “Will there be anything else, Dr. Birkenfelter?”

“Just a few minutes to review my notes,” I said taking the top folder in hand. “Since Mr. Nielson is my first patient this morning, please put on some Prokofiev. That seems to have a beneficial effect on him.”

“Very well, Doctor,” Miss Huffmeister replied, turning quickly and moving silently toward the door.

As she moved toward the door, for some reason, I noticed that she was wearing a skirt somewhat shorter than normal, this one showing nearly all of her calf. The dark-blue skirted suit did appear to have the well-pressed look of new clothing and was finely tailored to her trim but womanly frame. Perhaps she had done some shopping over the weekend, I thought to myself. Then I turned back to the folders and the day’s appointments. Mr. Nielson was due at nine and this new one, Miss Kingsley, at ten. To my surprise, there were only the most vague of notes and precious little patient history in her folder, a highly unprofessional presentation, but typical of my less competent colleagues. Miss Kinglsey, eh, I thought to myself. Perhaps this will turn out to be an interesting morning after all.

 

[Mistress Jorja]

Shana Kingsley

I stood in my bedroom, undressing. My torso was visible in a hazy outline through the curtain. I was alone, for the moment, although my body was tensed with nervous anticipation. I parted the drapes to look down on the dark alley, and I saw what I knew I would see.

The man, dressed in a black leather jacket was standing there. A cruel smirk twisted his face as he looked up at me, obviously enjoying the show. He struck a match, the flames billowing smoke that burned my eyes even seven stories up.

An instant later, my doorbell rang harshly. Its shrill notes crashed through the stillness with the subtlety of an invading army. As I turned from the black velvet curtains, I realized for the first time the room was completely empty. It was made entirely of glass as brittle as ice, and as I crossed the barren floor, a spider web of cracks spread silently in my wake.

The door flung open violently, a report of screaming hinges echoing off the crystal walls. I saw his eyes and realized he was the man who had sat opposite from me on the subway. He leered at me, and I knew the extent of his devious and utterly demeaning plans.

And suddenly, as the cracks webbed ever outward, I wanted to feel the bite of his teeth and the sting of his hand just as much as he did…

The feelings were gone in a flash, although the brutal images lingered. I awoke, doused in the coolness of my own sweat. The green numbers shifted unsettling in front of my bleary eyes. Shivering involuntarily, I snapped the bedside light on.

Pushing my straight red hair off my face, I breathed deeply. This dream was far from being foreign to me. Yesterday, it had starred the college kid who had bagged my groceries. A week ago, the man whose picture graced the back cover of my latest sappy romance novel. Always a different face yet always the same lustful, dark intentions.

Shuffling through the hallway in the faint gray light of dawn, my eyes darted to every dark corner, searching for signs of them. Most laughed at my farfetched notions, but I would get the last laugh. Those fools! Just wait and see.

Dr. Binkenfelter – 10am !!! was penciled in on my calendar for today, and I groaned audibly at the sight of the appointment. If I wanted the alimony money bad enough, this would be one date I couldn’t break. He insisted on my weekly therapy sessions, ineffective as they had been up until now. He being the one who controlled the purse strings.

Dressing quickly, I pulled a black duster tightly over my willowy frame. My green eyes blazed behind petite, mirrored sunglasses perching on my nose. Portnoy had scribbled me off of his positive prognosis list, and again I was being shuffled from psychiatrist to psychiatrist.

Stepping out into the blustery winter morning, I drove to Dr. Binkenfelter’s office in the upper-class section of town, dreading the meeting even more with each turn of the tires.

 

[captivate]

Ingrid Huffmeister, Executive Assistant

Ingrid cursed herself as she left the Doctor's office. He hadn't noticed, he had barely glanced at her. She had made an important shopping trip on Saturday, buying tailored suits and neat linen blouses, all in keeping with her position as Executive Assistant to the esteemed Dr. Binkenfelter. When she saw this suit, she knew she had to have it. It was neat and tailored, as all her clothes were. The important difference was the length. She had allowed the saleswoman to alter the skirt to a scandalous length, only inches below her knees. What had she been thinking? Konrad, as she lovingly thought of her employer, would never notice. He only saw her efficient persona, not the incredibly alive woman beneath the veneer. It did give her pleasure to know that under her very professional exterior was a sensuous woman. While shopping, she had purchased lovely, lacy lingerie. Even now, as she moved to collect the patient files, she could feel the satin and lace of her lovely panties and bra against her tender flesh.

The office door opened and Mr. Nielson entered very carefully. He turned and closed the door tightly, then opened and closed it twice more. Breathing deeply, he now left the door and walked to the green leather chair against the left wall. He sat down, stood up and then repeated the ritual for a total of three times. He finally settled into the chair, just as the intercom on Ingrid's desk came to life. "I am ready for Mr. Nielson, Miss Huffmeister," said Dr. Binkenfelter.

Miss Huffmeister stood and walked to Mr. Nielson and reached out her hand. She walked with him to the inner office door and opened it for him. She guided him inside and closed the door herself, sparing him his rituals.

Ingrid busied herself reviewing files and preparing for future appointments. The outer door opened again, this time with boldness. A beautiful redhead entered the office, looking around haughtily and with disdain. She walked to Miss Huffmeister's desk and stated her name, Shana Kingsley, and her desire to see the Doctor immediately.

 

[Miltone]

Dr. Konrad Binkenfelter, Ph.D.

Mr. Nielson was a decidedly compulsive personality, his annoying habit of repeating even the most menial manual task exactly three times, which he used as a withdrawing mechanism, his underlying conflict so deeply repressed that several years of intense analysis and therapy had brought him no further than when he had walked through my door three times on the first day. Yet his wealthy family insisted upon continuing our sessions hoping against hope that we would eventually draw out the reason and construct an effective treatment plan, that would enable him to perhaps operate the family business, if only as a figurehead. Thankfully his repetitive behavior was confined to manual tasks, for if they had extended to his speech our sessions, lucrative as they were, would have been unbearable.

But as we talked, my part in asking questions and taking notes, and his part in constructing long, rambling and occasionally fanciful answers, I could not help but think of this new patient, this Miss Kingsley. I couldn’t resist taking the liberty of contacting my colleague, Dr. Portnoy, who had referred her to me, and requested some additional background beyond the basic history provided by his office.

“Oh, Konrad,” he had laughed loudly. “You will have fun with this one. Pure and simply she is suffering from delusional behavior, thinking that all men are out to seduce her and possess her sexually. Why, her behavior is so extreme that she even thought I was one of ‘them’ as she refers to her predators.”

“And you gave her no cause for believing this, Simon?” I had asked.

“Of course not, although I cannot say that the thought wasn’t tempting,” he had gone on to reveal. “She is an astonishing looking woman. That’s why I knew that you were the one to help her if anyone can, since you are so far beyond exhibiting sexual interest in anyone, much less such a ravishing creature.”

Although I resented his personal reference, I could tell by the tone and inflection in his voice, that he had become captivated by her, something that I found distasteful in the context of the patient-doctor relationship. Perhaps for a change this woman would pose a challenge to me, something that my typical upscale clientele with their Gucci loafer obsessions, and their Lexus envies, could never provide.

It was just moments after I had let Mr. Nielson out the side door that Miss Huffmeister had paged me to say that Miss Kingsley was here to see me. Knowing that her first impression would be critical in gaining her confidence, I took a deep breath and made sure that my appearance was entirely professional.

“Miss Huffmeister,” I called out on the pager. “Could you show Miss Kingsley in now?”

I stood from my desk and walked around to meet and greet her, careful to keep a sufficient distance so as to not crowd her space, something that many delusionals consider sacred. Miss Huffmeister opened the door and gave me a smile, most unusual for her to display such warmth for no reason.

"Dr. Birkenfelter, this is Shana Kingsley," said Miss Huffmeister.

Then she walked in and my entire day changed around.

 

[Mistress Jorja]

Shana Kingsley

Eying the secretary suspiciously, I sat on the chair furthest from her desk. At first, it had been only men who I had felt a twinge of anxiety when I was around. But more and more frequently it had been women who looked at me in that way, a way I knew too well from certain devious masculine eyes.

The doctors had told me I was afraid of giving in. Of letting someone hurt me again, the way my ex had – mentally, not physically. But none of this was true. They just didn’t realize that they themselves were the chauvinistic pigs who I was most wary of.

Drawing a deep breath, I focused my gaze on the picture window. The cool, crisp air flooded the outside world, but in here the walls seemed confining and I struggled to get my breath. Closing my eyes, I blinked away the lingering images that had haunted my nightmare.

With a flushed face, I was ushered into Dr. Binkenfelter’s office. Nervously, I twisted the same lock of hair around and around my finger, and then dropped my hands to my sides when I realized he was looking at me strangely.

Exhaling rapidly, I willed myself to meet his gaze and hold out my hand. I cringed as I felt his warm flesh against capture mine, and all the unwholesome thoughts which it elicited. Snatching it back quickly, I looked away as if the event had never happened. I knew, however, that although he had no legal pad in front of him, he was constantly scratching down mental notes.

That was the one thing I hated about psychiatrists. Always writing on their little pads about you, but never knowing what they were saying. It was infuriating.

Stepping backwards, I tucked myself into a corner chair that was obviously meant for observers, not the patient. I had been in enough shrink’s offices to know I was supposed to sit across from him, where he could study every important facial expression, but still, I felt the need to be out of his range, despite the chiding I fully expected.

 

[captivate]

Miss Ingrid Huffmeister

After showing the elegant Miss Kingsley into the Doctor's office, I returned to my desk. I had so much to do. My job was not only to keep the Doctor current on patient files and appointments, it was to be one step ahead of him, to know what he would want ten minutes before he wanted it.

I hated the way Miss Kingsley had made me feel. My job was as Executive Assistant to a very prestigious man, and she had made me feel like a common secretary. Now she was in his office, spending time with him, the center of his attention!

These feelings were odd for me. I never felt as if Konrad had any interest in his patients except for their scientific value. Yet this pretty redhead, so sure of herself, yet so distressed, seemed to be an exception.

I found myself watching the clock, waiting for her hour to end.

 

[Miltone]

Dr. Binkenfelter, Ph. D.

There was nothing that my colleague Dr. Portnoy could have told me that would have prepared me for Miss Kingsley. From the way her clothes seemed tossed together casually over her willowy frame, to the way she toyed with an errant lock of her straight red hair, to the way she quickly took a seat off to the corner regarding me with distain, her startling green eyes peering over the frames of her sunglasses, she appeared as a complete enigma to me. Her movements were contradictory and conflicted; her look was furtive and irritated and impatient; she was as puzzling as she was beautiful.

“Please, Miss Kingsley,” I said, indicating the large comfortable chair nearer my desk, which Miss Huffmeister had carefully selected. “Won’t you have a seat over here, which I’m sure you’ll find much more comfortable.”

As she stirred indecisively, I made sure that I moved away from the chair, keeping a safe (for her) distance and giving her ample room to move. She hesitantly rose, then walked over quietly and confidently. Sitting in my own chair, I saw her glance suspiciously at the notepad in front of me as she sat nervously, so I pressed the foot button that triggered my recording device to keep from intimidating her any further.

“Is there anything I can get you, Miss Kingsley, to help make you comfortable?”

She declined and looked intently at her watch.

“Perhaps this session would best be served by our getting to know each other, breaking the ice so to speak,” I said, leaning back in my chair, striking a relaxed pose in an effort to encourage her to relax as well. “Before we get started, perhaps you have some questions for me. Please feel free to satisfy your curiosity. But if you have no questions, there may be something that you might wish to say to me.”

 

[captivate]

Miss Ingrid Huffmeister, Executive Assistant

"There," I said aloud, "everything is set up for tomorrow." I knew it was a bad habit, but I had started talking with myself sometimes, just for the company, I guess. This hour was lasting forever. I had watched Miss Kingsley walk into Himself's office, looking as if she were in total control, and i disliked her for that. I knew my Konrad helped these poor people, made their lives better, smoother, more tolerable. It did not do at all for her to look so superior.

I usually don't react to his women patients like this, but something about Shana brought out all of my protective instincts. I feel pretty sure we are in a new territory with her.

As I sit at my desk, I cross my legs, enjoying the feeling of the silk stockings rubbing together. My mind drifts and I imagine Konrad walking in and seeing my lovely sky blue lingerie, seeing the way my brown nipples, even now, are pressing against the lacy material. So lost am I in my fantasy, I almost don't realize that Mr. Wright has arrived for his 11:00 appointment.

As I return to reality, I find that William Wright is standing before me, wearing his special glasses that allow him to see the true faces of his companions. He has explained to me before that with his glasses, he can see under the rubbery masks we all wear, and he knows exactly who each person really is. The purple-framed lenses are tinted, and thick, giving Mr. Wright an other-worldly owlish expression. He is staring at me, and I must admit, for just a moment, fear races through me that he had picked up my fantasical thoughts.

I almost shake my head to clear these whimsical ideas. I smile at Mr. Wright and offer him some coffee while he waits. I am happy he is here and the previous appointment will soon end.

 

[Mistress Jorja]

Shana Kingsley

Sighing, I settled into the chair where Dr. Binkenfelter had pointed me, obedient little thing that I was. One of these days a psychiatrist would push me just a little bit further and then I’d show them enough violent tendencies to make a case study out of. Oh yes, they had no idea how quickly someone “bordering mental stability” could take that plunge.

I glanced at my watch and crossed my legs, demurely smoothing out the trench coat over my lap. Disentangling my finger from my hand, I flipped open a cigarette case, rolling a single one between my thumb and forefinger. No Smoking – I had read the signs plastered all over the office quite clearly. Probably didn’t want to take a chance on having burn marks on his precious oriental carpet. Rich bastard. Ever since my divorce with - whose name had been lower to the oh so demeaning "ex" - I had felt myself resenting the “upper-class” that flooded my neighborhood, finding myself for the first time on the wrong side of the status quo.

Jamming it between my teeth, I took my time closing the case and sliding it into my breast pocket. I was paying an arm and half my leg for this hour appointment, and we could very well sit here in awkward silence for all I cared. The courts didn’t care if something was actually accomplished, the time would be on my record. Sighing, I tented my fingers and looked at him over the top of the shades.

“You don’t practice Electroconvulsive Therapy, do ya Doc? Honestly, any mention of ECT has me thinking of Frankenstein and B-grade horror flicks.” I smiled tentatively at him to let him know I was kidding. He stared at me blankly. This guy seemed more uptight then me; and if possible – more uncomfortable. Couldn’t anyone take a joke these days?

I continued to plow ahead sarcastically; might as well make the most of his full attention. Keep him off the subject of nightmares. All they wanted was the gory details over and over and over. Psychiatrists needed to learn how to use the rewind button on their handy dandy tape recorders. “Low death rate, I know. But frankly, I can think of more than a few things I’d rather do on an afternoon off from work then be strapped to some table for hours with people sending ‘benign’ electrical charges into my cranium, wouldn’t you agree?”

 

[Miltone]

Dr. Binkenfelter, Ph. D.

“I think there are many more enjoyable ways to spend any number of afternoons, Miss Kingsley,” I remarked. Her disjointed outburst about ECT had taken me aback, but there was something almost amusing about her comment. I tried to remain calm and blank faced for surely she was trying to get a rise out of me. “Of course, my treatment programs never rely on such primitive therapies. Such talk is premature since we haven’t even determined whether a problem even exists, now have we.”

Her insistence on smoking despite the signs was interesting as was the look in her eye as she surveyed the room. Her manner indicated a cultured upbringing or at least a comfortable lifestyle, yet there was a sneer curling her lips as her eyes lingered on the Matisse and Remington bronzes. Perhaps these objects of beauty held a different meaning in her mind.

“I prefer to use constructive engagement in working with my patients, Miss Kingsley. Our conversation is the key to understanding each other, why you are here, how I may be able to help you. I can understand your nervousness, but as we become acquainted, that will pass. Please feel free to tell me what is on your mind. I have been trained in the art of listening.”

I tried to mobilize every nuance of body language possible to make her relax. Perhaps her flip sarcastic remarks were the result of failed attempts by my less competent associates. I wanted to hear from her about what bothered her, anything at all and knew that would be a significant victory in and of itself. Perhaps the things she saw didn’t seem strange at all to her, and perhaps because of that she felt that everyone else was the troubled one. I didn’t want to probe at all, thinking a less direct approach might be less intimidating.

“Perhaps you might want to tell me what was on your mind as you came here for this appointment.”

 

[Mistress Jorja]

Shana Kingsley

“Frankly Dr. Binkenfelter, the only thing occupying my mind this AM was trying to find a way to get out of our nice, little appointment.”

I reached to grind out my cigarette in a purely decorative ashtray sitting on the corner of his desk, and hurriedly snatched my hand away as if I had been bitten. My fingers had strayed only inches from where his hands lay, neatly folded.

My overwhelming fear choked me, and I fought to regain control under his clinical, watchful eyes. The skin on my wrist burned, almost as if my fear of him grabbing roughly at my arm had been a reality. Swallowing hard, I forced myself to meet his gaze.

“But now that I’m here, Dr, why don’t you indulge yourself and tell me what the hell is wrong with me. I know how you shrinks just love to hear the sound of your own voice.”

Flicking open my lighter, I stared at the flame for a moment. Blowing softly, I laughed throatily as the flame bowed and danced at my command. Snapping it shut defiantly, I stared up at him. Any trace of fear was now gone from my face, or at least aptly hidden behind piercing green eyes.

“And if you’d skip the lecture, Doc, I’d appreciate it. A girl can only be told so many times how stubborn and truculent she is before it starts to…go to her head…”

 

[Miltone]

Dr. Binkenfelter, Ph. D.

“This is not about my indulgences or my acknowledged ability to lecture, Miss Kingsley,” I replied calmly. “This is your time. As for what may be wrong with you, it is far too premature to think in those terms isn’t it?”

There was something to her quirky movements and her incoherent laugh, a harsh fragility, a disturbed vulnerability, perhaps the result of living on the edge of a frightening existence. One moment she was soft and retiring, the next she was carefree and impish. A minute later there was an undeniable evil to the look in her eye and the sound and texture of her voice.

Yet, I could not take my eyes from hers; her piercing green eyes danced from her extinguished lighter to me and back to the lighter again. The sound of her voice was at times soft and seductive, at other times strident and abrasive. From deep within me, there was a surging sense of activity and motion and I found myself feeling somehow, … stimulated.

She ground her cigarette out on the John Glick sculpture as if it was a common ashtray and yet I didn’t complain, for that and the other objects that decorated my office seemed of less significance compared to this bewitching and bedeviled young woman. For a moment, I found myself being drawn toward the lilt of her voice, leaning forward as she spoke. Then I caught myself. What was there about this young woman that she could entice even the most well trained analyst? I sat back up in my chair, the sudden movement of which made her jump.

“Now, Miss Kingsley, perhaps your time would be better served in describing to me what it is that makes you think that there is something wrong with you.”

 

[Mistress Jorja]

Shana Kingsley

“Considering that the last five doctors I’ve seen have told me something’s wrong with me, I would tend to believe it. After all, they are professionals.”

Snapping at the doctor agitatedly, I glanced idly around his office. Good taste. Muted colors accented by the striking contrasts of fine art. Not to mention Doc himself – he was far removed from that over 50 and balding category most of the psychiatrists fell into. And he didn’t seem set on writing everything I said down, if fact, it was more like he wanted to memorize every facet of my face.

That in itself made me a bit nervous, but I shook it off. Keeping a blank face, I met his gaze steadily, living up to his challenge. And, I hoped, surpassing it.

“Bad dreams are not what I would consider a mental illness. I mean, if I went around hacking up a few innocents because of my self created delusions, then I could see that they had a point.”

“Trust me and save yourself the times – its just a slightly unhappy subconscious complaining about my stressful job.”

 

[Miltone]

Dr. Binkenfelter, Ph. D.

“Perhaps there are some things that my so-called professional colleagues may have told you about yourself, but their comments may reflect more their own inadequacies than any problem of yours,” I replied quietly. “Besides, I am inclined to make my own observations and draw my own conclusions.”

There was no doubt in my mind that Portnoy and his predecessors had filled her mind with snatches of their confusing psycho-babble as they grappled with their own base instincts. On the other hand, I had noticed how closed up Miss Kingsley appeared, her legs were crossed; the belt of her overcoat was cinched tightly about her willowy frame; she fidgeted in the chair and spoke in an agitated voice. Yet, there was an appeal about her face, her striking green eyes and pert mouth. Perhaps this was what every man, even every woman saw in her and thus desired to own it, to own her.

I felt an urgent need to unwrap her and tried so very hard to maintain a calm demeanor that would show her that I certainly posed no threat to her. I wanted so very much for her to relax so that I could draw her out and illuminate her fears and suspicions.

“Now you say that your job is stressful. Perhaps there is an example that would tell me more about that unhappiness.”

 

[Mistress Jorja]

Shana Kingsley

Long ago, one of the first psychiatrists I had ever seen suggested I keep a journal of my dreams. Little did he realized I already did this. I was told it would be therapeutic, although I found the whole process far more poetic.

Tugging the black journal out from beneath my three-quarters trench coat, I slid it across the varnished desktop wordlessly. It fell open to a page from last August.

butterfly he coos softly
in the hoarse tone
of a wily drunkard
looking
to outfox the fox

butterfly
he pleads
spread you wings
your gossamer petals
give into desire

i refuse

a starburst
a paroxysm of rage
twists his face
gnarly and demonic
as he reaches for

the knife

holding the glinting steel
till his knuckles turn white
and his cheeks flush red
he kisses me
and growls

butterfly…fly away now…


From between the previous pages slipped a clipping from a newspaper article.

Last night, police found and identified the body of a young female who was brutally raped and murdered. Witnesses, who wish to remain anonymous, saw her exit Black&Blue between midnight and one o’clock. The owners of Black&Blue, just last week named the “hottest rave in the entire city,” have forcefully declined comment on this tragedy.

The victim, 24 year old Cheryl Riley of South Banks, was identified by a distinct butterfly tattoo on her lower back. Trace DNA was found beneath her fingernails. Police are confident that the perpetrator will be apprehended easily and prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

Sliding my shades off and propping them on top of my head, I eyed him fiercely. Smoothing down the hem of my jacket repeatedly, I waited for him to read the open page. The air conditioner kicked in with a low hum, and I felt suddenly vulnerable in the cool air and revelation of my words.

 

[Miltone]

Dr. Binkenfelter, Ph. D.

Silently, almost furtively, Miss Kingsley withdrew a booklet bound in black leather from her overcoat and slipped it across the desk toward me. As if having been often read, it fell open to a handwritten page; the script was tight and delicate for the most part, yet some words were written heavily as if the hand had tried to press the pen through the paper. As I picked it up and carefully read the words, I slowly felt myself being drawn into a swirling gyre of emotion, a dark funnel of dread and fear. This was apparently a journal of some sort, and the raw feelings expressed by the words were dark and fearful.

I glanced up impassively to note her response, and saw how she had removed her sunglasses and slipped them atop her head, fully revealing her striking green eyes. Her head tilted back slightly as she gave me an intent look, her pale neck exposed and vulnerable. Her tough look belied a tender fragility looming underneath.

When I tipped the booklet up to re-read the passage in better light, a clipping fell out. I nearly slipped it back in but some of the words captured my attention. Looking from the journal to the article and back again I couldn’t help but notice the emotional connection.

Looking back toward her again, I noticed a change in her look, a softening of her harsh expression, as if she were opening up, even the least bit, this stiff wall with which she had surrounded herself.

“Were you friends with the victim?” I asked her softly.

 

[Mistress Jorja]

Shana Kingsley

I laughed bitterly at this ironic statement.

“No…it’s not like that at all. I didn’t know her. Didn’t want to, in fact.”

Jerking off my shades violently, I threw them down onto the desk. Leaning forward, I gripped the leather arm of my chair until my nails left half-moon indents in the expensive covering.

“He was the man I married.”

Turning to a more recent page, I unfolded another article and handed it to him. The headlines screamed Murder Suspect Innocent – Public Voices Discontent.

“Oh, of course they said he didn’t do it. Circumstantial evidence and anyways, the only witness was crazy. Ha. How reliable could I be…after all, I had been treated professionally for my mental stability.”

My eyes fell to my lap and I blinked back tears of pure hatred.

“He used me, you know. I never meant anything to him. I tried to ignore the whole lipstick-on-the-collar and the other womens’ perfume bit…but I got tired of it. He wasn’t worth it in the end. I couldn’t stand always being second.”

Standing on the chair, I swept back my coat and pulled the back of my shirt up slightly. Just above a low denim waist was a tiny emerald butterfly that matched my eyes. Propping one foot up on the Doctor’s desk for balance, I turned to look at him, my eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“Do you think that is just a coincidence?”

 

[Miltone]

Dr. Binkenfelter, Ph. D.

Miss Kingsley’s dramatic outburst had driven her to be perched between the chair and my desk, her coat pulled aside and her shirt raised to reveal a delicate emerald butterfly on her lower back. Her suspicious glance tore into me, telling me of her painful frustration and her urgent need for understanding. My other patients offered amusing diversions with their petty envies and juvenile jealousies. But this striking young woman, disturbed by her past relationships, troubled by what she saw that others—even some of my esteemed colleagues—reduced to visions and delusions, was pleading for help, for my help.

“It is certainly not a coincidence, Miss Kingsley,” I remarked, slowly rising from my chair and moving around to where her slender body trembling with emotion teetered noticeably. I raised my hands up as an offer to help her down from her precarious position. She shied away from me for a moment as if my touch were contagious. But as I tried to soften my expression, she seemed to accept my offer. “Now, please let me help you down.”

What had triggered this response in me? What was it about this woman that my other patients had never come close to producing? The stimulation I felt, the surging sense of movement, the swirling emotions, made me realize that I would need to summon every technique, every bit of experience and knowledge to assist this young woman who was so desperately pleading for help and who had not yet received a bit.

She took my hands and slipped down to face me. She seemed so tiny standing close before me, so delicate and fragile. Yet the burning currents buried deep within her were clearly visible in her eyes and spoke of a strength and force of character far beyond her petite appearance.

“I think we need to discuss your relationship with your ex-husband,” I suggested calmly.

 

[Mistress Jorja]

Shana Kingsley

“Like hell we do,” I snapped irately at the Doctor, jumping lightly down with his help, my landing softened by the plush carpet that covered the office floor.

“He’s gone. It’s over.” Speaking shortly to him, I backed up against the desk, aware suddenly of his near physical presence.

“Over…gone…over…gone…gone….gone…and very much over…” I intoned in an almost singsong voice, narrowing my eyes and looking away as a child does when she doesn’t wish to be sternly reprimanded by a disappointed parent.

He started to speak, and I tuned him out. His arm reached out to touch my shoulders, and I forced my self not to shudder under his touch. He looked calm and collected, but I could tell he was sweating it. Don’t fuck with a nutcase, I thought wryly to myself.

Rocking back on my heels, I crossed my arms over my chest. I gave the doctor a warm smile, inwardly smirking as his face softened - he was so disgustingly confident his skillful techniques and mind games had gotten him past my defenses. Just as he seemed to be making his next move, my expression froze in the cold denial of a scorned lover. My reply was cool and emotionless, despite it’s obvious irony that must have been visible to both parties.

“Talk, Doctor? About the weather, perhaps, my job, my favorite color, how I like to drink hot chocolate and read romance novels on my window love seat, and how I’ve managed to overcome the chauvinistic males and make it to the top of my division. But talk of him? Over my dead body.”

 

[Miltone]

Dr. Binkenfelter, Ph. D.

I was amused at the irony of her comment and stifled any thought of responding. But the severe icy look that swept over her caught me by surprise and venom in her words bit into me. I suddenly realized how close I was to her, and that she was still defensive. More than that, my response to her actions puzzled me and gave me cause for concern that I must remain the professional, the doctor.

From the corner of my eye I could see that we had run over time, and perhaps this was the best time for us to end the session. I wondered what had happened that Miss Huffmeister had not signaled me that the time had been passed.

"Yes, Miss Kingsley, perhaps we might be better served by exploring other avenues of discussion," I replied, easing back away from her. "But I believe our time is up for today. I would suggest that you confirm an appointment with my assistant for next week. This may give us both some time to think over suitable topics for conversation."

 

[Mistress Jorja]

Shana Kingsley

Snatching my shades off his desk, I jammed them into the breast pocket of my coat. Sidestepping the Dr.’s attempt to shake hands, I looked at him with a surprising lack of emotion.

“Not scared of lil’ ole me, are ya Doc?” I smirked at him, tugging open the door with a vengeance. It slammed against the tastefully papered wall. I hoped I had left a lasting impression on the wall…as well as on the Doctor.

“That’s right. When the going gets rough, you can just throw me out of your office, “ I crowed sadistically. “Let me terrorize the streets instead…”

I walked to the secretary’s desk. Personal Assistant, I corrected myself. She hardly looked like a woman willing to forgive such a thoughtlessly demeaning mistake.

She was leaning back in her white rolling chair, staring off into space as if lost in a memory. My footsteps were silent on the thick plush carpeting of the lobby area, and she was so wrapped up in what she was thinking about, I wasn’t sure she even noticed my presence.

I thought for a moment about trying to duck another appointment, and just walking out. It would be useless, I consented, and besides…the psychiatrist wasn’t that bad. He could almost be a fun one to mess with if he weren’t so damned uptight.

 

[Miltone]

Dr. Binkenfelter, Ph. D.

“Let me terrorize the streets instead!” Miss Kingsley cried out with a cool evil tinge to her voice as she darted from my office.

I closed the door behind her, noticing while doing so that she had stopped to speak with Miss Huffmeister concerning her next appointment. I noticed the divot taken out of the wall when she had slammed the door open.

“Scared of little old me?” I said to myself as I returned to my desk. I chuckled, thinking of the implications. Puzzled perhaps, intrigued definitely, provoked certainly, but absolutely not scared. Thinking of Portnoy trying to work with Miss Kingsley produced another chuckle as I settled into my cushy leather chair.

Miss Kingsley, Miss Shana Kingsley. Hmm, where the others had given up and tried to palm her off on another unsuspecting colleague, this woman posed a challenge to me, a delicious challenge that I hadn’t experienced since my in-depth graduate work at Cambridge. As I contemplated possible courses of inquiry for our next meeting, I noticed a sensation welling up inside me, almost vibratory, emanating from deep in my belly, as if each of my senses had been provoked. My hands trembled as I jotted down some notes and observations.

“Miss Huffmeister, could you step in my office for a moment?” I called out over the page. I knew that Mr. Wright would be ready for his appointment—he was always early. But there was something urgent that I needed from my assistant before meeting with him.

As I awaited the appearance of my assistant, the image of this petite animated young woman surged up in my mind, her pale skin, her startling green eyes, and her red hair; her voice, strident, passive, volatile, violent. The pen slipped from my fingers as her image coursed through my mind.

 

[captivate]

Miss Ingrid Huffmeister, Executive Assistant

After preparing Mr. Wright's coffee and handing him the lovely china cup, I returned to my desk and my musings. I had spent much time thinking about Himself lately. I told myself it was only natural, because we worked so closely together for so many hours. But Konrad was slipping into my other life too. I found myself wondering if he would like certain purchases, what colors he would find most appealing, which scents would please him the most. He was on my mind when I shopped for new lacy underthings and when I bought the expensive French Vanilla perfume I was now wearing.

I was busily planning what I would wear to work if I could choose any outfit, when Mr. Wright called my name. He was standing before me in his funny glasses, holding out his empty cup. Sometimes, I resented the neediness of the patients. But then I looked into his face and felt again a rush of sympathy for people this confused and helpless in the face of life.

Mr. Wright took his cup and sat quietly in the expensive Queen Anne chair. He crossed his legs and balanced the dainty saucer on his knee and resumed his mutterings.

As he settled in the chair, I returned to my whimsical thoughts. One day, Konrad would come into the office and realize I was what he had been looking for. Instead of calling me to straighten a picture, he would call me for comfort or warmth, or, dare I even think it, for love.

I was shaken from my reverie by the connecting door slamming back against the wall and Shana Kingsley slinking toward my desk. I looked at the clock and saw that her appointment had run over by several minutes. Dear me! This had never happened before. It gave me another reason to dislike and distrust her. I looked back at Shana as she approached me. She moved like a panther, all grace and fluidity. She was asking for another appointment, demanding one, as my intercom crackled to life and I heard Dr. Birkenfelter calling me into the office. Today was totally out of sync. Never before had the rhythm of our office been so disrupted.

After scheduling Shana's next appointment for later in the week, I stood, tidied my hair and walked to the open connecting door, looking inside inquiringly.

 

[Miltone]

Dr. Binkenfelter, Ph. D.

“Please come in for a moment, Miss Huffmeister,” I said bidding my assistant to enter the office. Still agitated from the encounter with this new patient, I looked up to see her enter cautiously, for it was unusual for me to summon her in before lunchtime. She unmindfully ran a hand up to brush her pure blonde hair back from her face, her icy blue eyes filled with questions.

“Yes, Kon- …, er, Doctor?” she said, her voice faint, and quite feminine. I was startled by my reaction. I had never really seen her before as a woman, only as my capable assistant. But the way she shyly entered the office and the way her body shifted beneath her suit, and the scent she was wearing seemed different and quite out of the ordinary.

“Did Miss Kingsley make another appointment?” I asked, looking back to the notes I was scribbling down about her initial visit.

“Yes, for later in the week,” she replied.

“Ah, very good,” I remarked, setting down the solid silver pen with which I had been writing. “I was thinking that given the way she left that she might not have done so. But, so she has. Very good. Now I would like you to transcribe the conversation that she and I had this morning as soon as possible. I believe it was all captured on tape. I may want to review it during lunch.”

She nodded, her face showing something of a frown. “By the way, Doctor, Mr. Wilson has been waiting for some time now.”

“Oh, yes. Mr. Wilson,” I said, suddenly remembering that Miss Kingsley had run over her time. “Is he still wearing those ridiculous glasses of his?”

“Oh, yes. And it makes me uncomfortable when he stares at me so,” she said, turning to leave the office.”

“Could you please just give me a minute before you send him in?” I called out as she walked back toward the door. I looked up from my desk as she paused by the door and looked in my direction. As she turned about, I noticed the roundness of her body pressing against the skirt of her suit, how the curve of her breasts gave a wonderfully feminine shape to the stiff woolen cloth, and realized I was staring at her.

“Is there something wrong, Doctor?” she asked.

“Is that ah, outfit new, Miss Huffmeister?” I asked, my voice shaking and uncomfortable talking about a woman’s clothing in such a personal context.

Her hand reached up to brush at her hair again, and her face widened into a warm smile. “Why, yes, Konrad. I bought it just this weekend.”

Her hand slipped down over her body as if trying to smooth and straighten it and I found her movement suddenly sensuous and, dare I say it, stimulating.

“Well, it is very nice,” I remarked. “You have excellent taste.”

For a moment she remained by the door. A warm blush swept over her high round cheeks. “Thank you, Doctor,” she said softly, before letting her eyes look down and away from me and slipping out of the office.

For some reason I watched her pass through the doorway. She was an attractive woman, and I wondered why I had never noticed it before. But then, a moment later, our Mr. Wilson entered through the door and I snapped back to my official demeanor. As he took his favorite place on the couch and reclined, and began telling me about the amazing and incredible things he saw through his glasses, my mind wandered aimlessly back to the image of Miss Huffmeister, and then to Miss Kingsley, this intriguing and beguiling new patient.

 

[captivate]

Miss Ingrid Huffmeister, Executive Assistant

This day has been incredibly unusual. I started the day in my new clothes, sure that Konrad would never notice them. The regular patients have been exactly as expected, but they have been seeing Himself for several years. But the new patient was not our usual client. I am used to patients coming in to the office, timid and frightened, and leaving with glowing faces, just from spending the fifty minutes with Dr. B. But Shana was angry and righteous, entering the office smugly and condescendingly, and making her next appointment as if she is doing us a favor.


Then there is the matter of my daydreams. I have always had passing thoughts of Konrad, but nothing like today, when I rubbed my stockinged thighs together and imagined Konrad there. My, I am allowing my mind to run rampant. Even now, when I was in his office, I got the impression that Konrad was actually seeing me, Ingrid, not just a capable assistant.

As he stared at me, my mind raced. I could feel my nipples hardening against the lacy bra. I could feel their hardness as I ran my hand down my suit jacket. Just knowing that Himself was watching me walk away made my panties wet, drenched suddenly from desire. "There," I thought, "I finally admit it. I desire him!"

I wondered suddenly if I had spoken aloud. Sitting in her favorite corner chair is Miss Boggs. Cynthia always comes early, often as much as an hour. She wants everyone to like her and tries very hard to please. She is a intelligent woman, and we sometimes spend a few minutes chatting about life, while waiting for her appointment. She seems incredibly normal to me most of the time. Her problem is that she lives with Tom Cruise. Well, she doesn't actually, but she really thinks she does. So, until we get to the latest story of Tom's new movie, I really enjoy Cynthia.

Today she seems quite introspective. She barely glances up as I enter, so I continue to my desk and my thoughts of Konrad. As I remember his look, one of almost longing, I feel myself blushing. I wonder what has changed, what has made him notice me, but I don't want to question it. I sit at my desk and just bask in the feeling of his attention.