SHAKESPEARE, DICKENS, AND THE BIBLE SELECTION FROM ASSORTED STORIES COMING SOON FROM MORAN PRESS *WARNING FOR GRAPHIC VIOLENCE
I always knew I would do it. It was destined. From the moment I laid down on her couch I knew what would happen.
The state committed me because of my many problems. I was sent for four long, excruciating months, to stay at The Animal Farm Psychiatric Treatment Center. Maybe it was four years, I don't remember.
The male nurse led me down a long gray hallway and told me about the woman shrink I was going to meet. When the nurse opened the door to her office I was in for a shock. Or maybe the shocks came later. I don't remember.
I do remember her sitting beautiful behind her cheap wooden desk. Her long black hair flowed over her shoulders, down onto the swell of her breasts. Her dark brown eyes beamed, as did her face, all a glow in self-health. She looked up at me, our eyes meeting and I fell in love before she said a word.
"Hello," she said. “My name is Katherine. You may call me Kate."
"Call me Burt," I said.
"Burt?" she asked.
After we had our names straight she told me to sit on the couch, so I did. It was a plain black couch, nothing special to look at. The ceiling was far more interesting. I traced over the cracks in my mind to make shapes that didn't mean anything. Then she started asking me questions, private type questions that I didn't intend to answer. So I didn't.
It took about six weeks for something to happen. At first I sat on her black, plain couch watching her body, waiting for the sessions to be over. I was eager to get back to my drugs. She had to dig for every response from me.
During one session she told me that I was the most interesting patient she had ever counseled. I wasn't sure how to take that. I guess it could have been a compliment, but I took it as an insult. I asked her what she meant, but she didn't answer, she just smiled.
Her smile drove me crazy and she knew it. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever known. I wasted away most of my sessions memorizing her face.
In one session she wore a tight mini-skirt with a matching tight black blouse, with black stockings and high heeled shoes. She was the picture of my fantasy, the one I had described to her in many previous sessions.
She sat close without touching me. I felt a terrible tingling sensation in my groin that begged to be heard. I tried to get up, but she held me down with her painted fingernails, gently digging them into my chest. She caressed my chest with thin, delicate hands.
"Just stay still."
That was all she said. Her voice seemed out of place, lost in space somehow. The session ended and within days I was released.
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