From: evil@bay.com (Marlissa)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: REPOST The Arts 2/3 (m/f, f/f, nc, bd, mc)
Date: Sun, 24 Nov 1996 15:36:19 GMT
Message-ID: <579q22$vj6@decius.ultra.net>


"So that's it Doctor.  These dreams are getting stranger and stranger
and it is like I'm a prisoner of them.  Like they're REAL."

Dr. Kelly shook her head, took her glasses off and rubbed her eyes.
In ten years of practice, she had never heard this one before.  "Now
you say he's asked you to do some things this week for him.  Tell me
about that."

Tracey shot her a look.  "Not ask-he told me to do these things.  I
told you he's not my lover so much as my...master."  She ignored the
disgusted look on the doctor's face and went on.  "This week he
ordered me to 
quit running.  Said it was stupid because it didn't help me build up
curves in the rest of my body.  He also said it wasn't very feminine
to run around.  Instead he told me to join Bally's and concentrate on
aerobics."

Kelly ran herself everyday and found it to be much more liberating and
thoughtful that gyrating in some meatmarket in spandex.  She made
notes on her pad.  "How do you feel about this change in your
exercise?" 

Tracey shrugged.  "Well, I hate it of course.  Those places are all
about making woman self-conscious about themselves.  Their about
invoking body-shame so that women will do anything to shape their
bodies into some fantasy men have.  It is awful and
embarrassing-especially when men at my office see me there tricked out
in my leotard."

"Then... why do it?  Afterall, like Gloria Steinem said, 'Women need
men, like fish need bicycles'.  Even dream lovers like yours are
hardly worth the effort-either in real life or your fantasy life.."  

The attorney looked up exasperated.  "Fantasy?  I suppose it is though
it seems so damn REAL!  Anyway, I already said-he told me too.  He
doesn't care about my feelings on the subject.  I think," she paused
at the epiphany, "that he likes making me do things precisely because
I think they are humiliating to me as a woman."

"Go on," Kelly said tightly.  "What else has he made you do?"

"He ordered me to shave myself.  He didn't like me with any hair down
there so he wants me to keep it shaved regularly."  Tracey sat,
flushed and looking away, trying to ignore the distaste now radiating
from the therapist.  

"I see.  Now this dream lover of yours...can you describe him?"

 "Young-I mean younger than me.  I'd say twenty maybe.  Pretty
nondescript.  Not someone you could pick out of a crowd easily.
Smart.  An artist I think.  He likes to dress in black."

Kelly put her pen down.  "Not someone you'd be likely to throw
yourself away on, is he?  In your fantasies, are you passionate?  Do
you make love?  What does he say to you?  Can you remember any of your
dreams?"

Tracey smiled wanly.  "I can't say he's very affectionate.  He hasn't
made love to me-he says it isn't time for that yet-but he has allowed
me to do, uh, other things if I've been good and done every thing he'd
told me to do."

"Tell me about these things," Kelly pressed her patient.

"I'd rather not, if that's o.k.  Even talking about them makes me
feel...ashamed.  I mean he lets me do them and I feel pleasure doing
them but I know they're dirty and humiliating even while I'm doing
them.  He knows it too.  He enjoys it.  Enjoys having power over me."
Tracey shook her head.  "Quite a bit of a dream, don't you think?"
She smiled bravely, but the attempt only showed how helpless she felt
in the grip of her psychosis. 

Kelly switched topics.  "How's work going?"

But that was the wrong path to take, because her new patient's
depression only deepened.  "Terrible.  I'm on warning and probably
will be out of a job if something doesn't happen to get me out of the
doghouse."

"What is the problem?  I had heard you were a top-notch attorney-"

Tracey waved it of.  "Do I look like a top-notch attorney to you
Doctor?"

In point of fact, she did not.  The woman sitting across from her was
dressed in a tight pink poodle miniskirt, white seamed stockings, a
pink ribbed half-tee and three inch pink heels.  Her auburn hair was
trussed up into a topsy ponytail, held by a red bow.  Her pale face
was punctuated by bright red lipstick and a foundation that made her
naturally wan complexion sparkle with artificial excitement.  She
looked less like a thirty-five year old attorney than a seventeen year
old obsessed with the boys.

"Well, now that you mention it.  Tell me more, please."

Tracey sighed.  "He likes me this way.  You see, women are just
ornaments to him.  He's very specific-extremely specific-about what
kinds of clothing he wants me seen in.  No matter if it makes me look
ridiculous.  I know I look like something out of TeenBeat.  But this
is one of my day outfits-this is as serious as he allows people to see
me-like some little feather brained bimbo.  Night time it is much
worse.  Much worse."  She stopped for a moment then continued.
"Everyone at work thinks I've gone nuts.  You see he makes me go into
the firm this way, argue cases this way.  Of course I've lost every
case since I started dressing this way-what judge or jury could take
this seriously?  So I've been put on warning.  If I continue to come
into the office this way, I'm out.  Jesus, law school, all the hard
work, almost making it to partner and then this."  She sobbed quietly.

Kelly handed her a tissue, then bundled her out before writing up her
initial prognosis.

Ms. Hollis is reacting to intense stress, probably work-related, in
the form of a highly regressive nymphomania.  The condition, heavily
masochistic, is no doubt a reaction to this highly competitive field.
Her "dream master" is a manifestation of this self-destructive
instinct common among successful women, as noted in Jaeger's Monograph
(New York, 1979) on the same subject.  The psychosis is operating on
many levels...

****************

Friday.  The worst day of her life.  She had lost her
position-everything she hard worked so hard for.  Honor student in
high school, Magna Cum Laude Pre Law, then taking her JD. Passing the
Bar.  Steadily heading up the ladder.  Gone in an instant.

"You were fired today?"  She started, then saw Locke sitting
comfortably in her favorite-now HIS-chair.  All in black as usual.
The hallucinations begun again.

As always, she drifted into her fantasy life seamlessly.  "Yes," she
answered dully.  "I was...fired."  She stood before him, as was
understood to be the rule, with head bowed, eyes averted.  

"The lacy bimbo socks did it, I bet," Locke mused casually.  "With
those five inch red heels, you look like you'd be ready to ball the
entire jury for a favorable verdict.  Oh well, thank goodness that
career nonsense is over.  With your reputation as a little courthouse
cocktease, I doubt you could get a job as a paralegal.  Though I'm
sure there are plenty of male attorneys who might consider you for a
secretarial position."  Locke winked lewdly.

Tracey felt her face go crimson.  The shame never got easier to accept
in her weird Locke-driven fantasy world.

"Anyway, I've got other plans for you baby.  When I'm finished with
you, you'll DREAM of being some little office tail.  We've got lots to
do, including some redecorating.  For which we'll need some money.
You took care of the financial errands I gave you?" 

She nodded, handing him a bank envelope containing her life savings,
the deed to her , the paper on her car-all she had in the world.  Even
the remainder of her parent's inheritance to her.  There was nothing
left.

He took the envelope and without opening it, slipped it into his pants
pocket.  "I'm happy to relieve you of all that money.  The bank teller
must have thought you were a working girl getting ready to split town!
You needn't worry that empty little head of yours-I'll handle this.
It will bankroll us for our remodeling.  Now, one last worrying
thing."  He turned, serious now, to her and folded his hands.  "Where
were you last Wednesday?"

She struggled to keep silent.  Her subconcious told her that her
meeting with the therapist must be kept from him.  It was a lifeline!
If the therapist could help her escape from this sick nightmare, he
mustn't know about it.

"Tell me."  It was soft and easy-but it was a command.  And Tracey
broke and told him everything.

His young eyes graced her with a patronizing glance.  "It is well you
told me.  It shows how deeply I have come to control you.  But I knew
already.  Your simple mind is such a child's puzzle to me-bright,
colorful, obvious.  But you told me.  So that will have some bearing
on your punishment."  

Tracey kept her eyes on the floor, but was secretly relieved.  She
knew he'd find out...it was good she had been honest...he might have some
mercy now...  Her eyes widened as he drew a long object out of his coat
pocket.

"When I discovered your naughtiness, it became obvious that mere
spankings wouldn't suffice to make you mind your manners.  So I
purchased this-- a new implement with which to keep my pet in line,"
Locke explained.  "You know what to do now little bitch."

Tracey stifled a cry as she hurriedly unzipped her miniskirt.  Though
her bannana thong panties offered no protection, she kicked them off
per the rules of punishment-always bare bottom.  She draped herself
over his knee, waiting for that new awful punishment tool to begin its
descent.

Locke smiled, raised the riding crop and began to teach his slave
another lesson in obedience.