Bridey and Bridey

I am a clinical psychologist, ten years out of college and practicing in a large west coast city. Your normal, everyday shrink deals with relatively healthy subjects who need counseling. The 'clinical' mind doctor like myself takes on the more difficult psyches, those with paranoia, schizophrenia, other such psychoses and mental illnesses.

I have also added another therapeutic tool to my black bag. I'm a hypnotist. Wait, wait, wait. Before you, dear reader, jump to some conclusion here that this tale is one where some poor lady gives up her charms to a mesmerist, let it be known up front that hypnotic suggestion is just that, suggestion. I cannot command a subject who is under to do anything they wouldn't do while fully awake.

As you know if you've ever been to your county fair, hypnotism is still pretty much just a sideshow, just a step or two away from patent medicine or magnet therapy or crystal healing. Maybe it might aspire to the status of, say, Reiki, but it's not even close to more accepted methods such as acupuncture or massage.

All I know is that it works well with some subjects, and others not at all. Anyway, I find hypnotism helpful in dealing, occasionally, with some of the extreme cases of anxiety and disassociation that come into my case files. If nothing, it can be about the only way some of these poor souls can ever truly relax. At times, the results can be spectacular.

It's how I met Bridey.

Bridey, Bridget, is a classic redheaded third generation American Irish woman in her mid twenties. Pale skin, Irish eyes, nose and chest freckles, the body of Venus on the half shell, she is beautiful. Quiet, shy, her personality is so withdrawn, mysterious, so mercurial and airy she seems more sylph than woman.

Her case was a referral from another psychologist, a woman of some considerable skill and experience who had apparently been stumped by Bridey. Bridey refused to sleep. Somniphobia is a serious disorder that can destroy a person, physically and emotionally. It is also called, in some instances, hypnophobia. And that's why the lady doctor referred Bridey to me -- in hopes my skills could tackle the disorder head on. All other vectors had failed to get inside the woman's head: counseling, pharmaceuticals, exercises, massage, and yes, somebody along the line had tried crystals.

When I met Bridey for the first time, I became instantly concerned. She was the picture of exhaustion, the bags under her eyes were large puffy pillows, her neck could barely hold up her head, she sort of melted into the chair in my office during that first consultation. I felt obliged to attempt some sort of immediate intervention. I couldn't imagine how she even managed to get there, as she had, on her own. Hospitalization was certainly a seriously possible consideration.

But Bridey was adamant. Her refusal to consider a hospital stay seemed a matter of pride. I suspected she simply couldn't afford it.

I'd read her file so I didn't have to spend much time getting acquainted with her case history. The referring psychologist had spent hours questioning her, discussing the situation with the patient, and logged a great deal of time probing Bridey's psyche. She'd looked intensively into her history and her background, had even spoken to her friends, parish priest, and parents. All of it yielded nothing.

The poor woman was afraid to go to sleep, and nobody knew why.

So I decided to see if I could put her under. I have a couch, yes, the classic psychiatrist's divan. But I don't use it. Nothing, nothing, beats a good recliner for putting somebody under. Any man who comes home after work, has a beer, turns on the TV and puts his recliner in full recline can attest to that. Out like the proverbial light.

Only, I don't want sleeping subjects. I want them in that state of almost asleep, but not really awake. It's a matter of how you speak to them, and some carefully placed suggestions. And, their suggestibility.

Bridey went right under.

"Bridey," I spoke low and soft, "you are completely relaxed. Your body feels heavy, but your mind is light. You can go back in your memories wherever you want. I want you to remember a very pleasant time, a happy time and place in your life, and go back there. Can you do that?"

"Yes," she had a soft, sensuous, sweet voice.

"Where are you?"

"Ireland," she said, and smiled. And her voice took on a brogue accent as she spoke, "It's a beautiful summer day and I'm walking with my friends. We're singing, we are, at the top of our lungs, an old song, and striding along in time to the music." Bridey's entire demeanor had changed. Her body seemed more vibrant, alive. Her face was flushed. She began to sing. In Gaelic. I could not make out the words at the time, but I've since found them online.

"Óró, sé do bheatha bhaile,

Óró, sé do bheatha bhaile,

Óró, sé do bheatha bhaile,

anois ar theacht an tsamhraidh."

The song sounded a lot like What Do You Do With a Drunken Sailor, and the tune of the refrain like, 'Hey, ho and up she rises.'

Bridey seemed so happy, so at ease, so radiant, I let her sing on. When she finished, she said something in what I took to be Gaelic.

"I don't understand Gaelic, Bridey," I said, "Can we speak in English?"

"Maureen told me she was to be married on the fortnight."

"Is Maureen your friend?"

"She's my sister."

"Okay," I continued, "Lets go back to a time when you were very young. You are in your mother's arms. She is holding you and you're very relaxed."

"I'm sleepy."

"Yes," I encouraged her, "You are sleeping in your mother's arms. How does that feel?"

She didn't answer. Bridey was actually snoring at that point, very lightly. I didn't have the heart, nor inclination, to continue the session nor awaken her. I stood up slowly and walked out of the room, into my outer office. I kept the door slightly ajar to watch her, but Bridey looked like she was deeply into her REMs.

I took the occasion to call the referring psychologist and congratulate her on choosing my particular skill set. I was glad to be able to tell her that the patient was, at that very moment, sleeping, literally, like a baby.

During the course of the conversation she told me something that stunned me. Bridey had never been to Ireland. She had no sister. She did not speak Gaelic.

I let her sleep. She awoke after four hours of deep slumber, very groggy, and without actually looking at me, apologized for taking up my office time, and fled.

I had never been so intrigued by a patient. The Bridey I'd first seen, there in the outer office, was reticent, mousy, out of sorts, and, of course, exhausted. The Bridey in the chair became a vibrant, alive, and strikingly attractive young girl. Was this a legitimate case of multiple personalities? Dissociative Identity Disorder is extremely rare and difficult to diagnose.

The next appointment couldn't come soon enough. But Bridey's insurance only paid for once a week treatments and only for one month. And the poor woman was obviously struggling to meet her financial obligations. Her clothes were somewhat threadbare and looked second hand. She took four buses to get to my office. So, during our phone conversation setting the time for her next appointment, I took the initiative and her treatment would require twice a week sessions, and the insurance payments would cover the cost.

She looked only slightly less haggard at our second meeting than she had the first time. I asked if she'd made any progress with getting to sleep at home.

"Not really," she admitted, "I lie in bed, close my eyes, try to sleep, but I never actually drift off." Again, she had a hard time making eye contact.

I encouraged her to continue doing just that. Lying down, trying to sleep is itself somewhat restful. The 'trying to sleep' part is, as any insomniac knows, the paradox. Trying to do something is, by its nature, an act of conscious intent. A person can't try to sleep. You don't walk to sleep. You fall.

I queried Bridey about losing blocks of time, lapses in memory, blackouts, hearing voices, the standard battery of questions meant to suggest a disorder in which several personalities inhabit a person's psyche. But she claimed she experienced none of these.

I was eager to put Bridey under. Having done so once, the second time was far easier. And, in her state of fatigue, she was highly suggestible.

"Bridey," I said, after she was hypnotized, "I want you to go back to a time when you felt strong, felt competent and in control of your life." I didn't actually know if she'd ever felt such confidence, but I took a flier and hoped for the best.

Her brogue returned. "Well, Dr. Smith," she chirped in that heavy Irish accent, addressing me directly, "it's a fine day in our little slice of green heaven, now isn't it?" Most amazing of all, her eyes were open, she was looking right at me.

A chill went down my spine. This was not Bridey. "Hello," I stammered, then decided to engage this personality. "Who's company do I have the pleasure of?"

"Bridget, of course, silly doctor."

"Oh, it's you, Bridey," I again stammered. "You look so different."

"Of course, Bridey Cleary, sir, and I'm certainly glad you think it's a pleasure, doctor." She gave me a wicked smile.

The chill returned. Bridey's last name was not Cleary.

Her voice was confident, clear and strong, "What's the matter, doctor, you look like you've seen a ghost."

"Bridey Cleary," I said, wondering what to say next, "Um, where, where to you live?"

"Ballyvadlea, of course! In the county Tipperary, third street up from the crossroads. Are you intending to come courting? A strappin' man like you, that would be my pleasure."

The change was astounding. Bridey was no longer the ethereal sylphan girl hiding from the world. She was a bold, outspoken, dynamic and down-to-earth woman.

And, to my professional horror, I found her to not only be very attractive, she was downright sexy.

"Alas," I said, "I'm afraid I'm your doctor, Bridey, and that wouldn't be appropriate."

She smiled a devilishly cute grin and said, "Appropriate doesn't win the fair maiden's heart, now does it, Tomkins. Take a chance. Don't you find me bonny, then?"

She struck an exaggeratedly flirtatious pose, showing off those fine firm breasts, tossing back her flaming orange hair and looking at me from under her long lashes. She was moving her lips in a way that was very subtle, but unmistakably erotic. I could feel it in my balls.

"Bridey," I said, struggling to maintain my composure, "close your eyes again. Let's go back to a time in your life when you had your own bedroom and slept alone."

She gave me a look like she knew exactly what I was up to by changing the subject. She tilted her head slightly and smiled to acknowledge it, but did close her eyes. Presently, her demeanor changed again, her face became angelic, innocent, childlike.

"Good, you are relaxed, lying in your bed, but still awake. What is around you in the room, Bridey?"

"It's my bedroom in the old house. The one in out on the old farm. My sister is asleep on the far side."

"How old are you?"

"Fifteen. I had a birthday last week."

"You are feeling well, and thinking about your life," I continued, "Just lay there and let the thoughts flow. Tell me how you feel."

"The moon is out, the light of it streaming in me window. I've let down my night shirt so the rays of it shine on my bubbies."

To my utter mortification, Bridey pulled her own shirt up and was busy opening the front of her bra. She released her breasts from their confinement and held them up as though catching the moonlight. They were magnificent, two pillows of the softest, smoothest, ivory white skin with two stiff points of engorged nipple flesh at the end. She was squeezing them with one hand, lightly pinching her fingers together to catch the nubbins. The other hand dropped into her lap and she began fondling her vulva, concentrating a couple of fingers on her clitoris, right through her jeans.

"What...what are you doing, Bridey?" I gasped.

"Masturbating," she cooed. "I do it every night in my bed. I especially like to do it by the light of the moon, the softness of it, the feel of it shining down on my sex, how it turns my skin blue."

"Every night?" I blurted, and realized I'd lost control of myself and the session.

"Most," she said. "I start with my bubbies, then work my way down my tummy to my cunny, to the little bean at the top, and sometimes I use my hair brush when I think about Tommy."

"Tommy?"

"Tommy Smith."

The chill rushed up and down my spine several times. My name is Tom Smith.

"I like to imagine what he would do to my sweet, young, cunny. Kiss it. Lick it. Stick his prick in and stir it into butter."

"Bridey," I croaked, "let's go back to when you were a babe in your mother's arms."

She immediately fell asleep, snoring lightly again. I stood up very quietly and with the infinite care of a brain surgeon, clasped her bra closed back over those magnificent mammaries and pulled her shirt down. I placed a knit blanket over her and retreated into the outer office.

I was in a state of extreme tumescence, sweating, shivering slightly, and breathing hard. I could not shake the image of her fondling her breasts and nipples while she stroked her crotch through her jeans.

I didn't have a wife. Didn't have girlfriend at that time. I am an avid bicyclist and surfer, and while not exactly "strapping", I am in good shape. But for years I'd been so caught up in my studies, then in my burgeoning career and getting my practice off the ground, I'd ignored the other sex. A couple of dates here and there, but nothing ever got serious. And now, my long neglected hormones were loosed and raging through my body.

That night, lying there in my bed sweating, I couldn't sleep. Worse, the moon came out and when that blue light came through my window and fell upon my skin, I just turned into a beast, fucking Bridey right there on my office recliner, cumming on her alabaster tits, the strapping Dr. Tomkins, falling for the bonny charms of that fine Irish lass.

The next day in my office I thought about referring Bridey to another psychologist. And would have, no, should have, except that she was making a lot of progress with me.

The next time I saw her she looked way better. She was standing very upright, looking alert and stronger, and not ragged and washed out. She still had an air about her that she might at any moment escape the bonds of the planet and float away, a spirit in the wind. But she was definitely doing better.

I couldn't help myself. My eyes roamed over her body, marveling at the lines of her, in her skirt and short jacket, how they flowed and dipped and curved, Botticelli's beauty.

"I want to thank you, doctor," she said as we entered the back office. "I feel so much better."

She looked a lot better. "What do you think is helping you?"

"Well," she said, as though it was obvious, "sleeping in your office, for one."

"Are you able to sleep at home at all?"

"Perhaps," she sounded unsure, "I don't know if I'm actually awake or if I'm asleep and dreaming that I'm awake. Do you know how that is?"

I didn't.

"Anyway," she continued, "I have, um, pleasant thoughts, as I lie in bed. So thank you," she added, taking off her coat and putting it with her purse on the divan. Then apropos of nothing she, paused, looked off into space and said, "Did you notice it was a full moon last night?"

She might as well have asked me if I'd fucked her sleeping form in the recliner. I harumphed, staggered to my chair, and crossed my legs to keep my dick from bursting through my slacks. Luckily I had a clipboard nearby.

"Well," I announced, trying to sound as clinical as I could, and pointedly ignoring her question, "let's get started."

I decided to try dredging up something traumatic, hopefully leading to identifying some causal factors in her disorder.

She lay back and by now she could be put under with just a sentence.

"You are relaxed, listening to my voice, breathing deeply."

"Bridey," I began, "go back to a time when you were unhappy, sad, when something happened that upset you."

"What the fuck do you want with her?"

I looked up from my clipboard, stunned. Bridey was sitting up staring at me. Her face was a rictus of anger and loathing. She had more of a Scottish accent.

"You want to fuck her cute, sweet, innocent, little teeny twat, don't you, Doctor Tom?"

"Who...who..." I could barely stutter it out, "are you?"

"I'm her mother, you dolt. You mini prick dick whacker."

"Where is Bridey?"

"She's probably upstairs diddling her little pink inkwell thinking about you."

"Don't you like your daughter?"

"She's a sinful, evil masturbater."

"Is that wrong?"

"Invitin' the devil into her bed? Look what it done to her sister, pregnant and havin' to marry. It's wicked. She knows that. Because I tell her daily."

"Do you beat her?"

"Oh no," she said, cackling in a hag's voice, "she might like that, you know? No, I just occupy a special place in her brain."

"What place is that?"

"Her dreams."

And so, the light went on in a room that had previously been dark.

"Close your eyes, Bridey."

She did.

"Let's go back to the moonlit room," I said. "You are lying in your bed. You're relaxed. It's quiet. The blue glow makes your skin look like it's under water, like you are made of moonlight. Tell me how you feel."

"Wet."

Oh my god. What was I doing? I ignored the voice of reason screaming in my conscience and I proceeded, going against all standards of medical practice, going by instinct.

Bridey had begun to slowly, very slowly, pull up the long skirt she'd worn that day. Underneath, she had white knee high socks. Her thighs were fleshy and as white and smooth as a moonlit sheet. She had on basic white panties, practical, unflattering even. I could see the tuft of red hair through the thin fabric. She propped her legs up on the edge of the recliner foot rest and spread them wide.

"It's okay to love yourself, Bridey," I went on, "okay to touch yourself. You need it. It makes you more of a woman, more human and loving."

"Mother doesn't think so."

"She's wrong. I'm the doctor and I know. You are a normal young woman."

She'd pulled aside her panties and exposed her vulva. Two delicate fingers were tracing the length of her soft and pliant labials lips and the slit of her vagina was beginning to open like a flower and was seeping slightly. Her head was back, mouth open slightly and eyes closed. Very relaxed.

"Doctors know things. We spend years studying the human condition," I said, sounding like a pompous idiot, to myself anyway, "and this is something that every girl does and should do."

"I want to feel a man's penis inside me," she said, her voice low and whispery. "I want a man to churn my cunny into butter, make me swoon, over and over."

"Bridey?" I asked, suddenly curious which Bridey I was talking to. "Bridey Cleary?"

She opened her eyes and looked over at me. Then down at her naked legs splayed open and her hands in her vagina.

"Well, well, well, look what you've done here, doctor," she said, loudly, boldly, in a lilting Irish brogue, then looked at me with a devlish grin. "Are you asking me, Dr. Tomkins, to serve up some cherry pie, then?" And she dipped a finger inside her vaginal passage, lifted it up, looked at it, then put it between her lips and sucked on it. "Mmmm," she hummed, "delicious. Would you like a slice?" And she maneuvered in the chair to sort of swing her genitals at me.

"Bridey Cleary."

"As if you didn't know," she said, her voice loud and clear and lively. "There's not a man in these parts doesn't know me, and most are fucking me all night long in their dreams, aye." Then she looked at me, "including you, the nasty Dr. Tom." She looked right at my crotch, where my cock was straining against the fabric of my pants. "Sweet dreams tonight, hm, doc?" She was casually masturbating, two fingers wandering in and around her wet vagina, the other hand rubbing her clitoris.