Whatever it was they wanted from him, I am sure the information spewed forth like a Roman fountain, even from an edentulous mouth. And thereafter he was freed, perhaps not the man, boy, they thought he was? Or perhaps a well-publicized prosecution for sedition would bring more notoriety to his handling and interrogation than the government desires.
Still, it is my task to psychologically rehabilitate, to put aside my self-interest and not speculate on the government’s involvement.
Complicating the matter is the relevant question, which government? The United States is not the only country with a dog in the fight against terrorism. Israel, Pakistan, Saudi Arabia, Egypt, all known for harsh interrogation, techniques unbridled.
Yet, Douglas Michael Harper lives, to tell his story, should he summon the ability to form words. Curious that he was not executed and furtively buried in some unmarked grave.
I lean back in my large stuffed swiveling desk chair, gazing in thought at the meek lad sitting in an uncomfortable straight-backed chair. The nature of the offered furniture is deliberate in bringing forth a degree of awkwardness. For the seated, it inures onto me an aura of control, to be perceived by my patient. My relative comfort normally fosters a one-way flow of communication, patient to me, the relaxed interlocutor, a sponge leisurely soaking up all.
“Let me see,” my suggestion spontaneously offered, mischievousness disguised.
I know my response to be construed as a simple and direct dictate. And in fact, he stands with noted alacrity. The mentally downtrodden Douglas Michael Harper will obediently respond as if the words are offered as a command. After all, he has been rendered psychologically vulnerable.
I watch suppressing a smile, a wry smile, a wicked smile, as my patient denudates. There is discomfort, but there is indeed notable obeisance as each item of attire is removed, neatly folded and placed on the chair.
He assumes I do not want him to resume sitting. How curious! And when finished he rigidly stands facing me, feet widely parted with his hands folded on the back of his head in some Pavlovian response to being naked.
In sultriness, my non-vanilla side boils within as I silently inspect.
Yes, below the neck he is as hairless as a new born. I cannot even detect stubble and must assume he has either very recently shaven his entire body for the visit to my office, or he’s been chemically depilated. I am sure the latter is the case.
As a woman in her sexual prime, I lasciviously gaze at him. Though hairless and appearing infantile, sizable testicles nestle within a ponderous scrotum. A flaccid penis stirs not, but is impressive in its possibilities. Douglas is short, but only in stature. Yes, the tip of that non-functioning tube of pink flesh dangles at mid thigh. Nice.
And I note a dab of prostatic fluid, just a little ooze. I must repress a smile, knowing that despite his impotency, his sex organs are priming the pump. He’s somewhat aroused in posing for me. And in not having ‘gotten his rocks off’ for quite some time, that curious male gland seems to beseech relief.
As I casually absorb the enticing potential of virility, I detect a degree of mental squirming. Yet he neither protests nor shifts about in modesty.
“Turn,” the simple directive sternly offered.
In offering for view luscious buttocks, smooth, well rounded, seeming to beg for corporal correction, the imagination stampedes, now picturing more than a rap to the knuckles.
“Scars. There are none, Douglas. It is important that I know of any physical abuse,” I cleverly provide camouflage for my otherwise unseemly demand to strip naked.
But I do not suggest that he dress. The moment, too delicious, is to be extended. His discomfort brings stimulation, for both of us.
He turns again, docilely, with the precision of a trained beast yet absent the pride exuded in accomplished dressage.