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Copyright © 2017
"Oh, God, Doctor Jennings. God."
She moaned, tossing her head from side to side. One of her hands crept up and massaged her peaked breast.
"It's good. It's good," she hissed, clenching her teeth and arching her hips as her finger jacked faster and faster into her wet, slimy hole.
"Do you know what you're doing?" Doctor Bernard Jennings asked, trying to take his mind off the woman who lay on the leather couch a few feet from him, her supple, succulent mounds quivering in the air, her dress hiked sensually up to her creamy-white waist, her panties clinging to her sun-ripened thighs.
She didn't answer. She never did when she was masturbating. She only grunted and threw herself up to meet her dancing fingers. Her hair spilled out around her contorted face like an auburn nimbus, accenting the sharp, sculptured lines of her face.
Dr. Jennings nervously tapped the pencil point against the pad as he studied the gentle sweep of her hips curving out and tapering back to form a double scoop of flesh, one for each buttock cheek. Her arms were slender and toasted by the sun, her shoulders sloped slightly as they turned the corner, making her thin neck look like a pedestal for the finitely designed head.
Her cheeks were long and angular, caving in near her lips and highlighting her full, red mouth as it moved rotely, making no sound.
Tiny dark pools, shimmering with the disturbed but passionate problem that had caused her to come to his office in the first place, stared fixedly up at the ceiling.
"Justine? Miss Conrad? Justine?"
She pretended not to hear him. The finger worked in and out like a piston. Her hips ground around in a circle, her lips curled over her thick, well-spaced white teeth.
"Fucking me. They're fucking me. All over. All over my body."
The words sibilated out. Her hand yanked at her breast, tugging at it as if it were a piece of clay. She rolled on her side, her eyes wet, piercing, as she stared at Bernard Jennings.
"They want me. All of them. Like you do. Like Mark does. All of them. Fucking me."
On her side, she lifted one leg in the air and continued her masturbation, a half smile playing on her lips as she looked at the young psychiatrist trying to appear cool and detached in his chair.
A strong musky odor wafted through the interview room, teasing Bernard Jennings' nostrils. He fought the desire to stand and take the writhing temptress on his couch. She wanted that. She wanted someone to help convince her all men were evil, all men were after one greedy thing-her body. Smiling, he looked away from her, pretending she was no different than any of his many other patients. But he was wrong and he knew it. Justine Conrad was different. Beneath all that hatred was a real woman, a woman he would enjoy dating, sharing good times with and perhaps even marrying.
"Justine? Is there anything unusual about the feeling?"
He watched her face twisting from pain to passion as she continued to drive her finger inside herself. "Shut up!" she shouted. "I'm ready to come!" He leaned back in his chair and rubbed the back of his neck. Her tongue snaked out of the corner of her mouth and her face pinched. She brought her leg up and down as the rhythm of her hand increased.
Doctor Jennings shut his eyes and listened to the soft, fast squishing sound of her fingers plunging into herself. Such a waste, he thought, such a waste of beauty and talent.
"Fucking me. All over... deep inside my ass... my mouth... big cocks... "
He listened as she pumped her finger to orgasm speed. Her words became unintelligible even to his trained ear as he heard her breathing filling the room. The odor increased and he twitched his nostrils nervously.
"Ah... God... God... Fuck... "
Slowly, he opened his eyes and saw her putting the finishing touches to herself with her finger. She slid it slowly in and out, sighing and rubbing her upturned breast casually.
Doctor Jennings wiped his brow and shifted in his chair.
"All right, Justine. Put your clothes back on and let's talk."
"You sound disturbed," she said coolly, looking at him, her hand still cupping her vagina. "Maybe you wanted my body again."
"You know better. Now let's talk, Justine."
"I still think you wanted me. I think you sat there looking at me and wanting me. That's what all men want, my body. They want to get me to go to bed with them so they can touch me, rub their penises on me, shoot their cream into me."
She slapped her head back against the soft leather and bit her lip. She had been right, Jennings thought. He had wanted her. She had that primitive, wild air about her, like something brought out of the jungle and placed before civilized man. Something that man wanted to understand completely, something man needed to press himself against and feel the bizarre vibrations seeping out from her and giving him new life.
They were dangerous thoughts, Jennings knew that, but he had no control over them. Not after all the months she had lain on the couch masturbating in front of him.
"Justine," he said, clearing his throat.
"All right. All right."
She slid her hips around and pulled the panties up over her crispy pubic hairs, hiding for the rest of the day her inviting vagina.
"There. Does that make you feel better?" A bitter smile marred her attractive face.
"Do we have to go through this again, Justine?"
"You're the puritan, I'm not."
Jennings mashed the point of his pencil into the paper. "Look, Justine, when you first came here I told you you could do anything you wanted to in my office. If you wanted to masturbate, scream, beat your fists, that was your privilege. But you've been taking advantage of me and you know it."
"Advantage!" She laughed. "You're taking advantage of me, you mean. Why did you tell me to let it all hang out in here? I'll tell you why. So you can watch me. You're no different from the rest of them."
Her eyes flashed angrily at him and she balled her fists against her smooth stomach, accentuating even more the sharp, pouting outline of her jutting breasts pressing against the loose, white blouse she wore.
Jennings waited for her anger to ebb before he spoke.
"How long have you been coming here, Justine?"
"Six months," she spat, tugging nervously at her fingers. She smoothed her short skirt and pulled at the hem, patting the dress against her thigh and avoiding his eyes.
"Do you feel any different now, than when you first came."
"Bored," she snapped, shifting uncomfortably. She rubbed her finger on the couch and felt the dried, sticky fluids from her vagina stick to the cool leather.
"You don't feel freer, less inhibited."
"I'M NOT INHIBITED!" she shouted, sitting up and glaring at him. "HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU!"
"Easy, easy, Justine."
She sank back down on the couch, her eyes jerking around, her eyelids snapping open and shut. She felt a wave of shame and embarrassment come over her.
"Did you dream last night?"
"Did you dream last night?" he repeated. "NO! NO!"
A twinge of irritation rimmed his voice. "Come on, Justine. You dream every night. Don't hold it back. The only way we can help is if you tell me everything. Everything."
She tugged at her slender, spearlike fingers.
"All right. All right. I dreamed."
"What about?" His voice was low and soothing, detached and careful not to needle her sensitive feelings.
"The same thing as last week."
"Yes." She turned on her side, facing away from Jennings. Her hips formed a half-moon as she pulled her knees up against her chest and hugged them.
"Tell me about them?"
She was silent for a moment. Her skin prickled with fear as she thought about the nightmare.
"They were watching me undress. They followed me into the bathroom and looked up at me from the floor. They were in the mirror staring at me. Evil eyes. Filled with lust. They looked at my breasts and my vagina and... " Her voice trailed off.
He heard a low sob catch in her throat.
"And... they were in the bed with me, resting between my legs, looking at my hole."
"What did you do?"
"I MASTURBATED!" she screamed.
"Then what?" The same practiced indifference filled his voice.
"The eyes... they... they crawled up inside me."
"Inside what?" "Inside my vagina. My cunt. They crawled up inside me and looked at me. I could feel them. Two round, evil eyes crawling inside me, looking at the back of my breasts."
She shivered and put her hands behind her neck, scrunching her supple body into a smaller and smaller ball on the couch.
"I... don't remember."
"You remember, Justine. Tell me what happened next?" Bernard Jennings knew the story by heart. It was the same tale she told every time she visited him. He listened as she talked about the faceless men who had come and touched her body with their scabby hands. How they lifted her up in the air and mounted her on a giant black phallus and sucked on her breasts. In detail, he listened to the descriptions of their bodies as Justine sketched the horrible, distorted memory for him in the same pattern as before.
"They shoved their penises in my mouth and ears. I tried to scream. But I couldn't. My mouth was full of the living worms. They held my hands and shoved my fingers up their rectums. They urinated on me and made me swallow their semen. It was horrible, horrible."
She buried her face in her hands and wept. "What about Mark and myself. Were we in the dream too?" Silence.
"Yes." Her voice shook.
"What did we do?"
"You ate me," she sobbed.
"Both of us?" Jennings felt a chill running through him. This part of her perpetual story bothered him the most. Not that he had ever been immune to such close identification with a woman's fantasy, but because he liked Justine, and under different, less bizarre circumstances he might have broken his ethical rule and tried to date her. She had a magnetism about her that seemed to draw him to her as no other patient he had ever treated, or for that matter, any woman he had ever known.
Her problem wasn't that complex. She was frigid, frightened of men and as brittle as a thin sheet of ice. He was almost sure now, after the long months of treatment, that she would never return to normalcy. He had tried everything to break through to her but it was hopeless. She remained locked in her shell of horror and fear, as firmly protected from intrusion as the Crown Jewels of England were guarded from thieves.
He had passed a stage he knew well from experience. She called him frequently at night and during the day, telling him about the eyes and the men who followed her wherever she went. At first he thought it a hopeful sign. She was relying more and more on him. But it was only a facade to torment her even more, to try and drag another person down into the roiling quagmire of sexual grotesqueness her mind had made for itself.
"You were cutting my breasts off and handing them to Mark. He bit the nipples off and spit them into a long cellophane bag, filled with other nipples."
"Were you alive, Justine?"
"Yes," her voice rang distant, in another world.
"What happened then?"
"Mark took the knife from you and cut my vagina in two. He handed you one half and kept the other. You plucked out the pubic hairs before you ate your piece. He ate everything, the bastard. HE ATE EVERYTHING."
She bucked, her body gripped with sobs.
Jennings had never met Mark Pelich. Yet he knew him in the most bizarre fashion. Justine worked as a fashion designer assistant. Mark was her boss. Justine had described him once, without the context of the horrible dream.
She said he was handsome and cool. With silver slivers of graying hair mingling with the dark, brown hair of his temples. He always tapped a pencil when he was nervous, she said. And he never looked at her except when he had something for her to do.
Justine had said he was married and had three children and that he was one of the few men she had ever wanted to go to bed with, to love passionately.
Jennings guessed that that was why Justine hated him so intensely-because he paid her no attention other than the professional attention it took to direct her work.
She obviously hated him because he knew-Doctor Jennings knew what her problem was. But unfortunately, he had no answers. His attention drifted back to Justine.
"... and you were sucking on my toes. They were melting in your mouth. Mark was eating my stomach and my ass, licking at them like a thirsty dog... "
Justine rambled on and on and when she had finished Bernard Jennings' notepad was blank. Her story was a carbon copy of the story she told each week. Her reactions aped previous reactions to a tee.
"Sit up, Justine," he said finally, as she tied the final knot into her fable.
He watched as she swung her maple-colored knees toward him and wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand.
"Was there anything else? Anything at all about the dream?"
"No. It ended with Betty, the girl at the office coming in. She's a Lesbian, you know. She swept up the pubic hairs and put them in her purse. Then she picked your teeth and Mark's teeth with a fork."
"Just like before," Jennings said solemnly.
He swung his athletic form from the swivel chair and picked a cigarette from the silver box open on his desk.
The match flared in his face and he studied it a moment before touching it to the tip of the cigarette. He heard the paper sizzle and tobacco crackle as it ignited.
"You know, Justine," he said, pacing the floor and looking at his feet. "Your problem is like this cigarette." He raised the slender cylinder in the air. "You were made to be lighted, for someone to strike a match to you and let you burst into life for however long you live. You weren't given that body and figure and your talented habits with a pencil to sit locked in some mental package marked caution, may be hazardous to your mental health."
He stood before her, punctuating the analogy by drawing a deep breath of smoke into his lungs and watching the coal suddenly burn brightly in the dimly lighted room.
"But instead of burning up and enjoying your life force, you're letting it mildew inside some horrid container deep in your mind. The tobacco in your body becomes staler with each passing day. You're growing older, more cemented in your ways. You aberration is becoming more acute, more realistic. You're unable to dissociate it from what reality is."
An ash grew on the tip of the cigarette and Jennings flicked it, watching it rain to the floor and splatter into minute gray particles.
"If you don't try to help yourself, and do it soon, Justine, you're going to end up like that ash. You're going to crumble into a billion tiny particles and no doctor is going to be able to piece them back together. Live, for God's sake, woman, fight yourself. Don't let your mind-that cancer that's eating at you deep inside your brain-devour you with hatred and vindictiveness. Try, Justine. Try to break through."
He tossed the cigarette to the floor and ground it out with his toe.
"You mean," she said surly, "I should pull my panties down and screw every man who looks at me!"
"If that would help. yes. But it wouldn't. You'd only become more frozen, more frigid. You couldn't cope with that approach."
"What do you suggest?" she said, leaning back on her elbows and throwing out her chest so that her nipples pressed tautly against her blouse. "Do you suggest I spread my legs for you? Let you get your kicks with me, would that help?"
"If I wasn't your doctor, it might. But you hate me, Justine. We both know that. No. I say find a man, some man you might like. A single, available man. Not a man like Mark with a wife and children. A man like Mark you know you can't have, still you want him. That just torments you even more than you already are tormented. Find someone, find him and let your feet get wet. Make love to him-not just sex-but honest love. Share with him your secrets, trust him."
"Shit," she snarled, brushing her hand through her hair. "I don't know why I listen to you. You tell me to go out and fuck anything I see, calling it love. You... you men don't know what love is. All you know is you have to get your kicks. I've seen you operate. I've listened to your jokes and braggings. I've let you touch me and beg me to go bed with you. Men." She spat, her pretty face suddenly ugly with hate.
"Then find a woman," Jennings said bitterly. "Find anything human and love it. Love anything but your finger and the dreadful nightmares."
"So that's your therapy? Fuck anything, man or woman. How about animals? Should I try on a dog, or a monkey?"
"Don't be vicious, Justine. Try to be rational. Sometimes you're very rational. Very kind. Very tender. That's the real you. Not some prisoner of desire."
"Desire!" She threw her head back and laughed. "What would you know about desire? You, a filthy pervert getting fifty bucks an hour for watching someone masturbate and then telling them to go whore around with men and women."
Her eyes aflame, saliva flying from her lips as she shouted out the words, she stood and started for the door.
"You. You and your goddamned psychiatric philosophy can go get screwed. I thought you could help me. I was wrong. You're no better than the rest. You're worse. You're slimy. You're dirty. Let it all hang out, Justine," she mocked. "Do anything you want. Feel free to let your inhibitions run wild." She wagged a manicured finger at him.
"But you forgot to add, dear doctor, that you got your kicks watching. That you're as crude and vulgar as the next man."
Her throat was dry but she coughed and spat at him.
"That's what I think of you-and your goddamned suggestions."
Bernard Jennings watched the flash of her skirt fly out the door and heard the door slam shut. He sat back in his chair and looked at the crumpled cigarette butt on the floor.
"Poor Justine," he said aloud, picking up the lifeless cigarette and dropping it in the ashtray.
She had been racing through the countryside for three days, stopping only long enough to eat and catnap. The Porsche growled under her as she piloted through the tortuous roads snaking themselves around the arrow-straight freeways connecting one teeming town to another.
Justine had decided to go nowhere in particular, just to drive and keep away from the mad rush of tourists and the bustling coldness of the cities. She chose the county roads, driving them as she might the Monte Carlo-always pushing her foot down when she should have hit the brakes.
Maybe the wind and the snarling of the engine would help drive the thoughts from her mind. Maybe death would come around a blind corner and she would never know it when they stood face-to-face, splattered on the highway in the midst of crunching metal and breaking glass.
She had her chance at death and passed, as she knew she would each time. The low-slung auto screeched around the corner, spewing chunks of gravel in high trajectories as the car hugged the road like a frightened woman and righted itself down the center of the lane. The car she had nearly driven into the vertical embankment disappeared around the corner and she sighed, glancing from her rear-view mirror back to the white lines jumping beneath the front bumper.
She slowed and relaxed her tense muscles for the next few miles, smoking cigarettes and beating the dashboard with her fingers to keep her mind from Dr. Jennings, Mark, the elevator boy.
A loud, wailing shrill cut through her thoughts and she glanced up into the smoke-colored mirror. A sheriff's car was looming up behind her, its fat dome flashing red, its lights blinking on and off.
Sighing, she pulled to the shoulder of the road and killed the engine.
"Drivin' mighty reckless, young lady." Justine looked up at the tanned face, its eyes hidden from her view by mirrored sunglasses. The man leaned down, resting his elbow on the car's open window.
"Don't lean on it, please," she said haughtily. "It's too expensive for a man's elbows."
"Mighty bold for a woman who just about killed a man, aren't ya?" He leaned harder on the door, making the car sag on its springs.
"I don't know what you mean, officer."
"Back there at that corner. You came barrelin' around it so fast, you just about killed Mr. Wallace."
"Who?" Justine felt the oppressive heat settling in the cockpit of the car and wished the man would hurry up and ticket her.
"Mr. Wallace. He owns our little town up ahead. Mighty fine man, Mr. Wallace. Lots of people here think a whole lot of him. He don't tell any lies and he radioed me and said a car, just like your car, nearly killed him. I got to take Mr. Wallace's word for it, lady."
"The name is Conrad, officer. Miss Conrad. Do you want to see my driver's license?"
"No siree, lady. I want to see you."
Justine swung her head around to face the man. He was looking at her dress drawn up to her thighs. A drop of black saliva dripped down his chin and he smiled, revealing a mouthful of yellow, Copenhagen-soaked teeth. Justine winced as he spat a long viscous stream of juice over her head. A thin strand of saliva dropped down on her face and she wiped frantically at it.
"For Christ's sake," she stammered, pursing her lips in disgust. "Are you an animal."
The man laughed. "Depends on who I'm with, Miss Conrad."
"You're obscene," she snapped, grabbing the wheel tightly in her hand and looking straight ahead. "If you are going to give me a ticket, please do so I can be on my way."
"Where you headin', Miss Conrad?"
"That's none of your business, now please-"
"Don't get so haughty, Miss Conrad. You see, you're in a heap of trouble. Mr. Wallace says he wants to issue a complaint against you. Said for sure you was drinkin', nobody drives that way sober, he says, right over his own private telephone in his car."
"Well, I obviously haven't been drinking. And I don't know anything about trying to kill Mr. Wallace. I may have been speeding, but that's all."
"Better let me smell your breath, Miss Conrad."
"I refuse. I haven't had a drink for three days. Now please, officer."
"Rules say I gotta smell your breath, lady."
He shifted his weight so his back leaned against the side mirror.
"Just lean up here and blow in my nose and I'll follow you anywhere." He slapped his thick thigh and laughed crudely. "Well?"
"I'll do no such thing. I'll walk a white line, pick up dimes, take a blood test-but I will not blow my breath in your face. What kind of a test is that?"
"That's the kind of test we use on pretty things like you, Miss Conrad."
Justine's skin crawled as she felt the man's eyes peering down the front of her blouse. She nervously pulled at her scarf, tucking it down the front of her blouse.
"You got a real fine body for a criminal, Miss Conrad."
His voice was rhythmical as he ran a heavy, calloused finger along the door, touching it against Justine's elbow. She jerked her arm inside the car, suddenly more frightened of the man than the trumped-up talk about "killing someone." "Please," she pleaded, her voice trembling. "I'd like very much to be on my way. I'm sorry if I was rude."
"Ho, you weren't rude, Miss Conrad. I was rude. Spittin' over your head the way I did. Touchin' your arm. Lookin' down your blouse. Now, them things are rude, Miss Conrad. Real rude."
Justine squinted and saw the fresh hint of manhood creeping across the man's dark face. He looked no older than twenty-one or twenty-two. A class ring covered half the second joint of his right ring finger, his face was smooth and freshly shadowed with youthful whiskers.
But his voice was deep and masculine, teasing her with a practiced air of oppressive forcefulness. "Are you going to ticket me?" she asked tartly. "No, lady."
"Well, then, can I be on my way?"
"Why can't I?" she whined, infuriated with the nonsensical jabber.
" 'Cause you're going to jail, lady. Until Mr. Wallace decides what he wants to do with you. But I got a pretty good idea."
"What! This is ridiculous."
"No, it ain't, Miss Conrad. Now either you move your pretty self over or I'll have to ride you in my lap all the way to town. And I'd like that, Miss Conrad. I'd really like that."
He spat another stream of the seedy tobacco juice over her head and opened the door. Justine stepped out, carefully pulling her dress down as she did and climbed into the driver's seat.
"Voom. Voom." The sheriff leered at her and started the car, driving it as fast as it would go into the sleepy dreary town of Collinsville.
* * *
"I want to call a lawyer," Justine demanded, jumping to her feet in the sweltering sheriff's office.
"Sorry, lady, no calls to anybody until Mr. Wallace says so. Like I told you, he owns this town, and the people in it. He got me this here badge." He flicked the star on his left breast pocket. "And he gets me just about anything I want. Anything."
The man leaned forward and stared at Justine's legs, his eyes roving up them to her breasts which she tried to hide by sloping her shoulders forward and turning away from him.
"He's gonna like you, Miss Conrad. He's gonna like you a lot."