Submission Therapy

 

eXcessica publishing

Submission Therapy
© 2012 by Willsin Rowe & Katie Salidas

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Cover design © 2012 Willsin Rowe

First Edition November 2012

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By Willsin Rowe & Katie Salidas

“
You really should change that painting on your wall, Derek.”
 

“
Natasha, I’ve asked you many times to call me Dr. Benson.” He leaned over and checked his notes, then jotted something down. Probably a remark about my attitude. It wouldn’t be the first time, and it damn sure won’t be the last.
 

“
No doubt you have, Derek.”
 

For a shrink, he really seemed stuck on formality, for whatever reason.
Some people’s lives are just so petty.
I flicked my hand toward the gauche painting in question. “I mean, it’s not calming at all. Thick daubs of acrylic that look like cellulite on the canvas. And what’s with the oranges and blues together? That’s just insane.”

Dr. Benson didn’t appear to get the joke.
Simpleton
. He pushed his bookish glasses up on his long narrow nose and glared. “Natasha, I’ve been seeing you for a year, now.” His tone was laced with disappointment. “And you’ve made no progress. No change.” He sat back in his vinyl chair. “None at all.”

“
Yep, got it, Derek.” I blocked out his face with my watch for a second. The man could talk! I had four meetings scheduled for this afternoon.
 

He flipped his notebook and it closed with an unusually loud snap. “You’re still control-dependent, and we’ve made no headway with your addiction to sex either.”

I could recite this lecture word for word now. Time was money and these sessions were already costing me too much of both. Apparently with no results to show for them.

I stood and smoothed my skirt. Derek may be a psychiatrist, but he’s still a man. A straight man, judging by the way his eyes scanned my legs. Too bad for him. If he weren’t just a dull, if handsome, shrink, I might have used him for some much-needed stress relief. He could call it addiction all he liked, but for me it was head and shoulders above these damn therapy sessions.

“
Well, Derek. Thanks for a wonderful year. I can’t tell you much I’ve enjoyed losing two valuable hours each week, all for nothing.”
 

He smiled congenially but the strain in his voice was apparent. “If you’d done the exercises as I instructed, you’d have lost six hours.”

I dug my cellphone out of my Louis Vuitton Olive Monogram Antheia Leather Hobo. “Which is why I didn’t.”

“
Which is why you’ve failed at therapy and why you are failing at life.”
 

The deadpan delivery of those words shocked me. Taken aback, I sucked in a breath and, for a moment, considered throwing my phone straight at his stupid smiling face.

“
What the
fuck
did you just say? Have you seen the size of my house? My portfolio of investments? And
I’ve
failed? If anything it’s
you
who’s failed, Derek.
You’re
supposed to cure me.”
 

Derek folded his arms. “Natasha, we’ve discussed this rudeness of yours.”

“
I’m not being rude; I’m being efficient, getting right to the head of the matter, which is
your
lack of results.”
 

“
There’s a difference between efficiency and rudeness, Natasha, and you are being—”
 

I dialed Simon’s number. “Bring the car around.” Then snapped my phone closed and turned to leave.

“
Natasha?”
 

“
Derek, I don’t want to appear...
efficient
, but I have places to be.”
 

He surprised me by rushing to the door and blocking my exit. I was unprepared for such animation. Standing there filling the doorframe with his arms crossed he almost appeared authoritative. In his khaki pants and black Oxford shirt, and with his blue eyes narrowed behind dark framed glasses he looked like he’d just passed
Door Security 101
. “So why are you still here?”

The unfamiliar steel of his voice seemed to carry a lilt of taunting. I nodded at the hallway behind him. “I’m hardly going to climb over you.”

“
You know what I mean. Why haven’t you gone to yet another doctor?”
 

Because no-one else will take me. Because I’ve carved a sharp-tongued path through them all.
No way I’d expose myself like that. Not to this nobody. He already had too much of me sitting in his notebooks. I pulled out my gold cigarette case and flipped it open. “I really don’t know.”

“
Natasha, you can’t smoke in here.”
 

I rolled my eyes. Tiny lives with tiny rules. “Derek, my company owns this building. One of my companies, anyway.”

He produced a business card from his pocket. “This is it, Natasha. Your last chance.”

I glared at the card, but he didn’t waver. Just held it steady as I blew a stream of smoke into his face. Finally I took the thing and checked it over.

Room 112

Master Sweet

“
I see your people are no better than mine. I should proof-read for you.”
 

Sadly, he didn’t rise to my taunting. He remained remarkably collected, delivering his deadpan statement. “Master Sweet is not a room.”

I tapped the ash from my cigarette into a potted plant by the door. “So what is it? Candy?”

“
Radical therapy. I’ve tried the
softly-softly
, ‘tell me how that makes you feel’ method. It’s had no effect. Clearly you need a more hands-on approach.” He tapped the edge of the card in my hand. “And what you’ll find in that room will gel perfectly with your current…addictions.”
 

Why didn’t he just come out and say it? I fuck a lot. So what? It was just another thing that no-one else could get right for me. Though I had to admit, any therapy involving sex might be worth a try. “And how much is this
radical therapy
going to cost me? Time is money you know.”

“
Hotel Bridgeman. One hour.”
 

“
One hour? You’re cute, Derek, but you didn’t answer my question.” I stopped just short of pinching his cheek.
 

“
I’m quite serious, Natasha. Time and money are irrelevant. You attend this session. Otherwise we’re done.”
 

My first reaction was just to turn and walk. He had no power here. Half of his flea market office furnishings were paid for by my therapy sessions.

But the sharpness in my chest stopped me. The weight of all my responsibilities made it hard to breathe. All those investments. All those companies. The stocks, the properties, the...oh, what are they called? People, that’s it. And the idea of spilling all my dirty secrets to yet another therapist - if I could find one - actually gave me a flood of desperate affection for this earnest lummox in front of me. I stared at Derek and waited for him to crumble, but he showed no sign of doing so.

“
Derek, I cannot simply blow off my entire afternoon. Even without all my other meetings, there is a stack of paperwork on my desk that’s even taller than you.” The thought of all the work piling up gave me heartburn. No one in my office could be trusted to do the job right.
 

He shook his head. His expression finally changed into one of hangdog sadness. “That’s exactly the trouble, Natasha. You’re the tightest-wound person I’ve ever met. Socially or professionally. You’ve carved out this world view and you won’t be swayed. But I assure you that the ulcer, the angina, and the panic attacks will not be tamed by condescension or...
efficiency
. What you need to learn is how to let go of control and allow others to shoulder some of the responsibility.”

Fuck this little man and his microscopic life. If he wanted to call me weak, I could easily expose the same pathetic quality in him. I traced my fingers over the soft skin of my breast as I leaned forward and whispered straight into his ear. “Tightness in a woman can be quite a desirable quality, Derek.”

If my heavy breathing and display of cleavage had any effect on him, he hid it well. He just leaned against me and whispered back. “Natasha, I’m your therapist. We’ve talked about your childhood, your adolescence, and...all the things you’ve done to get where you are. Are you sure your current
tightness
isn’t just a reaction to all your...looseness?”

I barely registered that I’d moved, yet suddenly my palm was tingling and Derek was clutching at his cheek, his glasses laying like a crushed insect on the floor.

A ball of unreleased scream sat in the base of my throat and made it almost impossible for me to speak, but I managed to strangle out a yell. “You voyeuristic cunt! You get off on my exploits, don’t you? I bet you finish every one of our sessions with a ten-minute jerk-off!” I almost spat in his face. “Or maybe you only last five.”

Derek shook his head and rubbed at his reddened flesh. To my surprise he started chuckling. “Was it something I said?”

I closed my eyes and pushed a stray tress of black hair back behind my ear. I let a long breath seep out of me as I regained my composure. “You be sure to send me the bill for those glasses, Derek.”

“
One hour. Hotel Bridgeman.” His voice faded slightly as I reached the elevator. “
No
excuses, Natasha.”
 

The limo was waiting out front with the door open. I slipped inside and fastened my seat belt. Simon closed my door and sat in front.

“
Ma’am?”
 

“
Yes?”
 

“
Where to, ma’am?”
 

I finally registered the tingling sensation in my palm. I stared at it as if it held some kind of answers, even poked at it with my manicured nail in case there was a secret below the surface. The sharpness of the pain there was like a frightened breath, a sudden blotting-out of everything else.