The Conquerable
“And then what did you do?”
“I talked.”
Describing the young man’s halting lisping reply, the slow deliberate intonation of each
word, is difficult. As difficult as, I suppose, it is for him to speak. Thus, my interview
is time consuming and my frustration, though well cloaked, mounts.
“Though psychiatry is my field, I would strongly suggest having your teeth fixed. I
believe I can assume with some degree of confidence that your reticence is derived from
the dental alteration. I can only help you if we communicate. That entails an exchange.”
Gazing downward, the man nods... the boy really. Once again there is silence, despite my
best efforts to prompt discourse. Therefore, though only his initial visit, one which I
routinely deem to be an ingenuous ‘let’s get to know each other’ type of meet and greet, I
find myself earnestly offering advice.
“Caps expensive,” comes a tardy response.
I note the absence of a verb, making his utterance brief, phonetically inharmonious and
grammatically cumbrous. A rap to the knuckles would be earned in any strict parochial
school. For some reason the thought intrigues. My mind, dulled with the tedious pace,
pictures an imperious teacher standing over this cowering verbal miscreant and applying a
crisp, well deserved tap of a ruler to hands compliantly offered for retribution.
“Besides your teeth, were there... other... what shall or how shall I term it...
modifications?”
I feign a degree of reluctance in making the inquiry, to be perceived as sympathy. Yet
deep within, I want to know the full story, every nasty detail. Douglas Harper is not
cognizant of my own proclivities, unaware that he has awakened my, well, I entitle it my
‘non vanilla’ side.
He looks up. In gazing at me, he seems to be encouraged, somewhat inspired. Though I
detect lasciviousness, I let him peer and do so without protest. After all, I know him to
be impotent, such information freely offered in the lengthy precedent questionnaire. Thus,
I consider any spark of lust to be therapeutic.
And besides, I do not consider myself to be damaging to the eyes. Though almost old
enough to be his mother, at 35 it is comforting to be considered alluring.
“Hair. No hair,” since his scalp is well maned, I must assume he has otherwise been made
glabrous. As a psychiatrist, I understand the intent of his interrogators. Everything that
could be done to bring forth a sense of defenselessness, maximize the stress of being
brought to complete vulnerability, would be undertaken, including the filing of his
teeth.
The thought of that time consuming and painful process brings forth a twinge of
concupiscence. Yes, the non vanilla side is aroused in contemplating the psychological
reaction to sitting well strapped while having one’s teeth ground to the gums, thus
altering speech, disrupting eating ability, and, probably most importantly, terminating
any ability to bite, most certainly his captors. Essentially he’s been defanged, as would
an ornery pet.
But now I learn all hair has been removed. How? By whom?
I shall eventually find out. But meanwhile what dawns is that the rendition of this
alleged terrorist sympathizer, Douglas Michael Harper, was executed by highly skilled
professionals.
Whatever it was they wanted from him, I am sure the information spewed forth like a Roman
fountain, even from an edentulous mouth. And thereafter he was freed, perhaps not the man,
boy, they thought he was? Or perhaps a well-publicized prosecution for sedition would
bring more notoriety to his handling and interrogation than the government desires.
Still, it is my task to psychologically rehabilitate, to put aside my self-interest and
not speculate on the government’s involvement.
Complicating the matter is the relevant question, which government? The United States is
not the only country with a dog in the fight against terrorism. Israel, Pakistan, Saudi
Arabia, Egypt, all known for harsh interrogation, techniques unbridled.
Yet, Douglas Michael Harper lives, to tell his story, should he summon the ability to
form words. Curious that he was not executed and furtively buried in some unmarked grave.
I lean back in my large stuffed swiveling desk chair, gazing in thought at the meek lad
sitting in an uncomfortable straight-backed chair. The nature of the offered furniture is
deliberate in bringing forth a degree of awkwardness. For the seated, it inures onto me an
aura of control, to be perceived by my patient. My relative comfort normally fosters a
one-way flow of communication, patient to me, the relaxed interlocutor, a sponge leisurely
soaking up all.
“Let me see,” my suggestion spontaneously offered, mischievousness disguised.
I know my response to be construed as a simple and direct dictate. And in fact, he
stands with noted alacrity. The mentally downtrodden Douglas Michael Harper will
obediently respond as if the words are offered as a command. After all, he has been
rendered psychologically vulnerable.
I watch suppressing a smile, a wry smile, a wicked smile, as my patient denudates. There
is discomfort, but there is indeed notable obeisance as each item of attire is removed,
neatly folded and placed on the chair.
He assumes I do not want him to resume sitting. How curious! And when finished he
rigidly stands facing me, feet widely parted with his hands folded on the back of his head
in some Pavlovian response to being naked.
In sultriness, my non-vanilla side boils within as I silently inspect.
Yes, below the neck he is as hairless as a new born. I cannot even detect stubble and
must assume he has either very recently shaven his entire body for the visit to my office,
or he’s been chemically depilated. I am sure the latter is the case.
As a woman in her sexual prime, I lasciviously gaze at him. Though hairless and
appearing infantile, sizable testicles nestle within a ponderous scrotum. A flaccid penis
stirs not, but is impressive in its possibilities. Douglas is short, but only in stature.
Yes, the tip of that non-functioning tube of pink flesh dangles at mid thigh. Nice.
And I note a dab of prostatic fluid, just a little ooze. I must repress a smile, knowing
that despite his impotency, his sex organs are priming the pump. He’s somewhat aroused in
posing for me. And in not having ‘gotten his rocks off’ for quite some time, that curious
male gland seems to beseech relief.
As I casually absorb the enticing potential of virility, I detect a degree of mental
squirming. Yet he neither protests nor shifts about in modesty.
“Turn,” the simple directive sternly offered.
In offering for view luscious buttocks, smooth, well rounded, seeming to beg for
corporal correction, the imagination stampedes, now picturing more than a rap to the
knuckles.
“Scars. There are none, Douglas. It is important that I know of any physical abuse,” I
cleverly provide camouflage for my otherwise unseemly demand to strip naked.
But I do not suggest that he dress. The moment, too delicious, is to be extended. His
discomfort brings stimulation, for both of us.
“Face me.”
He turns again, docilely, with the precision of a trained beast yet absent the pride
exuded in accomplished dressage.
“Probably some concern over pediculosis. Hair can give rise to many tiny vermin when one
is held captive in squalid conditions,” offering for consideration my own summation as to
the time consuming and I assume harsh depilation of his entire body. But I truly know
otherwise. To the duress of capture was added the extreme humiliation of complete exposure
as every square inch of Douglas Michael Harper is revealed for a woman’s visual
examination. Shorn of all covering, plucked like a chicken, the mental capitulation is
palpable. He obeys me, and with noted crispness.
“You seem comfortable standing naked before a woman,” I prompt.
He is not. The more appropriate description would be reluctantly accustomed, a sort of
acceptance. Still, I am too intrigued, too entertained, to offer a suggestion that he
cloth himself. I have a sense that the longer he will remain exposed before me the more I
can provoke words,
“No clothing permitted,” comes another succinct reply.
“A standard protocol used during interrogation,” I explain.
And with that, remaining naked, feet even further parted, words cascade and I find just
how accustomed Douglas Michael Harper is in displaying himself completely nude before a
fully clothed woman, one who is perceived to be in charge.
Yes, my dentally challenged patient begins to sing, like a canary... a plucked canary.
***
Having taken notes, also having recorded the session, I adequately learn of and document
every detail of the ordeal endured by Douglas Michael Harper, despite his speech
impediment, the slurring, lisping, halting flow of words difficult to formulate with
incisors and bicuspids ground to nothing.
It is shocking. But I am in the business of shock, really. Of understanding ordeal,
stress, the frailty of the human mind when confronted with the reality of obdurate events,
when mortality greets the inevitable. We all die yet we all believe life is unending,
until it ends.
Douglas Michael Harper, at a young age, met the inevitable in being debriefed by
ruthless interrogators. Their technique was masterful. What little information he had, was
divulged. And ironically was most likely of little value, the bomb making school where he
trained in Afghanistan probably long dissembled by the time they broke him.
I doubt if his terrorist friends ever confided much in him. From one simple session I
know he is not the type to be turned into a martyr. Yes, he would strap on a dynamite vest
but never ultimately pull the trigger. Such probably became apparent to his terrorist
friends as well. Thus I speculate that he was never brought into the inner circle, leaving
him in the desperate position of having nothing to tell, yet made eager to tell all.
Yes, Douglas Michael Harper is a bomb school dropout. Though it is difficult to judge
his level of docility before he was psychologically dismantled, he was probably just as
much a meek loser.
Still, for some reason I agree to take his case. He has no money, but the wealthy
paranoids who daily stream through my office can subsidize the rehabilitation of my
boy.
Yes, my boy. You see, since Douglas Michael Harper cannot afford to pay me, he will
offer service instead, serving as a houseboy. Sometimes I cede to my non-vanilla side.
At 35, as stated, looks remain, men still using words like ravishing. I have dated
often, many dinners, many overnight visits, many mimosa breakfasts, basking in the
lingering scent of sexual coupling. Whereas I am at the age to settle down, I have instead
become a ‘cougar’, the newly coined term used for experienced women who enjoy the company
of young men.
And in my case, it’s the company of a boy. Douglas Michael Harper is 18, but with that
glabrous form, his flesh chemically returned to puberty, he appears to be not a day over
13, when stripped.
And oh, he will be stripped. I have convinced him it is part of his therapy. And with
his recent time in captivity, obedience so well instilled, he has not the fortitude to
suggest otherwise.
And so, despite having this relationship of convenience with Roger, a nice guy whose
penis comes in handy after a week of listening to my paranoids whine, it is time to, in a
way, indeed settle down. But not in the manner mother would envision. Neither would she
envision my Sybian, the marvelous machine for women which I frequently straddle to vent
frustration. The orgasms are deep and sustained, particularly when I fantasize. Yes,
entering my non-vanilla world spurs climactic ecstasy.
Saturday I shop, many supplies required, much paraphernalia. I arrange for a hospital
bed, quite institutional, guard rails included.
I spend an hour or two on Sunday evening developing a protocol for Douglas. I type,
listing his chores, what to do and when. I also list hand signals. Verbal commands are
adequate, but I like the idea of training him, like a hunting dog. So with snaps of my
fingers, claps, pointing etc. Douglas will learn to react and be successfully transformed
to a well-trained servant.
How can I be assured?
Well, I happen to know exactly how his interrogators coerced everything he tried to
withhold. It will be therapeutic to re-immerse him and place him back into the authority
of a commanding woman, at least that is the premise under which he will serve me.
Yes, I guess it should be divulged, the interrogators of Douglas Michael Harper were
women, the ‘gentler sex’ known to become more callous and forcefully reactive when
confronting antagonists.
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