The Case Files of Dr. Randall Herringwick
The Case of the Abducted Nudes
Chapter Three - The Slave in Charge
CASE FILES - PERSONAL NOTES - PATIENTS 187 & 188 - DAY THREE - CONTINUED
How come, when you're faced with some of life's greatest problems, it's the smallest things that take up all of your time? In my case, it was the damn pickup truck, which was still in Jersey and needed to be in Rhode Island. I mean, we couldn't just leave the thing there. Somebody ... meaning me ... had to drive it back home. That was the little problem. The "big problem" was now sitting in the passenger seat of the truck, because there was no way in hell she was going to get on an airplane and fly back with Loretta and the doc and let me make that trip home alone.
I didn't want my small dilemma to get in the way of the Doc's big one; and right now, he only seemed to be able to think about Loretta. He was totally blowing off all other major choices as if they were no big thing. And ... maybe they weren't. They certainly weren't in HIS mind. When the detectives all groused about what to do with an active crime scene, he just informed them that it WASN'T a crime scene ... it was just a house where an unidentified, incapacitated man happened to be lying on the floor. An anonymous tip to the authorities would eventually result in him being institutionalized. End of story. He'd wait a day to report Loretta's return, telling the cops and FBI that she had wandered home, disoriented but safe; and after awhile, the case would just cease to matter to anyone.
But my problems were different, I argued. I was going to be driving up some really busy highways with a nude kidnap victim. Once again, he just shrugged. No, he pointed out, a missing person was NOT a kidnap victim ... especially when there was absolutely no one else on earth who wanted to be with me more than SHE did. He did have the grace to apologize for not having more than (he dug through his wallet) eighty dollars, which he handed to me along with another of his credit cards for tolls and gas. He wrote down his "billing zip code" for use with self-serve gas pumps. And then he left with an airy wave of his hand and the single comment: "See you at home this evening."
"Bambi" was ecstatic. Alone with her master at last! What could possibly be better than THAT!? Immediately, she asked me if she could give me a blowjob while I drove, but I denied her (and myself) that pleasure. How the hell was I going to explain all this to her? How much of her memory had been erased by the asshole who had kidnapped and brainwashed her? How much of "Lauren" was left in that magnificently pretty head of hers?
Within two minutes of starting our trip, I swerved into the parking lot of a Goodwill store. She recited three sizes (which was all the information my tired brain would hold), and I strolled inside while she waited in the vehicle. I was back in ten minutes, and she shrieked with delight as she pulled a blouse out of the plastic bag I'd brought back. Before I could utter a protest, she'd stripped off the jacket, and she was momentarily bare-ass naked before donning the garment. I frantically looked around the parking lot, but miraculously, no one had seen her. The shirt was a little tight on her, and her generous breasts strained against the fabric, especially when she shimmied her hips into the blue jeans. They, too, were tight, but she proclaimed them "just the way I like them." Slip-on canvas shoes were the only other part of her new wardrobe. The extremely simple clothing made her look like something out of a movie ... like a standout actress in plain attire. She looked fresh and healthy and wholesome and pure. Oh, fuck. I was falling in love. I couldn't do this! I couldn't!
Everything was exciting to her ... everything made her smile. Her laugh was genuine and infectious. She pointed and exclaimed, and sometimes she even bounced up and down on the seat in her excitement, which did marvelous things to her breasts. She talked and talked, and she asked a thousand questions about the things around us. She told me that she remembered the bridge across the Hudson at Washington Heights, and she said that there was a wonderful little restaurant just on the other side, in Beacon. I bemoaned the fact that we were down to forty-five dollars, but she thought that would be enough, so we stopped there for lunch. Over our burgers and fries, we somehow got on the topic of architecture, and how it had changed so dramatically with the onset of computerization.
On the road again, she spoke about literature and classic authors, and the ones she enjoyed, and the ones she didn't enjoy, and why. It seemed to be okay as long as we spoke about the topic in general, and not about how she had come to believe these things. She was very obviously an English major ... but she couldn't be reminded of her past. When I asked specifically where and when she had learned the ideas she had, she would develop a sharp headache and immediately change the subject. I was definitely her favorite topic of conversation.
I eventually understood the timeline. Did she remember her last two months with Doctor Prokonov? The answer was apparently yes ... at least, to some extent. She had spent some indeterminate period in the state that Loretta was in now, and it had been a seemingly unending nightmare, the days and nights blending into each other. When he had weaned her from the drug and began her "brainwashing treatments," she had welcomed them with unmitigated joy. Anything was preferable to being "dead inside." Anything. With the threat of returning to that horrific condition hanging over her, she was more than eager to be turned into someone who was absolutely the best slave a master could ever want. "And I AM, Master! I wish I could prove it to you right now! Are you sure you don't want me to give you a blow job?"
She must have told me a hundred times that day that she loved me.
We stopped for gas in Hartford. Somehow, she'd gotten hold of a rubber band, and when she came out of the restroom, she'd pulled her hair back into a ponytail. She wore no makeup; but she'd scrubbed her face, and she looked fresh and clean and innocent and radiant. I bought her a diet soda and myself another power drink.
It wasn't long after that we encountered our first major problem. I had again told her that I didn't want to call her "Bambi," and when she told me once more that I could name her anything I wanted, I suggested the name "Lauren." She clutched her head and cried out in genuine pain so intense that she doubled over in the seat and sat there, whimpering. Carefully, I made my way over to the shoulder of the road, turning on the emergency flashers and stopping. I unfastened our seatbelts, and I gathered her into my arms, shushing her and telling her that I'd obviously made a bad choice, and that she should settle down and relax. Slowly, slowly, she did so; and when she again looked up into my eyes, she kissed me ... fully and openly and passionately ... and I seemed powerless to keep from returning that passion. Finally, I pushed her away from me. We were both breathing deeply.
"Please, Master! Oh, please let me suck you now! I have to do it! I HAVE to!"
"NO!" I screamed at her so loudly that she shrank back from me, visibly frightened.
I waited until my pulse had returned to some semblance of normalcy, and then I purposefully, carefully started the truck again and got back onto the interstate. We were only about thirty miles outside Providence when I began my sad tale. She laughed out loud at it ... I mean, I guess it IS funny ... to everyone except me. But then she figured out what it had done to me ... what it all meant to me ... and she sobered, and eventually even started crying. We were negotiating city traffic before she finally put her hand on my shoulder tenderly and asked: "But Master, how does any of that affect US? I mean, I can understand how you might think that sex is off limits for you with other women ... but I BELONG to you. I LOVE you. Oh, Master, I want you so much! Can't you allow yourself to want me, just a little, in return?"
"I DO want you ... desperately! But ... you're not YOU! And what's more, you know it! Deep down inside, you KNOW that you are no longer the woman you were two months ago. Right now, you don't think it matters; and I get that. What you don't get is that if I can't have the girl you really are, then I don't think I want ... um ... that kind of relationship. We'd be living a life that's been dictated by somebody else; and somebody who was a real asshole, to boot.
She was about to answer that, but was suddenly shocked into silence as I put the truck into "park" and set the hand brake. She looked around uncertainly. "W ... Why did we stop?"
"We're home," I declared. I jerked a thumb in the direction of the apartment building.
"Home?" She stared across the street at the place. "This is where we live?"
"This is where I live," I corrected. "I'm the building superintendent. I'm the handyman. I'm the janitor."
She shifted her gaze to me and gave me a big, knowing smile. "You're the superintendent of the WHOLE building?" she said with fake wide eyes. "And we LIVE here?"
I smirked and got out. She did, as well, though she sort of raced around the front of the pickup to regain our closeness. I was stretching, and she did, as well, putting an immense strain on the buttons of the blouse at her chest. Guiltily, I jerked my eyes back to hers, but too late; she'd caught me and was grinning at my discomfort. I sighed and reached for her hand, but she ignored it and took my right arm in both of her hands, and she stumbled a little as she walked alongside me while we crossed the street toward the front door.
"How many people live in your building?"
"There aren't any tenants, yet," I explained. "The doc and Loretta live on the first floor behind his offices. I have an apartment in the basement. It still isn't really finished yet, but the deal is that I'll refurbish my own place first and then start on the units upstairs."
She nodded. "I hope I like them. The tenants, I mean; when they start moving in. You'll have to teach me how to fix things. I think I could change a light bulb, but anything beyond that, I'm going to have to learn."
"Um ... listen, uh, Bambi. Shit, I can't bring myself to call you that. Anyway, if you think you're going to ..."
She squeezed my arm more affectionately and smiled knowingly. "Yes, Master!"
I stopped in front of the door. "And that's another thing! My name is Rory. Rory Johnson. I'd appreciate it if ..."
"Would it be okay if every time I said the word Rory, I was thinking the word Master to myself? Would that be alright?"
"Oh, shit," I mumbled. "I don't think I can take this much longer." I worked my key into the door as best I could with her holding my right arm, and I opened it and led her inside. She craned her neck, looking around the darkened entryway and hall while I latched the deadbolt.
The doc came out of the rear apartment, drying a glass with a dish towel. "Ah! There you are! Right on time! I was going to order some carryout in about an hour, but now we have time for me to talk to young Lauren here ..."
The girl lurched back as if someone had punched her in the stomach, and she bent over and cried out shrilly as her right hand went to her forehead. I put a hand on her shoulder and tried to comfort her as best I could.
"Holy shit," the doc exclaimed, his eyes wide. "I guess I should have expected some reaction to that. Please forgive me, my dear girl. I meant no harm." He walked toward us, and she stood suddenly and threw herself into my arms, her face against my chest.
"Could you please explain to this lovely lass that I'm one of the good guys?" the doc urged.
I gave him a look that let him know I wasn't entirely sure of that anymore myself. The scene I'd witnessed earlier in the day would probably always haunt me. Even so, I whispered in her ear. "Look at the doc, okay? This is his house, after all."
She stared pleadingly into my eyes for a moment, and then she turned her face toward him, though shying even more tightly into my chest.
"I desperately need your assistance, my dear," he said. "Please, please help me."
That got her. "Wh ... What do you want?"
"Loretta, my nurse, who you met briefly, earlier today ... and another woman who is now my patient ... they were also captives of the man who ... um ... programmed you. They have very little memory of him. They don't know what he did, or how he did it. I've gained access to some of his notes, but they don't tell me everything I need to know. Only YOU can do that. Please."
She shook her head slightly. "What do you ... uh ... how are you going to ...?"
The doc interrupted her: "He used hypnosis, didn't he?"
She swallowed hard. "Yes. He made me look at a watch until I fell asleep. At first, he'd give me a shot, and I'd get really, really sleepy; and then he'd bring out the watch. But, after awhile, I learned how to fall asleep without the shot. Eventually, it was easy. Everything got easier after that."
"That's it then. I'll just have you fall asleep for a little while, and you'll be able to help me help my patients. It's the only way."
Again, she turned pleading eyes to me before once more giving him her attention. "I love him. I love Mas ... um ... I love Rory. You can't take that away!"
"Is your love pure, my dear?"
She locked adoring eyes on mine. "Yes! Oh, yes!"
"Then you are correct. I absolutely cannot take that away." He held out his hand toward her. "Rory will be on that couch, right there in that room." He pointed and she looked. "He has had very, very little sleep since this whole affair began. He could really use a little nap himself. He'll be there in an hour, after you wake up." She seemed very uncertain. "You have my word," he implored. "You have my promise."
She seemed to make up her mind all at once; then she turned her body fully into mine and hugged me so hard I groaned, and she stood on tiptoes to kiss me on the lips. It didn't last long, but it held a lot of meaning. Then, she took the doctor's hand and followed him into his office.
I felt strange. It was weird to feel lonely after having been so utterly alone for so much of my life. I walked over to the couch and sat down, looking at my feet. I heard the grandfather clock in the hall strike the hour; and after awhile, when it had struck the quarter, I was still in the same posture. Standing, I went into the doc's outer office. I could hear his voice, soft yet firm, droning on and on with very little inflection. From time to time, I heard her respond. The inner office door was open, and I looked in. She was sitting in front of a computer, but she was slumped slightly forward, her chin on her chest and her arms hanging limply at her sides. The computer screen held one of the most intricately complicated things I've ever seen, and it twisted and throbbed sinuously, washing her face and body with spotted lights of red and blue and green and yellow. The doc looked in my direction, though his expression was completely deadpan.
I couldn't take it for more than those brief seconds. I spun on my heel and marched back to that couch, and I flopped down on my back, staring up at the ceiling and thinking thoughts that I can no longer recall, feeling anxious and depressed, and suddenly more tired that I'd ever been in my life.
With an "Oof!" I jolted awake, and she was stretched out on top of me, her spongy breasts pressing into my chest, her forearms trapping my upper arms to my sides, her hands both stroking my face. She was smiling hugely.
"Rory!" she shouted with unadulterated joy. "Rory, my name is Lauren Chedworthy, and I live in Hampton Bays, New York, and I go to school in Virginia, and you are Rory Johnson, and I love you, and my love is pure, and that means nobody can take it away from me! Ever!" Her hands came away from my face and moved down, her arms snaking around my neck, and she kissed me. If that last one had been meaningful, then this one could easily take up several volumes, footnoted. Her shirt had pulled up, and my hands found themselves caressing the bare skin of her back. She ground her pelvis into my hard-on, and I groaned into her mouth.
She sat up abruptly. "And look at this!" Her fingers spent less than ten seconds at the front of her shirt, and the garment fell away. She flung it toward the center of the room.
"Jeez, Lauren!" I looked around.
"Oh, that's okay. The doctor went to get some Chinese food. He said that he wouldn't be able to get back home until seven thirty. In fact, he made it a promise. So, we have thirty-nine minutes." She twisted and pointed toward her inner arm. "There. See it?" But she didn't give me a chance to look. She grabbed my hand and pressed my fingers into the spot. "Feel it?"
I tried to concentrate, but my cock gave a lurch, unbidden. I cleared my throat and dutifully rubbed the indicated point. I felt an elongated lump. "What is it?"
"Doctor Herringwick says it's a birth control implant. Ninety-nine point nine percent effective for five years. He says that Doctor Asshole put it in, and that it was mentioned in the medical record he made."
I barked a laugh. "Doctor Asshole?"
"Doctor Prokonov. But I don't want to say that name again. Ever. So, if you hear me say 'Doctor Asshole,' you'll know who I mean." Her hands ran over my chest and my shirt was suddenly free. Holy crap, that girl could manipulate a series of buttons!
"Uh ... Lauren ..."
"Doctor Herringwick says that you've never done it before. He says you're going to be really self-conscious."
"Oh, he DOES, does he!?"
"But that's okay, because up until Doctor Asshole raped me, I was a virgin, too." My belt was suddenly undone, and she began tugging my jeans down.
"He ... he raped you?"
"Well, I'm sure HE wouldn't have called it that. But after he shot me full of that stuff he did at first ... the same stuff he gave Loretta, I'm sure ... he could have tried to slit my throat and I would have just shrugged and let him. When you're on that shit, nothing ... and I mean NOTHING ... matters at all. It hurt like hell, but I didn't fight him or argue or anything. I just lay there on my back while he pounded me and I waited patiently until it was over, wishing I could go to sleep or something." I lifted my hips a little and she pulled the jeans and underwear down to my knees with a savage jerk. "Oh, gosh, Rory. Gosh. You're really ... um ... big." She wrapped her fingers around me and I inhaled sharply, making a sound of some sort that I hadn't intended. She stroked it. "I want to suck on it, but I also want ..."
She seemed to get an idea, and she let go, springing off of the couch as if it was a piece of gymnastics equipment; then she shimmied out of her jeans. Completely naked now, she dove back atop me, straddling me. The base of my rampant cock, sticking straight up toward the ceiling, was nestled into the soft, wet folds of her sex.
"Lauren, I've ... I've never done this before. I want to ..."
"Here," she said, taking my hand and pushing my fingertips over the top of my prick onto her. "I keep myself shaved because I'm a cheerleader, and ... well ... our uniforms and all ..." She trailed off for a moment, seemingly losing her train of thought. She reached down and grabbed my other hand and pulled it to her right breast. I let my fingertips begin tracing her nipple. Satisfied, she let go and clutched my fingers at her sex once again, and her whole body jerked. "There. That little bump, right there. That's my ..." Her body jolted once more and she took a deep, steadying breath. "That's my clit. And when you touch ..." She stiffened and shivered all over, her eyes clenched shut. "... Or when you rub it like ..." She became rigid and shook again, and then again. Suddenly, she opened her eyes wide in shock. "Oh, fuck," she whispered loudly. Every muscle in her body seemed tight and strained. "Oh, fuck." Her pelvis lurched into my fingers. "Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh ..." She threw her head back. "OOOOOHHHH!" She screamed it at the top of her lungs.