Cybertherapy Ch. 01

With heartfelt thanks to my friend and editor, EvansLily, for spending her valuable time showing me how to turn my scribble into a readable story, and for her patience in trying to teach me to be a better writer.

CHAPTER 1

"I mean it, Dave!" Ben was unusually irritated. "Winning the bloody lottery wasn't so great."

"Come on." Dave looked incredulous. "No more work, gorgeous women throwing themselves at you, holidays wherever and whenever you like, fancy new cars, no mortgage. Oh yes, I can see how that would be terrible."

"But suddenly everyone wants to know me; they never did before."

"So you have a whole new load of friends."

"Why? Why do they want to be friends now? Just because I have money? Would they want to be friends if I was broke? I don't think so. Maybe some of them, but how can I tell?" Ben was frustrated -- Dave just didn't understand. "And as for women..."

"You must be getting all the sex you can handle," said Dave with a leer.

"I don't want just sex. I was hoping to have a proper relationship. You remember what it was like at school?"

Dave's sympathetic look showed he did remember. Ben's lack of success with girls had been legendary, the source of much taunting. Girls he'd asked out had delighted in humiliating him; telling their classmates about his timid approaches.

"Yes," his friend conceded.

They sat, silent, looking at the pints of beer in front of them. The other customers began drifting away at the end of their lunch breaks.

Dave started to fidget, he also had to return to work. "I'm going to have to make a move, Ben."

"I know," he said sadly. "It's stupid, but now I don't have to work, I miss it."

"Why not find another job?" Dave suggested.

"Doing what?"

"Whatever you like. You wouldn't be doing it for the money."

Ben's face brightened as he considered the idea. "I could do something to help other people maybe."

"That's the spirit." Dave was looking at his watch. "I have to go -- now. I'll see you later."

"Yeah, Bye Dave," Ben responded, his thoughts already elsewhere as he considered a new direction for his life.

He spent the afternoon looking in the windows of employment agencies -- a change from the usual shop windows where he sought ways to spend his money. As the afternoon drew on, a card caught his eye:

Home Care Assistant's 37.5 hour week, £6.50/hr.

Amused by the incorrect apostrophe, he read the card again. It was a job he could do: washing, cleaning and cooking for sick and elderly people in their own homes.

Sitting at the desk, facing the young woman in the agency, he paused to wonder for the first time if it was such a good idea. He had nothing to lose though, it wasn't as if he needed the job.

*

Being a home care assistant could be a very demanding job as Sheila was discovering in a house several miles away.

"However much they pay you stupid women, it's too much!" Cathy's reputation for intolerance was well-deserved. "What's the point in turning up this late? What the hell do you think that you can do now? The damn nurses have been and done it all for you."

"I'm sorry Cathy, Mrs Dunbar took bad during her lunch and I had to get the doctor and ambulance to her."

"I'm not interested in your excuses."

"I'll just clean up in the kitchen and put some washing on,"

"If you're sure you have time," was her sarcastic reply. This one was like the rest, a fawning, servile woman, she thought. Still, they never lasted very long.

Lying in bed, Cathy continued muttering to herself. She could hear the clink of crockery being washed and returned to the cupboards. Picking up the laptop from the bed beside her, she resumed typing, silently cursing the woman in her kitchen.

Sheila was the fifth different care assistant they'd sent in six weeks; God knew why they couldn't find someone permanent. The nurses couldn't explain it either. Apparently most other patients had the same assistant all the time, whoever organised the service seemed totally incompetent.

Cathy knew they were repulsed by her appearance, she could see it in their faces when they looked at her. Even the ones clever enough to hide it at first, eventually looked at her with disgust. If her damaged legs hadn't trapped her in bed, she could have looked after herself.

She read through the story she was writing. Who actually enjoyed this stuff anyway? What sort of sad characters went on to the Internet to read bitter, angry tales of lust, perversion and death? Perverts, all of them, she hated them. Her greatest pleasure was in receiving the messages they sent, especially when they didn't like what she'd written. She took good note of what made them angry and ensured she included it in the next story.

Feedback from the last story had been just what she hoped.'You evil bitch, I hope you rot and fester in hell' was one of her favourites. None of them could hate her any more than she hated herself.

She'd been typing for a while when she heard the gentle tap on the bedroom door.

"What?" she shouted.

"I'm just off now," said Sheila, timidly peering round the half-open door.

"Don't let me keep you." Cathy enjoyed the hurt expression on the woman's face.

"Bye now."

Cathy said nothing and returned to her typing the laptop eventually sliding on to the bed as she fell asleep.

The nightmare woke her, it usually did. She was driving home with Sean and little Jack on a warm summer evening. Everything was serene. She was driving the new Audi, so proud to be able to show off the symbol of Sean's success. It was just before Jack's fourth birthday. She always woke up as the lorry hit them.

*

Five weeks later, the background and police criminal records completed, Ben was told to report to the home care company. His first week was spent with Betty, an ample lady full of mirth and good humour. Together they visited clients, doing cooking, washing and in some cases bathing -- Ben would only bathe male clients, they said -- and generally dispensing goodwill.

His cooking and cleaning skills honed over ten years of caring for his late parents, he soon had his own set of regular clients. Then came the fateful morning. It had been two months; he was enjoying the work and was feeling more at ease. A telephone call from the office asking him to drop by was not unusual.

Gerald, the owner and administrator of the business, looked uneasy. Sitting at his desk, fiddling with a pen, he seemed unwilling to look Ben in the face. "Ben, I'm afraid your client Mr. Perkins has passed away."

"I'm sorry," said Ben. And he was, he'd miss the old boy but it didn't explain why Gerald looked so nervous.

"I have a new client for you."

"OK. Can I have the file?"

"Sit down a minute." Gerald indicated the chair by his desk. "This client is a bit more unusual."

"In what way?" Ben was intrigued. What could possibly account for the way Gerald was acting?

"She's -- er -- well I suppose you could say -- difficult."

Ben had never heard Gerald speak so hesitantly. "Difficult?"

"She's had nine different care assistants in six months. They all refuse to work with her eventually. Look, between you and me, she's rude, aggressive and seems to hate everyone. I'm sorry to have to give her to you but you're the only one left. She has regular nursing visits so you'll just do cleaning, laundry and cooking."

"What's the matter with her?"

"She was seriously hurt in a car crash. Her husband and son were killed, she has severe facial damage and her legs were badly injured. Apparently she refused surgery although the nurses say if she really wanted to she could probably get about with crutches now. But she's depressed and hides behind her aggression, refuses to even try to leave her bed." Gerald sighed, giving Ben a beseeching look. "I really am sorry about this, but could you please help me out?"

"OK," said Ben, rather amused to see the relief on his boss's face. The woman couldn't bethat bad.

*

Cathy heard the front door open. That damn home care woman again. Hadn't she had enough the previous day? The obsequious bovine was as submissive as the men in her stories, she thought.

The knock came at her bedroom door as always.

"YES! I'm still here, I'm not going anywhere," she shouted before adding under her breath, "you fat old cow."

But when the door opened she stared. "What the fuck...? Who the hell are you?"

"Hello, I'm Ben Fielding. I'm your new home care assistant."

Cathy glared at him. "Have those soft-headed morons lost it completely? A man? Jesus Christ."

"Would you like some lunch?" he asked pleasantly.

Though his voice was soft, he wasn't particularly remarkable, she thought. Not tall, slim build -- if a little plump around his stomach -- mousy brown hair, the sort of looks you forgot in a moment. And surely a wimp to boot -- what kind of man became a home care assistant? "Lunch?" she echoed. "What are YOU going to cook? A boiled egg? If that's nottoo complicated?"

"What would you like?"

Did this asshole have to sound so pleasant all the time? Well, fuck him. "How about a cheese soufflé?" she sneered.

"OK."

And to Cathy's delight, he left without another word. That'd fix him, she thought, wondering what he'd bring for lunch now. A cheese omelette probably. Christ, he wouldn't know a soufflé if it jumped up and bit him.

*

Ben shut the door gently, hoping she hadn't seen his reaction to her face. The damage was terrible, one cheek looked lower than the other, of the several scars, the worst ran from the corner of her left eye to her top lip; her nose had been broken and her lips no longer seemed to meet on one side. He felt a lump in his throat as he tried to imagine what she had been through.

In the modern kitchen, all the appliances seemed new, the cupboards filled with the pots, pans and dishes sufficient to cook anything. It had been a long time since he'd made a soufflé.

He didn't have all the right ingredients but he could probably make do. Parmesan could substitute for Gruyere, ordinary plain flour, wholegrain mustard: yes it was possible.

Forty-five minutes later he returned to her bedroom with a tray. The soufflé had not collapsed and he was quite pleased with it. He knocked on the door.

"At last," she shouted. "Three quarters of an hour to make a cheese omelette?"

Ben assumed this meant she wanted him to come in and he took the tray to the bed.

"What the fuck's that?" she demanded, looking at the white porcelain dish.

"A cheese soufflé."

She stared at him. Her mouth opened twice and then closed. Repressing a grin, Ben put the tray on her lap and left to clean up in the kitchen.

*

Cathy was bewildered. Somehow he had outmanoeuvred her and left before she could recover. But the soufflé looked surprisingly good. Putting the first morsel on her tongue, she tasted it, immediately wishing she hadn't. It was fantastic. Her soufflés had never tastedthat good.

The bastard, did he think he could win her over with a bit of fancy cooking? As she quickly finished the meal, reluctantly enjoying the light texture, she planned her attack for when he returned.

He was moving around downstairs, the sound of dishes and plates tinkling in the kitchen. Later the sound of the Hoover reached her -- now he was cleaning. She lay, fuming, rehearsing the words she would say.

When the nightmare woke her, it was getting dark, the house was silent and the tray had gone. Damn the man, he'd left whilst she slept, without even giving her the satisfaction of telling him what she thought of him. Her stupid readers would suffer her revenge she thought, reaching for her laptop.

She was crying as usual.

*

At the front door the next day, Ben braced himself for the expected onslaught. She must have heard the key in the lock because even as he pushed the door shut, her voice called down the stairs.

"Is that the Naked Chef? Or a Kitchen Nightmare?" She sounded angry.

Sighing, he climbed the stairs and tapped gently on the bedroom door.

"Well come in then!" she shouted.

"Hello Cathy."

She grunted in reply.

"What can I get you for lunch today?"

"Salad."

"Anything in particular?"

"No.".

"OK," he said. Her abrupt answers hurt. "I'll have to pop to the supermarket, there's no salad stuff in the fridge."

"Of course not. None of you useless bastards ever buys the right stuff."

He left quickly.

An hour later he brought the tray to her room. A salad of lettuce, peach, melon and continental ham garnished with chopped almonds on her plate. She looked at it and he hoped she would say nothing, just as she had the previous day.

"An hour, just to make this? Thank God I didn't ask for anything complicated."

Ben slipped out quickly without speaking. He cleaned the kitchen, emptying the fridge and cupboards. The cloakroom and bathroom were next and it was two hours before he returned for the tray. It was on the bed next to her laptop, the plate empty.

Her face looked peaceful whilst she slept. He could almost imagine a smile.

Quietly removing the tray, he returned to the kitchen.

The next two days were replays of the first. She would be abusive, he'd make her a meal then do some cleaning and by the time he returned to collect the tray she'd be asleep.

But his last working day that week seemed different, although he couldn't explain why. There was something about her attitude.

"Ah the Gordon Tosser Ramsay look-alike," had been her greeting that morning. She must spend ages thinking up a new insult every day, Ben thought with amusement.

"What would you like for lunch today?"

"Fish." Another monosyllabic reply.

"What kind?" Ben always tried to keep an even temper, excusing her behaviour in his mind as the result of her traumatic experiences.

"Don't care."

"I'll go to the supermarket then."

"Humph."

He brought her sea bass fillets cooked with lemon chilli butter and a light salad.

She sneered at it as always. "Oh. Extra marks for good presentation, Mr. Oliver."

For once she was not asleep when he collected the tray with the empty plate.

"Think you're so fucking clever don't you?" she began the moment he walked into the room. "Well smart arse, you can cook all you want, you don't fool me. You're as pathetic as the rest of them. I know what you think, I can see it when you look at me. The sad woman with a wreck of a face. I know I repulse you -- but do you know what? I don't fucking care."

He was taken aback, this was her strongest attack yet. "No, Cathy, I don't feel repulsed. Honestly I just feel sorry -- "

"I don't want your sympathy. Piss off. Leave me alone."

He could see tears in her eyes. Time to leave, he thought. "I'll see you in a couple of days."

"You sad wimp. You're actually coming back for more?"

Ben decided not to continue with the conversation and simply said, "Bye for now," as he left the room, shutting the door behind him.

*

She was fuming. He'd done it again. Was there nothing she could do to drive him away? And that damn food, she hated fish, that's why she'd asked for it -- certain for once she'd be able to leave the food despite her hunger. Instead he'd brought her fish that tasted good!

Two days. He'd be back in two days. Well if she couldn't get to him the KillerBitch would. Picking up her laptop she began to type.

*

"If you could only listen to yourself," said Dave. "I think you've got a real soft spot for her."

Ben thought the idea ridiculous. "Come off it. She spends all the time cursing me."

"And you've done nothing but excuse her for it since you first told me."

"She's been through a lot, Dave. She lost her husband and son in the crash, she can't walk and if you could see her poor face -- we'd probably be pretty pissed off too, if it was you or me." Why couldn't his friend understand? It was just normal sympathy for a fellow human's suffering. He had no other interest in her.

"Yeah, yeah. Do you want another pint mate?"

Ben saw the opportunity to change the subject. "Yes please. Let's try the guest beer. Harvey's Sussex Ale, I wonder what that's like?"

*

There wasn't much noise from downstairs. Probably this woman only had to cover for two days so she wouldn't bother doing much cleaning. She couldn't cook either, bloody stew made of chewy meat and hard vegetables. Useless she was, just like the rest of them.

When she came back to collect the tray, the woman had the audacity to look rather hurt. "Oh you didn't finish your dinner. Weren't you hungry?"

Cathy couldn't even summon enough ill-temper to swear at her. "No."

"Well, I'll take this downstairs and wash up then."

This one was a cheerful hearty type, the worst. It didn't seem to matter what she said to them, they just gave their saccharine smiles and carried on. "Can't hear you doing much work. What's the matter, don't they pay you enough?"

"Oh no, dear, it's not that. There isn't anything to do. It's so clean and tidy down there."

"I bet it's good being paid to do nothing. Well if there's nothing to do, then there's nothing to keep you is there?"

Saccharine Sally turned up again the next day. Much to Cathy's disgust, she found herself looking forward to Ben's return although nothing would induce her to admit it.

For the first time, when she heard his key in the lock the next day, she said nothing until he knocked at her bedroom door and announced himself. "Hello Cathy, are you OK?"

"Fanny fucking Craddock, is that you back again?"

He came into the room smiling. "I was worried when I didn't hear you."

"Nothing to worry about. I'll be here long after you wimp out." She was being as unpleasant as usual, and yet now she felt oddly uncomfortable.

"What would you like for lunch?"

"You're the chef, you bloody well decide." It hurt to admit to herself she'd eat anything he cooked.

"OK," he said and left.

After he'd gone, she was disappointed he hadn't given her the opportunity to say anything else. Although she wasn't sure she could think of anything anyway.

*

Ben returned for the tray to find her asleep as usual. As he reached for the tray he knocked the laptop on the bed beside her. The screen burst into life and he could not suppress his curiosity. She seemed to be looking at a website that published erotic fiction. He smiled, imagining her reading the stories.

That evening he looked at the site she'd been reading. EroticTales.org was an education for Ben, he'd never read stories like these. He remembered that Cathy had been looking at a list of most read authors: Oleandergirl, MasterPhilip and KillerBitch.

Oleandergirl seemed to write popular romance stories. Each chapter of her stories was rated as receiving above average votes from readers. He enjoyed them but couldn't understand why Cathy would, she didn't seem the sort for happy endings.

MasterPhilip's stories involved men dominating women. The thought of any man dominating Cathy was ludicrous.

KillerBitch had published twenty-three stories. As he read them he was astonished by the graphical sexual violence she portrayed. Even more astonishing were the responses from readers that seemed equally vehement. Oddly the anger in the responses grew greater as each new story was published, almost as if she was encouraging it.

His eye caught a tag line for her latest story:Ben learns to obey. His curiosity got the better of him and he started to read.

The story could only be described as extreme. She'd writtenBen as a wimp of a man being dominated by a harsh dominatrix. She found endless ways to humiliate and debase him, he was made to wear a male chastity device that forced his penis to stay between his legs, she whipped his body with canes and leather belts and worse...

Ben couldn't stomach any more. Did Cathy read this stuff? Shutting down his computer didn't help, he couldn't seem to erase the images from his mind. Why was the author so antagonistic towards men? Although it seemed crazy, he found himself wanting to write to the author to ask why.