tagMind ControlThe Addicted Natural Ch. 05

The Addicted Natural Ch. 05


Chapter 5 – Dee's Diary – Consequences of a Shower

Don't you just hate it when you're reading a book, and long about Chapter 5, just as you're hoping the author is going to shed some badly-needed light on the subject, you encounter the words:

One Year Later.

Still, that's just what is about to happen here, so please try not to choke on your disappointment and let's just muddle on. The truth of it is that I wrote the first part of this little venture never planning to go any further, and certainly never planning to publish it on line for others to see. It resided in an obscure folder, buried in my computer's hard drive for a very long time. But events have a way of bringing about the most unexpected threads that eventually weave a plot worthy of the public's interest.

Now, by this point, you've probably formed some conceived opinions about me (if you stick it out and follow this diatribe to the end, I'll bet those opinions are going to change).
Whether you view me as a staunch fighter for truth, justice and the American way or just some lucky nerd that got the girl, you've probably noticed that modesty is not my strongest suite. While this rambling bunch of words may not impress you, I HAVE been known to string subjects and predicates together effectively. On the other hand, I've had some small experience with editing, as well, and so I also pride myself in recognizing effective writing when I see it.

Quite frankly, when I came across Dee's diary, I had to admit that she'd done an excellent job of piecing together all the pertinent facts surrounding the next part of our saga. Do I feel badly about publishing such personal insights? Absolutely not. I mean, it's not as if she can complain about such a violation of privacy. And this, her last journal (alas, no other will ever be written), sums it all up with the sort of emotionally vivid observation I could never attain.

Still, I must warn the reader that this story is about ME! It's about my long, sad slide into the depths of depravity. In the last portion of our story, you observed me making a solemn oath that I would NEVER follow in the footsteps of the antagonist. And in this portion .... Well, let's just continue, shall we?



Dear Diary,

Well, I've done it. I've figured it all out. In my last entry, I told you why. Now I can report where, when and how.

It's going to be at the lake house, so I'll be all alone and miles from anyone. It's going to happen next Tuesday (Ben and Martha's day off). And I'm going to use the pills Dr. Walters gave me. They're very strong (I've already written about how they help me sleep through the night without a hint of the dream), and they have all sorts of warnings about only taking one per night. I've started skipping them. The nightmares are back, but that won't last long ... just until next Tuesday. The prescription calls for one refill, and I'll be able to do that on Tuesday morning. That will give me eleven pills, and that'll surely be enough.

Now that it's all decided, I feel much better. I really do. I'll sign the new will tomorrow morning, and the private lawyer I picked out seems like a good one. It should be air tight. The money will be gone (finally gone!), and so will I. It will all go to good causes. I just wish I could say that my life had been for a good cause ....

I just picked out my last novel. I think I'll end with an old-fashioned mystery. The Door, by Mary Roberts Rinehart. I've never read her before. I'm sure I can finish by Tuesday.

I'm going to go to the gym every day this weekend and start on a diet. I want to lose five pounds.

I do hope I'll be a pretty corpse.


Dear Diary,

You're not going to believe this. I've met somebody! No, not a guy; it's a girl. And no, it's not THAT, either. I think she's going to be a friend. A real friend! I haven't had a girl friend since ... well, I guess since Francine Schwartz when I was thirteen (and THAT didn't last too long, thanks to Daddy). Have I actually spent my entire life with no friends?

Anyway, her name is Brenda Fielding, and I met her at the gym in the workout room. I was on a treadmill, and she was on a Stairmaster near the other end of the room. We were facing each other, and I watched as this guy on the machine next to hers started talking to her. She seemed really shy, but whatever she said to him finally discouraged him, and after a few more minute's exercise, he got off his machine, then came over and started hitting on ME! It took me awhile to convince him that I wasn't in the market, either, and at last, he left to search of better hunting grounds. She caught my eye and smiled at me, and I smiled back. Then, about ten minutes later, the whole scene was repeated with another guy, but in reverse. First this new asshole started flirting with me, and when I FINALLY discouraged him, he got off his treadmill and tired to hit on HER! The whole scene was so funny that she started laughing out loud, which really pissed him off. And then she got off her machine and came over and started working out on the one next to mine.

We talked and talked, and it made the hour seem to just fly by; and when we were finished (I think she extended her workout until I was done, but I'm not sure), she asked me if I'd like to go out and get a drink with her. I told her that I hadn't brought a change of clothes, so I couldn't, and she said, well, if we couldn't go out, we could get a couple veggie drinks and sip them at the concession stand out by the pool. I followed her into the locker room, and stood nervously as she stopped in front of a locker and immediately started stripping out of her clothes. She looked at me sort of funny and said something like "Come on, let's get showered and go to the refreshment stand," and I told her that I always waited and showered at home, and that I didn't even have a towel. It was hard to carry on a conversation. She has a really, really nice body (not grotesquely top-heavy like me), and I was trying hard not to stare. I just couldn't tell her the REAL reason I never shower at the gym. But she just sort of seemed to ignore my stares, shrugged, and told me what kind of drink she wanted and that she'd meet me there in a few minutes, and she flounced off to the showers.

I bought the drinks and only waited about ten minutes before she walked up wearing a pretty matching sweat outfit, and we continued our conversation from the gym as if it had never been interrupted.

She's some sort of freelance reporter that writes articles for various types of magazines. She's married to a prof in the English department out at the Uninversity, and I guess they've only been together about a year, because the honeymoon DEFINITELY isn't over yet. She's still bonkers over the guy. To tell you the truth, I think she carries the whole "adoration" thing a little too far, because whenever she talked about him, she got this far-away, dopey sort of look in her eyes. But that didn't happen too often, because she was always discretely trying to turn the conversation back toward me, trying to find out who I was, what I did. She must be a pretty good journalist (unless she already KNEW who I was – I was never really sure). Anyway, I was having none of that, and I gave her my usual vague answers and shifted the conversation right back her way. We must have sparred that way for another hour. It was fun. She was fun! I really, really like her.

Before it was over, she had worked a promise out of me that we'd do another workout together at 11:00 tomorrow and then shower, change, and go to lunch. I finally relented by telling her it would be my treat. As soon as I got home, I made reservations at Alphonse's. I think I'll wear that blue silk blouse I bought two years ago: the one Daddy would never let me wear.

I don't know how I'm going to get out of that shower, though. I CAN'T let her see me in the shower. No one's ever seen me like that. I'd just die if anyone ever saw!

Oh well. After Tuesday, it won't really matter, I guess. No one will see that part of me, even if the service is open-casket.

I wonder if Brenda will come to my funeral.


Dear Diary,

This is going to be a long entry. I finally told somebody! I still can't believe it. I never even wrote about it in my journal after "the event" ... I couldn't bring myself to even think about it! But now I've told Brenda, and I believe that maybe if I write it all down here, I can finally accept what happened. Not that it's going to change my mind about Tuesday. But it would be nice to finally feel at peace about the whole thing at the end of my life.

We met today as agreed. I've never brought a change of clothes to the gym before, and I wasn't really sure how the system worked. I found an empty locker that no one was using and hung my clothes in it. I didn't have a lock, and I think that I was sort of hoping that someone would steal my things so I would have a good excuse when it came time for the dreaded shower, but after our workout (it went by so fast talking to Brenda!) everything was still there. I just started getting dressed in my nice clothes, putting them on over my sports bra and panties, but Brenda laughed and joked about me being all "stinky" for our afternoon out and started laughing and tugging at me to get my offensive body into the shower. After all my lame excuses were used up, I finally surrendered and stripped. There was no one else in the locker room at that time (thank God!), so I figured that if I always stood facing her, maybe she wouldn't notice ... maybe she wouldn't see.

She seemed sort of smug having finally gotten me to agree to accompany her to the shower, and she stopped her giggling banter and taunting as I shyly finished taking off the bra and panties, openly staring at me and blushing when she realized she was gawking. She said I had nice breasts. They're not nice. They're just big. I hate them, and I told her so. But she laughed at that, and said that ALL women hate their breasts, or at least wished they were different. She motioned me toward the showers, but I made sure she walked in front of me.

In the shower, I always faced her, turning on the water as I stood to one side, my back toward the wall. She didn't seem to catch on at first, and after several minutes I actually thought I was going to get out of there and get my clothes back on before she saw, but I got soap in my eyes and must have turned too much as I was rinsing it out. The next thing I knew, she had actually put her hand on my butt.

I froze. I'd been caught. I couldn't look at her; couldn't even look up. I stood very still, looking down at my feet, the soap still stinging my eyes; though the tears that came weren't from the soap, of course. But in the shower, she wouldn't see the tears. She wouldn't hear me cry, either. I'm a quiet crier. Living with Daddy taught me that, and I can honestly say that he NEVER heard me cry. Big girls don't cry. All my tears are silent.

She used both hands, one on my waist and the other on the top part of my butt, to slowly turn me so she could better see that part of me. I silently let her. I've never been so embarrassed! Her fingers traced first one of the longest scars, then another. From the small of my back to the bottom curve of my ass. From my left cheek almost to my shoulders. Her fingers were soft. Gentle. Erotic. I shivered uncontrollably for a moment.

"It still hasn't healed," she said softly.

"Yes it has," I said in words stronger than I thought I was capable of producing. "The wounds healed almost two years ago."

"It's not the physical scars I'm talking about," she said, sadly.

My head snapped up, and I found myself startled by the proximity of her. Her face was inches from mine, her eyes not looking down at the scars, but directly into my own, directly into the center of my very being. Her hands were still on my body. Her left nipple scraped briefly across my right one. I couldn't look away. But then she stepped back from me and turned toward her own shower nozzle.

"You'd better hurry," she said, as if nothing had happened. "Your hair is wet, and I'm going to have to help you with it. What time are the reservations for?"

I was still breathless. Hadn't she felt it? Whatever it was ... that spark ... that feeling as if our souls had touched? I fought for control. "One fifteen," I muttered.

She turned off her shower and walked out into the dressing room. "We'd better hurry. We can borrow a hair dryer from the front desk."

We helped each other dress, and I must admit that when were finished, we looked pretty foxy. Brenda, as I think I've mentioned before, is absolutely gorgeous. Her hair is very long, very straight, and very black. The blue silk blouse and white slacks she chose made her look chic, intelligent and sexy, and I felt a little like the ugly girlfriend that always attaches herself to a pretty one to try and gain a little recognition.

Alphonse greeted me like a relative, hugging me and kissing me on both cheeks. I'd only been in there once since Mommy and Daddy died (with Ben and Martha for Martha's birthday), but he insisted on seating us and waiting on us personally. He made a great show of it for Brenda's sake, and I could tell he was enthralled by her. (We wound up spending almost three hours at that table, and at one point, when I had gotten up to use the ladies' room, he made it a point to tell me to take our time and stay as long as we wanted. I pressed four one hundred-dollar bills into his palm and told him what a real dear he was, and asked if he would see to the tip for his waiters. He, of course, never looked at the bills, simply pocketed them and told me I would always be one of his favorite customers. I'm glad I had the opportunity to come here one last time.)

Brenda was nervous, but very excited by the whole affair. I didn't ask, but I got the impression she'd never been in a five-star restaurant. While she never commented on the number and placement of the silverware, she watched me closely but casually. I was quick to pick up the proper fork, so she could follow suit without embarrassment.

I ordered a bottle of Dom, and she watched the cork-popping ritual with glee, but when our glasses were filled, she leaned forward conspiratorially and confided that she had an extraordinarily low tolerance for alcohol. She seemed genuinely distressed that the wine would go to waste. I had to laugh. She is so sincere about everything! She was right about the champagne, though. She sipped that one glass the whole time. I had four! But at the end of it all, we were both about equally tipsy.

Our conversation meandered here and there for awhile, but eventually it became more and more intimate. She changed the subject often, and I was caught off guard more than once. At one point, she started talking about her relationship with her husband; and I've got to say, it sounds absolutely bizarre! He hypnotizes her! Often! Like every day! I must have looked as shocked as I felt, because she was quick to defend him. She insisted that he only does it so often because she wants him to. In fact, she says, she often begs him for it! I was flabbergasted! How could she give up that much control to him, I asked. And she spent several minutes telling me how wonderful it is to just let go, give in, surrender to someone you love. I felt myself getting hot and blushing at the concept. I must admit, it did sound nice. But what do I know? I've never really had a "someone you love." Not really.

She abruptly changed the subject, then shifted it back to her love life, telling me how she confides in Freddy (her husband) about everything; but she hadn't told him about meeting me yet, since he was away on a camping and fishing trip with some of "the guys," and wouldn't be coming back until late this evening. And then again she changed subjects, leaving the real questions hanging in my mind like an anvil suspended from a string. Everything? Was she going to tell him about the scars on my ass and back? Was she going to tell him who I really was? Did she know herself?

And then, during the main course, she was talking about this historical article she was doing, hoping to sell it to a major history journal. It was about some riot that took place in Alton, Illinois around the beginning of the 19th century. And then, without warning, she was telling me about her first sexual experience.

Maybe it was the wine. I'm not really sure. All I know is that I hung on her every word. She had been raped! By her uncle, none the less! I could easily see that telling the story was extremely painful for her. She looked down at her hands as she spoke, and halfway through, she started crying. It was sad and erotic and infuriating and very, very intimate; probably the most intimate story I'd ever heard. I couldn't believe she was telling me about this, the most private and embarrassing moments of her entire life. But the underlying message was there, as well. She was giving me the opportunity to do the same; to tell her about my scars. She was subjecting herself to the pain of telling her story so that I could tell mine if I chose to.

And then, just like that, I WAS telling her. Looking back on it now, it was a really crazy thing to do. I mean, I'd only known this woman for 24 hours, and here I was, telling her something that no one, and I mean NO ONE, knew or even suspected. It just seemed so ... RIGHT to tell her!

And so, dear Diary, for the first time, I'll write the words here. They won't be around for long, of course; I plan to burn all my journals Tuesday evening. But maybe this will help. Saying it to Brenda seemed to.

I had to give her a little background, of course. I told about how Daddy had prohibited me from dating or even going out with friends. I explained how I spent all my days in the big house, studying with tutors and in home study or correspondence courses. And about how the only real free time I ever had was in the garden with Ben, or helping him with the car, or cooking with Martha. The happiest moments of my whole life, the accomplishments I'm proudest of, took place in the flower bed or the kitchen or under the hood of Daddy's Grey Ghost. I was allowed to read for pleasure one hour a day at lunchtime, and two in the evening when I went to bed, as long as I'd done my lessons properly and wasn't being punished by Daddy for some infraction of the rules.

Mommy was always very nice, of course, but Daddy never really allowed her to be a real mother. It was the position of dedicated servants to raise a child. Mommy's life was to be dedicated to Daddy. She spent her days and evenings upstairs in the big room she'd put her quilt racks in, stitching and cutting and batting and stretching. When Daddy called her, she went. When Daddy needed her, she was there. When Daddy wanted her, she gave herself willingly. Always. I listened at their door when I passed sometimes. When I was allowed to watch video movies in my room on weekends (as a reward when I was good), I often watched films that had love scenes, so I knew the sounds of love. Mommy and Daddy made them behind that door sometimes. She was his lover. His slave. Such was the position of "wife" in Daddy's eyes.

When I turned twenty, Daddy built me a mutual fund portfolio, and I had to manage it, with help at first, of course; but eventually he made me do it all by myself, and he kept putting more and more money into it. I hated it! But, of course, I couldn't complain. This is what Daddy had prepared me for. This was my legacy. This was my Hell.

When I was twenty-two, the new Economics building opened on the campus; the one built entirely from his contributions; the one bearing his name. The dean, as a gesture, offered to allow the generous patron's only daughter to attend the first graduate course in the new spaces. And so, for the first time, I was allowed outside unsupervised. Ben drove me in the Ghost, and that, of course, made it a bit like a circus. A 1937 Rolls Royce on a college campus! Daddy might just as well have sent me to class in a spaceship! Of course, I was very nervous and excited, but Daddy had really laid down the law, with a list of rules as long as my arm.

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