My psychiatrist crossed her legs tapping a silver pen against her notepad before responding: “Have you ever given any thought to the possibility your relationship with Baristan is a reverie born of the desire to punish your racist father?”
“Tsss,” I hissed, “I don’t care about my dad enough to let him influence my dating life.”
“But Rose,” she shifted slightly sideways in her seat keeping her shoulders squared at me, she knew she’d struck a nerve, “Let me ask the question from a different standpoint: What about thoughts to the possibility that *Baristan’s* motivation is racist prejudice, and it’s fueling an unhealthy sexual fetish for him with you?”
I shrugged. “Sounds like everyone’s screwed up.”
“I only ask because you told me it was a blond character in sexual comics that Barsitan compared you to when you both first met”—she flipped back her notes several pages reading intently—”And that he’s in fact nicknamed you after this character, *Carmen*.”
Jesus Christ already. “Yes,” I said, “I told him to stop calling me that and he has. Like weeks ago.”
“Does he still read them? The Carmen comics depicting sexual violence?”
I stared at her a moment too long, and she sensed it—I was withholding something. Her attunement was always excellent, and folding both hands over her notebook put me at ease:
“I’m here for you Rose, and there’s no hurry, I promise this is the safest place on earth.”
But the shame was dragging me through the center of earth. Eye-contact became impossible. Of course I didn’t tell her what was actually on my mind, but I had to offer up something good: “I haven’t told you doctor, but Baristan is an artist. He owns Toonomics. He’s the author of the Carmen series.”
She sat back with the attitude of someone who’d just been betrayed, or shot. My apology went unanswered and I cried. She snatched a tissue from the glass end table beside her chair and reached it far enough for me to take.
“I often underestimate the degree to which dishonesty presents in therapy,” she said coldly, “And right now, your continuing relationship with Baristan is something to consider as much as my therapeutic progress is with you.” She looked at her watch, stood, and walked to the door, holding it open for me.
It wasn’t worth appealing. She’d gone into a professional *do not disturb* mode and I left with my heart beating to other matters.
On the elevator ride down I felt the tickle of something I’d forgotten. The tiny paper checklist was still in my purse and I unfolded it out:
– No makeup
– Hard to remove jeans and top
– GHB pill
– Picture of office
“Crap.” I’d forgotten the last item. And based on what my shrink had said, it wasn’t guaranteed I’d ever be back. The thought brought with it conflicting emotions, because I believed I was making progress with her, before I met Baristan. This was all his doing. “Fuck you,” I sniffled into the wire underneath my collar then swallowed the pill. The elevator doors drifted open. Its chemical compound hit me as I left the lobby and spun onto the street from the revolving doors. I hurried across Dearborn Avenue into the parking garage before I started losing my balance. Taking this on an empty stomach was a stupid idea. I finished the bottle of water, let it fall to the ground, and climbed the stairs up. Four flights. Each floor became heavier. The fourth was mostly empty this Wednesday afternoon, but the parked silver Mercedes van came into blurred focus as I moved closer with the weltering gait of a stumbling bimbo. The sliding door opened just before I fell, and two hands caught my wrists. “I’ve got you Carmen,” a calm pleasant voice quietly said. Then his lips moved on my ear. “Fucking bitch.”
My body fell onto a soft surface of incredible mercy, and two blurred claws tore at it. I don’t remember all of Baristan’s insults and couldn’t hear anything but myself when the head of his penis broke my mouth’s tight-lipped blockade into a sodden marsh of wet resistance.
Piece of shit. There’s more to me than this. I have an education, a career, a mortgage… I fought back, digging my manicure into his hand and tattooed forearm that had taken hold of my hair. He pulled out and screamed in pain. I asked him to stop, and no sooner had the first syllable left my mouth he spit on my face. Then he pinned my arms down with both his knees and went back into my mouth. “Look up!” he ordered, but I didn’t want to. His thumbs pressed into my eyelids and forced them up and open. They saw a grunting black monster frowning back through blinding light. When his dick was withdrawn from my mouth a second time, he’d gone too deep and knew it. My voice was different, at least two octaves lower, like I was on hormones, as I pleaded with him. I’m not sure if I vomited, but he didn’t care. He brought the full weight of his black dick down on my forehead twice before saying something he’d overheard my shrink say while eavesdropping:
“Time for some therapeutic progress cunt.”
His hands took my hips, spinning me onto my stomach. It was only then I realized what the bright moving light was—he was filming everything on his phone without my permission. What use was it to cry or resist? He wouldn’t stop. His cock entered me from behind and I listened to my own butt cheeks clapping against his violence. When I’d waived all hope and let myself limp, aiming my unblinking dead bloodshot eyes into the folded down velvet seat, it became manageable enough that I might cum. I did, but held my mouth. It wasn’t worth letting him know, lest it encourage this type of unacceptable abuse in the future. It wouldn’t happen again. But he knew. He felt my spastic vaginal contractions with his dick and pounded harder, laughing and slapping my ass with his free hand. Finally he pulled out and spun me back around. His right thumb blocked the hole in his dick to stop the cum from leaking until it exploded on my face. I knew better than to turn away. An absolute mess. It sticks better on untouched skin, that’s why I wasn’t allowed to wear any makeup. He didn’t let me wipe it off either. I had to lay there conquered as he withdrew his digital sketchpad and illustrated my destruction.
It wouldn’t be long I told myself. Soon I’d sleep it off. I’d shower and put on some comfortable clothes. I’d order Chinese food and watch Hulu. I knew I’d be ok. This was, after all, penance for the sins of my father.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/noi5o3/private_rapeseed_and_the_living_daylights_mf