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A Family Affair by jo199 part 1 "Eat me baby! Oh god. Yes, there. Harder. That's it, suck it. Right there! Ohhhh! Yessss!" Arianna clamped her legs around Steve's ears. He loved the way she nearly crushed him, holding him there with surprising strength. His face was smothered in her beautiful pussy, the only drawback being his struggle to breath. After awhile her trembling subsided, and Arianna sighed, her legs relaxing. Released from his heavenly prison, Steve kissed his way down his wife's legs, ending up on his knees on the floor at the foot of the bed, kissing her toes one at a time. "You love it down there, don't you slave?" Teased Arianna. "Yes, my beloved Mistress," answered Steve, falling into one of his favorite roles. Arianna had let Steve lead. He'd concentrated exclusively upon her satisfaction for over half an hour before she'd surrendered to a half dozen bouts of orgasmic spasms. She wanted to please her man as much as he'd pleased her, but more and more, recently, Steve had given hints and suggestions about a new fantasy of his where she denied him satisfaction. At first she'd not understood it, and even felt threatened by it, imagining that he no longer found her sexy. He'd always denied that, but if proof was in the pudding, what was this about wanting to be denied? She'd gone for it a couple of times, and found him strangely more loving as a result. Maybe there was more than one way to look at pudding, she'd started thinking. Anyway, the truth was she was tired after so many orgasms. "If you like it down there so much, maybe you should stay down there," she said, pushing his head away from her toes with the heel of her other foot. "Yes, of course Mistress Arianna," her husband said, telling her all she needed to know about his state of mind. She tossed him a pillow, and then pulled some covers over herself. "Stop touching my feet, slave. You're unworthy. You can sleep on the floor. And, I'd better not hear you playing with yourself either," she said. "Oh. Yes, Mistress," said Steve, lying back on the carpet, and tucking his pillow under his head. "Yes. I'm going to like having the whole bed to myself for a change. Maybe I'll get used to all of this room," said Arianna. Of course, she felt all kinds of conflicting things, wanting her husband beside her; the knowledge that she still appealed to him. Then again, she really was very tired. Arianna rolled over onto her stomach, getting comfortable, while listening to hear if Steve was moving up to the bed. If he did, she'd not really kick him out; her ideas of fantasies were more prelude to sex, as opposed to things in and of themselves. When he didn't move, she felt a little guilty, shifting under the covers. After awhile she accepted that he was a grown man who could sleep where he wanted, and started to fall asleep. Steve listened until he heard snoring. He couldn't stop touching his penis, curling his body around his hand as he laid on his side. The snoring quieted, and then her breathing cycle slowed. His wife was in deep sleep, having really gone through with abandoning him to the floor. This made him feel so submissive, so used. Thinking that, his cock hardened from its eighty percenter, and in seconds, he orgasmed all over his leg, rubbing it in because there wasn't anywhere else he could think to put it. It surprised him to hear her tired voice looming from over the edge of the bed. "Too bad you're not man enough to come up here and finish what you've started." Steve knew it was one third invitation, one third an offer to end the detention, and one third test of will. He was too into the submission though to bite, "Yes, Mistress. Too bad I'm not man enough to satisfy you the way you deserve." Of course, he instantly regretted it, his cock already recovered enough to be a problem, and his back already aching from the hard floor. The room got still, and soon she was snoring again. Seven hours later Steve woke up to the sound of his wife's feet on the floor as she made her way to a morning pee. He got up stiff, and after waited by the door for his turn, kissed his wife good morning. "Some times I wonder why you like things like that," she said, going back to the bedroom for a few more minutes of sleep. "Sometimes I do too," Steve whispered to himself, following her in and finding a place on the bed. He had a new appreciation for the word mattress, sleeping in till noon. --------------- It was the next day that Steve found the picture in the back of the top drawer, under his oldest daughter's socks and panties. It was one thing to find a Polaroid of a woman's body, her legs spread wide, and her eyes closed as she lay on top of well disheveled sheets in a strange bed, but it was another thing to realize that the face was someone very familiar. The photo was from the foot of the bed, as if the intention was to create a portrait of the lady's vagina, instead of the face, and to be optimistic, the face wasn't that recognizable with its chin first perspective. It could have been Christina Applegate in black nylons, and nothing else. The nylons were, of course, intended to advertise the sexual dimension of the photo study. Steve wasn't, in fact, entirely certain it was his 23 year old daughter's face, but it certainly did look a lot more like Cynthia than the older actress, and it was her dresser. It was a Polaroid. It smelled like a fresh Polaroid. For a second, he found himself looking at the body, admiring it for the tight beauty it was, spellbound by the thought that he'd half created it. The skin was so smooth, and sexual, the curves so perfect, though not plastic and unavailable like those Playboy models. Steve stopped himself, reminding himself that he'd never been incestual, and of course did not intend to start thinking those thoughts now. In fact, Steve never had the whole thought, though he'd been curious to see his creation, a body he'd not seen this familiarly since toddler days. Once he got past the shock and then curiosity, he started to get concerned, as he contemplated what the photo had been all about. Why had she allowed it to be taken? Why was she keeping it? Who else had seen it? Was this a trend, like maybe a second career, or just something she'd done with a steady boyfriend. Cynthia was so secretive about her love interests, he understood, though Steve had never been overbearing in that department. Cynthia had been so moody lately that he'd begun to wonder if maybe she'd been introduced to drugs at the college. She was a fifth year senior, so it seemed a bit late to be getting into something like that, and she'd been such a wonderful daughter that he thought his suspicions ungrounded, though he had been searching her room for two days now, wanting to see if anything came up. He couldn't bear the thought of either of his daughters getting mixed up in a thing like that. Almost as an afterthought, Steve turned the photo over, and was shocked by what he discovered: 'How do you like the picture of my wasted little bitch? Meet me at 7:00, in front of the Student Union, and we'll discuss what to do with the rest of the pictures in my new collection. Oh, and don't bother wearing any panties. You won't be needing any!' Steve had to sit down on the bed to get over the shock. Someone had taken photos while his daughter was drunk, and was blackmailing her into sex. No wonder she'd been in a withdrawn mood lately. He'd been right to have been suspicious, but apparently for the wrong reasons. Steve turned the photo over, hoping to see some kind of date stamp, but none was there. He knew that the odds that the meeting had already happened on some day way back in the past were pretty huge. Someone had effectively raped his daughter. He went from weak in the knees to positively pissed. If he found out who it was, he was going to probably end up in jail; though he doubted a jury of his peers would convict him for beating the hell out of a man like that. There was no use in confronting her about it just yet. It might not work, and there would go the lead. Steve stuffed the photo back into the drawer. The best thing to do, he realized, was to follow her. If this pervert was still doing this, she'd no doubt lead him to the bastard. He didn't have the right kind of gun for a job like this, so Steve went into the garage and found an old ball bat. He put it in the trunk of his car, and then tried to go back to his routine, feeling cramps in his stomach from morbid anticipation. --------------- A few minutes before her father discovered the photograph, Cynthia was parking her car at a side street, two blocks from frat row. The young man had insisted that she meet him for the third time since she'd started, "dating," him five weeks earlier. The first time she'd not recognized the guy, and for good reason; he'd sent some freshman to meet her, promising the boy twenty bucks to make the connection. The kid had no idea what it was all about, having been conned into thinking he was covering for a guy who had an appointment. He'd led her to a parked car that she suspected had been stolen because it wasn't the same car she'd been picked up in the second time and he had started it with a screwdriver blade. Everything about the man in the car seemed a bit cheap, or maybe cheap wasn't the right word, she thought, thinking spoiled, upper middle class criminal. She'd seen him at the party, but not really met him - at least not while she'd been awake. He drove her around for a half hour, making small talk like they were on a normal date. When she suggested that they get to the point, he came right out and said that all he needed was some conversation. The longer they went on, the more she thought he wasn't going to be too nasty, and was maybe even that he was going to give her the pictures without actually taking advantage of her. She softened, and even started initiating topics, something Cynthia had learned in a pshyc class. When they pulled up in front of his frat house, he got her inside by telling her he had the pictures in his room. She locked her car, and started walking towards student row. She looked up into a second floor window of his frat house, remembering the first two times he'd coaxed her into undressing for him up there. He'd said that all he wanted was another picture the first night, but it had turned into a hand job in exchange for what he'd said were the lot of the Polaroids. In exchange, he'd insisted that she act like she liked him, and was only doing it because he wanted like nothing else on the planet to see himself cum on her hand. Since she'd envisioned worse, she managed to make it sound convincing, while she stroked him and he touched her body lecherously. She even ended with an, "Um, baby. You're such a man," at his suggestion, before taking her hand away, and washing it in the bathroom. She could still remember the smell of his soap, and had vowed never to use that brand again. Then on the second night he'd told her all he wanted was someone to party with, and he'd give up the pictures he'd gotten from that first, "date." She'd done marijuana before, so it wasn't tough to take his reefer, though later she felt a lot stranger than she'd felt with any grass. He kept pushing the smoke on her, and then topped it off with some Jack Daniels. All she remembered after that was her own voice saying, "Um, baby. Yes. Is that OK? Did I say that right. Yes, OK. Fuck me, baby." He'd messed her up, maybe even made her think she'd liked it. She was going in there tonight, and she was going to tell him she'd been raped, and wanted the pictures or she was going to go to the campus police. A couple of frat boys lounged in the common living area, watching a sitcom, as she walked in, and then up the stairs. They followed her body as it moved, their eyes never seeing her face. Cynthia didn't bother to knock on the door, preferring to walk right in, and thinking it completely all right to do so, under the circumstances. The man was lying on a couch, watching a video of her on her back, taking his cock deep and fast into her vagina. She realized that it was the same angle and room as the one that had been in the first photo, though not the room she'd been in before getting drunk last time. Somehow she looked like she was still awake in the video, and apparently moaning like a tramp, no doubt due to a feat of dubbing. "You're fucking great, baby. I've been watching this all month," said the man. "This isn't right. You've raped me. I'm not playing around with this anymore. I just wanted you to know that I'm going to the police," said Cynthia. "Fine. Do what you want," he said, not taking his eyes off of the video. Cynthia walked over and took the video out of the VCR. "This goes with me, and when the campus cops see this and what you wrote on the back of that picture, you're going to be in trouble." "Not my handwriting anyway. As for the tape, I have a friend who can get me a new copy. He won't mind putting the pictures on the internet for me either, so do what you want," said the man. "Oh! You're fucking despicable!" said Cynthia. "Just settle down. I've decided to leave you alone; take you off the hook. So that's it anyway. You know, you went along with it way too easy at first. I was kind of worried that you'd go to the cops right off. I'll admit it can be messy, but you're worth it babe. When you didn't, I just figured I'd go ahead and have some fun. You're a great looking chick. Take it as a compliment. You had a part in it, you know; if you hadn't gotten drunk at that party, none of this would have happened." "I was drugged. Probably by you," she said, crossing her arms. "Don't look at me. Hey, why don't we just be friends. Come on; here's the other copy of the video. I didn't give it to anyone," the man said, getting up, taking a video out of a desk drawer, and opening it up, ripping out the tape. "Give me that one," he added, holding out his hand. Cynthia thought about it, and realized it was still better to play along, at least now that things were really going her way. After all, he still might have more tapes or pictures, and she knew there was probably nothing on the tape that looked like anything other than consensus sex. Besides, if he really wanted the tape he could rush over and rip it out of her hand before she made the door. She handed him the tape. He took it, opened it up, and ripped out a few meters of tape, tossing the tape into the trash where it crashed into the other one. "See. All done." "Thanks ... prick!" Said Cynthia. She stood there, a little confused, though still quite angry. "So, do you want to go get a pizza or something?" He asked, all of a sudden a gentleman. God! Now he's going to be a stalker, she thought. She decided to cut her losses and run. "No. I don't think that after what has happened I'd be very nice company." "I know what you mean. What I did was wrong. All I can do is say I'm sorry. Maybe if we meet on campus some time you'll like me better. See you later then," said the man. "Yeah. Later," said Cynthia, opening the door. "Oh. One thing. I have some of the pictures in a locker. No, don't look at me like that; I'm not setting you up for something else. I just wanted to give them back. Why don't you come over next week, at the same time, and I'll give them to you. No tricks; promise," said the man. "You can just burn them," she suggested. "But, then I'd not get to see you again. One last time, that's all I ask. I'll give you everything I have, and we'll maybe talk about pizza, and if you say no, well then that's where it will end," said the man. "You'll just give me the pictures, and that will be it?" "Promise!" The young man said, holding up his hand as if to swear. part 2 Several days later, Arianna was helping a new teller when the professor came in, walking right up to the business window. As the manager, she didn't have to step up and service him, but there was something about his Mediterranean eyes that had her spellbound. Sometimes when she made love to her husband, Steve, she'd even close her eyes and see this man making love instead. It was her little fantasy, so each time he came in she did her best to get close enough to see his face and flash it into her memory for just the right private occasion. "How may I help you today, Doctor Vancini?" "Why hello, Arianna. Are all the girls on break?" The new girl looked over, though she was probably out of earshot. "Tellers, Mister Vancini," corrected Arianna. She leaned closer, and whispered, as if telling a secret, but really toying with the man, "Girls is sexist, they say. Even being a woman doesn't protect me from prying ears of the protocol police." She smiled with her bright blue eyes, reversed her leaning until back to her seat, and took note that he'd taken the opportunity to admire her size C cleavage. For fifty, Arianna was still the best temptation in the bank, she knew it, and so apparently did Doctor Vancini, judging from the eyes he gave her three days a week when he came in. "Well then, are we alone? Are all the little teller girls on break?" He teased back, opening his sachet of checks and handing her an accounting statement. Arianna started tallying the checks, continuing the idle chat. "What do you do, exactly, Mister Vancini? I mean, if you don't mind me asking? It's really none of my business. I'm just curious," eventually asked Arianna. "I work at the university. My specialty is clinical psychiatry, and much of the time I spend with patients, usually some student sitting in. My research, however, is what really interests me; we're doing some interesting mapping," he explained. "You do surveying?" Asked Arianna, stopping her count to look up with a puzzled expression. "Yes, in a way of thinking. On the human mind though. I'm afraid I wouldn't last an hour standing in the middle of the street looking through one of those little glass things." They both laughed. Arianna paused to finish her work reconciling. "Sounds interesting. Nothing like banking, which consists of mainly counting and looking for that form you just knew was in that drawer a few minutes ago," said Arianna, rediscovering the conversation. "Well maybe we can get together for lunch or dinner. I could tell you all about it," invited the silver haired, and addictively handsome Mister Vancini. Arianna felt her stomach flip, and imagined several ways of saying yes, but then held out the back of her right hand, and said, "I'm afraid I'm married." It came out less like an excuse than a sorrowful moan. "Dinner, of course, does not necessarily come with a proposition," said Doctor Vancini, not so easily deflected, but unwilling to let this beautiful blonde slip that easily. "Well?" "Tomorrow, maybe at seven. I could meet you at Zak's Spaghetti and Pizza, a very informal place. It could be an accident. No harm there. That way I can tell you about my mapping project. I'll go home. You'll go home. Just two people talking; what's the harm there?" He was very convincing. "We'll see. Maybe I'll be hungry for some pizza by then," said Arianna weakly, handing Doctor Vancini his receipt. "Oh look, I've made you blush. I'm so sorry. Arianna, I'll have you know that I have no intention of breaking up a happily married family. I did counseling when I first started out, and that's one of the more common issues, I assure you. I just admire your company. A man of my years has to learn to appreciate such things, or he ends up on some mountain somewhere, looking down on a growing mound of bean cans," explained the psychiatrist. He had made it seem almost philanthropic. "Pizza sounds great," yielded Arianna with a firm smile that ended the conversation and readied her for the next transaction. --------------- Arianna drove home, configuring an excuse in her mind regarding how she was going to shake free the next evening. Coincidentally, she was passed by her oldest daughter's car going in the opposite direction. Fifteen seconds later, her husband's car zipped by, his greying hair and intense expression drawing up her defenses. Something was going on, each of them seemingly so in thought that neither had seemed to see her passing in the opposite lane. Arianna turned into a drive, and whipped around, soon a half dozen cars back from her husband's as they all drove towards the university. Somewhere along the line, she started feeling silly, thinking in fact that it had been her thoughts of cheating that had inspired this rush of mistrust. Cynthia parked on frat row. Steve's car stopped in the middle of the road, blocking traffic, waiting two blocks back, as if afraid he'd be spotted if he went on. There was one car between Arianna's and Steve's, the rushed student honking for the old man to get out of the road. Arianna ducked down just as Steve looked into the rear view mirror. Her husband had moved on when she looked up, turning into an alley. Arianna followed the car of the student in front of her, just missing being spotted by her daughter as the girl crossed the street, and walked into a frat house. Arianna parked on a cross street, reached into the back seat for her sweat pants, put them on, and then some jogging shoes, before stepping out of the car to blend in with the occasional campus runner. Steve saw his daughter enter the frat house, and knew he'd hit pay dirt. Squinting through the front windows, he saw Cynthia's athletic legs rise up the stairs to the second floor. Looking up towards the windows, a light flashed on in a room a minute later. He took mental note, the second room from the North-east corner. He sat there awhile, thinking about his options. Finally he decided, and got out of the car, going up to the front door. Steve walked right in. "What you looking for?" said a frat member on a couch as Steve shut the door behind him. Steve hadn't expected that, realizing that his daughter had walked right in, and gone straight up the stairs. He guessed it was his age that marked him. "I'm interested in seeing someone." The boy looked at him like he was a bill collector. "Who you looking for in particular?" Asked the boy, walking up to Steve. "I don't know him, I guess. I think he has the room second from the left as you look at the front of the house?" "I see. Well, we can't just let anyone in here. We have rules against that. It's like the big one here. You maybe can leave him a note if you want, and then he can contact you if he wants to?" Offered the frat member, walking up. Standing, the boy was almost a foot taller than Steve. "Uh. Sure, OK. Got some paper?" Steve wrote: "I wanted to tell you that I have the information I need to prosecute you, and the best lawyer in the world won't be able to assist you if I take this to the authorities. Neither I, nor my daughter will pay you one cent for those photographs, nor do I expect to see them passed around or on the internet, on fear of civil lawsuit. There is nothing to discuss other than your complete compliance, because these are the only acceptable terms. I think you are a hopelessly perverted and criminal individual. You will immediately quit seeing my daughter, or I will inform the authorities. You will not see any money or favors from my daughter, and I expect all of your filthy photographs to find their way into my possession." He signed the note and finished it with his phone number. It seemed a shotgun of thoughts to Steve, but he didn't have a lot of time to write, or else his daughter would come down and catch him in her business, and that might cause the prick to imagine a non-united front. He had wanted to confront the man in his room, not on a landing with all of these other people close. He still wanted to hold onto his anonymity too, and spare her any more embarrassment than he was sure she was already enduring. Steve folded the note and told the boy to be sure to give it to his frat member when he was alone. "Sure pops," said the frat boy, having figured out that it was the man's daughter that had come in a few minutes before he'd arrived. It had happened before, the boy knew; a lot of dads were slow to realize when their daughters had grown up and should be left alone. Arianna saw her husband handing the boy a note. She ducked behind a telephone pole as her husband left. He went back to his car, but Arianna realized he wasn't going to leave the parking space until he saw his daughter come out. Twenty minutes later Cynthia came out. It seemed a little strange to Arianna that her husband hadn't seemed to have crossed paths with Cynthia. Steve was relieved to see his daughter so soon, realizing that she'd not been in the house long enough for sex, assuming it hadn't been a quickie. He noticed that she had a small rectangular parcel in her hand, like a folder of pictures. Maybe she was cleaning all of this up herself. Cynthia had always been a take-charge kind of girl, he realized. When she left, Steve took another route home. Arianna saw them both leave, and still puzzled, returned to her car, wondering. Was her husband following their 23 year old daughter because he was suspicious of her boyfriends? It seemed unlike him, given how often Cynthia had proven her own reliability. No, there had to be more to it than that. It all sent up flags. She remembered her own thoughts of the day, the thoughts of infidelity, innocent as she'd managed to convince herself they were. One thing for sure, she was going to have to be more careful than Cynthia had been, since she now knew that her husband had a heightened tracking instinct coursing through his veins. Already home, Cynthia was relieved. The boy had spent almost a half hour apologizing. He'd given her the pictures, and promised never to bother her again. There was no suggestion of another meeting, or any sexual demands. In fact, the boy had been repentant to a fault. It was over. She could breathe. part 3 Arianna was the family's designated mail getter. She didn't mind the chore, because Steve had a habit of leaving the mail in too many different places, which ticked Arianna off because she paid the bills. She deftly opened three credit card invites, tearing them in two before trashing them. That left one very mysterious brown envelope. There were no marked stamps, indicating that it had been hand delivered. Only the name Steven was on the cover, in big black letters. Everyone she knew called Steve, Steve. Somehow, Steven seemed a little familiar, maybe sexual. Arianna's heart dropped. The envelop wasn't sealed with the glue, the poster apparently satisfied to have fastened the single metal butterfly sealer instead. A corner was ripped, and Arianna couldn't resist peeping into the seam at what looked like a note and a stack of photographs. That did it! She unfastened the brass butterfly, and opened up the envelop, spilling the contents onto the counter. The note only partially covered the first photograph. Without reading it, Arianna set it aside with trembling hands. By the second photograph, she had to sit down, unable to proceed. When her head cleared, she read the note. As she cried, she pulsed between bursts of tears and anger. Without looking at the rest of the photographs, she pushed the contents back into the envelope. After a few minutes, she grabbed her purse, and put the envelope inside, zipping the purse all the way shut for the first time since she'd bought it. It was too much for any one person to bear, she realized, after a half hour of denial, anger, crying and even blaming herself. She had to talk to someone! --------------- Arianna walked into the Italian restaurant with shades on and her head hanging. It wasn't like her, and she was feeling a little guilty still, though this time it was more about how she knew she'd be imposing, rather than any notions of being unfaithful. Doctor Vancini was seated at a back table. He rose, offering a chair, very Europeanishly charming. Arianna paused, and then sat down, throwing her bag into an adjacent chair. "You're troubled," said Doctor Vancini. "I'm afraid that I am. I have to see you," she said. "Why of course. I'm right here. I invited you, dear lady," he said. "No. I mean professionally. I just don't feel right, until I get that out of the way. I have things I need help with, and I need it right away. Something has come up. This isn't going to be a very social kind of meeting, I'm afraid, and I am going to be bad company until I deal with what's come up, Doctor Vancini. What is your fee?" Confessed Arianna. "Look. We're friends. If I accepted a fee, then I'd be in a position that I'd find completely unacceptable. It would be unprofessional for me to both see you personally, and also as your therapist, you see. So, you'll just have to tell me what is bothering you." "Perhaps someone else then?" "I insist! Please. If I can help, then I must," said the man, putting his hand over hers. Arianna sighed, grabbed her purse, and handed the psychiatrist the envelope. He opened it up, and looked at the pictures, taking note to only look at the top few carefully, and then show discretion by skimming the others. Besides, he'd already seen them days before. "That's my daughter. My oldest. It is, of course, troubling to have had someone send pictures like that to my house, but it is the note in particular that I am totally unable to deal with, Doctor Vancini." He picked up the note, and started to read. Apparently there was one author using the front of the paper, and a reply on the other: 'Thank you for the money. It's been a pleasure doing business with you. Here are the photographs you wanted done. I have to admit that I kept some copies, but as we agreed, I'll keep them for myself. Any time!' The hand written scrawl was unsigned. Doctor Vancini knew that he'd just added his fingerprints to those of the waiter he'd let pick up the paper briefly at a diner across town that afternoon just after he'd told that very ill frat boy what to write. Doctor Vancini shook his head in disgust, looking at Arianna briefly, and showing his concern. He turned the paper over, reading a different note, this one in a better looking, though hurried script that he'd taken great pains to forge over a light table the previous night, using as many of Steve's own words as he could manage to squeeze in: 'I wanted to tell you that I accept the terms we discussed over the internet. I hope that the information I have provided will assist you. If you are successful, then I will pay you fifty dollars per photograph, for up to twenty photos. It's best not to keep any copies for yourself, because it would be unfortunate if it led to some criminal or civil matter. I know that you may think this is perverted, but look at it my way; I've never seen my daughter naked, and have always been curious about what she'd look like with a man. You'd be curious too, under the circumstances. You can expect fifty percent of the money when you inform me that the job has been completed. The rest will be delivered after the photographs are in my possession.' "Oh my," said Doctor Vancini, feigning horror. He folded up the note, and put it discretely into the envelop, along with the pictures that had cost him exactly fifty dollars each from the college-brat, sexual psycho he'd hired weeks earlier, a source he found through a colleague who was treating the young man. The odd thing was, the colleague thought he'd been making progress in helping the predator recover. "He's sick. I'm going to kill him!" Said Arianna. "No your not. You'd never have brought this to me if you intended a crime of passion." "His own daughter; the bastard. She's wasn't enjoying it. Did you see her face. That boy was raping her! They did something to her! I hate that bastard. How could I have let him touch me!" Customers were starting to look. The man looked over at some of the people looking, and gave them an evil eye, deflecting the stares. He returned a more compassionate eye to Arianna. "You have to vent. This is an emotional thing. You're going to feel angry, and then terribly depressed. You'll feel distrustful of others, and wake up thinking you're in some kind of nightmare. After awhile you'll start to blame yourself, and that will only feed your anger. It's OK to go through that. It'll be painful, but the worst thing I can tell you is that you shouldn't feel this through." "Thank you, Doctor Vancini," said Arianna, sobbing into a tissue. "Just call me Joe, or I'll have to charge you." He was immediately sorry for the light hearted reply, but to be honest with himself, he was enjoying his successful manipulation. "You know, we men are always trying to fix things before you women have tossed around the emotional side of it, but it seems to me that there is no way getting around some kind of action. I mean, when you go home, and your husband is there, it would seem illogical to suggest that things can just go on," said the man. "I'm going to kick him out. Then I'm going to call the police. Or, maybe I'll just kill him! What's the matter with that man!" "You might want to think about this before you put the wheels in motion. I mean, once things have been started, they have a life of their own. Things get ugly," said Joe Vancini. "You're not suggesting that he stay!" "No, of course not. I meant ... well, if you call the police, they're going to charge him with rape or some other related sexual crime. He'll tie up all of your assets, not to mention the family name." "I'll divorce him, and he'll be lucky to keep his shirt!" Said Arianna. "Not if it goes to court under threat of criminal proceedings. The lawyers will insist that they get half, so they can be paid. You have no idea how bent over backwards the legal system can get when it comes to taking care of their own. What will happen to your daughters? They'll still want to see him, and in the case of," he almost messed up and said Cynthia, "oh, what is your daughter's name?" "Cynthia." "Yes, in her case, she'll be torn apart. Then, as a sexual predator, he'll have that stigma stuck on him, and to a certain extent your entire family. It can be very messy. I've worked with predators, and as bad as it is for them, it is often worse for the families they leave behind, in all kinds of ways, some of them too complicated to dissect." Arianna cried into her tissue, while Joe Vancini waited. "What am I going to do? Surely you don't expect me to do nothing!" "I don't know. It is, ironic however, that this is almost precisely my line of work." "You shrink perverts?" Asked Arianna. "Maybe we should wait, and talk about what I do later. It's kind of vain, talking about what I do, under the circumstances." "No. Go ahead. I have to think about something else; if just for a minute. Please," coaxed Arianna, her red eyes looking out from over the tissue. "Well, I start with the premise that predatory behavior is nothing more than some deviation or over emphasis within a person's personality. I mean, as opposed to the view that it's criminal behavior, and just needs to be locked up. I know I'm right about that, but at the moment, we both might have emotional impulses leading us in a less charitable direction." "You got that right, buster," said Arianna, not trying to be offensive, but unable to hold back the comment. "Well, so, what society does is identify some crime, after the fact, and put these people into jails which cost a fortune. Then when they put them back on the streets, they stick a scarlet letter on them so they can't possibly succeed economically, and wait for another crime. Nobody's really being helped." "So, don't let them out," spat Arianna, in a very spiteful mood. "That's an idea, though probably not legally possible. I propose that we cure them instead," said Joe. "I don't believe you can do that. I've read about these people!" Arianna broke down crying in the middle of the word people, still in shock that her own husband had somehow ended up being, 'one of those people'! "No, not usually. We do therapy, and then put them on drugs forever. It usually doesn't work, though maybe a third of the time these men stay out of jail. I'd attribute that third to those men who didn't have a full blown psychosis, you know, maybe just overly aggressive once, ending in a situation where the lady has a good rape case. This thing about wanting some man to rape and photograph your daughter, on the other hand, well that's not too promising. That took prolonged thought, probably compulsion." "So there's nothing we can do but call the police and maybe move to the moon," said Arianna angrily. "No. I've been working on another alternative. I have taken my brain mapping system, and developed a laser approach to applied psychiatry." "What is that?" "OK. It's hard to explain briefly. Let me begin by asking you if you've ever heard of a lobotomy?" "Where they cut you in front? It's barbaric, maybe illegal. I don't know," said Arianna. "Yes. It is illegal. I don't do lobotomies." Joe paused to let that sink in. "But, we do, do surgery on mental defects that are life quality threatening. There are times when, for example, the hemispheres of the brain are partially separated in order to reduce seizures. And, of course, removing diseased tissue is both practical and commonplace." "So that's what you do?" "I am licensed for surgical procedures. I don't do them, however. I've applied my theories to mapping the brain. Have you ever seen a picture of the brain, like for example, where they show different colors under stress, and then when the stress goes away, the scanning technique shows that the brain colors have changed in size and location?" "Yes." "Well, we can show, for example, that when a person thinks of a certain thing, that certain cells that weren't otherwise operational, go active. The fidelity is what our team has perfected; that and the 3D speed of the sweep. It's like mapping a universe. When I, for example, say the word sex, things light up. When I have a person read the word sex, some of the same things light up and other cells no longer go energetic. New cells, not used when I said the word, show up when the word is read with the study subject's eyes. That way we can get clues as to what cells relate to sex as a spoken or read entity, what cells relate to reading, and what cells relate to hearing. Not surprisingly, it's not that simple, and a generic reference to sex isn't of much value, other than as an example. The results, of course, different from person to person, but that's a decent description of what mapping is all about." "I never knew we could do that." "I've been doing it for ten years, in fact, much better the past few. What I've wanted to do for a long time is act upon it. You know, take theoretical medicine past theory and into an application phase." "Like cure perverted freaks, you mean. Maybe cut out the part of their brain that goes ballistic when you say or read sex?" "It would take too much surgery. There are maybe hundreds of cell intersections that go ballistic when you do that. No, you do a much more detailed mapping exercise, and then when you think you have it isolated, you turn on reference points. Things like the word pimple, that might be found at only a few junctions, to use as reference points. Then you turn on the lasers and try to pin out something like a half dozen cells at a dozen or so location that you've pre-mapped. The laser aims at say, point o four centimeters at a certain vector from the reference point. We use two 'diffused until target' devices, actually, so each laser doesn't burn, but where they touch is toast. On the other hand, when you do that, there is no guarantee that the thing you torched, and the surrounding cells aren't important for other things. The brain is very complex, so you'd expect unintended losses. In fact, that admission is exactly why I fear the government will drag its feet on approving this process for decades." "I can see why." "Well yes, it seems right to be careful, but then again, consider the cost of a person being labeled a predator all of their life, or for that matter, the cost of living beside one? Besides, it's perfectly acceptable to cut thousands of brain cells with a knife, but god forbid we should zap out a handful of cells with light. Anyway, I warned you that this would get technical, and that maybe this isn't the time for it." "Maybe you could miss all over and cut my husband's brain up into little pieces. I know I'd feel a lot better if you did," said a mood shifting Arianna. "Now, now. The process isn't for that kind of thing. I tell you what though; I have an idea of how I can help you with your immediate problem. You should confront him about the pictures. He'll deny it, but be persistent. Do all that you can to get and maintain control of the conversation. You can tell him that you insist that he immediately see a psychiatrist that you met at the bank, and if not you'll call the police and divorce him. Bring him to me as soon as you do that. I'll be in my office at the University until ten. Here's my card. Don't tell him that you are having him committed. I can do that pretty much on my own when he gets there. I can arrange that with another shrink and the staff. I know a number of members of the board who would sign for a long commitment as well, particularly under the circumstances. I mean, it's either that or jail for your husband; I'll not entertain your impulse to murder the man, justified as you may be. To be honest, though, I'll include that in my argument to the board, exaggerating your volatility, and thus the need for determined action." "You can do this for me?" "Well of course. It's really the only rational thing to do. In fact, regardless of who it's for, it's my duty." Doctor Vancini then paused, and leaned close to Arianna. "By the way, I'll need to know a little something about him in order to start some kind of treatment, particularly any sexual issues. You see, it's best not to start right off with the big issue, if we can keep from that. It tends to clam up the patient, and you don't get very far." "He likes me to dominate him. I almost never do it. God forbid I should now, cause I'd murder him. Other than that he can barely get it up," exaggerated a pissed off Arianna. Joe could hardly believe his luck. He'd been successful throughout this whole elaborate scheme to liberates this dream woman from her husband, but to find out that the man about to be successfully framed and cuckolded had a penchant for domination seemed almost too much of a good omen. Joe had to fight back his elation at the revelation. "Excellent. We can use that and this picture thing as an excuse to get him interned in the University's mental facility. I'll keep this envelope. We can go to a copy store and make a copy of the note and a few of the pictures for you to take when you confront him. Call me just before you bring him in. I'll use the originals to serve as a claim that he needs to be admitted as a patient and thus the evidence will be rendered inadmissible unless I release it, which I promise I wll if you decide on a different course later. That way he will have some immunity from prosecution through my professional standing. Otherwise my colleagues might just decide to turn him in anyway. Remember, nobody's going to try to cure him in jail, but even the medical community worries about liability; maybe especially the medical community. In the mean time, once committed, you can, and should divorce him, because once that's over you can get out from under any potential legal bills, and probably any accumulated medical bills as well. We'll leave what gets paid to his insurance, as long as it lasts. Think about it. He's getting help. The guys out of your life in a way that lets you get some space and revenge. You are hurt the least. Your kids find your behavior to be entirely responsible, because it is. In a way of thinking, it's not the best thing you can do, but rather, it's the only thing you can do without huge complications," advised Joe Vancini. "Yes. You know, I never would have thought of all this. I'm so glad I talked to you before I went to the police or maybe shot the bastard," said Arianna, reaching for Joe Vancini's arms. The tension was visibly lifted from the face that so compelled Joe Vancini's affection. part 4 Steve sat on a chair opposite Joe's desk. "I know where that note came from," he explained. "Go on." "I wrote a note like it when I followed my daughter. I found a picture of her, naked, in a drawer in her room. "That's interesting. Why were you in her drawer?" "She was moody. I was looking for drugs, I guess." "She's into drugs?" "No. Look, this isn't getting anywhere. I had nothing to do with this, other than I showed some concern for my family." "Yes, your wife said that you followed your daughter. Why was that?" "I found the picture. I wanted to find out who was extorting her." "Why didn't you just ask her, or go to the police? It was your wife's first impulse to do each of those things when she found out," asked Joe, realizing how fortunate it was for his plan that Steve hadn't done just that. "You don't know Cynthia. She's head strong. If she'd decided that she wanted to go it alone, she'd have clamed up, and then it would have been harder to follow her. She thinks she can fix everything herself," explained Steve. "Let me put this together. You claim that you wrote the note, but that it was somehow altered, and that after you'd spent time looking around in her dresser drawers. Then you are suggesting that you followed her just to confront a man whom you apparently never confronted. I think the police would see this story a little lacking." The room went quiet. "Let me throw by you an alternative story. You have a fetish, not one where you are actively pursuing sex with your daughter, but one that feeds off of your need to be dominated. You somehow constructed an odd little fantasy within which you submitted your own flesh and blood, kind of a living through your offspring scenario. You wanted pictures of it so you could see how you'd made it all real. You had to be closer to it, so you followed her, gaining every ounce of connectivity that you could. In your mind you may even believe that you are innocent, having convinced yourself that you are the victim, that you was her, as was the parent fantasy. It's the offspring equivalent of the cuckold fantasy. How am I doing?" "Not very good. It was nothing like that," said Steve. "Then what was it like, Steve? What did you feel like? How did you feel when you saw her going into that place where you knew she was going to meet that man?" Shrank Doctor Vancini. "I was horrified to know that she was being exploited. I felt like I had to fix it for her." "I see. Go on. What then did you do about it? Write a note?" "You don't believe me. I can't believe this," said a disgusted Steve. "Look. I don't know about the courts, but if you cooperate with me, maybe we can come to some level of trust, perhaps through a new approach," said the Doctor. "What approach?" "I could administer some truth serum. We'd go into a trance. It's difficult to lie under those conditions. I'll see what I can find out. You have to know by now that you are lucky your wife didn't go to the police. If you are telling the truth, then you have no reason not to go along with this. After a few sessions, we'll be at the truth without any legal complications. I can consult your wife for you. On the other hand, if she and I are not convinced, you still have a grave threat of prosecution. Fortunate for you, I may be able to help there as well. That's the way I want to work it, anyway. Even if you are lying, or on a more difficult note, deluded, you will benefit from my therapy. In any event, you have no real choice. I can keep you under my protection even without your consent, or I can let her turn you over to the police. I don't run a full practice here though, so I'm not predisposed to fooling around. I'll want us to have an immediate session, and your full compliance with my choice of treatment. I've already prepared the forms, in fact. You tell me what to do next, Steve." "Shit!" Steve sat back, thinking. This had all hit him like a load of buckshot. He hadn't even had supper yet. All of a sudden his life had changed from concerned father to some kind of mental wacho. Now he was being asked to sign forms for extensive treatment. It was late, and just outside the door his wife was sitting in the lobby, waiting for him to come out so she could kill him for something he'd not done. Most of all he wanted to go back to that frat house and rip the young man out of his room, maybe beat a confession out of him. Steve thought about that scene, and realized he'd be drug off to jail if he did. No, he had to play this smart. That meant he had to go along. Maybe the hypnosis would help clear him too, like some kind of lie detector test. Yes, thought Steve; that's the way to do it. Take some time, gain some allies, and then maybe a few months later go find that boy and beat him with a ball bat in some back alley. Doctor Vancini looked at his watch. "What do you think?" "OK. I want you to fix me so I have to tell the truth. I want you to make sure my wife knows I wanted to be unable to lie. Can we do that?" "It takes time. I mean, people can resist. Over a few weeks though, we can establish any lie or truth with a fair deal of certainty. That means I'll have to keep an eye out for you. You know that, I assume. Besides, our cafeteria has better food than the county jail, trust me. Your insurance will pick it up, and we can claim you're suffering a breakdown. I will still insist that you sign for a range of therapies before we start though, because you are working on the assumption that you are telling the truth or not psychotic. I can not and will not make that assumption. Fair enough?" "Yes. Shit! God damn it, I'll miss work." "What do you do?" "Engineering." "Well, a good engineer isn't going to lose a job just because of some medical issue that keeps them out for awhile. Now just sign these forms. There we go. This is a little like buying a house. The forms go on and on. Oh, twice on this one. I doubt we'll need most of this clearance, but I need a free hand. You know, some patients, when they begin to show progress, and open up, can be deemed incompetent to sign this stuff, and then the family is brought in. I teach, do a small practice, do research. If I worked that way, you know, one form at a time, I'd never sleep. Good. OK. These three, and we're done. Thank you, Steve; you've made a wise choice. The spirit of cooperation can be interpreted as a certain kind of innocence, or at least victimization of one's own mental illness. Sorry I said that. Just relax, and we'll sort it out though." Steve sat back and watched Joe bang the forms into one neat rectangular mass, and then shove them into a folder. When Joe Vancini was done he pushed a button on his phone, and said, "OK. We've finished. You can come in now," to the mouthpiece. The door behind Steve opened up. Two men in long white coats moved beside him, offering to help him up. "What's this? I ..." "We did discuss your stay, Steve. These men are just here to help you to your room. Nothing is going to happen tonight, because it's really late. I'll see you tomorrow afternoon," explained Doctor Vancini, as he wrote out a prescription and handed it to one of the men in white. "Be sure he gets one tonight, and then write up his medical log to start the normal rotation tomorrow, if you don't mind Bill." "Sure, Doc. Now come long, Mista Steve. This ain't like no movie; we don whoop on people," answered the man in white as he took the prescription. "Jesus! I've been committed? Is this a ward? I thought like a regular hospital room. I just thought ... some kind of outpatient? Can we do outpatient?" The men took an arm each, and helped him through the door. He kept on protesting, as he walked through the lobby where his wife sat waiting. "Please, Arianna. I didn't do it. Please. Oh god. This is crazy," continued Steve. She stared at him with loathing as the office door closing behind the three, now in the hallway. One of the men could barely be heard saying, "Now, we ain't got no crazy ones roun here. Don you be sayin tha word round the patients." Doctor Vancini walked out of his office, and met Arianna in the lobby. He shut off the lights behind him. "Come here," he said to the lady. She walked over, and took his hug, the day of emotions having drained her energy. "We need to go find a nice, late night place to get a little something to eat; I doubt you noticed, but we forgot to order at the pizza place. You can call in at work tomorrow. I'll write a medical excuse for you." He guided her out into the hall. "But, Steve ..." "Don't! We're not going to talk about Steve for twenty-four hours. That's the rule. You've had enough. You need a full twenty-four hour break. Everything is taken care of. You ask me one thing about him, and I'll not say a word. That's an order. Understand?" "Yes, Doctor," resigned Arianna, as they went, comforting arm in comforting arm, to get something to eat together. part 5 Steve felt like he was playing hooky for the first couple of days, or maybe like someone who'd just recovered from the flu, the bug still aching a little around the edges, and the body a bit weak, still in a fog. He'd slept off and on for what seemed like days. When people moved around him in the big game and TV room, he was reminded of his younger days when he'd gotten too high on some marijuana. Everyone moved in slow motion, until they got close, and then they seemed to zoom by. Every so often he'd think he was in some kind of dream; he was afraid to look around for fear that the Keystone cops would catch him if he didn't blend in and pretend he had nothing to fear. When the guys in the white coats came to get him, he was sure it was to be delivered to the cops for some crime he had trouble remembering; he knew that in the state he was in he'd find it impossible to defend himself. There was an excuse, he remembered, but he couldn't remember what it was, or for that matter, what he'd specifically done wrong that needed an excuse. Then, being walked down the hall, between the men, and out of the crazy room of loitering patients, he started to remember things. His oldest daughter, Cynthia, and Karen, his youngest, yes .... His wife had been mad about pictures. He'd been accused of paying some creep to rape his oldest girl and shoot pictures. He loved his children; he'd never even think of doing anything bad to them, he told himself. Things were coming back into focus in longer and longer waves, just as he sat down on Doctor Vancini's black couch. "I'm sorry about the delay, Steve. I've had a busy schedule. It was probably best to give some time for thought anyway, considering Arianna's emotional state. She's still considering prosecution, but time heals. Have you any concerns about the treatment? Is everyone treating you well?" Asked the Doctor. "Uh." Steve found his own voice a little surprising, having not found a need to use it in some days. "I am OK. I don't think I need ... drugs. It confuses me," was as much as he could muster. "I knew that would be your first concern. Let me explain. You see, by dropping off mental activity, we can come back to an awareness level that is something like a clean slate. It gives you a rest from the fears and walls that shut you off. Not just you, but all of us, only in your case we have a special need to get to things. Nothing you've been given is addictive, or permanent in any case. Think of it as sort of a vacation," explained Doctor Vancini. "I see," said Steve, finding Joe's words strangely intellectual, the way he didn't talk down to him like the staff seemed perpetually ready to do. "I want to take you under today, and explore some of the events from a less clouded perspective. Are we ready to do that?" Steve had been ready to do that for some time, eager to prove his innocence in at least one person's eyes. "Definitely," he said, the word enunciated sluggishly enough to fill his mouth for what seemed like a whole sentence. Doctor Vancini did some research note while Joe rested some more of the prescribed narcotic off. Then Joe pulled up one of Steve's sleeves, tied off a hose, and applied some alcohol; the Doctor administered a dose of the latest dream drug. Joe sat on a stool, just beside the couch, and helped Steve lie back on a small, but puffy pillow. Up above the couch was a small crystal lamp that rotated after Doctor Vancini flipped a switch. "I want you to imagine all of your pain and worries now, floating between your eyes and the lamp above you. Just detach yourself from the worry. I'm here to help you. It doesn't matter what you say, because there will be no right, no wrong. I understand, and in the end will do what is best for my patient. The truth is the fastest way to recovery. I promise this. So, Steve, just relax and give your troubles to the lamp above you. It is important that you bring yourself to a state of mind where you want to put your thoughts into my hands. As you do so, your toes will start to relax. Breathe deeply, and feel your toes relaxing. Now your feet seem lighter ...." Soon, Steve was well under, his breathing slow, his eyes fluttering, and his body sagging. After twenty minutes of talking the Doctor shifted his topic: "You looked at the picture that you see is in your daughter's drawer. Can you describe the drawer to me, Steve?" "It's her top drawer. It's half open." "What does she keep in that drawer?" "A jewelry box is on the right. She has some old panty hose on top, some panties and some colored bras, I suppose for special occasions." "What do you imagine those occasions might be, Steve?" "A dance. Maybe a date, or to match some small dress. She doesn't dress as modestly as Arianna would like," said Steve. "It's OK, Steve. She's twenty-three. She can date. She's not a virgin, and that's fine, isn't it, Steve?" "Yes. I understand that." "But then the picture. You're there, standing over the panties, moving the bras aside, looking with both your hands and your eyes, feeling the fabric. It all feels good as it touches your hands. There - in your hand. You have the picture. You bring it close. What does she look like?" "I don't know that it is her. I see a woman, her legs spread. It's not very flattering. Just way too graphic, I'm thinking," said Steve. "It isn't her, Steve. You're mistaken. It's a young woman. It's a picture someone at work sent you; a secret admirer, Steve. Do you understand me? It's not your daughter. At first you were afraid that it might have been, but now you see the face. A lady, someone young, someone new at work. Who is it, Steve? The new lady at work?" "It's ... Sue? It must be Sue. She's pretty new, but I thought she was shorter?" "Yes. I can see that it is her. She only looks tall because of the foreshortening of the angle. You've never seen her without clothing either, have you. I know that I haven't, and now she has sent you this picture. You remember when she was on break, and you stumbled in. She didn't know that you were listening. She was talking about how she wanted to seduce a man and make him eat her pussy. No reprisals. She wanted to make him do her, with no payback. It was a fantasy that Sue was sharing with a co-worker. Their tone was playful, open; always with the air that it could have been a joke, while at the same time clearly not. Remember her saying that, Steve?" "I don't know?" "Well it could have been your imagination, but you do know that most of what you think she said is right for you, or at least the parts that you heard more clearly. She wanted a man as a slave, maybe just for some sexual satisfaction, but still it was enough to make you wander close from time to time, in hopes that you'd hear more. She could have been just teasing, but the tone of her voice seemed a little serious, in a playful kind of way. She must have noticed your attention later, because she sent you this picture, in an envelope, with the panties. Remember the panties, moving over your hands, Steve? They were in the drawer too," suggested the shrink. "Yes." "I like the picture too, though you're right to say it's probably a little too suggestive. The only way to appreciate it is to imagine yourself on your knees, being told by Sue to be that way. Can you imagine that, Steve? Can you imagine the picture, and instead of some camera on a tripod, or in some boyfriend's hand, it's you, being commanded to kneel there?" "Yes." Steve's breathing was picking up, becoming labored. "Thought of that way, it's a much more interesting picture, isn't it, Steve? I would love to trade places with you, but she sent it to you. What does the picture do to you, Steve? How does it make you feel?" "I feel so excited. I want to lick her legs. I want to be forced to eat her pussy," confessed a hypnotically uninhibited Steve. "Yes you did. You wanted to be on your knees. You wanted to eat that pussy. It's normal, Steve. I mean, she's a woman. She has a wonderful, twenty-three year old body. It's so healthy, and tight. There's nothing wrong with being observant. After all, you said awhile back that you'd not seen her naked since she was a child. You were curious. You had no intentions of actually making love to her. You only wanted to see her that way. You only wanted to be able to imagine yourself worshipping her from beneath her. She has the advantage, being the dominant partner. There isn't any coercion, or harm within you. Isn't that right, Steve?" "Yes." "The picture, when you first saw it ... it made you want her, didn't it?" "Yes. I wanted to serve her needs," confessed Steve. "You've made a wonderful daughter. She is now a beautiful woman. She is so proud and self determined. Like her mother. Sue wants you to kiss her pussy. Go ahead; it's OK. Sue's asking you to kiss her pussy. Just one kiss, because she loves you, and wants to feel what it feels like to be in control. She wants to tell you that she understands it isn't your fault, and that she wants to comfort you this way. It's her way of telling you that she doesn't blame you. Go ahead; kiss her pussy, gently." Steve's lips puckered up, as he kissed the air. Joe had no doubt that Steve could virtually feel her pubic hairs upon his lips. "When you wake up, you will rememb