Chained and Chastened

The doctor was wild eyed now, lashing in a frenzy, "Begone! Begone, I say!" Kirstin could only moan and try to dodge the stinging blows. Somehow she had been strapped to the table; in her drugged state she hadn't noticed. But she really noticed the pain; the drug enhanced it.

*

After an eternity, the beating stopped. The doctor unstrapped Kristin, now half swooning, helped her off the table and into her clothes (she was too sore to wear her panties). She called a cab. "You made wonderful progress for a first session", she told her suffering patient. "You are beginning to unblock your unconscious mind, I think! Come back in two days and we will continue!" She helped Kristin, still groggy and almost unable to walk to the waiting cab, helped in by the driver, who grinned at the black sadist. He had driven some of her drugged 'patients' before.

Some hours later, leaning against an armchair in her apartment (she was still vague about that long cab ride home. Had the driver....? Now reasonably intact again, except for her throbbing welted ass and unacountably sore vagina, she knew one thing for sure. She was never going back to that crazy sadistic bitch! She called in sick the next morning, resisting the urge to tell Ray just how bad his advice had been. After a long soak in a lukewarm tub, three percodan and another half bottle of wine, she was feeling no pain, Well, much less pain.

That night though, her fantasy was coarser, more sexual: the same blonde and brunette, but the dreams that followed were frankly bizarre; all sorts of chains and shackles and elaborate sexual humiliations. And interspersed in her multiple debasements and submissions, one wild scene where she was suddenly dominating-- some unruly brunette on aa leash, she couldn't quite see who. Dashka, maybe?

* * *

Several days afterwards she still hadn't left the apartment (she could finally sit down; she slept on her stomach; no covers). She was eating Chinese take out, mainly, and trying to drink less wine. She had called Ray, told him the therapy wasn't going to work--and never recommend that bitch to anyone again!--and asked for a two week vacation. Which he granted, concern still in his voice.

She had reserved a quiet cabana on the quietest Virgin Island, St. Croix. She would fly there in three days. Her final fantasies--she tried to resist them--now showed who was firmly in charge and getting meaner--the brunette. No contest. And she was looking more and more like Gretl. *

Well, soon it would be over, she hoped. Just a passing bout of weirdness. 'Three weeks of absolute quiet, that's what I need.' she reassured herself. Still, the last night before her flight (she had already packed) she got a sudden irrational but powerful tug to revisit the scene of the crime, so to speak, Her mind stuttered. "No! Don't! Bad idea! Just once, like goodbye, that's all. Maybe one drink.'

Despite her better judgement she finds herself again ('One last time! I mean it!) in her wig, jeans, jacket and boots, at the dimly lit bar at The Pussycat. Standing there she feels a strong grip on her arm. She inhales a too well remembered musky scent. A gutteral low pitched voice close to her ear whispers:

"Hello, mein schatzie, my slave. We have a score to settle, I think."

Kristin doesn't have to turn around. Suddenly all of the confusion and self doubt of the last two months seems to fall away. Unbidden, she puts her hands behind her back. She hears the dull click and feels the harsh metal handcuffs bite into her wrists. Her head a wild jumble of terror and anticipation, Kristin knows that nothing will ever be the same again. Meekly, she allows Gretl to lead her into the street. The night is overcast, dark, starless.

THE END