Under Control: A BDSM Love Story

After a full hour and two bus transfers, I finally arrived at the California Hospital Medical Center. As I entered the building, panicked and flustered, the memories and emotions associated with it returned to me in a giant wave. This was, after all, the hospital I ended up in after my car accident. I fought to keep myself from having a breakdown on site.

I went into the emergency wing and approached the front desk, unsure of what to say. Fortunately I didn’t have to say a thing, as Dr. Martin called to me.

“Dee,” he said, walking briskly over to me. “I’m glad you came.”

“Is… she alright?” I asked, my throat tensing up from anxiety.

“She’ll survive,” he said, and I sighed in relief. “But she’ll be in the intensive care unit for a while.”

“God….” I said, unable to say much else.

“Excuse me,” he said to the nurse at the front desk, “would it be alright if this young woman visits Ms. Nichols?”

“I’m afraid only family can visit at this time,” said the nurse.

“That’s okay,” I began to say to Dr. Martin.

“Ms. Nichols doesn’t have any family,” he interrupted.

I stared at him, wide-eyed, not sure if he was serious. I knew he wouldn’t joke around at a time like this, but it took me by surprise anyhow. Apparently it took the nurse by surprise as well.

“Oh, I see….” she said, clearly feeling very embarrassed over her mistake. “In that case, I can only let in two at a time.”

“That’s fine,” said Dr. Martin. “We’re the only ones here for her.”

“Right this way,” said the nurse, motioning for us to follow her.



The thing about hospitals is I’ve been closely involved with them all my life. Each time I’ve arrived at one, there was a horrifying experience behind the injury. Walking into the intensive care wing was like the equivalent of a person with arachnophobia reaching into a box of spiders. Every second spent in there was putting me one second closer to the clutches of a spectacular panic attack. I just closed my eyes and prayed for the feeling to ebb away, though I knew either way I had to be strong.

After a while we made it to Jenny’s room. It was dim and quiet, save for the beeping of the heart monitor. She was hooked up with all kinds of I.V. drips and oxygen tubes, and the vision of her poor, frail body lying there alone made me want to cry.

In spite of myself, I turned to the nurse and asked, “What happened to her?”

“A severed artery,” she said quietly. “She lost quite a lot of blood and ended up needing a transfusion. You both ought to know that she’s pretty out of it right now. We had her on morphine to subdue her pain, and the trauma was a lot for her. She may not wake up just yet.”

“Thank you,” I said, looking back at Jenny.

The nurse nodded and left.

As usual, Dr. Martin wasted no time in getting down to business. He went into the room, crouching down beside Jenny’s bed. I wanted to do the same, but the thought of going anywhere near those horrible machines made my stomach turn. After a moment, Dr. Martin looked at me, gesturing for me to come in. I stood where I was, going through an internal struggle about whether to just suck it up and do it or not. It took a lot of deep breaths, but finally I was able to enter.

Jenny’s frail body seemed even more helpless from up close. Her skin was pale and cool, almost bluish, from the blood loss. Her breaths seemed labored, and her drug-induced sleep seemed fitful. And though it broke my heart to see her this way, I couldn’t cry. I didn’t even really feel too much pity for her. Through everything, I felt a twinge of something horrible, something dark. I felt jealousy, almost contempt. She had come so close to what I had been aiming for most of my life. But the contempt I felt was not for her; it was for myself. I was throwing away everything by thinking like that. I tried to erase that from my mind and focus on what was more important.

“What do you know about this?” I asked Dr. Martin, not really even expecting an answer.

He sighed. “She was relapsing. I called in the dietician because I knew I could do nothing more for her.” He took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “She must have given up on herself as well.”

I looked down at him, memories of past therapy sessions running through my head. And then I came to a sudden realization. “You slept with her, didn’t you….”

His head slowly turned until his eyes met mine, his hurt expression making everything apparent. He opened his mouth to answer, but before he could get anything out, there was a voice behind us.

“Mr. Martin?” said the nurse from the doorway.

“Yes?” he responded, clearing his throat and wiping his tears before standing.

“There’s a phone call for you.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m in the middle of something very important,” he said, taking a quick glance back at Jenny.

“Sir, the caller says she’s your wife,” said the nurse with a significant look.

The color immediately drained from Dr. Martin’s face, and his eyes met mine once more before he turned to leave.

Being alone in the ominous room with Jenny made me deeply afraid. I knew nothing bad would happen to me, but the memories of being in this place…. I couldn’t take it. I shut my eyes, trying to block out my surroundings, wishing with all my might that I was somewhere else. Somewhere I felt safe. For some reason, Hector came to mind. I didn’t quite know what to think of that so I tried blocking that out too. Suddenly I felt a pressure on my hand. When I opened my eyes, I saw that Jenny’s hand was on mine. I could see gauze wrapped around her arm, and the familiar color of crimson seeping through the bandages. I fought to stay calm.

“You’re awake,” I murmured. I couldn’t think of anything better to say.

She lay there awhile, staring up at the ceiling. She had a look on her face… a look of disappointment. “I’m in hell,” she whispered. “Aren’t I.”

I took her hand in mine and patted it lightly. “Close. You’re alive.”

She grinned wryly. “I knew this would fucking happen.”

I sat there awhile, gently stroking her cool, pallid hand. She seemed somewhat comforted by this, but not much. I already knew what she was thinking at this point. After all, I had gone through the same thing. She was planning on when and how she would try again. I didn’t feel as though I could talk to her about it. There was some heavy shit going on in her life that I could probably never understand. She seemed hopeless enough when it came to her struggles with bulimia, and then the whole thing with Dr. Martin jilting her must have been the last straw.

Jenny sighed, bringing me out of my thoughts. “If you weren’t here right now, I’d be alone.”

I shook my head. “Actually, if it weren’t for Dr. Martin, I wouldn’t even know about what happened.”

At the sound of his name, she stiffened, furrowing her brow in anger. “Don’t even mention that asshole to me.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, giving her the best look of sympathy I could muster. “I know what happened… between the two of you.”

She sat up a bit in spite of her pain. Her expression became dark, and her hand was clenching onto mine so tightly that I had to pull it away to get her to stop. “Did he tell you? Did that fucking asshole tell you?”

I shook my head once more. “I guessed it on my own. It was pretty obvious.”

Seemingly a bit relieved, she sank down into bed once more, looked drained and somber. “I’ll bet he doesn’t even feel sorry.”

“I’m sure he does,” I said, putting my hand on her shoulder reassuringly.

“No,” she said with finality. “I know he doesn’t. The only way he would is if I died, and even then he would probably just be happy that he didn’t have to deal with me anymore.”

“Now that’s a lie,” I admonished. “Dr. Martin cares very deeply about you.”

“Is that why he had to send you here?”

I couldn’t say anything to that.

“The unbelievable nerve,” she said, shaking her head slowly.

“Well, I wanted to come,” I offered.

“Tch, right,” she mumbled.

“And so did Dr. Martin,” I added.

At that, she gave me a shocked look. “What do you mean?”

“She means, I’m right here,” said a voice from the doorway.

Jenny went stock still, her eyes directed at the person, her lips parted ever so slightly in surprise. I followed her gaze and of course saw Dr. Martin, standing in the doorway with his hands in his pockets. Jenny’s chin began trembling and she turned away, trying not to look at him.

Dr. Martin strode into the room to Jenny’s bedside, kneeling down next to her. “Jenny, you have no idea just how glad I am to know you’re okay.”

“Right,” she muttered. “I bet you wished I was dead.”

Dr. Martin fell silent, his jaw dropped. After a moment he whispered, “How could you say something like that?”

“Because it’s true,” she said, and sniffled. Her voice was thick with tears.

“Jenny,” he said, placing his hand gently on her back. “I would never want that. I….” His voice faltered and he swallowed. “I love you.”

Jenny slowly turned over in bed to face him, her eyes looking pleadingly up at him. “Do you really mean that?”

“I do,” he said softly.

“Because I can’t get fucked over by you again. I can’t.”

“You won’t,” he said, taking her hand in his. He looked down at where her arm was bandaged and leaned forward, placing a gentle kiss on it. “I promise you.”

They stayed like that, and I knew I had no place in the room at that point. I slipped out, grateful to get out of the stifling environment. I took note that I should call Jenny later on to check up on her.

It was nine fifty-eight at night and I realized that I would have fuck-all luck catching a bus at this hour. Charlotte and Anthony were in Florida, my mother was old and asleep, and I had nobody else. The possibility of even asking someone from work to come get me made me want to vomit. I was shit out of luck.

Well, there was one option.



But did I really want to entertain the idea?

I stood outside of the hospital, pacing slowly back and forth as I held my cell phone in my hand, staring at it intently. Hector was my psychologist, not my taxi service. I doubt he would want to be bothered at this hour. He was a busy man.

At the same time, he told me to come to him for any problem. Plus he had gone out of the way to drive me home a few times. Why should this be different? I knew part of the reason I was so nervous was because things really had changed, at least for me. That last session… just thinking about it gave me shivers. I couldn’t tell if I was more intimidated by him than drawn to him.

I turned to look at the large and looming brick building, and I thought of all the sick and injured people inside. Suddenly I didn’t give a shit how intimidating he was. I dialed his phone number, praying he would pick up.

It was the answering machine, and though I was sure it wouldn’t make a bit of difference, I decided to leave a message.

“I know it’s a ridiculous hour and all, but it’s a bit of an emergency. Well, not really an emergency per se, but I’m a bit stranded and I don’t know who else to call--”

“Well, well,” Hector’s voice interrupted me. “Hello there.”

“I hope you weren’t sleeping,” I said after I gained my voice back from my surprise.

“I never sleep,” he said, his smug voice nearly tickling my ear from over the phone.

“That can’t be good for your sanity,” I said, feeling a bit sheepish in spite of myself.

“What seems to be the problem?” he said.

“Well… uh….” I said, not sure where to begin. “I’m at a hospital.”

“Are you alright?” he asked, and I noted a bit of worry in his voice.

“No, no,” I said. “I’m fine, thanks. I was just here to visit someone I know. She was in the intensive care unit.”

“Oh, I see,” he said, and I could hear a bit of shuffling in the background, like he was sitting up. “Well is she alright?”

“I think she’ll be fine,” I said, running my fingers through my hair. “I mean… I hope she’ll be.”

“Delilah,” he murmured, and his voice coursed through my mind like cool water into a parched throat. “You’re not okay, are you?”

I wanted to deny it; felt myself trying to push the words out. But I couldn’t, and it took me a moment to realize I was crying. “Shit. No, I’m not.”

“Stay right there,” he said, and I could hear more rustling. “I’m coming to get you. Where are you?”

“CHMC,” I said, wiping the tears from my face.

“I’ll be there in a bit,” he said. “Will you be alright waiting?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

“Hector?” I said, hoping he hadn’t hung up already.

“Yeah?”

I paused, taking a deep breath. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

With that, I hung up.



“The weird thing about it all was… I couldn’t really feel sorry for her,” I admitted as I stared up at the ceiling in Hector’s office. I was lying down on the patient’s couch while Hector listened from his spot on the armchair. He did not have a notebook this time.

“Why is that?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said, shaking my head. “I mean, I really, really wanted to but I just couldn’t. Instead I was just jealous. I felt like… I wanted to….” My voice trailed off, leaving the thought unfinished.

Hector cleared his throat. “If I may?”

I nodded.

“This is quite often what we refer to in the psychological profession as a ‘trigger’.” He crossed his legs and pressed his fingers together, looking the very essence of sophistication in spite of the fact that his clothes were rumpled and his hair messy. “When an individual overcomes some type of addiction or self-destructive behavior, it is not uncommon for said person to experience a relapse when witnessing the same behavior in others, or even simply hearing about it.”

I pondered this for a moment. “So… I’m addicted?”

“Maybe,” he said. “And not necessarily to the activity, mind you.” Hector stood up and stretched, then made his way over to his desk. He leaned against the ledge and crossed his arms over his chest. “Do you know what adrenaline is?”

“Of course,” I said, my mind flashing back to every health class I’ve ever been in. “It’s what our body produces when we feel fear or excitement. Right?”

“Indeed,” he said with a grin. “People who are into extreme sports and rollercoasters don’t just do those things for no reason.” He stood up once more and made his way around the desk, opening one of the drawers. “They are adrenaline addicts.” He pulled something out, then closed the drawer again and made his way back to his armchair, where he sat with a sigh. “Just as the runner will become addicted to the rush of endorphins at the end of a long, strenuous race, some people will play Russian Roulette for the sake of a thrill that will get their heart pumping for a long time. The problem with that is, sometimes it results in a messy situation. Once you’ve experienced such a strong high, it’s hard to ever get back to that spot. You’ve got to do more and more serious things. Same as with any addiction.”

“I see,” I said quietly. I had never thought that was possible.

“I assume you had a relatively good day today,” he said, the corner of his lips playing into a grin.

“Actually, I did,” I admitted. “One of the best I’ve ever had.”

“And all that, was caused by this,” he said, unsheathing the bowie knife in his hands. Just the mere sight of it sent tingles through my body, and my heart began to race. “Much like a person in the afterglow of a night of intense sex, a serious adrenaline rush will leave you in a rather good mood, depending on the cause of it. Albeit, the hormone is caused by stress from outside environments, and therefore it is mainly associated with negative feelings or thoughts. However,” he went on, sliding the knife into its sheath once more, “there are those aberrations who depend on the feeling to get them through the day.”

“So you’re saying that I’m addicted to feeling afraid?”

“Not necessarily,” he said, crossing one leg over the other once more. “I will note here that a similar hormone with the same purpose goes hand in hand with sexual arousal. And plenty of people are obsessed with sex.”

I shifted uncomfortably.

“I’m saying that you and Jenny have a personal and perfectly logical reason for why you depend so highly on the feeling.”

“And why is that?”

“When you come so close to death, and that adrenaline kicks in, making your heart beat out of your chest, making your eyes see every color and detail humanly possible, making your mind spin out of control as you hear other people saying it’s a miracle you’re even breathing… it makes you feel like you’re truly alive, doesn’t it?”

These words astounded me to the point where I couldn’t even speak for a while. I simply lay there, staring at the ceiling with so many questions in my head. After a moment I said, “I don’t know.”

“Well… that’s my theory anyway,” he said, dropping his serious tone. “I can’t speak for you.”

“You make a really good point,” I murmured, still taken aback by what he had said.

“I do my best,” he said, and left it at that.

I turned my head to look at him, studying him carefully. His hazel eyes were relaxed and welcoming, his face roguish and handsome. I felt the words leave my mouth before I could stop them. “What is your addiction?”

For a moment he went utterly still, as though frozen in time. It looked almost bizarre, and thinking I was seeing things, I closed my eyes for a few seconds before opening them again. Everything went back to normal, and his smile widened, though a bit wanly. “Ah, but where are your credentials, Ms. Jones?”

“Just off the record,” I said conspiratorially. “It can be our secret.”

“I’m not the secret-sharing type of person,” he said, his eyes glimmering.

“I want to know,” I said jokingly. “One crazy person to another.”

“Oh but I would feel so horrible, you not getting paid to listen and all.”

“I’ll put it on your tab.”

“I don’t like loans.”

“But you owe me for all the embarrassing questions you’ve asked,” I chimed. “Tell me and we’ll be even.”

“No,” he said resolutely, the humor gone from his face.

I went silent, knowing I had crossed a line with his patience. “I’m sorry,” I whispered after a while.

“Don’t be,” he said, standing up from his seat. “But look at the time. I’ve got to wake up early tomorrow, as I’m sure you must as well.”

“Yeah,” I said, standing up.

“Shall I take you home now?”

“That would probably be best,” I said, feeling awkward.

Hector stood, looking at me for a while, his hazel eyes burning into mine. “Control.”

“What?” I said, utterly confused.

“My addiction,” he said. “I often feel the need to be in control of my surroundings. It’s sort of an obsessive-compulsive thing.”

“Oh,” I said, unsure of how to react. I hadn’t expected him to tell me after the previous exchange.

“So now that you know,” he went on, taking a few steps toward me, “how will you take the advice I give you?”

I swallowed, feeling mildly uncomfortable under his stare. “With a smile and a nod,” I murmured.

Hector continued looking at me, his eyes almost overwhelming. Then he let out a low chuckle, which gave me much relief. “Good,” he said in that way of his, and then we were out the door.