Chapter 17

Pat Saxon noticed something different about Phoebe as soon as she walked into his office at four-thirty in the afternoon. He had not seen her all day and that in itself was unusual, for normally she spent as much time writing up her reports in the office as she did on her actual research.

"Hello, Pat," she said, much more casually than was her wont, then picked up a report off his desk and sank down in an easy chair to read it.

Pat studied her, covertly but carefully. She was not nervous anymore! That was the first thing he noticed. Used as he was to her quick movements, jerky sentences and constant eye flicker, it seemed almost unreal to watch her reading so calmly. Her face seemed relaxed, younger than it had appeared the previous day, her eyes followed the print on the report without their usual peripheral flickers. The hand which held the paper was tranquil. She had stretched her legs out languidly and one foot was resting above the other. She could have been going to sleep, Pat thought-if her eyes had not been so alert.

She looked up at him now, placing the report back on his desk without comment, then she asked and the drawl in her voice made her sound more like Marianne than herself, "I'd like to do the documentation of the guest in room nineteen by myself, Pat," she paused, fractionally, "if you don't mind."

Pat's eyebrows raised, then he smiled. "It's all yours!"

"Thanks, Pat," she said as if she meant it and that was unusual, too!

"I looked in number nineteen a couple of times this afternoon," Pat remarked casually. "She was out each time. I don't know where she was."

"She might have been with me," Phoebe spoke as fast as she ever did. "I-I was getting some-some details from her."

"Oh, that explains it," said Pat smoothly.

"She's a-a very sweet person," said Phoebe, looking at her feet.

"Did you get a clue as to-" Pat began, but Phoebe cut in quickly. "No, oh-no. But I will," she seemed to take a deep breath, "in time. It may take quite awhile."

"It always does," Pat agreed with a smile.

Phoebe seemed to give a sigh of relief.

"Well, now that that's settled," Pat spoke alertly, briskly, as though he were dismissing the subject because he had something more important to discuss. He could almost feel Phoebe going back into her languid, relaxed state. "I'd like you to come to room twenty-four with me before five o'clock."

She frowned for a moment before she remembered, then said, "Oh, Jacqueline! The one who becomes-how did you put it? activated at five o'clock?"

"Quite right," the Doctor nodded. "I want you to come with me and observe her."

"From the passage?"

"Yes." Pat looked at her keenly, "I want to get your reactions to her!"

She was a woman of twenty-five, well-built and too heavy for her height of five-foot-three. Her features were pleasant without being beautiful.

"Unmarried, technical virgin," said Pat, his voice devoid of emotion.

Phoebe stared at Jacqueline through the open panel.

"Easy going disposition," said Pat, "but nervous, very frustrated sexually."

The woman was seated in an armchair reading a book.

"She doesn't look nervous now," Phoebe murmured.

"It's not five o'clock!" Pat showed the luminous dial of his wristwatch to Phoebe. "Wait five minutes!" he finished tersely.

Phoebe shot a glance at the faint blur of his face in the darkness, then turned back to the woman in room twenty-four. Jacqueline was still reading. Phoebe glanced around the room, searching with her eyes for a clock. There was none in sight. And Jacqueline's wrist was devoid of a watch. "How does she know when it's five?" Phoebe asked.

"Just watch," Pat said.

The seconds seemed to drag by and Phoebe found her attention flickering back to the luscious girl that she had returned to her room just minutes before. She was still thinking of Nadine when Pat gripped her arm, held his watch before her eyes with the fingers fringing on five o'clock and hissed, "Look!"

Jacqueline had dropped the book beside the chair. Her lips trembled, then she bit down with her teeth and her eyes screwed shut. She twisted her hands in her lap ceaselessly, then her mouth opened and Pat switched on the sound as small, bubbling moans came from Jacqueline's mouth. Suddenly, Jacqueline covered her face with her hands. Her body shook, then she reached down with one hand, tore at her skirt, dragging it up to her waist. She was naked beneath her skirt. Phoebe stared at the thick foliage on her abdomen, saw the meaty thighs shivering, then watched as Jacqueline parted her thighs, showing a dark, opening vulva and thrust her hand inward.

Phoebe restrained a gasp as she saw the fingers sinking inside the wet, black hole. She must be huge! The thought impinged her mind, then she watched as Jacqueline's hand moved urgently, frenziedly in and out of her massive cunt. She had ripped open her blouse with her other hand and her breasts were clearly, nudely visible. One breast was much larger than the other and the woman's fingers had fastened on the nipple of this one. She pulled it with an agonizing intensity further and further away from her body.

Jacqueline's face was twisted as if with pain. Her whole body was writhing, squirming as her hand thrust inside her vulva deeper and deeper. Her fingers and hand were saturated with the thick vaginal fluid which flowed so freely and the sound from her lips had changed to a high, wavering scream!

Pat snapped shut the panel. "I'll discuss this guest with you in my office, Phoebe," he said coldly and led the way down the dark passage to the door.

"The interesting factor," said Pat, "was the time element!" He looked at Phoebe significantly.

Phoebe stared back at Pat. He was a better analyst than she was! she was thinking. He didn't get emotionally involved with guests!

"You said it was the interesting factor," she said slowly. "Does that mean-"

"It means," Pat cut in, "I had a talk with her this afternoon. A very revealing talk. I researched her thoroughly, there was a glint in his eye as he added, "while you were researching Nadine."

Phoebe felt her face heat with blood. Did he know ? Was it a stab in the dark or was she getting a guilt complex? Was it just a harmless remark? "What," she began, trying to ignore his comment, "was Jacqueline's occupation?"

"Clothing factory-G.I. supplies," Pat knew the case history by heart, Phoebe realized.

Phoebe frowned. "It's the time!" she muttered. "What's so special about five o'clock?"

Pat smiled. "I want to hear your conclusion first."

Phoebe jerked her head up. "Is it-is it just in the afternoon?" she asked, "not in the morning?"

"Morning and afternoon," Pat murmured.

Phoebe shook her head. "Five o'clock is such an odd time, if it were say, eleven o'clock," she went on as if she was talking to herself, "it'd be easier to explain because a lot of girls masturbate themselves to sleep."

"That's true," Pat nodded.

Phoebe looked at Pat, then gave a short laugh. "You know too damn much about women, Pat!"

He shrugged. "How can I help it!"

"How did she come to be here?" asked Phoebe. "I mean did someone send her here?"

"She came in voluntarily, paying for herself!"

"That's strange, too," murmured Phoebe. "You'd better tell me what you know, Pat."

Pat flipped open a notebook, though Phoebe had the feeling that he didn't need to read it. He knew the case well enough. "Jacqueline worked in this factory for eight years. She started at seventeen and is twenty-five now. She lives alone. Her parents are a couple of thousand miles away. She hasn't seen them for years. The item of clothing which she handles all day," Pat looked up at Phoebe, "is men's underwear. More precisely, trunks-shorts. She has to fold them, then someone else packs them. Jacqueline places a tissue in the support, the part which holds a man's crotch, his penis, his testicles," Pat explained precisely, "then folds them over and that's it!" He looked at Phoebe expectantly.

"That's all she does?" Phoebe's eyes were wide.

"That's what she's been doing for eight years!"

"Not undershirts or-" Phoebe began. "And that's all," Phoebe sounded let down.

"It's enough," said Pat grimly. "All day long she's handling something which covers a man's penis. She sees the models they have for fitting the samples on; not real men, just torsos, just an exaggerated crotch! Then she goes home to her room by herself. She got obsessed with a penis image. She says, 'AH I could think of was cocks, nothing else. As soon as I got to my room, I'd lock the door and masturbate, touch myself off, then later I began to put things in ...' She doesn't have a boyfriend. She's all alone. A very lonely person."

"What does she mean by, 'began to put things in'?" asked Phoebe.

Pat sighed. "Well, she got hold of a phallic symbol, naturally. She found a piece of wood, long enough and smooth enough, so she used to insert it and get the full sensation instead of just the clitoral stimulus which she started with."

"And why five o'clock?"

"A fluke," Pat frowned. "Strange how it can happen like that! You see, Phoebe, she used to start work at seven o'clock and finish at three in the afternoon; so her alarm is set for five, which is when she gets up. When she started getting the compulsion to masturbate as soon as she got home and you know she's not the only girl in the world who does that, the alarm used to go off when she was in the middle of it! This was at the beginning when it hadn't really taken hold. Some days she wouldn't masturbate ... but as soon as the clock went off, it reminded her and the urge became overwhelming. After a time, when the alarm went off in the morning, she'd immediately start masturbating then again when she got home."

"And," said Phoebe, "during her lunch break, too!"

"Oh, no," said Pat, "never!"

Phoebe looked surprised. "Why not?"

"It wasn't five o'clock!" explained Pat.

Phoebe was silent for several minutes. Finally she asked, "Why did her alarm go off in the afternoon?"

"That could be revealing," said Pat. "It seems that before she left for work in the morning, that is, after she was up and after she'd had her orgasms in bed, she would rewind the clock so that it would be all ready."

"Ready for the morning or the afternoon?" asked Phoebe, still not comprehending.

Pat shrugged. "Ready. That's what she said."

"You mean that subconsciously she wanted to masturbate in the afternoon?"

"Is that your conclusion, Phoebe?"

"I don't know, it looks that way."

"Yet she's frightened enough to come to Hillside!"

"Frightened?"

"Yes! Frightened. That's why she came here!"

"What specifically frightened her?"

Pat leaned forward. "It was the time," he said seriously, "that was the reason. Physiologically, a girl can masturbate several times daily without doing any harm, isn't that right?"

"I suppose so," Phoebe murmured.

"But when she has to do it, then it's a compulsion and she gets frightened! What happened with Jacqueline is that she saw a clock one day in a store, the hands set at five o'clock and immediately she felt her vulva contract, become moist and she ran into a restaurant, went into the women's room and masturbated! That's just one thing. Do you know that she daren't be outside at five o'clock?"

"It's so-so strong?"

"It has to be sublimated. She's actually managed to have an orgasm, standing on a bus! Now, I know that women quite often have orgasms when something has excited them, some external event, but in Jacqueline's case it was merely because it happened to be five o'clock! Now do you see why she became frightened?"

Phoebe nodded.

"She told me," said Pat seriously, "and it's not really very funny, 'My whole life revolves round a clock, a cock and my own cunt!'"

"She said that?"

"Today."

"Did she think you'd help her?"

"She hoped ..."

"And did you, Pat?"

He shook his head and sighed. "I don't know, Phoebe. You know that I'm not a therapist, just an analyst, though I often recommend suitable psychiatrists for certain guests. But I felt that if Jacqueline could pinpoint the trigger, the original trigger for her daily compulsion for masturbation then maybe ..." Pat stared at Phoebe. "But you saw her today right after ..." Pat's shoulders slumped.

"Can she be helped?"

"Sure," Pat was emphatic. "Hypnosis might do the trick or," he looked at Phoebe, "if she got a man."

Phoebe stared straight at Pat as she said, "Or a woman."

Pat looked at her fixedly, then, "I must confess, Phoebe, I hadn't considered substituting one aberration for another."

Phoebe's body seemed to freeze. "You consider a woman with another woman as-as an aberration, Pat?" Her words were like ice drops.

"Medically speaking," said Pat heavily, "lesbianism, female homosexuality, is considered an aberration. Of course socially-"

"Yes, socially?" asked Phoebe, "How about that?"

"A matter of opinion," said Pat blandly.

"And yours is?" she asked.

"A private opinion?" said Pat smiling. "And your opinion I know!"

"You know!" Phoebe sounded angry. "You're smug, conceited, opinionated!"

"An analyst should consider questions impersonally," Pat was laughing at her with words.

"You make me sick!" Phoebe snapped.

"Which has nothing to do with Jacqueline at all," said Pat with a wry smile.

Phoebe got up, her temper under control again. "I haven't been much help, have I?" she remarked as she walked to the door.

"Maybe you have," said Pat enigmatically.

She stopped at the door. "I hope you can help Jacqueline," she said sincerely. "The poor girl. Half an hour's masturbation in the morning and half an hour in the afternoon and the rest of the time just thinking about it. It must be hell!"

"Yes," said Pat slowly. Then before she went out, he asked Phoebe, "Half an hour! Is that how long it takes you, Phoebe?" He was grinning as she slammed the office door.