Case History 2

SUBJECT: Lana T. AGE: Seventeen

INTERVIEW ONE

With the possible exceptions of Nadine C. and Diane Jane F., Lana T. was the most beautiful young woman I have ever had the privilege to study in my detatched and clinical fashion. When she came to my office for our first interview she was pale and painfully thin, except for her abundant breasts which quivered like gelatin under her tight fitting sweater. The stark whiteness of her skin made her blonde hair seem brilliantly golden, and her blue eyes were like deep ponds reflecting the turquoise sky.

From her file I knew that she had been treated before by other specialists for nerves, which explained her very slender figure. I also noticed from her form that she was an actress. During my career I have had the rather dubious privilege of counselling many actresses. Stars at the top, stars rising, stars falling, and young women who will never be stars--all these have come through my doors and told me of their sorrows and anguish. Surprisingly, actresses are not apt to be the most interesting cases. Too often they speak endlessly of their work without giving adequate thought to their own personas. Usually they are such uninteresting women that they have no real need of thearapy, and more often than not they just need good sex and a sleeping pill.

Lana T., however, was an exception to this tiresome rule. As she told her story, and disclosed more and more of the tawdry details, I realized that I was hearing one of the most intriguing narratives of my career.

Herewith is Lana's shocking tale, transcribed directly from our recorded sessions.

It is charming of you, Doctor, to say that you have admired my work, but I can't imagine what you could have seen. I have made only a few television films, and these were only tiny bits parts. I was always the girl who nameless girl who came into the drug store to buy chewing gum and got shot in the head when the man with the gun fired at the cashier and missed. So far, it hasn't been a great career. What little work I have managed to get has come with difficulty. They hire me because I've got a great pair of knockers. I mean, let's be honest, Doctor, sex is all men care about. They don't care about the training an actress undergoes, and the sacrifices she makes for her craft. I'm an artist, not just a pair of tits and a piece of tail. Someday everyone will recognize that I have talent as an actress, but now all they want to do is paw my carcass. That will all change, but for the time being I go along with it. If you want to know the truth, Doctor, I don't mind too much. Fucking isn't the hardest way to get to the top, and the way I fuck, the way I spread my legs or give head, I'm certain that it won't take me too long to get where I want to be in the world.

But I'm not here to talk with you about anything ordinary like the casting couch. We have all heard that cliche until it's coming out of our asses, if you'll pardon the expression.

When I think of what has happened to me recently I become so upset that I can't think clearly. It's hard for me to tell of these events in sequence, but I'll do my best. You know, Doctor, not all actresses are blonde, vapid and stupid. Some of us are smart and know how to tell a tale. If this weren't such an unpleasant one, I'm sure that I could tell it in a way that would both interest and amuse you. But I'm afraid you will not find this comic, except perhaps in a black and bizarre way. It will probably disgust you more than anything else, but that's what your pair for, isn't it. I mean, you're paid to listen to anything, no matter how horrid, and assess it objectively. And that is just what I need from you. If I just wanted to tell you about ordinary depressions of professional worries, I couldn't possibly afford your time. I've always thought that pyschologists sell their time at a more precious rate even than hookers. But this problem is too much for me to cope with, and I would never submit a friend to such an unattractive narrative. I have come to you, Doctor, because I need a sane and detatched evaluation of this situation.

It all began, I guess, when I applied for admission to Peter Pointer's acting class. I see from your face that you have heard of Mr. Pointer's work and are impressed that a blonde goddess like myself knows where to go for the best theatrical training. I told you that I wasn't just another vacuous blonde. Didn't you believe me.

He's the finest theatrical coach in the United States, maybe the world. The great actors in the world have been his pupils, and the good actors are the ones who couldn't get in the door. I knew that it would be difficult to be accepted into his class, but it is widely known that he prefers actresses to actors, and that he prefers voluptuous actresses to any other kind. As you can probably deduce, despite my sweater, I am indeed a remarkably voluptuous young woman. Contrary to popular thought, Doctor, a well endowed and beautiful woman does not have an easier time in life. In fact, she suffers more than homey women, who are not pursued by savage beasts disguised as human males.

I was fortunate to be granted an interview with Mr. Pointer himself, and I presented myself for his inspection promptly at the time of his decree. I had been told over the telephone to prepare a monologue. Knowing that Mr. Pointer considers it arrogant for young actors to tackle Shakespare and that he has always said that no one need present a long scene or monologue, that he can judge ones talent after three lines have been spoken, I prepared Sonia's brief speech from Clickov's great play, "Uncle Vanya," in which the character speaks of her devastating boredom. It is a simple monologue for an aspiring actress to choose, and I expected Mr. Pointer to be impressed by my modesty.

Although it was a simple monologue I studied it for three days, working on it assiduously. I read the entire play four times, getting to the bottom of Sonia's character, so that when I spoke the lines I would not be an actress reciting them, but Sonia herself, feeling every nuance of the emotionality behind the words.

It is amusing, perhaps, that all my work was in vain. When I entered his office and sat gracefully in the chair he indicated, Mr. Pointer asked me a few perfunctory questions about my work and training to date. He said that I was obviously under qualified for the course, but that he might consider taking me as a pupil on a special basis, provided that I ... well, you get the idea.

It didn't take me a minute to catch on. I've been through it before. They give you an extra bit in a crowd, the expect you to jerk them off; if it's a walk on, they think they're entitled to a bit of head; God forbid, they should give you a single line of unutterable dialogue without ripping off a piece of tail. Sometimes for the puniest bit part they expect to shoot their loads in your asshole.

I helped Mr. Pointer unfasten his belt. Then I unzipped him, carefully arranging the smile on my face, as though I were folding down a bed for an invalid father.

But I was instantly surprised. Mr. Pointer had a good sized cock. I hadn't been expecting much of a treat. Sometimes I think it's a pretty crummy world, but when I see a big handsome cock and a good pair of balls I always decide that there is a little bit of heaven in this hell we call the world.

When I saw his cock I began to look at Mr. Pointer in a different way. I saw him in a new light. Up until that moment I had thought of him only as a man that I needed to manipulate, someone I had to coax and cajole in order to get from him what I wanted. I had decided that if spreading legs was the only way I could ingratiate myself to him that I would do it without feeling a thing.

I had not looked at him as a man, in the sexual sense. But when he took his cock out of his trousers and put it in my hand, I realized at once that he was a sexually attractive male. In fact, he was incredibly handsome. I suppose he's in his middle thirties. Maybe he's older, but he doesn't look it. His body was solid, hard and disciplined, not a gram of otiose flab on him. And his cock had the vigor of a sixteeen year old boy. You know what I mean, don't you, Doctor? When a male is young his erection stands up vertically and almost clings to his stomach, when he becomes fully mature it gets stiff and hard and throbs with life, but it protrudes straight from his groin, without standing to attention in quite the same way that a horny adolescent cock does.

I suppose that some men's cocks never lose that youthful verticality, and still stand up that vital and wonderful way even when they attain their full maturity, because Mr. Pointer's stood up tall and mighty, like a flag pole, or like an audience rising to their feet to give a standing ovation. It stood so vertically and close to his hard rippling stomach muscles that it almost nestled into the thicket of dark hair that lined his hard lean abdomen.

The sight of his cock made me look at his face with refreshed eyes. He was dark haired. The slight sparseness at the crown of his head, which only suggested baldness, somehow made him even more irresistable to me. I have always thought that baldness was a sign of virility, and I have noticed that balder men tend to be hairier on their bodies. I have always been terribly excited by simian body hair, but I suppose that it's one of the idiosyncracies with which we need not concern ourselves now.

My pussy began to drool as I watched Mr. Pointer stripping before my eyes. His magnificent body thrilled my own not inconsiderable flesh, and I felt my nipples stiffen under my tight sweater. I began to think that this would not be such a chore, after all. I found myself melting in Mr. Pointer's office, hotter and more eager than I had ever been during any quotidian casting couch game.

To tell you the truth, Doctor, sex has always been a little too much of a task for me. I have always considered it something I had to do to get ahead, rather than something I wanted to do with all my being. Sex has been something to endure, rather than to celebrate. Maybe I have even been a little guilty about using my body to advance my career. I do think that it's a kind of prostitution, but we all prostitute ourselves in some way, Doctor, and I consider my actions to be less pernicious than most. Still, I'm a good girl, despite everything, and it's probably inevitable that I feel some pangs of guilt over what I have to do in this world. As I result I have never been able to abandon myself fully to sexual pleasure. But for some reason, and I cannot tell you what it was because I don't know, I did let myself go that day in Mr. Pointer's office. After I got a good eye full of his masculine body, I couldn't wait to get a pussy full. At that point my heat had nothing to do with any schemes, but desire was divorced from anything but fucking. Acting was the last thing on my mind; I wanted to be fucked, not as a character from Clickov or any other dramatist, but as myself, and I wanted it to be real. I wanted it to be basic, earthy, rudimentary and savage. And the unbelievable part is that it was all of that and more.

Mr. Pointer stripped my clothes from my body, first gently pulling my tight sweater over my head, and taking my hair in his hands to shake it out in its full golden glory. Then he lowered my skirt from my wiggling legs and helped me to step out from it.

I wore no bra, I never do, and when Mr. Pointer dug his fingers inside the elastic waistband of my tight pink panties I felt my nipples becoming rigid with desire as my pussy began to leak in Mr. Pointer's exploring hand.

We were both too horny to linger over preliminaries. Usually I need the attentions of a man's mouth and fingers before my hole can get ready for the violent attack of a cock. But it wasn't like that in Mr. Pointer's office. I was hot, wet and ready.

He took my body in his arms, pressing me to his naked and hairy chest so that I could feel my nipples rubbing against his hard pectoral muscles. He carried me to a sofa and lowered my body onto it's soft cushions. Whether he spread my legs, or I did, or whether they were already flung open for his attack, I cannot tell you. I only know that he squatted on his haunches and aimed his cock for the wanting opening of my cunt, which hung over the the edge of the sofa, yearning for his invasion.

Invasion is hardly the word for it. He bombarded my cunt. He stormed through the tight glistening lips of my hole and rammed his potency deep into my body. I felt the lubrious walls of my cunt cling desperately to his rod, wrapping his tool tightly in a passionate embrace.

I knew that my hot slippery pussy syrup felt good around his throbbing cock, because Mr. Pointer groaned in deep satisfaction and he began to pump his enormous organ back and forth in my tight juicy hole.

With the great rod of his masterful manhood he plumbed the well of my womanhood, giving me the most glorious thrills I have felt in my life.

But even as my young body quivered with the beatitude of being supremely fucked in the cunt by a man who knew what his heroic cock was for, I felt peculiar shudders of fear, as though I were somehow threatened in an inexplicable way. I saw the darkness of his simian body, and the darkness of his black, lust-glazed eyes, which seemed to devour my burning young breasts, my tender ass cheeks, and my entire sex-crazed body. With his glaring eyes he seemed to pierce my flesh and absorb it, which is peculiar to think, given the fact that I was absorbing the power of his prick in my pussy.

Even as he smothered my wet lips with his kisses, and I felt his tongue probing my mouth gently, I felt curiously afraid, not of the fuck we were enjoying, but of the man himself, as though I were afraid of what he might do to me, not then, but perhaps sometime in the future.

However, I was too enchanted to dwell on emotions that seemed silly. My cunt was full of his manhood and my clit was almost dancing in the fragrant folds of my beaver-paved flesh.

His cock was so big, and his fucking so skillful, that I needed no direct stimulation on my clit. The joy of my cunt sent glad tidings to every part of my body, every inch and gram of my delectable flesh rejoiced at the joy of my pussy.

I came almost at once, but Mr. Pointer kept sliding in and out of my hole. I could smell my female scent contrasting with the musky odor of his maleness, and the smell and the texture of his skin and air, and the power of his mighty thrusts made me come again. I kept coming, my clit going off like a firing squad of cap guns; the orgasms seemed to have no end.

Then, magically, Mr. Pointer punched his cock into the darkest depth of my hole, striking the match of his cock head on against the coals of my cervix and setting a celestial fire in my body.

He roared, chanting a husky hymn of animal satisfaction, and I felt his sperm blast into my body. The ferocious jet of his cum was like millions of hot needles searing the tissues of my pussy. I could feel his thick male cream coating my already honey-coated hole, creaming my creamy junction, making my cunt an oasis of male and female goo.

Feeling his scalding load erupt in my hot flooded hole, I felt a final, gut-wrenching convulsion overwhelm my already over-swooned body. Passion hit a miraculous zenith, and my entire life seemed to tap dance on the spinning carousel of my clit.

Doctor, what can I tell you? My God, it was more divine than I could ever have dreamed, more than anything I could have imagined to want. The sheer sex had been so hot and wild, that I found myself falling desperately in love with this man. Suddenly, life returned to the theatre. It was as though this were a script written by a spiteful god who was determined to make me play the infatuated ingenue. I doubted the reality of my rapture, but I could not question the bliss I had felt in my body. Did I truly love him, or had I simply responded as a woman for the first time in my life? Was there any emotion involved, or was my heart simply taking dictation from my cunt and clit?

I did not know, and my mind reeled with confusion.

Mr. Pointer instructed me to come to class the following day. I did, and he was curiously aloof. He seemed to forget the intimate rhapsody we had shared.

Another girl was starting class that day, not nearly as attractive or as talented as I am, but Mr. Pointer assigned a scene to us, something silly about two tweedy English lesbians. It was an altogether inappropriate choice, I thought, as both characters were in their thirties. As you know, Doctor, I am barely seventeen, and Sandra, the girl I was to work with, could not have been much over twenty.

Sandra and I worked for a week on the silly scene, giggling when we had to kiss, roaring when we had to dyke it up.

We performed the scene for the class and it went wonderfully. The class laughed at the funny parts, fell silent during the parts that were supposed to be dramatically powerful, and a few girls in the class even wept at the end. When we were finished the entire class rose to its feet and applauded wildly for five minutes, until Mr. Pointer shouted that this was an acting class, not vaudeville, and that applause was not necessary. We were only rank amateurs who had done some tricky bits of slitick, he said.

Naturally, I was a little pissed off, because I thought Sandra and I had been close to brilliant. We had invested the scene with more wit and intensity than the playwright had supplied. We had made his hackneyed dialogue come to life, and it sprung surprisingly from our lips like fresh bits of improvisation.

After class Mr. Pointer asked me to stay behind. No, he did not ask me, he commanded me. Although I was annoyed by his response to the scene, I was all too glad to stay behind for a private conference, thinking that we would fuck again as wonderfully as we had before.

We went into his office and Mr. Pointer closed and locked the door. Then he pushed me brutally into a chair and started to lacerate me with verbal abuse.

I'm sorry, Doctor. This is too traumatic for me to discuss. I must go. Please forget everything I have told you. Forget that we have ever met, please, and never speak of this to anyone. I will send you a check tomorrow morning to cover the costs of your time. Thank you for listening to this, but I cannot go on. It's too vile.

INTERVIEW TWO

Livid with disgust and rage, Lana ran from my office with tears streaming down her lovely cheeks. I was afraid that she would have to hold this grief within herself forever, unable to express it and surrender to the catharsis of confession.

However, she returned to my office several months later. Evidently the horror of the episode nagged her for months, until she was unable to continue her stoic reticence.

Our second interview was a revelation. No student of human behavior can afford to overlook Lana's tale of evil.

"Forgive me, please, Doctor, for running away from our last session. That was very childish of me. But this story is such shit, pardon me, but there is no other word for it, as you will see soon enough, if you haven't deduced as much already. It was impossible for me to continue our last session. The sound of such such atrocities coming from my own lips, not to mention the ordeal of reliving the nightmare, was more than I could tolerate.

However, I feel that I can tell you now what I was unable to divulge before.

As you might or not remember, Mr. Pointer had taken me into his office after I did the scene with Sandra. He pushed me into a chair and forced me to say in while he vituperated me unmercifully.

He lifted his leg and pushed the sole of shoe into my belly, forcing me into the chair. Each time I tried to adjust my body he bore into me harder with his shoe. The pain and discomfort was odious.

"That was the cheapest little piece of show his slitick I've ever seen!" He began, looking at me with contempt.

I knew that this was untrue. Even if Sandra and I had been abysmal, which we had not been at all, our scene could not have been the nadir of Mr. Pointer's theatrical experience. For every bad performance there will always be a worse one; for every sewer in the world there's a cesspool; for every dirty joke that is only slightly amusing there is a dirtier one that isn't funny at all; for every sour note there is another note that is acrid beyond belief.

But I was too uncomfortable to defend myself against Mr. Pointer's rude and rather vindictive injustice. I decided that he was not at all charming, and that I had been a lunatic to feel myself falling in love with him. No, falling is not the word; one does not fall in love with such an ogre; one plummets into pits of foul and tawdry passion.

I decided that Mr. Pointer was a philistine boor who happened to be the best and most widely acknowledged acting teacher in the world. I knew that I would have to endure his vulgar personality for the sake of the craft he could impart to me, but it would be a loathsome task, rather like being a factotum in an office of scoundrels. I would abide him with my teeth on edge, but I would divorce my emotions radically from the ordeal. That was the only way to survive.

But as he continued to inundate me with his bombastic criticism I found it hard to divorce my emotions. How can one be objective when someone is pressing a show into one's belly and is screaming the most unfair abuse into one's ears.

"You might never be able to act, Lana, if you don't shed some of your uptight inhibitions. When you're on stage you have to be comfortable and natural. You played that lesbian like you had a six-foot turd in your ass. You were playing your foolish notion of the character rather than the character itself. Sure, you got a response from the class, but that's because they're all hopeless swines who don't know their talent from their assholes. Do you want to play to a houseful of old cunts and jerk offs who watch nothing but your tits, or do you want to play for people who know theatre from the circus and a performance from a cheap bit of gear grinding. That's all you were doing up there this afternoon, just grinding your gears.

Your facial expressions, your inflections and your body movements were all frigid. It looked like a pitiful bitch who couldn't haul her ashes if every dyke in New York handed her the shovels."

I thought this was wickedly cruel, given the fact that I had swooned and melted and boilied over in his arms only a week ago. For the first time I had let a man witness me in the full abandon of my womanhood, and he was calling me frigid, a dessicated cunt of no use to anyone, whether as a woman or as an actress.

I wanted to spit in his face, but I couldn't. I was doing everything I could to keep the tears from oozing out of my eyes and streaking down my face in rivers of salt and mascara.

As though he had not insulted me enough, the vile man continued.

"Not only did you look frigid, you looked constipated as a rat who lives on paragoric. As I said, you looked like an old witch with a cement cobra coiled in her bowels. But I think I have a remedy for that. No method exercise will purge your body of it's constipation. We can't solve this problem by any ordinary means. We will have to take extra measures.

Mr. Pointer grabbed my shoulders in his bestial paws, lifting me forcefully from the chair. He dragged me across the room and pushed me through the doorway of a small bathroom.

It was white and austere looking, white tile everywhere. Mr. Pointer opened a cabinet and withdrew an enema bag. I recognized it at once. When I was a little girl my mother, when I was ill, would give me aspirin crushed into puree of raspberries. It was her remedy for everything, and I did not mind the taste of the aspirin because the raspberries were heavenly. My father, however, would give me an enema, whether I suffered from headaches, indigestion or menstrual cramps. Yes, Doctor, my father continued to give me enemas until I was fifteen and ran away from home.

I used to despise the hideous things, and the sight of the overly familiar object in Mr. Pointer's hands made sensations of unwelcome deja vu race through my terrified body.

At that moment I wanted to be back with my mother, who had died years ago, leaving my cruel father to raise me. I wanted to be in my bed, with my mother beside me, slipping the spoonsful of raspberries into my mouth, talking sweetly to me so that I could not taste the bitter aspirins. But I could never return to that safety. It was gone forever and I was alone in the world, with only the savagery of men for company.

Mr. Pointer pushed me back into the office, holding my arm firmly in one hand, the wicked enema bag in the other.

Still keeping a firm grip on my struggling body, Mr. Pointer opened a small refrigerator built into his desk, withdrawing a chilled bottle of one hundred proof Vodka.

He unscrewed the long rubber hose from the bag of the enema and emptied the full bottle of chilled liquor into the bag. I watched as the rubber bag swelled, receiving the full quart of liquor.

As if that were not enough, he opened a tray of ice and dropped a dozen small cubes into the enema bag.

"These will make it even colder," he said, grinning at some obscene joke that only a monster could appreciate, "and then they will melt and give me even more liquid to send into your body through your constipated asshole."

"This is ridiculous," I said, summoning all the dignity I could command, "I've had enough of this shit. I don't need to study with you. If you know so much about acting why are just teaching? Why aren't you working in films or the theatre? No one needs you. I'll make it on my own without any help from frustrated perverts with thespian pretensions. You should give yourself an enema, not me."

Evidently I struck a raw nerve in Mr. Pointer's ego, for he became more than ever irrascible.

"Slut! You think you can fuck your way to the top of this dung heap! You think you'll ever be anything but a sleazy little ingenue! Shit, honey, you'll be eighty and you'll still be giving blow jobs, sucking cocks in your toothless mouth, trying to get a part as the deaf and dumb grandmother in some soap opera. Maybe I can give you a chance, but you will have to respond well to discipline. The core of acting, or any art, is discipline, and if you can't learn from it you might as well get married and get fucked and get pregnant. Without discipline all you can ever be good for is cranking out more worthless people like yourself, just oozing more and more mediocrity from your boring cunt."

Of course, Doctor, I did not believe a word of this, but I was too ossified with fear and panic to defend myself. I simply trembled in Mr. Pointer's clutches, utterly speechless.

"Get your whorish body out of your clothes, cunt! I'm going to give you the enema of all time."

Without letting me strip with some vestige of dignity, Mr. Pointer ripped the clothes from my body, tugging and tearing at each garment until I was naked before his penetrating and highly sinister gaze.

"Bend over that chair and let me get this in your ass," he hissed, tightening the hose, screwing it into the mouth of the enema bag.

I had no choice but to obey. I had already felt the pressure of his heel on my stomach, and I knew that if I was recalcitrant I would feel the impact of his shoe kicking me in a more vulnerable region.

He pressed the hateful nozzle against my puckering anus, plunging it all at once into the darkest depths of my rectal abyss. I felt my colon being stabbed by the invasion of the foul thing.

Without looking, I could somehow sense Mr. Pointer's fingers working on the valve that would release all the virulent Vodka into my victimized asshole. Then I felt it seeping in, first slowly, then with increasing gravity, until it was flowing fast and freely into my ass and deeper into my astonished body.

It rushed faster into me, filling me with its full alcoholic volume, almost killing me with its discomforting and rather stinging torrent.

I am not a drinker, Doctor. In my profession the figure is far too important to risk for the fleeting pleasure of intoxication. I know that many stars are notorious lushes, but they have fortunes and can afford to run off to fat farms whenever the feel a bit of avoirdupois gaining on them. Alas, I am not so fortunate, which is probably just as well. After too many visitis to the fat farms the body is damaged beyond repair, and at too early an age men and women who were once exceedingly handsome or beautiful are ruins of their former selves.

Unaccustomed to the effects of liquor, I felt myself beginning to spin with dizziness. Added to the extreme discomfort and pain of the liquid pressing against my insides, this sudden and violent intoxication was more than I could bear.

Tears began to flood out of my eyes as copiously as the Vodka rushed into my body, and it seemed as though all the world's tears were gushing from my two poor eyes in alcoholic form. The world was weeping Vodka through my anguished eyes, which were seeing, for the first time, the horrors of the world.

Mr. Pointer released the contents of the entire enema bag, pouring the terribly cold liquid into my ass, from which it seeped into my body, killing me with its numbing cold, its hideous pressure, and its devestatingly intoxicating potency.

When the bag was fully emptied into my body, Mr. Pointer looked at me with the most unnatural expression of obscene delight I have ever seen. He thrilled to my shame and agony, and I could see that he was bestially excited when he pulled his huge cock out of his fly and commanded me to lick it.

"C'mon, cunt, I want to feel your tongue dance on my cock. Lick it good and I might let you do a scene for me." He leered luridly at me, ignoring my tears and grimaces of pain.

I struggled to retain the Vodka in my body, but the cold of it was making me shiver uncontrollably, and the effect of the liquor was so strong that I could barely think. I was terrified that I would become incontinent.

"Get down on your knees and lick my cock," he commanded, his voice mean and ugly.

When I began to kneel I nearly fell over on the floor. I was so drunk, and having never been even mildly tipsy before in my abstinent life, I was horrified by the feeling of helplessness.

I was terrified that force of pressure in my body would force the enema nozzle out of my anus like the pressure of champagne popping a cork, not French champagne, but the tacky, artificially carbonated domestic kind.

But I managed to kneel, somehow managing my body by a miracle. I began to lick Mr.

Pointer's cock.

He was so hot, so horny and hard, that the mere flick of the tip of my tongue on the skin of his cock made his balls tighten into a gnarl of gristle, as though he would shoot any moment.

Quickly, he pulled his cock away from my tongue and held it in his hand.

Then, releasing it from his hand, he let it stand up straight and tall, leaning into his body.

He watched me writhing in agony on the floor.

"All right, cunt, now that your body is full of Vodka, I want to see you do some acting. Do a scene for me." He said, his voice harsh with authority.

What the hell did he want me to do with a quart of Vodka up my ass, Ophelia's mad scene? Did he want me to do Hedda Gabler?

"Get on your feet and do a monologue. What did you prepare for our first interview? I know you didn't do it; I was not sufficiently impressed with you to submit myself to the tortures of your monologue. Whatever you prepared, let me see it now. And you had better be good, bitch. If you're not I'll make you retain that quart of Vodka through the lengths of the longest five act tragedy in the world."

I already felt as if I had suffered through every tragedy known to man. I was as sorrowful as Phaedra, and I felt older than Hecuba, older than all the world. And I felt like the infant Astyanax, before the Trojans killed him.

I struggled to my feet, nearly toppling over in my painful effort, and began to deliver Sonia's monologue. I talked about how ineffably bored I was, how no one in the world could contemplate the depths of my insufferable boredom. I said that I was dying of boredom, that I had never been so miserable in my life.

And it was true. Of course, it was not boredom that was killing me, but the pressure and the pain and indignity of the enema that Mr. Pointer had blasted into my body. My body was full of the freezing Vodka, and my viscera felt frozen by a chill that would never thaw, but at the same time I boiled with vehement rage. I felt that the world was all turpitude, and that I was an anathema in a world that had years ago gone to hell.

I shrieked and wept, tears pouring from my eyes, my voice quavering with fury, wrath and melancholy. My voice conveyed all the emotions known to man, hostility, contempt, spite, and dispair.

"Bravo!! Bravo, girl! You were brilliant. I have never in my life seen such acting. I want you to remember everything you are feeling now. Every detail, every nuance. Tell me, how do you feel?"

"I'm so bored, so utterly and unspeakably bored," I said, unable to emerge from the character, unable to think my own thoughts. My brain reeled with the intoxication that had been absorbed by my racing blood.

"No, you, Lana, how do you feel? I want to know about you." He said, holding his iron-hard rod in his fist.

Then my own consciousness seeped back into my victimized flesh.

"I feel horrible, hideous, dying. I can't bear this. It's so painful and humiliating and wretched. I hate you! I detest you! You disgust me!" I shrieked my pain for all the world to hear, but of course who am I to the world that listens to no one?

The sound of my voice and the sight of my writhing and suffering body must have thrilled Mr. Pointer to a breaking-point, for, suddently, with no direct stimulation to his cock, he exploded.

The great jets of his orgasm splashed from his tall standing dick, hitting his skin, dripping down his leg and staining the carpet. He came in great violent gushes, his body convulsing with overpowering climax. His sperm leapt from his huge cock, flying out everywhere in thick hot abundance.

He groaned and growled in pleasure before finally speaking to me sensibly.

"I hope, Lana, that this lesson has served its purpose. I believe you learned more about acting today than most performers ever learn in a lifetime. If you are smart you will apply the insight I have given you to your craft, and you will make great strides in my class and progress in your career. I have no doubt that I have been the most fortuitous catalyst of your life, and I believe that a star was born today, sired by the enema I have given you. Please never forget this day."

Naturally, Doctor, I am not about to forget it. I need to know whether I should continue in Mr. Pointer's class. I do feel that my work has been better than ever since the day he gave me the enema. He has been almost invariably pleased with my progress and has only called me to his office a few times telling me that I am slipping back into my own ways and will need more discipline. So far he has not given me another enema, and it has been several months. I have continued with the classes so far, but every day I fear that enema time is drawing nearer. I might be making a mistake by remaining in his class much longer.

I do feel that my craft is improving at an incredible pace, and sometimes I think I would suffer almost anything to become the actress that I know I can be.

I have to confess to you that I would gladly receive another enema if I truly believed it was in the best interest of my art. The torture of being full and having to retain the liquid to prevent hideous embarrassment is dreadful, but the feeling of purgation when it finally all flows out in the privacy of the bathroom is a bliss I can scarcely describe.

I am greatly disturbed, Doctor. Secretly, I fear that I might even enjoy receiving enemas, despite myself, of course. And I do feel that there are helping me attain proficiency as an actress. Please, tell me what I should do.