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Rehabilitation
A Short Story
By Maryanne Peters
"I am sure that you have the best of intentions, but I have to tell you
that I do not approve of what you are doing."
"Why?" she asked, although she did not appear hurt.
"You are hiding a pedophile," he said accusingly. "Everybody in this
facility becomes a party to his crimes just by being here." He cast his
eyes around the reception area. It was called a "Re-integration Center".
The corridor leading deeper into it was security controlled, probably to
stop people like him, he thought. People looking to find the freaks
seeking to "re-integrate" after a modest spell of incarceration, when the
ought never to be freed.
"I just came out to use the coffee machine," she said. "Although it must
be the worst coffee in town."
"I will buy you a coffee at the place across the road if you like," he
said. "This place makes my skin crawl."
"I would like a good coffee for a change," she said.
"Come on then," he said.
"If you want information, you know that I cannot disclose anything? The
identity of offenders is protected as part of the rehabilitation
program."
He did want information. She might have something he could use. Could
he charm her? She had him picked so it was now unlikely. But he had
offered to buy her coffee. She was young and attractive. What the hell?
"We'll find something else to talk about," he said. He held the door
open for her. She smiled at him and she walked through, with him
following.
"My name is Ben, by the way," he said.
"Yolanda," she said, offering him a hand as they waited for a gap in the
traffic.
"I am sorry if I appeared bad tempered back there," he said. "What
coffee would you like?"
"A double-shot latte," she said. "And I understand. You must be a
victim."
"My son was a victim," he said. "He took his own life two months ago.
He was abused by the Fiddler Boy." He did not like the name, but it was
the name out there. It had nothing to do with violins. It referred to
this pervert's compulsion to play with the genitals of little boys.
She appeared genuinely shaken by his statement. That touched him. He
appreciated sympathy, but not pity. He held her arm to steady her as she
took a seat at the table.
"Suicide is an awful thing," she said. "Especially for the parents, like
you."
"They say that he was depressed for a number of reasons, but I put it
down to that degenerate," he said. My son became confused, you see. He
was always very sensitive. This predator took advantage of an innocent
child."
"The 'Fiddler Boy' was quite young himself," she observed. "All young
people suffer from confusion of a kind. It just manifests in different
ways."
"Are you defending him?"
"Not at all. There were victims. Many victims. People suffered. The
person who brings about that kind of suffering deserves to be punished
and treated if that is possible."
It occurred to him that this woman must know this monster. It certainly
appeared that way. But he stopped the urge to ask her bluntly. Maybe
she might tell him more? Maybe she might lead him to this person? If
she did, maybe he could have the payback he longed for?
"Is treatment really possible for somebody as twisted as that?"
"Sex drives are very hard to control, but they are driven by body
chemistry," she said. "If you eliminate the chemistry then maybe you can
eliminate the aberrant behavior?"
He looked into her eyes over her coffee cup. There was a look in his
eyes that turned him on. It seemed to be pleading for something. Maybe
something that he could give her. His marriage was in ruins since the
death of his son. Now he started to think that he missed the intimacy of
a woman's hand on his body, of a woman's body beneath his.
"Can people really change that much?" He said it to divert the
conversation a little - to put his hate to one side for a moment.
"He was very young. That is why he was tried and convicted with
suppression of his name and image. Because of his youth and to protect
his family and his victims."
"I have never even seen him, but I know what he is," he said. "He is a
pervert. That cannot be changed."
"Great changes can be made," she said. "People can start as one thing
and become something very different. Even the opposite of what they
were. For example, I have not always been a woman."
He would have choked on his coffee had he not swallowed it seconds
before. He put his cup down and leaned back to look at her more fully.
He was proud of the way that he presented himself: unphased and even
curious. It was hard to believe. Was it a joke? A test?
"Are you serious? I never would have guessed it."
"I would not joke about that. A few years on, but yes, I have changed
totally. I have left manhood way behind me now. They were not happy
times. I am a much better person now. Freer. Open. No hang-ups. A
woman in every way possible."
"I don't think that I have ever met a trans-person before," he said.
"So, I hope you don't mind me asking, are you attracted to men?"
"I always have been. And, I hope you don't mind me asking, are you
attracted to women?"
"Of course."
"And, could you be attracted to me?"
It seemed like a very forward question. Here was a woman (for that was
what she was) whom he had just met, who was talking to him openly about
very private and personal matters. The honesty was refreshing. It was
the most interesting conversation he had been involved in for months.
"Yes," he said honestly. "You ask the question, so I feel free to tell
you: You are very attractive. You dress very well. Even though we only
met ten minutes ago, you are clearly intelligent, and you seem to be
great company. I would be lying if I said I could not ... attracted to
you, I mean. In fact, I am, so would it be too forward to ask you to
have dinner with me tonight."
"Is that invitation because you are trans-curious?"
"It's precisely because I am not," he said firmly. "You appear to be a
woman to me. I am asking a woman out. Am I not?"
"A woman is accepting," she said.
"Great," he said. "I am just visiting. I think you know why I am here
hanging around that facility over there, just in the hope of ... well, I
am staying at the Holiday Inn. If you want me to take you for dinner, I
will be in the lobby at 6:30 and we can go to a restaurant nearby."
"I am looking forward to it already," she said, sipping some more of her
coffee.
He wondered if he might learn from her the identity of the offender. He
hoped that he would. But even if he did not, he decided to himself that
he would enjoy a night out with the interesting, and very attractive,
person.
***
It was as good an orgasm as he could remember having in his entire life.
Even better than the night before, when they got back to his room after a
wonderful evening.
He had learned nothing from her about the target of his visit, but he had
almost forgotten to push the point, being otherwise engaged in a wider
conversation. Although she was clearly much younger than him, he had
found that they had similar tastes in such things and food and music -
even politics.
Now she was lying naked beside him, her hair spread across the pillow,
her breasts still jiggling slightly, her pussy wet and slowly oozing
forth the fruit of his efforts.
He pushed a lock of hair away from her pretty face.
"You are a special person," he said. Somehow, she looked vulnerable -
even frightened. It was almost as if she expected everything to collapse
around them.
"Thank you," she said. "You are pretty special yourself."
"I have been so caught up in other things I quite forgotten how good it
feels to let somebody in," he said.
"Have you let me in," she asked.
"I have not thought anything but you since I sat waiting in the lobby
last night," he said. "You are in, and I am not sure that I ever want
you to leave."
She chewed on her fulsome bottom lip in trepidation. "You need to know
something about me," she said.
"I don't need to know about your life as a man," he said. "That is all
in the past".
"I am glad you think like that," she said. "I want to stay. I want to
be with you, but I cannot be with you unless you know who I am. I must
tell you...".
"Please don't," he interrupted. I only want to think of you the way you
are. And how you will be, with me, from now on."
She covered his mouth gently with her soft manicured hand. "I don't just
assist at the center, I am an attendee," she said. "I was a criminal.
The very worst kind. A person driven by impulses that were wrong -
animal urges. Believe me, they were things outside my control. Brain
chemistry driven by glands that never belonged in my body in the first
places. Glands now gone, thank God."
"What are you saying?" He said it, only because he did not want to
believe it.
"I am not that person anymore. I am you met yesterday. The person you
just made loved to. The person who loved being made love to." She was
crying now. Through the horror he could not help but feel the need to
hold her to him.
"You cannot be him," he said with a coldness that he did not expect.
"I am not. Not anymore," she blubbed.
A ray of sunlight burst through the curtain as if it were a sign from
God. It shone on her face, making the tears glisten and her wet eyes and
eyelashes look like the frightened doe she was.
The End
© Maryanne Peters 2020
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