by Lucian Bane
“Probably.”
“Probably you think or probably it does.”
“Probably it does.”
“If you could know why, would you want to?”
“Yes.”
“So you don’t like not knowing why you’re not sure if you want to have sexual relations.”
“I don’t like not knowing anything.”
“Was there ever a time that you can remember wanting sexual relations?”
“Never.”
“Have you ever been sexually abused?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Do you think you’ve ever been sexually abused?”
“No.”
“You have any theories as to why you were given the diagnoses those three doctors gave?”
“Sure.”
“Care to share it with me?”
“Are you giving me the option?”
“Yes,” she decided after a moment. “I prefer you tell me because you want to, not because you feel you must.”
“I’ll never want to share anything with you,” he informed. “I’m doing this because I must.”
“Why must you?”
“Because you need me to.”
She wrote the time again while trying to formulate the right question. “Why does me needing you to, require you?”
“Because I want us to be indebted to one another.”
She eyed him. “Why?”
“So that I get what I need.”
“What do you need?”
“To prove my thesis.”
She stared at him. Why didn’t she believe that? And why couldn’t she think of what to ask him? She couldn’t even figure out what questions would help her get to anything she needed to know because she didn’t know what she needed to know to help him. Because she didn’t know what was wrong with him.
“Do you know your real parents?”
“Not personally.”
“Are they alive?”
“I think so.”
“Do you have siblings?”
“Yes.”
“Oh. How many?”
“Two sisters from my real parents and a step brother from my adoptive.”
“Do you know them?”
“I know my step-brother. Not my sisters.”
“How old is your brother?”
“Not sure.”
“Approximately?” She wrote the time.
“Forties, I think. He wasn’t really in the family when I was.”
“And your sisters? Do you know how old they are?”
“No.”
“Do you want to?”
“No.”
His answers were getting bored again, and she wrote the time. “What sort of activities do you like to do on your personal time?”
“Hunt.”
“What do you hunt?”
“Animals.”
She chuckled. “So not humans? Kidding, sorry. What kind of animals?”
“Large ones.”
“Any large ones?”
“Yes.”
“For sport or food?”
“Both.”
“I thought you didn’t eat red meat?”
“I don’t eat what I kill. I give it those who do.”
“What do you like about hunting?”
“Everything.”
“Can you tell me about it?”
“I can do more than tell you.”
“You can?”
“Yes. I can show you.”
“You want to… take me hunting?”
“If you want to see. If not, I’ll tell you.”
“I’d like for you to tell me and show me.”
“Gladly.”
She wondered then. “Does… hunting make you happy?”
“I guess you could say that.”
“What would you call it?”
“Call what?”
“What hunting does for you?”
He shrugged a little. “Everything I need.”
“How often do you hunt?”
“Every weekend.”
“What happens if you can’t make it hunting?”
“I make it.”
She wrote the time. “What if you couldn’t make it hunting, how would you feel?”
“I’d target practice.”
“So you have to shoot something,” she said. “Do you shoot living things when you target practice?”
“No.”
“Is hunting arousing for you?”
He eyed her. “It doesn’t get my cock hard if that’s what you mean by arousing.”
She lowered her gaze at his use of that term. “Is there another kind of arousing for you?”
“Yes.”
“Can you explain it?”
“It’s… like a high. When I hunt and kill.”
“You like killing?”
“I like hunting and killing.”
“What do you like more, hunting or killing?”
“Both are the same, you can’t have one without the other.”
“Do you like animals for things besides hunting?”
“Of course.”
“When was the first time you hunted and killed?”
“When I was eight.”
“With whom?”
“My adoptive father.”
“He was a good hunter?”
“Very.”
“Did you like hunting with him?”
“Yep.”
“He taught you?”
“Everything I know about hunting.”
“Do you like those memories?”
“I don’t have any particular feeling about them.”
She wrote the time. “Did your step mom like when you two went hunting?”
“Always.”
“How often did he take you hunting?”
“Every weekend just about.”
“Any fishing?”
“No. Only hunting.”
“What was your first gun?”
“A Remington 410 single shot .”
“What’s your favorite gun to hunt with now?”
“Benelli R1 rifle. ”
“Why do you like that one?”
“It’s reliable with a recoil reduction system that makes for a soft kick.”
“Would you teach me how to hunt?”
He looked at her for many seconds. “Maybe.”
“Why maybe?”
“Because I don’t know if I want to yet.”
“Do you consider hunting an intimate thing?”
“Very.”
“Is that why you’re not sure if you want to teach me?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
She forced herself to meet his gaze. “Why are you not sure then?”
“Because I’m not sure if you’re ready.”
“To be taught to hunt?”
“To hunt.”
“How will you know if I’m ready?”
“I’ll wager after I ask my questions.”
Her stomach flipped with that and she looked at the time. Shit, she still had forty-five minutes left. As much as she dreaded his questions, she was sure she’d asked him enough. Any more would be an overload even if he was answering without hesitation. She needed these questions and answers to simmer. She also needed to study the video and use it to think of more questions. She felt like she’d asked all the wrong ones but at the same time, she was glad she didn’t ask any that brought her too deep, too quickly. This needed to be done slowly and carefully.
“I think that’s enough for one session,” she announced. “I’m concluding my first exploratory session at 8:15 PM.”
C H A P T E R F O U R
My Turn
Mordecai had no idea how he survived that. Her questions were a breeze but the ones burning in his head for her, those were causing him havoc. His body had become tense, hands perspiring. The unusual symptoms added to his need for speed through her part of the session, all while trying n
ot to show it. She’d be scrutinizing the video later, and he’d made it a point to give off markers on areas he wanted her focused on.
“Would you like a moment before we begin?” he asked after they switched places and he’d loaded his memory chip into the camera.
“Oh,” she said, seeming surprised. “No, I’m fine. Would you?”
“I’m good.” He sat and pulled out his notebook, opening it to the first tab he’d long ago prepared for this day. Unlike the last sheet she’d looked at, this one held the mother load of data collection. “I’m going to move quickly through the questions, since I have many. Is that okay with you?” Mostly he needed her to know it wasn’t chat time.
“Got it. I’m ready.”
He leaned over his notebook with his pen in hand, starting. “What’s your earliest best memory that you recall?”
“Ummm. My third birthday.”
“Why is it your best memory?”
“I got a kitten.”
“Its name?”
“Tabitha.”
“What color was it?”
“Orange.”
“And eye color?”
“Green.”
“What did you do when you got it?”
“I… I made a house for it out of cardboard. With a little bread basket for a bed and an olive green dishrag for a little blanket.” He watched her slip back into the memory, displaying all the perfect anatomical details he wanted to see. He was eager to get to other emotions but wanted to study that one in person a little longer. He wasn’t an emotional person and to see them in action in a capacity that he could study was turning out to be something his brain seemed to want plenty of.
“Did the cat like the house?”
She gave a light pfft. “No. She never stayed in it! But she did like sleeping with me.” Back to smiles.
“What is your earliest sad memory that you recall?”
He watched as she filed the happy memory away and got back to present time, thinking. “Hmmm. I’d have to say… when the puppy died in the well. Definitely.”
Fascinating how easily she called them up and seemed to actually be able to relive them. “How old were you?”
“I was… four.”
“Why was the puppy in the well?”
“A mean little brat kid put him in it. My dad had to fish it out after it drowned. But before it drowned, it cried and fought to live, it was so awful.”
“You sound more angry than sad.”
“I was both,” she assured, her blue eyes wide on him, making him want more of that emotion. “But more sad than angry.”
“And what was your earliest angry memory?”
“The same event.”
“What did you do about it?”
“Well for one, I couldn’t believe that kid threw the puppy in the well.”
“It was your puppy?”
“Well, it was our puppy, not really mine. But it felt like a baby sibling to me. He was so cute and helpless and drowning and crying for help.”
“Did you cry?”
She looked at him, trying to remember. “No, I didn’t. Not at first. I think I was in rescue mode until it drowned and he had to fish it out.”
“Is that when you cried?”
“Yes.”
Mordecai caught another emotion in her answer. “What did your father do to the kid?”
“Nothing,” she said, revealing that hidden emotion. Anger. Resentment. Bitterness. He’d hit the jackpot early.
“How did you feel about him doing nothing?”
“Very… angry. But not because he did nothing, but because he seemed… happy it happened. Like it had proved some point.”
Interesting. “What point do you think it proved to him?”
“That animals weren’t meant for pets, pets were a waste of time and money. Money that could be used to feed the poor.”
Very interesting. “You didn’t agree with that?”
“I was four, and he made me choose between loving animals and loving starving kids, so, I learned very early how to feel guilty for loving anything he didn’t deem worthy of more love than it was worth. With my father there was a hierarchy of loves. God first, then the rest of the world.”
“What about family?”
“Family was considered servants to God and therefore to him.”
So very interesting. “Did your father think he was God?”
She gave a dry laugh. “He seemed to but no. He was God’s servant, the one put in charge of the flock. But that did put him above everybody else. He was a man of the law, Old Testament law. That was his downfall.”
“His downfall?”
“Where he fell into error. Where he missed the entire message of the Gospel, the entire Truth.”
Mordecai’s blood slowly heated up at the coming topic, the big nest of rotten eggs. The God nest. He perused his list of questions feeling like now was a good time to jump to number twenty-seven.
“Have you ever been molested?”
He watched her face closely as she held his gaze with an unflinching steadiness. She didn’t answer him, only stared, clearly debating on how or if she would proceed. He wouldn’t allow her to skip it as she had permitted him.
“Yes.”
“By who?”
“My brother.”
“Tell me about it.”
More staring before lowering her head. “Tell you about it,” she said heavily, but with a knowing. A knowing that this was a necessary hurdle she’d have to cross and maybe hoping he’d take it easy on her or go slower. He’d do neither.
He waited in the silence for her to overcome whatever resistance holding her tongue to the roof of her mouth. He counted the seconds. He’d give her ten more to warm up to the fire he was about to scorch her alive with.
“I was nine,” she finally began. “Lying in bed. Sleeping. I felt him trying to touch me.”
“Where?” he asked when she didn’t elaborate more.
“I was lying on my stomach and he was… trying to… put his finger between my legs. I pretended like I was waking up and made noises that would… let him know I didn’t like it.”
“Can you make the noise for me?”
She was back to eyeing him.
He eyed her in return, not offering to explain why he needed to hear it with his own ears.
“It was like a moan,” she said. “The kind you make when you’re sick and want to puke?”
“Can you show me?”
A burning emotion filled her stare now, right on him. “Nah,” she said, looking right.
“You can’t or won’t?”
“I won’t,” she said simply, not even a little guilty she was already caving, more like happy she was.
“Why?” he asked.
“Why do you want to hear it?” she challenged back.
“The agreement is I ask the questions, you answer.”
A muscle worked at her jaw as she again lowered her head. “I won’t because I don’t think you need that kind of information.”
“I do think I need it if I’m going to have precise data for my thesis.”
“How does…” she seemed to catch herself, shaking her head before making the sound he’d asked her to. A sound that stirred something strange inside him.
“Can you do it again?”
She nailed him with a glare, making the sound again while looking right at him.
“What did your brother do then?”
“He quit,” she said, like he should do the same.
But he wouldn’t quit. Didn’t even want to. “Did it arouse you?”
“No,” she said, not hiding her repulsion.
“Do you need to stop?” he asked, delivering her a mental spanking.
She received it like a champ then shook her head with a muttered, “I’m fine.”
“Have you ever masturbated?”
Mordecai watched avidly as she went from the anger and shame of an offense to what would appear to be shame of a privat
e act. The way it visibly jarred her did the same for him. Then she turned to anger. “Yes,” she answered, not hiding her displeasure in his line of questioning.
“How many times?” His pulse began to speed up now, indicating the topic was something of interest to his body more than it was to his mind. His mind was at a steady firing rhythm. Calm. Calculated.
She shook her lowered head. “I can’t remember.”
“More than ten?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Tell me about the first time.”
She took a sudden huge breath, her leg bouncing as she cast her eyes to the right. So much shame. “I think… I was twelve.” She cleared her throat then took another breath and rushed through the description. “My friend told me about something she did in the tub with the water and said I should try it and I did.”
“Can you tell me what it was?”
“Of course,” she said, forcing her eyes on him. “You let the water fall on your privates and the amount of pressure from the water creates an orgasm.”
Her dry, airy tone was comical to his mind but not his body. His body was unraveling again, quickly. “How exactly did you let the water fall on your privates?”
She turned a bored gaze to the ceiling and explained. “I had to put my legs on the wall and scoot my butt up to the faucet.”
“I see.” And he did. He saw her in the tub with her legs open and the water falling on her privates.
“Good for you.”
“Did you like it?”
“Yes, of course, it’s an orgasm, what’s not to like?”
“I’ve never had one, so I don’t know.”
She aimed a hard gaze at him, clearly doubting. But he wasn’t about to let her derail a perfectly good question-answer session with her sudden absence of professionalism.
“When is the last time you masturbated?”
“Okay,” she muttered with lowered head. “This is too much.”
“Why?”
“This is too…”
“You didn’t finish your sentence because you know it’s not too much anything, it’s perfectly normal questioning for the topics we’re covering. Am I to assume you have zero plans on delving into my sexual psyche in order to help me?”
“You’re right,” she conceded, sounding only half sorry. “About a week ago. At my apartment.” She kept her gaze aimed at him and he fought not to show what the pounding heat in his cock did to him. “In my bed,” she went on aloofly. “Legs open, knees pulled back, using my fingers,” she raised her left hand. “These two,” she moved her middle and ring fingers. “I rubbed in a circular motion over my clitoris. While I do that, I imagine what it’s like to have a man make love to me, or perform oral sex on me. Sometimes I imagine performing oral sex on him. I do that until my orgasm comes.”