Chapter 11
I awakened to the sound of the water slapping against the boat and the chill fog starting to settle over desk furniture and my still naked body. Diane, Dave and Ella, I discovered, had curled up together below deck but Holly was nowhere to be found. Instead, there was a piece of paper wedged in the cabin door with a hastily scribbled note:
Dear Cord, I told you I had to go home, and now is about as good a time as any. I am grateful to you for making a woman out of me. Everything seems eventually to work out for the best so I suppose it was best that I heard the tape recording as I did. Whether you planned this weekend as a total cure or not doesn't matter. It worked. I hope you have information enough for your "Holly Chapter" in the book. I'll check the library every once in a while to see if a dull technical book comes out under the name of Doctor Cordell Masters, and to see if a gal named Holly(no names used, right?) is included. I suppose I'll recognize myself. Thanks, again, Doc. Lotsa love, HOLLY.
I learned the next day that she had swum ashore to the cove and walked to the marina where she caught a ride into town. No one knew with whom, but they remembered the girl ... the way her wet clothes had clung to that magnificent body.
There was, for many months, a deep aching throb in my groin when I permitted my thoughts to wander to that lovely hot working mouth and the virginal cunt I had assailed. But I never expected to hear from Holly again.
I retired Dawn as my receptionist, telling her I was thinking of closing my office, and gave her a month's pay so she would be less apt to create further problems for me. At last report, she had opened a massage parlor which specialized in unusual treatment for a price. I imagined she was making a bucketful of money.
My next receptionist was new only in the fact that I had just hired her. She was in her late fifties broad and ugly. I knew I'd never be tempted in my most hard up moments, to screw her on the desk. Her name was Miss Cross, and it fitted her to a tee.
It was a few days before Christmas and, routinely, holiday cards came to the office from past and present patients. Miss Cross opened them and I glanced through the pile with little or no interest. This year, however-three years after Holly had fled from my life-one caught my eye. The envelope was a delicate violet and the handwriting was a graceful scroll.
I took the card from the envelope and with trembling hands opened it. It was signed, Holly. The envelope bore a California address and there was a handwritten message on the back of the card. Holly wrote that she was well and happy living on the West Coast. She invited me to look her up if I ever happened to be out that way. I had never had occasion to travel west but I tucked the address away in my wallet "just in case," thinking that I might one day drop her a note.
Year blended into year and one patient gave way to another. I spent spare hours working on the book I had always planned to write and- surprises of surprises-one day it was actually finished. The publisher liked it and there was a minimum of rewrite so it hit the stands in almost record time. It was, as I had predicted, not a best seller but it did create a flurry of interest among my colleagues, and I was invited to address a convention of psychiatrists in San Francisco.
Since it was only a short hop from Southern California to the Bay Area, I routed my flight to Los Angeles and made arrangements to rent a car for a few days. I didn't believe that Holly would still be at the address she'd sent long ago on the Christmas card, but I knew I had to try to find her. I asked for and got directions to Hollywood. The building I sought was just a block off Sunset Boulevard. It was plain beige, faced with marble veneer and looked like a smart, rather expensive apartment house. Small gold-plated and brilliantly polished numerals gave the information that it was 890. There was no name on the structure.
I rang the bell, and a man answered my ring. I asked if there was someone named Holliston in the building.
"Yes! Oh, my, yes," he smirked. He asked if I had an appointment
"Well-no-I don't," I admitted.
"Mmm," he said disapprovingly, "will you tell me who's calling?"
"A friend-an old friend," I stammered.
He disappeared, returning shortly to say I could enter. There was a Victorian-type desk in the foyer that was white with gold trim. The walls were covered with a deep red velveteen paper and the room reeked of ostentatious luxury.
A blonde with large boobs entered. "Fifty dollars in advance, please," she snapped.
I nervously peeled off the money and gave it to her. I sat on a pink furry couch and tried to avoid the frankly inviting eyes of the blonde, wondering what the hell was going on. A small chime sounded and the blonde stood up. She wriggled deeper into her abbreviated uniform as she tugged slightly at the skirt around her beautiful ass. With an inviting smile and a purr in her voice she suggested that I follow her.
Since my breakup with Ella I'd been having difficulty raising an erection. Maybe Holly would be able to help me get my manhood back in shape, I thought as I followed the blonde.
We stepped in front of a gold colored door and the girl opened it. "Please sit down," she said, indicating a plush chair. "We'll be right with you."
I looked around and noticed that the entire room was a duplicate of my old office, including the paintings on the wall. As I wondered about this a door to the left of the desk opened and a tall slender woman approached. My heart leaped in my throat and I felt an old familiar stirring in my groin.
"Hello," purred the lovely, perfumed creature. "I understand you're an old friend of mine. It's good we can start off feeling like old friends. I'm here to help you. We're all troubled and mostly we're troubled because of our relationship with other people ... our ability to love or be loved."
I leaned closer, trying to get a better look but only getting a heady draft of her perfume as she leaned back farther into the shadow of a lamp.
"We never ask real names here, but you must know that. Nearly all of our clientele for the past ten years have been referred by other persons we've helped," crooned the silky voice. "Most of our problems come from repressed sexual desires, don't you agree?"
I muttered something.
"You will put yourself in the hands of our expert staff for a period of two weeks. Does that fit in your schedule?"
"Yes, Miss Holliston,"
"Doctor Holliston."
"Doc ..." I gasped.
"Doctor Anna Marie Holliston. You may be familiar with a book written by Doctor Cordell Masters? I collaborated with Doctor Masters in a small way. The book deals with sexual hangups."
Fifteen years can certainly change people's lives. At the age of forty-six I am now coming to thirty-four year old Holly for help, I mused in utter amazement.
"Would 'Paul Wellington' be suitable for identification in our files?"
"Fine," I said, smiling comfortably. "That'll be just fine."