The Addicted Natural


Chapter 7  –  Dee’s Diary  –  Her Best Friend’s Husband



MONDAY, MAY 6th

Dear Diary,

What an absolutely WONDERFUL day yesterday was. And now, here I am writing about it (I was certainly in no shape to do so last night!), strangely at peace, knowing that today is my last full day on this earth. My last night may be a little uncertain, however. I’ve agreed to do something that has me VERY nervous. But I’ll get to that.

I drove out to the lake house about nine o’clock and stopped at the farmer’s market and butcher shop on the way. I’d decided on Greek Souvlaki for dinner, and I chose the ingredients with care. I think I’m more at peace in the kitchen than anywhere else in the world. This was going to be fun.

Once at the house, I opened every window to air it out. It was a beautiful early spring day, cool and crisp and sunny. I cut the lamb into cubes and began the day-long marinating process, then rolled up my sleeves and cleaned the place for three solid hours. After a light lunch (I think I’ve finally lost that five pounds), I went down to the porch swing that Ben hung from the limb of the big oak and finished the Mary Roberts Rinehart book. What a marvelous mystery! You don’t find out “who-done-it” until the very last paragraph! I wish I had time to read another. Oh well.

I showered and put on a nice outfit, not too informal, just right for receiving guests in the country. I’d never prepared an evening for friends before (I’ve never HAD friends before), and I was especially nervous about meeting the mysterious Professor “Freddy.” I figured he must be some sort of hunk to have a beauty like Brenda look all starry-eyed every time she mentioned his name. I imagined all sorts of types. But whatever I expected, it wasn’t the Fred I finally met.

He’s so … so AVERAGE, that he’s sort of hard to describe. I immediately wondered how he ever attracted a girl like Brenda. His hair is sort of brown, but sort of red, too, and it’s receding quite a bit. I think he’s going to be classified as bald in another ten years. Early thirties, I’d guess, and about fifteen pounds overweight. Taller than I am, but not by much, and for some reason, I thought of him as clumsy, but I don’t know why. It took me the better part of an hour to realize that looks are deceiving. I know now that he’s remarkably bright, but his whole demeanor seems to hide the fact. The one feature that couldn’t be hidden was a certain nameless quality that lay just behind his eyes.

From the moment he got out of the car, he was absolutely enthralled by the lake. He only stopped staring at it for a few moments to meet me, and his eyes suddenly seemed to take in my every detail me. I felt, for a moment, like covering myself with my hands. It’s as if, in that brief instant, he’d photographed me with those eyes and stored the picture in his mind to retrieve and study at a later time. In another minute, he was looking longingly at the lake again, and I thought guiltily that I’d imagined the whole thing.

He began asking questions, good intelligent questions, I’m sure, but I didn’t have a clue to the answers for any of them. Which “arm” of the lake was this? What was the underwater slope? What was the water temperature? What was its depth at “pool?” After my fourth “I don’t know,” he suddenly smiled, looked around a moment, and somehow seamlessly switched the topic to the dahlias in the east flower bed. That I DID know about, and we were soon immersed in a detailed conversation about spring flowers.

I showed them around: the Grand Tour, both outside and inside, then I enlisted Fred’s help opening a large bottle of Chardonnay I’d found in the basement (he seemed very impressed by the vintage, but I didn’t know anything about that, either). Brenda I put to work cutting vegetables, but I was soon very amused to learn that she was an absolute disaster in the kitchen. In the end, she sat on a bar stool at the counter while I worked happily away, and we talked and talked and talked. Fred took his glass and drifted back outside to stare at the lake some more.

I drank a glass of wine, then another while Brenda sipped hers and became more and more animated. I just couldn’t believe how she could get drunk on one glass! I called to Fred to fire up the gas grill, and though he’d never used one, he figured it out quickly. Brenda was at least slightly adept at putting the lamb and veggies on the skewers, and we all stood around the grill while they popped and sizzled over the flames. The meal was pretty good, if I do say so myself. Fred seemed to love it, and ate with absolute gusto. They both told me that meals around their house weren’t that “elaborate,” meaning, I guess, that Brenda isn’t much of a cook.

The conversation at the dinner table was what convinced me that Fred was an intellectual wolf in sheep’s clothing. Twice, he so cleverly shifted the topic from the house, to its background, and finally to my association to it, that I very nearly slipped up and told him who I was. The third glass of wine didn’t help, but I thought I did a rather masterful job of knocking the discussion right back to his side of the court. This meant, of course, that Brenda had kept her word and not revealed my identity. As soon as he figured out what I was doing, I got the impression that he thought “conversational ping pong” was a great game, and I could see the amusement in his eyes. 

Brenda sort of embarrassed me by actually BEGGING Fred for another glass of wine. Even after I’d poured her one, she still wouldn’t touch it until he had given his consent. She told me, confidentially after we’d finished the dishes and had plopped ourselves in the middle of the couch, chattering away like a couple of hens, that she let Fred make almost ALL of her important decisions. That’s just the way their relationship is. I tried to show as much feminist indignation as my four previous glasses of wine would allow at: 1) the concept that she should HAVE to seek his approval for ANYTHING, and 2) that having a second glass of wine wasn’t that big a “decision” at all.

But maybe it was, for she was now very, very drunk, and she slurred many of her words and laughed almost continuously. In defense, I poured myself a fifth glass. My words weren’t coming out the way I wanted them to, either.

“Just what do you see in Fred, anyway?” I implored, at last. (He, of course, was taking a moonlight stroll alone down by the lake.)

“He’s a great guy!” Brenda said defensively, if unclearly. “He’s everything I every wanted! And anyway, he’s got a really, really, really big cock.”

“Cock?” I shrieked, and dissolved into a fit of giggles.

“Cock. You know. Dork. Shlong. Porker.” She was trying hard to look serious, though she was shaking with laughter.

“You mean his prick?” I asked, gasping for air.

“Oh no, it’s much, much bigger than a prick.” She was laughing almost uncontrollably now. “It’s almost too big to call a cock! You can’t possibly call it a prick!”

“I happen to know a thing or two about pricks,” I howled, “and it looks sort of like a prick to me. I mean, if I saw it, I think it would. I mean ….” I was really losing it.

And just then, Fred walked back in. Brenda and I were laughing so hard, and we were so drunk, that we just couldn’t help staring openly at his crotch. He actually looked down, to see if he’d spilled something on his lap. This, of course, had the immediate effect of making both of us women double the decibel level, and Fred, feeling self conscious, shook his head sadly and walked back outside. I howled. I held my aching sides and shed tears. I’ve never, ever laughed so hard.

When the giggles finally subsided, Brenda leaned heavily against me and rested her head on my shoulder, and I rested my cheek on the top of her head, and we were comfortably silent for a long, long time. I didn’t want this special moment of friendship to ever end.

“Dee?”

“Um?” I answered groggily.

“Dee, have you ever been hypnotized?”

“No.”

We were quiet for another long minute. “Would you like to be?”

This startled me, but I didn’t alter my voice at all. “I don’t think so.”

Pause. “It’s really wonderful. It’s the best feeling in the whole world.” A much longer pause. “I’m a Natural.”

My turn to pause. “What’s that?”

“I go under very, very easily, and once I’m there, I like it so much that I don’t ever want to wake up. There just aren’t words to describe how great it makes me feel.”

“And you don’t mind giving up all that control?” I asked.

“That’s what I think I like the most about it.”

That’s all she said. And the really scary part is that I knew exactly what she meant. We were quiet for another long minute.

“Dee?”

“Yes?”

“I think you are, too. A Natural, I mean. I mean, if you ever tried it, I think you would be. Do you know what I mean?”

“What makes you think that?”

I felt her shoulders shrug beside me. “You look like me. I mean, there’s something about you that reminds me of me. I mean, there are a lot of ways that you’re just like me … the way I am … the way I feel … the way I think. Shy. Reserved. Curious”

I didn’t say anything, and time stretched on silently.

“Dee?”

“Yes?”

“Will you try it for me? Will you let Freddy put you under? Please?”

I sighed. “I can’t, Brenda. He’d find out. He’d know who I am. He’d know what I’m about to do. I know you want to save me, but you promised. That decision is made, and I’m not going to change it.”

She ruined our perfect position by raising her head and looking into my eyes. My God, she’s got beautiful eyes! “But he won’t!” she said, almost urgently. “He won’t find out any of that! He’s hypnotized me twice since yesterday, and I didn’t tell him! He doesn’t know because the whole thing is so bizarre that he’d never think of asking about that. And I’ll tell him not to! I’ll tell him not to pry into your past, and he’ll honor that. You have my word. I promise! And if you do, then you’ll see that I’m right! You’re a Natural, too, and it’ll be absolutely the BEST feeling you’ll ever have, and then later if you DO … do that … do … that terrible thing, you will have at least experienced it once. Please?”

She was really beginning to babble. “Brenda, calm down. I’ll think about it.”

“No!” she said frantically. “Come to dinner at our house tomorrow night, and let him! Please? I promise he won’t find out! If you just ….”

“OKAY!” I shouted, just to shut her up.

“Really?” she asked, more quietly.

“Okay,” I repeated. What was I getting myself into? “If you promise he won’t pry into my private life, I’ll let him try to hypnotize me.”

“Okay,” she replied, satisfied. She rested her head back on my shoulder, and after a minute, I rested my cheek against her head again. I couldn’t believe I’d just agreed to that! 

I felt my mind slowing down groggily. I wondered what we must look like; two very drunk females propping each other up in the middle of the couch. I closed my eyes and relaxed.

Slowly, I became aware of Fred stretching me out on the couch.

“Where’s Brenda?” I muttered. I could barely keep my eyes open.

“I carried her to the car. I found a pillow and blanket in one of the bedrooms.” He was covering me with a velour spread, and my head was sinking into a feather pillow. “Is this okay, or do you want me to carry you to your bed?”

I smiled up at him sleepily. “This is just fine. Thank you. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

“Tomorrow night?”

“I’m having dinner at your house,” I mumbled. “Then you’re going to hypnotize me.”

“I’m going to WHAT?”

I opened one eye, and for the first time, I thought he looked kind of cute.

“Good night, Fred,” I whispered, and fell right to sleep.


DEE’S DIARY

TUESDAY, MAY 7th

Dear Diary,

This is the last night of my life. It’s two o’clock in the morning, and I’m very tired, but if I let myself go to sleep, I’ll have the dream again. I don’t think I could take that. I can’t risk taking one of the pills, or I might not have enough to do “the deed” later today. So I’ll write until the sun comes up, and then later I’ll go to the drug store to refill the prescription, and then … and then I guess I’ll have to go back to Brenda’s house and say “good-bye.” Why did I ever have to make that stupid promise? I just want it to be OVER! Especially after what happened tonight. I should write it down. Maybe it will make me feel better. I should be wonderfully happy, but I’m not. How can an emotion that feels so good make a person so miserable?

I’ll just start at the beginning.

I arrived at Fred and Brenda’s house a little late. I’d never driven around that part of town before, and I got lost more than once. Fred answered the door, and gawked at the Mercedes. I take it there aren’t too many S-600’s in the area. I should have known and ordered a taxi. 

“Nice car,” he commented.

“Thanks. Where’s Brenda?” and I pushed past him and waited for him to show me the way. He cast one last, longing look at the automobile and led me down a little hall, through a comfortable living room and into the kitchen. Brenda was standing near a pot of boiling water, reading the side of a box of all-in-one spaghetti dinner. I grinned broadly, took off my jacket, and sort of took over. In no time at all, I’d found several things in the refrigerator to compliment the meal and started chopping, dicing, frying and boiling, adding a pinch of this and a dash of that and sampling with a wooden spoon until I deemed it palatable. 

Brenda got the utensils and other items as I requested them, and generally just seemed to have a great time talking and observing as I cooked. I suddenly realized her husband was nowhere about.

“Where’s Fred?” I asked.

“Oh, he’s in the study. It’s not really a study; it’s a second bedroom that he’s sort of turned into a study. I’ve never seen him so nervous.”

“About what?”

“About hypnotizing you. I think it’s sort of freaked him out.”

“I thought he was an expert at this,” I said uneasily. 

“Oh, no. He’s never hypnotized anyone but me,” she replied, smiling. “He’s in there going over some notes that I guess he made when he first put me under, and he’s listening to his old reel-to-reel tape recorder for some reason. I think I really put him on the spot when I suggested this.”

I put down the knife I was holding. “Brenda, let’s put an end to this silly idea. I’m sure you enjoy ‘going under’ for Fred a whole lot, but I can’t imagine it doing anything for ME. Fred’s nervous and I’m nervous, and I think we should just call the whole thing off.”

She smiled. “No way,” she said, shaking her head. “You promised you’d try it. And this morning over breakfast, I got him to promise to try it, too. And he gave me his word that he won’t pry into your private life. I just KNOW I’m right about this. It’s not going to hurt either one of you to try.” She grinned. “You’ll see!”

Fred came back in time for dinner, and though I thought the pasta left a lot to be desired, the two of them absolutely raved about it. I think they were just trying to make me blush. There’s not too much you can do to hurt boxed spaghetti dinner. 

Fred started complaining about the English Department on campus. I guess he still has a few years until tenure, and he probably gets the short end of the stick wherever he turns. The school had evidently lost a heap of money on bad investments during the past year, he said; and I pointed out that too many institutions were investing their short term capital in moderate-to-high yield instruments designed more for retirement portfolios which could weather radical spiking quarterly markets, rather than in less active issues that could provide productivity while maintaining stability. The conversation died abruptly as they both looked at me as if I were some piece of modern art that no one quite understands.

“Um, so what course would you create in your department if you had the chance?” I asked. 

And so, after a pregnant pause, the conversation settled on various branches of modern literature. I asked if he’d ever read Mary Roberts Rinehart, and he said that of course he had. He’d even read the book I’d just finished, and we talked about its characters. He seems to know at least a little about practically everything. I found myself more and more impressed. And I also felt something else that greatly disturbed me. Looking back on it, I’m not sure I could put a descriptive title on it then. Of course, I know what it is now. But I’ll come to that as my tale unfolds.

Brenda made coffee (instant coffee!), but Fred shook his head before she could pour me a cup. “None for Dee,” he said authoritatively. “She’s going to be taking a little nap after dinner,” and continued talking about Raymond Chandler and Dasheill Hammett as if this declaration had held very little meaning. Brenda smiled, knowingly. I sipped my wine (only one glass tonight) and listened abstractly as the conversation about early Twentieth Century mystery writers progressed. He didn’t seem nervous about the upcoming hypnosis session at all.

Brenda and I did the dishes more or less in silence as Fred went into the living room to “set things up” for our little encounter; and when the last cup had been dried and put away, she took my hand and led me quietly into the next room. 

It had turned cool outside, and Fred had lit a fire in the fireplace. I couldn’t help but think it was a remarkably cozy room. The walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling bookcases, and there was only one window, though I couldn’t see the yard due to the darkness outside and cheery light provided by the fire. A mirror over the mantle was slightly canted to reflect the room’s occupants. There was a large sheepskin rug spread before the fireplace, and I briefly envisioned the two of them making love on it in the firelight. Fred looked up from some notes he was reading and smiled at us as we entered, but he continued reading, and I wandered around a bit looking at the titles of the books. Some had slipcovers protected by library-style plastic coverings, and I took down a copy of a James Joyce novel and flipped through it. It was signed! I put it back and chose a work by Steinbeck. It too was autographed. Aha! That’s why a college professor with a working wife lived in such a modest home. He had an expensive hobby.

At last, he put the notes aside and rose from the chair. He reminded me briefly of a concert master mounting a podium. “Are we ready?” he asked.

I took a nervous breath. “Fred, we don’t really have to ….” But he put a finger on my lips to silence me and smiled. His eyes (those fathomless, dark eyes) held me for a moment. I suddenly felt small, like a little girl in the presence of grown-ups.

“I want you to relax,” he said softly but firmly. “Just take some deep breaths and be very, very calm.” I wanted to argue, but did as he said. That feeling went through me again; the one I’d had in the dining room. At least, I think it did. Yes, thinking back on it now, I’m sure it did. I felt my shoulders slump a little.

“Very good,” he said, a professor to his obedient student. “Now, I want you to go to the chair and sit down. Stay very relaxed and say nothing.”

I seemed to float to the big chair and sit. It was soft and comfortable. He’s going to hypnotize me, I thought. It’s really going to happen. I found myself wondering almost desperately if I was a “Natural,” too. Like Brenda. I wanted to be just like Brenda.

But instead of following me to the chair, Fred turned to his wife. This seemed to surprise her, and she looked at him curiously, cocking her head a little to one side, a habit she has when she’s puzzled. “Brenda,” he said sternly, “look into my eyes.”

I thought this was a little too much of a cliché, and I suppose I would have laughed if I hadn’t felt so relaxed and comfortable in the low, soft easy chair. I was also surprised when Brenda immediately straightened her head, stood very erect, and did exactly as he’d said. She’s quite a bit shorter than he is (in fact, she’s a good two inches shorter than I am), and she had to incline her head steeply to stare up into his eyes.

“No, Freddy! Please!” she begged softly.

“Relax,” he said gently but firmly. “Relax.”

“Please, Freddy! I want to watch!” she said in a strange, dull, pleading little-girl voice.

“No,” he replied. “Dee and I will go ahead with your plan, but you will be asleep, too. Relax. So relaxed. You will have no control over what happens.”

“No control,” Brenda mumbled.

“Let the heaviness come now. So good. So relaxed.” Her hands fell straight to her sides and hung there, useless. “Sleep is coming,” he continued. “Look deep into my eyes. Listen to my commanding voice. Nothing but my eyes. Nothing but my voice. Submit and obey.”

Her lips were moving. She was saying something, but I couldn’t hear what it was.

“Surrender and sleep,” he ordered, and her eyes slammed shut, she turned her head slightly, leaned forward, and rested her cheek on his chest as if it were a pillow. He held her lightly in his strong arms and stroked her shining black hair gently with his fingers. They made a beautiful couple.

“Brenda, stand up and open your eyes,” he ordered. She backed away from him a step and opened her eyes, though she didn’t look at him. I realized suddenly that she wasn’t looking at ANYTHING. She just stared blankly straight ahead. What was she seeing in her mind? Whatever it was, it pleased her. She wore a wistful, dreamy smile.

“Brenda, in a moment, I will stroke the left side of your face,” he told her firmly. “When I do that, you will not be able to hear anything else I say until I stroke your face again. You will go and lie down on the couch and close your eyes, and you will remain in your favorite place, alone and very happy. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Freddy, I understand.”

He reached out with his right hand and slowly stroked her face. She nuzzled into his palm like a cat wanting to be petted, and then she turned slowly, walked to the couch, lay on her back and closed her eyes. The dreamy smile never left her face.

Fred watched her with a satisfied look on his face and walked out of the room for a moment. He returned with one of the kitchen chairs, put it directly in front of me, and went to the fireplace and opened a sleek mahogany box that resided on the mantle. Slowly, he lifted a long gold chain from the box, and I watched enthralled as a small gold pocket watch came into view and dangled from its end. He cupped the watch in the palm of his left hand and walked back over to sit in the chair. My easy chair was deep and low, and I found that he was sitting at a level well above my own. He propped his forearms on his knees, leaned forward toward me, and idly began playing with the watch, fondling it, moving it gently. He didn’t seem to give it much thought. He was focusing all his attention on me, but the watch proved a constant distraction while he spoke. It was very shiny, and caught the firelight just right and reflected it into my eyes.

“That happened so fast!” I said, trying to look at his face rather than the watch.

“Brenda?” he asked gently. “Yes, she’s a wonderful subject.”

“She’s a Natural,” I said, trying to make conversation. Looking at his face definitely wasn’t going to work. I felt myself falling into his eyes. Those deep, dark eyes! I looked back down at the watch. It flashed again in the firelight. 

“A Natural, yes. She told you?”

“She thinks I’m a Natural, too,” I said. The conversation was lagging; at least on my part.

“We’ll see,” he replied quietly. “You’re going to be asleep very soon now.” The way he said it made it a statement beyond dispute. I suddenly realized that I believed it unconditionally. There was no doubt whatsoever that I was about to be hypnotized, just like Brenda. Just like Brenda. My mind seemed to have an echo.

“Are you going to use the watch?” I asked softly. If I spoke about it, it wouldn’t seem odd that I was staring it, would it? I didn’t seem to be able to stop doing so. The firelight almost seemed to be coming from the watch itself now.

“I could use the watch. Brenda loves the watch. It’s her favorite way to go into a deep, deep, restful sleep. A very deep hypnotic trance. Her favorite way. I might use it on you, but I just want to talk to you for awhile. We’ll just talk, and I’ll tell you all about how Brenda listens to exactly what I say, and how she always, always, always follows my voice down and down into a very, very deep, deep, deep hypnotic trance. She always does. Every time. Every single time. We’ll just talk about that for awhile.”

“Okay.” My voice sounded a little funny.

The watch itself almost seemed to be on fire now. Why didn’t he swing it on its chain? I profoundly wished he would. This seemed to be taking a long time, and the watch always worked on Brenda. Every single time. But, oh yes, he just wanted to talk for awhile. I couldn’t think of anything to say, except “Please, Fred, please swing the watch for me,” but I didn’t want to interrupt, so I sat silently, and the watch blazed.

“You see, the big trouble with a Natural, like Brenda, is that a natural always, always loves to be hypnotized. Loves the feeling of being hypnotized. So relaxed and so tired and so wonderfully peaceful that a Natural, like Brenda, sleepy Brenda, once she’s in a deep, deep, deep wonderful sleep; she likes it so much, so very, very much, that she just doesn’t ever want to wake up. But I couldn’t allow that. Of course she has to wake up sometime. So I have to have a way to make her wake up. That makes sense.”

That makes sense.

“So our rule, Brenda’s and mine, our one very important rule is that when she submits to me by following my voice into a deep, deep, deep sleep, she must obey all my suggestions. Every one, without fail. That way, when I order her to wake up, she’ll just naturally follow that command, too. So I must be very, very careful to tell her only the truth, the absolute truth, so that she can obey without feeling any anxiety at all, knowing that everything I say is the complete, total truth. I must always, always be very careful, when I have Brenda in a deep, deep, deep, deep sleep, to always tell her the truth and give her commands that are absolutely necessary.”

I thought that was so sweet, going to all that trouble for her. She’s such a lucky girl. Please swing the watch, Fred.

“And Brenda loves to watch the watch. Watch the watch. Watch the watch, and she relaxes more and more and deeper and deeper. Following my voice down and down. So wonderfully relaxed. So peaceful. Relaxed. Relax. Relax. So peaceful. Follow my peaceful, truthful voice deeper and deeper and deeper.”

Please swing the watch, Fred.

“And her arms get so heavy. You saw how heavy her heavy, heavy arms were. She loves that. That heavy, heavy, relaxed feeling. All over. Her whole body. Her shoulders are heavy. Her breasts feel heavy on her chest. Her whole body. Heavy. Sleepy. So good. So good.”

I knew exactly how Brenda felt. I couldn’t move my arms, either. And her breasts are small … well not small, not at all … but compared to my big, bloated breasts, pulling gently down …. The chair cushions seemed to sag as my body settled into them. Yes, I knew exactly how she felt. Yes. Yes.

“And then she’s ready. Ready to surrender. So ready to sleep. To surrender. Surrender to the sleep. Do you want to follow her, Dee? Are you ready to follow her?”

Yes, I wanted to scream, but my lips wouldn’t work at all. They were heavy, too. So heavy. Yes, Fred! Please! Swing the watch, Fred! Please!

“Surrender and Sleep!”

And suddenly I was sitting between Martha and Mommy. I had to look up at them because I was very small, but that was perfectly normal. All three-year-olds are small. And this was when Martha was my nanny. Of course it was! And now I was leaning slightly against Mommy and playing pat-a-cake with Martha, and I was laughing and giggling, and thinking “They look so YOUNG!” but I didn’t seem to have any control over my actions. And that made sense, too. This was the past. The past couldn’t change.

But it was also so … so REAL! Everything I saw as true. Mommy was laughing with us, and hugging me. Why was it that, until this moment, I hadn’t been able to remember Mommy at all when she was happy? But she had been! My heart swelled.

“Time for your nap, honey,” she said, and gathered me into her arms. I struggled a little, wanting to play the game with Martha (young Martha! Pretty Martha! She’d been so good-looking when she was younger!), but Mommy was so much stronger than my three-year-old self that she held me firmly, lovingly, and I relaxed against her and snuggled into her breast. She’s not wearing a bra, I thought to myself, but of course three-year-olds don’t notice things like that, and besides, she was so soft! I felt my eyes closing. Mommy was humming a lullaby, and after awhile Martha joined in. Sleep was coming. I closed my eyes.

And when I opened them again, I was sitting, naked, in front of a mirror and dressing table. Here, too, everything was very, very real. Too real for a dream, but it MUST be a dream! I would never, never sit like this. It was a big room, and there were other people walking around or sitting at other dressing tables. No, not just people, women. All women. All very pretty women. And all naked. Naked like me. 

I looked into my mirror and said aloud, “This MUST be a dream. I should wake up now,” but again I began noticing all the details that a dream would never include (would it?). My bare ass felt the coolness of the chair beneath me. The ornate frame of the mirror was, I would guess, 18th Century, and done in gold guilt which was flaking in some places. The mirror had some imperfections in it, but to my ever-growing astonishment, the woman being reflected in it was not one of them. 

I was beautiful. I reached up and brushed my hair from the side of my face. It felt full and soft. My face was calm and pretty. My neck smooth. My breasts, usually much, much too big were … well, they were still large, but for some reason, they didn’t look THAT big. They … well, they just seemed to fit me. Big, proud. My nipples were very erect, and that seemed beautiful, too. Sexually excited women are pretty. Where had that thought come from? But it was true. 

I was distracted for a moment as the girl next to me put down her hairbrush and, after one last enraptured look into her own mirror, turned to me. “We have to go now,” she said, smiling. “They’re waiting for us.”

“Who?” I asked.

“Our masters. Hurry!” She rose and put out her hand to me. She stood naked, not at all self conscious.

“I can’t!” I said, shrinking back a little.

She smiled tolerantly and walked over to stand behind me. I turned naturally, to look back into the mirror as she looked over my shoulder into the mirror, too. “You look beautiful,” she said.

“Yes,” I replied stupidly, gazing at my reflection again. And suddenly I frowned. “But I can’t! My back! My back is ugly! It will always be ugly! It’s hideous!”

“Nonsense!” the girl said, laughing. “Your back is lovely! Get up. Look!” And I let her help me to my feet. I let her turn me away from the dressing table, and I tried to look back over my shoulder. Still smiling, she picked up a hand mirror from the table (had it always been there?), handed it to me, and I looked in wonder at my back. The scars were still there, but something had happened to them. What was it? I couldn’t seem to figure out exactly what the difference was. They just seemed … they seemed … to belong to me, to be a part of me. My back was pretty (it was!), and the scars were part of my back, and so they were pretty, too. Does that make sense? Of course not, but that’s what I saw. I suddenly felt very, very desirable. A man would want me now! My nipples were so hard that they hurt.

“Hurry!” the girl said, and she took my hand, and I let her lead me out of the room. All the other naked girls were hurrying out of the dressing room, too, into a huge marbled hall, where we all lined up, waiting, waiting. 

The line seemed to be moving pretty rapidly, though, and when I craned my neck to see forward, I discovered that a team of chefs from the kitchen were giving each of us a large silver tray. The girl who had helped me was in line in front of me, and just before her turn, she looked back and smiled at me. “Good luck with your new Master,” she said. “I know you’re going to please him! Bye!” and she took her tray and walked away to the left.

Suddenly it was my turn. The chef (Alphonse!?) gave me a large silver tray loaded with little crust-less sandwiches of various types. It took both hands to hold it. I started dumbly after the girl who had been in front of me, but he stopped me with a hand on my bare shoulder. “No, no … That way!” and I padded off in the indicated direction. The marble floor was cold against my feet, and I felt a little chilled. The temperature didn’t do anything to help my nipple-erection problem.

The corridor led to a huge, twisting set of marble stairs that bent away below me to the right. Every now and then, there was a landing or wide platform to break the monotony of the seemingly endless staircase, and there were people there, talking, drinks in their hands. They were clothed in fancy evening wear, and I hesitated, wondering what to do. Two more naked serving wenches with trays bearing drinks and snacks passed me, and one of them cast a questioning look my way. “Hurry!” she whispered, a maid afraid of violating the house rules. “Our Masters are waiting for us!”

Uncertainly, I began to descend. Immediately, I became aware of an amazing feeling deep inside me. I was hypnotized! Who had done this to me? The girl in the dressing room? No. I couldn’t seem to remember, but I was definitely deep under the influence of a hypnotic trance. This became very evident, because with each step I took downward, I went deeper and deeper to that state of complete and total hypnosis. And (oh my!) I liked it. It was wonderful! I contemplated for a moment that with each and every step, I was trading my free will for … for what? Beauty? Yes. Confidence? Well, no … something else. Acceptance. Yes. And oh! It was worth it!

But my reverie was broken when I came among the first group of partiers on the landing, talking among themselves. One man motioned to me, and I went. He reached out and took a little sandwich, and I felt like saying “No! These are for my Master!” but he was now totally ignoring me. I backed away, the way I’d seen serving girls do in the movies, and turned and started down some more of the stairs. Deeper and deeper.

At the next landing, another man motioned for me and I went. There were several men talking together, and several of them took some of my sandwiches. One man stroked my face, then my bare arm. “My, they’re making them prettier nowadays,” he remarked, and another responded “They’re all still the same. Receptacles for our pleasure.” I felt like running, but I stood, eyes downcast, as the men laughed. They started talking about the stock market, and I could have told them that they were mistaken about their opinions of using Mutual Fund performance as a predictor of GNP, but it was no longer my place. I was a serving wench. I backed away, and went lower. Deeper.

The stairs were narrowing as they went down. At the next landing, they branched, and I saw two serving girls disappear down one of them as I came upon three people talking. “Oh, my,” said a tall, dark woman in a blue gown. “Aren’t you a pretty!” and she put her arm around my waist. I stood meekly. A man took a sandwich and said to the woman, “You are much more attractive, madam. Perhaps, if you would accompany me to one of the rooms upstairs, I could show you how much more desirable you are.” He made my skin crawl. The slender woman would not be dissuaded, however, and stroked my back and upper butt. “Perhaps I’ll take HER upstairs,” she said saucily, and I looked down and blushed furiously. Finally, she gave me a playful swat on the rear. “Go along, girl. Go to your Master. He’s waiting,” and she laughed gaily at my discomfort. I ran as fast as I could without endangering the tray, but I found that I was drawn irresistibly toward the opposite stairway that the two before me had taken.

Again, the staircase branched, and yet again, and each time I found myself being led by impulse rather than decision. I was going very, very deep now. How much deeper could I possibly go? The stairs narrowed considerably, so that when I came to the next landing and encountered the distinguished looking man with the goatee, I found it impossible to get around him unless he chose to step aside. That he did not do. I stopped in front of him and offered him the tray, but he ignored it.

“Would you like to come with me?” he asked. “I could give you infinite pleasure.”

I looked down meekly. “No sir. Please. I must go to my Master. He’s waiting.”

“You could choose me,” he said soothingly. “I will grant you this choice. I can make you writhe. I can make you beg for more.” I looked up, questioningly, and he stuck out his tongue at me. But it was no ordinary tongue. It stretched on and on, longer, snake-like, and he waved it in front of his face sinuously. I could suddenly imagine it inside of me. I could almost feel it. Almost. Ahh. Yes, feel it!  My nipples throbbed.

“No!” I said suddenly, shaking my head to clear it. “I don’t love you!”

He laughed uproariously. “LOVE! Who cares about love? You have never loved!”

I felt the tears on my cheeks. I could still feel that tongue inside me. Almost. He could do things to my body that would make love unimportant. I could surrender, and my body would take over. My body would betray me. It had betrayed me before. It would be so easy to let it happen again. But I shook my head. “No. Please,” I begged. “Please let me go to him. Please!”

“Very well,” he said. “Go to him. I can always find another,” and he stepped aside, but reached out and took the tray.”

“No,” I said meekly. “Please, sir. I’m taking that to my Master!”

“He has no interest in this,” the nasty man said, plucking a sandwich off the tray and popping it in his mouth. “He only wants you. Go!”

And I hurried past him and plunged down the steps. They became very steep and the passageway was so narrow now that my bare shoulders and hips often scraped against the cold marble walls. Deep. So deep. 

And suddenly I was standing in a small room, a little dizzy, since the stairway had spiraled round and round so steeply for the last short way down. I looked back, but oddly, the steps had disappeared behind me. The walls of the room were hard and smooth and alabaster white. In front of me were two wooden doors. On one of the doors was the name “Brenda,” and below it, etched deep into the wood, were the words “Submit and Obey.” On the other was my own name, but below it, the “Submit and Obey” was painted on, not etched.

I smiled. Fred! He was to be my Master! The first door must be Brenda’s “special place,” and this other one must be my own. Fred the hypnotist! Why hadn’t I figured that out before? And now, I’m sure he was presenting me with a puzzle: one that I must solve before I could become his. I tired the door. Just as I expected, it was locked. Oh, this was too easy! I’d solved it already! If I closed my eyes and envisioned him hypnotizing Brenda, I could almost see it … her lips moving … muttering something I couldn’t hear. But now I knew what it was. Submit and Obey. Submit and Obey. In my mind, I could make her lips match the words perfectly. Solved, Master! But still I hesitated. Did I want this? Did I really, really want what Brenda had?

Oh yes!

“Submit and Obey,” I said. And the door opened.

I can’t remember. I really, really can’t remember what was in my very, very special room, but I know without reservation that it is the best place I’ve ever been, awake or asleep. I LOVE that room. I think there is a bed. There are other things there, as well, but I just can’t remember! But that doesn’t matter. I’m just happy I was allowed to go there. Brenda was so right! Even though my life will end today, I have experienced an amazing thing. I’m so very happy I went there! I think I went somewhere else, too. Not outside the room; not really, but somewhere … beyond, I guess. I can’t remember. It doesn’t matter, anyway.

But what happened when I woke up DOES matters. It matters a lot.

I remember very distinctly Fred telling me to wake up, and I obeyed, just as I obeyed everything he’d told me to do. I opened my eyes and stretched languidly, yawning, waking up by degrees. I felt WONDERFUL! I was on my back on the sheepskin rug by the fire, and its warmth felt luxurious. Fred was lying on his side, stretched out beside me, his eyes fixed on mine. The way he was looking at me made me blush, but I didn’t drop my gaze from his. The firelight lit his face in an almost wondrous way, making his eyes darker than I remembered, his face stronger and leaner, his features sharper. Or had he always been like this and I simply hadn’t noticed until then? 

That feeling was back; the one I’d had before (hadn’t I?). What was it? It was alien, whatever it was. I’d never felt it before tonight. His face was very near mine. His lips looked soft. He had a five-o’clock shadow; a faint beginning of whiskers making his cheeks and chin look … manly. I suddenly had an almost overwhelming thought: what would his face feel like between my thighs as he licked me? I shuddered. Better to think about something else. His lips seemed less threatening. Nice lips.

“Are you going to kiss me?” I asked softly.

“I think I’d really like to,” he replied, smiling.

“Okay.”

And he lowered his face the last two inches and we were kissing. Just like that. Simple. No, not so simple at all. He was my best friend’s husband! But if I didn’t think about that … mmmm … it was suddenly very easy not to think of anything at all …. Yes, if I didn’t think, it was simple after all. Me. Him. Us. Oh, this was very, very nice! I got a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach; a nice feeling, a feeling that I suddenly wanted to nurture. My nipples felt stiff and hard in the cool air. Air?

I broke the kiss with a gasp. “My clothes!” I should have shrieked, but the kiss had left me breathless. It came out as a sort of soft, accusing whisper. How could I not have noticed until now? But the answer to that was rather easy; I had been naked in my dream. It felt natural.

He smiled, and he blushed. Oh my gosh, he’s cute when he blushes. “I’m sorry. It was necessary for you to remove your clothes. It aided me in taking you as deep as I needed to. And it worked. I was able to hypnotize you to the deepest possible level. You really are a remarkable subject. Could you feel yourself go that deep?” I felt myself nod involuntarily. I should be covering myself. I’m very shy. What was he going to do to me? “I’m sorry I didn’t make you dress before I woke you,” he continued. “You really are a very pretty girl. I must admit that I enjoy looking at you.”

“No,” I said softly. “My back … It’s hideous! You haven’t seen my back!”

He laughed softly. “Of course I have,” he said gently. “I thought we cured you of that silly notion.” And he reached between us, gently grabbed my upper arm, lifted it and rolled me away from him. For some reason, I let him, and found myself with my breasts and stomach pressed into the softness of the sheepskin. He got onto his knees beside me, and before I could react or say anything, he bent forward and began kissing; small, light, gentle, lingering kisses, that traced the scars down my back, over my buttocks, back to the small of my back again, up toward my shoulders and down once more. I couldn’t seem to protest or move because all at once I seemed to have forgotten how to breathe properly. An inhale became a gasp, and once inside me, the air didn’t quite know how to get out again without making a sort of moaning noise.

His hands were busy, too, stroking my back and buttocks and the backs of my legs. After awhile, the right one became a persistent little fellow, and started pushing this way against one leg and pulling that way against the other until they were spread apart in a way that left me a little TOO vulnerable in everyone’s definition of the word except his. His fingers stroked down my ass, across my pussy, took a little dip inside, and then continued on their journey to my clit. I came.

Oh God, how I came! I moaned loudly as I convulsed and jerked and arched and shook. When he began sliding his hand back up, away from my clit, I found myself on my knees, arching my butt up, trying to maintain contact. He laughed merrily and pressed his fingers against me again, then pushed them deep into my sopping cunt, brought them out again and rubbed some more. I didn’t think I was ever going to stop. He put his fingers into me one last time and pulled sideways, toward him, and I toppled over onto my side in a sort of fetal position, my back against him, his hand trapped between my thighs. At long last, he pulled it free and the orgasm shuddered to a grudging halt. He waited patiently for me to catch my breath.

I rolled onto my back, and we were again in the same position we were in when I’d awakened from my trance. I looked up at him again, and suddenly I knew what that feeling was. That odd, foreign feeling. That strange feeling I’d been having all night. Hadn’t I? Yes. Yes, it must have been that way from the beginning of the evening. It’s the way it always was, and the way it always will be. Love. For the first time, I realized it was love. This is it, Diary. First and last, and it’s for real. Truly, madly, deeply, and any other adverb you can possibly come up with. Absolutely nothing can compare.

My best friend’s husband. 

I shed a silent “Daddy tear” and felt it trickle down my cheek.

“Do you want me?” I asked quietly. “You can have me if you want me.”

“I want you very, very much,” he said, and kissed me again. It was just as good as the first one. I put my hands around his neck and held him, then slid them back around to his chest, where they started unbuttoning his shirt. He helped, not bothering to break the kiss. I sat up with him, his lips still on my own, and shuddered as he forced my mouth open with his tongue. My hands were back on his chest. Hairy. Hmmm, a hairy chest. I decided I liked it. He was working with his pants as I ran my palms across his torso and sides and back. Hairy back, too. He was nothing at all like Jay had been.

He stood abruptly, peeled off his socks, let his pants fall and kicked them aside, and then (drum roll, please!) he pulled down the boxer shorts.

Oh my God! He was … he was … massive! He was huge! Brenda was right! (Don’t think about Brenda! Not now!) Was he going to put that thing into me? It couldn’t be done! How did Brenda get it inside of her? She’s smaller than I am. (Don’t think about Brenda!) Oh God, he was big!

He smiled while I gawked. I didn’t trust my voice with a task as complicated as speech. Grinning, he got back to his knees, then lay down on his back on the sheepskin rug, his hands propping his head from behind, lying between me and the fire. His prick (no, this was a COCK!) was standing at massive attention, pointing straight at the ceiling. I sat heavily and just stared. Nothing, and I mean nothing, was in the least comparable to Jay. It wasn’t just the size, it was the way it stood erect. And … something else. I thought I knew, but it took a bit of mental gymnastics to understand it was true. Jay hadn’t been circumcised. Even erect, it had much more skin around the head. Fred’s cock was truly … I don’t know … different! Phallic and bare and raw and hard and (Oh! I can’t begin to describe!) BIG! After gazing at him for eons, I just couldn’t help lowering my face to it and taking it into my mouth.

He tasted good. I put as much of it in my mouth as I possibly could, then grasped him with both hands, one around his huge shaft and one cupping and squeezing his balls. He groaned, and I couldn’t have been happier. I had to please him. Above all else, I had to please the man I loved, and from the sound of it, I was doing a passable job. I stroked and squeezed and sucked and moved my mouth up and down, bobbing my head, and then … then in a moment of inspiration, I swallowed. I pushed my head way down, relaxed my throat, and swallowed … swallowed his whole cock! I couldn’t believe it! It just seemed to work, somehow. It was in my throat! He moaned again and grabbed my head with both hands and pulled me off.

“Wait!” I gasped. “Wait! I … I can do it! I can get you in! You can come in my throat!” I tried to push back down again, but he wouldn’t let me. “Please!” I moaned. “I need to please you! Come in my mouth!” I was suddenly frantic.

“Get above me,” he ordered harshly. “Put it inside of you. I want to come there!”

And I was shocked into a moment of inactivity. Inside of me? As I was sucking him and sliding that monster into my throat, I’d developed the most amazing sensation in my cunt. It was very much like the dream I’d just had when the nasty man on the final landing of the stairway had wagged his tongue at me and I could feel it snaking into me down there. With Fred’s cock, I had sucked, and the walls of my cunt seemed to stretch in sympathy for my poor, abused mouth. I swear, if I’d sucked him long enough, I think I might have had an orgasm. And now, faced with the reality of it, I wondered again if it was physically possible to get him in. But a moment was all I took. I was going to do this! I was going to do it if it killed me!

I crawled atop him, and finding that his stiff shaft wouldn’t bend forward to line up properly with my hole, I stood flatfooted above him and squatted to work the massive invader inside of me. At first, the large head slipped up and down my slit, causing me to gasp and twitch each time it slid across my clit, but at last I got the head inside. Unfortunately, my feet chose that moment to clumsily slip out from under me, my legs splaying out, and I landed hard on my knees, his club-like cock crammed brutally inside me. I cried out, and so did he. I was so full (so very full!) that I was forced to bend forward to relieve the pressure inside me, thus smashing my full breasts against his hairy chest. I panted and moaned softly while I waited for my body to adjust.

“I did it,” I gasped. “I got you inside me!”

“My God, you’re tight,” he replied. His hands stroked my back (He didn’t hate it! He actually enjoyed stroking it!), and I thought that he was an extraordinarily gentle lover. How lucky Brenda was! (Don’t think about Brenda!) He was pressing up into my belly, and I could feel him pushing against my stomach, causing me to pant. But he was pressing on something else in there, as well. Something I couldn’t quite define. Something … wonderful. Could I cum without him rubbing my clit? I decided that if he kept pressing against whatever that was, I not only could, I’d probably be unable to avoid it.

That thought brought me back to the matter at hand. I HAD to please him! It was the only true necessity that I felt must to be accomplished. I put pressure on my knees and lifted my body upward for a few inches. I could feel the walls of my cunt being pulled down, trying to follow the monster as it began to depart. I paused, hovering above him, the invader half in and half out, but he slid his hands down my back, grabbed handfuls of fleshy buttocks, and pulled me back down hard. A sound escaped me that was sort of an “Oh!” and sort of moaning grunt. It happened again, when, raising myself once more, he pulled me down again. Each time, that peculiar place inside of me was assaulted by the head of his marauding cock, and each time I wondered if I was going to be able to complete his pleasure before I became overwhelmed by my own orgasm. I tried not to think about it … tried to think only about driving down onto his cock over and over … over and over.

The sound I was making was keeping perfect cadence with my downward thrusts, which, with his urging, were enjoying a very pleasant increase of tempo. I tried SO HARD not to think about the special spot inside me, tried SO HARD to ignore it and just think about him, only him. But he let go of my ass and began kneading my breasts, pressing, tweaking, pinching. And finally, all there was left was the strange spot, a funny little wizard deep inside of me that magically overpowered every other thought. My body, the traitor. Almost there, I thought. Almost ….

The orgasm literally exploded inside me. I froze for a moment, but then redoubled my efforts as sounds of my groaning “Oh! Oh! Oh!” filled the room. His strong hands grasped my waist and held me down, pressing the huge cock directly against the miraculous spot, and though I tried to continue my thrusting, he totally commanded the situation. Finally, I just collapsed back against him, my breasts flattening between us. The cock began twitching against the spot, twitching, twitching, and he growled a loud curse as he held me tight.

We lay like that for a very, very long time, content to be in each other’s arms, content to be physically joined. He softened, but still felt very large inside me. Finally, he gently rolled me off of him, and we made a sort of sloppy smacking sound when we finally parted “down there.” I nestled into his arm, my head resting on his chest, and our breathing slowed more and more. My thoughts were a jumbled mess. I’ve never felt so happy and so sad at the same time. Brenda. The thought of her was always there, always trying to break into my reverie. Until, at last, she became all I could think about.

Fred began snoring softly. The fire had almost died completely, until only the glowing embers were left to cast a warm red glow on my lover. My married lover. Softly, quietly, gently, I disengaged myself and stood on shaky legs, looking down on him. Oh, how I loved him! I spotted my skirt and blouse draped over the large easy chair, and I quickly put them on and slipped into my sandals. I found my purse, and just as I turned to leave, a small flicker in the fire became a flame, and the room was drenched in dull yellow light. And there she was! Still lying just as we’d left her, the same little smile on her lips. Brenda was still stretched out on the couch, sleeping. She’d been there all the time! Been there while her best friend was fucking her husband in the same room! I’ve never felt such shame. I raced down the hall and out the front door into the darkness.

All of my life, I have despised the role of mistress in society. In literature, in movies, in the news, I believe a mistress can only bring pain and heartache. And now, it was me. Oh, but not just any mistress; oh no. I have to fall in love with my best friend’s husband. I can’t believe how I threw myself at him! I can’t believe how good it felt. If I close my eyes, I can still feel him inside me. Irony simply could not be crueler. I’m in love. Finally in love! God, it hurts!

The sun has been up for almost an hour now. I’ve escaped sleep my last night, and though I’m so tired I can hardly think, I won’t have to wait long. I have the four pills that were left over in their little plastic bottle, and I’ll be going to the drug store within the hour for seven more. I’ll take you with me, Diary, and write one last passage before I do the deed. Then I’ll burn you. Heck of a thing to do to one who has listened so well for so long, isn’t it? But first, I’ll be able to tell you what happens when I say good-bye to Brenda. Stupid promise, but it has to be done.

I’ll write soon, Diary.

