Fourteen Day Program

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"Here you are, Mr. Raines," she smiled. "We will come back in about a half hour."

"Thank you," he muttered, but distractedly, as his attention was already focused on looking for his wife. He entered, and barely registered the door closing behind him.

And there she was.

She stood immediately from a leather couch, and she came to him before he even had time to take a step and then she was in his arms, and they were kissing, holding each other and kissing, feeling her pressed up next to him, fitting her body to his with practiced ease. He felt the urgency in her kiss, and he returned it, the hours apart expressing themselves without words, the raw emotion filling him, and he squeezed her, and still they kissed, lips pressed to hers, tongues touching, swirling, breath hot and needy. He felt her stepping into him, felt her hips against his own, her hands pulling him in, and he felt the same need in him, felt the blood beginning to rush and swell his organ, and he knew that he would have a hard time waiting until they got home, and wondered if she might be willing to pull over somewhere ...

She broke the kiss then, and buried her head in his chest, still holding him, but he suddenly noticed the pressure at his pelvis stop, and he wondered, sheepishly, if she had felt him getting hard, and pulled away. He pressed his face into the top of her head, the scent of her lovely brown hair so familiar and yet new, as though time away had made it fresh to him. He inhaled the musky warmth of her, and they just stood, and held each other, until her heard her sigh, and felt her arms relax a little. She pulled her shoulders back, and lifted her face to look at his. Her beautiful face, her huge dark eyes and not-too-small nose, smooth hearty skin color, and her full, sensuous lips, and her eyes found his, and they stared at each other as they spoke, both at the same time.

"I love you," he blurted. "I was so worried, I missed you so much, and I didn't know ..."

"I missed you, too, baby, I'm sorry I couldn't tell you, I love you ..."

"...didn't know where you were, why I couldn't see you ..."

"...couldn't tell you, needed to ..., oh, honey, I missed you so bad ..."

"...said you were ok, but needed to be here, I was so worried ..."

"...need you to take me home, baby, please say you'll take me home..."

"...go now, if you want, we can just go ..."

She pulled away from him then, just enough to step back.

"I can't just leave. They have to release me."

"Well, let's go get you released."

"I have to tell you why I was here."

"You can tell me when we get home, or on the way."

"No, honey, they won't allow that. I have to tell you now. We only have about half an hour, they said."

"All right, then, let's go have a seat, and you can tell me now, and then we can get you back home." He took her hand and walked her back to the couch. As they sat, he took in the rest of the room.

On the wall facing the couch was a small table with a flat screen monitor. In the far corner, a small table with five chairs. Two other cushioned chairs faced the couch, and the corner opposite the table, another door, presumably a closet. Robert had called it a conference room; Tom had imagined something larger, corporate. This was more of a patient conference room. For counseling. The décor was warm, inviting and comfortable. Several windows were placed high on the one exterior wall, allowing for muted natural light while providing complete privacy from the outside. Three recessed panels in the ceiling cast illumination on the conference table and the couch and chairs. Non-threatening without being homey. At least Liz had been in a professional setting.

Liz, he saw, was wearing a skirt he could not ever remember seeing. He didn't recall it being what she wore the night she went out. It was a modest length, just above the knee, matched with a plain but elegant white blouse. The skirt exposed a bit of her fabulous leg as she sat near the sofa arm, her knees together, legs crossed at the ankle. He sat next to her, but slightly apart so he could face her. He took both her hands in his.

"Before you start," he said, looking her directly in the eye, "I want you to know that I love you, and that I will always love you. Nothing you say can change that."

Her facial features softened a little, and she squeezed his hands. "Oh, my God, you don't know how much I need you to say that right now."

"Liz, baby, you have nothing to be afraid of. There is nothing you can say to scare me away." She looked away, and he paused, waited for her to meet his eyes again. "When you were first gone, I'll tell you, I was more angry than worried. Before Darla told me you were ok, I was worried. Then angry. But after that, just hurt, and confused. I couldn't think of any good reason why you would want to be apart from me, without an explanation."

"Honey, I'm sorry, I never wanted to hurt you, I..."

"Shh, honey, it's ok. I'm not hurt. I thought I was. I was going to demand an explanation, and yell and carry on and all. But the moment I saw you, all that fell away. And all I want now is to have you back, and nothing, nothing you say can stop me from wanting you and loving you."

She smiled then, a genuinely happy smile, but still he saw some nervousness in her expression. "So then," he said, releasing her hands, and sitting back a little, "why don't you go ahead and tell me whatever you need to tell me so they release you."

"All right," she started, "but first, I have to ask you to promise me something."

"Whatever you need, just..."

"I'm serious, Tom, listen to me."

"You're right, I'm sorry. Go ahead."

She took a deep breath, exhaled slowly. As she began to speak, her hand began tugging slightly on the hem of her dress, but she didn't look aware of it. "I told you that I can't leave unless they release me. For them to release me, I have to tell you why I came here, and about my treatment. It's part of the program." She paused. "After I tell you, their decision to release me is up to you."

"Me?"

"Yes. You have to want to take me home-"

"I do."

"You have to tell them, after I tell you."

"I will."

"I haven't told you anything yet."

"But I've already told you that there is nothing that you can say that-"

"All right, yes, ok. Well, then. Remember that." She inhaled, held it, and the words spilled out. "And you have to agree to their conditions."

"Their conditions? What, of your release?"

"Yes. Unless you agree, they will not tell me to go with you."

"Tell you? You came here on your own, you can leave on your own." He heard the belligerence creeping into his voice, and fought it down. "Honey, I thought you were here voluntarily, you-"

"Tom! Please!" Not a shout, but it got his attention. "Listen to me!" It wasn't even loud, but he noticed, and listened. "When I came here, they described the treatment. I had a choice; I could come here, or I could go to a therapist for ten years and maybe start seeing progress. I knew what I wanted, and I wanted it done. When I signed up they explained that the program was intense, very intense," she paused, "and that when it was complete..." she trailed off, the words now softer, less insistent. "Because of the intensity..." she struggled, "it has to be intense to work so fast, so well," she looked at him pleading with her eyes. "They said that I would be conditioned to do whatever they say." And her face betrayed her desperation.

Tom, for his part, was too confused to be stunned. He tried to speak, couldn't, and realized his mouth was hanging open. He heard a grunt come out, then another exasperated sound, but his voice was operating outside of his brain. Conditioned to do what they say? What?

"Tom."

His mind was racing in every direction but forward. Blood pounded in his ears, making it hard to hear.

"Tom?"

He heard his wife, but found himself unable to react.

"Tom!"

His head shook, and he blinked. "What?"

"Are you all right?"

"Did you say that they conditioned you to do only what they say?"

"Are you ok?"

"Yes, yes, I'm fine. Did you just tell me you allowed someone to brainwash you?"

"It's not brainwashing, please Tom, listen to me, I want to go..."

"It's not brainwashing, but you can only do what they tell you to do."

"Only where it's related to the treatment, please Tom, please don't act like this, please."

"It's a little hard to believe. If it's true. If it's really true, to think you'd allow-"

"Please, just agree to their conditions, please. If you don't they won't tell me to go with you."

"So," he started, "if I agree, they'll tell you to go with me. And then you can leave."

"Yes."

"All right."

"All right what?"

"I'll agree. To their conditions."

"Tom, this is serious. Don't kid me!"

"I'm not," he said. He tried to imagine the conditions. Be supportive. Bring her for follow-up visits? "I will tell them that I want to take you home, and that I will agree to their conditions."

"Please promise me." Again she sounded slightly desperate. It must have been some intensive therapy. "Please." She sounded vulnerable, almost pleading. "Promise me."

He leaned to her, took her hands again, and looked her in the eye. "Liz, I promise, that no matter what you say, I will still love you and still want you, and that I will take you home with me today, and I promise to accept all the conditions of your release, no matter what." He kissed her on the forehead, and then hugged her reassuringly. He felt the tension in her, and stayed holding her as it eased, and she relaxed.

And he let her go. "I think," he said, leaning back against the couch, "that we are going to run out of time. We probably only have about twenty minutes left." He held his hands out to her, palms up. "We'd better get started. Why don't you tell me why you're here?"

She smiled. Not a partial, nervous halfway smile; a full, radiant from-the-inside smile, the one that he'd fallen on love with years ago. She smiled with her whole face, from her chin to her eyes, and her hands came up to her face. She beamed at him, and she flushed a little.

"I will tell you," she began, "I will tell you it all. I promise," she vowed. "But please don't interrupt me or ask me questions while I'm telling it, okay? Let me get through it once, now, so we can finish. Promise me."

"I feel like I'm doing a lot of promising, but okay, sure. I promise."

"Last one, I swear." She knotted her fingers in her lap. "If you have any questions, you can ask them on the way home." No smile now. Her lips barely moved against her gritted teeth as she spoke. "Please don't think less of me."

"I could never."

"All right." She took a deep breath, and began.

"For our one-year anniversary, we went on vacation. We got a little drunk one night and had sex on the hotel balcony. People below us saw us, and cheered. You remember that?" He nodded. "They cheered, and we got so hot that they were watching, that we did it again. Remember?" She smiled again, wistfully this time. "That was so hot. When we were dating, and engaged, and first married, sex was passionate, and thrilling. So great. So lively." She took a breath. "For the last few years, it feels a little, well, less. It's good, even great, don't get me wrong. It just seems like it's not as fresh anymore." She paused. "Like we know each other too well. And we just keep doing what we always do." She looked at him. "I don't know how you feel about this, or whether you even noticed, or if you would say anything if you did. But I noticed."

She paused, and breathed deeply. "I first noticed it a few years ago. And then I couldn't stop seeing it. And it bothered me. It bothered me because I knew it was me who made it that way."

"A couple of years after The Balcony Event, you came in my mouth when I was sucking you, and I totally lost it on you. We fought for weeks about that. And you don't know this, but I was angry for months after that. I've never let you do it since. I know that you know that. Here's what you might not realize. You stopped asking." She looked at him. "I don't know if you stopped wanting to, but you stopped asking. Because the answer was always no."

"A couple of years later you wanted me to suck you after you fucked me, which I had done a couple of times in our early days. You remember this? I didn't do it. I told you, 'I don't like that'. You remember?

"It took me a while to figure out that I had become the barrier, the stopper. I looked at our sex together and thought it was falling short, it wasn't growing anymore. And I knew that those two things I did were the cause. That's where it started. I put up the guardrail, and we stayed on the path after that."

"It bothered me. I didn't talk to you about it, because frankly, I was a little bit ashamed, I mean, I was blaming myself for kind of limiting our sex life. Whether it really was limiting or not, doesn't really matter, and whether I was the cause or not, also didn't matter. I had judged it as limiting, and I felt I was responsible."

"If I could have undone my damage, I would have. But the more I thought about it, the more I saw the real problem. At first I rationalized it, and said those things were disgusting. But then, in thinking about them, I would get, well, aroused." She paused, looked at him. "I couldn't figure out how it could be both exciting and disgusting. But it was." She grimaced a little. "I thought about it for a long time. I defended myself for not doing those disgusting things. I said that women don't do that. I knew from when I was younger what people thought about girls who did, y'know, a lot. Those girls were nasty. People talked about them, and judged them. And thought less of them."

"Me, I was a good girl. That's why I don't do those things, I told myself. But then, why did I get excited when I imagined them?"

"It took a while, but I finally figured out that what was bothering me about these things wasn't other peoples' standards of what good girls do, and what other people think of girls who do those things – it was what I thought! It was MY opinion! I couldn't get past my own judgment of 'nasty' girls who do nasty things. If I did those things, I'd have to judge myself. So if I denied doing it, I could convince myself it really was nasty, and that I was still a good girl, in my own warped judgment."

"Stupid, right," she grinned, and continued. "I actually did talk to a regular therapist, who at least helped confirm my amateur diagnosis. But I knew I didn't want to take ten years getting to the bottom of my relationship with my mother to get the sex I had as a newlywed. You know me, I'm a little impatient. And what motivated me more was, now that I knew my problem, I knew I could get past it, because if I was drunk, I could be Balcony Girl. But I couldn't go through life drunk, so I had to find another way."

"Anyway, on one of our nights out, about six months ago, everyone else had gone home, and Darla and I were the only ones left, and we'd been talking all night about sex, and one thing led to another, and I mentioned how I felt I was holding back on our sex lives, and she said, 'yeah, I used to have the same problem.' In the hour that followed, she told me about how she used to be, and how she is now, and some of the things she's done, and I just totally related, and then finally I asked her how she got past her issues, and she told me about this place."

"A couple of days later, when we were both sober, I asked her again, and she gave me a much better description of the place, and what they could do for me, and how." She nodded her head, acknowledging a private memory. "She didn't color the story much. She told it pretty much the way it is." She glanced sidelong at him. "I thought about it for a long time. Two months ago I decided that I wanted to go for it, and she made the appointment with me. I went on two interviews, and they agreed to take me into the program."

"The program here uses common psychological techniques, but on a much accelerated time frame." She sounded like she was reciting, a rehearsed speech. "Role playing, challenging pre-conceived notions, reward-based activity, and verbal drills and reinforcement are all utilized. But to accelerate the process, some less common practices are used. Sleep deprivation, subliminal suggestion, sleep learning, and reward denial, for instance."

"The goal of my treatment was not just for me to stop disliking certain arousing ideas or fantasies, but to start liking them, the embrace them, and to accept myself embracing them." She was back to just talking now. Had the recitation been part of the treatment? "To open the door to possibilities. Remember when I said, 'I don't like that'? Well, you won't hear that again from this girl." She looked at him, held his gaze. "Those nasty ideas and fantasies that aroused me? They don't scare me anymore. You won't be hearing 'no' from me." She took his hands now, and held them. "When you take me home today, we'll be starting the rest of our lives." She grinned. "Are you ready for it?"

Tom felt a little stirring below his belt. Liz had never looked more attractive, never been sexier. Two weeks alone, and he was going to bring home his wife, who wanted to say yes. To anything? He glanced at his watch, saw they had maybe ten more minutes. "So," he dared, "if I asked you to let me cum in your mouth, you'd let me?"

"A little better than that, I think. I didn't go through all this to tolerate something I don't like. If you tell me you want to cum in my mouth," she dropped her voice to a hoarse whisper, and moved her lips closer to his, "I will love it. I'll want you to shoot all your hot cum in my mouth, so I can swallow it down."

Tom's pants suddenly became uncomfortable, with his erection swollen at an awkward angle. He shifted in his seat, trying to relieve the pressure. "Wow," he moaned, "sounds like they did a great job." He adjusted himself. "It's a shame we don't have more time, I'd like to test that theory."

"Oh, it wouldn't work yet."

"Huh?"

"It wouldn't work yet. It won't work until they tell me to."

"When they tell you that you can leave?"

"Well, when they tell me to leave with you, they'll tell me to listen to you, and do what you say. Until then, I would only do what they say."

Tom felt his erection twitch, as though it didn't know whether to deflate or get harder. Whatever I say? Only what they say? He had some ideas of what he might tell her to do. What would they tell her? What had they already told her? "I don't understand. Or I think I don't ..."

"Tom, it's all right, I told you. As long as you agree to take me home, and agree with their conditions, then they'll tell me to listen to you."

"And you will do whatever they say?"

"Yes, where it pertains to my treatment."

"And you just obey?"

"It's not obedience, Tom. And it won't be for you, either." She grinned devilishly. "It's enthusiasm."

Tom grinned back, imagining his near future, but then his grin faded, as he thought of the last two weeks. "Your treatment," he began, "did they, during your-"

"We have to stop now, Tom."

"But I-"

She stood, hands smoothing her skirt. "We're out of time, I'll tell Ann to get the others, but then we'll only have about a minute," she told him, approaching the door. "Hold on." She reached for the knob, pulled it open a crack, and spoke softly. "We're ready, Ann." Tom didn't hear a reply, and Liz softly closed the door. She turned to face him again, but looked down at the floor. He barely heard her when she spoke.

"They will tell you things when they come in," she began, signaling him to listen. "And will tell me to tell you things. They will insist that I tell you, and that you listen." She looked up at him. Again, that look of anxiety, only this time her eyes glistened, and her face flushed. Was it fear or excitement? "How you react is important, they will be watching for your reaction." She stepped toward him. "Please don't get angry. Please be supportive, and," she was almost pleading, "please remember to agree to their conditions." She was in front of him now, reached out for his her hands, and he took them. "Remember that I did this for us." She smiled, looking hopeful and encouraging. "If you go with it, it know it'll be worth it."