Under Control: A BDSM Love Story

As I sat at my desk at work, bored to the point of feeling ill and wishing I had just called in sick, I couldn’t help reflecting on the previous day. Had I really met Hector? It seemed too strange to be real. Before I knew it I was reaching for the handle of the top desk drawer, pulling it out slowly so that in the bare cavity I could see the end of a small, white card. It was revealed to me bits at a time until finally I could read the whole thing:

Hector Davis, Ph.D.
Clinical Psychologist

187 W. Devonshire Ave.
Chatsworth, C.A.
818.555.4793

I could feel my heart quicken as I read it over and over again. Yes, clearly what happened the previous day was real. My mind raced as I remembered what took place after we left the café.


We pulled into the community parking lot for the apartment I lived in, and as Hector shut off the engine to his car, all I could do was sit in the silent darkness for a while.

“Clearly you have a lot on your mind,” he murmured, and when I looked at him, he had an intense look in his eyes that sent shivers down my spine. I did my best to seem nonchalant, but as usual it did not work too well. He added, “You have this distinct sadness about you that I’ve never seen in anyone else.”

I let out a nervous laugh, not knowing what to say in return. What can you say to something like that. “Yeah, well….” I mumbled, letting my voice drift off.

“You know you have a choice about who you can go to for therapy, right?” he said suddenly.

I was taken aback. Not only did what he say take me by surprise, but the way he said it. He was sitting stock still in his seat, his eyes full on me. Again I could feel a bit of the intimidation I had experienced earlier, but somehow it was different. It wasn’t frightening like with someone who means you harm. It was more like he had a strong, almost overpowering presence. And yet somehow I felt so drawn to this man whom I had only just met a few hours ago. It was a bit… exhilarating.

“No, I didn’t know that,” I said, finally blinking.

“As long as you are going to an accredited counselor or psychologist and your insurance covers it, you’re legally allowed to switch out of,” and here he cleared his throat, “Dr. Martin’s group.”

“Well… I don’t really know if my insurance covers anything, really,” I stammered, at a loss of what to say or do.

“You have MediCore, right?” he jumped in.

“Um, yes.”

“Then you’re covered.”

“But which clinics does it cover?” I asked timidly, my mind in a blur over all of this.

“Well, for one,” he said, reaching across the cabin to open his glove compartment and taking a small business card from a rather large stack of duplicates, “you can come to me.”

He handed me the card and I took it, staring at it for a long while. “I don’t know….”

“What’s not to know?” he said, his eyes on me.

“I just… I’ve never liked going to any sort of therapy. It makes me really uncomfortable.”

“I promise you will be in good hands. I’ll do my best to make you as comfortable as possible.”

“But I really don’t think--”

“I insist,” he stated firmly, his gaze unwavering.

At that moment I knew it was all over. He simply would not have it any other way, and if it was good enough for this man, then it was good enough for me. “Alright,” I finally conceded, though I was already certain I was way in over my head.

“Good,” he said, a satisfied grin on his face. “My office is open Monday through Saturday from eight AM to four PM. The address is on the card.”

“Should I make an appointment?” I asked, still unsure if this was such a good idea.

“Don’t bother,” he said, his grin still in place. “You’ll be my first patient.”



I snapped back into reality, just becoming aware that Ellen, the woman in the cubicle next to mine, was talking to me.

“Hey, Dee, you there? Yoo-hoo….” She waved one of her pudgy hands in front of my face.

“Oh, hey… sorry about that,” I said, shaking the cobwebs from my brain. “What were you saying?”

“I was asking if you wanted to come with me and the girls. We’re going to Das Boot tonight. It’s some weird goth club Barbara’s niece always goes to. Anyway, she says there’s good drinks there.”

“Actually I’m pretty short on cash at the moment,” I said, wishing this woman would just leave already.

“Oh, right,” she said, realization coming onto her round face. “The car issue….”

“Yeah,” I said, rubbing my temples with my fingertips. “You go have a good time. Thanks for the offer.”

“Maybe next time,” she said, with a wave as she left the room.

“I’d rather be hit in the head with a sack of bricks,” I muttered through my teeth, and I started gathering my things to leave.



It had been about three days since I had met Hector. Of course I didn’t have the nerve to call him, even though it was just his business number. I wasn’t sure I even wanted to do anything at all in that regard. I figured it couldn’t hurt to just leave things as they were… get the whole damn therapy bullshit over with and then get on with my life. But part of me, the curious part of me, wanted to see where this would take me. And then another part of me, the sensible part, was telling me that all of this was just a huge mistake.

I have never listened to my sensible side.

After loafing around in my apartment for a while, staring nervously at the phone, I finally nagged myself into getting up and calling. The card had been sitting right on the table next to the phone, staring at me judgmentally until I picked up the handset and dialed the number. It took several scared hang-ups before I actually mustered the courage to hold the line until someone picked up.

The moment Hector’s voice hit my ears, it was a crystallizing experience. I suddenly realized that I needed to do this, if not for the help, then to at least prove to myself that I had the gonads to pretend I was looking for it.

“You have reached the office of Hector Davis, Ph.D., clinical psychologist. My business hours are Monday through Saturday, from eight AM to four PM. Walk-ins are welcome only for special cases and emergencies. If neither apply to you, please leave a message at the tone and I will be sure to return your call and help you set up an appointment. Thank you.”

There was a beep on the other line and I realized it was show time. I didn’t say anything for the first few seconds because I hadn’t rehearsed what I wanted to tell him. Nice going, me, I thought. I decided to improvise.

“Uh… hey, Hector. It’s, uh, me.” I grimaced at my own words. Stupid, he’s not gonna know who ‘me’ is. “It’s Dee. Or Delilah, rather. The bitch from the Bible.” Oh God, what the fuck am I saying? “Um, well… I’m taking your advice, I guess. You know, about the therapy. I stopped going to the group but I realized that I had to have some alternate form of therapy, so I’m calling you now.” Just shut up, shut the fuck up, you idiot! “Um… God, this was a horrible idea….” As I mumbled that angrily to myself, I was prepared to hang up the phone.

Suddenly I heard a loud click and then a bit of feedback. “Hello?” said a voice on the other line.

“Hector?” I said, putting the receiver back to my ear.

“Ah, I was beginning to wonder when you would call me,” he said, and in spite of myself I smiled.

“Well, I know it’s hard to believe but I’m far less chicken shit than I thought.”

“I believe it,” he said, his deep, soothing voice drawing me out of the nearly panicked state I was in just seconds before. “When are you coming in?”

“Uh, I don’t know,” I said.

“I told you not to bother making an appointment. Nobody’s even heard of me yet.”

“Nobody?” I asked, surprised.

“Well, not in Chatsworth, anyway,” he deadpanned. “But I have big plans.”

“I can imagine,” I mused, unsure of what else to say.

“So just come in tomorrow then,” he said offhandedly.

“Wha-- so soon?” I stammered.

“Sure. I’ll be in my office all day. Keep in mind that you’re going to be making up for lost time.”

“That wouldn’t be any trouble for you, would it?”

“Trouble?” he laughed. “I get paid whether you show up or not. You might as well come, right?”

I let out a breath of laughter. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“Come in whenever you want. Eight would be best, though.”

“Alright,” I said, feeling like a huge weight was being lifted off my shoulders. “I’ll be there at eight then.”

“Good,” he said in that pleased tone of his. “I’ll be expecting you.”

Immediately after hanging up, I began planning what I would wear the next day. I never plan what I’m going to wear.



“You can do this,” I murmured to myself as I stood just outside the small commercial office. I looked down at the card with the address on it, and then back at the building. It looked welcoming enough, but the knot in the pit of my stomach made it seem like I was preparing to walk into a slaughter house. “You can do this,” I said again, more firmly this time, and without another word I marched into the room.

It had the appearance of a business that had just been set up, with lots of unpacked boxes and furniture that hadn’t been placed in their proper spots yet. Even so, it was relatively organized and plain, just like any other doctor’s office. There were no secretaries to greet me, no other patients waiting. Just an empty front room.

“I’ll be right there,” I heard Hector call from another room in the back, and I was relieved that I hadn’t come in without him there. I wasn’t sure exactly what he was doing, but I waited all the same, trying to calm my nerves.

After a few minutes he came out into the front room, wearing the same type of outfit as when I first met him: a button-up shirt, slacks, dress shoes and slicked hair. His previously cold eyes greeted me warmly, and I instantly felt at ease. “Well, I didn’t think you would show up.”

“Hey, you’re supposed to have faith in me,” I chided jokingly.

“Well I do, but I also know that people like you have a hard time coming out of the woodwork.”

People like me? I thought. Like we’re all exactly the same? “I’m pretty eager to get this whole therapy crap over with,” I said, trying to keep face.

“That’s exactly what we’re going to do,” he said, motioning with his hand to the door a little ways behind him. “Won’t you come in? We can get started.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat and very hesitantly entered the next room.

This one was better furnished, with a large oak desk, an armchair, a leather couch, and some potted plants. It was obvious he spent most of his time in this room. He sat down in the armchair and then looked up at me. “Please, have a seat,” he said, pointing to the couch.

“Really?” I said, looking at the couch dubiously. “On that thing?”

“I hope you’re not suggesting there is something wrong with my taste in furniture,” he admonished, his face set in stone.

“Well, no, of course not,” I said, embarrassed. “It’s just that… it’s like the stereotypes, you know?”

“You don’t have to lie down on it, Delilah,” he said, reaching for a pen and pad of paper that was sitting on a small table next to the chair. “Just do whatever makes you feel most comfortable.”

“Okay,” I said, easing down onto the couch. Since it was a couch made for lying down on, there was nothing to lean my back on while sitting up. Fuck it, I thought, and lay down on my back instead.

“Look at you,” he said, a bit of a smile on his face. “You’re already breaking the boundaries of your comfort zone. Now this is progress.”

“Ha ha,” I said sarcastically, wanting nothing more than to disappear off the face of the earth.

“Let’s start, shall we?” he said rhetorically. “Full name?”

I looked over at him to see if he was joking, but his eyes were on his pad of paper. “Delilah Jones,” I said, my gut wrenching and contorting in nervousness. He jotted this down.

“Age?” he said.

“Twenty-six.”

“Sex?”

Again I looked at him, unable to tell if he was joking. His face was still stony and indifferent, so I answered. “Female, through and through.”

He jotted this down. “Sorry, can never be too sure these days. Occupation?”

“Data entry.”

His pen stopped scratching. “Data entry?” he repeated.

“Yes.”

“You mean you’re a typist?”

“Pretty much,” I said, not sure where this was going.

“You know how to take dictations? Set up schedules and the like?”

“I do,” I said, furrowing my brow in confusion. “Why do you ask?”

“No particular reason,” he said, looking back at his paper. “Do you live with anyone?”

“No,” I said, feeling like a loser.

“Alright those were just the preliminaries,” he said, crossing one leg over the other. “Now we can move on to the serious stuff.”

I swallowed hard. “Serious stuff?”

“Oh, you know. How you feel and all that.”

“Right,” I said.

“Now, I want you to close your eyes.” When I gave him a nervous look, he added, “I promise there’s a point to this. Just do it.”

I cautiously closed my eyes, hoping he wasn’t up to anything funny. “Alright, then what?”

“Just relax,” he said, catching on to my uneasiness. “I want you to loosen up all your muscles. Stop clenching your fists like that. Now take a deep breath and let it out slowly.”

I did as he said, and when I had fully exhaled my capacity, I already felt so much better.

“Are you relaxed now?” he said, his voice like a melody to my ears.

“Yes,” I said, opening my eyes.

“Now, I’m going to ask you some questions. Some of them might make you a bit uncomfortable. I want you to tell me when I am reaching a touchy subject. It is very important that you tell me which questions you don’t want to answer. Can you do that?”

I nodded.

“Good. Let’s begin.” He cleared his throat and looked at me with his hazel eyes. “Where were you born?”

“You mean the city or the hospital?”

“Whichever you want to tell me,” he said.

I thought a moment before saying, “Good Samaritan Hospital.”

“So you’re strictly an L.A. girl,” he mused, writing on his note pad. “I find that surprising.”

“Why’s that?”

“No reason,” he said, placing a period on the paper with more force than needed. “Were you born prematurely, late, or on time?”

“I’d say I was born about right on time,” I said, a bit confused as to why he was asking this. “My mom led a very healthy lifestyle while she carried me.”

“Good, good,” he murmured, writing down some more notes. “And were you birthed the traditional way or through cesarean?”

“I’m sorry,” I interrupted, “but I don’t know what the significance of this is. What does it have to do with anything at all?”

“If you have a problem with answering it--”

“I don’t, I’m just having a hard time understanding the point of these questions.”

“That’s for me to know.” He pointed to several plaques mounted on his wall which proclaimed his qualification to be the doctor. That shut me up. “Were you born the traditional way?”

“No, c-section.”

“Mm,” he said, writing some more. “And were both your parents together at that time?”

I didn’t answer. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to. I had an inexplicable tightness in my chest that no amount of deep breathing would get rid of.

“Delilah? Were both your parents together--”

“Yes,” I said, feeling my eyes grow hot, but I blinked enough times to keep myself under control. “I wish they hadn’t been, but they were.”

“Why do you wish that, Delilah?” he asked, his eyes drilling into me.

I shook my head, unable to say anything.

“Is this question too much for you?”

I nodded, closing my eyes to keep myself from crying.

He took some more notes. “Alright, we’ll skip that for now. Where did you grow up?”

I sniffed and cleared my throat, gaining composure. “All around. My parents moved constantly when I was little.”

“That must have been hard, being uprooted like that all the time,” he said, his eyes softening.

“Well yeah. What did they care about how I felt, though. They were doing it to survive. My father was always getting laid off of his jobs, so we had to keep moving wherever the jobs were.”

“I see,” he said, and his pen danced across his paper for a long time. “Did you have many friends growing up?”

“Not really. I was always the outsider at every school I went to.” I shook my head slowly. “Always the outsider.”

“I’m sure you had some friends?” he pressed.

“In high school. I was a band geek. Everyone was friendly to me there. And the Drama club kids weren’t too bad either.”

“What about later on?”

“I was kind of a loner in college. I was mostly focused on getting out of there so I could finally start my life. Boy was I mistaken.”

“Meaning?”

“I have the most boring life on earth. End of story.”

“Oh?”

“Like a rat in a wheel, just endlessly running. That’s my rat race.”

“Well you certainly have a healthy pessimism,” he said, still writing.

“I take after my mother.”

As Hector finished scribbling, he set his notebook down on his lap and stared silently at me for a while. Finally he broke the silence. “Delilah, are you a virgin?”

I balked, almost choking on the nothing in my throat. “E- excuse me?”

“It’s a simple question. Have you ever had sex?”

I couldn’t believe he was asking me this. Not that I had anything to hide either way, but the fact that he asked it so casually really rattled me. He continued staring, and I knew he would not stop until he had some sort of answer.

“I’m not sure I’m comfortable answering this.”

“You’re not sure you’re comfortable,” he repeated. “Which means there’s a possibility you could be, but you don’t know?”

“I’m not comfortable answering this,” I said with more certainty.

“Why?”

I was stuck. Either way I had to answer, and there was no avoiding the embarrassment of telling the truth. I deigned to bullshit, anyways. “I just don’t.”

“Is it because you’re hiding something?” he pressed.

“No,” I reasoned, trying to keep my cool. “I just don’t feel like telling you. It would be like… telling my boss.”

“Does that mean you think of me as your boss?”

“No,” I said, feeling like I was being chased down. “You’re my therapist. But it feels sort of the same. I wouldn’t go telling my boss if I was a virgin.”

“What if I ordered you to? Would you do it then?”

He was closing in on me now. I could feel it. I was like a rat trapped in a maze, and he was the cat looming dangerously over me, claws exposed and tail jerking back and forth. “What would give you that authority?”

“Why, the fact that I am being paid by your company’s insurance to ‘fix you’, as your boss so eloquently put it.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, willing my body to disappear. This is not happening. He is not asking me this.

“So yes, I do order you to tell me,” he concluded, looking at me smugly through hooded eyelids.

I swallowed hard once more and in a meek voice answered, “No. No I’m not a virgin.”

He remained still for a moment before writing on his paper some more, the urgency disappearing completely. “So you’ve had sex,” he reflected quietly.

“Well, yes and no,” I said, all jumbled up and flustered. “I mean, I’ve gone pretty far, but not… you know… all the way.”

“And by ‘all the way’, you mean penis-in-vagina intercourse,” he said without batting an eyelash.

I bit my lip and nodded, fully mortified.

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

“No, sir,” I said, utterly destroyed.

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked, shooting him a look.

“I take that as a no,” he said with a wry laugh.

“No, sir,” I added snidely.

He looked at me for a while, almost as though he enjoyed how uncomfortable I was. Why did I ever agree to do this? I asked myself.

“High school is an age of experimentation. I’m sure there are lots of things you did then that you regret now.”

I looked at him, suddenly feeling insulted. “What makes you think I regret anything I did, then or now?”

“Because, if I recall correctly, you purposely crashed your car in order to kill yourself. There must be something you regret.”

I looked away, wishing I could melt into the couch. “That’s for me to know.”

He smirked. “Fair enough.”



The session lasted for about three hours. Hector drilled me relentlessly, invading seemingly every dark space of my life until I felt like I would try to kill myself right there in front of him. He assured me afterward that it was all just for the sake of getting to know me and my thought processes so that he could understand me better for the rest of our six months together. I still felt like my mind had been violated, and the strange force that had drawn me to him a mere three days ago, the force that made me want to confide in him, was all but gone by the end of it all.

Even more awkward was the fact that he insisted on driving me home, saying he didn’t trust the public transportation system. I guess he was right about having issues.

I laid awake in bed that night, and for the first time in… well… forever, I suddenly felt like I had to make a stand for myself. Hector had trampled my trust to shit, not only by forcing me to answer questions I was unwilling to answer, but also by conspiring with my boss against me. It dawned on me that clearly he had been planning this from the start. Why else would he decide to come to my therapy group just out of the blue. He must have done this to earn my trust; to make me feel like I can relate to him.

Angrily I sat up, and without thinking I marched over to my phone, picked it up and dialed Hector’s number, not even caring that nobody would be around to answer. I needed to vent my frustration.

“You have reached the office of Hector Davis, Ph.D….”

I suffered through the long-winded message, knowing I was going to flounder when the time came for me to speak. I didn’t care. It needed to be said.

At last, the beep.

“You said you like listening to people. Well listen to this,” I said, unable to stop what was coming. “I think you are rude, inconsiderate, and… an asshole. I said it. You’re an asshole. You pretend to care about people, and then you go and humiliate them so you can get paid your five figure, upper-middle class salary. Meanwhile I slave away at a computer for ten hours a day, getting fat and depressed, and I end up having to waste the rest of my time and money paying for some douche-bag like you to tell me something I already know. Yes, I’m depressed. Yes, I’m fucked up. I’m a sad, lonely person. I honestly don’t think there’s any way you can ‘fix me’. The only fixing that would truly work for good an ever is for me to die, and I can’t even do that because my stupid friends won’t fucking let me. Fucking guilt-tripping me over a goddamn Italian dinner.” At this point I didn’t care that I was making absolutely no sense. I was venting not only about him, but about everything. “I had a shitty childhood. Okay? What kid doesn’t? Everyone is jaded these days. Why am I the only one who’s avoided like the plague because of it? Why do I have to talk to you about my problems? Why am I even talking to you at all right now? Not even to you, either. I’m talking to a goddamn machine.” I sighed, realizing none of my rant would do anything except piss him off the next day. “Listen… forget I said any of this. I’m crazy, okay? I’m just… crazy.”

Just as I was about to hang up, I heard a strange noise. It wasn’t any sort of mechanical noise, but it was something I hadn’t heard before. I put my ear to the receiver again and heard it more clearly. At first I couldn’t tell what it was, but after a moment I realized what it was. It was laughter. Hector’s laughter.

“Did you really just call me a douche-bag?” he said.

I floundered a moment, shocked that he had been listening to my whole rant. I was nowhere near a mirror but I could tell my cheeks were turning a violent shade of red. “Yes… I did.”

“Delilah, I’m glad I know you. Don’t you see you’re already making progress?”

“No,” I said, in a daze.

“I’m guessing that’s the first time you’ve ever told someone off,” he said, humor still in his voice.

“Actually… it is,” I said, the reality of the situation dawning on me.

“You see? We go well together. I’m the perfect douche-bag for helping you clear out your anger.”

After letting what he was saying sink in for a moment, I realized that he had just made a joke. The man of stone cracked a freakin’ joke.

As we laughed together over the phone, I realized I probably could get used to therapy. At least a little bit.