Chapter 7
"How are you feeling, Irene?" the doctor asks.
"I, I'm not really sure."
"Are you refreshed, exhilarated, perhaps?"
"Maybe."
"But you don't want to admit it." Silence.
"Before we continue, Irene, you should be aware that our conversation is being recorded, both by tape recorder and by video camera."
"Are you a real doctor?"
"Yes. I am a psychiatrist, Irene."
"What is Randy Buck to you, Doctor?"
"He is chairman of the board of the Foundation."
"So you're following his orders."
"The only restriction on the practice of my profession here is that we adhere to the methodology of the late Doctor Gregory Grant, who was a psychologist.
"Do you understand the difference between the two disciplines?"
"No."
"Do you care?"
"No."
He laughs.
"From his studies of human behavior, Doctor Grant worked out a way of treating aberrant behavior through-"
"I understand his method, Doctor.
"What I don't understand is why I didn't see you first, before, before-you know what."
"We have refined the methodology here, Irene.
"The first treatment takes place in accordance with the perception of the aberration on the part of those closest to the aberrant.
"So that my first question to you is simply, How close were we?"
"It would have been better in bed."
"Was that important?"
"Not very, but you did ask."
"So I did.
"Let's look at the tape now, shall we?"
They watch in silence as Irene has the odd experience of watching herself getting double fucked on TV.
"Ah! Here we see that you are in fact reacting erotically to what would be essentially a non-erotic experience, from the female viewpoint, under normal circumstances.
"Notice the coloration of the face, the alteration of the breath, the beginnings of sexual perspiration as you-"
"I know, I know. I was there, remember?"
"Still, you seem to be-well, you are, actually- having a very intense erotic response to this confrontation.
"This is, of course, the extreme case of bondage and subjection to forced sexual intercourse which, in your case, was forced only from the standpoint of the perpetrators.
"You not only failed to resist, physically or mentally, you not only accepted, but actually welcomed what can only be termed an assault, Irene."
"Notice here how you progress from one stage of arousal to ano-"
"You can-would you mind shutting that off, Doctor?"
"Of course." He uses the remote.
"I should, however, point out to you that your series of multiple orgasms at the culmination of the act was especially intense, involving some twenty to twenty-five orgasmic contractions, depending on whose count you accept."
"How many people... counted?"
"There were four of us who evaluated your performance."
"And just how many others are going to get to watch my... performance, Doctor?"
"Well, don't forget that the two who had intercourse with you are also patients here, although in a criminal status.
"Still, their performances are also evaluated and the results discussed with them.
"Do you notice, by the way, that you are focusing on peripheral concerns, rather than concentrating on the problem?"
"I have reason to be concerned with the use that is to be made of that videotape."
"Videotapes," he corrects. "We will be making others as we progress.
"However, you would do far better to concentrate on the content rather than the administration of the tapes."
"Of course," Irene replies.
But there is no conviction in her voice.
Because this is total bullshit, the whole thing.
This is merely Randy, continuing to torture her, punishing her for her attempt to force the issue of exactly who is responsible for what happens in their bedroom.
And this doctor, like the others, is merely one of Randy's stooges.
"Am I to continue with these same people tomorrow?" she asks.
"No, no. We want to progress rather quickly.
"As a first step, we want to ween you away from the multiple partner scene.
"We'll go to the bed, since you prefer that and we'll still use the bondage you seem to find so necessary.
"But there'll be just the one man involved.
"Naturally, so that you won't feel you're missing too much by way of performance, this will be an extremely well endowed, very strong individual.
"He's brand new to the Foundation, I don't mind telling you, so it's not as if you're about to be serviced by some male prostitute or some such nonsense.
"His performance will be, in that sense at least, spontaneous."
"How very reassuring."
But she doesn't sound as though she believes him.
He shrugs.
"Believe what you like," he says, "although we might want to take a look at what appear to be paranoid tendencies showing up in this process.
"Within the clinical frame of reference, however, the observed performance is what matters-yours and his.
"And we shall see what we shall see."
He stands up, terminating the interview.
"Feel free to walk the grounds.
"I apologize for our prison-like appearance, but the nature of some of our clientle requires it.
"A part of the accreditation of this institution is dependent upon security.
"I should point out to you that any attempt to leave here prior to obtaining a valid release could prove most dangerous."
"Somehow, I just knew that would be the case," she says.
"Then you're undoubtedly not disappointed to learn that you were correct," he responds, smiling without warmth. "The entrance to the grounds is just down the main hall."
Male and female patients wear the same identical loose-fitting smock, the same paper slippers.
She counts at least fifty patients, male and female, in the yard, which, but for the high walls around the distant perimeter, could be a garden or a park, with its flowerbeds and trees, its flagstone walkways.
She sees nobody but other patients out here.
There are no pajama-like turquoise orderly uniforms relieving the aimless, milling parade of pale grey, shapeless smocks.
"Don't wander too far from the building."
She turns around on the flagstone walk to see who spoke.
A woman.
Quite a pretty woman, full-figured, her full breasts creating a most impressive cliff of a bust line.
"What's the problem?"
The woman shrugs.
"Maybe there isn't one, depending on what you're here for.
"But some of the guys like to hide behind the trees and when a woman goes by, you know, like, do their thing.
"If you're a nympho, it's just the thing for ya."
"I'm not, I don't think.
"I'm here for... a different problem."
"And I'm here for no reason at all."
"Me too, I suspect. I mean, not that I don't have problems, but this isn't the place to find the solutions."
"Well, I don't have any problems at all. Really.
"I just happen to like women instead of men and my family would like to believe that this is something that can be cured.
"Some doctor from Florida's crazy theory about homosexuality responding to treatment. You might have seen him on TV."
"Oh, yes. Bruce something or other, right?"
"That's the one.
"So you cross that with Dr. Grant's cathexis through indulgence treatment method and what have you got?"
"Let me guess. More pussy than you can handle?" The woman laughs.
"Close. A lot of it, but certainly not more than I can handle."
"How long have you been here?"
"A month.
"Not a bad life, really.
"I'd like to be free, of course.
"But if they're waiting for me to throw in the towel, they're barking up the wrong tree."
"They?"
"My family."
"Not the doctors?"
"They could care less.
"That, or I'm their favorite porno star.
"Seen yourself on tape yet?"
"Oh yes. I wasn't too bad, either. Hot stuff."
They laugh.
"Well, hot stuff, you wanna go for a walk?"
"Where to?"
"My favorite personal clump of bushes."
Irene looks around before replying, "Why not? I don't see anybody around to stop us."
"Why should they? It's all good therapy, isn't it?"
There is something about the great outdoors, Irene thinks.
Something about sunshine and fresh air and green grass.
Something about herself and this other woman lying there, their voluptuous nudity fully exposed, which seems to cause the juices to start flowing.
Indeed, she seems to be getting much the same thrill of anticipation she senses when she is about to have one of those sexual experiences which, according to Randy, she prefers.
But here, now, she feels a greater sense of herself.
That is, there is no great scene of action involving muscular men with rampant erections about to treat her like so much malleable clay, like a lump of dough.
Rather, she sees her breasts, her hips, her everything, exactly as they are.
And she sees these things reflected in another, in the real world, in the person of this other woman.
And not only the physical correspondence but the mental as well.
Because the other woman is as hot as she is now.
And they are hot, no question.
It shows in the facial expression, it shows in the large doorbells of their nipples, already rubbery, erect.
As they fondle each others' breasts.
As they explore each others' bodies with eye and hand.
As now the woman leans over Irene to suck her tits.
So that she is kneading them with both hands as she feeds them to herself.
She sucks Irene's breasts to full nipple hardness, even as the glands beneath become fully engorged, blue-veined and firmer than before.
As Irene plays with the woman's own heavy breasts.
The woman pulls her face back, red now with the engorged blood of her fully aroused passion.
And reverses her body at once, hastily bridging Irene, a knee planted in the grass on either side of her, face hovering above Irene's snatch, her own crotch over Irene's face.
As she lowers both ends.
So that now, as her face burrows into Irene's bush, her own hips descend, her great, hairy cunt coming closer and closer to Irene's face.
And Irene instinctively reaches up, placing both hands on the belled flare of the woman's generous hips.
And lowering her into position.
So that she is looking into the large, puffy pucker of the woman's ass hole, even as the tip of her tongue tastes the slick, faintly salty surface of her exposed labia.
"Unnnh!"
This from Irene as the tip of the woman's tongue finds Irene's clit and begins strumming it, flickering at almost vibrator speed.
Even as Irene locates the woman's joy buzzer and begins to return the compliment.
And a correspondence is set up between them, a closed feedback loop of sexual electricity, coursing through both their bodies in repeated surges, lascivious thrills, as they begin tongue-fucking each other in earnest, their tongues going deep into their hot, juicy pussies, then withdrawing part way, in contact with their clits at all times.
So that they are getting hotter and hotter, there under the sun.
And it is not only the arousal, but another dimension as well.
As above, so below.
Because action and reaction become merged, confused.
So that Irene cannot tell which is which.
Did she initiate this particular series of deep thrusts of her tongue or did the woman?
Was it her idea that this particular motion should come next or was it the other's?
So that, between self and other there is established a bond of such intimacy as to preclude her being able to say even which particular thought was original with her and which originated in the other, with herself merely following the suggestion by a split second.
As they climb the rainbow together.
And more than together, or so it seems to Irene.
Because now, there is no self and no other.
Rather, each seems an extension of the other, mirroring perfectly the other's actions, the other's desires.
So that here, now, they create a separate, closed universe of themselves, the other and the action between them.
And there is nothing, nothing, nothing separating them.
There is nothing here coming between them in any way, be it mental or physical.
This is a togetherness beyond mere being together.
This is a oneness, a unity and a uniqueness such as Irene has never known before.
As they rise higher and higher up the rainbow of their shared arousal.
Naught loves another as itself, so she has heard.
But she has never until just now understood the meaning of this.
She has never known until now that there could be such exact correspondence, such intimacy, such full familiarity between herself and another person in this world.
Body and soul, they seem as one.
And as they seem, just so they are, so far as she is concerned.
Because the body knows itself and is not deceived.
It is what it is and not otherwise.
Not the body, not the mind.
Because this is not the practice of, the indulgence in some foolish conceit, some artificial construct of the mind, some whim, some by-product of her narcissism, her vanity.
Rather, this is genuine, deep-seated sensation, elementary in its simplicity, complex in its parts, complete in its manifestation.
This is the real thing, she tells herself, whatever that means.
She only knows that there is no nagging doubt as to the true origin of what she feels, here and now.
She only knows that there is not some vague apprehension casting its shadow over what is happening.
Because here, in this here and now, she knows her own completeness, her oneness with herself.
Not the other's big, hot, juicy, drooling pussy is she thus avidly servicing with ever-working tongue, but her own.
Yes, in some way unclear to her, some magical, mystical method unknown to her before but even now revealed to her in perfect clarity, she has discovered a path to infinite pleasure.
And the path to her pleasure she pursues now, pursues without reservation, without holding back in any way.
Why not?
Why not ride higher and higher?
Why not propel herself up, up, up the rainbow of her arousal, not with affectation, not with passive, provisional acceptance of outside stimulation, but rather in the full and free, the active exercise of her will over the real world, over the projection, the extension, the manifestation of her own true self?
And she does.
She rides, high and free, soaring now, flying up the rainbow.
And this, this alter ego, this other part of her does the same.
Yes, external reality supports her fully.
Her body knows its own truth and would not deceive her.
Would not and is not.
This is the way to do it, to achieve ultimate satisfaction, no question.
As she surrenders mind to body completely now, wallowing, drowning in the flood tide of lascivious sensation which flows around and through her.
She is swept away in the whirling eddies of her own passion.
As delight becomes ecstasy, ecstasy rapture, rapture turning into complete sexual transport, carrying her along on the crest of the tidal wave of the ultimate pleasure.
The ultimate pleasure, which comes closer and closer to the surface of her being, exploding, expanding within her, the unfolding of a complex and huge blossom in slow motion.
As the pressure of the pleasure beyond pleasure builds rapidly within her.
As she goes from level to level of the sexual paradise into which, it seems to her, her own actions have propelled her.
Until- She is coming.
She.
Meaning this double creature, this two-headed monster she has become.
So that, for the very first time ever, she is able to experience her series of multiple orgasms as an all-encompassing totality.
Because surely that is her own cunt convulsing, again and again, milking her own tongue of all the pleasure it contains for her, of more pleasure than her body can contain.
And surely those are her own juices, peppery in their piquancy, potent and tingling and copious, which coat her tongue.
And surely these twinges, these spasms have no part which is not in her and of her, no portion of themselves in the outside world, the world beyond . her own being.
A closed system, they are, she is.
And that system even now reaches the highest realms of sexual paradise.
And there is nothing, nothing, nothing outside herself right now which matters, which has meaning, reality.
She is complete, in and of herself.
She is all there is, all there needs to be.
Again and again, the orgasmic spasms convulse her.
As, twisting and writhing together, bodies glistening in the sun with their sexual sweat, they squirm their way through their shared climax, Irene's legs bicycling in the air.
And it is only after their last shared twinge of ultimate pleasure has passed and the woman dismounts from Irene's face to lie there next to her on the grass, the sun shining now into both their faces, that they realize that they have gathered an audience of all the other inmates.
Who cheer and applaud loudly.
Only now to the turquoise-clad orderlies appear, muscling their way through the circular throng.
And look down, visibly relieved to see that all that has happened is two women going at it all the way.
"You uh, you ladies wanna get cher gowns back on, please?
"Nudity is not permitted on the grounds of the Foundation."
Saying nothing about what they have done, concerned only with the fact of their having no clothes on.
Which cannot be too serious a concern here, Irene reflects, lying there, recovering her breath, because they are practically naked all the time anyway.
She accepts a hand up from one of the attendants.
And puts her smock back on, as does the other woman, both of them ignoring the milling crowd, beginning to disperse now that the show is over.
The attendants say nothing further, content to disappear, now that the disturbance has been understood.
"We're pretty good together," the woman says.
"Indeed. How unfortunate that they couldn't have got us on tape."
"I can arrange that, if you'd like."
"Uh, no thanks, I'd as soon not."
"Suit yourself," the woman shrugs. "I get enough here anyway.
"Surrogates, female attendants, the cleaning staff-you name it.
"This Grant was a real quack, you know.
"Not that I consider that there's anything wrong with me, but it's kind of ridiculous to think that you can cure addiction with an unlimited supply of the drug.
"And I don't even have a medical degree."
"Oh, I don't know," Irene replies, "I suppose there's a case to be made for saturating the senses until the desire for variety, for simply doing something else, takes over.
"After all, there's a difference between sexual and substance addiction, wouldn't you say?"
"Yes. One is good for you, the other destroys you.
"Anyway, when would you like to get together again?"
"I'm... not sure."
And she really isn't.
Because there is a kind of mental aftertaste here, a hollowness, the kind she used to get from masturbation after she came.
A sort of hollowness, a kind of downer, a postcoital depression arising, apparently, from the fact that, technically speaking, at least, there was not coitus, but only the climax, achieved by what was, for all intents and purposes, mechanical means.
And the magic of the moment is revealed for what it was-self-manipulation.
She and this other woman have indulged in mutual masturbation; it's just that simple.
And, while Irene doesn't consider this to be unhealthy, is not sorry she did it, still she finds herself questioning in her own mind whether or not it would ever be worth doing again.