Daughters of Sacrifice

Chapter Two-1

Chapter Two

November –Seven Years Later

I awaken, startled by the nightmare. At least this time I didn’t wake up screaming, as I have for the last several days.

The dream was real: beyond my imagination to create and strangely familiar…

A forest, thick and turbulent, fills my eyes. I am bound, while all around me great beasts with gnashing teeth and earthy growls loom, poised to strike. My imagination makes it so real that I’m startled awake, gasping for breath, moaning, sometimes screaming enough to wake Ben. The images soon grow fuzzy at the edges and then finally disappear into the shadow land of dreaming. To make them reappear, I’ll have to dive back into that mysterious realm of sleep, with no certainty that I’ll remember them any more clearly when I wake again.

Every night this dream consumes my mind, and I feel its awful force. I wake with my hands between my legs, clutching at my crotch, fingers frantically rubbing my p***y toward its climax. This feels as driven as my adolescent m**********n and stronger. I have no control of myself at all, where then, I reason, I might have stopped the desire if I’d really tried.

This morning, a Saturday when he doesn’t have to leave, Ben snuggles in against me and holds me tight to his chest, while I cry buckets of irrational tears.

“Maybe you should see someone,” he tells me as his hand runs gently through the mass of tangles knotting my hair.

My body turns momentarily rigid. The tears stop. And then a sudden welling of energy rises from my center. What I want to do is f**k. The desire rises between my legs and with unnatural determination, I open them wide and capture Ben’s thigh between them. I move against his hairy flesh and feel his crotch against my hip, responding as his p***s grows erect.

I cover his face with kisses, trace the lines of sinewy muscles with my fingers and press my neck to his lips. He gets the message and begins to kiss back, to suckle, to bite, to squeeze my ass with nails clawing my pretty pink behind. His face moves slowly down my throat, leaving hickeys all the way to my chest, where he bites the tender flesh of a tit and I start to scream from the pleasure.

“Yes, baby, yes,” I’m repeating, sometimes softly, sometime with such urgency that I believe I’ve driven him mad. He’s a reasonable, dispassionate man, twenty-nine, with blond curls at the top of his head and surrounding the swelling stalk between his stocky, muscled legs.

I postpone his further abuse of my breasts until later, so that I can grovel down his torso and swallow his erection with my hungering mouth. I almost gag as it tickles the back of my throat, but he has a natural instinct to shove himself deeper—like he’s in charge—and thus I’m compelled to oblige him and give him what he demands.

“Take it, b***h! This is what you want,” he angrily seethes. He hates his anger as much as I hate my unwanted dreams. But we seem doomed to answer a hunger that drives me and pushes him to the far edge of civility. I think sometimes that he’s destined to fall into the predator male role, and that’s what he fears. Too bad, I decide. Let him live with his fear; I live with mine. I trust he’ll never abuse me, really abuse me, but I can’t be sure. Perhaps that’s what I want, his unfettered fury.

He f***s my face with his wide c**k stretching the sides of my mouth until it hurts and I think he’ll rip right through the tender tissue. I can’t breathe. By some instinctive knowing, he then backs off enough so I can breathe, and I snake my tongue around the thick meat. I gaze upward with animal lust pouring from my heavy-lidded eyes. His animal lust pours back on me and with renewed enthusiasm, Ben rams his erection into my face again. With every cruel thrust, I threaten to spit him out—this is a war of wills—but he’s down my throat again before I can. Any second I expect him to ejaculate in frothy gobs of c*m. But like so many times when we battle this way, he abruptly pulls out, shakes me about until I’m on hands and knees and then doggy f***s me from behind. I suppose if I mentioned his taking me anally, he might do that too. But I haven’t the guts to admit that the thought is regularly in my mind. I make do with the simple, unadorned vanilla finish. Minutes after, we breathily collapse to the bed in a heap of sweaty flesh and try to think of something to say.

Today, Ben simply repeats his previous suggestion, “Maybe you should see someone.”

***

“Miss Marshall, is it?”

The man’s a stern, patriarchal, patronizing sort—last thing I want in a counselor. His entire face is pinched, with small, beady eyes, thin lips and skin so fine and dry, looking as if its about to crack. I prefer my men fleshier than this skinny one. But of course, he’s not supposed to be a lover!

“Yes, but call me Tarin,” I tell him, still thinking hopefully.

“That’s an unusual name,” he remarks.

I sigh, having been through this before. “In my family, on my mother’s side,” I explain.

He nods as if we’ve said enough about that and moves quickly through his notes, what I suppose he gathered in our brief telephone conference a week ago.

He looks up at me, over the glasses perched on his nose. “You complaint is regarding dreams?”

“Yes. It’s all in my dreams.”

“But you’re unable to be specific about them.”

“They disappear. Don’t all dreams?”

“Hmm.” He doesn’t agree with me. “Some are vivid enough to be remember for years.”

“Mine are vivid,” I insist. “Otherwise I wouldn’t be here.”

“But you can’t tell me anything precise?”

“No, not really.” Dr. Finegood has the most amazing plum-colored décor that fascinates me more than this conversation. And now I can’t take my eyes off the abstract painting hanging in front to me—is this some new kind of Rorschach Test? I wonder. He follows my gaze.

“You like the painting?”

“Is my answer open for analysis?” I ask.

“No. But maybe it should be. Some patients have strong reactions to that piece. I’m sure it’s a study in itself.” He smiles quickly and looks back at me. “But then, that is not why we’re here now, is it?”

“You’re right.”

It’s just dawned on me that I’ve done something completely stupid coming here, and I suddenly have the crazy, impetuous urge to strip off my clothes and run from the office screaming.

Apparently he’s suspicious of my thought as he astutely asks: “What are you thinking now, Miss Marshall?”

Geez, I wish he wouldn’t call me that. “It’s Tarin,” I implore him, “please, and you wouldn’t want to know what I’m thinking.”

His face becomes particularly grim, if that’s possible. “Young lady, that’s the whole point, to get inside your thoughts,” he says.

Young lady? Young lady! I’d sure like to dust him off like a mite. “You want to know what’s in my thoughts?” I bait him, annoyed. “I’ll tell you. I have this big, urgent desire to strip naked and run through your office like a screaming idiot.”

“I see,” he says patiently, because he wouldn’t dare be shocked.

“You see what?” I shake my head. I have the feeling he’s just going through the drill, because that’s what he does to get his fee. In truth, he doesn’t really give a damn about me. “I think I’m wasting my time,” I tell him.

“Why is that?”

“Because I want an answer to my terrible dreams, I desperately want an answer. But I’m not sure you care about that. You’ll just jack me around for a few months and we’ll get nowhere.”

“Why so angry?”

“You’re making me angry!”

“So, I’m making you angry…” again a passive indifference.

I never should have taken Ben’s advice… ‘see someone’, he’d told me. I don’t need a psychiatrist; I need an exorcist.

“I have to assume that your dilemma is of a s****l nature, Miss Marshall,” Finegood abruptly turns the conversation.

This floors me. “How do you figure that?” I start to tremble—an internal earthquake sort of thing; hopefully, the man won’t notice.

“Am I wrong?” he asks.

“Well, no, you’re not wrong. At least I don’t think you’re wrong. I’m not sure though, because I don’t remember the nightmare.” I know now that I don’t want to be here, but I’m too petrified and too cool to run away.

“But s*x is involved.”

“Yeah, I think so… in a way… but afterwards, um, I think.” Oddly, I feel obliged to explain because he’s so close to the truth and I stumble on… “First off, I always wake up masturbating—maybe that is a clue. And then if he’s around, I attack my boyfriend. The s*x is pretty rough on us both, real aggressive. Then it’s over. But maybe that really doesn’t have to do with my dream,” I thoughtfully postulate as I finish.

“Have you ever had masochistic fantasies?”

Sounds like a pretty personal question to me, I mull silently, until I again remember that this is exactly why I’m here. “Maybe.”

“Maybe,” he repeats, like I didn’t hear my own answer.

“Well, yes. I think so. I used to bind myself when I needed to masturbate. Made a big ritual of it. But that was when I was a teenager.” I smile nervously. “Sort of silly, I guess. But I suppose you could call it masochistic.”

“And this is something you’d like to explore more thoroughly?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.” As I’m saying this, my heart is pounding like a hundred stampeding beasts are charging right through. I feel the thunder all the way to my groin… and then a crawly feeling in my thighs. And then, for the first time in maybe a year or two, I remember those nasty sessions on Mom’s balcony porch, wishing I was there now. But that would be impossible. Mom sold the house when Dad died four years ago and she moved in with my aunt in Sarasota.

“You don’t think so.” Again that flat, dispassionate repetition. I could really end up hating this man for good reason.

“But maybe.”

“Tarin.” His body language suddenly changes; he’s sitting upright as if he’s about to rise. “I’m going to recommend you to Dr. Astin. He’s a sexologist at the university. I have a feeling your case will interest him.”

I’ll interest him! What am I? A hot potato no one can touch? Or maybe a curiosity to pass around like the latest water cooler gossip? I can hardly stand this guy, and I certainly don’t want his replacement. I’d only go through this agony again.

“Well, if it’s all the same to you, I think I’ve learned enough,” I say civilly.

Now he is surprised. “Enough? Really?” He says this so judgmentally that I feel like shrinking into a tiny ball and rolling under the door.

“Well, who’s this Dr. Astin?”

“Here.” He writes a name and number on a slip of paper and hands it to me. “If you want to pursue your dreams further, this is the man to counsel you. I could go on, certainly. But I’d feel foolish when a man of Dr. Astin’s expertise is so readily available.”

I stare at the paper. “Sure.” Being about all I’m able to say. Now who’s brushing who off like a nagging gnat? “That’s all?”

He consults his watch. “Your time is up for the day.”

He’s right about that. Right on the button, fifty minutes.

h

Dr. Astin’s name floats through my head for at least two weeks before I have the guts to seriously consider seeing him. If prissy old Finegood can read my dilemma so easily, this guy’s likely to cut even closer to the truth. Do I want that?

But then the dreams continue, having become more frightening and more intense than before. So intense that I jump from bed, instead of attacking Ben. I’ve taken up jogging, at least for a week. By the time I’ve run four miles around the neighborhood the aggressive urge is gone; I can breathe and my fear won’t work against my relationship with Ben.

I’m on one of these frantic jogs to rid myself of s****l agitation, when I abruptly turn into the University Campus and stop in front of Trippary Hall to catch my breath. This is where Astin teaches—I’ve already looked him up on the university website—and now how convenient to find myself in front the Psychology Dept, as if I planned it, or my subconscious planned it. Who am I kidding? Of course, I planned it… just in case he walked by. There was a picture of Dr. Astin on the website. He’s younger, better looking than Finegood, looks mild-mannered and academic. He definitely holds my interest, although his looks should have nothing to do with my seeing him.

***

I continue to mull my dilemma analytically, while every few days the dreams wake me to a frenzied state. I’m a total mess. Angry. Suspicious. Tired—and sexually frustrated. Analytical thought starts to suffer. I haven’t allowed myself to come, to make love to Ben, or in any way to think about s*x for nearly two weeks. And my work is starting to go downhill because I can’t concentrate. That’s bad for a website advertising consultant. I’m beginning not to care about anything, least of all the world of java script and html.

And thus, I find serendipity has the nerve to strike again when I’m eating a scone and drinking coffee in the Barrister’s Bar—sounds stodgy, but it’s just an uppity coffee bar with fancy pasties and a hundred versions of espresso, cappuccino and mocha. I’m a pretty basic working girl at eight in the morning, and settle for black coffee with my blueberry scone. This morning, the scone is much too dry but I eat it anyway. And while picking up crumbs with my fingers, I spot the intriguing Dr. Astin doing much the same thing while reading the morning paper, just three tables away.

My body jolts as if a stun gun just punched my side. This must be a sign. God’s little lightning bolt.

With little prompting, I’m standing at the man’s side, inquiring directly, “You’re Dr. Astin?”

He looks up at me with baby-blue eyes searching my face quizzically for recognition.

“You don’t know me. I’m Tarin Marshall. Dr. Finegood recommended you to me.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, sit down.”

This surprises me. I’m not sure what I expected of him, but the unforeseen invitation has my queasy stomach turning somersaults, a dangerous thing with black coffee sloshing around inside. I sit, and then try to explain.

“I thought maybe we should, you know, make an appointment. Of course, you have a secretary… I could go through her. It’s just that I saw you and had this impulse. . .” He looks at me oddly and I hastily add, “Dr. Finegood? Perhaps he didn’t mention me to you. It’s a…a s****l problem he thought you might help me with—” I fidget with my purse. “I’m sorry if this is too forward.”

“Nervousness often makes us do things we might otherwise never consider.”

How true!

I find him attractive, even invigorating, less academic and more rugged than his web picture…actually, he has a swashbuckling renegade appearance and a deeply tanned face, invasive eyes and a smile that’s slightly lopsided and knowing—like a perpetual smirk. His brown hair is just beginning to gray, which he’ll wear well later on, only becoming distinguished and more intriguing as he ages. His brow wrinkles with lines as he moves his eyes, and his eyes…well, I’m glad I’m sitting down. They might easily knock me off my feet if they focused on me with a penetrating stare.

Why am I doing this? I ask myself silently. Because he arouses me? Or because I want to get beyond my nightmare? But then, why should I care. Either is a decent enough reason.

“I am nervous,” I admit. “That’s probably why it took so long for me to get up the courage to see you.”

“But then, it wasn’t courage at all to stumble on me in the coffee shop, now was it?”

“No.” I laugh lightly, feeling a little less scared.

“You’re the girl with the dreams.”

“Oh, then, Dr. Finegood did tell you about me?”

“He mentioned you.”

“He couldn’t have said much, we hardly talked.”

“Apparently, you said enough for him to point you to me.”

I sigh. “I still don’t remember my dreams.”

“And that’s okay. There are a lot of other ways to explore what’s inside you without analyzing your dreams.”

“But shouldn’t we be doing this in your office?”

“We could. But it’s not really necessary.”

“But I thought…”

“I don’t take clients for pay, Tarin. I don’t take ‘clients’ in the traditional sense at all. My work is much more informal.”

“Oh?”

“I work in unorthodox ways and I don’t need the complications of a formal arrangement and regulations defining what I do.”

I’m totally baffled and must look that way because he continues to explain. “If you want to work with me you’ll be exploring your sexuality—that is at the core of your problems. You’ll need to be painfully, bluntly honest, you’ll answer all my questions truthfully and I normally recommend certain appropriate—sexually graphic—exercises to both stimulate your imagination and ferret out what’s inside you—including the great unknown dream that haunts your nights. If that’s what you’d like to try, then I’d be happy to consult with you. If not, then you can go about your business and forget we ever met.”

“But I think I do want to work with you,” I blurt out, afraid now that he’ll take away the very thing I’ve been avoiding.

“Good. Then perhaps to make up for lost time, you’d better see me in my office, tomorrow… when? After work. When do you get off?”

“Five.”

“You can be in my office at 5:30?”

“Yes, sir.”

I’m not really sure what’s just happened, but I know I’ll be in his office 5:30 pm sharp.

‘Make up for lost time.’ Has he really been thinking of me… or is that just a ‘guy’ line to lure me in? I’m not at all sure of this man, but I am definitely intrigued and certainly turned on by him where I was equally repulsed by Dr. Finegood.