Restraint (Mistress & Master of Restraint) (16 page)

Snap out of it,
Katya. You have a game to play and information to find. Emotions will only sidetrack you.

A lar
ge pile of mail sits atop the desk, drawing my attention. I grab a handful, and quickly leaf through it, checking the mailing dates. It appears my boss hasn’t gone through the pile since Friday, lending validly to the out of town story.

Hmm…
what do we have here?
Men’s health
and
GQ
tell me nothing. Now, as for
Mental Health Weekly
, that is a different story. Holding the magazine in my fingertips, I check to make sure it’s his and not a mistake.

The mailing label says
Dr. Ezra Zeitler.
What The Fuck?

The publication
falls from my fingers onto the desktop with a loud thud, scattering envelopes onto the floor.

Magazines say a lot about people. My
Writer’s Digest
and
RT Book Reviews
say that I am an avid reader, perhaps in that profession.
TV Guide
and
Entertainment Weekly
say I love information on shows, movies, and pop culture.

You wouldn’t read
Parents
if you didn’t have kids. You wouldn’t read
Cigar Aficionado
if you didn’t love a good stogie. Why would you read
The Game Informer
if you didn’t play video games?

I can see Zeitler loving the first two magazines in his pile by the shape
of his body and his fondness of designer labels. Curiosity, what does a book publisher need with psychiatry magazines? And most importantly, what kind of M.D. is Zeitler?

The place is spotless, and I don’t just mean clean. Nothing
is out of place, no personal effects, no mementos from sandy-beached vacations, not even a potted plant. Everything feels staged.

Dead
-end, but it’s not entirely a waste of time. Is Zeitler, Ez? No fucking clue... probably… If he’s out of town, how do I keep interacting with him? It’s a mystery and a game.

Maybe Ezra Zeitler is a bored rich guy who stacks MD’s or PhD’s at the end of
his name to make up for lack of length. Long name - short cock. It isn’t the case with Master Ez- even flaccid I could tell it grows to impress.

***

I slink back to my office, feeling rather smug after my B&E’s success. But something feels different- wrong. It’s almost as if I can feel a disturbance in the air. Someone was in here while I was in Dr. Zeitler’s office, I know it. My eyes rove over the entire room, noting changes. But nothing is out of the ordinary.

I stiffen at the
grotesque sight in the center of my coffee table.

Sweat emerges
, beading along my spine, and adrenaline floods my veins. My heart goes into hyperdrive, fluttering in my chest. I creep towards my table, looking left and right over my shoulders. My eyes tell me I’m alone, but the sensation creeping up my spine screams differently. I can feel eyes on me, eyes I cannot see.

I flump down on my sofa
cushion with an exhausted huff, and I just stare wide-eyed at my coffee table.

“Fuck me,” hisses
in awe between my clenched teeth. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” A hysterical giggle bubbles up my throat. I just stare in awe, shaking my head back and forth… back and forth… back and forth. “Fuck,” I breathe.

The BDSM hedonistic Chess set is proudly displayed in the center of my coffee table, with all the pieces set into position. An ominous note is resting between the warring sides- black vs. white. I gingerly remove the folded piece of paper from between the kneeling submissives, and flatten it on the tabletop. Holding the note, my hands shake so badly that I can barely make out the words.

~My devious
Kat Burglar~

Do you not appreciate the chess set? How can we play if it’s hidden beneath your desk? I want the board to stay right where it is, Katya. I’ve removed two of your subs from the board, overtaking them during the game. My little sneak, you’ve removed one of mine by your expedition this afternoon. How you please me.

-Forever your Lord & Master~
The Boss

“Well, fuck!”
I shout to the room. I can almost hear Master Ez’s calm, patronizing voice in my ear as I read the words. I deeply inhale, hoping to catch his scent lingering in the air, proof that he was in here.

I can’t leave the board set up in the middle of my office. The obscene p
ieces taunt me from the board. “It’s not what you want, Master, it’s what you need.” I smirk. “Do you really need the game this accessible?”

Inspiration strikes. My fingers pluck up
a black pawn submissive and set it off to the side. I move the white pony-playing Knight into position. The obscenity isn’t lost on me; my pony-playing knight rises above the kneeling submissive pawn in front. Master Ez is a perverted motherfucker, and I kind of love him for it.

Chuckles bubble up as I make my real play. “Game on, Bastard.”

Chapter Fourteen

This is the most difficult moment of my night. I hate dredging up the past, wallowing in it for the sake of healing. It seems contradictory. Shouldn’t I move forward with my life, not fall backwards? Trying to relive every second of my violation seems anti-productive, regressive. What is so wrong with wanting to forget?

I curl up on the couch wearing fuzzy pajama pants. These sessions always drain me and I need the comfort. I log onto my biweekly therapy session with my laptop. Many patients go to their psychiatrist’s office, sit on a sofa, and pour their hearts out. Many don’t say a word, or clam up, or lie. How do I know this, you ask… simple, I was once one of them. I’d go to my sessions and freeze up. I’d feign memory loss, and sit there like a stone. My past is humiliating- my own personal Hell. Why would I share those moments of torment with a complete stranger that is silently judging every word I speak?

At the last parole hearing for my violator, I broke down, refusing to speak. The judge was upset, almost releasing my victimizer. I now have a court appointed psychiatrist, one I chat with online. The anonymity lessens
the humiliation. I can type the words and breathe a sigh of relief that the psychiatrist cannot see me and I cannot see them. It makes this bearable, tolerable, yet so very un-fucking-comfortable.

And like a wounded animal, I have no issue lashing out at my psychiatrist, Dr. Jeannine. Online makes her seem unreal, and an easy target.

KitKat411
:
I’m here @liv2heal

liv2heal
:
logging on…

liv2heal
:
How have you been since our last session?

KitKat411
:
Struggling, but what’s new with that. Lo
l


liv2heal
:
Ah… I can’t help you if you deflect.

KitKat411
:
The memories surfaced again. It’s always the same shit. My feelings don’t change. You said I would gain a different prospective, that the regressive memories would resurface and I could finally move on with my life. It’s not happening, and I don’t see what the big deal is about remembering. Trust me, it’s overrated. I’d rather be in the dark- it’s saner.

liv2heal
:
You went through a tragic event. It changed you at the core of your personality. It takes time. As you heal, the perspective WILL change. You cannot heal what you do not acknowledge. Ignoring it will not make it go away. You’re stronger than that, Katya. There is a reason you’ve blocked out some of the events, while others are brightly spotlight. Your mind is protecting you, and when you are ready, it will reveal itself. I understand moving forward, but your mental block says we need to go backwards and work through it before we can move forward into the future.

KitKat411
:
Are you aware that you’ve repeated that same bullshit line twice a month for the past thirty-six months? It’s like you just copy/paste from our previous sessions and plug in responses depending on how I respond. I’m not getting better. I’m getting worse. And you are not helping me at all. This is a total waste of both of our times. I went to a BDSM club. I have a man stalking me, and I’m pretty sure he is my very engaged boss. I allowed him to sexually touch me, knowing he was cheating on his fiancée. I play these games, and for some unexplainable reason, I get off on it. Is that healing? I don’t fucking think so!

liv2heal
:
You’ve never been sexually active before. While it is amoral to have an affair with an attached man, it’s a step in the right direction. You’ve never been able to stand the touch of a male, or even the females you used for gratification. I fear that you chose the attached man because he is unobtainable- it is a safety mechanism. Another very poor decision is that he is your boss. You need to think of your career first, his fiancée second, and your own self-respect. While I am happy that you are behaving as a woman of your own age, you need to examine why you’re acting out. As for the BDSM club, you changed the day you we’re mentally wounded. You can never come back from that and be the person you once were. The BDSM cravings you may have gained from your ordeal. While surprising, it’s not unexpected.

KitKat411
:
You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know. I know it’s wrong to do what I’m doing. But I can’t stop myself… and as sick as it sounds, I can’t help that I like it, either. I get so sick of you spouting off that everything I do is tied to my attack. One hour of my life DOES NOT have to impact every hour that follows. Everything doesn’t have to be nature vs. nurture. Maybe my “ordeal” only strengthened needs I already possessed or I wouldn’t have enjoyed my ordeal. I shouldn’t be chatting with you, paying to listen to your psycho-babble bullshit. It only makes me more confused, even more unsure of myself, and it makes me feel worse.

liv2heal
:
Your needs that took you to a BDSM clue most definitely manifested with the event. It is not in your nature to act in such a manner. It is your way of dealing with what your mind did to protect you that afternoon. Our minds protect us when we can’t handle what is happening to our outside bodies. Yours chose an untraditional fashion to protect you.

KitKat411
:
Would it kill you to say what you mean. Just say, “You enjoyed your rape.” I accept it. I accept that I got off, that I had an orgasm while being violated. Now you need to make peace with it, too. And fuck your nurture views. My nature is to enjoy this sick shit. I started this long before my rape.

liv2heal
:
Please explain.

KitKat411
:
I played rape fantasies as a child. I wasn’t even ten-years-old yet. I was the attacker, and I would chase my friend down. She was just a little girl, too. She was younger than me, even. She was a little girl that was being molested by the men in her family: her father, her uncle, her brother and his friend. So she was always really scared when we played this game. Instead of calling the authorities and saving her, I played with her mind. I was too young to feel anything about the sex, but not too young to enjoy her fear. I’d chase her, bring her to the ground. We played it, but never actually got to the act of rape. It’s only fitting to be the victim after always being the victimizer, don’t you think? My NATURE is sick!

liv2heal
:
Is this true?

KitKat411
:
F U C K - Y O U!!! & FUCK OFF…

***

Plotting for a game I am not a player in, but the actual pawn, takes my mind off my therapy session. Or so I lie to myself. I’ve chatted with Dr. Jeannine since the court appointed her to my case when my attacker was up for parole. I’m done with these one-sided conversations with a faceless antagonist. In her defense, I haven’t told her everything. No shit, that’s an understatement. That last bit of info I told her was epic. It enraged me when she thought I was lying. No one lies about shit that sick.

And I wasn’t lying. Never being molested in my life, I used to hunt and stalk my friends and cousins. It never turned sexual because I didn’t know how to make it sexual. But my body had needs I didn’t understand. Even as young as four I was lurking around the fringes, waiting to harm my loved ones. I was a sweet and quiet child, overly sensitive and could cry on at an instant. But there were times I felt truly evil… and what I just admitted to Dr. Jeannine is one of my biggest and darkest secrets that has put a taint on my soul.

I’d always wondered if my stalking, hunting, and raping were God’s way of paying me back for the way I spent my early childhood. If so, I’ve learned my lesson, and I’ve learned it well.

Pushing way the pain of my past, I begin a
ct two of my investigation. Internet searches on Dr. Ezra Zeitler were a bust. I found dozen of Society pages filled with Adelaide and Ezra’s vacations, celebratory occasions, and gossip. Balls, charity functions, humanitarian efforts, awards and ceremonies, Ezra has Adelaide on his arms in all of the pictures. He couldn’t have been more than twenty when they began dating. This lends credibility to Monica’s claims, and even Dr. Jeannine’s. If I respected myself, I wouldn’t get involved with a man that is in a committed relationship. It’s wrong, and not only does it disrespect both Adelaide and Ezra, it disrespects me, too. If Ezra Zeitler wants to disrespect his fiancée, that’s not my business. But don’t draw me into it, too.