Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Ashleigh
I blink at the man, doing my best to gauge what exactly he’s asking. Is he in cahoots with the dean? “That’s a very invasive question, don’t you think?”
“That would be my job, wouldn’t it?” He glances down the bridge of his nose as if he’s looking over a pair of glasses at me.
The whole thing would be rather comical if I didn’t feel as if I were on trial for my inappropriately lustful thoughts about the dean. As it is, I can’t help that nagging suspicion in the back of my brain. The warning bells scream at me, begging me to listen.
“I don’t actually know what your job is,” I deflect, pulling out a notebook of my own. Time to turn the tables, I guess. “I was hoping to find out when I did faculty interviews for the Lantern, but I guess now is as good a time as any.”
The smile he gives me slices to my core. There’s no humor in it. There’s no warmth or kindness in his cold, calculated gaze. Nothing. It’s as if for one brief moment, his mask of humanity slides off to show me the demon lurking beneath. Unfortunately, the moment I blink, it’s gone.
“I see your notebook and penchant for discovering truth is your crutch. Interesting.” Again, he jots something down on that damn paper. “Is it because you feel as if no one will ever give you a straight, honest answer because you are a woman? Is that what drives this need to ferret out every little detail and use these deductions to keep ahead of the game?”
My fingers slip a bit as my pen rocks forward, leaving a jagged line on the paper. “I- I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Bad at deception,” he murmurs, writing again.
“I’m not bad at it,” I bark out with some misguided, desperate attempt to clear my name. “I just... Look, why are you attacking me like this?”
“I find it fascinating that you find this an attack when all I’m trying to do is get to the core of who you are. None of the questions I’ve asked thus far is all that terribly aggressive. That is, despite your notions.”
Frustration drives me to my feet as I pace about in front of the love seat. “You all but asked me if I liked the dean. Is that not invasive or aggressive?”
“No. What I asked you was, do you like obeying him? The two are nowhere near the same. However, your brain seems to think they are. Why is that do you think?”
“Is that not what you’re asking? Truly? Underneath all the fluff and misdirection?”
“If you think that’s what I’m doing, then by all means. Let’s explore that, shall we? Do you have feelings for the dean that surpass that of a student and their superior?”
Fear slithers through my veins as I slide back down onto the loveseat. “I can’t answer that!”
“Is it because you do not and detest such allegations? Or is it because you fear reprisal?”
“Again, if I answer that, then you have your answer. You have whatever ammunition you need against me.”
“This isn’t a war I’m waging, Miss Hartwell. There are no right or wrong answers. Everything you say to me is held in confidence and not shared with anyone. Though I am duty bound to report it if you reveal that you’re harming someone else, are a danger to them, or if you’re a danger to yourself. Are you a danger to yourself, Miss Hartwell? Do you somehow seek to harm yourself?”
“No,” I moan, plopping my face into my hands. “I don’t wish to harm myself. Not exactly.”
“Define not exactly.”
“I- I-.”
“Safe space, Miss Hartwell. Let it all out.”
“Safe space, my ass,” I hiss. “I haven’t felt safe the moment I stepped foot in here.”
“Why is that do you suppose? The seats are nice and inviting. I have tissues available if needed. Water is easily procured. What do you find lacking in this space?”
My gaze drifts to the various skulls and oddities. “I’d possibly suggest an interior decorator to help make it more inviting.”
He follows the spots where my eyes land and gives what I can only guess is the most genuine smile I’ve seen since meeting him. “It is rather much, isn’t it? But each of these models speaks to the skull, to the mind, to the human capacity for knowledge and thought. As a mental visionary yourself, I thought you would find them just as fascinating.”
“Some things should be left to the imagination,” I murmur as I do my best to stop looking at the Beauchene skull.
“Ahhh. I see this is the one that causes you the most discomfort.” He goes over, pulls it down, and sets it right in front of me. “What is it about this piece that rattles you so? It’s a skull. Same as what resides beneath your skin.”
“Right. But my skull is in one piece. This obviously is not.”
“But I do not believe he suffered when it was pulled apart. Such things nowadays are done after the person is deceased and their body given over to science.”
My skin crawls as I look at the skull. Even now, there’s an itch below my skin, as if I can feel someone carving away at me. It makes my gut cramp as nausea threatens to climb my throat.
Out of all the things I expected today, facing my own mortality, and worse, thinking of medical professionals hacking into my body once I’m dead, was not on the agenda. “Can- can we please change the subject?”
“Certainly. Would you prefer to talk about the dean?”
Fuck.
“If it’s between that and this horrid skull, I suppose I have no choice.”
“There is always a choice, Miss Hartwell.”
“Really? So I can just leave?”
“If you so choose to.”
Relief washes over me as I gather my pen and notebook. I’ve certainly had enough of this freak show.
“I will have to tell the dean you did not stay the entire session, however,” he continues, his lips sliding up into some smug jerk-face of a grin. “He will, no doubt, have questions.”
No. Punishments more likely. And even as that thought passes through my mind, lustful shivers wrack my body, driving me back down onto the couch. Again, I plant my face against my palms while I wish this would all go away.
“Fine. Continue,” I murmur from between my fingers.
“I believe it is your turn to speak. I already asked my question.”
“Of course I’d rather talk about the dean,” I snap out, spearing him with the most respectful glare I can manage. “Anything but that god-forsaken skull.”
“Maybe one day we’ll be able to explore why mortality is so frightening for you. Please, go on.”
“Ugh. Where do I even begin?” Even in my own head, it feels so messed up, so convoluted.
“I suppose where everyone starts. At the beginning.”
Leaning back, I give the most unladylike snort. “It was a cool crisp morning nearly nineteen years ago. Father stood there proud. Mother, nearly knocked out with drugs, gives one final push. A slap on the ass later, and I took my first breath.”
“Amusing.” His expression, however, shows no sign of humor. “Does that mean you wish to discuss how you will never meet up with your parent’s expectations for you?”
“Now wait a minute. You can’t possibly know anything. You’re not in our inner circle. I would have remembered you.”
“Still a bit snobbish, are we? It doesn’t take someone as intelligent as me to note the disappointment wafting from them as they observed you at your table. Is that perhaps why you seek to torment the dean? You crave his ire to feel an absolution you never get from your parents?”
The silence pounds in my ears and drifts along my skin like invisible cobwebs. “What is it you want me to say?” I finally sob. “That I like being at the mercy of the dean? That the pain he causes is somehow arousing? That I’m not in danger of harming myself, but in danger of begging him to harm me?”
“I see.” Again with that fucking notebook.
“I knew it. I’m a freak.”
“I never said that.” For once, his murmured intonations seem a touch comforting. “I saw you looking at my cage when I came in. What does it make you feel?”
My mouth drops open and closes a few times as I try to process what he means. “I- I don’t-“
“Don’t think. What comes to your mind? Spit it out. There are no wrong answers.”
“Trapped, claustrophobic, scared, tiny. I could go on, but it’s more of a mental sensation rather than words.”
“Good,” he praises. “Very good. I have several clients, one in particular, that is far more scared to be outside the cage than instead of in it.”
If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear there was a hint of admiration and tenderness in his tone. But that’s just absurd. Pretty sure this man couldn’t even define tenderness if the damned dictionary was opened up to the word and highlighted in bold.
“For her,” he continues. “It’s a place of safety and security. It doesn’t make her wrong for needing to hide away any more than it makes you wrong for feeling terrified to be in there. Different people need different things. Some need to be in charge, to hurt others, to cause them pain to feel alive. For others, for you, I suspect, it’s the opposite.”
“But it’s insanity.”
“Is it?” He counters, flipping the page in his notebook. “Now, I don’t expect I’ll see you again unless it’s mandated by Dean Anderson, so I will leave you with some food for thought. At your leisure, search some of these terms and see what might resonate with you. If you wish to have further discussions, you’re free to make an appointment. If not, I’m sure you can figure it out. You’re a smart girl.”
My lips twist as I take the slip of paper from him and stand. “I wasn’t expecting a compliment from you.”
“I don’t shy away from giving praise where praise is due. But I’m also not going to inflate an already exaggerated ego. Don’t worry about payment. Dean Anderson already has it covered. Your parents need not know you’ve failed them again by seeking out help.”
“Now listen here-“
He slides in closer until he’s nearly inappropriately close to me. Just one more step, and he would invade my closely-guarded bubble. Thankfully, nothing coming off of him reads as lustful or intending to harm. Not like Dean Anderson. Not like the heat that comes off of him when he’s scolding me.
“You do not tell me what to do. It’s high time you start to learn that you’re not the one in charge here. That is, unless you’re the type that gets off on ordering others about. Tell me, Miss Hartwell, is that who you are? Or do you desire to be told what to do?”
My mind blanks as I stare at him. It’s so eerily similar to what Dean Anderson told me. I’m not the one in charge here. It should drive me from this office screaming to the heavens that no one can tell me what to do. Unfortunately, I know that’s not the case.
“Just as I thought,” he eventually sighs, his tone far more smug than I like.
I do think I’m far more selective than what he’s implying. It’s not as if I want to cause anyone pain. Despite what the readers of the paper may think, I don’t revel in others’ agony. But I also don’t want to just fall to my knees to the first person who orders me to do so.
No. The only person I can see myself obeying like that is Dean Anderson. Why, of all people, does he strike such a chord in me? As much as I want to ask the shrink who stares at me as if reading my very thoughts and soul, I don’t dare engage with him any more than I have to.
Gripping the paper in my hand, I make my way back outside so I can catch a breath before going to class. With the sheet balled up the way it is, sharp angles, wrinkles, and divots dig into my hand until I’m forced to open up my fist and take a look.
A list. That’s all it is. A simple list.
Dominant
Submissive
Master
Slave
TPE
CNC
Discipline Kink
Just reading these makes my head swim and my nipples ache. They poke out against the rough fabric of my shirt, forcing it to rub against what should be soft fibers. Forget class. I don’t think I’ll be able to concentrate, anyway. I’d much rather research these and figure out how to stop getting so aroused around Dean Anderson so I can actually think with something other than my pussy for once.