Fifty Minutes

Let me cut to the chase. My brother Duane and I targeted, plotted, and executed without hesitation the sexual assault of a woman we barely knew, a licensed family therapist who assumed she was treating a dysfunctional sibling relationship. That was the lie we led Joyce Cody to believe, the ruse we used to gain her trust and access to her office. Looking back, it was ridiculously simple. Forgive me, but the burning question here is not "Why did you do it?" In truth, it's more "Will you do it again?"

Blame me. This was my idea. To explain would likely require hours of therapy. It wasn't about the sex. I've done fine with women over the years. No complaints. But I wanted something different. I wanted control. I wanted power. I wanted the rush. Turns out that Duane felt the same way. He was married to Staci. Their relationship was solid enough, I guess, but the bedroom fires had burned out long ago.

"Shit," Duane confessed one night over beers at Ike's. "Can't even get the woman to suck my dick anymore. She's changed, bro'. Always thinking of some reason to tell me no. Drives me fucking crazy."

I looked Duane straight in the eye. "What if we found a woman? A beautiful woman. One who couldn't say no?"

Duane seemed puzzled. "What the fuck you talking about, Charlie? A woman who couldn't say no? Huh?"

"I'm talking about finding a woman. A woman we can have and do whatever we want."

"You talking about a hooker?"

"God, no. I don't pay for sex. Which is all we do when we go out on a date, right? I mean, we buy dinner and little gifts and flowers. Sooner or later, you get laid, but a lot of money gets dropped first. Right?"

Duane chuckled at the memory. "Yes, sir. Got that right."

"Exactly. That leaves the third choice. We find a woman. Someone accessible, vulnerable, desirable. And we...do whatever we want."

It took Duane a moment to process. He finished the rest of his beer.

"Holy shit, man. You're talking about rape."

"I am," I confessed without hesitation. "But I've done some research. The odds are in our favor. Latest stats show that only four out of ten rapes even get reported. That means nearly two-thirds don't. The conviction rate is even lower."

"I don't know, Charlie. I couldn't hurt someone."

"She won't get hurt. As long as she does what we tell her to do. C'mon, Duane. Don't you want to get your dick sucked again? Wouldn't you like to be in control for just once?"

Duane closed his eyes. His sexual fantasy was already unfolding. His breathing increased.

"Who?" he asked finally. "Who would it be?"

I spent the next fifteen minutes outlining my plan. Duane didn't hesitate. He was in.

###

Here's the deal about a family therapist. Most of them work alone, often in a small cramped space. Many can't afford a receptionist so they really are isolated. They tend to use music or sound machines to protect the privacy of the conversation during sessions.

And most importantly, most family therapists are women.

Accessible. Vulnerable. Desirable.

Duane and I both lived in Lake Pointe, on the edge of the suburban sprawl outside Chicago. I wanted a therapist who was in a nearby town, but not too far away. I sat down one night at my computer and began to Google FAMILY THERAPIST CARMEL. Nearby Carmel boasted more than 40,000 residents and enjoyed a thriving downtown.

The Psychology Today website made the search even easier as they provided lists of licensed therapists in each community. Twenty names and photos quickly popped up. Five men and fifteen women. I started scrolling through the photos. I stopped halfway down at the name Joyce Cody. Her photo was just a head shot, but the striking blonde hair and reassuring smile showed promise for the rest of her body.

I clicked on her link and read her professional bio. Graduate of an on-line college. Masters degree. No Ph.D. Sliding scale for fees. Specialized in family issues. Speaks Spanish. Her office address, phone number, and email were included. I typed her address in Google for a search. The map popped up. Her office apparently was in an old house off the downtown.

Joyce Cody. Maybe 30, still starting out. Online degree. Office in a house. Most likely searching for clients. Can't afford a receptionist. She works alone.

Accessible. Vulnerable. Desirable.

Back on her bio page, I copied her email address. I had already created a fake email account and decided to use the name Ben Martin, a name common enough and difficult to trace.

"Dear Ms. Cody," I typed. "I am new to the area and hoping to find professional counseling services to help repair a dysfunctional relationship with my younger brother, Dennis. I'm concerned about his well being and would appreciate your honest direction. Your professional background seems to suggest that this is something you can help me with. I look forward to hearing from you. Thank you."

I fired off the email and stared for a little longer at the photo of family therapist Joyce Cody. I didn't know if she would respond, or not.

Her email came in at ten o'clock the next morning. "Dear Mr. Martin," she wrote. "First of all, welcome to Carmel. It's a wonderful city and I hope you will enjoy it as I have. I am sorry to hear about the relationship with your brother. Please call me at 779-555-6938 if you would like an appointment. Thank you."

I rocked back and forth in my chair, trying to stay calm. This was happening. It was no longer a fantasy. But I had to play it carefully. I certainly couldn't call her and risk my phone number being traced should she decide to report us to the police. I thought for a long moment before emailing my response.

"Dear Ms. Cody. Thank you for your prompt response and willingness to take me on as a client. Unfortunately I don't currently have access to a phone. Mine was stolen just before moving and I need to get a new one. Fast! Any chance we could just email until that's resolved? It's so embarrassing! Thank you for understanding."

Joyce Cody responded later that afternoon. "So sorry to hear about your phone. Yes, I do have an opening Friday at 9 a.m. Might that work?"

I struggled to stay calm as I wrote back, indicating how grateful I was. How much I was looking forward to meeting her Friday morning. Today was only Tuesday. This would be a long week.

###

I arrived at the house on Plymouth Street a few minutes before my scheduled appointment. It was a two-story building, splashed with a new coat of white paint. Wide front porch. Shutters on the windows. Lawn immaculately trimmed. Someone had planted roses.

I walked up the front sidewalk and the four steps to the porch. The main floor seemed to be some kind of daycare center and I could hear children singing inside. A printed sign hanging on the front door advised clients of Joyce Cody to walk around to the back.

I followed the sidewalk around to what was clearly an addition to the original house. But there was only one door and it was marked JOYCE CODY, FAMILY THERAPIST. I walked inside to a tiny, carpeted waiting area. A few chairs. National Public Radio played softly on the radio in the corner. Background noise, as predicted. Isolated, as predicted. No receptionist, as predicted. I took the chair nearest the door.

Just before nine a.m. the door opened and Joyce Cody came out, carrying a clipboard and pen.

"Mister Martin?"

I shot to my feet. "Yes, good morning."

"Good morning. I'm Joyce Cody," she said, shaking my hand. Friendly, but professional.

I tried not to stare, but she was beautiful. Blonde hair now longer than her original web site photo suggested. Five feet, seven inches easily. Trim body, but those breasts had to be 36-C. Had to be. She wore a white cotton shirt and a long black skirt.

She handed me the clipboard and pen. "I need you to fill this out, please. It's just basic information. Bring it inside when you're ready."

"No problem," I replied.

"Take your time. Just trying to get to know you."

I plopped back down in the chair. Joyce spun around, heading back inside her office, giving me my first look at that gorgeous tight ass of her. She left her office door open.

I could hardly concentrate. Fuck Duane. I wanted to march in there now and take her. It took me a second to settle down, but I had to focus on the paperwork at hand. I had to make sure I was leaving no obvious clues. This was all basic stuff: Name, address, phone number, occupation. History of therapy. Reasons for appointment. Insurance. Usual first-time bullshit. I printed poorly to help cover my tracks and made up as much as I could. When I finished, I stood up and walked inside the office.

Joyce was sitting at her desk, her back to me, scribbling notes, wearing reading glasses. There was a large picture window where the sunlight dropped through the indoor plants. An expensive couch ran along the opposite wall with two other chairs facing it. The wood floor was covered by an Oriental rug. Everything was warm and earth tone in color. Someone had good taste.

"Should I shut the door?" I asked.

"Please," Joyce said, still making notes.

I closed the door, feeling the door knob as I did. Push button lock. Excellent.

I walked across the office and handed Joyce the clipboard and pen.

"Thank you," she said.

I glanced around the room and decided to sit at the couch. Joyce brought the clipboard over and sat in the chair opposite me, a discreet professional distance. There was a coffee table between us. I reached in my wallet and pulled out five $20 bills and slid them over to Joyce.

"Your web site said it's a hundred dollars a session."

Joyce smiled. "Thank you, Mister Martin. I appreciate payment up front."

She gave my paperwork a glance. "You're a web site designer?"

"Yes. I don't claim to be the best, but it's a pretty good living. I'm my own boss. I don't like to be told what to do, you know?"

Joyce nodded her head in agreement. "Nor do I. I hate people trying to tell me what to do."

I bit my tongue, holding back.

"You have my curiosity, Mister Martin. Why me?"

I threw my hands up in the air. "The truth? I really don't know anybody here so there was nobody to ask. I found you on the Internet. You deal with family issues. You had some very positive reviews on Yelp. You're not that far from me. I can afford you. Is that enough?"

Joyce smiled. "That's enough, I guess. We'll find out. Tell me, Mister Martin—"

"Please call me Ben."

"OK...Ben. What's going on with your brother?"

It was a performance worthy of an Academy Award. Seriously. I had practiced and practiced my story all week, striving to be consistent and avoid being tripped up by a skilled listener. "Dennis" was my younger brother and we had had a falling out ten years previously. Dennis had stolen money from me, a lot of money to feed his raging drug problem. We hadn't spoken a word. But Dennis had supposedly gotten the help he needed. He was trying to turn his life around and he wanted to repair our relationship. I was willing, I explained, but only if Dennis agreed to go to therapy with me. Too many ghosts.

As I talked, Joyce made copious notes, Asking basic questions. I knew the routine. Our session started at 9.a.m. She would wrap up by 9:50 to move me out before her ten o'clock showed up. Fifty minutes. That's it.

Fine. All that mattered to me was that Joyce Cody would be interested in my story and that she would agree to see us together.

"I guess that's what I'm really here for," I said, finally. "I want things to be right with Dennis again, but I'll only meet him on neutral ground. And only with a professional like you."

Joyce took it all in. "And Dennis is willing to come to a session?"

"Absolutely. We both want you. Totally."

Joyce looked at her notes. "Just so you know, I charge $150 for couples of any kind."

"That's fine," I gushed. "I can't thank you enough for this. My brother will be so excited."

Joyce stood up and crossed to her desk, her long legs on display. Shit, I was already undressing her in my mind. She casually slid open her top desk drawer and stashed the $100 in a box. Then she opened her schedule book.

"Things are kind of tight next week," she said.

"We can come in any time. Nothing is more important than seeing you."

"How about Tuesday morning at 9?"

"Is 10 o'clock open?"

"No, Sorry. I have someone coming in."

I made a note of her response. Somebody coming in after us. We'd have 50 minutes. That's all.

"9 a.m. would be fine. Perfect."

Joyce walked me to the reception area. We shook hands.

"I'll see you and your brother on Tuesday."

The car was parked down the street. My heart raced as I fumbled with my cell phone, trying to call Duane.

He answered. "Give me good news, bro'"

"Game on," I shouted in the phone. "Tuesday morning. Get ready."

###

Duane and I sat in the front seat of my car. Duane drummed his fingers nervously on the dashboard. I gave him a look. He stopped.

My voice was calm. "One last time. No use of names. Don't say anything that might ID us."

"We don't hurt her," Duane insisted. Again.

"We don't hurt her," I agreed. "But we have less than 50 minutes. We have to take charge from the beginning. She has to do what we tell her to do. Understand? You're in control, Duane. For once."

Duane nodded. "I get it."

"So just do as we agreed. Stick to the plan."

I started to get out of the car.

Duane had one last question. "Is she really that hot?" he wanted to know.

"Like the fucking Sahara desert," I said. "And in a few minutes, we'll be exploring."

Duane was already excited. I grabbed my blue knapsack from the backseat, slung it on my shoulder, and started to cross Plymouth Street. My brother stuck close. We walked around the back of the house.

"Here we go," I said.

"Here we go," Duane agreed.

We went inside the waiting room. The door to Joyce's office was closed. The radio played public radio. Neither one of us could sit down. I stared quietly at the floor. Duane pretended to be interested in the artwork.

At 8:59, the door opened and Joyce walked out to join us, her smile already on. She wore a blue shirt under a dark brown vest with matching skirt, shorter than what she had worn last Friday.

"Gentlemen. Good morning."

"Morning," we both mumbled.

She walked directly to Duane. "Hello, I'm Joyce Cody."

They shook hands. Duane could hardly speak. "H-Hi."

Joyce then shook my hand. "Good to see you again, Ben."

"Thanks. We've both been looking forward to this."

Joyce gestured towards her office. "Please. Let's get started."

The sequence was important. Joyce had to enter first.

I gestured in return. "Please. After you."

Joyce nodded in appreciation and started walking towards her office, talking about the weather.

"I can't believe this weather. What a beautiful day out there, huh?"

Duane and I exchanged excited looks. He pointed towards Joyce in disbelief, clearly in awe of her beauty.

That's how it began. Joyce walking in her office, commenting on the weather. Followed by Duane who could not keep his eyes off her ass. Then me.

"Now!" I yelled.

###

We were back in the car. Back in Lake Pointe. Back in the parking lot of Ike's. The clock on the dashboard read 10:48. Duane stared mindlessly straight ahead, lost in thought. I knew where his head was. Frankly, mine was still there, too.

"You, OK?" I asked.

Duane nodded. He reached down and grabbed my knapsack off the floor. Zipped open the top pocket and pulled out my 12 inch hunting knife.

"Mister Persuader," Duane said with a smile.

"It showed we were serious, didn't it? I wasn't going to hurt her, but she needed to know who was in charge."

"I think my cock did that just fine."

Duane stuffed the knife back in the pocket. Took out the iPhone in a purple case.

"Are we keeping her phone?"

"Maybe for awhile. I'll get it to her sometime."

Next. The light pink bra, 36-C. And the purple panties with the black fringe from Victoria's Secret. Duane stared at both.

"What'll about these?"

"Keep 'em," I said. "Souvenirs of our big morning. Who knows? We might start a collection."

Duane rubbed the panties between his thumb and forefinger. "I can't believe we did that, Charlie."

"Oh, we did that all right, my brother," I said, reaching for my cell phone. I tapped the screen and found the photos. "Do you need a reminder?"

Duane snatched the phone out of my hands. "Let me see."

I leaned over as he quietly began scrolling through the photos from our morning session. Duane with his hand over Joyce's mouth and his arm squeezed tight around her waist. Joyce with her vest off and shirt unbuttoned. Joyce removing her bra, introducing us to her firm large tits. Duane had become far too excited by that point, so there was a photo of a half-dressed Joyce on the couch sucking Duane's cock and making him come for the first time in just a couple minutes.

"She really sucked me good, didn't she?" Duane said, staring at the photo.

"Joycie knew her stuff. For sure," I agreed. Duane kept scrolling through. Joyce wearing just her panties. Then completely naked.

"Could you believe how big her bush was?" I chuckled.

"It was huge," my brother agreed.

There were dozens of photos. All of Joyce. In each case, eyes closed in shame. Or looking down in quiet protest. No trace of that sunshine smile. Joyce bent over. Lying on the Oriental rug, spreading her legs. Forced to touch her pussy. On her knees, taking one of our cocks in each hand. Being taken from behind by Duane. Being taken from behind by me. Cum sprayed on her face.

"Are you really going to post these on the Internet?" Duane asked.

"Maybe. But we had to tell her something, didn't we? I mean, we don't want her going to the cops. She has to keep her mouth shut about what happened."

"She promised us she wouldn't. I heard her say it."

"Joyce would have said anything to get us to leave. But I don't think we have to worry. We're good."

Duane scrolled back to the photo of him grinning while standing behind a naked Joyce, his hands clamped over each of her breasts. "I'd go back and fuck her again. Right now!"

I laughed. "Whoa. Time out," I said. "The woman sucked your dick. You slammed her from behind and gave her the old Missionary hello. That's three times for you. I got the best blow job I've ever had. I made her bark like a dog and I went up the butt. Six times in 50 minutes, brother. We should both be pretty drained at this point."

Duane handed me back the phone. "She didn't fight. She didn't fight us. I thought she would."

I shook my head. "How? You're over six feet tall. You've got almost a hundred pounds on her. There were two of us. What did she have? A little thing of Mace in her purse. Big fucking deal. She saw the hunting knife and she knew who was in charge."

I scrolled through the photos. "Besides, she's no dummy. There were kids upstairs. She had that old lady coming in at ten. Didn't want her to be involved. Joyce made the right decision. Give us what we wanted and get us the hell outta there."

"I didn't mean to yell at her, Charlie."

"You were taking control, Duane. You had to show her who was in charge. Who knows? She might have screamed. She might have tried to escape. We did everything right. We took her by complete surprise. We took control. We cut off any choice she had. We threatened her. And we just enjoyed the best pussy either one of us have ever had."

I found the photo I was looking for. The close-up of her pussy and the thatch of blonde hair. I showed it to Duane. "I mean, c'mon, have you ever seen pussy that good?"

Duane nodded in agreement. "Can I see the video? Did it come out?"

"Which one?"

"You know..."

"Of course. That was classic stuff."

I took my phone and went to video. Found the last one. Tapped it and handed the phone to Duane.