Other Colors - Ch. 17 - Sex Stories

Other Colors - Ch. 17

... at my reflection in the desktop, fully aware of how classically pathetic that sounded. But in the end, I decided to just embrace the cliché, and snoop around in his stuff. The first two drawers were innocuous enough. Both were filled up with documents and dossiers, all of which seemed arranged with a distinctly anal retentive attention to tidiness. I smirked, debating just how foolish it would be to slip a few of them back in out of order. The third drawer made me cringe. It contained some case notes from his psychiatric research back at Trinity. I bit my lip, and flipped through to a random page. ‘Subject O – Initial Screening & Assessment 17:00 Dec 15, 1995 Coordinating Analyst: Dmitri R. Caine. Thirty-four year old Caucasian female in obvious discomfort and moderate distress. Patient admits to a sixteen year history of compulsive masturbation with co-occurring obsessive sexual fantasies, refractory to adequate trials of sertraline, paroxetine, clomipramine, and risperidone. Compulsions occur with completion five to nine times diurnally. Obsessions are described as ‘essentially continuous’. Positive for multiple paraphilias. Adrenal androgens are consistently within normal limits. On examination, genitalia are erythematous externally, with minor healing abrasions to the clitoral glans, prepuce, and labial folds—’ I snapped the file shut. I didn’t dare read any further. It was bad enough to discover the cold, sterile language of a clinician in his own handwriting, but ...

... juxtaposing it over this poor, violated woman was too much for me. I can’t even imagine… My hands clenched. I couldn’t imagine what it must feel like to confess such a thing to a stranger—to Dmitri—and then to sit, squirming and fidgeting while he scribbled it all down. And five to nine times? All in one day? My hands relaxed, and I laid my palms flat on the file. Christ. It must be agony. I shook my head, and started to replace the case file when a small, grainy photograph fell out onto the desktop. I picked it up, squinted, and smiled. It was Dmitri—and he was young. I leaned closer, my grin widening. My God. What a nerd. He looked about my age, or just a little bit older. His arms were crossed, and he was leaning against a bookshelf. He wore an awful tweed vest with gray slacks. His hair was a little longer; all tousled and boyish. But the wry, cocksure smirk was exactly the same. I giggled silently to myself. I loved it. And I think I might’ve just stolen it for myself had he been all alone in the photo. But he wasn’t. There was another man standing beside him. He was older; slim, clean-shaven, in a white double-breasted suit, and a pair of polished black oxfords. I frowned. He was, I must admit, quite strikingly handsome, and at least in this photo, maybe more so than Dmitri. And although I knew it was impossible, I could have absolutely sworn that I recognized him. I wracked my brain, but came up empty-handed. I shuddered. There was something about his eyes—all pale, ...