Snuggle Ch. 02

"I like to think of those little jewels the way you might view postal workers, only they deal with emotions instead of letters," the doctor continued gaily. "A message comes into the brain, and little Mr. Amygdala puts it in the proper out box. He says: 'Oh, I remember this feeling, this is happiness. I'll just route it to the happiness department.' Or the sad department. Or pleasure. Or pain or fear or joy or terror or bliss. You name it. How, exactly, does it do that? How does it work? Physically, we don't have a clue. I only know that after I'd finally, finally tracked down that woman in Chicago, and after I'd finally given her the most extensive series of CAT scans I could legally give her, the only abnormality I could find was a small lesion on her left amygdala. How she had actually gotten it without sustaining catastrophic brain damage, I have no idea. Nor do I have any idea how that particular injury resulted in severe monophobia and panic. But it did. And, when I duplicated that injury in a test subject, it did again. And again." He paused. "Ah ... there you are, you little beauty." He was quiet for almost a full minute. Not having to hear that bastard speak was definitely being filed under "bliss" in my brain.

"Done!" he announced triumphantly. Things started happening all around me after that, with sounds occurring to my right and left, as well as directly over and behind my head. Mentally, I tried to take stock. I hadn't felt anything throughout the whole affair, with the exception of what must have been a shot of something to deaden the nerves in my scalp. For the time being, I did NOT feel panicked ... with the exception of the unspeakable dread that something foreign quite literally had been running around in my brain ... but, of course, there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. On the other hand, Dr. Arnold still had his hand on my bare back, forcing me to exhale every six seconds. When he stopped, would I start freaking out?

I felt my face being pushed downward pretty hard. He was doing something awfully harsh back there, and I remembered the screw driver-looking thing he'd used on Janie. Then, he was quiet for a long, long time, before uttering: "Damned kinky hair! The blonde's super-fine hair was bad enough. Fuckin' stitches are below my pay grade!" But Dr. Arnold didn't comment. It's the first time I realized that he hadn't spoken during the entire process.

Finally, it seemed to be over. Hands were pulling the Velcro straps from my body, then I was being brusquely rolled over onto my back. Finally, Dr. Arnold spoke: "Won't that hurt her wound?"

"Naw, the stitches are close, and it's covered. And it won't hurt the entry point ... that screw's titanium. Keep up the compressions, though, doc ... we don't want to lose her after all that! I just made it a whole lot more fun for you, that's all."

I felt a hand between my breasts, and was forced to exhale, and then, six seconds later, again. In another minute, I felt a prick in almost the same spot on my right arm as the needle that had started this whole nightmare. Almost immediately, I blinked. I had never even considered that blinking would be such an enjoyable pastime. I looked from one of them to the other, and saw that they were both still dressed in their monster costumes. Dr. Asshole was pulling the tape from around the tube in my mouth, and finally, I was breathing on my own again.

"Pleasure meeting you both, I'm sure," he said, as he turned toward the hall door. He was unceremoniously taking off the various articles of protective clothing and throwing them on the floor. When he removed the helmet, he didn't look back at us, and to this day, I have no idea what he looks like. He had brown hair ... and I remember from the hypodermic ultimatum that he had brown eyes, but that's about it. "The girl I cancelled the date with said I should call her when I got out of surgery. I think I'll take her up on it. Bye now."

"Oh, Kendra, I'm SO sorry you went through that," Dr. Arnold said, stripping off his mask and setting it on one of the benches.

I tried to make sure my lips and tongue were working properly before I attempted an answer. "That's not true, Doctor. You were the one that needed this ... to help control us. You don't seem to have any trouble dishing out terror, you just don't want to get up close and personal." He didn't respond, and I sighed. "Thank you for helping me breathe," I whispered, as I tried to struggle into a sitting position.

He put a hand on my shoulder to keep me prone, then wheeled the gurney into the bedroom and helped me into bed with Janie. I snuggled against her as he pulled a sheet over us. "Would you let me help you sleep?" he asked, pulling out the penlight.

I considered it. "Yes, please. But Doctor ... don't make me forget. I don't want to forget. Okay?"

He nodded, and started the light blinking. Almost immediately, I was asleep. I had an orgasm. I guess I was back on the good-girl list.

To Be Continued