Piper's Price

by D. A. Maddox

  The counter lit up. His numbers were down by a couple hundred thousand.

  Nurse Reyes-Garcia noticed him looking at it. “To be expected,” she said. “We have been dark for half an hour. Do not fear. You will be as popular again as you were in no time. More, I think.”

  Robbie didn’t doubt it.

  “Let’s go, 186,” Officer Kersey said, stepping aside to make room for him. “Time for you to make your fair contribution to western civilization and culture.”

  ****

  “I’m Dr. Cossack,” the man said, opening the door, waving her to a comfy-looking armchair in front of his desk. “You must be Madison Piper.”

  “Maddy, please,” she said, coming in and sitting down. Her eyes flitted from one camera to another. She was unnerved by their movements, the way they tracked her every shift and flinch. But she knew what was going on. It was in her contract.

  “You’re on a split screen with Robert McNeal right now,” Dr. Cossack said. “Please, pay them no mind, Maddy. They’ll stop filming in a moment or two, just as soon as Robbie’s next session begins in earnest.”

  Looking away from the cameras was difficult, but she did her best. She was being paid, the featured player in Robbie’s discipline, and being filmed at her first-ever counseling session with a for-real psychiatrist didn’t seem so bad. It was either that or have a solo “training session” on camera, and Maddy preferred to put that off as long as possible.

  Still, she was more than a little jealous of Jasmine and Heather, who’d gone back to their shared room, boring as the place undeniably was. They were both eager now, and ready. Jasmine could hardly freakin’ contain herself.

  I might like him, she thought. That’s the damned problem. In spite of what he tried to do, even though I don’t know him at all. I might like him anyway.

  “So,” Doctor Cossack said, easing himself into his own chair opposite her, “how are you doing?”

  He was in his fifties at least, with salt and pepper hair and thick glasses. He looked more the part of a favorite professor than a prison shrink. His manner was both offhand and kind, purely conversational. This shouldn’t have been awkward. But it was.

  Nevertheless, Maddy offered up an honest and frank answer to the question. “Confused,” she said. “When they asked if I wanted to talk to someone, I thought I’d see … I mean, I thought the doctor would be…”

  “Female?” Cossack supplied, unfolding a laptop and powering up. “Fair question, especially under these circumstances. Dr. White’s on staff, and you’re welcome to see her if you like. But I’m the psychiatrist assigned to Mr. McNeal. I know the case front to back. The type, too. And I’ve been keeping up with his sessions.” He tapped around on the keyboard.

  So, again, she thought, this is about him, not me. “How’s he doing?” she asked.

  “Oh, he’s fine,” Dr. Cossack said. “He’s a very typical responder for a man of his profile, his age and background. Not that we have too many senators’ sons come through the system, and the punishment program is still rather new.”

  “But…” Maddy prompted. She had a sense from his tone that a “but” was imminent.

  “But I haven’t seen him yet,” he said. “Nor do I think I will, even though he’s only had one opportunity thus far. Mr. McNeal doesn’t have any interest in therapy. He doesn’t want to talk about what’s happening to him, to process it in any verbal-analytic way. He seeks neither comfort nor any professional perspective. The only people he’s seen to this point are the ones in charge of his discipline.”

  “Sounds lonely,” Maddy quipped, trying to sound as offhand as the doctor.

  “He’s just muddling through. It’s unfortunate. Meanwhile, Officer Thompson is of the mind your own participation in his discipline is—well, more reluctant than your friends’.”

  “It’s just weird,” Maddy said. “I don’t really know him—”

  “Shouldn’t that make it easier?”

  “No,” Maddy insisted with some vehemence. “And I don’t really know them, either. Jasmine and Heather, I mean. We’re cool, but we only just started at Eastern Covenant—and all of this… It’s just a bit of a shock.”

  “I know,” said Dr. Cossack. His voice was rich with understanding, but his eyes were on the laptop screen. “Let’s take away some of the mystery, shall we? Give you some idea of what to expect. We don’t want you panicking on Friday.”

  He turned the laptop toward her.

  There he was, utterly naked, standing red-cheeked, eyes bloodshot, with his arms at his sides and his penis out in full view. It was a five-second video, hardly a glance but set to repeat. Maddy was instantly transfixed—but recovered herself after it ran twice, looking away with a small gasp.

  “There,” the doctor said, turning the laptop back toward himself. “Got that out of the way. Best to let your friends see the real thing for the first time in person, though. For their sake and for his.”

  “What do you mean, ‘and for his’?” she demanded with some heat. “He looks like he wants to curl up and die. Jeez.”

  Dr. Cossack smiled at her.

  She couldn’t help it. She felt so bad for him—and a little guilty, too. None of this had to happen, a voice in her head whispered. You could have stopped him.

  She thought of his friend, Michael.

  Stop it! her brain rebelled. He made the choice. He decided to do what he did. Not your fault, Maddy.

  “No, Miss Piper,” Dr. Cossack soothed her. “Mr. McNeal does not want to die. He’s confused, like you are. Yet he is a natural in the role the court has assigned for his correction.”

  Maddy shook her head at him, more in sheer bewilderment than denial.

  “We have time,” he said. “I’ll explain. There is much to go over—not only about his role, but something else as well.”

  “No kidding,” Maddy said, still recovering from what she had seen on the laptop. “Can’t wait to hear about the ‘something else’.”

  I do like him, she thought, a strange tingle tickling her from deep inside. God, what’s wrong with me?

  “Oh, that,” the doctor said. “It’s just a guess based on his profile, of the criminal act that brought him here.”

  The cameras went limp. Their lenses closed. Somewhere in this place, something new was happening to Robbie—and all of the attention was being returned to him, leaving Maddy alone with the doctor he wouldn’t see.

  He said, “I think our boy Robert McNeal would be quite capable of both roles, given the right circumstances.”

  ****

  The exhibition room would be close quarters once the twelve chairs surrounding the platform were occupied. Robbie already felt a bit crowded, even though the only other people in there with him were Nurse Reyes-Garcia and Officer Kersey. But in five minutes, at exactly two o’clock, the door behind him would open, and the dozen tormentors his Matron called “volunteers” would be allowed in. Robbie had a fair idea of who one of them would be.

  In front of each chair was an easel with a mounted sketchpad. Drawing supplies.

  As for Robbie, he’d been mounted on the two-and-a-half-foot high circular platform, cinched to a standing wooden X-frame Kersey called “The Vitruvian Punk”. He was upright, his arms and legs straight, but a quick adjustment—just like with the bed in the preparation room—would render him spread-eagled for the would-be artists. He was still dressed in the “clothes” he’d been given after lunch, and it now occurred to him that the two garments that covered him were designed to be removed without impediment or difficulty while he remained trussed.

  The latch clicked, and the door squeaked open. He heard the murmuring of the volunteers on the other side, thought he might recognize a voice or two. The prominent one, leading the procession inside, was obvious.

  “Just grab a chair anywhere,” Professor Veda Mack said, taking Robbie’s red cap from him and tossing it to the side. “The display disk rotates, so every seat’s a good seat.”

  She was a
n attractive woman, although old enough to be his mother, with dark, searching eyes that commanded respect and attention. Her straight brown hair hung over the tops of her shoulders like pressed curtains. But she was dressed as casually as ever, her light pink blouse and her knee-length shorts freeing enough for her to do some sketching herself, if she had a mind to.

  She crossed the room ahead of the others and made her appraisal of him on the spot. “You were so awkward, so self-conscious, when it was your friend on display,” she said, her gaze running him up and down like produce at the grocery store, lingering on his uncovered legs. “Look at you now. You don’t seem nearly as nonchalant as he was about it, yet I think you’ll make a fine subject. Better than him, maybe. A pity your classmates aren’t here to draw you.”

  The people who were here, Robbie quickly came to realize with mounting dread, weren’t art students at all. He didn’t think they were, anyway. And they were all as old as his teacher—many of them older.

  The first to take a seat was Ms. Jody Crop, a reporter who’d sought an interview with him right after the scandal had broken. His father had refused her outright and ordered her whole crew off the property. She smiled brightly at him.

  Next to find her place was Mrs. Teresa Fenwick, the mother of a neighborhood friend when he’d been just a kid. She’d always been so nice to him, so welcoming. She appeared rather abashed just now, craning her neck for a better look at his mostly-bared ass, as she said, “I’m sorry, Robbie. I just couldn’t say no. Oh, my—aren’t you a dish?”

  That was a compliment, he supposed. But he couldn’t say “Thank you”. He couldn’t say anything. There would have been consequences.

  They kept coming in, taking seats all around him. Mrs. Campbell, his college course counselor… Miss Danning, his financial advisor—not that he’d needed one… Women from his hometown, his school, his church. Even Mrs. Merriweather, the widowed organ player at morning services. He’d never seen her this casual, with her steel-tinted hair down and her sleeves pushed up to the elbows. She adjusted her easel and blew him a kiss as the last one came in behind her.

  Senator Brenda Worthington. Robbie couldn’t believe it. Not only was she his father’s fiercest political rival, but she’d also spearheaded the opposition to this very law, from the moment it had come off the floor of the Senate. The particulars had been argued well out of the range of his earshot and media exposure, but there had been no escaping Dad’s frustration with her interference. And yet here she was—no glint of satisfaction or pleasure in her expression, only business, only…

  Turnabout. A political victory over her sworn enemy.

  Indeed, before sitting, she stood before the camera Officer Kersey operated and offered a brief statement.

  “What do you think of your new program now, Senator McNeal?” she said, her voice clipped, professionally devoid of emotion. “Let’s see if the ‘hand of justice’ comes down on your son with the same severity it commands over the ordinary people you call criminals, shall we?”

  She remained by the camera and kept standing, ignoring the chair and the easel put out for her. But her eyes stayed on Robbie, bereft of compassion. Merciless.

  This is too much, Robbie thought, casting a panicked look to Nurse Reyes-Garcia. I know these women. I’ve known all of them for years. Let me say something, beg them to leave. Some of them will if I do that. Most of them like me. They’ll go if I ask—except maybe the senator. She hates me and doesn’t even know me.

  He could handle the senator being here. He wouldn’t have to face her in daily life, later.

  Nurse Reyes-Garcia shook her head at him. Was there a hint of sadness there? If so, it lasted less than a second.

  “Professor,” she said, “you may proceed.”

  Professor Mack stepped onto the platform with Robbie, started unsnapping his shoulder buttons as she addressed the audience. “Well, you’ve all had just an hour of basic tutoring on outlining and black and white shading,” she said. “Time to see who’s been harboring a hidden talent all their lives.”

  General chuckling. Robbie’s shirt dropped to his feet. He looked over his chest, down the length of his arms. He couldn’t help but feel even more awkward and exposed with practically all of his body hair shaven off. His skin had a sheen to it still, slightly ruddy. He directed his gaze down, but Professor Mack was having none of that.

  “Head straight,” she said to him.

  Robbie obeyed, taking in his audience all at once. They were delighted. Transfixed. They chattered together, their voices low—but it was a small room, and Robbie missed none of it.

  “Poor thing. He’s blushing all over.”

  “…might be the most fun I’ve ever had following up on a story.”

  “Pretty good pecs for a college boy. Cute nipples, too.”

  “Perky, for a guy.”

  “Can’t wait to have my hands on him, do a little performance art.”

  Hands? Robbie thought. No one said anything about hands.

  And that had come from old Mrs. Merriweather, the freakin’ organ player.

  “Okay, okay,” Professor Mack cut in, her right hand exploring his back, the curvature of his spine. “Our time is limited, so let’s get down to it. We’ll rotate the platform ninety degrees every fifteen minutes. You’ll notice your sketch paper is quartered for you to make an attempt from four different angles. Just an outline of his form to begin with, down to the core. Fill in once you’ve got it completely defined. After that’s done, raise your hand and I’ll see what you’ve got.”

  Then her hand went to the lever at the side of the X-frame and shifted it. Robbie’s arms and legs spread, the Vitruvian Punk in Position Number Two. The strips of cloth covering his penis, testicles, and the center of his buttocks fluttered but remained in place.

  “When one of us has an acceptable start and is ready to move on,” Professor Mack continued, “then I’ll show you what Robbie’s got. Don’t worry—I’ll give everyone a heads-up before I denude him completely—just in case any of you have second thoughts. If all goes well, he’ll be presented for full rendering, by … three o’clock or so.”

  Michael hadn’t been put through this, Robbie reflected with some bitterness. He’d volunteered, gotten paid, and he hadn’t gone through anything close to this. Michael, who wasn’t even body-conscious, hadn’t been stripped to a dinner napkin in front of mentors and reporters and family friends. He had posed for a room full of anonymous students, just a handful in a population of thousands. Strangers all.

  Well, except for Robbie himself. Michael hadn’t minded one bit. And yet Robbie had pitied him, somehow—probably because Robbie hadn’t needed to find work on campus, hadn’t needed to degrade himself. Now, finding himself exposed within breathing distance of a host of familiar, older women, the shame was transcendent. And his cock was starting to feel restless.

  No! God, no—please.

  If he got hard now, his wang would carry that cloth straight up and off to the side, like attempting to raise a flag and failing. He tried to make his mind wander, or to focus on something else, on anything but the way Professor Mack and Mrs. Fenwick and Mrs. Merriweather were staring at him in his public, televised degradation.

  The counter on the wall read six million, four hundred twenty-two thousand, three hundred fifty-two—ticking ever upwards by scores of viewers at a time.

  But then the women started drawing, and the impending threat of an involuntary erection subsided as the room fell quiet. The soft sound of pencils on paper actually calmed him, and after a minute or two, soothed him. The delighted, devilish stares that had greeted him were quickly replaced by clinical study, actual effort—which Robbie understood. It had been the same with him after the first few minutes of Michael’s session. Whether it was bogus or not, the women started behaving like they had a job that needed doing. And that wasn’t so bad, was it?

  No, Robbie thought. Not so bad.

  From where he was mounted, he had a clear look at the
time. Whatever else was going to happen to him, it would be over in less than three hours—and the first day of his penance would be in the books, one-third of his debt to society paid.

  At two-fifteen, the platform rotated. A couple of the women got up to stretch for a minute before resuming their places and starting the second quarter of their sketch page.

  At two-thirty, it rotated again. A couple of complaints about not having enough time, minor grumblings.

  At two-forty, while the platform was centered right in front of her, Mrs. Fenwick raised her hand.

  Robbie had a fleeting vision—a memory—of her as Professor Mack went to her to observe the work she had done so far. Robbie recalled apologizing to her the morning after a sleepover he’d had at her house, celebrating her son’s birthday—Ashton, one of Robbie’s longest-standing childhood friends. Robbie had said he was sorry for acting like an idiot and being loud the night before. Robbie had no trouble remembering that apology, although he couldn’t remember with any specificity what he’d actually done to inspire it.

  She’d been so understanding, so kind, and so dismissive of the whole thing. “Just boys being boys,” she’d said, ruffling his hair.

  Professor Mack nodded her approval at Mrs. Fenwick’s handiwork, and Mrs. Fenwick beamed with pride.

  “Oh, good,” she said. “Finish undressing him, then, please.”

  Professor Mack turned from her and approached Robbie, a smirk curling the corner of her lips. “Deep breath,” she said. “It’ll be all right.”

  Robbie could only stand there, fixed in place, saying nothing as she ran her finger down the side of his ribcage to the string that supported the last of his modesty. And to his horror, he found that his “modesty” was now “supporting” the cloth, rising up against his will before Professor Mack’s finger reached the knot.

  “Last chance,” she said—to the assemblage of sketchers, not to him. “Time for the big reveal.”

  Beneath the cloth, Robbie’s nuts were fully visible. He could feel the air conditioning down there. His sack was a tight plum with the texture of a basketball, swelling with expectation. He regarded his audience, his eyes darting from one face to another, seeking solace, wondering if any would leave.