Therapist Ch. 01

Editor's Note: This is a very edited version of a previously published story by this author.

*

He is a freshman attending Louisiana State University on a four year science scholarship and has come home several days early for the Thanksgiving holiday. It is Monday afternoon. He is having lunch with his mother; they are sitting at the kitchen table.

He tells his mother about a girl he met who is helping him with his English literature. She is pretty, he tells her. But his mother will have none of it, even though he tells her that they are not serious, that he is only using her to help him with his studies. But she insists that he not see her again. He tells her that he won't see her, that he will get another study buddy from the dorm. But she doesn't believe him.

George Hoover can live with his mother not believing him. He has lived with it for eighteen years. He can live with her beating him, belittling him, even molesting him. He has also lived with that for eighteen years. But it is when she threatens to take him out of college that he snaps. It is when she threatens to take away his only refuge from her that he fights back -- for the first time in his subservient life to her.

Donna, sweet lovely Donna, has that much influence upon him. She is the first girl that has ever taken a romantic interest in him, tells him how strong he is, how beautiful his long blonde hair looks. She is the only girl that he has ever kissed, the only girl that he has ever loved. She is the only person who has ever loved him. They held hands walking from the library.

It is when his mother threatens to take that away from him that he finally acts in his own defense.

"You're not going back to that school to fuck some whore who'll only give you some kind of disease," she yells at him.

"She's only a friend mother. We haven't had sex. I'm still a virgin mother."

"Don't you talk back to me, you little bastard." She slaps him hard across the face, leaving the imprint of her hand on his cheek. "And don't you lie to me. Don't you tell me that you're still a virgin, because I know you're not. I know you've fucked all those high school whores you went out with. I ought to cut it off. You're just like . . ."

"Mother you know I never went out with . . ."

"Don't you interrupt me when I'm talking to you, you little bastard." She hits him again. He puts his hand to his cheek and cringes away from her. "You're just like your father. He was always interrupting me when I was talking to him, till I threw him out."

"I wasn't interrupting you mother. I was just trying to remind you that you wouldn't let me date any girls when I was in high school," he says to her. "And I thought dad left you because he couldn't stand your hollering at him and belittling him any more?"

"What!" She screams at him. "Did that whore in college tell you that? Did that college bitch tell you to talk that way to me? Now I know you're not going back there. You're not going to talk like that to me and get away with it you little bastard."

She grabs him by the hair -- the way she has always done -- and drags him down the hall to the punishment room. The combat boots she is wearing make a loud thump with each step she takes.

The room is dirty, not having been swept or cleaned in about nine years; there is an old, dirty sheet covering the only window. The room is bare of everything except a large picture of her hanging on the wall, a set of shackles and three foot chain attached to an eyebolt in the baseboard and another pair of shackles and 20 inch chain attached to a cable running through an eyebolt in the ceiling. This latter cable runs across the ceiling, tying off near the closet door across the room.

Then there is her Whip, her precious leather Whip with a brass handle. It's lying on the floor coiled up like a snake waiting to strike.

He thinks of fighting back. But his five foot five 145 pounds are no match for her five foot ten and 210 pounds. Besides, he knows it will only make her angrier. He knows too what his punishment is going to be for his insolence. It is what his punishment has always been when she is angry at him. He resigns himself to her brutality.

"Donna, where can you be? I'm left all alone. I need you. Sanctuary of my life, love of my life, help me, tell me what to do," he asks her through his thoughts.

But Donna might just as well have been on the moon. She cannot help him now. Nor are his thoughts of her going to help him now. He resigns himself.

When they get into the punishment room, she punches him hard in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him and sending him to his knees.

She stands over him. "You know the rules. Take off your clothes you little bastard or I'll rip them off you."

She has always referred to him as her little bastard. In his entire life, whenever she is angry, he can never remember her referring to him by any other name.

"Mother, please." He can barely whisper. He is on his hands and knees, trying to catch his breath.

She kicks him in the side; her combat boots leave an ugly bruise. He falls face down on the bare floor. "I said take off your clothes you little bastard." Then she walks across the room and picks up the Whip.

"Mother, please. I'm too old for this."

"Shut up you little bastard," she barks.

Then she hits him on the back with the Whip. He can feel the welt rising across his shoulder and down his back. She strikes him two more times across his back, tearing his T-shirt.

He tries to get up but she kicks him down again. This time the blow lands on his left temple, knocking him unconscious. Then she grabs his T-shirt at the collar -- the LSU T-shirt Donna had bought for him -- and rips it from his back, revealing three deep red streaks running diagonally from his left shoulder to his waist.

When he comes to he is lying naked on the floor; two old, healed small scars can be seen on his left buttocks and another one on his right thigh, just below his cheek. There is another old four inch long scar just below his right shoulder blade.

His wrists are shackled with padlocks to the twenty inch chain that is attached to the cable hanging from the eyebolt in the ceiling. His ankles are shackled with padlocks to the three foot long chain that is connected to the eyebolt in the baseboard.

His left eye is closed and swollen. His head is swimming. It is dark and the room is empty. Through his good eye he can see by the moon light filtering through the sheet on the window that the Snake is laying on floor on the other side of the room where she threw it. It lies where she has always thrown it -- just beyond his reach.

The college LSU T-shirt that Donna had bought him is in shreds lying next to him. He does not know where the rest of his clothes are; they are not in the room. His back hurts.

He has no idea what time it is or how long he has laid here. He figures that it has probably been just a few hours. His side aches. He is hungry. But he knows better than to call out. He knows that he must sit in silence and wait for her to bring his food to him. He learned that lesson when he was only in the first or second grade. Or was it earlier. He can't remember; it has been too many years.

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"What do you mean asking me to fix you something to eat? Can't you see that I'm watching television you little bastard?"

Seven-year-old George looks across the room at his mother. He is standing in the doorway to the living room. Suddenly he is scared. She called him a little bastard and she only does that when she is angry. She calls him a little bastard whenever she hits him.

He tries to think if there is anything he has done to make her angry. He can think of nothing. He has stayed in his room all day playing with his toy dinosaurs . . . staying away from her.

She hasn't come out of her bedroom all day. Not for breakfast, nor for lunch. She has stayed in her bedroom watching television. She has been watching her video of a woman tying up a naked man and beating him. Every now and then she would moan and yell out. Whenever she is in her room watching her video, moaning and yelling out, he knows better than to disturb her.

He also knows better than to fix his own meals because she beats him whenever he does. He cannot ask his daddy to fix him something to eat. His daddy left early this morning to go deer hunting, saying he would be back tomorrow night. So, he has gone hungry.

When she finally did come out of her bedroom, she went straight to the living room to watch the evening news. George heard the television on and walked toward the living room. As he walked down the hall past her bedroom, he saw a large flesh colored object lying on her bed. It looks just like his penis only much larger. He does not know what it is. Upon coming to the door leading into the living room he told her he was hungry.

George just stands in the doorway into the living room. He does not know whether he should repeat his statement or remain silent. He is scared.

"Come here to me you little bastard! Get over here!" She is sitting on the sofa. The only thing she is wearing is a torn slip. Her large right breast hangs out through the tear in it. Her legs are open wide. George can see her dark pubic hair.

"Are you going to hit me?" he asks timidly.

"Now why would I hit you Georgie Boy? The only thing you did was to tell me that you're hungry. I'm sorry I yelled at you. Would you like some milk?"

She calls him Georgie Boy when she has a treat for him. Seldom are the times though. He wonders what the treat is. "Yes Ma'am," he says and nods his head.

"Then come over here and sit in mommy's lap."

He hesitantly walks over to her. When he gets near enough, she picks him up and sits him on her left thigh. She smiles at him and says, "Here, mommy has a lot of milk for her little Georgie Boy." Then cupping her exposed right breast she shoves it into his face. But he jerks his head back, looses his balance and falls to the floor between her legs. He looks up at his mother in fear and astonishment. He does not know what to do.

"I said suck my tit you little bastard." She grabs him by the hair and pulls him into a standing position. She wraps her large legs around his little body, holding him in a vice-like grip. While holding him by the hair with her left hand and cupping her right breast with her other hand, she shoves her nipple into his face. She again orders him to suck her tit.

He dare not disobey her. As he begins to suck her she closes her eyes. His eyes are wide open, watching her face. He continues to suck her nipple.

She lets go of her breast and grabs his left wrist. She puts his hand between her thighs. He can feel her hair, her wetness. She rubs his hand against herself and begins to moan. It is the same moan he heard coming from her bedroom several times earlier today. After several minutes her moans become louder and she begins to thrust her hips against his body. Then she screams out, scaring George.

He stops sucking her and pulls his hand out from between her legs. He then tries to wriggle out from between her legs but she is too strong. She yanks on his hair.

"I thought I told you to suck my tit you little bastard. Now suck it!"

He again begins to suck her right nipple, keeping his wide open eyes fixed on her face. He dare not disobey her.

Through two newscasts and a game show which followed them, she holds him between her thighs while her left hand clutches tight onto his hair. For an hour and a half she forces him to suck her nipple.

When the game show is over she drags him by his hair into the punishment room. Once there she throws him across the room and pushes a love seat in front of the door, blocking his escape and revealing an eyebolt driven into the baseboard.

Next she does what she has always done when she is angry at him. She rips off all his clothes. Then she takes some shackles out of the closet and shackles his ankles to the eyebolt. Next she ties his hands in front of him with a cord. Then she holds him by the hair and beats him with one of his father's belts. She beats him until he has numerous welt marks on his back, buttocks and thighs.

The next afternoon she comes into the room and takes off the shackles and unties him. She sends him to his bedroom with a warning that if he tells his father about anything that happened she will kill both him and his father. Just before his father comes home from hunting, she brings him a cold bowl of oatmeal to eat. It is the only thing he has eaten in two days.

That is the way it has been all of his life. The only memories George has of his mother are of her sexually molesting him, ripping his clothes off, tying him up and beating him.

His father left the day after his ninth birthday, telling her that he had had enough of her nagging and hollering at him. The following day she removed the love seat and a sewing desk and chair from the punishment room. Next she fixed up the chain, cable and eyebolt in the ceiling. That's also when she bought the Whip. Then she beat him and fed him cold oatmeal for three days.

***********************************

The next afternoon she comes in with a large stainless steel chamber pot. She says nothing to him. She just stands over him . . . waiting . . . waiting.

He has been sitting on the floor in the fetal position with his arms wrapped around his legs, trying to keep his naked body warm. The torn T-shirt is lying on the floor next to him. There is neither heat nor air conditioning in the room; she closed the vent years ago.

But he knows what she was waiting for. He feels ashamed. He silently hopes that she will just drop the pot within his reach and leave. But she does not. She just stands there and waits.

After several minutes, he opens his legs so that she can see him. He is embarrassed. He closes his good eye; he doesn't want to see her face.

"The doctor made a mistake when he circumcised you," she says in a belittling tone. "He should have cut your weenie dick off you little bastard. Maybe then you wouldn't be running after every whore you meet."

He does not answer her. He knows from experience that it would only get her angry again and lead to more insults, more beatings. He bows his head and silently prays that she just goes away.

"I guess you didn't lie to me after all. I can see that your dick isn't big enough to fuck anyone." She throws the chamber pot at him. But her aim is bad. It hits him a glancing blow on the shoulder and bounces into the corner. Then she drops a roll of toilet paper within his reach and walks out of the room, closing the door behind herself.

He is glad when she leaves. For when he is alone he can regain some measure of dignity for his naked body. Now too, he can relieve himself in solitude. He knows better than to soil her floor, the floor that is stained with his blood.

She doesn't return for several hours, by then it is dark. She puts a bowl of oatmeal on the floor just out of his reach; the only food she has ever given him after chaining him up. Then she gets her Whip and stands over the bowl, the toe of her combat boot just an inch away from it.

After several minutes, she nudges it forward with her toe and waits. George waits too. He doesn't know whether to reach out for the bowl or to wait for her to leave before retrieving it.

Sometimes she orders him to retrieve the bowl. Sometimes she doesn't; she just leaves. Sometimes in the past, she would allow him to get it without incident. At other times, she would hit him with the Whip when he reached out for the bowl of food.

What she would do now he does not know. So, he waits. She stands there for thirty minutes with her arms folded and the Whip in her hand, looking down on the naked young man. When the oatmeal gets cold she throws the Snake across the room and leaves.

George retrieves the food and scoops it out of the bowl with his fingers. Then he licks the bowl clean so as to get every morsel of food. He knows from experience that it might be a long time before she brings him anything else to eat.

He is there for several days. Once every evening she has brought him a bowl of oatmeal and each day she has waited until it is cold before leaving.

She has picked up the chamber pot only twice and returned it without incident. Now it is nearly full and it stinks, but he is thankful that she has not whipped him any more.

His back and side no longer hurt but his eye is still a little bloodshot. The swelling has gone down and he can see through it. His wrists and ankles are raw from the shackles.

He has no idea what day it is -- and dares not ask -- but he is sure that the Thanksgiving holiday is over. He guesses that it is either the Friday or the Saturday after. He has to get back to college. He has to get back to his studies. He has to get back to Donna, his precious Donna.

She comes in early in the evening and puts the bowl of oatmeal on the floor. As usual it is just out of his reach. She stands over it . . . over him. Then she nudges it forward a few inches with the toe of her combat boot and waits.

George only wants to get back to college, back to his precious Donna. He is crazy with fear that he will never see her again. He is afraid that his mother will never let him go back to school. But he has to see the love of his life again. He cannot let his mother take her away from him.

He is sitting on the floor and looks up at her. He looks at the keys. They are dangling from her waist. Her precious Whip is in her hand. He lowers his head, looks at the floor and shakes his head in resignation. He knows what he will do, what he must do. He knows too what her reaction will be. He has been thinking about it all day, contemplating and planning every movement, every action . . . and reaction.

He slowly stands up. He stands up to face her, arms at his side, palms facing her. He raises his head and looks her in the eyes. He tilts his head slightly to the left.

She is puzzled by his actions. He has never done this before. He has never before shown himself like this to her. But his actions catch her off guard and that is what he wants, that is what he has been planning. Before she has time to contemplate what he is doing, he acts.

"Fuck you," he says to her in disgust.

"What!" she screams at him in shocked disbelief. "Why you little bastard."

She kicks the oatmeal at him and lashes out with the Whip. But that is exactly what he expects her to do and he is ready for her. Instead of bowing in submission to her blows, he grabs the Whip with both hands, ignoring the pain it inflicts across his shoulder and down his back. That is the sacrifice he must endure. He knows from his studies in chess, that in order to capture the enemy's queen you must sacrifice one of your own pieces. He sacrifices his back in order to win his freedom.

He pulls hard on the Whip, pulling her off balance. Caught off guard, she lets go of the Whip and falls forward onto the floor. She is on her hands and knees. He swings at her with the Whip with all his strength; its brass handle hits her in the back of the head. She falls flat on the floor. He hits her again and again and again until she lies lifeless on the floor. Her skull is cracked open, her brains are oozing out and her blood is spreading out in a large circle across the cold hard floor.

He sits down near her fractured head; only his heels, his naked buttocks and his testicles and penis are touching the floor. He folds his arms across his knees. He still has the Whip in his hand.

He watches the blood spread out toward him. He watches it creep around his right heel and head for his testicles. When it gets too close he tries to stop it with his finger. But it will not stop inching forward. He moves away from it and away from her. He drops the Whip on the floor and folds his hands across his knees and closes his eyes.