didn’t go in.
Shoving as strongly as he could, he tried to enter her. No luck.
‘Hey, now, what the fuck’s going on?’ he wanted to know. ‘What’s wrong there? I got it in the right place, ain’t I?’
‘Yes, yes, go ahead, Tony … please go ahead.’
Once more he tried, and again he was unable to enter her. He swore at his frustration. ‘You’re locked up like a steel vault down there. What’s going on?’
‘I don’t know. I’m not doing anything. I’m trying like always.’
Determined, for the fourth time, he rammed himself between her legs. No luck.
‘Lemme see what’s going on,’ he muttered. He lifted her pelvis, his hands clenched under her buttocks, high toward him. He took one hand and dug three fingers into her. ‘Seems okay now. Let’s find out.’
He dropped her on the bed, and tried for a fifth time to force his way into her. He couldn’t enter beyond an inch. ‘Something is sure haywire. How does it feel?’
‘It feels tight, real tight. And it hurts a little. Maybe it’s something organic’
‘Something what?’
‘Organic. Physical. Anyway, something is wrong with me. Maybe I can go see a doctor tomorrow.’
‘You got a doctor?’
‘A gynaecologist in town. He’d know.’
Zecca humoured her. ‘Yeah, baby, you do that. Find out what’s ailing you. Get it set right.’ He looked down at his drooping instrument. ‘Now what about tonight?’
‘I I can still make you happy.’
‘Yeah, you do that.’
She reached out between his legs, to get hold of that thing, and make him happy. But before she could take hold, one of his hands reached up behind her head and pushed it down between his legs.
Shutting her eyes, she opened her mouth, and went ahead.
Finishing the page, reliving this scene from Nan Whitcomb’s case history, Freeberg murmured to himself, ‘Poor woman.’
He completed reading the last of the case history, and put the blue folder on his desk to await Dr Max Quarrie’s return. To his surprise, Dr Quarrie had already returned and was seated opposite him.
‘Well, Arnold,’ said Dr Quarrie. ‘What do you think?’
‘Definitely a case of vaginismus, in an extreme form. I doubt if she’s phobic about coitus. She’s getting muscular spasms in the region to avoid any more intercourse with him.’
‘Confirms my own diagnosis and the gynaecologist’s,’ said Dr Quarrie. ‘Question is - think you can do something about it? I can’t talk her into getting better. I suspect it will take more.’
‘Yes,’ Freeberg agreed. He thought of his one male sex surrogate, Paul Brandon, awaiting his first patient. Now he would have her. Freeberg nodded. ‘It’s made to order for us, for a surrogate and myself working with her. I’m sure we can help. When can I see her?’
‘Right now,’ said Dr Quarrie rising. ‘She’s waiting in my car. I’ll send her up.’
Chet Hunter had been unable to get an appointment to see Otto Ferguson, editor-in-chief of the Hillsdale Chronicle, until late this morning. Ever since Suzy’s great tip last night, the big story - and big break - had been forming in Hunter’s mind and he was eager to pitch it to Ferguson. Bland as Ferguson seemed, cynical and negative as he was, Hunter was positive he would go for this news lead. After cooling his heels outside Ferguson’s glass-enclosed office, Hunter was finally shown in.
He could see Ferguson’s bald pate as he bent over some copy, marking it, and at last he lifted his head and focused his baggy St Bernard eyes on his visitor.
Nervously, Hunter had set himself on the edge of the straight chair across from Ferguson.
‘Well, Chet,’ said the editor. ‘What brings you here this time? Want to sell us an exclusive lead from your police friends? Or the Reverend Scrafield? Or on a poll you’ve been taking?’
‘I don’t want to sell you any research,’ said Hunter. ‘This time I want to sell you a story, a complete story,’
‘It had better be something
Shoving as strongly as he could, he tried to enter her. No luck.
‘Hey, now, what the fuck’s going on?’ he wanted to know. ‘What’s wrong there? I got it in the right place, ain’t I?’
‘Yes, yes, go ahead, Tony … please go ahead.’
Once more he tried, and again he was unable to enter her. He swore at his frustration. ‘You’re locked up like a steel vault down there. What’s going on?’
‘I don’t know. I’m not doing anything. I’m trying like always.’
Determined, for the fourth time, he rammed himself between her legs. No luck.
‘Lemme see what’s going on,’ he muttered. He lifted her pelvis, his hands clenched under her buttocks, high toward him. He took one hand and dug three fingers into her. ‘Seems okay now. Let’s find out.’
He dropped her on the bed, and tried for a fifth time to force his way into her. He couldn’t enter beyond an inch. ‘Something is sure haywire. How does it feel?’
‘It feels tight, real tight. And it hurts a little. Maybe it’s something organic’
‘Something what?’
‘Organic. Physical. Anyway, something is wrong with me. Maybe I can go see a doctor tomorrow.’
‘You got a doctor?’
‘A gynaecologist in town. He’d know.’
Zecca humoured her. ‘Yeah, baby, you do that. Find out what’s ailing you. Get it set right.’ He looked down at his drooping instrument. ‘Now what about tonight?’
‘I I can still make you happy.’
‘Yeah, you do that.’
She reached out between his legs, to get hold of that thing, and make him happy. But before she could take hold, one of his hands reached up behind her head and pushed it down between his legs.
Shutting her eyes, she opened her mouth, and went ahead.
Finishing the page, reliving this scene from Nan Whitcomb’s case history, Freeberg murmured to himself, ‘Poor woman.’
He completed reading the last of the case history, and put the blue folder on his desk to await Dr Max Quarrie’s return. To his surprise, Dr Quarrie had already returned and was seated opposite him.
‘Well, Arnold,’ said Dr Quarrie. ‘What do you think?’
‘Definitely a case of vaginismus, in an extreme form. I doubt if she’s phobic about coitus. She’s getting muscular spasms in the region to avoid any more intercourse with him.’
‘Confirms my own diagnosis and the gynaecologist’s,’ said Dr Quarrie. ‘Question is - think you can do something about it? I can’t talk her into getting better. I suspect it will take more.’
‘Yes,’ Freeberg agreed. He thought of his one male sex surrogate, Paul Brandon, awaiting his first patient. Now he would have her. Freeberg nodded. ‘It’s made to order for us, for a surrogate and myself working with her. I’m sure we can help. When can I see her?’
‘Right now,’ said Dr Quarrie rising. ‘She’s waiting in my car. I’ll send her up.’
Chet Hunter had been unable to get an appointment to see Otto Ferguson, editor-in-chief of the Hillsdale Chronicle, until late this morning. Ever since Suzy’s great tip last night, the big story - and big break - had been forming in Hunter’s mind and he was eager to pitch it to Ferguson. Bland as Ferguson seemed, cynical and negative as he was, Hunter was positive he would go for this news lead. After cooling his heels outside Ferguson’s glass-enclosed office, Hunter was finally shown in.
He could see Ferguson’s bald pate as he bent over some copy, marking it, and at last he lifted his head and focused his baggy St Bernard eyes on his visitor.
Nervously, Hunter had set himself on the edge of the straight chair across from Ferguson.
‘Well, Chet,’ said the editor. ‘What brings you here this time? Want to sell us an exclusive lead from your police friends? Or the Reverend Scrafield? Or on a poll you’ve been taking?’
‘I don’t want to sell you any research,’ said Hunter. ‘This time I want to sell you a story, a complete story,’
‘It had better be something
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