She caught my attention immediately as my friend and I walked into the bar, just like the opening of some joke. My friend was a therapist, and had a good practice going down the road from my place, his red hair, slightly balding head and Sigmund Freud beard instantly marking him as a “shrink” in the minds of the other patrons. I was a towheaded youth of twenty-six. Luckily, my family had never been prone to male-pattern baldness, so unlike my friend, I still had a full head of hair. I guess I should tell you his name is Stan. Mine’s Paul. I worked as a computer programmer at a ten-story building in midtown that towered over everything else, including the water tower. But like I said, the young woman caught my attention immediately as we walked in. She was a mousy young brunette with an angel’s face, dressed in tight-fitting blue jeans and high heels, with a blue halter top tucked into the jeans. I’m not exactly sure what it was about her that struck me so profoundly. She was attractive, sure, but not devastatingly so, and not moreso than the waitresses who set drinks on the tables. I think maybe it was her expression. I’m not sure how I can describe it. I guess one could say it was kind of a hunted expression. At any rate, I got Stan a drink, and took two drinks over to her table.
“Hi.” I said. “Mind if I sit here?” She shook her head. I sat down, putting the drink in front of her. She smiled a little, and sipped shyly at the beer. “What’s your name?” I asked. She kept her eyes downcast as she mumbled something I couldn’t hear. “I’m sorry, could you say that again a little more loudly?” I asked politely.
“Bibi.” she replied, lifting her head only long enough to direct her only slightly raised voice so I could hear her before turning her eyes back down again, seemingly fascinated by the beer before her.
“I’m Paul.” I said. From this distance, it was plain to see she was hurting inside. I put my hand on her forearm gently and gave her a reassuring smile. I managed to wheedle some personal information out of her—she was twenty-three, she lived alone in an apartment near the college, and she worked in the typing pool at the local ISP. Her bike was chained up in the parking lot. She couldn’t afford a car on her salary. I guess whatever I sensed in her triggered my innate protective instincts or something like that, but I was definitely drawn to her. I wanted to take her somewhere safe. I left Stan with cab fare to get home plus forty dollars for drinks, and Bibi and I walked out to the parking lot. She loaded her bike in the bed of my pickup and climbed into the passenger’s seat after I unlocked the door for her. She reached over and unocked the driver’s-side door from the inside as I came around the front of the truck. She stared at her knees as I drove her to my place. As soon as we were inside the door, she went to the fridge and started making sandwiches. I waited for her on the couch. She brought the sandwiches in on a little tray and got down on her knees before me, offering me the sandwiches like some sort of servant.
“Is this okay, sir?” she asked, her voice barely audible. I reached over to caress her cheek...and she cringed. I kept going, and once she realized I just wanted to caress her, she relaxed and even smiled a little. “I...I didn’t know what you’d like, so I just used whatever I could find.”
“It’s okay.” I said, popping one of the little cut-up sandwiches into my mouth. “Though I’d prefer you up here on the couch with me.” She complied, though she seemed a little confused by my request. I fed her one of the little sandwiches and watched her chew it and swallow it before I popped one into my own mouth. We continued this until the sandwiches were gone.
“May I get you something to drink?” she asked. At what she probably perceived to be a nod, but was actually a curious head-movement on my part, she rose and went back to the kitchen. She filled a glass with one of the bottled beers from the fridge and returning with it to the living room. On the way, she tripped over the rug I’ve been meaning to get rid of. I dashed into action, catching her as she fell. The beer bottle and glass fell to the floor and shattered. “I’m sorry.” she sobbed, grabbing some paper towels and hastening to clean up the mess. She cut herself on one of the shards of broken glass. She was still sobbing apologies as I pulled her into the bathroom to clean and dress her wound. I left her sitting on the toilet and told her not to move, then went back to the living room and cleaned up the mess myself. She was crying when I returned to her. “I’m so sorry.” she sobbed, and began to expound on how worthless she was, how stupid she had been and how she didn’t deserve to live, et cetera, et cetera. I reached out to brush her tears away, and she cringed as if expecting him to hit her. It hit me then that she had been abused by someone before. I gently wiped away her tears and held her close to me, being as reassuring as I possibly could. I kissed her, and she responded gratefully, thankful that I had forgiven her. We moved into the bedroom, and I pulled her halter top out of her jeans and pulled it over her head. She kicked off her heels as I undid her belt, followed by her fly. She was wearing no underwear, so I didn’t have to do anything after that except get my own clothes off. I crawled into bed with her, kissing her tenderly as I did. I easily slid into her wet and eager slit, and stayed there, savoring the moment before I began. I kissed her lips, her face, her neck and her chest as my hips pumped her for pleasure like an oil rig. I playfully nibbled at her nipples, and received an increase in the volume of her moans as my reward. I pulled out for a minute, bringing my mouth to her eager opening, and began to lick and nibble at her clit, kissing her upper thighs and rubbing my nose against the lips of her shaven blossom. I flicked my tongue against the clit until she came, and then I brought her to a second screaming orgasm by inserting my finger and probing around until I found the G-spot. I brought her to a third purely through G-spot stimulation, and then moved back up and returned to kissing her as I made love to her eager, well-lubricated love-tunnel. She seemed to sense that I was about to climax myself, and held back her next one, biting her lower lip as she waited. Finally, as I exploded inside her, she let go, crying out as our orgasms shook the room and threatened to pound down the wall. I caressed her gently as we began to drift to sleep.
I was awakened about midnight by Bibi’s nightmare. She mumbled in her sleep as her head moved from side to side. I touched the side of her face and she cried out, sitting up straight, her back stiff as a board. Then she began to cry. I held her close as she cried, caressing her gently.
“Shh.” I said. “Go back to sleep. It was just a bad dream.”
“Yes, Master.” she said, snuggling close and closing her eyes. Within seconds, she was asleep, my gentle caresses keeping away bad dreams. I didn’t get any sleep the rest of the night.
I called Stan after dropping Bibi off at her place and giving her my number if she ever needed me to talk to her or comfort her. She half-repressed the cringe that I now knew was from long habit.
“Um, Stan, I want to talk to you about Bibi.” I said. “You understand psych stuff better than I do.”
“What’s wrong, Paul?” Stan asked. “She got some weird fetish?”
“I think she was abused.” I said.
“Okay, look, drop by the office about noon and bring lunch.” Stan said. “We’ll talk then.” I bought take-out at the Classic Wok, Stan’s favorite restaurant. I arrived just as his eleven o’clock was leaving. I carried the two styrofoam cartons inside and set them on the table, returning to my truck to get the cooler with the two six-packs inside, one of beer, one of cola (what can I say, I like to be prepared, just in case Stan’s not in the mood for beer).
“Alright, what’s all this about your girlfriend being abused?” Stan asked, taking a beer from the cooler and pouring it into a half-full glass of cola he had poured himself.
“Well, when I go to touch her, she cringes as if I’m going to hit her.” I said. “She acts really subservient, and if she makes the slightest mistake she starts talking about herself like she’s less than nothing. She woke up last night in the grip of a nightmare, and as I got her back to sleep she called me Master. This morning she insisted on cooking me breakfast to make up for the beer and the glass she broke, and even begged me to punish her. She was still calling me Master when I dropped her off at her place so she could get ready for work.” Stan sat there for a few minutes, thoughtfully chewing his mushu pork.
“Well, this is certainly unusual.” he said, picking a grain of rice from his beard. “I’m not sure yet if it’s cause for concern, but I’d like to speak with her. I’ve had a cancellation for tomorrow if you wouldn’t mind bringing her in at eight.”
“I’ll talk to her about it.” I said.
Bibi showed up at my door about seven-thirty that evening. The cab she had come in waited for her downstairs. Her bike was strapped to the top. She looked at me with lust in her eyes. She hit her knees and crawled over to me like a dog with her tail between her legs. She nuzzled against my legs before looking up at me.
“Master, may I please stay with you and serve you?” she pleaded. “I’ll do anything for you.” The look in her eyes melted my resistance, and I agreed. Joyously she kissed my feet, then went downstairs to get her luggage. The next morning, I took her into Stan’s office. She was a little nervous. I kissed her and massaged her tense shoulders, helping her to relax. I stayed in the room, offering moral support, even when Stan suggested hypnosis. I watched in fascination as he slowly, gently began to bring her under. She seemed to be resisting his suggestions. I rose as silently as a man without ninja training could, walking across the thick carpet toward them.
“Let me try.” I mouthed.
“Bibi,” Stan said, “you are going to hear another voice in a minute. You know him and, it is my hope, that you trust him. Just relax, Bibi, and listen to Paul’s voice.”
“Bibi?” I asked.
“Yes, Master?” she responded softly.
“Bibi, you don’t have to call me that.” I said.
“But I want to.” Bibi replied.
“Who scared you?” I asked. “Who got you into the habit of cringing when someone reaches for you? Who is it that hurt you?”
“His name was Lenny.” Bibi replied. “He was...my pimp...my first Master. He took care of me, trained me to serve and pleasure men ever since I was five. I grew up in his harem, but he never did me until I was fifteen. After he got shot by the cops, we all kind of went our separate ways. I never knew anybody as nice as you.” There was a tear peeking under her eyelid. “You’re the first person I’ve met who cared about me, who treated me like a person. I...I’ve wanted to thank you...the only way I know how.” I caressed her, wiping a tear from my own eye. Unlike any woman I had known before, Bibi was constantly able to touch me emotionally in ways I’d never been touched before.
“Bibi, I want you to put your fear behind you.” I told her. “It’s in the past. No one’s going to hurt you now. I won’t let them. You’re safe with me. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. Now, I’m going to snap my fingers, and you’re going to wake up feeling better, okay?”
“Okay.” she said with a smile on her face that just melted my heart. I counted to three and snapped my fingers. Her eyes fluttered open, and she smiled up at me. She didn’t cringe when I reached down to caress her. She wrapped her arms around me and held me tight. “Can we go home now, Master?” she asked.
Of course I ended up marrying her. What else could I do? That first session was far from the end, but it was a major breakthrough. Our first child was almost a year old before we stopped going in for sessions with Stan. Sometimes she likes to refer to me as the man who helped mend her broken wings. I kind of like that.