In return for my containment, I keep Simon’s prescriptions current. Vicodin is his latest addiction, and from his level of dependence, it is a demanding tyrant. Simon understands that if he ever unlocks me, ever releases me before morning, his prescriptions will stop, and his addiction will go hungry. He doesn’t realize he might die at my hand.
CHAPTER 3: Annie
Annie sat on one of the high stools in her kitchen, kicking the baseboard of the bar top, which caused her stool to slowly spin, right then left. Her book bag, the edges frayed from three years of use, slumped against the bar, exhausted from a day of reading, writing, and riding the bus.
“Stop that,” her mother said—not turning—the sound from Annie’s kicks grating on her nerves. She stirred a bowl of pink icing, Annie’s birthday cake cooling next to her on the counter. Seven candles were laid in a line next to the cake, along with a jar of sprinkles.
Annie stopped, using her hands instead, to spin her stool. She looked at the digital display of the old microwave above the stove. 3:49 p.m. Over two hours ‘til her party. She pushed off the stool, the worn soles of her sneakers smacking against the kitchen’s clean linoleum floor as she headed to the round table, pushed into one corner of the kitchen. Rounding the table slowly, she ran her hands over the tops of the bright and sparkly packaged plastic bags, stuffed with candy, markers, and packets of stickers. Ten favors in all, for her ten best friends. Hearing her father’s call, she turned from the table and ran, following the sound of his voice ‘til she reached his chair, set up in the living room.
Her father wanted company, so Annie sat in the living room with him, her feet tucked under her, curled into the corner of the couch. Their dog, a mutt that had scratched at the trailer door for two weeks before her mother finally relented and welcomed him in, jumped up beside her, circling twice before settling in, snug against her body. His wire bristle black and grey hair scratched her bare leg, and she reached out a small hand and patted his head. His tail thumped, slow and steady, and he opened one eye to look contentedly at her. He was a good dog, but what she really wanted was a kitty—one with soft fur and big eyes, who would curl up in bed with her at night.
“How was school?” Her father’s voice was creaky, roughened by too many years of cigarettes and coughing. He reached for his tea, and drops of condensation dripped down the side, landing with a soft splat on the worn surface of the table.
“It was good, Daddy.”
“You like first grade?”
On TV, a soda commercial came on, and Annie watched a bejeweled pop star singing and dancing through a crowded street. “I guess.”
“How’s your teacher? Miss Parakeet, is that her name?”
She dissolved into giggles and reached out and pinched her father’s arm. “It’s Miss Sparrow, Daddy. I’ve told you that, like eight times.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I get confused.” He grinned at her and tousled the top of her blond head. “Excited about your party?”
She nodded enthusiastically. “Super excited, Daddy.”
CHAPTER 4: DoctorPat92
MALE ASS PLAY: Many men find anal sex pleasurable, and some may reach orgasm through anal penetration—by stimulation of the prostate in men. Pegging is the term for sexual practice in which a woman penetrates a man’s anus with a strap-on dildo.1 The National Institutes of Health, with information published in the British Medical Journal, states, “There is little published data on how many heterosexual men would like their anus to be sexually stimulated in a heterosexual relationship,” but that it is a substantial number. What data we do have almost all relate to penetrative sexual acts, and the superficial contact of the anal ring with fingers or the tongue is even less well documented, but may be assumed to be a common sexual activity for men of all sexual orientations.”2
A client’s username can tell me a lot about the person. With descriptive usernames, like DoctorPat92 or 1HotLawyer, it is often who they are or who they wish they were. Numbers in a username typically stand for a child’s birth year, their graduation year, or their age. I have a lot of “doctors” that pass through my chat room, but DoctorPat is, for once, an actual doctor. And, as you might guess, I occasionally have a need for one.
DoctorPat92’s real name is Dr. Patrick Henton. He is a fifty-five year old general practitioner in a little town in Maine called Buckfield. According to reviews on Google, he is well liked and competent, though I don’t know how competent the sole doctor in a town of 1,900 people needs to be. He is more than adequate for my basic needs. A sequestered individual, with no access to the outside world, has to work pretty hard to get sick or injured. My basic needs revolve around one thing—drugs. Not for me. For Simon. I’m sure DoctorPat thinks I am the painkiller addict. I don’t really care what DoctorPat thinks. He writes me prescriptions, and I watch him take eight-inch dildos. It’s a win-win for both of us.
Our chat sessions started out normal enough, and in the way that most relationships do.
DoctorPat92: hey
“Hi Doctor. My name is Jessica. What’s yours?”
DoctorPat92: Pat. Patrick, if you want to be formal.
I laughed, cross-legged on the bed, a wide grin on my face. “I’m not formal. So, Pat. Are you a doctor?”
DoctorPat92: yes
“Cool! And what are you interested in tonight?”
DoctorPat92: u. can u take off your clothes?
“Of course. All of them?”
DoctorPat92: u r beautiful
DoctorPat92: yes. slowly please.
DoctorPat92: slower
DoctorPat92: ty. now lay, just like that, and tell me about yourself.
I stopped physically typing my responses a long time ago. Most camgirls type and don’t speak. I don’t know if it’s because their English sucks, or if it’s because they are in a camming sweatshop of sorts where, if all of the girls were talking, it’d sound like a Russian call center. Men don’t want to know that they are one of many. They want to imagine a girl in her bedroom, no one else around, wanting to talk only to them. I think the fact that I talk adds to my popularity. The fact that I am American, an oddity in itself, is also a big draw. So, the client experience is one reason I don’t type. The other reason is that it’s really hard to type and masturbate at the same time, at least for me. The men don’t seem to have a problem with it.
We were eight chats in before DoctorPat hooked up a webcam. I like when I can see the clients. It’s funny how your mind will create an image of a person, and how wrong your mind almost always is. My mind wasn’t too far off with DoctorPat. He was an utterly non-descript, typical adult male in his fifties, with a thick head of salt and pepper hair, average build, and average looks. What I found more surprising from DoctorPat’s streaming video was that he was dressed; wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, looking as innocent as if he was sitting down to Skype with his grandchildren. The second time he displayed his cam, I asked him about it.