The Doctor Will See You Now
"You're out of your fuckin' mind!" Jimmy shouted.
"Yeah, yeah," Dr. Montrose muttered, too busy to pay much attention to the naked man strapped to the table.
"How the hell do you think you can get away with this! You can't just kidnap somebody and experiment on them! What's going on in your head, you sick fuck!"
The man, who had identified himself to Jimmy as a doctor, was tall and barrel-chested, which gave him an imposing presence. He wore a white medical jacket, and there was a stethoscope hanging from his neck. His brown mustache was neatly trimmed. Though he had once been a double doctor, an MD specializing in cosmetic and plastic surgery and a PhD.-ed biochemist, he was technically now only one. They had taken away his license to practice medicine, and it was only by virtue of the fact that he'd made so much money at his former clinic, that he had escaped jail time.
Jimmy resumed struggling against the restraints. He'd tried when he had first awakened, and again when the man, who'd said his name was Dr. Jack Montrose, had come in and briefly explained his crazy plan. Neither struggle had produced any positive results.
"This isn't morally right," Jimmy shouted, trying another tack. "I'm a human being. A person, just like you. What you're doing is wrong."
The doctor finally had this implements arranged as he wanted them, so he could take a moment and speak to his patient.
"You are an advancement for society, my friend," Dr. Montrose said. "Contrary to what you seem to think, you are not at all like me. You are younger. You are frail. You are uneducated. You are a civilian. But most of all, you are unimportant. That's about to change." He pulled a chair near the operating table, and sat down.
After they'd yanked his license, he had been forced to leave Dallas, and find a quiet location, away from anyone who might have heard of him. He'd gone to Arizona. Realtors were a dime a dozen, and it was easy to choose one who would work hard for a cash-paying customer.
He'd told the woman he was a retired scientist, which was, in a way, true. She was only too happy to find him a remote, very quiet, and very private ranch with substantial acreage. It even had a swimming pool and tennis court. He built his lab inside the barn.
The problem with being, as he thought of it, far beyond the thinking of the pedestrian and parochial medical community, was that there was no one to talk to. Having been involved in a scandal that cost him his license, added to his burden. He avoided striking up conversations in town, for fear that someone would ask too many questions. If he became known as a middle-aged eccentric, that was all to the good. Weirdo-intellectual-scientist guy? Fine with him.
But now he had someone to talk to. Someone whom he could trust with conversation about his work. Someone, perhaps, that he could convince.
"Get a volunteer, for god's sake," Jimmy said. "I'm sure there are lots of guys who would volunteer."
"Nooooo," Montrose said. "A volunteer wouldn't work. Too public. How does one get volunteers without, at a minimum, asking around? Nope. It was much easier to go out of town and anonymously mingle with the public, until I found someone. You."
"But why me?" Jimmy asked. "I'm just a regular guy," The doctor seemed prepared to talk, and Jimmy wanted to keep the conversation going. It would delay the actions the guy told him about. And he might even convince him to let him go.
"Small," Montrose said. "Five-five, a woman's height. Young. Twenty. A nice age for a girl. Apparently healthy. Slim. Not hirsute. Not well educated. Good facial features. Nothing too prominent. I liked your cheek bones. Ears will have to be pinned back a little, but that's no problem. Eyebrows and eye shape are already close to correct. No girlfriend, as far as I could tell. No family in the area. Where is your family, by the way?"
"New Jersey," Jimmy said. "I came out to New Mexico for a job that disappeared when I got there. The whole company disappeared. I worked there a week, and they told us they were shutting it down. There wasn't really much available after that."
"You didn't choose to come here to Arizona? I understand there are some good jobs here," Montrose said.
"That's not what I heard," Jimmy said.
"Ah," the doctor said. "Maybe not. I'm not really well informed about that sort of thing."
"Look, I understand about the physical characteristics and all," Jimmy said. "Really." He was trying to appear reasonable, and hoped it was catchy. "But there must be thousands of guys in Arizona like me."
"Too close to home," Montrose said. "But I didn't want to travel too far, either. Flat tire. License checkpoint. Drunk driver. The probability of any number of problems increases with the length of the trip. New Mexico it was."
"Okay," Jimmy said. "But there's thousands of guys in New Mexico like me. They're not all six-two, like you."
"That's true," the doctor said. "You just happened to be the first one I saw that fit the bill."
"You're telling me it was just chance?" Jimmy said. He was shocked – and he didn't know whether to be insulted, or start screaming at his bad luck.
The doctor smiled his best bedside manner smile. "Just chance, Jimmy," he said. "In all honesty, you're not really important. Not yet. As you say, it could have been one of a thousand people who got this opportunity. You'll only become important afterward. But even then, it will have to be our little secret."
Dr. Montrose smiled, "Think, Jimmy. After we're done – assuming we're successful, and I'm sure we will be – I can't have you running around saying, 'Look what he did to me!' No, not at all. That won't do, will it? I've had enough with the unscrupulous press, thank you. I want no part of that."
"Then what? I don't get it," Jimmy said.
"You stay here," Montrose said. "It's that simple."
"I'm not staying here," Jimmy said. "That's bullshit."
The doctor chuckled. "Bullshit it may be, but that's what's going to happen. I don't see any alternative, do you?"
"Then nobody knows about your great advance in science," Jimmy said, hoping to play to the madman's ego.
Montrose nodded. "That's the way it has to be. A shame, too. But I'll know. So will you, of course. And they'll know after I die. I won't be some forgotten medical scientist in the middle of nowhere. Nope. I figure to become very, very famous. You, too, Jimmy."
Jimmy shook his head, silently protesting. The fucker was off his rocker. He was so calm about it, so sure that his idiot plan was going to make him world famous – after he died! Who gives a shit about what people think about you, after you die? The guy was a certifiable lunatic.
"Dr. Montrose," Jimmy said.
"I haven't seen any other doctors here. No nurses, either. Nobody but you."
"Of course not. I couldn't trust anyone with this," Montrose said.
"In hospitals, when they do operations and stuff, they always have a standby doctor, in case the main surgeon has a heart attack or something. And there's always nurses to assist him."
"The comforts of civilization, meted out to those that toe the mark," Montrose said. "Cross the line and, swish, they're pulled away from you before you have time to blink. That's how they get you to go along, you know. It's their heroin. Money, prestige, and respect from all the quacks that toe the mark. Trophy wives. Awe from all the little people. Oh, yes, Jimmy, it's a tempting salad."
"The chef's salad of success," Montrose said. "Some of this, some of that, and garnishes on the side. Whatever ingredient you want. Lean meat in little rolls, and the dressing of money poured over it. That's the heroin of success, Jimmy. I had it. I know."
"But isn't it risky not to have a standby doctor, and some nurses?" Jimmy asked. "Sounds too risky to me."
"Nonsense! Medics handle themselves with great skill on the battlefield. Amazing work, under trying conditions. They just don't make a lot of money. Those standby doctors? Just another way to get their billing up without doing anything. Nurses? I can find my own forceps, thank you. It's just advanced planning. A well-designed instrument tray. There's no need to worry about a thing, Jimmy. Trust me."
"But I am worried," Jimmy said. "Very worried."
"Well, a little shot will take care of that. No problem."
"But this is an experimental operation. When I woke up, you told me that," Jimmy protested.
Montrose held up a finger, "Experimental in some regards and certainly it's never been all put together, but most of the elements have been done before. Just not as well. When I sculpt, no detail is skipped. I've thought about nothing else for the last two years. You don't think I want to fail, do you?"
"No, but . . ."
"And I won't! This is my specialty, and I'm the best in the world at it. You're in very, very good hands, Jimmy. The best hands."
"I'm sure of that, doctor," Jimmy said, "but things can always go wrong. There's always the unexpected. That's why they call it the unexpected."
"Listen to yourself, Jimmy. If it's always coming, they know it's coming, and it's not unexpected, is it?"
Jimmy was confused for a moment, and Montrose took the pause as an opportunity to advance the conversation.
"Now, what do you want to know about the procedures and the treatment?" he asked.
"Operations? More than one?" Jimmy suddenly felt a lot worse, and that was hard to do.
"Oh yes," Montrose said. "And call them 'procedures', Jimmy. 'Operations' scares the patients. Makes them think of cutting."
"But you are going to cut, aren't you?" Jimmy said, his voice shaking.
"Oh, you betcha," Montrose said. "We can't do it all at once, though. As a layperson I wouldn't expect you to understand, but I'll say it in terms that will make sense to you. I perform a procedure. The body needs a little time to adjust to the changes. I can't do more, until that adjustment takes place. Then there's the chemistry."
"Chemistry?" Jimmy said, suddenly feeling sick to his stomach.
"The chemistry of the body," Montrose said. "Have to fool around with that, too."
"No, no," Montrose said quickly. "Not fool around in the sense of play. In the sense of altering, adjusting, replacing, changing. That sort of thing. That's where we test the theories."
"But I don't want that done to me," Jimmy protested.
"Now, now, we've been through all that. We've moved on," the doctor said. "I can give you some choices."
"Certainly," Montrose said, brightening. "A B cup, or a C cup, for example."
"What's that?" Jimmy asked, knowing he wouldn't like the answer.
"Breast size, Jimmy. A B is what you see most often. A C cup is . . . Well, you see a C cup and you say, 'Hey, nice rack.'"
Jimmy moaned, and his head dropped back to the padded table.
Montrose frowned. He was disappointed in Jimmy, but he didn't want to dwell on that. Keep it positive. The important thing was the success of his ideas. The real important thing was showing those bastards. Too bad a lot of them will be dead by the time they'd find out about his Miracle in the Desert. Or maybe not. Actually, that might be a positive. It would show that their lives had been wasted. They'd be remembered only as the foolish physicians who fought his genius – and they wouldn't be around to defend themselves. Splendid!
"I didn't expect you to be too thrilled at first," he told the prone man. "Being kidnapped and all. But it will be easier on you, and help me do my work, if you have an understanding of what's going to happen to you - and when it will happen. I don't want you going around fearing the unknown."
Jimmy made no response. He was flexing the arm on the side away from the seated doctor, trying with all his might to break through the straps. When that again failed, he started stretching, and then pulling up his shoulder, hoping to be able to reach a buckle or fastener of some kind.
"We'll keep it in layman's terms, so you'll understand." He paused, waiting for an acknowledgment.
"Don't do it," Jimmy finally said.
Montrose frowned. "Look, it's all settled. I'm not going to keep revisiting that, over and over. I'm starting to get a little irritated with you, Jimmy. We have moved on."
"Don't do it," Jimmy repeated.
"You little, ungrateful bastard," Montrose said evenly. "I've made you a part of the greatest advance in scientific medicine in recent times, and you have the gall to whine. Well, mister, just you think of a thing or two, before you give me any crap. One: you're naked and strapped to an operating table. Number two: no one knows you're here, and I doubt anyone even knows you're missing – or gives a good goddamn. Certainly not any of your ex-co-weasels at that time share scam you were working for. Oh yes, I know all about that. I got stuck for one of those rip-offs when I first started my practice, so, yes, I know what kind of glib weasels those people are. Only too well. You weren't associating with the salt of the earth, Jimmy. Not by a long shot."
Montrose had worked himself up, and he took a deep breath before continuing. "Number three: I've got a cabinet full of things over there, that can make you hurt, real bad, if I so choose to use them. Number four: I can carry out this procedure quite successfully, and still give you four nostrils and no chin if you piss me off. So if I was you, I'd watch my damn mouth."
"I'm sorry," Jimmy said. The time share job was the best he could do under the circumstances, and it wasn't fair of the doctor to blame him for that. Hell, he wouldn't have taken it if he could have found something else that paid as much, in cash, as they had. What was he supposed to do, get a straight job and give up his social security number so it would show up on the computers in Jersey? Sure, and get a visit from the local cowboy cops; them with a warrant and extradition for the assault and rape charges? Not hardly.
One thing was for sure: he was currently up to his ass in alligators. The doc' was a madman, and Jimmy was helpless.
"You've got to understand it from my point of view," Jimmy said. "I don't even have any way of knowing if you're a real doctor or not. Or a scientist, or whatever. You're a stranger to me. I've been kidnapped. I'm helpless. You tell me you're going to do an experimental bunch of surgeries and other stuff to me, some that have never been done before. You tell me I'm not going to be a guy anymore; you're going to make me into a damn girl. Then you say I'm never leaving this place. I'm terrified. I'm going out of my fucking mind with fear."
"You doubt my credentials?" Montrose said, shocked. "Would I be doing this without the training, the skills, the experience to make it succeed?" His voice was rising. "I have press clippings! I'm the best in my field. Before they ganged up on me, I was highly respected throughout the Southwest. Throughout the country! Everyone knew me! I'll show you! My degrees! My papers!"
He quickly stood up. "I've got proof! How could you . . . question . . . me! You're a fucking patient, for chrissakes!""
He lunged from the room.
Jimmy put his whole body into trying to wiggle and pry himself free from the restraints.
"Enough?" Dr. Montrose asked, using his bedside voice.
Montrose removed the straw from Jimmy's lips.
"Don't try to move your facial muscles too much," Montrose said. "Even when the bandages come off tomorrow, we'll want to take it easy for a while. We have to let everything sort of settle in. Then some mild stretching."
Jimmy didn't say anything.
"Well," the doctor said, disappointed that his patient was still taciturn.
He turned to the small table by the hospital bed. The array of pills, syringes and bottles would have overwhelmed a civilian, and their combination would have perplexed another doctor, but Montrose felt he had everything under control. He kept meticulous records, not only of when the concoctions were administered, but also of the physical reactions of his patient.
The psychological records contained fewer numbers, and more generalizations. His patient seemed to pout more often, give him the silent treatment, and break out in tears when things didn't go his way, but the circumstances were so unusual that any evaluation of those traits would be imprecise.
He looked down at the naked body. "I think we made a wise choice, going with the C cup. They look very good on you. A B wouldn't have looked right. Of course, when you're ready we'll do a little lipo- and bring your waist down. Even a B would look good at that point. Still, C was definitely the right choice."
He looked at his patient, but Jimmy made no response. His eyes glared at the doctor.
"Okay, then," Montrose said. He turned away from the bed, then suddenly turned back. "I think it's time for your new name. Can't be calling you 'Jimmy' anymore, not packin' a set of twins like those babies. Myself, I've always been partial to the name Cindy. Sounds cute. When I hear that name I picture a cute girl. That's what you're on your way to becoming, so I think we'll call you Cindy from now on. Cindy Preston. How's that sound to you?"
"Fuck you, and the horse you rode in on," Jimmy muttered.
"You've still got the same smart ass mouth, don't you?" Montrose said. "Even if not much else about you is the same. Well, we'll fix that, too, when the time's right."
Jimmy was going to say something else, but it hurt to move his facial muscles,
"Try and get some sleep now," Montrose said. "That's the best thing for you."
He turned off the lights as he left.
Jimmy didn't move. Over the last two weeks he had tried everything he could think of to stretch or break the various straps that held him to the bed, operating table or gurney. They never did budge. He had tried to get through to the doctor, but he hadn't budged either. He had snapped, though, that was pretty obvious. Jimmy didn't know when – maybe during the time when he was losing his medical license and his life had been turned upside down. Whenever, there was no getting through to him now.
He knew that Montrose sedated him, off and on, most heavily just before the operations. It wasn't a secret. His memories were cloudy, and he always seemed to be sleeping or on the verge of sleep. Various parts of him hurt at various time. No, not hurt. They were sore, or numb, or sometimes felt like they were burning. Occasionally he itched. Occasionally he felt as if he was involved in a high-speed atrophying.
He was queasy from time to time. The doctor gave him a number of shots, poked different needles into the I.V. that hung by the bed, and told him to expect to feel like that. "There's a lot going on inside, Jimmy," he'd said. "It's all coming along perfectly as expected. I anticipated your queasiness, and there's nothing to be alarmed about. I'm taking very good care of you."
That part seemed to be true, if he could forget what was being done to him. Most of the times when Jimmy awoke, Montrose was at his bedside. He drew a syringe of blood on a regular basis, and was constantly checking Jimmy's body. He scraped skin on two different occasions, collected waste, pinched fat with a stainless steel instrument, and measured everything. Shots were administered in strange places, and Montrose used a large magnifying glass to check Jimmy's face and skin.
It was difficult to keep track of time under the effects of the medication, and he paid special attention when Montrose used a word such as "tomorrow", or a phrase such as "last week". There was no advantage in knowing what day it was, but it gave him an anchor in his otherwise surreal life. Time was a familiar reference in a world where very little else fit known slots in his old reality. Still, most of the time he felt as if he was drifting, and he couldn't tell how much time had passed since he last thought about it.
Jimmy was very aware of his new breasts, of course, and equally aware of the new facial surgery, but he was also vaguely aware that there had been other surgeries. He just couldn't focus on what they had been all about. When he had any degree of alertness all he thought about was getting away from the doctor.
Montrose had an erratic personality. On occasion he was solicitous and wanted to talk. Other times, he was removed and clinical. He was quick to anger over the oddest things, but let others slide by with a smile. Jimmy bitched at him, pled with him, and tried to reason with him. The doctor either ignored him or sedated him when that happened, and during the third week he pretty much gave up.
"I wanna look," Jimmy said.
It was funny, but he felt as if his words and phrasing weren't authentic, as if he was acting. That was the result of his new, higher pitched voice. He hadn't connected with it yet. Immediately after the surgery he'd spoken in whispers, but after the healing, he'd tried out his voice. It shocked him. He refused to speak for a day. If it hadn't been for the medication, he would have kept up the silent protest. But the sedatives, or whatever they were, weakened his will.
"I'm afraid not, Cindy," Dr. Montrose said. "Not until I'm finished, as I've told you many times. It's like asking a painter to see his masterwork before he's expressed his entire vision."
"What's wrong with that?" Jimmy asked.
"Nothing, dear," Montrose said. "But some painters prefer the audience to wait. That's me. Trust me, though, you are a work of art."
"If I look so good, how come you won't let me see my face?"
"Not just good, Cindy. You look adorable. Cute, but sexy. I puffed up your lips a little, narrowed the nose just a bit, and gave you longer, reshaped eyebrows. We tucked your ears back a little. Your jaw and neck, as you know, healed very nicely."
Jimmy didn't say anything.
"But your hair is still shorter than I'd like it," Montrose said, "and you don't have any make-up on."
He waited, but his patient was silent.
"I," the doctor continued, "with my usual foresight, made the rounds of used book stores, and I have boxes of women's magazines with make-up tips and techniques. As soon as you've learned them, we'll set you in front of a mirror and you can get all dolled up."
"Fuck you," Jimmy said.
Montrose chuckled. "Now how did I know you were going to say that? Foresight, my dear."
He pulled the sheet down to the foot of the bed, and Jimmy immediately felt very self-conscious. The doctor had put a pair of thick, white girl's panties on him, and nothing else. They hid his genitals, but left the rest of him exposed. That wouldn't have been a big deal, even with the girl's panties, but Montrose had also removed his body hair. He surprised himself by reacting so strongly to having smooth skin.
In the last few days, when the doctor had come in to shift his body and re-tie him, to prevent bed sores, or when Montrose had given him bed baths, he had noticed a difference in the man's attitude. The washing seemed to be turning into caressing.
"Beautiful," Montrose said, looking at the semi-naked form on the bed. "The muscle has turned soft and disappeared – not that you had much muscle to begin with, dear. The lines are softer now. Very feminine. The fatty layer is just right. And your breasts are magnificent. I certainly do damn good work."
Jimmy felt his face flushing.
"Please let me go," he said.
"Can't hardly do that, Cindy," the doctor said. "However, I do have a treat for you."
"Yes." Montrose smiled. "I think it's time you got up, and moved around a little bit. A few steps. We'll take more every day."
"I'd like to see my face," Jimmy said.
"I understand, but I just said that we'll have to wait. Be patient. You'll be more pleased after you've learned how to apply make-up and fix your hair," Montrose said.
"I've got implanted tits, Dr. Montrose. I think I can handle a look at my face," Jimmy said.
"You've got to learn not to question me, dear," Montrose said.
Jimmy didn't say anything.
"Are we ready to mind our manners?" Montrose said, using a slightly condescending tone.
"Go to hell," Jimmy said, though it lacked much punch.
Montrose smiled. "You go to hell, too, Cindy. Now let's undo these tubes and straps so we can try to stand up. It's time for some soft food, anyway. Hospital gelatin and skinless peas." He laughed. "Don't you just love it?"
So much for running away, Jimmy thought, when he discovered he had to lean on Montrose for support, just to stay upright.
They took a short tour of the room, stepping in unison, with the doctor supplying most of the strength. When they got back to the bed, Jimmy fell flat on his back, exhausted. His breasts heaved.
"Not bad at all, Cindy," Montrose beamed. "By the way, I don't think I've ever heard you say your new name. Let's give it a try."
Jimmy was silent.
"Say, 'My name is Cindy Preston'," the doctor said.
"Fuck you," Jimmy said.
"Oh, Cindy, Cindy," the doctor said. "You're going to push yourself right into a heap of trouble, aren't you?"
Jimmy didn't respond.
"Say your new name," the doctor urged.
Jimmy remained silent.
Montrose waited, then finally sighed. "Your choice."
He secured Jimmy and left the room, leaving the light on. Five minutes later he was back, and he held a syringe in his hand.
Montrose looked at Jimmy. He winked. He pressed his lips together and smiled, like he was about to do something devilishly naughty, but fun.
By now, Jimmy was used to getting injections. Sometimes the doctor explained what they were for, and sometimes he didn't. There was something about the way he looked Jimmy straight in the eye, coupled with the funny expression on his face, that made Jimmy fear that this shot was something different. He smelled the alcohol, and felt the needle pierce his skin. The fluid stung for a second, and he waited for his body to react. Aside from feeling a little flushed and slightly light-headed, nothing significant happened.
"Breakfast!" Montrose beamed, and placed the tray in front of Jimmy.
The doctor released the restraints from his wrists and arms, and pressed the button that moved his patient to a sitting position.
"We'll have you on something more substantial in a few days," Montrose said. He handed Jimmy a metal spoon. Jimmy ate slowly, and though the food was lousy, he enjoyed the act of eating. It beat the hell out of the intravenous tubes.
He'd only taken a few mouthfuls of food but he was full. He nodded, not wanting to give Montrose the satisfaction of hearing his new voice.
The doctor removed the tray. "Time for our morning walk," he said.
Jimmy handled himself a little better this time, but he still needed the doctor's support to navigate the room.
When he was back in bed, and the restraints were back in place, he said, "I feel a little funny."
"Mmm?" the doctor said.
"My skin feels crawly," Jimmy said. "It's hard to explain."
"'Crawly does it for me. We'll fix that." He used the small plastic bottle of alcohol and a swab to clean a patch of skin on Jimmy's arm. Then he pulled a plastic-wrapped syringe and small bottle from his white smock.
Jimmy watched him fill the needle, and then make sure it was free of air bubbles.
"This should do it," Montrose said, as he injected the liquid.
Within seconds, the "crawly" feeling was gone.
"Ready to say your new name, Cindy?" the doctor asked.
Jimmy turned his head away.
Montrose laughed. He used a Bela Lugosi accent to say, "Well, let's take some blood."
"You'll be moving around on your own in no time," Montrose said, encouragingly, as he guided Jimmy around the room. "I've taken you completely off sedatives, as of this morning. Take it slow. Do you want to stop for a second?"
By way of answer, Jimmy took another step.
"That's a good girl," Montrose said. "Solid food on the menu today. The last major procedure is weeks away, so you'll have plenty of time to rejuvenate."
Jimmy noticed that his mind was clearer. He'd awakened quickly, unlike the rest of the times since he'd been at Montrose's place. Other awakenings had been drifting and slow. There were days when he hadn't been sure if he'd ever completely come out of it. This morning was different.
He was more aware of his body, for one thing. The tits. He'd had them for at least three weeks, probably longer, but it hadn't fully hit his drugged up brain until now. The asshole had done breast implants on him. When he got loose, he'd have them taken out, first thing. Would that leave scars? Would the stretched skin on his chest return to its natural size, or would he have to undergo plastic surgery?
He had decided that once he got free he wouldn't go to the police, not with open warrants facing him back home. Besides, as far gone as Montrose was, they'd just put the doctor in a loony bin and he'd probably be out in no time. That was no punishment at all. But if he kept quiet, got rid of the tits, and got his strength back, he'd be able to come back to the doctor's hideaway and take care of him. He'd round up a couple buddies from Jersey and pay the bastard a visit. He'd bring a gun. And a knife. Definitively a knife.
By the time they'd circled the room five times, Jimmy was worn out. In his peripheral vision he saw his breasts heaving in time with his heavy breathing. They were encased in a white sports bra, something the doctor had brought to him that morning. He had handed it to him, and let Jimmy decide whether or not to put it on. A bra. He hated the idea, but he hated the idea of Montrose leering at his tits even more.
His breathing returned to normal, and Montrose strapped him to the bed.
"My skin is feeling crawly again," Jimmy said. "Like yesterday afternoon. I think I'm having an allergic reaction to something."
"Ah, the patient as doctor," Montrose said. "A sad trend in today's society. My father was a doctor; did I ever tell you that?" He knew he hadn't, and didn't wait for a reply. "Stroke at fifty-five from all the stress. Became a diagnostician. He was always working. He made me go to medical school, which was the best thing he could have ever done. I was a natural. Brilliant, if you don't mind me saying so. He was very proud of me. Patients didn't dare diagnose with him. He shut them down quickly. So did I. But they all try, these days. Sixteen years ago, when I started my practice, only the uppity ones would try that. Too much damn information out there now. Misinformation. It pisses me off when patients try to tell me my business."
"So it's not an allergic reaction?" Jimmy asked.
"Nooooo," the doctor mocked, "it's not an allergic reaction."
"Then what is it? It's almost like the inside of my skin itches," Jimmy pressed. Yesterday, under mild sedation, he probably wouldn't have pursued it.
Montrose's face clouded, but he fought to get himself under control and eventually gave Jimmy an artificial smile. "Doctor stuff," he said, and laughed. "Here, this will take care of it." He took a plastic syringe from the drawer of a table by the bed, and a small bottle from the table top.
Jimmy felt a little sting as the needle went in, and again, the crawly feeling quickly went away. He figured there must have been a muscle relaxant involved, because he felt very relaxed and dreamy.
Montrose left, but he was in and out throughout the day. He watched monitors, took blood, measured blood pressure and pulse, and busied himself with other things. Everything was noted on a chart that he hung on the foot rail of the bed. He apparently was no longer in the mood for talk, and Jimmy didn't say anything to him.
They walked again in the late afternoon.
"You're making good progress, Cindy," the doctor said, after Jimmy was back in bed.
"My skin is crawly again. It's worse this time. It seems to be associated with the walking," Jimmy said.
"That's coincidental," Dr. Montrose said. "It's associated with the timing." He prepared another syringe. "This only lasts so long."
"What is that?" Jimmy said.
"You don't give up, do you?" Montrose said, irritably. He stabbed the needle into Jimmy's arm.
Montrose smirked, and withdrew the syringe. He tossed it into the trash basket. "Get some sleep," he said. He strapped his patient in, and left the room, flipping off the lights.
It was too early for sleep, and now that Jimmy's mind was fairly fog-free, he started thinking.
There had probably been opportunities to escape in previous days, but he'd been too sedated to either notice them or take advantage of them. In either case, he wouldn't have been able to walk much farther than the door. That was changing.
His anger was coming back, too. The medications had dulled that, making him passive. The changes to his body became real to him, and he got scared and mad at the same time. He tugged on the restraints, something he hadn't done in a long time. They didn't budge. He looked around his windowless room. The door was the only way out. Was it locked from the outside? He made a note to listen for the clicking of metal when the doctor left.
Was there anything he could use as a weapon? He carefully looked at the items in the room. He could break off a table leg, or throw a sheet over Montrose's head and punch the crap out of him, but aside from those ideas there wasn't much available. The doctor was no dummy. Crazy as a loon, but not stupid, and he had a lively sense of self-preservation.
Jimmy considered refusing food, but figured he'd just be put back on intravenous. He thought about refusing to walk, but decided it was better to regain his strength. What else was there? He thought about it, but couldn't come up with anything. He relaxed, and his thoughts began to drift.
The air-conditioned darkness eventually proved to be too tempting, and he dozed off.
"Cindy . . .Wake up, doll."
He lifted his eyelids halfway. Montrose was gently shaking him.
"Come on, girl. Time to wake up." He woke up. "Did you have a nice nap?"
Jimmy started to answer, remembered it would come out in his new high voice, and nodded.
"Good," Montrose said. "I'm going to sit you up now."
He worked the controls on the hospital bed, moving Jimmy up to a sitting position.
"We're going to take a little walk," the doctor said.
"I think you're ready." He undid the restraints and helped Jimmy stand. "Okay?"
Jimmy nodded. Leaning on the big man, he was led toward the door. Montrose opened it, and helped him out into the hall.
He had no ability to run, and probably couldn't have walked, unaided, more then ten or twenty yards, but he was alert enough to observe. The hall walls were simple, painted cinder block. It was a short hall, and there was a metal door at each end.
Montrose helped him across the hall and through another door. The room they entered was small and Spartan. A mattress and foot-high stack of magazines were on the floor. There was a doorless doorway to a tiny bathroom. There was no mirror, no counter, and no medicine cabinet. Jimmy could see an odd-looking metal commode and shower.
"Prison issue," Dr. Montrose said, when he saw Jimmy glance at the bathroom. "No accessible parts."
He helped Jimmy to a sitting position on the mattress.
"The magazines are all marked for you," Montrose said. "I expect you to learn all there is to know about make-up and hair styles."
"No," Jimmy said. He felt weak from the walk, and that was the most he could get out.
"Yes," Montrose said, brightly. "Or no more shots to stop the crawling feeling inside your skin."
Jimmy looked up at him.
"I've been stopping it early," Montrose said, "but it gets much, much worse if you don't get your injection."
Jimmy was scared, and the doctor saw his reaction.
"Much worse," Montrose said. "Screaming-and-clawing-at-your-skin worse. Do-anything-in-the-world-to-stop-it worse." He smiled. "Much more effective than heroin, and easier for me to get. I still have contacts among the pharmaceutical sales people. They always respected my talent."
"No," Jimmy said, but this time he was saying it about the horror the doctor was threatening.
"Yes," Montrose said. "Now, tell me: What's your name?"
Jimmy didn't respond.
"Don't be shy, dear. Tell me your name."
Jimmy shook his head.
Montrose made an exaggerated sad face. "Maybe later," he said, and walked out of the room.
Jimmy moved around until he was exhausted. The idea was to build his strength as quickly as possible. At five foot five, he was much smaller than the doctor, so he didn't hope to overpower him. At under half his age, however, he figured he could move faster. That was his only edge.
The implants were a distraction. He was constantly aware of them, and with every movement they somehow came into play. He stretched, flexed, walked, and tried a few simple exercises. With everything he did, his breasts shifted, were in the way or affected his balance.
Montrose was right about his body. He had lost muscle tone, and what remained had been covered with a thin layer of fat that added smooth curves to his form. Just not having hair on his arms and legs made him look feminine. He hoped that whatever had been done to eliminate the hair could be undone. He couldn't recall Montrose shaving his body, though it could have been done during one of the periods when he was unconscious. He ran his hand over a calf. Smooth as silk. That would mean a recent shave, and Jimmy didn't think that had happened. Was there some cream Montrose could have put on his body to stop hair growth? He'd never heard of such a thing. Maybe it was part of the experimental stuff the doctor had talked about.
All the movement made him tired. He stretched out on the mattress and fell asleep.
The itching woke him a few hours later. He scratched, but relief was only momentary. He rubbed, to the same effect. It started in his hands and feet, but within half an hour the skin all over his body seemed to be wiggling. He held his arm close to his face. Hi skin was absolutely still, but it felt like the layers underneath were moving in a sort of sporadic contracting-release way.
He stood up, using the wall to help him with his balance. Shaking his arms, like a weight lifter trying to loosen the muscles, didn't help.
During the next hour the crawly feeling under his skin got much worse. He pictured his nerve endings at skin level as tiny strands that were dancing, being irritated by the itchy skin. He slapped his flat belly. The itching stopped for a second, but came back. He started slapping his skin all over.
He called for the doctor and banged on the door, hating that he sounded like a screaming girl.
Three hours later, Dr. Montrose walked into the room. Jimmy was curled in a corner, crying and moaning, rubbing his hands rapidly all over his body.
"Hello, Cindy," the doctor said.
"Oh, Dr. Montrose! Please stop this!" Jimmy cried. "I need the shot! Hurry!"
"Have a little problem, do we?" the doctor asked.
"Please hurry" Jimmy cried.
"That's certainly a different tune you're singing," Montrose said. He moved closer to Jimmy. "I'll be happy to give you your injection," he said. "Just as soon as we reach an understanding."
"You've got to stop the crawling," Jimmy begged. "I can't stand it!"
"I know, I know," Montrose said, soothingly. "But it doesn't come free. No health insurance forms on this. It's direct pay."
Jimmy's hands were flying around his body, rubbing his skin.
"What's your name, dear?" Montrose asked.
Jimmy looked at him, and frowned in confusion.
"Tell me your name," Montrose urged.
Jimmy suddenly realized what he wanted to hear. He didn't want to say it. It was the principle; not letting the mad man win. It might have been symbolic, but it was important. He'd learned that selling time shares; never let the other guy control the conversation.
"Cindy," he said. "I need my shot."
"Say, 'My name is Cindy Preston'," the doctor said.
"My name is Cindy Preston," Jimmy said.
"Good. See how things work here?" Montrose said. "What's your name?"
"My name is Cindy Preston."
"Yes, it is," the doctor said, and smiled. "You're very pretty, Cindy."
"Please give me the shot," Jimmy begged.
"I just paid you a compliment, dear. You should acknowledge it," Montrose said.
"Thank you," Jimmy said.
"You've got a very nice figure. And gorgeous, smooth skin."
"Thank you," Jimmy replied quickly, hoping to quickly get through this.
"Nice breasts," the doctor said. "Why don't you pull up your bra so I can see them."
Jimmy hesitated a second, then pulled up his cotton sports bra.
"Do you mind if I feel them?" Montrose asked.
Montrose slowly caressed the firm globes. "Very sexy," he said. "Your nipples seem nicely sensitive."
Jimmy endured the humiliation, hoping it would end soon.
"You can replace your bra, Cindy," Montrose said, as he stood up. He removed a syringe and small container from his smock pocket. Jimmy's eyes were riveted on his hands, watching as he plunged the needle into the bottle, flicked a finger against the tube to clear the bubbles, then gently slid the needle into his arm.
It took a few minutes before anything happened, and another ten minutes before the crawling reached a level where Jimmy felt it was tolerable.
"Feel better, dear?"
"Yes," Jimmy said. "Thank you."
"You're welcome," the doctor said. He slipped the capped the syringe back into his smock, along with the bottle of serum. "I'll give you another injection every twelve hours. We don't want to go through that terrible feeling again, do we?"
"No. Thank you."
"I think you should get busy with your studying now." Montrose looked at the women's magazines, then back at Jimmy.
Jimmy nodded, looking away.
"I expect you to study very hard, and learn everything there is to know about make-up and hair," Montrose said.
Jimmy didn't respond.
"Cindy?" Montrose said, a warning in his tone.
"I will," Jimmy said.
Montrose smiled. "Of course you will. It wouldn't be a fair test of my procedures if we didn't have a level playing field. Girls wear make-up and fix their hair, so my new girl has to do the same thing. It's the only way to show how successful I've been. Don't disappoint me. I don't like to be disappointed."
He looked at Jimmy until he got a small nod. The doctor smiled. "I'll be back in a while, and you can tell me what you've learned." He turned and walked away. He paused at the door, and asked, "What's your name?"
"My name is Cindy Preston," Jimmy said.
During lucid moments in the previous weeks, Jimmy had been afraid that the doctor was going to cut off his dick. This fear loomed over everything that happened, and it was so terrifying that he never brought it up, and never even faced it within himself. Dr. Montrose said he was going to change Jimmy from a boy to a girl, and it sure seemed like that would be part of it. He had done almost everything else, and, since the day he had withheld the injection, Jimmy had helped do the rest. If it could be said that he and the doctor had been in a battle since he'd been abducted, he now conceded defeat. Temporary defeat. He never wanted to experience the crawlies again.
He had studied the magazines that Montrose delivered. Though he'd been graduated from Secaucus High School, he held the belief that it was due more to just showing up every day, than to ability. Studying wasn't his favorite activity.
The articles contained a lot of words that were new to him. Mascara. Blush. Things he had to pick up by reading a lot more, until he came across something that explained them. It was hard going, and Montrose kept the pressure on, which made it worse.
On the first day, the doctor came in, picked up a few of the magazines, leafed through them and quizzed Jimmy on things the articles mentioned. He hadn't been happy with the results. "Get back to it," he'd said. "Don't disappoint me." He made a motion with his hand, mimicking the giving of an injection. Shivers ran up Jimmy's back, and he bore down on the magazines.
He was able to answer some questions in the doctor's pop-quiz on his second visit. Not many, but some. He read during every waking moment.
The next day, Montrose let Jimmy see his face for the first time since his arrival.
"Time for some practical application," Montrose said, as he led Jimmy from his room. "Your face is different, remember, so don't be shocked. You should recognize yourself. Like a twin sister, if you had one."
They went back across the hall. The hospital bed and table were still there, but all the monitors, tubes and the other equipment was gone. The bathroom had a new mirror, and there were dozens of bottles and jars on the counter.
Jimmy ignored everything but the mirror. He looked at himself.
He wasn't shocked. Montrose had proudly told him about most of the things he'd done, as he'd done them. As the list grew, Jimmy had gradually divorced himself from his new body. The breasts, voice, new curves, and smooth skin were not the Jimmy Preston he knew. Therefore, it wasn't him. His body and his face weren't there. What was left was clay that the doctor was molding.
He looked at the person in the mirror as if he was looking at a photograph. It was a face similar to his, but not his. It was another person. He didn't move, because a photograph didn't move, and because he didn't want to see the image react to his mental commands.
He lowered his vision to the part of his body he could see. The shoulders seemed smaller and smoother. Everything was smoother. The breasts filled and pushed the sports bra outward, and he could see the flesh as the hills above the bra. They were impressive on the small frame of the body in the mirror.
The waist seemed smaller, but there was no sign of washboard abs. It was just smaller. The hips curved nicely, and the thick white panties hid any sign of what lay beneath.
His eyes returned to the face. He understood how the doctor could so easily and automatically call him "Cindy" instead of Jimmy.
His mind kept flickering to the thought that it was a changed him, but he fought to keep that notion out. It was something the doctor had created. Objectively, he had to admit that Montrose had done a good job. That was the only way to look at it, and remain in control of his mind. What could be done, could be undone. Revenge would come, eventually.
"Have a seat, dear," the doctor gently urged.
Jimmy kept staring. He couldn't see any scars or marks on the skin. He couldn't see the signs of creation, the detritus of fooling with Mother Nature. The image in the mirror looked natural, and that was distressing.
Still, he was able to keep his emotions in check. He'd always prided himself on being able to do that, and he practiced. When he and his buddies had knocked over Sal's Pizza, Jimmy was the one that had been the coolest. Later, one of them called him "Iceman", and he could have had a nickname if he'd wanted. But he discouraged that, because it singled him out, and might attract the wrong kind of attention. Better to keep a low profile.
Montrose, misinterpreting Jimmy's immobility, was smiling at him in the mirror. "It is stunning work, isn't it?" he said. "Hardly the most significant part of the process, but certainly the most visible. Less than three months, and voila!"
Three months! Jimmy whipped around to face Montrose, but the sudden movement made him so dizzy he grabbed for the doctor's clothing to keep from falling. Montrose gripped Jimmy's arms and held him steady.
"Easy!" he said. "No quick movements, doll. The medication doesn't take well to it."
Jimmy let go of Montrose as soon as he could.
"Minus a couple days," Montrose said. "Amazing, isn't it? And you don't know the half of it."
"What do you mean?"
"All in good time," Montrose said. "All in good time. Now let's get you seated so you can start foolin' with all this make-up stuff."
Jimmy, glad for the chance to be more solidly grounded, sat on the chair.
"I've been here three months?" he asked again. "I didn't think it was that long."
Montrose smiled. "Of course not," he said. "Kept you pretty sedated. Longer than usual, but I believe it's safe. The quacks with the malpractice insurance wouldn't have dared, but there's absolutely nothing wrong with it. You're fine, so don't worry your pretty little head about it."
The doctor stood over him as he gingerly opened the various tubes, jars and containers, touching a finger to the contents of each. They both read the labels, and Jimmy applied various amounts of the materials to his face.
The session was a disaster. Jimmy had obviously used too much of this stuff and too little of that, or applied one thing wrong and another not at all, or mixed or layered things that shouldn't have been mixed or layered. With both of them in the dark about how to correct the mistakes, the result was a gray mud that didn't so much resemble make-up as it did camouflage. Montrose made Jimmy wash it all off and try again, and again.
Jimmy, in truth, hadn't been trying to be successful. He tested Montrose's knowledge, and when he discovered it was as shallow as him own, purposely used what he guessed were the wrong materials in foolish quantities. He was clever about it, because he was acutely aware that the doctor would have no hesitation about withholding whatever it was that stopped the crawlies.
"This is your fault," Montrose finally said, exasperated.
"I'm trying," Jimmy protested.
"Bullshit. Clean up this mess and I'll be back to take you to your magazines. You should know a lot more than you do, so you must be fucking it up on purpose."
"You are," Montrose said evenly. "And I don't want to hear any more trash from you. Clean it up and get back to the magazines. I'll give you one day. Tomorrow you'll know how to put on your make-up. I don't expect you to be an expert, but I expect you to look good. You know what happens if you disappoint me."
When Montrose left, Jimmy read the labels on all the products strewn across the counter of his bathroom. There was a can of hair spray, though Montrose had hardly mentioned hair, Aerosol cans, he knew, could blow up under pressure. You could also light the spray from most of them because of their alcohol content, though they could just as easily explode in your hand. Most of the other things said they were harmful if swallowed, but none claimed to be lethal.
He sat back and looked sadly at the array of containers. There was nothing there that would get him out of the mess he was in, even if he had a lighter or matches, neither of which were available. He'd never seen the doctor smoke, so the possibility of filching a lighter from him didn't exist.
He spent a few more minutes trying to come up with something, but finally quit. He cleaned his face, and by the time he was done the doctor had returned to escort him back to his room. The stack of women's magazines was waiting for him.
The next day Montrose moved him back into his original quarters. The hospital bed, table, chair and everything else were gone. Montrose brought the mattress and magazines. "Now you can practice your make-up all day long," the doctor said. Jimmy hung his head and wondered why this was happening to him. He wondered how he had fallen into the hands of a madman. How could it be that there was no way out? Worst of all, he wondered what was next.
"An inch and a half, Cindy" Dr. Montrose said. "More precisely, .44 mm per month, which means your hair has grown just slightly more than an inch and a half since you've been here. I prefer longer hair on a girl, and that's obviously going to take a while. I suppose a beauty salon could make what you have look good, but we don't have that luxury."
Jimmy looked at the wigs. The blond version had more curls; the brunette wig was only slightly wavy and longer. Each was perched on a white Styrofoam head.
After the incident of his first make-up session, the doctor had been two hours late with the injection, and Jimmy had to suffer through the beginning of the crawlies. It was terrifying, not knowing when, or if, Montrose would come with the serum that would stop it.
The doctor had made his point, and Jimmy put his absolute best effort into trying to learn how to apply make-up. During the following ten days he had gradually become fairly successful. He picked up on shades and shading, learned about amounts and locations, learned to blend and smooth, and he learned subtlety and effect.
"You'd be astonished at how much these things cost," the doctor said, looking at the wigs. "Human hair of this length isn't cheap, but, as you see, it's well worth it. There's a set of instructions . . ." He enthusiastically pointed to a plain white folder near the wigs. "How to Care for Your Human Hair Wig" was printed on the cover.
Near the blond wig there was a pile of thin, light-colored, plastic-coated metal clips, and an equal number of dark clips by the brunette wig.
"Those are bobby pins, to keep the wig in place. The instructions tell you how to use them so it doesn't shift and they don't show."
Jimmy hadn't said much. When the doctor had first brought the wigs into his room he had cringed. Montrose, who seemed unusually happy, ignored that, and took the wigs into the bathroom and put them on the counter. Jimmy followed. He disliked his new voice and spoke as little as possible, but the wigs really bothered him. He felt angry and defeated at the same time. In a form of mild protest he'd said that his own hair was growing, that it was a little long to start with and now must be two or three inches longer. The doctor had corrected him.
"Put this on," Montrose said, bringing a tangled net from a pocket in his white smock. "It keeps all your hair together, so it doesn't slide out from underneath."
Reluctantly, Jimmy put the net on his head and tucked stray strands of hair under it.
"Try one," Montrose said eagerly. "The blond one."
Jimmy lifted the wig from its Styrofoam form, surprised at its weight. He placed it over the net. He centered the wig and looked in the mirror. That was it. He was complete. The body, the face, the voice, the make-up – and now the hair. He stared at the image in front of him. It was absolutely someone else. It was a shell that had been changed. He was still living inside, just living in a different shell than before. There was nothing he could do about it. For now.
Montrose beamed, delighted with the result.
Jimmy's eyes dropped from the mirror to the counter top.
"Beautiful," Montrose said. "Lift your head, dear."
Jimmy lifted his head, but kept his eyes averted from the mirror.
"Damn, I'm good!" Montrose said. "You could be Miss Arizona."
Jimmy felt the man staring at him. He was angry at the success of the doctor's efforts; angry at himself for looking like he did. His face turned red as he contained his emotions.
"Ohhh, my little girl's blushing," Montrose joked.
Jimmy turned redder.
"Let's try the dark one now," Montrose said.
Jimmy removed the blond wig and replaced it with the longer brunette version. The hair felt completely natural, and when he had positioned it properly he looked at the mirror.
"More sultry," Montrose pronounced. "Interesting."
Jimmy wasn't exactly sure what sultry meant, but he had an idea. The image in the mirror looked more serious and seductive than the image of the blond. He looked away.
"One more thing," Montrose said. He took three small bottles from his smock. "I forgot all about this until today."
He put the bottles on the counter.
"Do your toenails, too," Montrose said.
Jimmy looked at the three small bottles of nail polish, reading the names on the labels.
"I want you to put on your make-up and one of the wigs every morning," the doctor said. "Take them off when you go to bed."
Jimmy didn't respond.
Not satisfied, Montrose said, "Say 'Yes, Sir'."
"Yes, Sir," Jimmy said.
Montrose pushed, unhappy with the lack of cooperation in Jimmy's voice. "What's your name, dear?"
Jimmy looked at the doctor's face in the mirror. He hesitated, then said, "My name is Cindy Preston."
"Who are you?" Montrose prompted.
"It's not just your name, honey," Montrose said. "It's who you are. Who are you?"
"I'm Cindy Preston," Jimmy said.
Montrose smiled broadly. "Yes, you are."
He stared at the image in the mirror, still smiling.
"It won't work," Jimmy said. "I'm not giving you any grief here. I'll do whatever you say. But I think this is a waste of time." He heard his girl's voice but he didn't care; he had to make the point.
"The lay expert speaks," Dr. Montrose said, condescendingly. "We've been here before, haven't we, Cindy?"
"I'm just saying . . ."
Montrose cut him short. "I don't care what you're saying," he said. "You have an uninformed opinion. You're not a doctor. What you think, doesn't matter. This is the way it is: If you resist, you get no more injections, and the crawlies, as you call them, come back with a vengeance. If you honestly, deep inside, decide not to fight it, you'll be hypnotized. That's it. End of discussion."
"But even if I'm hypnotized, I can't be made to do anything against my moral code," Jimmy said. He'd heard that, and he hoped it was right.
Montrose kept a straight face. From what he knew of his patient's life, he couldn't imagine much that was outside his moral code. "Then you have nothing to worry about," he lied.
"What are you going to make me do?" Jimmy asked.
"It's part of the healing process," Montrose said. "The quacks don't believe this, but the mind can be used to heal the body through hypnosis. We're going to give your mind the direction it needs to produce a healthier you," the doctor said.
"That's quite a bit, dear," Montrose said. "After all these years of being ignored by the medical establishment, it's quite an accomplishment to get the brain back to doing what it was meant to do."
"It won't work," Jimmy said.
"Humor me," the doctor said, humoring him.
Jimmy was really scared. Up to now, Dr. Montrose had only messed with his body. It was a huge "only", but he had the belief that whatever had been done there could be undone. It was just physical stuff; he was still inside the shell, ready to get out and take charge again, just as soon as the opportunity presented itself. Then he would set the world right, and get on with his life. But now Montrose was talking about getting inside his head.
Jimmy had been on a date a year ago, back in New Jersey, at a club that had featured a hypnotist. Jimmy, his date, two of Jimmy's buddies, and their dates had all shared a booth on the side wall. The girl assistant had pointed at Jimmy to be one of the people to come up on stage, and he had shot her the finger. He'd heard about that stuff, and wasn't about to be made into a spectacle. That's when she picked two people from the table in front of him. The hypnotist planted suggestions and they did goofy things, making complete asses out of themselves.
What would Montrose make him do? He wasn't buying that stuff about the mind healing the body. Maybe it could, and maybe hypnosis made it work better, but he figured he was pretty much healed already. The thin lines under his implants, near his armpits, were gone, and the few very thin lines around his chin, nose and eyes were also fading and barely noticeable, and all the puffiness was gone. So that stuff that the doctor was spouting was all bullshit, a diversion.
As a kind of threat assessment, Jimmy tried to figure out what the doctor might have in mind for him. No matter what he looked like, the doctor couldn't make him think he was a girl because acting like a girl was against his beliefs. He looked like a babe, but forget the looks; he wasn't a girl. Period. He couldn't make him do sex stuff for the same reason. But the madman was smart, and he could probably make him say stupid things and maybe do stupid things, like the people from the audience at the club. Prance around like a girl, maybe. He didn't know exactly where the border was, and he didn't want to find out. It wasn't just a matter of being made to look like an ass; he wanted to retain total control over his own mind.
Montrose, meanwhile, was letting his patient work it out. He knew the outcome was guaranteed, and it was just a matter of whether or not he had to carry out his threat to withhold the injections.
"Some people can't be hypnotized," Jimmy said.
"Untrue," the doctor said. "Only people who say they agree to it, but actually resist it, aren't hypnotizable. If you aren't, it will tell me that you lied, and haven't really agreed."
Jimmy felt boxed in. He believed the doctor was probably wrong about that part, but he wasn't sure. True or not, though, the doctor believed it so he figured to come out a loser, one way or the other. Looming over the whole thing was the thought of not getting his shots.
"I'll try," he said.
"It's not a matter of trying, Cindy," the doctor said. "You have to agree to it, and not just verbally. You have to really agree. It's that simple."
"Okay. I do."
"Good!" Melrose said. "Let's get started."
There was no shiny, swinging watch. Hypnosis could be achieved with nothing but verbal skills, and even stage hypnotists sometimes did it that way. The audience was receptive because they knew they were seeing a professional hypnotist, and it was a simple matter to put selected people under. The performer would get a group of volunteers, do his thing, and dismiss the ones that hadn't immediately gone under. The remaining group was like putty in his hands.
Montrose wanted to make sure his patient was as susceptible as possible, and to that end he had purchased a battery-operated whirling disk with spiral lines drawn on its face. He had instructed Cindy to stare at it, and began a soothing speech.
Jimmy thought about cheesesteaks and pizza and beer, then about buying a sports car. When the doctor stopped the whirling disk, he pretended to be in a trance.
Montrose had him turn his head to the left, and extend his right arm sideways, away from his body.
"You hand is getting numb," the doctor said. "It is falling asleep. You have no feeling in your hand now. The numbness is working its way up your arm."
"Ow!" Jimmy said. Montrose had poked a needle into his palm.
"Ohhh, Cindy," the doctor said, shaking his head. "You disappoint me. How could you choose to not get your injections, just to avoid the healing process? And I thought you needed those shots regularly."
Jimmy was terrified by the threat, and promised to do better if they tried again. "I want to," he said, "but I just can't. I'm sincerely trying, Doctor. Honest to god, I am."
"No, dear, you're not. You're resisting it."
"I'm not! I swear it! Please try again," he begged.
"You don't trust me," the doctor said. "Your own doctor and you don't trust me. You refuse to let it happen." He sat back. "Well, you know what that means. You've only yourself to blame."
"No! Please! I want to! I really do. I can't control it. Please try again. Please." He felt like the box he was in was squeezing him to death.
Montrose looked at him for a long moment. "All right, Cindy," he said. "I'll give you another chance. Do not disappointment me."
"I won't!" Jimmy said. "I'll try as hard as I can."
"Darling Cindy, you just do not seem to get the point. Choosing the blonde wig for today was quite appropriate," Montrose said. "Listen carefully. It has nothing to do with trying. It doesn't work if you try. The object is to not try, to just relax and accept. Relax and accept."
Montrose turned on the whirling disk and began his soothing speech. In thirty seconds the patient's eyes seemed to glass over. Montrose stopped the disk. He stood up and went to Jimmy's side, and then repeated the same procedure as before. This time he took the numbing of his right arm all the way to the shoulder.
"Now your left hand is beginning to get numb," he said, changing focus. "You are losing feeling in that hand, and it's working its way . . ." He stuck the needle in the upper portion of Jimmy's right arm. The arm jumped.
"Damn it!" Montrose shouted. "No more shots! I won't put up with lack of cooperation from a goddamn patient!" He turned to head for the door. Jimmy grabbed his pants leg.
"No! Please don't go! Please, please!" Tears welled in his eyes and he began crying. "I'm sorry, Doctor! I'm trying! It's not my fault!"
Montrose tried to shake him off. "Let go of me, bitch!"
"Please, give me another chance! I know I can do it! I can! Please, one more! It's not my fault!" He held on as tight as he could. Tears poured out of his eyes.
Montrose stood stiffly, no longer trying to get free from the desperate arms wrapped around his leg.
"Please!" Jimmy begged. "Once more. Please? I was closer that time. I could feel it. I was sleepy. Please?"
Montrose remained silent.
"I was closer," Jimmy whimpered. "I was."
"One more chance," Montrose said.
"Oh thank you! I'll do it this time, I know I will. I won't resist, I swear," Jimmy said.
Montrose sat back down, and started the whirling disk. The brief moment where Cindy had looked glassy-eyed had led him to believe she was under, and it had surprised him when she jumped at the feel of the pin. She had, indeed, been close, but something at the last minute had pulled her away. She just couldn't get over the barrier, and let herself go. But it had been better than the first attempt, and he wanted very badly to be successful. Though he didn't think it was good to set the precedent of giving in to her supplications, that would become moot once he was successful, so it was worth trying one more time. If it took, he wouldn't have to keep up the tiresome threats about withholding her shots. Besides, he couldn't stand to see a pretty girl cry.
"Good morning, Beautiful," Dr. Montrose said, as he walked into the room, carrying four brightly colored boxes.
"Good morning, Doctor," Cindy replied, with a smile.
"You're looking very pretty this morning," Montrose said.
Cindy blushed. "Thank you, sir."
"I have some more surprises for you today."
Cindy bit her bottom lip, and her eyes got big.
Montrose put the boxes on the bed, and stood back.
Cindy eagerly tore the wrapping off the top box and opened it, immediately removing the contents. She held up a dark blue mini-dress, turning it this way and that.
"Oh, it's gorgeous!" she said. "Thank you, thank you!"
"You're welcome, dear. Open the others," he said eagerly.
Cindy quickly set the dress aside, careful not to wrinkle it, and opened the next box.
"They match!" she exclaimed, holding up a pair of medium-heeled pumps, in the same navy blue. She twisted, ready to slip one on.
"Not yet, dear," Montrose said. "Open all your presents first."
Cindy nodded. "Yes, sir." She put the shoes aside, and opened a smaller box. Inside was a set of lingerie: a matching lace bra and panty set, also in navy blue. Cindy pressed her lips together and smiled.
Montrose smiled, too. "Keep going, dear. The last one."
The last was a slim box, and very light. Inside were a pair of dark blue stockings and a tiny lace garter belt that matched the color of the hose.
"Do you want me to try them on now?" she asked.
"Oh yes, I surely do," Montrose said. "I'm give you thirty minutes to change, and then I'll be back."
"Do you want me to stay a blonde?"
Montrose considered it. "I think brunette would work best," he said. "But we can try blonde the next time."
"Thank you for my gifts, sir," she said.
"You're welcome, dear," he said. "Now get moving."
She smiled at him, and then gathered up her new clothes.
Montrose watched her. The blonde wig she wore went well with the yellow mini-dress and shoes. When she bent to retrieve her new pumps he looked down her cleavage, which was easy to do with the scoop-neck dress. She couldn't help but flash a lot of leg, too, and know that she was doing it. But she also knew he liked that, so she didn't make any attempt to be modest.
Montrose watched her swaying butt head for the bathroom, and then he turned and left.
He walked from the barn to the house, thinking about her. Six sessions of hypnosis had produced a close to perfect girl. There were things left to be done, but he was more than pleased with the overall result so far. The physical changes, certainly, had been superbly realized, even if he had to say it himself. Anyone who looked at her would have to know that he was half medical genius, and half brilliant artist. No, total medical genius and total brilliant artist – twice the man of any other. More, because he was molding a mind now, and bringing that off with his customary excellence.
Though he had explained to her, in lay terms, most of the physical changes he planned to make before he made them, he hadn't revealed everything. Patients didn't need to know everything; it only confused them. Cindy was upset enough in the early days. Adding more information would have only distressed her further, and a good doctor didn't do that.
In fact, a superior doctor, he believed, would deceive a patient from time to time. The hypnosis was a good example.
Once he had successfully put her under, he explained to her that she really had not been chosen at random, as he'd originally said, but that he had diligently searched medical records throughout the Southwest, until he had found a girl that had been born with mostly male outward characteristics. She was that girl, and he had chosen her carefully. That played neatly to both her disbelief that she, out of millions, had just been "unfairly" picked at random, and to her ego, because it implied that she was quite special. The goal of all the procedures and medicines, he told her, was to restore her to her natural physical self. He said he had seen all the documents to prove what he was saying, and there was no doubt about it. It was a scientific fact. Put that way, she seemed to accept it as believable, which, given the framework he created, it was. He saw her brow furrow a bit from time to time, but he moved her forward with more details, reassurances and what seemed to be support.
"You remember some occasions," he said, "perhaps when you were ten or twelve, or even younger, when your parents told you to stop acting like a girl. Times when they said to stop doing or saying something, because that's what girls did. You remember a time – maybe many times – when you were younger, that guys made fun of you for throwing like a girl, or hitting like a girl, or something like that."
For the first two sessions he'd directed most of his comments to that topic, in either a direct or indirect fashion, and to re-enforcing the idea that official documentation existed which proved she had been born female.
With all the chemical changes working inside her, the ideas seemed to fit. She could understand casual childhood statements, real or imagined, as actually very revealing, rather than as the meaningless comments they actually had been. Half-remembered incidents were recalled with the full spin of the doctor's suggestions, and blossomed into detailed anecdotes. It was a big canvas that had seemed blurred and was only now coming into focus. The doctor presented her with a simple, documented explanation for everything, and it fit perfectly.
Montrose let her work out parts of it, and flatly told her other parts. He generally didn't bother with impressive post-hypnotic suggestions, because there was no need to do so. The exception was the key word that would immediately put her back into a trance, without the paraphernalia or time involved in the initial session.
Montrose was patient. He had put too much effort and time into his work, to have it fail by being over-anxious. Rather than try to accomplish everything during a single trance, he slowly prepared the ground and built a foundation, then began erecting the structure he wanted.
He used the sessions to change her speech patterns, and her attitude toward him. Anyone would be grateful for the help of a great and famous doctor, and she should be, too. He had put a great deal of time, effort, care, and genius into helping her leave a false and harsh world, and move smoothly into the world of a beautiful young lady. It should be appreciated, and she should feel obligated and thankful.
During the series of procedures he had kept Cindy's attention on the immediate physical work he had done. That had been easy, because the changes were so overwhelming, and the medication kept her drowsy enough to prevent her thinking very much, if at all, about what it might logically lead to. Somewhere along the way she might have wondered what good a female body was if the mind didn't match. But he had kept her attention elsewhere.
Truthfully, the outward physical transformation of his patient had occupied most of his attention, as well. That had gone superbly, but it wasn't all that revolutionary. All Cindy saw was the procedures, and he didn't bother to enlighten her about the additional biochemical alterations he was making. She didn't notice that when she ran into a problem, she now tended to cry. Nor did she notice that she was no longer thinking as much about the changing gender characteristics as about how those changes looked. She checked for possible scars, concerned more with any potentially unattractive appearance. She commented that the drabness of her room was unpleasant, and was involved and excited when he suggested repainting, decorating and adding furniture. The character of her complaints gradually changed to letting off steam, rather than demands for solutions.
Montrose set his cigar in an ashtray on the railing of the porch. His thoughts went to the elixirs that he had created. They could have made him millions, he was sure, and he was frustrated that there was no way to cash in on them. He had lost his license. If he tried to sell them, evidence of their efficacy would be required, and he couldn't very well produce Cindy. What legal testing that could be done would take years, probably decades, and be resisted all along the way. What drug company would commit to that, especially with a small potential market?
The bottom line was that there was no bottom line, at least financially. But that would have just been icing on the cake, anyway. What counted was his revenge against the medical establishment and the press that had slandered him. It may come after he was dead, but it would come, and he would be written up in medical texts for the next hundred years. His enemies would be shown to be the fools and incompetents that they were. They would pay a price for driving him from his comfortable and rewarding life.
Having once been so active in the better social circles, and having had a younger, and stunningly attractive, trophy wife, he was used to the convivial company of others. Parties, cook-outs, foursome vacations and rollicking nights of belly-slap at home were a vital part of his existence, But no more. The vicious media, his turncoat peers (at least they thought they were his peers), and his wife's desertion had flipped his world upside down. He had been banished to the wilderness of rural Arizona, wifeless and without a license to practice his skills. Be that as it may, he would set accounts right, by producing the pinnacle of medical skills. The piece de non-resistance. At the same time, he intended to attend to his social problems. There was no reason he should add loneliness to his sentence, not when he had the skills and opportunity to cater to his own needs.
It was a neat solution, a two-for-one stroke of brilliance that had delighted him when he'd conceived it. Though it did require time and restraint, he had to admit that he was taking a significant measure of pleasure out of waiting. Each step was a perfect step toward the end goal, and served to feed his anticipation. The closer he got, the more thrilled he was.
He gave her an extra ten minutes, to be sure she was finished changing and fixing herself up, before returning to the barn.
The Arizona sun was bright, and it reflected off the water of the pool, Even with his sunglasses on he had to squint to see her in detail.
The high-heeled sandals made her legs appear longer and shapelier, causing her calves to firm up. She needed a tan to make it perfect, but her skin was flawless. His eyes traveled up her thighs to the bare curve of her hips. The pink thong didn't cover much. Her waist was decently small, and he expected it would get smaller in the coming weeks. There was no doubt that choosing a C cup was the right decision, just as every other decision he had made about her had been correct. Her breasts were high and firm, exposed above the small bikini top. He stopped at her pretty face.
"You're so good to me," Cindy said.
"Because you're very special to me," Montrose said.
Cindy smiled at him. "I owe you so much," she said. "I can never repay you."
He smiled back. He enjoyed her deference, and even if the things she was saying had been suggested by him during their hypnosis sessions, he felt they were proper. She should look up to him, and she should be thankful for all that he had done for her. If it was also good for him, then so much the better.
He had slowly planted a background for her that resulted in her desire to make him happy. Why not? He deserved it, certainly, and who was she, an untrained civilian, to make her own decisions? What was good for him was also good for her. If her affection didn't come naturally, it didn't matter because it was the appropriate response to him lavishing his skills on her.
"I hope you like the way I look in the bathing suit," she said. "I thought the blonde wig went best with pink. Is it okay?"
"Blonde is perfect," he said. He shifted on the wide chaise, his own baggy bathing suit starting to get tight around the crotch.
"Good!" she exclaimed. "My hair's getting pretty long now. I think I can do away with the wigs in a couple weeks. That is, if you want me to."
"We'll try it," Montrose said. "Have you learned how to make your hair pretty?"
"I think so," she said. "It'll be just like styling the wigs. I'm studying real hard. I want to make you happy."
"A few weeks, then," Montrose said.
His mind wasn't really on the conversation. The last three sessions of hypnosis had been centered on very targeted goals: inculcating the idea that she was deeply indebted to a great man, that she should do everything she could to make that great man happy, and that she was falling in love with that man. He taught her to verbally express these thoughts without embarrassment. To make it complete, he also taught her to express her feelings physically in the way she groomed, dressed, walked, stood, and sat. It made her not only constantly aware of what she looked like, but also made sure her actions were constantly directed at pleasing him.
"That bathing suit doesn't cover very much," Dr. Montrose said.
"I know," she giggled.
"You might as well be walking around here topless."
She wrinkled her nose, a cute gesture she'd been doing lately, and grinned at him.
"Why don't you go ahead and take your top off, Cindy."
She glanced around the patio.
"There's no one here but us," he said. "I'd like it if you went topless."
She nodded. She looked around again, and then reached behind her.
In all the time Montrose had been living at the ranch, not one uninvited person had set foot on his property. That was one of the things about the West he liked the most: people worshipped property rights. When his water heater had sprung a leak two weeks ago, he'd called a repairman to come look at it. The same man had brought him a new one a few days later. The guy hadn't asked any questions or nosed around, which was typical of the bumpkins in the area. Montrose had actually had to draw his attention to his certificates, diplomas and awards on the wall, or the hayseed wouldn't have realized what an important man he was working for. Otherwise, he would have simply done his job and left.
He got no UPS or FederalExpress deliveries. No letter carriers stopped by. He had a post office box in town for packages. No nosey neighbors rang his bell. There were no religious zealots going door to door when the doors were three miles apart. His phone did ring almost every evening with some sort of solicitation – satellite dish installers, carpet cleaners, auto dealers, novice stock brokers, and even damn time share salesmen. Once it was a guy selling horses. But no one came to his door uninvited.
Cindy held the tiny bikini top at her side, unsure about what to do with it. Her naked breasts gleamed beautifully in the sun.
"Gorgeous," Montrose said, his voice a little thick. He'd never seen her body outdoors, and there was something about the light and shadows that emphasized her curves. "Sexy," he said.
"Thank you, sir," she said. "I feel kinda funny like this."
"Oh, you do?" He stood up and walked toward her. His loose bathing suit had a bulge in front. "Let's see how funny you feel."
He wrapped his arms around her, pressing his near naked body against her.
It was all worth it, he thought. His hands slid down her naked back to the top of her ass.
"You don't feel funny at all," he said.
Cindy hugged him back. She'd done that many times before, though not when both of them were so close to naked. She felt his stiff member against her flat belly, but her only thought was that he must be pleased,
Montrose stepped back and looked her up and down. "Gorgeous," he said again. "Perfect."
She smiled, happy that she pleased him.
"I think I'll try the nudist bit," Montrose laughed. "It looks like fun." He pushed his bathing suit down, and stepped out of it.
Cindy glanced at his hard organ, but quickly shifted her glance to his face.
"Shall I take off my bottom, too?" she asked.
"No, I don't think so," Montrose said. "Keep that covered up, dear."
"Okay," she said.
He reached for her hand and they walked back to the chaise. Montrose stretched out, his erection boldly elevated above his flat stomach.
"This is the first time my cock has been in the sun," he said. "I don't want it to get sunburn."
Cindy just looked at him, unsure what to say.
"Why don't you put some sun tan lotion on it," Montrose suggested.
"Okay!" she said brightly.
She got a bottle of lotion from the nearby table, and sat down on the chaise next to his hips.
"Come here," he said, reaching out for her.
She let him direct her, and her lips met his. He kissed her, sliding his tongue into her mouth.
Cindy felt confused. She hadn't expected the doctor to kiss her. He'd never done it before, and the idea had never crossed her mind.
Montrose broke the kiss and smiled at her. His eyes traveled down to her firm breasts and pencil-eraser nipples. He caressed them, his hands gliding over the perspiration moistened skin. The nipples firmed.
Cindy smiled at him, knowing that he was enjoying himself. His hands felt strange but good, though it was difficult for her to comprehend exactly what her feelings were.
"Now the lotion," the doctor said.
Cindy turned and saw that his organ was now standing straight up from his body. She opened a palm and squirted some sun tan lotion from the plastic bottle. It felt cool against her warm hand. She grabbed his member, twisting her fist around to evenly spread the lotion, then slid it down to the base.
"Hmmmm," Montrose said. "Keep doing that, dear."
She slid her hand up and down the pole. Something about it seemed familiar. Without knowing why, she flipped her thumb over the head of the organ.
"Yep!" Montrose said. "That's good."
She did it again, happy to make him happy.
"Up and down, dear," he said softly.
Cindy sat on the chaise, her bare hip pressed against him, and steadily pumped her soft fist up and down the warm organ. Occasionally, she stopped to flip her thumb across the head, and she always got a moan from the doctor as a reward.
"Faster now, honey," he said.
She pumped her hand rapidly. The doctor began moaning.
She tightened her grip. The lotion continued to act as a lubricant, and her hand slid easily no matter how tightly she squeezed.
The doctor moaned loudly, and the organ in her hand jerked. White lotion, not unlike the sun tan lotion she was using, jetted out of the end. She continued to pump, somehow knowing that now was not the time to stop.
Eventually, the doctor put a hand on her naked back and patted. "Okay," he whispered.
"Did I do good?" she asked him.
"Very good," he said. "You made me happy."
He didn't want an automation, a robot. But he did want Cindy to have the proper attitude and beliefs. It was a fine line to walk.
The various injections he'd given her, as well as those he continued to administer, were doing their jobs. Of course. He had devised the regimen and created the combinations, so how could it be otherwise? Still, it was reassuring to actually see the results manifest themselves in her altered brain and body chemistry.
The hypnosis, old-fashioned methodology that it was, added a significant tool to his medical bag. Her chemistry made her more feminine on a daily basis, and the hypnosis channeled his more specific ideas on femininity to the behaviors that would be most pleasant for him. He believed, quite strongly, that women had become too uppity. They were trying to act like men, and forgetting their natural role in life. It was upsetting the world, upsetting his life, and now that he was in a position to take things back to the way they were supposed to be, he made sure that none of the unnatural modernism reared its ugly head.
Still, he didn't want to stifle her. He wanted some changed attitudes, and he wanted what he believed to be the feminine ideal, but he didn't want to otherwise change her personality. He didn't want a human Barbie Doll. Not completely, anyway. That meant he had to be both careful and observant of the reactions in the use of chemicals and hypnosis, and he was always aware of it.
The first outing by the pool, repeated so pleasantly the following day, was something Montrose had spent some time thinking about before initiating. He had wanted to be sure that everything was lined up in Cindy's mind: that she was Cindy Preston, that his genius had restored her to her natural form, that she was enormously in his debt, and that she should make him happy in any way possible.
He had noticed a little hesitation, but it wasn't resistance; it was uncertainty. The next day, again outside by the pool, she'd gotten right into it. He had carried the new tenor into their daily contact, kissing her when he came into the room or left it, holding her close, and occasionally caressing her stockinged legs, or dress-covered bottom and breasts. There had been a subtle adjustment on her part. She was obviously beginning to think of him in more romantic and sensual terms, which was just the thing he wanted to happen. A step at a time, that was the way to do it. Let her get used to something, and then move on.
The doctor finished his cigar, went to the bathroom to brush his teeth and gargle. He gathered two fairly small packages that he'd wrapped earlier in the evening, and walked to the barn.
Cindy's smile was infectious. When he showed up with presents, she was delighted and didn't hesitate to show it. He couldn't help but smile in return. This time, even though there were only two boxes and neither of them was large, her smile was just as bright.
"Take them into the bathroom and unwrap them there," he said.
She tilted her head and looked at him. He usually left while she changed, and his request surprised her. But he didn't say anything else, so she took the packages into the bathroom.
Montrose took a seat and waited. He recognized his symptoms: he was a little nervous, a bit anxious. No matter.
Cindy closed the door behind her. She placed one of the packages on the counter top and began unwrapping the other. There was something different about these gifts, and she wondered what it meant. The doctor wanted to stay while she changed, which was the first time he'd done that. The packages he brought for her had always been larger, so that was something else that was new. He was also a little – she searched for a word – giddy? Eager? Nervous? Whatever, it wasn't like him. He was usually so bossy and sure of himself.
Inside the first package was a pair of black shoes with stiletto heels. She thought for a second and figured that this now made an even ten pairs of shoes that the doctor had given her. Counting the slippers and platform rubber pool sandals made it an even dozen. It wasn't enough, Or, rather, it was enough for the matching outfits she had, but only if she wore the same shoes every time she wore a particular outfit. She needed more shoes. Did he know that? She'd have to hint.
The contents of the second box confused her for a moment. The box had been too small for a dress, or a skirt and blouse combination. She had been thinking it would be accessories – maybe jewelry. Instead, it contained a pair of black stockings, a garter belt, skimpy panties, and an almost transparent silk top about the size of a bolero jacket. No dress or skirt and blouse to go with it.
She smiled. The horny son of a bitch, she thought.
She stripped and put on her new outfit, enjoying every minute of it. The doc' was showing her that she had a little power of her own. He didn't mean to, but he was. It was an opening in the wall he had erected around her world, and once she saw it she began thinking of ways to exploit it. Montrose was no dummy, and she would have to be careful. His arrogance was still his overriding trait, and with that came selfishness. She didn't doubt that if she pushed too far he would get angry with her. That would make him sensitive to his vulnerability, and he'd shut the door fast. But if she played her cards right . . .
Cindy looked at herself in the mirror. Straight out of Maxim, she thought. But kind of old-fashioned, too, like those pin-up pictures she'd seen from the middle of the last century. Men's taste in ladies sexy attire hadn't really changed all that much. The panties had gotten smaller. She looked at the tiny black thong panties that just covered her gently bulging genital area. Then she got nervous. It had all been the tactile impressions of the outfit and the visual image up to then. That, and her plotting about her new-found power. But the next step had little to do with texture, looks or thoughts. Going back into her bedroom was a trip toward lust.
She took a deep breath, and turned toward the doorway.
Doctor Montrose had done no thinking while she was changing. His mind was like a wet ball of warm cotton – expanding cotton that was creating a weird kind of pressure. His sense of time jumped around as it fought with his anticipation of seeing Cindy in the outfit.
When she walked into the room, he grinned like a kid finding a shiny new PlayStation under the Christmas tree. Though he had seen her in nothing but a thong bikini bottom, the hose and heels, along with the brief panties and almost transparent top, was the erotic image he always had in his mind when he fantasized about sexual encounters. It was fantasy no more.
"Excellent!" he said.
Cindy blushed. "It doesn't cover much," she said.
"It's not meant to, my dear," the doctor said. "Come closer."
Cindy hesitated, and then moved toward his chair. When she was almost against his knees she stopped. Montrose extended both hands, running them up her stockinged thighs to her bare hips. He held her, looking up and down her lithe, graceful body.
"I am so good," he said. He said it aloud, but he was speaking to himself.
"I hope you like the way I look," Cindy said.
"Of course!" Montrose said. "Didn't I just say that? Really, Cindy."
His hands slid up her naked sides and he exerted some pressure. She bent forward, and Montrose sat taller until their lips met. He slid his tongue into her mouth and she fenced with him, twisting her mouth against his.
They continued kissing, with Montrose occasionally breaking away to nibble on an ear lobe or slide his lips or tongue against the gentle curve of her neck.
Cindy had tried to remain unaffected at first. If the doctor found her so hot looking, she instinctively knew that the more remote she remained the more she would be able to manipulate him. But the kissing and caressing quickly overwhelmed her, and she felt herself responding to the doctor's actions to a degree that surprised her.
Montrose broke their embrace. "I'm getting an erection," he said.
"Oh! Shall I get some lotion?" Cindy asked.
By way of answer, the doctor slowly moved both hands to her breasts, cupping the half-globes gently.
"Ohhh," Cindy moaned.
Montrose slid his hands over her breasts, teasing her nipples with each pass. They quickly firmed up and he changed his movements, slowly running his fingers over the full curve of her breasts, toward the nipples, but veering off at the last second. After three or four teasing passes he would surprise her by gently tweaking her nipples. That always brought a moan from her lips.
Parts of the hypnotic sessions had focused on convincing her that she would have these responses to his touch, and longer portions were devoted to establishing the concepts of emotional debt and an eagerness to please him. He had watched for signs that they had become a part of her mental make-up. When he believed he had seen enough evidence that she would behave as he wanted her to behave he didn't hesitate in moving her along his chosen path.
He stood up and kissed her. Her tongue slipped into his mouth before he could move his into hers. He held her breasts – the perfect C cups – and flipped his thumbs across her sensitive nipples. She moaned into his mouth.
"Undress me, dear," he said. His voice had dropped a notch and he was breathing heavily.
He started with his shirt, so Cindy automatically went to his belt. She undid the belt, the button below, and slid his zipper down. She had to bend forward to push his pants all the way down and off his legs. When she finished she saw the log-shaped bulge in his white shorts. Keeping her eyes averted, she pushed the shorts down to the floor. Montrose stepped out of them, his erection bobbing in front of him.
He stepped forward, wrapping his arms around the nearly nude girl and pressing his naked body against hers. The stiletto heels made her taller, but his organ still pressed against her belly.
A dopey hug, the doctor thought. He wasn't going to do it, but immediately countered that thought with the realization that doing what he wanted to do was the whole point. If he wanted to press his naked body against her naked body, well, that's what she was for.
When he separated from her she glanced down at his organ. "Some lotion would feel good," she said with a smile.
"Kneel down, darling," he said.
It wasn't as if it was unexpected. Cindy had the thought when she walked back into the room and saw the expression on his face. In fact, had the thought after the second session of lotion-in-the-sun and knew it was inevitable, even as she'd cleared it from her mind. Anticipating it didn't make it any easier.
"I . . . I've never done this before," she said. "I won't be any good."
"I want you to give it a try, Cindy," the doctor said with a smile. "With this, even bad is good."
She didn't have a response for that. Not that anything would have changed his mind.
Cindy knelt in front of the doctor. Up close the organ looked strong, and larger than she had thought it was.
"Wet your lips," he said.
"Now slide my cock into your mouth."
Whew! He had to say it like that, she thought. So crude. He may be a world famous doctor and all, but when it came to sex he was just a horny guy. She was pleased that he was exhibiting a vulnerability.
She held the organ in front of her. She licked her lips again, but as a stalling tactic rather than out of need.
I do owe him, she thought. Big time. He's done so much for me, and I really do like him a lot. It's only fair that I make him happy, and even that won't repay him for everything he's done.
Montrose watched her change from hesitant virgin to determined toy. He could see it happening on her face. Her body shifted and she gripped his pole with more force. He smiled, impressed by the power of such a primitive art as hypnosis. Of course, without his chemical and surgical talents the hypnosis wouldn't have amounted to anything at all. Those skills were what had produced the beautiful creature kneeling in front of him. And it worked because of the intelligence and skill he had used in designing the web of ideas that he hand laced into her brain like a weave of surgical thread. In lesser hands it would have failed, even with his brilliant medical initiatives. No other doct . . .
"Ah!" he said.
Cindy's soft lips had slid over the helmet of his cock and contracted around the shaft below.
The doctor watched the soft lips caress his erection and thought, "I am sooo clever . . ."
On a low hill near the road that fronted the ranch acreage, Chad Gyznik watched the barn entrance through a pair of binoculars. Ever since he'd been in the house to replace the water heater he'd been thinking about it. The scientist was a weird dude. Everyone else who retired to the state seemed to want to mingle with each other, as if the locals weren't good enough for them. They were always having parties at the one of the country clubs or community centers. Even brought in some singers and comedians whose names he sort of recognized. Old guys, but still . . .
Montrose was different. Younger than the other retirees by a lot, and a real loner. People in town thought he was an off his rocker scientist nut case. A couple of them thought he was a medical doctor, too, because every so often he'd get packages of supplies in his post office box. That's what Gertie said, anyway. From medical houses. Whatever, he just didn't fit in, didn't fit the pattern of Yankees in Arizona.
But he did have money, and that's what interested Chad. He looked at stuff when he was there, and the guy had expensive tastes. He probably had a big wad of cash hidden in the floorboards, what with him being a loner and all. Had to.
Chad removed the binoculars from his eyes and squinted real hard, Had to, he thought.
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