Chapter 4

It was after ten when Suzanne awoke, although she didn't know it. She stared around her still-bare room and for a moment did not know where she was. Then memory flooded in and with it the terror and humiliation of the preceding night. She gave a cry and started to jump from the bed. But her body was stiff and pain shot through her at the slightest motion. There was a sound and Suzanne turned her head to see a small blonde woman in the doorway, smiling at her.

"How do you feel?" the woman asked.

"T-terrible. Who are you?"

"Name's Phyllis. I live in apartment three. I stayed with you last night."

Suzanne sat up, wincing at the pain that stabbed her crotch. "How did I get here? Oh, I remember. There was a doctor or something."

"Roger Watlington. He's your upstairs neighbor."

"Yes. The man with the long hair."

"That's him. He's a psychiatrist. Shrinks get to look how they want, they make so much money." Phyllis made a negative gesture. "No, you stay in bed, honey. Roger said to call him when you woke up. You wait there while I go get him."

Suzanne sat gingerly on the edge of the bed and waited. She had an overwhelming need to urinate, but she wasn't sure she could walk.

In less than five minutes, Roger walked in. He was wearing a sweatshirt and jeans and had his long hair tied behind him. He didn't look much like a doctor, but his manner was professional.

"Good morning, Suzanne. I'm Roger Watlington. Doctor Watlington, if you prefer."

"Good m-m-morning."

Roger Watlington squatted on his heels beside the bed, directly in front of Suzanne. "Hurt?"

"Yes."

"Where, especially?"

"M-my... body. And my wrists hurt."

He took her hands and turned them over, kneading the bones. "Bruises, nothing more. You'll be okay in a couple of days."

Then, very casually, he lifted her dress and bunched it around her waist. Her panties had disappeared during her captivity and Suzanne made an instinctive move to cover herself. Roger looked at her with raised eyebrows and she dropped her gaze. "I can't help if you're afraid of me, Suzanne."

"I-I'm sorry. It's just that-that I was h-hurt so bad."

Roger squatted with his hands on the tops of Suzanne's thighs and tilted his head to one side. "How long have you had the stutter?"

"Years and years. It's be-be-been with me since I was a child."

Roger nodded. "I was wondering if it was a result of last night."

"No. Not the s-s-stutter." She put her hands over his. "D-Doctor, I don't mind if you examine me, but first I have t-to go to the bathroom."

He laughed. "Of course! Here, let me help you up."

Suzanne extended her hands and Roger lifted her off the bed. Once on her feet, the pain wasn't as bad. She made it to the bathroom all right and signified that she could take it from there.

When she came out, Roger motioned her to the bed again. "Let's get you out of those clothes and let me check you over."

Suzanne nodded. She had been examined before, of course. But it was different now. There was something about the clinical atmosphere of a doctor's office that made the examination remote and impersonal. Here, in her own bedroom, facing a man in casual clothes, she was upset and vaguely apprehensive. Roger Watlington wasn't a doctor, here, he was a man.

"What's the matter, Suzanne?"

"N-nothing. I'm just a little nervous."

Roger nodded. "That's understandable, after your experience." He came to her and led her toward the bed. "I'll help you. That should make it easier."

It didn't, but Suzanne did not resist as Roger's deft fingers unfastened and unhooked her. She let him take her dress off, shivering as it sighed to the floor. Then he loosened her bra from behind and slid the straps off her shoulders, his hands brushing the sides of her breasts.

"Lie down, please, Suzanne," he said, his voice professionally commanding.

She did, easing her body down in painful spurts.

Roger sat beside her and began exploring her bruises and abrasions. "Would you like to tell me about it?"

"I-I don't think I c-can."

"Try. I think it will help you."

Suzanne made a couple of abortive attempts, then, under Roger's impersonal and sympathetic urging, let it spill out. She told him about her day; about the fruitless job hunt, the restaurant, the hairy man. It came out in cold, emotionless chunks, as if she were reciting something remembered from a long-ago time.

All the while, Roger's thin fingers probed and pressed. He levered her thighs apart with light pressures and probed her sex. When she cried out softly at the pain, he looked as if he felt the hurt, too. "I'm sorry, Suzanne. It's necessary. I'm being as easy as I can."

"I-I know. It just hurts so much."

"But that's not really what's bothering you, is it?"

"I-I don't know. What do you mean?"

Roger sat up, apparently satisfied with his examination. He let his hand rest lightly on her thigh, as if in afterthought. "You were virgin before... last night."

"Yes."

Roger leaned forward and spoke more confidentially. "You aren't physically damaged, Suzanne. You've been deflowered a little more roughly than most, but it's nothing exceptional. In fact, if you hadn't been a virgin, if your sexual equipment had known use, you probably would have enjoyed it."

Suzanne shook her head violently. "It was horrible! How could anyone enjoy anything like that?"

Roger squeezed her thigh lightly. "There is much to sex, Suzanne. Many find release through the stimulus of pain. And...other things. No, it isn't the pain that's bothering you."

"Then what is it?"

"The humiliation! The defiling of your body, your private world ripped apart by a brutal stranger."

As he spoke, Roger's hand began to knead the flesh of Suzanne's thigh. She noticed, and noticed also that a peculiar tone had crept into his voice. All of a sudden, she was more afraid of this blond-haired doctor than she had ever been of the animal who had used her the night before. She couldn't say why, but she was.

Roger seemed to sense her mood. He withdrew his hand and put on a doctor's smile. "Well, more on that later. For now, I want you to stay here in bed and rest. I'll have Phyllis or Flo bring you something to eat, and I'll leave you some salve for your vagina. I'm also leaving these pills. They're for pain. Take one if it gets bad, but don't get into the habit of relying on them."

Roger stood up and Suzanne gratefully pulled the covers over her naked body. "T-thank you, Doctor."

"Roger. Please. We're neighbors, after all."

"All right. Roger."

He turned to go. "Okay. I'll send you some breakfast. And I'll look in a little later in the day."

Suzanne nodded and watched his back as he left. He was a nice enough man, and sure with his hands. But the pit of her stomach turned whenever he looked at her. It wasn't the same sort of creepiness that Craft aroused in her. The dead-eyed man made her feel that something slimy was crawling on her skin.

But Doctor Roger Watlington made her spine feel too tight and a coldness gripped her heart. There was a sense of deep and old evil about him that she couldn't shake, no matter how many times she told herself she was being a fool.

"Knock knock, kiddo."

It was the black girl.

"Come in."

"I'm Flo. You're Suzanne, right? How you like your eggs, or is that too heavy for you right now? You want some cereal and toast? A little orange juice?"

"Ju-just some toast would be fine, thank you."

"Juice, too. Good for you."

"All right."

Flo left and was back in a few minutes with a cup and glass balanced precariously on a plate. "I brought some tea, too. Spice tea. Good for you."

Suzanne ate while Flo walked the bedroom, looking over her pitiful suitcases.

"You came in on the run, huh?"

"I suppose s-so."

"Leaving a man?"

"In a way."

Flo plopped on the dresser. There were no chairs in the room. "Yeah. That's the way it usually is. Men are no damn good at all. I left my old man in Detroit three years ago an' it's the best damn move I ever made."

Flo sat with her rump on the corner of the dresser, one foot on the floor, the other laid along the dresser-top. She wore a vivid purple miniskirt and the same white kneeboots she had worn the first day Suzanne had seen her. Flo's panties were clearly visible and so were a number of bruises and bitemarks on the insides of her thighs. They looked fresh.

"You, uh, l-live here?"

"Off an' on, honey. Sometimes I stay with Roger, upstairs. But I'm not part of the club."

"W-what club?"

Flo looked startled, then guilty. "Oh," she said lamely. "Just a social sort of thing Roger's got going. Nothing important."

Suzanne decided it was probably a lot more important than Flo was admitting - particularly to her.

But she let it go. Flo wasn't going to say anymore on the subject, she was certain.

"W-what do you do, Flo?"

"Do?"

"Where do you w-work?"

Flo laughed easily. "Well, that depends, honey. Sometimes I dance. Topless, you know. An' sometimes I'm a cocktail waitress in high-class joints. And sometimes I hook."

"What?"

"Hook, child, I turn tricks." She noted the noncomprehension on Suzanne's face. "I spread for the gents. I'm a prostitute."

"Oh," said Suzanne in a small voice.

Flo laughed again. "Don't let it upset you, kiddo. I only do it when I can't get work dancin' or waitin'. And what the hell, I ain't selling nothing important anyway. Hell I give it away most of the time." She smiled. Then a look of contriteness came over her. "I guess that's a touchy subject with you right now, though, huh?"

"N-no. That's all right. I'll get over it." She smiled bravely. "Doctor Watlington says some girls even l-like it, uh, rough."

"Haw!" Flo exclaimed. "He should know!" Then she looked contrite again, as if realizing she'd said something wrong.

"What do you mean?"

"Nothin', honey. Don't worry your head about it. You just let Roger take care of you. He'll fix you right up. He's the best psychiatrist in town."

"I d-don't need a psychiatrist. I'm all right."

Flo gave Suzanne an unreadable look. "You probably right, honey. You probably right." Then she hopped off the dresser and brushed her skirt down over her bottom. "Well, I best be getting along. You just take it easy and we'll check in on you every now and again."

"T-thanks for the breakfast."

"No trouble, kiddo."

Flo left, swaying her little butt with the unconscious ease of long practice. Suzanne stared after her for a long while, her brow furrowed. Being a prostitute accounted for the bruises and bitemarks. Maybe.