The 5 Stages of Grief

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Chapter 7, Grant

It was all he could do to hold his temper as he stood waiting for the elevator. Luckily, no one was around. Not that he cared – he didn’t, not in the least – although he was sure Dr. Reichmann didn’t want him offending anyone. Finally, after what seemed like eons, the bell dinged and the doors opened. The ride down was slow, even though he did it alone and didn’t stop on another floor. Thank fucking God, he thought, still counting to help maintain control. He listened to the heels of his shoes ricochet off of the granite floors and walls of the lobby as he crossed the vacant space in measured strides. A modern-day Grand Canyon, he mused, as the echoes from the pillars and windows, the sharp angles and hard surfaces returned an audible boomerang with nothing, no-one in the way to impede passage.

A hundred souls could have shared the sidewalk with him and he’d never of noticed. He was alone with his thoughts. It was a conscious decision to maintain control, it went against his demeanor. He wanted to show the Doctor he was not some little kid. Some simpleton, who could not, would not, control his temper – that was a slave to his emotion, his appetite. He knew that he was, or at least suspected, and did not in truth see what all the fuss was about as it seemed to be working just fine for him. But it did seem to bother most folks, including Dr. Reichmann, so he’d decided to see if he could do a better job at restraint.

“It’s all a fucking game anyway – right?” The question posed to no one as he strode along the street with purpose. He knew where he was headed, just not what he would do, what choice he might make when he arrived. “I mean, everyone’s more or less the same deep-down inside under the bullshit and politeness. The political fucking correctness they put on to show everyone how much they care and how evolved they are in their emotional ‘I give a shit about the world, look at me’ kimono’s they slip on when they think someone might be looking. I just speak my mind and tell them what I want. Up fucking front. No games. No hidden fucking agendas.” He took a cigarette from his pocket and lit it with his Zippo with barely a break in his stride. If people were watching, staring at his traveling monologue, he never took notice.

“Deep fucking down, who do they think they are fucking kidding? The whole fucking planet is filled with nothing but fucking hypocrites.” The blocks flew by in a blur as they jumped out of his way. Not far now.

“Since when did the nature of man switch to give from fucking take? That’s what I want to know! Am I the only one who’s real anymore? The only real man left? State what you fucking want, then take it for Christ’s sakes! That’s the way men are programmed. ‘Excuse me Mr. Fucking Dinosaur. Do you mind if I carve a little off the leg there? My family hasn’t eaten in a fucking week and if we don’t get some fucking food soon, we’re all going to fucking die. So do you mind?’ I don’t fucking think so!” Grant flicked the finished butt to the cement and stamped it out with the sole of his shoe with far more force than needed, then looked around to gather his bearings, make sure he wasn’t lost. There was a parkette kitty-corner from him with a vacant bench. He crossed to take a seat in the sun, take a moment to calm down before he arrived at his destination.

He pulled another cigarette from his pocket, this time lighting it without the ferocity. He felt the smoke fill his lungs, held it, let the drugs and chemicals and whatever the fuck else they put in these things do their magic, slow his racing heart, tame the beast within. He tilted his head back and blew rings, watched as they dissipated with the slight breeze which blew across his face, quivered the tiny hairs on his face and forearms which lay exposed to the warm sun. Though everything in him screamed, every muscle and sinew twitched, he forced himself to remain still, to finish the smoke, control his breathing, count – like Dr. Reichmann had taught him – think.

Somewhere between stimulus and response is a space, and in that space lies our freedom, our power to choose. He remembered the Doctor telling him that, preaching the words at him over and over. How many times? I’ve no idea – many.

She answered the door wearing an outfit so sexy, he thought he might lose it right there. It was perfect and just as he’d commanded her to dress from this day forward.

“Hello Rachel,” he said, stepping past her through the doorway. He heard the door shut behind him and the pitter-patter of her feet as she followed him in silence. He went to the tiny living-room or TV room, he wasn’t quite sure of the terminology of the place yet and sat down in the oversized chair located in the best spot to view the game. He held out his hand, palm-up, to see if she would respond.

She promptly retrieved the remote and placed it in his upturned hand then knelt beside his chair with her head tilted down, toward her lap. “Will there be anything else, Master?” she asked.

He reclined his chair leisurely, his eyes never wavering, still locked on her. They marveled at her near naked body, better than naked, hints of pleasure peeking through here-and-there where the material touched near to the skin. His body gave an involuntary shiver.

“My, you look tasty today, Rachel. Why don’t you stand up so I can get a better look at you?” She stood. His eyes drank her in savoring each curve, devouring every inch, hungering. The animal in him growling to be fed, chaffing at the self-imposed chains of bondage. The Doctor’s words and warnings – straining for release, to override, be heard.

She was draped in a sheer black baby-doll, her plump breasts clearly visible, her nipples – as if cherries topping a decadent desert – standing proud, straining for attention against the delicate material. The chemise was split down the middle from her bosom to her waist. Parted ever so slightly to reveal the matching panties. Nothing more than a g-string, the translucent fabric somewhat bunched, hinting of the treasure that lay beneath. Her long tanned legs flowed to the floor – near perfection.

“Turn around please, my sweet.” She obeyed his command without hesitation, giving him an unobstructed view of her perfect ass – bare, but for the tiny black lace that lie partially visible between her luscious cheeks. The silhouette of her back draped in folds of transparent silk, bordered by her long blond hair cut straight across between her shoulders. The perfect bookend for her gorgeous legs which flowed from under the soft curves, stretching, pulling obscene thoughts from the spectator’s mind – his mind.

He chose to address her in this position. “I had a visit with Dr. Reichmann today.” She remained silent, though he thought he witnessed a slight quiver in her shoulders – some apprehension maybe? He continued, “He said, and in no uncertain terms, that I should not see you, not in this way – this particular arrangement. He said I was taking advantage of you. That if we proceeded with this relationship, in this way, it might do you harm –might retard your progress…. Obviously, his words, not mine.” He paused a moment, drifted off in thought.

“May I speak, Master?” Her words brought him back to the present.

“Yes, of course?”


“Turn around first, please. Face me. I would like to see you when you speak.”

She turned, her glorious body reminding him, with a desperate pang of possible loss, what he might be giving up.

“If I may be so bold, Master?”

“You may.”

“Then I would ask your indulgence.”

He nodded.

“Forget what the Doctor said. I need you – for my soul’s very existence.” Rachel lowered herself to her knees beside his chair. “Because, without you, I am liable to perish, lose myself.” Finished with her plea, she waited, her body proud, yet the woman insecure, yearning his approval, his permission that she may – exist.

“How may I please you, Master?” she asked. Leaning forward without permission, her hands probing for his zipper, braving castigation, what may come for belief in her capacity to please, his desire to surrender.

“You give this freely – without force? This is what you want?

She lifted her head. “I do. It is.”

When he was finished, relieved in his sexual reprieve. He opened his eyes only to find her waiting, staring at him – searching for answers, appreciation, acceptance, forgiveness, sanction for an act freely given – longing for approval.


Rachel did.

“Take off your clothes, your outfit.”

She did, without hesitation, her lack of timidity and complete submission to the situation an endorsement to take what he please. She stood before him, her clothes little as they were, discarded to her left, forgotten, her head tilted towards her chest, anticipating instruction to his every desire.

“The Doctor says I have to leave you alone. Do you agree with him? Should I stay – or would you rather I go?” He watched her for signs, hints, a flinch of indignation, repulsion. She did not balk. Instead, stood resolved, confirmed in her acceptance of subservience, acquiescence to his will.

“Fuck the Doctor – if I may be so bold Master. He is not my spokesman, not my will. I have already told you my feelings – that I want you to stay. Fuck him. He doesn’t know my feelings, my heart, what I need or want, my innermost desires – does he? Does he?”

“Well, when you put it that way.” Grant said, with a laugh. “Though, your point of view does put me in somewhat of a jam.” Rachel looked toward him, puzzled. He nods giving her permission to speak.

“How so?” she asked. “I don’t see the problem. It’s none of his damn business.”

A grin cuts his face. He pats his knee in indication for her to sit. She does, follows the silent command without question, without hesitation. “Well, on one hand, I have my doctor – yours too, I might add – funny little man don’t you think? I often get the impression he would like to trade lives with me, be me for a day – something like that at least. Anyway, he’s asking me – practically begging me – to leave you alone, to stay out of your life for what he believes is for the benefit of us both. Yet, on the other hand. I have a delightfully nude and extremely attractive woman,” he smiled, gave her a wink while slipping his hand beneath, searching for her warmth, wet promises of heaven on earth, “sitting on my lap, making me iron hard and only moments after shattering my mind with her oral skills. Who is willing to do whatever I order her to do. Isn’t that right?” He watches her concentrate, force her lips to mouth yes through the flood of desire erupting from his touch.

“So you see my dilemma?” Her head nods in response. A naughty grin now spread across her fleshy pink lips. “Do I follow the Doctors orders? Deprive myself of what I’m sure will be a mind-blowing experience of lust and countless orgasms, for us both?” Her lips curl to a pout, show her displeasure, what she thinks of that choice. “Or do I ignore his advice?” Rachel slinks her wet tongue over full lips, suggestive of indecent although wickedly gratifying delights to come. “Give in to the gorgeous little nympho wriggling on my lap, practically begging me to use her and actually soaking through my pant leg in anticipation of the many ways she is willing to please me?” Leaning forward, she stuffs her aroused flesh into his mouth, the flushed tip hardened in anticipation of what she might be told to do.

He sucked her hard, twirling his tongue, flicking her engorged nipple. Her body shivering, quivering under his ministrations. Who am I kidding? Was there ever any decision to make?

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