The Celestial Bed

by Irving Wallace

  "He might want sex with you tonight. Think you can deal with him?"

  "If I follow Dr. Freeberg's instructions. No sex tonight or any night while I'm working with both of you. I'm to tell him I must finish the series of shots before—before we go to bed again."

  "What if Tony insists on sex?"

  She laughed for the first time. "Oh, he will—you can bet on that. But I won't let him. I'm to be very firm about saying no. Which will be easy, believe me."

  "Maybe he'll force himself." To his surprise, Brandon found himself feeling some apprehension for her well-being.

  "You mean, like rape me? Let him try. You know my condition. He won't get anywhere."

  "But one day, when you can, he will . . ." He wanted to ask her something, considered if he should, and then did. "Nan, have you ever thought of solving part of your problem by leaving him?"

  "I've thought of it."

  "Well?"

  Her voice was almost plaintive. "Where would I go, Paul?"

  "I see."

  He was feeling sympathy for her, and sensing that she was more comfortable with him, he had an urge to make this initial session as intensive as it could be. He wanted her to progress quickly, so that she could feel safe.

  Instinct told him what the next best step should be in their relationship. They should disrobe together, then stand naked with each other. If successful, this would eliminate her inhibitions, bond their relationship, and make everything that followed easier and warmer.

  He looked at the wall clock. They still had twenty-five minutes left. So there was time enough to get something more intimate started. Dare he suggest it?

  He cast an eye inward at his instinct signals. No green light showed. But there was something that resembled a yellow light, a yellow light that said, You can go, but go easy.

  Try it, but slowly.

  Body imaging—but she'd be much too frightened to strip and stand before the mirror. She was still a timid creature, not as timid as she had been when she had entered his apartment, but still a member of the walking wounded, the psychically wounded, and she would be afraid to strip totally before one more man, a man who might blur in her mind into another potential Tony Zecca. To reveal herself so totally might lose everything that had been gained this afternoon.

  Then Brandon, drawing on his training, remembered Freeberg speaking of compromises that had to be made and could be made on the spot. If a patient was too inhibited, do what you have to do gradually.

  Go slowly, Brandon reminded himself again.

  He turned his head to look at her and found to his pleasant surprise that Nan had been watching him.

  "You seemed lost in thought," she said.

  "I was, Nan. I was thinking of something else we could do that would make the next sessions easier."

  "What's that?" she wanted to know.

  "Trying a back caress. Just to get it started. We can do it more fully next time."

  "A back caress? How do you do it?"

  "I'd like to take off my shirt. Not my trousers, just my shirt."

  "I don't mind. I've seen men without shirts on the beach all the time."

  "And I'd like you to take off your blouse."

  "Take off my blouse?" The earlier fright appeared on her face. "I'm wearing a brassiere underneath. What about that?"

  Yellow light. Careful. He was relying on his instinct completely—that and his little knowledge of her.

  "Never mind about your bra," he said casually. "Leave it on. Just your blouse off and my shirt off. We'll stand up. I'll stand behind you. You'll shut your eyes and let me rub your back."

  "Nothing else?"

  "Just that."

  He began removing his shirt as he watched her fumble to open and release her blouse.

  He was bare chested, on his feet, waiting for her.

  She was having trouble with her white blouse, but finally she pulled it off and stood up. She was stiff, self-conscious about the protrusion of the obviously new lace brassiere. "How's that?" she said, almost defiantly.

  "Excellent. Stand in front of me, Nan, with your back to me."

  She stepped in front of him, then turned her back to him. From the rise of her square shoulders, he could see that she was breathing faster.

  "What else am I to do?"

  "Not a thing, Nan, except relax, if you can. I'll only caress your back, just rub and massage it."

  "If you think it'll do any good."

  "It'll help. Now, close your eyes. No more talk. Listen to my fingers. Feel my fingers."

  He applied his fingertips to the curve of her back, above the brassiere band and below it, as if they were butterflies. Then more pressure, more friction. Minute by minute, her muscular constriction began to ease. Soon, she was almost relaxing, absorbing and enjoying the circular movements of his hands.

  As he continued to caress her back, he could hear sounds, soft sounds of pleasure, that she was involuntarily emitting.

  Then in a whisper, she spoke. "Feels wonderful, wonderful."

  He did not reply. His hands spoke on her flesh, his fingers and palm now gliding upward, gliding downward. For twenty minutes.

  "All right, Nan," he said.

  Her hands came back behind her. He thought she was reaching behind to touch his hands. But no, her fingers had darted to the hooks on her brassiere. She undid the hooks, let the bra come free, and then turned around and looked up at him.

  She pulled off her brassiere and allowed her straight, high conical breasts to be revealed. He could not help staring at them. The ruby nipples were pointed. They were hard.

  "I just wanted you to know," she said, "I'm not a prude and I'm not a sickie. Even though I've never had an orgasm with anyone, I'm sure I could be all right in the right hands."

  "Thank you, Nan."

  She looked down at her breasts, shook them a little, then looked up at him. "Not bad for somebody my age."

  "They're lovely, Nan."

  She began to cover them again with her brassiere, fastening the hooks on the band behind her. "That—that's for starters," she said, reaching for her blouse. "Next time, if you're just as gentle, you can see what goes with it."

  Early that evening, Adam Demski sat on the edge of the living room sofa, with Gayle Miller completing his footbath exercise. Demski was in shirt sleeves and trousers, but his trousers were rolled up just below his knees, and his feet were immersed in a large square plastic dishpan filled with soapy tepid water.

  Gayle, her hands in the water, finished rubbing and caressing his feet and then told him that he could take his feet out of the water and set them on a bath mat beside it.

  "How was that, Adam?" Gayle wanted to know, picking up a velour towel and beginning to dry one of his feet.

  "Pleasant, of course," he answered, wiggling his toes. He appeared considerably less tense than he had been at the outset of the exercise.

  "It can be a delightful experience," said Gayle. "It actually gives you a good feeling about an often neglected but sensual part of your body. It puts you in closer touch with yourself. Unfortunately, most of my patients don't want to bother about doing it."

  "Why not?"

  Gayle continued to busy herself wiping his feet. "Because they are not interested in their feet. Each patient, I assure you, is interested only in his penis. He tells himself, 'It's my penis that's in trouble, not my feet. Besides, my feet aren't all that attractive. In fact, they're rather ugly, so why waste time on them?'" She peered up at him. "Did you feel that way, Adam?"

  "Well, maybe I was wondering that a little, wondering if it wasn't a waste of time, sort of."

  "It wasn't, Adam. Take my word for it. Feet can be surprisingly erotic. Also, caressing them gives us a chance to continue building a relationship. I mean, we get a chance to know each other a little better before we try to get closer."

  "Okay, I let you do it." As she cast her towel aside, he added, "What do I do next? Do I do it to you?"

  "We'll skip that."
/>   "Should I put my socks and shoes back on?"

  "No."

  She had given the next step careful consideration. In fact, she had discussed it with Dr. Freeberg just before lunch. Gayle had speculated on going into body imaging during the last half of her second session with Adam Demski.

  "Do you think he's ready for total nudity yet?" she pondered aloud.

  Freeberg, who had been leafing through a transcript of Demski's case history, and then Gayle's report on their opening session, sat back to reflect on this.

  "You seem to have made some real progress with him, Gayle."

  "I believe I have. He was much more relaxed when the first session ended. More comfortable. Almost not scared of me at all."

  "Though he may be reluctant about full nudity. Remember, once he takes his clothes off, you are going to see what he perceives as his real problem. He will be scared, feel threatened. On the other hand, from his talks with me, while he is not pressing to rush along, he really wants to get to his problem, focus on it. Despite his outward appearance of resistance, I have a gut feeling that he's ready to do anything, no matter how difficult for him, to overcome his problem. I sense he's determined. Yes, Gayle, I think you can undertake body imaging with him tonight"—Freeberg had hesitated briefly—"but be careful."

  "What do you mean 'be careful'?"

  "Don't hurry him. Talk him along. Chat about nude experiences. Ease him into it."

  "No problem with that."

  Freeberg had sat up. "Where do you intend to do the body imaging? In your bedroom this time?"

  "God, no," she had said emphatically. "I still feel the same way I did in Tucson. My bedroom is my private retreat, never part of my surrogate work. I remember something you told me: once you ask a man to take his clothes off, if he's dysfunctional, his anxiety goes sky-high. He associates undressing with having to perform. Taking him into my bedroom would mean the same thing. I stopped using a bedroom with my first case, as you advised. I have my therapy room down the hallway of my new house. It looks like an office. I shipped everything from Tucson. A full-length three-sided mirror on one wall. A desk and file cabinet on another. Across from the mirror wall, a rather firm oversized couch with a pull-up armchair on either side. The floor's covered with a thick mat the size of a double bed. We'll do the exercises there. Except for the mat, the atmosphere is fairly austere and clinical, and that's where we'll work."

  Dr. Freeberg had smiled his approval. "Good girl. Then go ahead. Do it."

  So now, seated near Demski, she realized that she was at the brink of a crucial step.

  She heard Demski speaking, a bit confused. "You said no? I'm not to put my shoes on?"

  "No, don't bother," she repeated, springing up. She held out her hand to Demski, wanting him to rise. Once he was beside her, she added cheerfully, "As long as you have your shoes and socks off, I thought we might just go on from there."

  "You mean undress?" He sounded as if he had a frog in his throat.

  "Why not?" Still cheerful. "We'll want to do that sooner or later. Why not sooner? It's necessary for body imaging, and it's healthy. I promise you, Adam, it's a big, big step."

  "Did—did you talk to Dr. Freeberg about it?"

  "I certainly did. I told him I thought you were ready for it. He agreed. He approves."

  "You think I'm ready?"

  "I do." She took him by the hand. "Come on, let's go in the back."

  Demski resisted. "Where to? Your bedroom?"

  "Oh, no, that's way down the line, if we use it at all. I'm taking you to a cozy room I have in the rear that I use as a part-time office. It has a special mirror I want to show you." She tightened her hold on Demski's hand. "Come along. Follow me."

  She led him into the hallway.

  "What's body imaging?" he wanted to know, his voice hoarse.

  "I'll demonstrate it for you," she promised. As she walked ahead of him she went on. "You know, nudity is a very common experience. At one time or another, everyone is nude. When you were a baby, you were nude while your sister or mother diapered you. Around the country many kids go swimming naked in some cove on a lake. Or maybe they swim naked at the YMCA. Did you?"

  "At the Y—once."

  "You must have undressed in the locker room at high school before gym class."

  "Yes, of course."

  "You strip down whenever you have a checkup at your doctor's. Maybe sometimes, there is a female nurse present."

  "That's true, but it's different."

  Ignoring his remark, Gayle went on. "I remember that on some of your later dates, you tried to make love to women. I'm sure you undressed completely."

  "I did. But I didn't like it."

  They were standing before Gayle's therapy room, and she opened the door and waved him inside. The overhead fluorescent lights were already on. They were direct, businesslike, clearly not illumination that was low and seductive.

  "You'll find this easier, much easier," Gayle said. She swung a hand at the furniture. "Sit down wherever you like, Adam."

  He sat edgily in the nearest pull-up chair.

  Gayle had gone to the full-length mirror to consider herself. She had purposely dressed down for this occasion. No turn-on clothes, not any garment that might be regarded as sexy. No see-through blouse or half bra or clinging skirt or sheer nylon stockings or boots. She was wearing a loose-fitting pullover sweater with a modest V neck, a light wool skirt, no stockings, and low-heeled shoes. It was a sexless uniform that could be discarded without much delay.

  Still dressed, she pivoted from the long mirror to confront Demski.

  "Let me tell you what body imaging is, Adam."

  Then she explained the technique of body imaging to him.

  When she had finished, Demski repeated, "Stand in front of the mirror?"

  "With nothing on. Nude. And go through the same drill I've just done. Pointing to your various body parts and relating to me how you feel about them."

  "Well, maybe I won't know how. I mean, I've never tried that."

  "You'll know," Gayle assured him. "I'm not saying it's exactly the same when women and men body image. Women are likely to spend more time talking about their faces. Women are much more into makeup, cosmetics, and worrying about how they look to outsiders. Men are most often ready to skip their faces and go to what counts for them. A man may go straight to his penis and want to talk about that. Because his penis is all he's interested in talking about. But frequently, men will go from head to toe and go past their genitals without mentioning them. If they do that, I mention it afterward, then tell them they forgot their genitals and ask them how they feel about them. I'm not interested in asking why they skipped that area, because I don't need to know, and I have no judgments to make. But I do want them to get back to that area and talk about it. I mean, that's basically what this is all about. Do you understand the procedure, Adam?"

  "I'm not sure. Maybe I do."

  "Well, just imitate me. When it's your turn, do what I've done. You can do it, I'm sure."

  "If you think so."

  Gayle offered Demski a warm smile and said softly, "Now, you stand up, Adam, and let's both take off our clothes."

  "At the same time?"

  "Doesn't matter. Let's just undress." As he wobbled to his feet, she added in a kindly tone, "Undressing, Adam, doesn't mean you have to get an erection and jump into bed and make it with me. It means only what I've explained —we are undressing so that you can get in touch with how you feel about your whole body, because you've never thought about it that much, and to give me some information about your body and how you feel about it, and most of all, to give us an easier and closer relationship. Okay?"

  "Okay," he said glumly.

  She half turned away, as she began to pull her sweater over her head, and did not fix on his own fumbling efforts to undress so as not to inhibit further what he was trying to do.

  She had her sweater off, then reached behind to unfasten her brassiere and tossed it on a ch
air, then unzipped her skirt, let it drop to the carpet, kicking it aside, along with her shoes. She could see, from the mirror, that she was naked except for her tight nylon panties. She slipped them down and stepped out of them. In the mirror, she could observe Demski undressing at last. His shirt was off, and his trousers. He was lingering over his polka-dot jock shorts.

  "You can sit down again when you're through," she called out.

  When she turned fully toward him, he was seated once more. She could not see his penis. Somehow he had covered it with his bare arms crossed over his bare thighs.

  Not wishing to make him more self-conscious, she pivoted back to the mirror but could see him from an angle with his eyes wide and fastened on her entire person reflected in the glass.

  Well, that was all right, she told herself. He had probably never before seen a young woman naked in a bright light for so long. It might relax him a little. What surely would relax him more would be her own performance before the mirror. If she did it well, he would become engrossed in watching her and would soon forget that he himself was sitting there naked. He would, if she succeeded, become so entranced by her cool manner while analyzing herself that he would lose any sense of shame. And when his turn came, he might be less petrified.

  But now it was her turn, her cue to start this off.

  "All right, Adam, this is our body-imaging exercise," she began, facing the full-length mirror squarely.

  "My hair," she said, fluffing the short bob. "I rather like it this way, and I like being a brunette. I never wanted to be a real blond and have that kind of pubic hair. There's something insubstantial, lightweight, about being a blond. A nice, cute brunette like me . . . you can always trust someone like me. Remember that, Adam."

  In the mirror, she detected the tiniest flicker of amusement about his mouth.

  Her forefinger went down to her nose. "Not bad, but not great either. The upturned nose has its point. Pun, Adam, get it? But in truth, it is a little too wide for my own taste. A narrower nose could be more appealing."

  Her forefinger moved down to her mouth. "In romance novels, these are called generous lips. And they are. Men seem to like them, like their cushiony softness when they kiss, so I shouldn't complain. As long as you like them, Adam."