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Unethical Conduct

By: Allison Cranley



1

Web Site

I don't want to sound stuffy, and I hate the thought of being stereotyped as some humorless kill-joy, but I'm going to say it anyway. As a professional woman in my mid-thirties, and - yes, I admit it - a card-carrying feminist at that, my attitude toward pornography would probably surprise no-one. I despise and reject the devaluing of women in any form, but portraying females as empty-headed decorative playthings fit only for baby-making is guaranteed to drive me into a cold fury. So maybe you can imagine my reaction when I came home early the other day and found my lawyer husband mesmerized by his computer, staring at a screen-full of graphic depictions of buxom nude women positively oozing sexuality and just panting to get laid.

He was at least gracious enough not to be defensive about it.

"Come and take a look at this, honey."

"No, thank you, Michael. I think I've seen enough to get the general idea, even from way over here. Glad to see you're enjoying yourself, though. Nothing like a bit of hard-core porno for an evening of wholesome family fun. Though for some dumb reason, up to now I hadn't thought of you as the sort of man who . . ."

"Stephanie, please relax for a minute. No, of course I'm not that sort of man. Most of this stuff is utter garbage, I can't for a minute understand why it's so popular . . ."

"It seems popular enough with you."

"Please. Just look at this for a moment."

Reluctantly, I came closer. He moved the mouse around and clicked on a bar at the top of the screen. The words "search results" appeared. 

"What does that mean? You deliberately looked for this?" But he had me interested by now.

"Wait a minute. Keep looking. This is what I searched for."

Michael clicked one more time and another phrase appeared: "Sexual coercion + marriage." He hit the return key, and "Items 1 - 20 of 1,742 entries" duly flashed on the screen.

"I was trying to get some general information, not from the law books and statutes this time, on the status of forced marital sex in this country today. Remember that client I told you about?"

He'd told me about her at breakfast. An awful story of a woman trapped in an abusive marriage, determined to leave as soon as she can but unable to get out for all sorts of compelling reasons - the "charming" husband would probably get the kids in a custody fight, no money or check book of her own, they live way out in the woods, he has control of the only vehicle, so on and so forth. Meanwhile, he practically keeps her prisoner in her home and actually subjects her to forced sex over her protests. She's almost literally helpless, unable to escape.

Yes, of course she is able get out of the house sometimes, or she couldn't have consulted Michael. There's a friend who takes her shopping once a week. And yes, she probably could put up more of a fight over the sex if she were prepared to make a truly determined effort, but for obvious reasons she's unwilling to call her husband's bluff and assume he wouldn't escalate the level of abuse still further. So now, after making token efforts to repel him, she submits quickly rather than risk waking the children and confronting them, too, with the horrors of her situation. 

The irony of it was, before she got married she was a professional woman with a ton of education and a highly responsible and demanding job. As her lawyer my husband had the tough assignment of acquainting her, as tactfully as possible, with the unkind realities. Convincing a judge or jury that she, with all her resources, had allowed herself to be victimized by any man, let alone such a decent-looking person as her husband, would be a very difficult proposition indeed.

"Well," Michael went on, "I'm still trying to get some angle on this that I can use for a compelling argument in court. In our good old state, as you know, there's effectively no law against marital rape. Ask any prosecutor. They routinely throw up their hands and sigh that any implicit law on the subject is unenforceable. Of necessity, as it takes place in private, it's always a 'he said, she said' situation."

"But surely your client, with all her smarts and education, would be a credible witness against her husband? I realize you can't predict what a jury's going to do, but there's got to be a chance of convincing them? Or what about waiving a jury trial altogether and having a judge decide? Almost a third of judges are themselves women these days!"

"Stephanie, if only. If only. But the problem is even worse than getting the court to believe my client. You know what a typical indictment for a sex offense looks like, don't you?"

Michael had shown me one or two, and anyway I had already seen enough of them to last a lifetime at the women's shelter where I work. Anyway, I recalled the sort of wording the legal system used when accusing a defendant of rape: 

"That on or about the 25th. day of such month such defendant did subject said victim, not his spouse, to non-consensual sexual contact," and so forth. The "not his spouse" part was the kicker, implying of course that forced sex in marriage was just par for the course among the upright and law-abiding male citizenry of our God-fearing community. Anyone voicing any objection to this would surely be a liberal troublemaker bent on inviting the government into everyone's bedroom. 

"Anyway," Michael continued, "I thought I'd try the Internet for some new ideas. So, look what I got." 

He moved the pointer to the first entry, "Rape in the marriage bed," and almost as soon as he touched the key an image leapt on the screen of a big-busted woman, spread-eagled naked on a brass bedstead, her arms and legs tied tightly to the rails with thick ropes, as she pouted sullenly at her approaching "husband," salaciously wetting her lips with her tongue.

"My God!" I really had no idea this stuff was quite that graphic, or that it was so easy to find. Michael went on,

"You know I have a healthy interest in sex, and I'd be the last person in the world to take a vow of celibacy . . ." Before I could interrupt him with a suitably withering remark, he hurried on. "But if I were really bent on looking for a bit of erotic stimulation on the Internet I would truly prefer something a little more subtle than this."

Reluctantly, I had to agree. I believed him. 

"All right, Michael," I began, grudgingly, "You've made your point. But I think you'd better stick to your law books for professional information from now on."

"Agreed. But, now, having said all that, here's one that I'd like your opinion on."

"If it's anything like that last one" (he had at last removed the revolting thing from the screen) "I bet I can give my opinion without seeing it."

"Humor me."

The picture that suddenly filled the screen was gripping, utterly compelling. My heart surged with emotion. I would never have believed the intensity of feeling that was tugged out of me by the simple color photograph that shone out from that little fluorescent rectangle. And I sure wasn't going to tell Michael why I was reacting so powerfully, either.

A featureless room. The unadorned rear wall was white, the carpet gray. The only item of furniture, a stylish swivel chair with seat and back upholstered in burgundy, came straight from an office products catalogue. The chair was near the center of the picture, facing more or less towards us, the seat angled slightly to the right. There were two people, a man and a woman. The man was in the foreground in the left-hand side of the picture, looking away from us toward the center, so we could see his face only in profile. He was approaching fifty, with neatly trimmed dark hair, a blue oxford shirt, slacks, and loafers. He could have been a lawyer himself.

"Teacher," said Michael.

The woman was standing facing the chair, so we could see her mostly from the rear with a partial view of her left side. Her long legs were straight and vertical, but she was leaning well forward from the waist, gripping the black metal arms of the low chair with her hands, her arms straight. Not quite sideways-on to us, she was looking up at the man over her left shoulder, giving us a full view of her face.

She was in her late twenties, maybe thirty. Tall, slim, attractive - and stark naked. Her nudity was stunning, her protuberant bare buttocks utterly arresting. But there was nothing sleazy about this photograph. The woman conveyed grace and charm, an unmistakable glimmer of insight in her pleasant face despite its current expression of worried concern - or was it eager anticipation? An intelligent person, even if all one had to judge by were her thoughtful mien, her keenly appraising glance, the studied tension of her grip on the chair. Was she a scientist? A doctor?

Even in the presence of the fully-clothed man she seemed perfectly at home with her nakedness. She was wearing shiny black spike-heeled shoes, her feet together, the high heels accentuating the tautness of her long legs. The very presence of the shoes emphasized the absence of clothing. Her well-shaped bottom jutted out pertly. Her breasts, visible beneath her upper left arm as she bent over the chair, were neither large nor pendulous but trim, tight, well-proportioned. Her long brown hair, elegantly styled, framed her pretty face and cascaded down her bare back. Glossy dark lipstick shone on her moist lips. 

The woman was unsmiling, her lips parted; she was frowning in wary concentration. Her eyes, wide open, bore an unmistakable stamp of alarm.

"Not surprising, if you consider what he's about to do to her," put in my husband.

"Shut up, Michael."

I was struck by how comfortable the man looked. He seemed relaxed, self-assured, good-humored, the kind of man one might enjoy meeting and talking to. There was no hint of malice or cruelty about him. He could have been about to ask one of his colleagues how the sales talk went, but he obviously had something quite different in mind. He had a firm grasp on the handle of a slender willow cane, the tip poised a foot or so above the woman's beautiful bare bottom. She was tensed and ready, her features expressing an admixture of fear, determination, and unquestioning submission. And was there pride in those wide, dark eyes? Tightly controlled defiance in her alert face and taut posture? It was clear that the caning had not yet begun.

I used the word "arresting" a minute ago. It was the whole picture, the gestalt, that grabbed our attention so forcefully. The sterile office setting, the fear in the woman's eyes, her tense concentration, her stark nudity, her complete submission as she bent over and presented that magnificent bare behind, the sinister menace of the cane, the man's air of everyday ordinariness, the aching anticipation saturating the entire scene - all combined to pull us helplessly into the self-contained little world encapsulated in that photograph. 

There it is; that's the scene that so aroused our interest. Well, I guess that applies to Michael, anyway. "Arousing interest" would be a pretty tame way of expressing my own reaction, I can tell you, and you'll see why if you read on. But I didn't let on, of course. I acted as if the contents of that photograph were as new to me as they were to Michael.

Anyway, he and I talked about that photograph for half the night. We were besieged by questions. Had the woman taken her clothes off voluntarily? Did she want to be punished? Could this be a consensual act, performed enthusiastically by both partners purely for sexual pleasure? Or was that genuine fear in her eyes? Was she frantically planning a desperate, last-minute escape before that cruel cane swished down on her? But she wasn't restrained physically; presumably, she could have left at any moment. Or could she? What if the man had coerced her compliance by terrible threats? What if, out of view, others were present, ready to compel her acquiescence by force if necessary? Perhaps the viewer had to decide. 

But that raised other questions, about the photograph itself. Obviously, it had been staged by an expert photographer with professional actors, a commercial enterprise designed to satisfy the prurient curiosity of men seeking sexual turn-ons from the Internet. Or was it? Could the woman have been kidnapped, forced into the situation under duress, and the photograph taken without her consent and over her protests? Surely her hair was far too well-groomed for that, her pose too artfully arranged. 


How could such a situation have arisen? What could possibly have gone before, and what would happen next? What was stunning about the photograph was that such a scene could never occur in life, certainly not in a business or professional office. Or could it? Could an intelligent, attractive woman have chosen to place herself thus for some valid and uncontroversial purpose of her own? Could she have been compelled to submit to such treatment? Or could she only be an actor or prostitute, indulging a warped male whim in return for substantial monetary gain?

Well, I was pretty confident I knew the answers to some of those questions, but the unanswered ones tantalized me mercilessly. I knew I wouldn't rest until I got the whole story behind that photograph, and I decided then and there that I would have that whole story by the end of the very next day at the latest. All I had to do was to take aside my close friend and colleague Dr. Jessica Sherwood, the shelter's psychologist and Executive Director, and ask her what the hell had been going on with her ten years or so ago to have played the starring role in the sado-masochistic porno scene portrayed in that photograph. 

2

Lovers

I called up that web site again early the next morning. I didn't realize it at first, but there were two more photos of my delectable friend Jessica in the caning scene. She was still in that same room with the man, the chair, and the cane, but later in the sequence of events. If you've ever seen this sort of thing before you probably know how they're set up. Twenty-eight tiny pictures, "thumbnails," in a seven by four array; you click on one to bring it up to full size, filling the screen. Before you do that, it's hard to see what's going on in some of them, they're so small, which is why I overlooked the others at first.

The second photo is right next to the first one. A close-up this time, providing an ample view of her bottom. She's still holding on to the chair, but she's bent her knees a little, and her head's hanging way down, her hair brushing the seat of the chair. She looks utterly defeated. The cane is in contact with her behind. All you can see of the man is his right arm and hand, holding the cane. So, it's quite clear she actually gets swatted by that thing.

The last picture? I nearly missed it, because it's a few frames away from the first two. The same scene, but we're further back again. The man has just struck her again. She's kicked up her right leg behind her, knee bent, the spike of the shiny shoe pointing outward. And she's squirmed a little sideways, away from us, maybe in a useless attempt to avoid the blows. Looks like she's writhing in pain, her head down, that lovely long hair tumbling down over her face so we can't see her expression.

My heart ached, seeing Jessica humiliated, in pain. And at the same time I trembled with an undeniably sexual thrill to see her like that. If only I could have been there too, sharing every detail of her experience. I would gladly have endured a thrashing myself if it would have given her any comfort. But, of course, I was forgetting. Jessica has told me so earnestly and on so many occasions about the joys of sexual masochism that I had absolutely no doubt that she was an entirely willing participant in that photographic episode. But seeing her in that stunning scene on the computer screen just brought the whole thing home to me a heck of a lot more vividly than I wanted or needed.

Jessica and I are a little more than friends and colleagues, as you may have guessed. We are also lovers, at least we are on those sadly rare occasions when we can be alone together without our husbands, usually when we're out of town at a professional conference. And what a lover she is. It's as if she knows exactly what I want from her sexually even before I know it myself. There's something similar to that in her professional work with our clients. She never fails to put her finger on exactly what needs to be done to help a client overcome her problems, whether it's problems with self-esteem, inability to be assertive, or repeating self-defeating behavior patterns. Jessica really, truly, actually cures some of these folks. Occasionally at the shelter we joke about her having magical powers.

Michael doesn't know Jessica personally, of course, only by name. She and I have worked together for little more than a year, and in view of what our relationship so rapidly became we decided not to get together socially with our husbands present. We both love our husbands, as Jessica and I have discussed many times during our private moments together. And we both love marital sex, though from her account Jessica and Ralph are quite a bit more adventurous in that regard than Michael and I. But loving my husband and enjoying sex with him does not preclude my also taking a somewhat less intense, though ultimately more deeply fulfilling, pleasure in my erotic relationship with Jessica. 

They are even connected, in a way. When Michael and I had finally got to bed after viewing that infamous photograph I was so highly aroused I could hardly wait for him to remove my undies and enter me. A sudden thrill coursed through me as I felt the unmistakable signs that he was more than ready himself. I gasped as he pushed into me, sliding right into my wetness and plunging away energetically, groaning with pleasure himself. He was thrusting quickly and deeply, rapidly stirring me to a crescendo of sensation, my head was spinning, the tension was exquisite, I was aching for release, delirious with pleasure. Holding me down firmly Michael pushed pleasure after pleasure into me as my mind reeled with confused images of Jessica and I being stripped and spanked by handsome men in business suits. I was utterly engulfed by a blur of intensely erotic sensations and emotions as Michael's unremitting pulsing rhythm tightly wound my tension to the breaking point. As I yelped in ecstasy I was overcome by a wave of involuntary spasms, swamped by delicious multiple orgasms as Michael brought himself to a frenzied climax inside me.

Where was I? Oh, yes, Jessica. Well, now that you have been put in the picture, so to speak, I'll proceed . . .

She and I left work early and had afternoon tea at a quiet little café. I couldn't wait to ask her to explain everything.

"There's so much to tell you, Steph, that it'll have to come out in bits. No, don't interrupt. First of all, yes, the whole thing was consensual. In fact, it was my idea from start to finish - or almost. It happened during my predoctoral clinical internship, a dozen years ago. I ran into some serious professional trouble in my program, but managed to extricate myself by getting into that little scene that fascinated you so much."

"You mean you did it for money? You were paid to pose for this guy, and the proceeds got you out of debt?"

"Not quite. I did it partly to get out of trouble, and partly to live out, in real life, a blissful experience that before then I had only been able to fantasize."

"Wow."

"What I'm going to do, Steph, is to actually write it all out for you. My script for the whole thing, as if I were directing the movie version. Admittedly, it'll be an edited version, written the way I would have wanted it to be rather than the way it actually happened. The true story is slightly different - though the difference is solely in the thoughts, the feelings, the sensations, the emotions, not in the objective details of what was done and said."


Unethical Conduct



"Jess, you have completely lost me!"

"I knew I would. You'll just have to read it, and when you have, we'll talk about it. But you must keep in mind, things are not what they seem. The person you think is in control is not the one in control. And, I repeat, all appearances to the contrary, it was entirely consensual!" 

Little more than a week later, Jessica presented me with a sheaf of neatly printed pages to read overnight and an invitation to meet at her place the next evening, Ralph being out of town. I would simply tell Michael I had to work late on a project with my Executive Director, an excuse that actually had the distinct merit of being completely honest.

As you might imagine, I read the following narrative that night with intense interest. 

3

Discipline

I was trembling with anticipation as I locked my car and turned towards the Mental Health building across the well-lit parking lot. That building had been my professional home for nearly four months. This wasn't the first time I had come back to the office after hours, but as it was seven p.m. on a Friday in late October it was the first time I had actually been there in the dark. Despite the bright lighting, female employees had been warned repeatedly of the dangers of walking unescorted at night on the grounds of a major V.A. hospital, so naturally I walked across as briskly as my high-heeled shoes allowed.

The main entrance was different at night. For one thing, there was no huddle of inveterate cigarette smokers clustered as close to the door as the regulations permitted. For another, there was a security guard pacing just inside, already eyeing me as I approached. My heart sank. I had wanted to sneak in as unobtrusively as possible.

"Evening, Ms. Sherwood!"

He glanced briefly at the photo I.D. badge on the lapel of my suit jacket, but we both knew he didn't need to. 

"Guess they work you interns pretty late up there, huh?" He smiled.

"Yeah, once in a while I have to come back to catch up on a bit of paperwork," I replied, hoping he wouldn't make a point of coming up to check on me later on. Peter McInnes had impressed on me the need for secrecy, and I sure had no quarrel with that under the circumstances. I hurried on, but from his approving look I could tell that the guard had not failed to notice my unusually dressy appearance. 

The third floor was deserted. The hallways were fully lit, but the glass panel in the main door to the Psychology Service suite was dark; either Peter wasn't here yet, or he had deliberately kept the lights off. I opened the door with my key and locked it behind me. Enough light came in from the corridor outside for me to find my way through to the conference room. I passed the coat rack and the mail boxes, the familiar names looking oddly different in the semi-darkness. I shut the conference room door behind me and switched on the light; as it was a windowless, interior room the light could not be seen from the hallway. Obviously, Peter wasn't here yet.

The large conference table was at the far end of the long room. I pulled up one of the chairs, put my elbows on the table and my chin in my hands, and waited. I was still tense and shaky, and I could feel a rapid pulse thudding in my neck. I truly had no idea what exactly to expect of this clandestine meeting with my training director, but I did know that my entire career in psychology, if I could still have one at all, depended on this meeting going well. That, in turn, depended on Peter being satisfied with my performance. He and I both knew that he had complete control, not only of my professional future but, effectively, of the whole course of my life.

It had been an eventful week. Every week on the internship was eventful anyway, of course. Five pre-doctoral interns, all of us working hard and putting in long hours, as would be expected anywhere. But morale was low in this place, low enough to ensure that no psychologist or intern would be seen around the offices at this time on a Friday evening in the normal course of events. The steady erosion of programs and services by the endless rounds of budget cutbacks had the training faculty much more preoccupied with their own job security than with the wellbeing of their future colleagues, we lowly students.

Notice I said we interns were predoctoral. In our profession, you don't even get your degree, the doctorate in clinical psychology, unless you complete your internship satisfactorily. Even though the universities awarding our degrees are quite independent of the internship sites, the training committee at the internship has a great deal of power over us. A negative evaluation from the internship site's Training Director, duly transmitted to the Director of Clinical Training at the student's university program, could imperil his or her chances of ever earning the doctorate, even though every one of us had already put in at least four years toward the degree if not considerably more. Some of my fellow students were so uptight about the internship that they actually had panic attacks on entering the building.

To say my week had been eventful was a considerable understatement. It had begun on Monday afternoon, right after the noon-hour Case Conference that was held every week in the very room I was sitting in. Case Conference was intimidating enough in itself. Five interns and half a dozen supervisors, supplemented by a dozen psychologists from the community who served on the Training Committee by virtue of having honorary allied staff appointments at the hospital. Each week, one of us formally presented a case, while everyone else sought to impress our peers and colleagues by finding clever points to make in criticism of the presenter. Mercifully, it had not been my turn to sit in that infamous chair at the head of the table that day, but my delight at that had soon changed when Dr. McInnes called me into his office right afterwards.

"We have a problem to deal with, Ms. Sherwood," he began, sighing and tilting himself back in his chair. "Unfortunately, it's quite a significant matter, and it won't wait. We have to get some sort of resolution on it this afternoon." He paused, his gray eyes fixating me sternly.

I had no idea what he was talking about. I looked helplessly around as I waited for him to continue, absently taking in the impressive certificates from universities, training programs, specialty boards, and national professional societies adorning the wall behind him. He looked younger than his fifty years, his hair still dark, his body trim and muscular. 

"I happened to talk to Dr. Hildner about you only last week."

The mention of the name of my Director of Clinical Training back in California gave me a start. 

"Why were you talking to her, Dr. McInnes?"

"Just a routine conversation, keeping in touch. She and I agreed you are a good student, quite likely to have a bright future in the profession."

I was glad to hear that, but he hadn't got around to talking about the "problem" yet. I sure didn't need another problem at that point. My doctoral dissertation, scheduled for completion that year while I was on internship, had hit a major snag. I had run the research itself before leaving California, but I was having difficulties with the writing, and two of my committee members were already quite impatient with me. Dr. McInnes was a member of my dissertation committee himself. That had seemed a great idea at the start of the internship year, inviting the Training Director of the internship to take an adjunct faculty appointment at my university program back in California so he could serve on my committee. He would be able to give me day-to-day guidance on writing the dissertation, and if all went well he could even put in a good word for me to Dr. Hildner.

But, as I mentioned, I had run into a major snag. And in the context of my rather patchy academic career to date, that was something I could well do without. My undergraduate degree had been pretty much messed up by a disastrous early marriage, shortly followed by an equally disastrous - though, fortunately, equally brief - career in modeling. Actually getting accepted into a highly-competitive psychology doctoral program after those inauspicious beginnings was my proudest achievement to date. 

Dr. McInnes was looking at me, calmly, obviously waiting for me to come back from my daydream and start contributing effectively to this conversation. 

"Then may I ask what the problem is, Dr. McInnes?"

"All right. And, please, let's get back to first names. This is difficult enough as it is without adding stuffy formalities."

I was becoming seriously worried at that point, but I still couldn't imagine what on earth the problem might be - and I suddenly saw a photocopy of one of my recent outgoing e-mail messages on his desk. 

My heart lurched in my chest. I couldn't breathe. A heavy sinking feeling in my stomach. I knew, immediately, what was coming, even though I had not recognized the problem at all until it flashed into my consciousness that very minute.

"Jessica, you know that the Department of Veterans' Affairs is a federal government agency. You should also know, if you remember your orientation back in July, that the e-mail facilities here are strictly for official business. No, don't interrupt, that's not the problem, I know everyone sends personal messages occasionally. It's the content of the message this time."

The enormity of the whole thing hit me forcefully. Tears were welling up in my eyes. This was a career-threatening breach that was obviously going to land me in serious trouble. At best, I'd have to find another internship and delay my graduation by at least another year, and that's if all my other problems - Peter interrupted my thoughts.

"Electronic mail communications are routinely monitored within this facility. It's all perfectly proper, lawful, and upfront. You may remember at orientation . . ."

"Peter, yes, of course I remember. And I know exactly what you are going to say, exactly what the problem is. I'm just realizing this for the first time right now."

My voice was small and weak. I was looking at the photocopy on his desk. Though it was hard to see through my tears, I found I needed very few cues to recall the key parts of the message quite vividly:

Really incredible, I never knew I would ever work with cases like this! You may even have seen it in the media already, the Charringford School case. He's a medical doctor, long career on the faculty at Harvard, he was actually fired for some political stuff he did in the early seventies, and now he's been arrested for child sexual abuse! Made a huge splash in the local papers, and as he's a veteran he was sent here for a complete psychiatric and psychological pretrial workup. Well, would you believe the guy actually has a dissociative identity disorder! (That's multiple personality, for those of you out there who are not in the field of psychology) . . . 

And there was more. While I had not actually given the patient's name, I had supplied enough detailed, specific information for anyone with the slightest interest to have identified him easily.

The problem? In my incautious enthusiasm, I had unethically divulged confidential information of a highly sensitive nature via e-mail to about fifteen of my closest friends and family in five states. Copies went to my parents, to my brother and sister, and to almost a dozen of my graduate school buddies, most still in California but some of whom were at other internship sites across the country. Private information about a patient who deserved, and was entitled to, complete and utter confidentiality from the professional people working with him. Confidential information that I had released, without authorization, counter to the most momentous ethical directives of our profession. That I, an unqualified student, had released. An ethical breach of the most serious kind. A fully qualified, licensed psychologist who did such a thing could face the severest disciplinary sanctions from his or her licensing board and from the national professional association. How could I have done such a thing? Memory returned. Because it was late at night after a hard week. Because my enthusiasm overcame my judgment. Because . . .

"Jessica, this is an extremely serious matter, as I'm sure you realize. I can tell from your expression that you know precisely how serious."

Embarrassed, he looked down at his hands. Was he going to fire me right then and there? I had to know.

"Dr. McInnes, I have never done anything remotely like this before. I cannot imagine how I came to do this. I am absolutely . . ." My voice broke and I collapsed into heavy, uncontrollable sobbing. Without a word, he pushed a box of tissues to me across his desk. He looked acutely uncomfortable. Somehow I got control of myself.

"I have to beg you to give me a chance to rehabilitate myself. I'll come back with a detailed proposal, a plan . . ."

"Unfortunately, Jessica, the very fact this has happened at all, even once, is already enough to create an utterly impossible situation for you professionally." 

It was coming, I knew it, I could feel it. 

"It is clearly too late to think about remediation. We have already passed the point at which . . ."

I stared steadily at Peter. He frowned and looked distracted. He blinked, looked around the room, and started speaking again. 

"Where was I? For a minute I forgot - oh, yes. Unfortunately, Jessica, the very fact this has happened at all, even once, is already enough to create an almost impossible situation for you professionally." 

Again, it was coming, but I knew and felt it was a little different this time.

"It is probably already too late to think about remediation. We may have passed the point at which . . ."

He was still speaking, but I could hardly concentrate, my mind a whirling jumble of thoughts, my body tense and jittery. Yet, even so, part of me took notice of the phrasing he was using: "almost impossible," "probably already too late," "may have passed the point . . ." Was there a chance? Could there still be hope?

"The proper procedure is for me to present this to the Training Committee at its very next meeting, and meanwhile to confer with Dr. Hildner to obtain her perspective."

This was as bad as it could get. Any group of conscientious psychologists would have to take the sternest possible view of what I had done. And how could I expect Dr. Hildner, a nationally-recognized authority on professional ethics who taught the graduate ethics course to every student in our doctoral program, to find any excuse at all for me to have made such an elementary blunder? I realized that it was already all over. I should offer Peter my resignation this very minute. Or should I request an immediate leave of absence, then consult a lawyer to review my options? Impulsively, I decided to be fully open with him.

"Peter, I understand completely, of course. You must bring this before the training committee, and you must call Dr. Hildner. It's what I would do myself in your position. But maybe I can save you the trouble. Right now I'm trying to decide whether to resign from the program this minute, or whether to ask for some emergency leave so I can go away and collect my thoughts for a couple of days before committing myself to anything. Either way, I guess I'd better take legal advice as soon as possible."

I was gazing directly at Peter. He was looking thoughtfully at the wall. Neither of us spoke. I was dabbing at my eyes with a tissue. Then he stood up and strolled over to the window at the far end of his office, looking at a magnificent maple that was showing the first hints of fall coloration.

"No, Jessica, don't do any of those things. Not yet, anyway. Don't resign. Don't take a leave. And, above all, don't tell a lawyer or anyone else at all about this conversation."

He turned back and briskly sat down again, looking straight in my eyes. "I need time to think about this, and so do you. At this point, nothing official has happened at all. All options are still open."

Faint whispers of hope lingered at the edge of my consciousness. But the e-mail . . .

"But, Peter, how did you get the copy of the e-mail? Someone must have already read it, become very concerned, and contacted you about it, surely? Some senior person in the administration?"

"Yes. This copy actually came from the Regional Director's office."

My heart sank. The room had suddenly become very warm and stuffy. I was struggling to breathe normally as Peter continued.

"But I doubt if the Director himself saw it. An assistant caught it, tagged it as a possible problem, identified me as the person to deal with it, then shipped it over here. As far as the administration is concerned, it's already dealt with. From this point, it's strictly a matter for the Psychology Service."

There was clearly some comfort in that.

"Here's what I suggest, Jessica. We'll both go about our business in the normal way for the next couple of days. We'll meet again here on Wednesday at four, and take all the time we need then to consider carefully what's to be done. Meanwhile, we'll both think about it. Agreed?"

"Well, yes, of course, Peter, how could I object to that? It's very generous of you to give me that breathing space. But we both know you can't possibly ignore this. I can't imagine what either of us might think of in the next two days that would change a thing. I know I said I would come up with a plan for - for my rehabilitation, or whatever the right term is. But I realize already that was quite unrealistic." I looked down, helplessly, at my hands.

"I agree that we can't ignore this, Jessica. That's perfectly clear. But what you said about rehabilitation does make some sense. That's what I want to think about. Whether we might be able to come up with some suitable response to your calamitous ethical breach without utterly ruining your career."

We left, agreeing to do nothing for two days before settling the matter on the Wednesday. I promised Peter I would discuss the matter with no-one.

They were the roughest two days of my life, and if you knew anything about my life you'd know that's saying something. I had somehow retained enough sense and judgment to follow Peter's admonition not to talk to anyone, though I was sorely tempted. That Monday night I got myself back to my apartment and cracked open a bottle of wine. I don't remember eating that night; I probably forgot all about dinner. The next day I was in a minor automobile accident on the way to the hospital, just a fender-bender but entirely, obviously my fault. The police guy was really nice about the whole thing. He probably appreciated my immediately taking full responsibility. "Accidents happen, don't worry about it, that's what insurance is for!" was his attitude. Thankfully I had not had enough wine the night before to have got him reaching for his breathalyzer.

Another thing happened that hit home pretty hard. I checked my e-mail when I finally got to the hospital on the Tuesday morning and found a message from Melissa Stillwell, one of the brightest students in our program who was on internship at Stanford Medical School. I'll quote: "I can see you're really getting a lot out of your clinical experiences there, Jessica, but do be careful how much info you put out via e-mail. I always worry how secure e-mail really is, and one of those patients you described possibly could be identified from the details you gave. Probably never happen, of course, but thought I'd better say something just in case. Wouldn't want you to get into trouble with your supervisors out there . . ." I almost kicked myself in frustration. If Melissa or any of the others had done what I did, I would have had exactly the same reaction and started lecturing them!




Unethical Conduct



Wednesday afternoon came around at last and I found myself once more in Peter's office, anxiously waiting for him to suggest something constructive. I sure hadn't come up with anything much myself. It was shortly after four-thirty, so the phones had stopped ringing and the secretarial staff and most of the professionals were leaving for the day. Peter was in a philosophical mood. "I've dealt with a number of ethics complaints in my time," he began. "Sadly, there's never any prohibition against double jeopardy."

"How do you mean?"

"You can be punished twice, three times, even more, for the same offense. A few years ago a colleague of mine started padding his Medicaid bills. Solo private practitioner. He'd never done anything like that before, and the amount of money involved was pitifully small. Anyway, he got caught. That was the beginning of a nightmare for the poor guy. First, he lost his license to practice. Then he got expelled from the Association. He lost all his consulting jobs and could no longer be a service provider with Medicaid, Medicare, or, by the time it all ended, with any other insurance company. And he had to pay a huge fine and actually served a brief term in jail."

"Wow."

"Yeah, wow. He was a well-trained guy who had helped a lot of people. But he could never help anyone ever again after what they did to him. In my own moral code, that was an outrageous overreaction to his misconduct. He should have been disciplined, yes, but not forever deprived of his profession and his livelihood."

"So, is that what's going to happen to me?" I gave him a half-hearted smile.

"Not if I were in charge of things." He paused. "But we have to face it, Jessica. For a student like yourself it's worse, if anything. You screw up as a student, and you may never even get your degree, never qualify to join the profession at all."

I was beginning to sniffle. He abruptly shoved the tissues towards me, as before. I remember wondering at the time what kind of therapist he was; maybe a little lacking in the empathy department, if you asked me.

"So, Jessica, what's my point? My point is, if we could have simply found a way to teach my friend there not to defraud Medicaid, and given him a suitable punishment to satisfy society's desire for revenge, we could have saved a caring professional who could have continued to help hundreds of clients in the future."

"I can see that." I was beginning to hope I could see where this was leading.

"Now, if I do what I'm supposed to do in your case, you'll probably - no, not probably, you will be thrown out of the internship. And, for obvious reasons, it will be almost impossible for you to get another one. And, since you're obviously not going to qualify in clinical psychology, your training program back in California might give you a Ph.D. in experimental psychology as a consolation prize. But, there again, why should they? See what I mean?"

I was quietly sobbing. I had known all along there was no hope; I was going to have to think about finding a new career and kiss goodbye to over four years of expensive and gruelling graduate training.

I looked unwaveringly at Peter. He suddenly blinked, shuddered, and looked back at me, obviously confused. He went on,

"But let's imagine another scenario, another one entirely."

He had my full attention.

"What if I don't do what I'm supposed to do? What if you and I work something out ourselves, just you and me? We would agree on a suitable disciplinary response to your misconduct. And what would be a suitable response? The criteria would be, first, to ensure that your future clients are protected from any threat of your ever violating confidentiality again. That one's obvious, but I would guess that after the events of the last couple of days it's already pretty likely that you've learned that lesson."

"No question about that, Peter. Every time I even hear the word "confidentiality" I'm going to have panic attacks for the rest of my life."

"Good. Then let's move on to the second, the other, criterion. That would be to impose a penalty unpleasant enough not only to deter you from future misconduct, but also to satisfy all concerned that bad deeds do not go unpunished. In this case, of course, 'all concerned' means just you and me."

"Yes, Peter, yes, that would be . . . That would be great, a perfect solution, obviously I would prefer that to the alternative, no question."

I was genuinely delighted, but of course I was not so naive that I couldn't imagine what Peter might have in mind. In all likelihood, his idea of a suitable punishment was to get me into bed for a night. I mused on that scenario for a few moments. For all my commitment to women's issues, I couldn't honestly tell myself that getting laid by Peter would be too awful a price to pay for my professional life.

I was looking at Peter with intense concentration. He looked startled for a moment, then seemed to swell visibly in self-confidence. 

"The penalty I have in mind for you, Jessica, is very definitely something that can only take place between the two of us, in private. I'm sure you have already surmised as much. And it will be important for you to show a certain degree of humility during your punishment. Even so, if you think you know exactly what I'm planning, I bet you're wrong."

Oh, I bet I'm not wrong, Dr. Peter McInnes. You have hatched up some creepy sexual fantasy that you're just itching to act out with me. Yeah, maybe I can't predict the details, but I have the general scenario down perfectly. And it's also pretty clear by now that you are one sick dude.

He was smiling abstractedly at the wall as he spoke.

"Just for the sake of argument, though, suppose my idea were indeed as crudely simple as extracting sexual favors from you. Why couldn't that be a fitting punishment? It would be a demonstration that you can submit to authority. It would be over quickly, with no lasting ill effects. You wouldn't even have to pay a fine. You would get to keep your career, and you would still earn your degree. By the way, the last draft of your dissertation that I read the other day was really quite good. I'm thinking of calling Dr. Hildner in a few days to tell her I think it's coming along well enough for you to set up a date to defend it before too long."

The crafty bastard really was in complete control of the situation, though I guess that had never been in doubt.

"But, while the dissertation may be going well, this e-mail episode means you have potentially screwed up your entire internship in a major way. In all fairness, you should be thrown out of psychology for good. However, if you accept my terms you will pay for your second chance, in fact you will completely wipe the slate clean, in just two evenings with me, beginning right here on Friday at seven. Well, not here; in the conference room."

I was too shocked to speak for a minute.

"And it's still not what you think, Jessica. On Friday you'll be tested and punished appropriately. If you pass satisfactorily, the punishment will be over and that part of the matter will be closed."

I could hardly believe it. OK, up in the Conference Room he'll give me some sort of test on ethics, fair enough. Then the famous bedroom scene back at his place, where he'll punish me with some demeaning sex act I'll have to perform for him. All right, I can handle it. And the second meeting? Another kinky sex scene? Fine. All this was actually going to happen to me. And you can bet I was going to agree to every bit of it. 

"Yes, Peter, all right, I accept. We both have something to gain, and there's very little to lose on either side. It's a no-brainer. So, I'll do exactly what you want." I hesitated before going on. "I guess I'll just have to trust that you won't betray me, right? I mean, what if you make me do whatever I have to do, then you end my career anyway?"

"I propose to make a video recording of our entire interaction, at least on our Friday night encounter. And two or three still photographs. You will be given copies. I think it's quite clear that neither one of us would want the other to disseminate those. If you try to come back at me later for what happens between us, I'll do what I should be doing right now and place your misconduct before our peers. Your career would still be very much in peril, believe me, even if you could show that I took advantage of you unfairly. And if I broke faith with you and spilled the beans anyway, you could take pleasure in producing photographs of our little tryst for the inspection of anyone you think might be interested." 

We debated the matter for a few minutes longer, but it was clear we had a deal. Obviously I was going to get laid by my Training Director, and in return I got to keep my career. Not a bad trade by any reckoning.

Incidentally, by the time I left there was no room for any doubt that the guy was more than a little kinky. He asked me to dress as I had dressed for my interview back in January. My thoughts drifted back. Excited, keen, delighted to receive extremely positive vibes from the interviewing panel after an exhausting day of meetings, the most important of which had been my interview with Peter himself. Certainly never thought he and I would be having a conversation like this less than a year later! Anyway, my best interview clothes. Smart black business suit, with short, tight skirt and matching jacket, and - he made a big deal of this - spike heeled shoes, the tallest and shiniest I had. OK, Peter, you've got it. I'm in no position to quibble about details. You want me all dolled up in my Sunday best? Yes, sir, that's how it'll be. 

Funny thing happened the next day, though. The guy sure had some nerve. He had typed up a contract for us both to sign. It was headed "Training Agreement" and had a line or two about an "ethics component." The rest had language like "informal resolution," "binding mutual agreement," and suchlike. It actually spelled out that he and I would have extra training sessions after hours and that I would take a stringent test with him. But he was crafty. We interns signed contracts for every component of our training, every rotation. It was so routine, most people never even read them through. After Peter and I had signed it, he called in Ms. Campbell from the outer office. She was the senior administrative assistant for the Psychology Service. She peered at the document over her glasses, and efficiently signed it over her typed name as witness.

"I can hardly believe you're already beginning a new rotation, Jessica! Seems only yesterday you and the others were asking me where to find the ladies' room!" She left, smiling benevolently to herself.

"Easy, isn't it?" As he looked up at me, Peter was smiling, also.

So, back to Friday night in the conference room. Now you know why I was a little on edge that night. Dr. Peter McInnes was going to come in here and give me some sort of exam on ethics. Believe me, I had prepared for that exam as if my life depended on it. Then, maybe after dallying in a cozy restaurant, we'd decamp to his place and he'd have his wicked way with me. I was wondering what he would be like in bed . . .

My heart leaped as I heard the jingling of keys in the outer office. Trembling, I jumped up out of the chair and looked anxiously towards the door. Peter shambled into the room carrying a large hold-all and what looked like a stick. He spread his stuff out on the table. Camcorder and tripod. Still camera, with a smaller tripod. The stick, a willow wand of some kind. He set up the still camera on the conference table, and pointed it toward a blank wall to the left of the door. The camcorder, mounted on its tripod, was set on the floor to the right of the door, aimed at the same patch of blank wall. Peter had said in our meeting on Wednesday that he was going to videotape the proceedings, but I had assumed he meant the intimate part, later in the evening. I must have been wrong. Clearly, he intended to videotape the test. I could see the rationale for that; if he flunked me unfairly I could always produce the tape to impartial outsiders to prove that I really knew my stuff. But why the still camera? That made no possible sense to me at all. Guess I'll soon find out, I commented to myself.

Peter sat in the dark red swivel chair at the head of the conference table, the "hot seat" for Case Conference presentations. He switched the camcorder on and started recording, though it was pointing away from the table, toward the wall.

"You look terrific, Jessica," he smiled. "Utterly stunning. Now, in a minute you'll be in the hot seat. Or, rather, at the hot seat."

I didn't quite understand, but I humored him.

"Whatever you say, Peter. I guess you call the shots tonight."

"Exactly. So, here's the first call. Go and stand over there by that wall, facing the cameras."

Puzzled, I strolled over to the wall, stopped, and turned around.

"Good. Now, take all your clothes off. Every stitch."

"What?"

I nearly fainted. I almost pinched myself to make sure I was still awake, to check that I was still in reality, that this was really, actually happening. A strong pulse was thudding in my throat. This was completely, utterly unexpected. What was he planning to do, make love on the conference table?

"You're kidding! What, here? Right now? In this room?"

He was amused by my surprise.

"Just go ahead and strip, Jessica. Take your time. You can put your clothes in the corner there."

"What if someone comes in? We can't do this here!"

"I have worked here for twenty years. No-one is ever here at this time of the week. The janitors won't be here until Sunday night. And you can bet we won't be disturbed by anyone in the Psychology Service. We have the place entirely to ourselves for as long as we want. Or, more accurately, as long as I want. So, get your clothes off right now, Jessica, before I start becoming impatient with you." 

I could hardly believe this was really happening. A few times since Wednesday I had wondered if perhaps if the whole evening was going to be sex, after all. I guess this request kind of answered that question pretty conclusively. But, even though I was getting a pretty good idea of what the deal was, his cool demeanor irritated the heck out of me. I had already committed myself to going along with whatever he had in mind, and there was no backing out now. But I sure didn't have to like it. In fact, I was seriously thinking of putting a stop to this whole crazy charade right then and there.

Peter was staring at me intensely. His eyes were large and - commanding. I was feeling a little dizzy, a little weak and faint. I remember thinking how persuasive Peter was, how much of a presence he had, how compelling his arguments had been for doing what we were doing. Thoughts of resisting him quickly faded from my mind.

"Jessica, take your clothes off right now, this minute."

"Yes, Peter, of course." 

I had dressed up pretty carefully for him that night, so getting undressed took a little while. He obviously didn't mind the wait. That camcorder was whirring away steadily the whole time I was disrobing. I had a shrewd idea that he, and goodness knew who else, would be viewing that videotape repeatedly in the months to come, so I didn't want to give him the satisfaction of letting my anger show. I stripped just as coolly as I could, trying to give the impression that the whole thing was a matter of complete indifference to me. I removed my earrings and put them on the table. I took off my suit jacket, then pulled my gray turtleneck sweater off over my head and shook my hair down. I paused for a minute to brush my hair carefully and apply a little more lipstick. I had already kicked off my heels. I unzipped my skirt and let it fall to the floor. A sudden groan from Peter.

"Pantyhose? I was hoping for thigh-length stockings!" He looked disappointed. As dryly as I could, I said:

"Don't worry, Peter, I guess it's all coming off anyway, right?"

For some reason I couldn't help thinking about Monday afternoon. This very room would be full of professional people, earnestly discussing a case. With a pang of anxiety I realized that I would be the one presenting that case, sitting in that dark red swivel chair at the head of the table. The confusing events of the past week had put that completely out of my head. But it was so weird to think of all those serious professional people who would be sitting around that table just three days from now. If they only knew what was going on in here tonight! 

"All right, Jessica, I guess it doesn't make too much difference. I just thought if you had stockings we might keep them on you for a while."

I stared at him, sullenly. I had a strange mixture of feelings. I had no thought of disobeying him; to my surprise, I was unaccountably eager to comply fully with his every request. But I was rapidly losing any respect I still had for the man.

"A little kinky, are you, Peter?"

"Oh, yes, indeed. Even kinkier than you imagine." 

"I suppose you want my bra and panties off?"

"Yes, very much."

I removed them as matter-of-factly as I could, which was difficult as I had to stoop down to get my panties off, thus displaying myself in the most vulnerable possible posture. I stood before him, naked. I'll never forget that feeling. Standing, nude, before Dr. Peter McInnes, Training Director, in the conference room where so many of the important meetings and decisions concerning the internship program took place. It was like one of those dreams in which you are at work or downtown, wearing no clothes. People staring at you incredulously. You're frantically trying to hide yourself, desperately searching for your clothes, but it's no good. Standing there, utterly defenseless before this powerful man, cool drafts whispering around my breasts and between my legs, I felt sensations and emotions I couldn't begin to identify. They were partly of the anxious, apprehensive kind, and partly a compound of shame, embarrassment, and guilt. But there's no denying that there was an immensely powerful erotic component, also. At that moment he could have asked me to do anything, absolutely anything, and I would have complied immediately, succumbing gladly to his every whim. 

But he surprised me once again with his next command.

"Now, put those shoes back on, Jessica."

I looked at him strangely.

"Of course, Peter, right away." It felt really weird, wearing those shoes and nothing else.

"Now, let's roll this chair over there."

I was seriously frowning by now. What, he wants to do it in a swivel chair? How's that going to work? He swung the chair around so its back was to the wall, the seat facing me. 

"Turn around. Bend over. Hold on to the arms of the chair."

I see. I get it. He wants to enter me from behind. But he hasn't taken his clothes off yet. I bent over as requested. 

"Stick your cute little rear end out a little more, Jessica."

I did. Then a pang of horror as I looked sideways at him. He had that willow cane in his hand. I suddenly realized, too late, what was happening here.

"No, Peter, for goodness' sake, you can't, no!"

"I said you were going to be punished. You are going to be disciplined for your misconduct. Disciplined the old-fashioned way. A tried and tested educational method. Just hold it right there while I get a still photo."

I was scared, my thoughts were reeling. He was going to cane me! 

"Peter, seriously, is this going to hurt? How many times? Don't do it! Please, don't! What can I do to stop you? I'll do anything at all . . ." 

He simply smiled and said nothing. The cane was in his right hand, something else in the other. It was a button that controlled the still camera. He swished the cane back and forth behind me and pressed the button. A loud click issued from the apparatus on the table. 




Unethical Conduct



"The video's going all the time, of course, but I'm also going to get a photograph every time."

I gasped out loud.

"Every time? Then how many . . ."

"Oh, four or five, Jessica. Don't worry, you won't be harmed. I'm not going to draw blood."

I was utterly stunned, my breath coming in short gasps.

"Quite harmless, Jessica," he continued. "But . . ."

He paused, his mouth set in a grim line. "But, there's no denying the fact that it is definitely going to hurt."

I felt so weak I could hardly hold myself in that position. My head was spinning.

"Peter, you really can't do this. I simply won't allow you to . . ."

"Stay exactly where you are!" He was shouting. "I built this program up against considerable opposition, and at great personal cost, over many difficult years. And I'm not having a thoughtless, empty-headed slip of a girl bring discredit on my Service by making utterly stupid and unnecessary mistakes."

The stinging whack of that cane jerked a sobbing gasp out of me. I couldn't believe how much it hurt. Nothing could have prepared me for the sudden surprise of that blow, the intense, white-hot, smarting pain. I knew I couldn't withstand this, I couldn't bear another blow like that. Desperately, I struggled to pull myself together to face the next one, but I . . .

The next swishing slap practically knocked the stuffing out of me. It was worse than the first one. It felt as if he had hit exactly the same spot. I stumbled sideways, wincing and gasping, crying freely. In a daze, I seized control of myself and staggered towards him.

"You sick, sadistic bastard! Don't you come near me with that thing again or I'll . . ."

"Or you'll what, Jessica? Want to call a halt to this? Want to opt out of our contract? Sure! Be my guest!"

He was laughing. 

"But if you want to save your career, you'll assume that rather alluring position once again and take a little more punishment."

I was utterly at his mercy. I had no choice but to comply.

"All right, all right," I sobbed. I gripped that chair and gritted my teeth, determined to stand it. The next blow truly sent me into a state of dissociation, of surreal consciousness. I knew it was happening to me, but it was as if I wasn't fully there; I was detached, seeing myself from the outside. There was no denying the incessant glaring, glowing, fiery pain of Peter's energetic assaults, but it was different now. I was looking at the whole scene from the camera's point of view. I saw myself writhing with each blow, shaking my head powerlessly, kicking my legs, but somehow holding on to that chair with fierce determination. I was sobbing and gasping. One blow pulled a colossal scream from me; I had had no idea I could ever make a sound like that.

And it was over. 

"You held up well, Jessica, congratulations!"

He was calmly putting the cane down and putting the camera away. The video was still recording. All I could feel was an immense relaxation. I was crying with relief.

"Yes, thank you, Peter, thank you!"

I was smiling through my tears. All I could do was pace quickly back and forth, smiling and laughing and wringing my hands.

"You can get your clothes back on if you want."

That wouldn't have been comfortable right then. My rear end was ablaze with smarting pain.

"Guess I'll wait awhile, Peter, if that's OK with you." 

"Fine, fine. Whatever."

"Do you have to keep that camcorder running?"

"I guess not." He switched it off. "When you're ready, you can get dressed again and we'll go and find something to eat. Bet you're hungry by now."

"Certainly am. But I sure as hell won't be sitting down for a while. I'll pass on the dinner, I'll get something at home later. And I'll be sleeping on my front tonight."

I paused, still wondering what he had in mind for the sex scene. But he surprised me one more time that night.

"In that case, you can take a rain check on dinner, and I'll be on my way. See you Monday."

He went back to packing his stuff away. I guessed the events of the evening were over. I couldn't resist a final question, though.

"Peter?"

"Yes?"

"What are you going to do with those photographs?"

4

Jessica

OK, back to me, Stephanie, for a while. Jessica and I were comfortably ensconced in the den at the back of her house, well on the way to emptying a second bottle of fine Australian Shiraz. "Comfortably ensconced" was about right. We were lounging back on a huge pile of quilts and pillows that had been thrown together haphazardly in a corner of the small room. A cheery log fire was crackling in the picturesque fireplace before us, and the warmth of the tiny room combined with the effects of the wine and the excellent meal we had shared downstairs to impart a mood of drowsy relaxation. We had agreed a few minutes earlier that it would be perfectly consistent with that mood to take all our clothes off, so we were enjoying our unabashed nakedness as we snuggled together. Jessica had finally consented to put an end to the frustrating state of suspense in which I had been left after reading her narrative. 

"If you listen to my next story, you'll get to hear how Ralph and I first met. I'm confident you'll never guess what the connection is with my old friend Dr. Peter McInnes."

Jessica was right about that.

"I'd love to hear it, but first you have to explain to me why you let that obnoxious bully thrash you like that!"

"The answer's simple. I let him because I very much wanted him to thrash me like that. It was one of the most exciting evenings I have ever had. I often think about it with nostalgic longing, wishing that I could go back in time and have the experience of that exquisite pain and delightful submission all over again."

"Jessica, are you deliberately trying to exasperate me? Tell me, tell me!"

She took a long sip from her glass and gazed vacantly into the fire.

"I've had the power all my life. I grew up in England, as you know, and in the moorlands of Devon and Cornwall the whole place is littered with ancient monuments of one kind or another - burial mounds, stone circles, ruined castles, that sort of thing. Glastonbury, Avebury, the Nine Maidens, the Hurling Stones - I knew every one of them intimately. As an infant, I was actually dragged through the Men-an-Tol three times against the moon . . ."

"What's the Men-an-Tol?"

"It looks like a granite doughnut, a prehistoric holed stone with strong mystical associations. It stands in a field in Cornwall. Anyway, during school vacations I spent every waking moment out on those moors, studying every detail of the old sites at every season of the year, and especially on the dates held sacred by the druids and other practitioners of the lost arts. In short, I became adept at harnessing certain powers that are always nearby, always around us, wherever we are."

"What do you do with those powers?"

"Use them for good, and for my own pleasure from time to time. You know I've had troubles in my life, and I certainly don't live in obvious affluence. But the power has helped me, and others, in a variety of quite tangible ways. How do you think I got into graduate school, with my lackluster college background? By influencing key people. By influencing them with a form of control that is similar to, but far stronger than, hypnosis. Now, Peter McInnes was a bit of a challenge. He has some powers himself. He tried to overmaster me during that whole episode following my ethical lapse. In fact, he thought he had succeeded in doing so. But I controlled him throughout that entire period. Because he had power, and could potentially read me, I had to conceal from him my true feelings and preferences. That meant that I had to live and breathe the role of timid, frightened student, entirely in his power and at his mercy. That's why my narrative makes it appear that I was a passive, naive, reluctant party throughout the entire encounter. And, of course, I had to pretend to be utterly cowed by him in that caning incident."

"And you truly weren't?"

"Truly, I not only loved every minute of it, I made him do it to me. He would never have had the nerve to actually do something like that even to the most vulnerable of students. There were five occasions during my conversations with him - four that you know about so far - when I directed powerful thoughts into his mind, thoughts that directed him to plan and execute the punishment episode and the evening at his house."

"You haven't told me about that yet!"

"Patience, dear, I'll tell you in a little while. Anyway, those five occasions when I controlled his thoughts? I flagged those in my narrative with certain phrases about my staring at him steadily, looking at him intently, and so forth. Each time I did so, I implanted specific ideas into his mind, and from that point he not only believed that he had originated those thoughts himself, he also had a compelling urge to act them out in real life."

"Incredible. What were the thoughts?"

"The first time, I told him to help me out of my trouble, motivating him with the thought that he would then be able to do whatever he wanted with me. Another time, I implanted in him the idea of humiliating and punishing me. Now, I have to admit, he took that idea and developed it far, far more fully than I had ever anticipated. All I had had in mind was for him to take me over his knee, pull my panties down, and spank me with his bare hand. What I got was so much better!" 

"Jess, this is utterly incredible. You have to admit, you were taking a colossal risk with that man. I realize I'm not into the S & M stuff half as much as you are, but I know enough to understand that there's a safety valve, there's a word you can say that will immediately stop the whole thing if it gets to be too much, and you clearly had no arrangement like that with this McInnes fellow!"

"I didn't need a word, Steph. All I would have needed was a thought. You have no idea how powerful - oh, and that reminds me. You said you and Michael found that picture on the Internet when he was researching a case? An abused woman?"

"Yes, I think I mentioned it to you, someone who would be a good candidate for the shelter if she could ever get there."

"Don't know her name, do you? Or her husband's?"

"No, Michael didn't say. Bet I could find out, though."

"It's OK, no matter. I guess I have enough to go on. Anyway, I've got some more pages for you to read later. It's about the second evening with the McInnes guy."

5

Repeat Performance?

Peter McInnes reminded me after Case Conference the following Monday that there was a second, and final, element to my rehabilitation with him. My immediate look of alarm amused him. 

"Relax, Jessica. But we can't discuss this here. Give me a minute and we'll go off-campus for a while, if you're free?"

He had told Ms. Campbell that we were going over to the mental health center in town where I would be having a rotation in another month or so. We had coffee at a small diner. In the middle of the afternoon, we practically had the place to ourselves. I gazed earnestly at Peter. He coughed abruptly, then regained his composure and relaxed, a confident expression on his face. 

"No ill effects from Friday, I hope?" he said, smiling at me over his coffee.

"No, but please let's not discuss that, Peter, OK?"

"OK, fine, no problem. But let me assure you, Jessica, that there will be no more caning, or anything remotely like it. What I want you to do is to visit my house this coming Friday evening. That is, if you won't be indisposed for any reason . . ."


No, you creepy bastard, I thought to myself, I'll still be OK at the end of the week, I won't get my next period for two weeks. So you can have all the sex you want with me Friday if it'll finally get me off the hook with you.

"That'll be fine, Peter," is what I actually said to the man.

I had thought the whole thing through over the weekend. Here are the points I made to myself. One, I'm a healthy woman who has now gone several months without sex, the longest period of abstinence in my whole adult life. Two, Peter is not unattractive. Three, he's putting himself so incredibly in the wrong with all this that he is handing me a stupendous amount of power over him for years to come. Power for me to cause him professional ruin, public disgrace, personal humiliation - quite aside from the potential civil lawsuit that could net me a million. And, four, I get to keep my career. All just for having sex, even kinky sex, which is what I was expecting from Peter based on recent experience. He was talking again, and would you believe it, he immediately proved me right! 

"How old are you, Jessica?"

The question surprised me.

"Twenty-seven."

"You've had relationships before?"

My, this was getting personal.

"Yes, Peter. One marriage, several relationships."

"You don't have moral objections to brief sexual encounters with men?"

I sighed, beginning to feel angry. We both knew what he was planning. Wasn't that humiliation enough, without making me acknowledge every detail? Patiently, I replied,

"No, Peter, I have no moral objections. You can have me every way you want, all weekend long, if you like. This is a deal between two mature adults. There's no problem at all, I'm quite willing to go ahead with it, with no reservations whatever."

"It's still not what you think, Jessica. But I'm interested to hear that I can have you every way I want. Does that mean you would be prepared to indulge in - well, you'd be OK with stuff other than under the covers in the conventional missionary position?"

This was getting almost laughable.

"Peter, you can do whatever you want with me, within reason. I don't want to get punished again, but you agreed on that, right?"

"Yes, yes, of course, no more physical punishment. But you would consent to being restrained?"

"Restrained, Peter?"

"Yes. Tied up."

Wow, Friday night was going to be interesting. I smiled at him.

"For you, Peter, anything."

He was actually looking acutely embarrassed by this point, but he collected himself and went on.

"Last question."

That was a relief. I wasn't sure I could take much more of this without collapsing in helpless laughter.

"My son is nineteen years old. He's very shy, very self-conscious, very lacking in self-confidence. And he's still a virgin. I want to give you to him on Friday night. Just the once, just a single encounter, I'm sure the whole thing will be over within an hour."

Wow. The guy was procuring me for his own son. Not just that, it sounded like he was going to gift-wrap me, too. That must be one truly messed-up family situation over there on the smart side of town. I was frowning at him.

"Like leading the bull to the cow, right, Peter?" I said wryly. Before he could reply, I hurried on. "But why do I have to be tied up? Why the kinky stuff? If your son's inexperienced, his requirements can't be that exacting yet, can they? Why don't I just make love with him in the usual way? I mean, I don't exactly relish the thought of a pimply adolescent slobbering all over me half the night, but it's no big deal for me to help him lose his virginity."

"It has to be the way I have in mind, Jessica. Otherwise the deal's off."

I thought about that for a moment, and decided that I did not like that idea at all. 

"Peter, I'll go along with it if you really want me to. I just wanted to know why it can't just be a normal sexual encounter between two consenting adults."

Peter sighed.

"He's really uptight about women, he's extremely self-conscious. OK, here's what I thought. My bedroom. It's large and comfortable. Dimly lit. You have all your clothes off. You bend over this large clothes chest I keep at the foot of the bed, and I tie your wrists to the brass rails of the bedstead. Then, he mounts you from behind. That way, he doesn't have to see your disapproving expression, he doesn't have to see you laughing at him, and he knows you won't threaten him, confront him, or resist him, because you're in restraints. It's the best way I can think of for him to get his initiation, Jessica.

"And this next part's important, too. Very important. I don't want his first experience to be in the back of a car with a slut. I want it to be with an attractive, intelligent, decent, mature woman. You." 

The guy really meant it. And there was no mistaking the fact, Peter is a very weird dude indeed. 

"All right, Peter, all right, I'll agree to most of that. But I'll be damned if I'll let myself be ravished by a guy, however young or inexperienced, who doesn't even have the guts to pull my panties off himself! So I'll at least keep my underwear on until he gets started with me. By the way, what's his name, and what does he look like?"

6

Ralph

Peter picked me up at my apartment on the Friday evening in his Jaguar. We students all knew he was well off, more so than would be expected from his job at the V.A. hospital, but no-one could figure where he got his money from. Mysterious guy. 

I had asked if he had any expectations of me re dress code this time, and he had said no, wear whatever you want. Guess that made sense after our previous conversation. So I was wearing jeans, a black turtleneck, and a heavy sweater; the fall nights were getting quite chilly. My underwear, though, I had chosen with some care.

"Peter, about last Friday."

"Yes?"

"The caning. In the nude. High heels. That was obviously sexual, but how come you didn't . . ."

"No, in fact it wasn't sexual, not really, Jessica."

"What? Are you kidding? If I had been a male student and screwed up in exactly the same way, what would have happened?"

"You would have been thrown out of the internship."

"So it clearly was sexual!"

He paused.

"It's complicated. I wouldn't have given a man the chance I gave you, I don't quite know why. And I wanted to see how compliant you could be. Thinking of my son, you see. And, for the same reason, I wanted to see you naked. Finally, there was the videotape."

"Oh, the videotape. Tell me about that."

"I showed it to him the other night. I wanted to know if he would like you."

Great. The kid saw me being thrashed by his father. Wonderful introduction. Especially my pleading for mercy, yelping in pain, and sobbing with relief afterwards.

"Well? And did he 'like' me?"

"Yes, Jessica. Very much indeed."

"Really great. What happens if he can only ever get turned on by seeing me getting spanked by his father?"

"No problem there. He only saw the first part. When you stripped, I mean. He thought you were extremely attractive."

I could think of no constructive reply.

Peter pulled up outside his house, a large brick residence on a tree-lined boulevard in the best section of town. The front porch actually had stone pillars on either side of the door. I had been there before, when he had thrown a welcome party for the new interns back in early July. It was weird, thinking back to that cookout in his back yard on that warm summer evening, surrounded by new friends and thrilled by the exciting new prospects opening up before me. I could never have even begun to imagine what would be going through my mind in this same place only four months later.

"Come right upstairs, Jessica," he ordered, leading the way up a broad staircase. The house was huge, and extremely tastefully decorated. We went right into what was obviously the master bedroom, the largest bedroom I had ever seen outside stately mansions in England and France.

The king size bed actually looked small over against the back wall of that immense room. There were brass rails at the head and foot of the bed, and pushed up against the rail at the foot was a magnificent, round-topped clothes chest. Draped over the top of it was a very fluffy sheepskin rug. That, too, was on the same scale as the rest of that house, obviously the largest obtainable.




Unethical Conduct



"Is there anything you want before we start, Jessica? A drink, maybe?"

"I will use your bathroom, Peter, before getting involved in the main business of the evening. And, yes, a glass of red wine, if you please."

Ten minutes later we were back in the bedroom. I have to confess, my heart was pounding in anticipation of what was to come. Peter switched off the chandelier lights and left on just two or three table lamps, each on bulky dressers at the sides of that vast room. The effect was to dim the lighting considerably. Peter's son had yet to make his appearance.

"Jessica, I'd like you to slip out of your clothes now." He was trying to sound business-like.

"OK, but I keep my panties on this time, remember?"

"Yes, I remember." 

I quickly removed my clothes and approached him coyly. He was trying not to look at me.

"Now, bend over that clothes chest at the foot of the bed, and hold on to that brass railing. I think the height is just right, but let's check."

Unaccountably, I gave him a willing smile, and bent over the chest. The sheepskin felt really soft and sexy against my bare stomach and breasts. The railing was cool to the touch as I held it firmly, my hands about two feet apart.

"Yes, that's great, just great, Jessica."

My toes just touched the floor, the deep pile of that luxurious carpet. I was a little worried about getting uncomfortable if I had to hold that position for very long, because my bottom was higher than my head at that point, and it was a little hard to breathe, stretching myself over that huge chest to grip the brass rail. I told Peter as much.

"It really won't be long, Jessica, I promise. As I said, Ralph is so shy that the only way he can possibly do this is if he doesn't have to look you in the face. And if I just use these to tie you to the bed, he'll be assured that you won't be able to resist him or confront him in any way."

He produced two white silk scarves.

"All right, Peter," I replied, as coolly as I could. "He won't have to look me in the face, but I guess he'll get a pretty uninterrupted view of my other end, won't he?"

Peter left that one alone. He took one of the scarves and brought the ends together, letting the loop hang down. He passed it under my left wrist, then pulled the free ends through the loop and tightened it.

"Be sure to let me know if this is too uncomfortable, Jessica."

He tied the ends of the scarf to the brass rail, then repeated the procedure with the other scarf and my right wrist. I told him it wasn't uncomfortable at all. But, as I can now attest, it's hardly possible to feel more vulnerable than I did right at that moment. I twisted around and looked at him, smiling.

"Guess I'm ready for him, Peter."

His expression changed. He looked grim.

"Not quite."

Before I had even registered the change in him, he grabbed the elastic waistband of my panties and pulled them down around my ankles. To my surprise, I simply gasped in annoyance, then calmly stepped out of them. Peter picked them up and put them in his pocket.

"Good girl."

Now, that really did feel weird. Completely in the nude and with my hands tied to a brass bedstead - that's a sensation I had never had before. It was deliciously sexy.

"I'll go and get him. He'll be with you shortly."

I only had to wait about two minutes before I heard the murmur of voices approaching along the richly carpeted corridor outside the room. But I'll never forget the trembling, excited anticipation that engulfed me that night as I waited for young Ralph to enter that room - with a view to entering me shortly thereafter. As the door quietly opened a waft of air gently tickled me between the legs.

"Oh, hi, you must be Ms. Sherwood," faltered the tall young man who entered the room hesitantly. Resisting the urge to laugh hysterically, I thought of at least half a dozen highly ironic replies. But I simply said,

"Yes, but under the circumstances you had really better call me Jessica."

I turned my head towards him as he approached me tentatively from my right. I had to blow the hair out of my eyes to see him. He was taller than his father, quite handsome in a somewhat foppish, tousled-hair sort of way.

"Yes, well, Jessica, I'm pleased to meet you," he continued.

"Pleased to meet you, too, Ralph. Normally I would shake hands, of course, but as you can see that's a little difficult right now - "

Looking horrified, he backed away.

"No, really, I can't do this. This is all wrong. There's no way I'm going to even touch you with you in that position. You have to understand, my father is a very controlling person . . ."

"You can certainly say that again." That just came out, I couldn't help it. "But, Ralph, don't go. It really is OK. I honestly, freely consent to this whole thing. I like doing it this way. I'm very unconventional." I really surprised myself. Why was I saying that to him? "I'd be glad to have you give me pleasure just as soon as you're ready."

He was hovering near the door.

"Are you quite sure?" He was looking so intense, so serious, I nearly laughed at him. That would not have been good, both because I didn't want to destroy his self-confidence and because my position did not allow it - it was a getting a little hard to breathe as it was. I had to turn my head away from him just to rest my neck a little. I tried to relax, head down between my outstretched arms, breathing slowly and deeply. When I looked up again I was stunned to see that he had removed all his clothes and that he was more than ready to proceed with the evening's agenda. He was a very well-endowed, and extremely tumescent, young man. I turned my head away before he saw me looking at him.

His sudden entry took me completely by surprise. He simply slid himself right into me from back there and I had a colossal orgasm almost immediately. I had never had that experience before. And I didn't realize I had shouted out loud.

"Are you OK?" he asked, anxiously.

"Yes, yes, more than OK. Please don't stop! It's great! It's great!"

"Wow!" he laughed, and resumed his energetic plunging.

7

No Surprise

This time Jessica and I were at my place, lounging in the hot tub. Michael was out of town on a case.

"Jessica, that was a scream! Ralph was actually a timid, nerdy virgin when you met him! And what a meeting! Now, are you going to tell me you planned that whole encounter, too?"

"Yes. That one I planned down to the last detail. I had seen Ralph at his father's welcome party for the internship, though he didn't remember me. I wanted to initiate him, and I wanted it to happen in exactly that way. It was utterly awesome."

"So all the private thoughts you expressed in your write-up were again solely for McInnes' benefit?"

"Precisely. My real thoughts were, "I'm going to get laid by that cute young man, and he's going to penetrate me mercilessly while I'm tied helplessly to a bed in the nude. And it's going to be fantastic!"

"Wait a minute! So if Ralph's the son of McInnes, how come his name's different?"

"That's easy. When Ralph's parents divorced, he chose his mother's name. Can't imagine why, knowing what his father's like!"

We were silent for a few moments. Then I remembered.

"By the way, Jessica, the most curious thing happened this morning. Michael read in the paper that his client's husband - the abusive guy who looks so charming to outsiders - suddenly dropped dead of a heart attack the night before last. Can you believe that for a lucky break?"

"Oh, yes," Jessica yawned. "I certainly believe it. No surprise there, not at all."

(c) 2003 Allison Cranley