tagBDSMHitting the Bottom Ch. 04

Hitting the Bottom Ch. 04


Author's note:

I have edited this chapter following comments from @chiangku and L.E. - thank you both so much!

Also this is an opportunity to properly thank and credit my editor and co-creator, the slimmer, even sexier Brit!


In previous chapters: Dan, a cop, attempts suicide after assaulting his ex-wife/sub, ends up with a head trauma at the hospital where he meets nurse Sandra. After his release from the hospital Sandra provides homecare services.

Seriously though, go and read Ch. 01-03. It would make so much more sense. And for more background on Dan's ex-wife Naomi and her POV on the attack check out my other series Whiskey and Rye.

In this chapter things do heat up between Sandra and Dan... Enjoy! :)


The next few days out of the hospital fall into the same strange routine. Sandra comes to visit me at home twice a day. Her morning visits are kept short, no more than a check-up to make sure I haven't fallen or otherwise hurt myself since the previous evening. Her afternoon visits are longer: She asks me about my dizziness and headaches, checks my vitals and reflexes and neurological responses, verifies I'd taken my meds and redresses the bandages on my head.

She also has me take a bath, staying out in the living room while I wash myself... and while, unbeknown to her, I masturbate with her in mind. Just like I did that first time I keep the drain open and the water running hoping to mask my groans and grunts as I jerk off fast and furious, images of Sandra naked and pliant and responsive dancing behind my tightly-shut eyelids until I cum all over myself, barely containing my cries of release.

I can't seem to help it. I know it's wrong. Pathetic. But the need is simply too great to resist. And knowing she's there in the other room doesn't deter me; if anything it heightens my excitement by making all those fantasies feel almost real, like maybe...


I get better every day. My headaches are milder and further apart and my appetite is back now that the nausea had mostly passed. With every new day the swelling in my lips subsides and I manage more 'real' food along with the fruit shakes and yogurt and eggs until by the end of the week I'm eating pretty much normally again.

I still sleep a lot. And think. I've done all of the planning I could think of for my new business idea; now there's a ton of footwork to do which I won't be able to start on until I'm fully healed. It's frustrating to say the least, but seeing how there's really nothing I can do about it I ignore my own impatience and let myself take this time-off from 'real life' and focus instead internally, letting my thoughts ruminate freely without the pressure of work and other obligations.

I have much to think about.


I got a call from Dr. Pappas' office early Tuesday morning and had my first appointment that same afternoon. It took some logistics - calling for the cab was the easy part; arranging for help down the stairs and later up again proved a bit more challenging but eventually I made it happen. Having achieved it on my own without Jon or Sandra's help gave me a sharp thrill of satisfaction, followed immediately with a self-mocking snort. Big deal.

But once there in the clinic, once the conversation started, all those trivialities faded away as I found myself embracing this new experience with surprising ease and even, to my utter astonishment, with real, growing pleasure.

I didn't know what to expect when I first sat in front of Dr. Pappas in what looked and felt for all intents and purposes like a cozy little living room. I had wondered if I'd be lying down on a couch, but when I entered the room Dr. Pappas showed me into a comfortable, cushioned single chair which embraced me warmly as I sank into it. Dr. Pappas sat in a similar chair, separated from mine by a beautiful rug and a low coffee table.

"So, Dan, tell me about yourself."

"What do you want to know, doc?"

"Anything you feel I should know, for starters."

He answered with a kind smile and leaned back in his chair, settling, so it seems, for a long listen. He wasn't taking notes; instead there was a small recording device set on the coffee table between us which Dr. Pappas started after obtaining my permission.

I started talking. It felt strange. Almost like a first date, and I haven't had one of those in about fifteen years. I told him about my parents, the traditional way I'd been raised, being the only child and grandchild in the family. The pride and dread I'd carried around as a kid knowing the future, indeed the very existence of my family was in my hands. How it made me feel omnipotent and scared shitless all at the same time.

Dr. Pappas asked a few questions here and there mainly for me to elaborate on my relationship with each one of my parents, how I felt about the things I'd told him at the time they happened, and what I made of them now, in hindsight.

I enjoyed the exchange, though I couldn't see how it would help 'fixing' me. I asked Dr. Pappas the question and he chuckled and answered easily:

"Well, in order to 'fix' you I need to understand what made you 'break' in the first place. What we're doing here is to start mapping out your operating system, if you will. Uncover the underlying set of rules and assumptions that govern the way you operate as a human being in the world. Then we will look for incidents where the reality of your life came into conflict with those basic beliefs of yours. In my experience, it's these points of friction that have the most devastating potential."

I nodded; that made sense to me. But then it didn't quite answer my question.

"And then what? Say we've found the cause of my breakdown. How do we then fix it? How can we guarantee it won't happen again?"

Dr. Pappas' smile broadened.

"I like the way you say 'we', Dan. It's important that you know this isn't about me fixing you, but rather about me facilitating your figuring it out for yourself. As for 'how' - I can't know for sure before we identify the cause; but it would probably involve considering new perspectives, new ways of thinking about yourself and your life. Maybe even adjusting some of those underlying beliefs that then dictate the way you interpret what happens in your life."

I thought about that for a moment. Did I want my outlook on life to change? My knee-jerk reaction was a resounding NO - I believe what I believe because it's true! And then I frowned to myself. Hearing the indignation inside my head, in the exact intonation as my father would have said it, no less, was proof enough that challenging my own long-held belief system was exactly what I needed.

"All right. Let's do it then." I smiled faintly back at Dr. Pappas as I said it.

"Good. So, back to your history..."


And so I've done nothing but think and sleep ever since I got back home on Tuesday evening. It becomes obvious to me that on my next meeting with Dr. Pappas - which is scheduled for 3pm today, Friday - I will need to start talking about Naomi. Which means I'd have to talk about our relationship - including the D/s aspect which was at the heart of it. And which I suspect was also the root cause of my attack on her.

Shit, shit, shit!

For a moment I panic and consider calling the whole thing off. There's no way Dr. Pappas will understand. He'll think I'm a freak. Fuck, he will know I'm a freak. Will probably have a fancy medical term to describe my specific flavor of deprivation. If I go there and tell him about it he's going to be appalled, disgusted. He won't want to treat me.

Shit. He may keep seeing me out of sense of duty, perhaps because he was the one to suggest I continue treatment with him. I couldn't bear it if he did that.Pathetic loser.

I feel my heart beating too fast, throbbing again inside my injured skull, and my palms are cold and clammy. I feel nauseous again. I can't breathe. I need to get out of here. I need to cancel that appointment. I won't humiliate myself in front of Dr. Pappas...


I squeeze my thighs hard, sinking my fingernails deep into my skin until I wince and hiss at the pain, using it to focus myself on the here and now, to force myself back from the brink of panic. I blow out air through pursed lips to stave off the dread threatening to overtake me, and then consciously inhale through my nose, slow and deep.

As I manage to get my breathing under control I can finally feel the anxiety subside. I try gulping down but my throat is dry as a desert. I get up and walk unsteadily to the kitchen to drink a glass of water, noticing with a strange sense of detachment that my hands are still shaking bad enough to splash water all around as I bring the glass to my parched lips.

I take care when putting the glass down and walk back to the couch, settling down onto it with a frustrated sigh.

Canceling my appointment with Dr. Pappas won't solve anything; I'd still need treatment and will get into the same exact bind with the next therapist. There's no point trying to avoid this. Instead I will need to trust Dr. Pappas and hope he would be able to put any personal biases aside...

Trust and hope.

Can I do that?


By the time Jon arrives I am fit for a chat again, thank goodness. We share lunch sitting side-by-side on my couch, leaning over the coffee table. Eating the delicious, homemade shepherd's pie feels like heaven. Comfort food got its name for a reason, and I indulge with relish.

There's another appointment for me to get to this morning: I am scheduled to get my sutures out and hopefully also remove the bandages from my head, as Sandra had told me she thought the bandages have done all the good they could and now it would be best to let the wound 'air' in order to fully heal. I accept Jon's invitation to hitch a ride with him after lunch, and soon we're on our way to the hospital.

There's barely any wait at the outpatient clinic and the procedure itself is quicker - and less painful - than I expected, and I find myself with over an hour to kill before my shrink appointment. Grimacing to myself thinking of the long wait I'm in for an idea comes to mind that turns my frown into a faint smile. Tonight will be Sandra's last homecare visit. I could give her a pleasant surprise, a small 'thank you' for all the trouble I'd put her through.

Yeah, that's what I'm gonna do with my time. Let's go.


I leave the cab not a block away from Dr. Pappas' office and walk into the Force's unofficial barber shop. Mr. Sharas stares at me, horrified.

"Christ almighty, what have you done to yourself, officer?! Come, sit down, let me take care of that mess."

I mumble an apologetic response and take my seat. A moment later the old nylon cape is draped around me and Mr. Sharas pumps the pedal raising the chair up to take a closer look at my head. The wrinkles on his face sharpen with his deep frown as his eyes meet mine in the slightly-scratched mirror.

"That's some serious damage you've done there, officer. They've shaved half your hair off, it seems, and the rest is overgrown by a month or so. What would you like me to do?"

I shrug. "You're the expert, Mr. Sharas. Do whatever you think is right. And I'd like to get a shave too if that's all right?"

The old-timer's face clears up at once and he beams down at me upon hearing my unusual request. "Ah! Why didn't you say so? Why of course, of course! Now you let me take good care of you, eh? Just lean back and relax..."

It takes the good part of the hour because Mr. Sharas works slowly, mindful of the injuries still visible on my head and face, but as I step down from the chair and take a closer look at myself in the mirror I nod with satisfaction at my reflection. I still look older than my years and too thin for my frame, and the left side of my face still shines with yellow, green and purple. But the too-long, unkempt hair and 2-week-old beard are gone, replaced by a military-style crop on my head and a clean shaven face. I no longer look like a raving lunatic or a miserable homeless down and out. I look... civilized. Kind of.

"Thank you so much Mr. Sharas. I really appreciate this. How much do I owe you?"

The barber quotes his price and I pay, thanking him again before leaving the shop and walking the block over to the psychiatric clinic. The light exercise is good for my nerves, releasing them with each stride. Still, by the time I take my seat in front of the good doctor my heart is pounding again.

Trust and hope.


"So, Dan, how are you today? You look a thousand times better than you did on Tuesday."

I feel the light trembling in my hands. I want to run, and at the same time I want to just blurt the whole thing out and be done with it. I settle on answering the truth, which is bound to lead the next line of questions directly to the heart of the matter:

"Thanks. I'm doing better. Nervous as hell though."

Dr. Pappas raises his brows. "Oh?"

I shrug and explain: "I figured we'd talk about Naomi today. My ex-wife. There's some... heavy stuff there. I have no idea how you're going to take it."

Dr. Pappas' mouth quirks upwards. "Let me promise two things before you do: One, everything you say here is privileged information and will not be shared with anyone. And two, I've heard some crazy shit before and have dealt just fine. Try me."

He continues to hold my gaze evenly, sitting in his chair and leaning slightly forwards towards me with his elbows on the cushioned armrests, his fingers laced loosely. I find myself mimicking his position, except my own fingers are clenched together so tightly the knuckles turn white. I grind my teeth and swallow past the dryness of my throat a couple times to get my voice to function, and then I blurt out:

"Do you know what a D/s relationship is? Ever heard of BDSM?"

The doctor's eyes widen by a tiny fraction but that's the extent of his outward response. He doesn't pull back. Instead he nods slightly.

"Yes, I've heard of it, of course. Haven't experienced it first-hand, nor have I ever treated a patient who was leading this kind of lifestyle, but I am somewhat familiar with the basics."

Leading the lifestyle, he said. Phew. I exhale slowly, trying not to be too obvious about it, as I feel some of the tension leave my shoulders. It doesn't go unnoticed by Dr. Pappas.

"You seem relieved. Were you expecting a different response?"

I shift my weight uncomfortably and wave my hands trying to find the right words.

"I - It's the first time I'd ever... come out, I guess is the closest way to put it. Aside from my best friend and his wife - who actually learned about it just recently from Naomi, not me - I've never told a soul about my... alternative lifestyle. I didn't know what to expect... I kinda thought you being disgusted and kicking me out of here was the most probable outcome."

He actually smirks at me. "Sorry, you'll need to try much harder than that."

I smile back but it washes away quickly as I answer. "Well you know it gets worse..."

Dr. Pappas sobers up but answers calmly, still looking me straight in the eye. "Yes. I know. You told me at the hospital that you attacked your ex-wife, remember? And I still offered to be your doctor. You accepted, and here we are. You haven't scared me away, and I don't think you will. The question is: Will you trust me not to freak out on you?"

His words startle me; they hit so close to my own thoughts prior to this appointment.

"I - Yeah. I think I can do that. Trust you, that is."

"Good. So let's go back to your relationship with your ex - tell me more about that. Start at the beginning."


The hour-long meeting flies by so fast I am surprised when Dr. Pappas looks at his clock and tells me we will continue on Tuesday. Sitting in the cab on my way home I am deep in thought, processing it in my mind.

We haven't even got to the divorce yet. The conversation was all about how I met Naomi, how and when we decided to marry, and the evolution of our relationship from the occasional spank in the heat of the moment to a proper Dom-sub exchange, not quite 24/7 but certainly more than the odd play session.

We spend quite some time on the theory of it - what BDSM is all about; SSC, power exchange - and I can't escape the memory of the very similar conversation I've had just a few weeks ago with Jon and Annie which took place just before my breakdown. It feels as if a lifetime had passed since. As opposed to my friends' very personal reasons for taking an interest in the subject, Dr. Pappas seems interested in an academic sort of way.

Well at least he cares enough to want to understand me.


Back home I am busy in the kitchen. I was exhausted earlier when I came back from the clinic and crashed for an hour on my couch, but now I feel refreshed and a little agitated. I channel my excess energy into chopping vegetables to make a fresh salad - cucumber, tomato, fresh onion and Kalamata olives. The salty cheese chunks will be added later, as would the olive oil and fresh lemon squeeze.

I'm making dinner in hopes of sharing it with Sandra. I'm not 100% sure she can stay long enough to eat but have decided to take a chance, knowing she had spent all day in nurses' school today and was stopping on her way back home.

She probably has other plans. It is Friday after all.

I ignore that negative little voice in my head and remind myself to trust and hope.This new-found optimism feels strange, like a new pair of shoes that needs to be walked in for a while. I'll make it fit, goddamit. Now finished with the salad I move over to the fridge, pulling that homemade Lasagna I'd been saving for 'a special occasion' out of the freezer. I have made a fresh Tzatziki earlier and have some nice white wine cooling, too. I hope Sandra likes it.

I pop the frozen dish in the oven to heat and take a quick look at the time - 5:40, I've got about 35 minutes before she gets here. Good. Glancing over to my coffee table I make sure it's set nicely - as nicely as can be considering it's not a real dining table and there's no tablecloth - and with a satisfied nod I head out to the shower. I want to be my best when she arrives.

As if to prove to myself that I really am okay I forgo the bath and decide to take a shower instead. It's been fucking ages. Stepping into the steaming water without holding on to anything is a small victory, admittedly, but I savor it all the same. I stand there for a minute soaking the heat up before reaching for the blue shower gel... and pause.

Should I? Or should I not?

Hell yeah. Fuck it all. Besides, the way I've been going I'd probably embarrass myself if I didn't.

Those now-familiar mental images of Sandra come rushing in, filling my head with vivid colors as my slippery palm wraps around my quickly-swelling dick. Vague memories of Naomi still linger as well following my conversation with Dr. Pappas, and my mind seems to hover there for a moment, conjuring up my ex-wife's compact, athletic body and comparing it to Sandra's rounder, curvier form. While I'd always loved Naomi's petite physique it holds surprising little allure to me now; instead there is nothing I want more right at this very minute than to sink into Sandra's luscious femininity. Sink my fingers into her supple flesh. Sink my tongue into her soft sweetness. Sink my cock into her slippery depths.

My left palm is flat against the wall to keep me from falling over while my right fist pumps my now achingly-stiff member going as fast as I can. I don't care how pathetic I am. I don't care how messed up it all is. All I care about is the images of Sandra dancing in my head and the pleasure building in my groin.

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