Posted by Zed on September 17, 2003 at 22:58:45:
Patient X
by Zed Bones, copyright 2003
I had bowed and presented Dr K with a large brown envelope containing my credentials. The good doctor clipped a pair of pinz-nez spectacles to the bridge of his nose and tipped the contents of the envelope onto his desk. He sat down to examine my particulars and I retired to the seat opposite. I took the opportunity to observe the famous doctor in his surgery.
He was a neat, rotund sort of fellow, the hairs of his short moustache and beard were waxed and pointed. His brow was furrowed and glistened beneath an expensive toupee. Despite this, I could see he was somewhat younger than he appeared, sure that the broken, liverish appearance of his cheeks was due to a fondness for schnapps. Indeed, the room reeked of tobacco and liquor and felt more like a bachelor’s study than a surgery.
It was a large, wood panelled room, lined with many books - medical treaties for the most part and bound collections of periodicals, though some shelves bore volumes of fine art, fiction and even poetry. On the back wall a pair of incandescent gas lamps hissed, despite the time of day, which was early afternoon. These modern lamps threw off a stark, white light - and not a little heat. Below them was a curious bench, very long and narrow, fitted with leather straps and metal catches. A number of padded boards, with brass studs, were stacked below it. Standing guard in the corner was an imposing green metal cabinet.
Though Dr K’s practice occupied the fourth floor of a fashionable apartment block, there was the unyielding clatter of horses’ hooves on the cobbles below. This, and the swish of electric tramcars with their conductors’ bells, criss-crossing Hoffman Platz, added a business-like edge to the room. Between the casement windows that overlooked this constant ply of traffic, a neo-classical print was hung. It amused me to ponder the incongruity of its subject: Judith - clutching the severed head of Hollofernes to her naked bosom.
My eyes returned to Dr K’s face. He was perusing the letter from Dr A (Directeur Général du Centre Gynécologique de Beirut), with the warm self-congratulation of one academician recalling a dear old colleague. Of course, Dr A’s account of my clinical and theoretical work turned on all the salient points of modern psychology. I was an experienced Mesmerist, had experimented with a range of narcotic treatments and composed several papers - on cases ranging from debilitating fetish to pathological nymphomania. And my cases coming from the Levent (that melting pot of religious and cultural taboos) doubtless added a soupçon of the exotic to my qualifications.
A banker’s draft for one thousand Swiss francs (to be drawn on the Banque Rothschild - Vienna branch) seemed to clinch the matter. Dr K cleared his throat,
“My dear young colleague, this donation – though quite unnecessary given your background - is most thoughtful!” He removed the pinz-nez, smiled very warmly, and sitting back in his seat took up a rather pompous pose, “We have in Vienna numbers of patients from the lower orders of society, for whose means our treatments are beyond reach, yet whose cases are often too interesting to pass over.” I nodded to show my enthusiasm for the maelstrom of middle and working class pathology. “A group of junior practitioners – students of my methods and working under my supervision - have opened a clinic in a less salubrious part of the city, and this money will help to fund their import work. Please convey my heartiest thanks to Dr A…”
We both stood up and shook hands. I asked if a visit to the clinic in that ‘less salubrious part’ might not form part of our programme. He assented, provisionally, but taking out his pocket watch, offered me an alternative more at hand,
“I have a rather interesting case to deal with this afternoon. Are you disposed to begin work this instant?”
“By all means, Dr K!”
He picked up a small bell, which lived on the edge of his desk, and shook it delicately. Within seconds, there came a tap at the outer door. The door opened and Herr D, his secretary came in and bowed.
“It is time for Fraulein X.”
“Very good, Herr Doktor!”
Herr D bowed again and went out. Dr K consulted his notebook,
“Fraulein X is an inmate at the Leopold Sanatorium. She is a twenty-nine year old unmarried woman from a provincial town and - for the past fifteen months - has been suffering from compulsive onanism with delusional fantasy.”
“You say she is unmarried?” The Doctor nodded sadly, meaningfully. “Does she lack personal charms?”
“On the contrary, she would be an extremely attractive creature were it not for the obsessive traits. She is fluent in French, English and Italian. Emaciation from the effects of her illness has set in, other than that she is a well-bred, spirited young belle - with a personal income of fifty thousand Schillings per annum.”
“You mean she’d make a good catch, for an impoverished nobleman?”
Dr K snorted,
“Or an up-and-coming professional man!”
I pretended to blush… and change the subject,
“One suspects she has met with another block to wedlock?”
“None that I have gleaned. However, you are certainly on the right track, my dear young friend!” He again consulted his notebook, “Her Guardians report she has been engaged to no less than seven men! And that each of the fellows, after a month or less of betrothal, has withdrawn from the arrangement, giving a variety of excuses.”
As we waited for the arrival of the Fraulein - Patient X - both of us lapsed into a contemplative silence. He gave no clue as to what he was thinking about, though the windfall of a thousand Swiss francs might have had something to do with it. Since I had only just arrived I felt suddenly disarmed by my good fortune. I was unready to meet a subject who, from her description, was exactly the type of wanton obsessive I had come to Vienna seeking. Yet time was short. I had assumed Dr K would take me to his public clinic rather than allow me to see him at his private work. As things had turned out, I would soon have to act with speed and decision.
There was another tap at the door. I rose from my seat and moved to the casement, where I judged my presence should be less obtrusive. The door was opened by Herr D. Two female nurses entered, escorting a bareheaded woman. The woman was wearing a plaid dressing gown, carpet slippers – and a straightjacket. There were some formal exchanges between K and the nurses. The patient, staring blankly into space, said nothing. Nor was anything said to her. Herr D and the nurses quit the room, leaving Patient X in front of K’s desk - as though standing before the headmaster of a school.
Patient X had a wonderful shock of curly red hair - foxy red, I should say. Her freckled face looked naturally pale, but was also drawn from lack of sleep – or perhaps too much sleep. Though she stood still and apparently composed, there was an aura of disarray tingeing her beauty. She was perching on the balls of her feet and leaning forwards, as though ready to spring off and make a run for it. Yet her eyes were blank, the pupils dilated. She was clearly drugged. Dr K made no attempt to communicated directly with her,
“Two grains of morphia were administered an hour ago. She is quite conscious of everything going on around her, but totally withdrawn.”
“Does that put her in a fit state for psychoanalytical treatment?”
“Of course not. But it renders her perfectly susceptible to psychoTHERAPEUTIC treatment.”
“Ah-ha!” In a flash of inspiration I understood what was going to happen.
K was on his feet by now. He moved energetically, transformed from the cigar-smoking theorist into the dynamic practitioner. The first thing he did was to loosen and remove the woman’s straightjacket. He steered her over to a seat near the bench, where he sat her down and rolled her right sleeve. He injected her with two grains of cocaine and a 5ml tincture of cannabis sativa. Immediately the subject’s eyes cleared. She began looking about her, stretching her legs and arms, flexing the muscles of her torso. By now I was assisting K, following his gestures and whispered instructions.
We removed X’s dressing gown, nightdress and underclothing. K measured her hips, bosom, thighs and vulva with a tape rule. The vulva had been freshly shaved. I applied balm of walnut oil with a soft brush. After noting the measurements, K did a quick calculation in his notebook. The result was the selection of a padded board. We removed the board from under the workbench and fastened it in position on top.
“The “frottage” pallet. Please note the design, which I have patented.” His fingers traced the outline of the surface. The pallet was about 40 centimetres in width and over a metre in length. It was hardwood framed, covered with cured, undyed kid, and studded round the sides and the central hump. The hump - about 15 centimetres long and 3 centimetres at the base, tapering to a rounded, narrow ridge - was design to be worked between lips of the vulva and directly engage the clitoris. K invited me to feel the surface. It was firm but very soft. K cleared his throat, “Of course, the pallets are scrubbed with saddle soap between each use.”
With the pallet firmly fixed to the bench we gently lifted Patient K into position and began strapping her down. With slippers removed, her feet were secured in stirrups. Her buttocks were held in a kind of Sam Browne harness, which allowed about three centimetres of hip and thigh movement - up, down and from side to side. The cheeks of the buttocks remained wholly exposed. A folded towel was placed under the bosom and then the chest was strapped firmly down, so that the nipples were pressed between the edge of the pallet and the sternum. The patient’s hands were free to grip a pair of handles that protruded from the sides of the bench. Lastly a stuffed leather bolster was wedged under her throat, so that the neck was drawn back and the chin – even when pressed down – was clear of the bench. Throughout these manoeuvres, patient K was fully compliant. Indeed, shudders of excitement rippled up and down her frame as each part of her body was secured. When Dr K put his hand under her stomach – to check that the hump was in contact with her genitals – she left out a long moan of pleasure, the first sound I heard her make. Somehow, the sound wasn’t quite human, certainly not at all lady-like. I began to have an inkling of what the men who declined to marry this woman had been wary of.
X began onanistic movements almost immediately – and K was quite happy to let her do so, unhindered, for several minutes. During this time he went over to the metal cabinet. K selected a lath of about 5 centimetres in width, no more than 5 millimetres thick, and 40 centimetres in length. It was made of beaten willow fibre fixed with size (the strong smell of which was unmistakable). It had a coiled rope handle – rather like the hilt of a sword. Dr K (standing out of sight of the patient) gave the lath a couple of test strokes through the air. It made a loud whooshing sound. By this time the cocaine-fuelled Patient X was writhing fiercely, her hips thrusting powerfully against the frottage pallet, hastening her towards paroxysm. K, timing his move precisely, brought the down lath on her bare buttocks with considerable force. X screamed and tensed. The thrusting stopped. She began to cry and went limp.
I examined the weal across her buttocks. K had struck her squarely on the soft underside. The lath had brought out a superficial reddening, but done no permanent damage. The patient sobbed pathetically. The temptation to stroke her soft blemished skin, was almost too much for me to bear. I squeezed back a tear of admiration and retreated. Apart from X’s whimpering, a respectful silence was kept.
As expected, the combined effects of the morphia and cocaine soon cancelled out Patient X’s discomfort and she resumed her onanistic travails, nursing her genitals against the hump of the frottage pallet with tender movements. I moved forward again to observe the patient’s face, marvelling at the sweetness of her doe-like eyes as she pleasured herself. Only minutes after receiving the blow, she was utterly lost in reverie. Also, it was clear from her expression that her actions were not purely physical: her mind was surely occupied with a lewd fantasy. If only we could unlock those thoughts! What delights the world was deprived of by the confinement of such cases to Bedlam!
As Patient X’s movements became quickened and became jerkier, Dr K raised the lath above her buttocks, ready to strike. He brought it down decisively, cutting into the young woman’s pleasure just before its release. Her spine arched at the stroke, and her whole frame froze in frustrated tension before relaxing. Tears erupted from her eyes and she let out a long, low moan. Yet, within a few short minutes, the tender, rubbing hip and thigh movements had begun yet again - and the pained expression on her face had returned to that sublime gloss which accompanied them.
In all Dr K gave Patient X seven blows before injecting her with a second dose of morphia, which sent her off to sleep. He motioned me towards his desk,
“She will come round in about half an hour. Let us sit down and discuss the background of her case.”
I followed K. He stopped at a shelf and began searching for a book. Standing behind him, I chose a weighty volume of medical discourses, raised it and brought it down squarely on the back of his head. He collapsed in an unconscious heap. Wasting no time, I grabbed a syringe, drew in a lethal 20 grain dose of morphia and injected it into the artery of his left leg. Then I dragged his body over to the desk and hauled him onto the chair. I positioned him slumped over the desk, to make things look as though he had received a sudden seizure.
Returning to Patient X, I undid the straps, then dressed and injected her with half a gain of amphetamine. She stirred and I was able to stand her up. I had to think quickly, and take an enormous risk. I rang for Herr D, who entered immediately,
“What on earth has happened?”
“Dr K has suffered an apoplectic fit! Call the nurses! We must get him to hospital as soon as we can!”
Herr D ran from the room and came back with the nurses. I told them to carry K downstairs and hail two cabs. As they were leaving, I asked D for the address of the Leopold Sanatorium, where, I assured him, I would take Patient X myself. The panic caused by Dr K’s apparent collapse worked perfectly. I was able to escape the scene with my new charge and bring her to the discreet hotel where I was staying. Within an hour I had procured clothing for her and packed my own possessions. Before the alarm was raised we were able to board a train bound for Venice. I had the passport of one Sophie Marceau – a Belgian citizen - and with this we were able to cross the border.
Patient X is now in the care of Don *********** de ********* in Buenos Aires, whom I trust uses her well.
Patient X
by Zed Bones, copyright 2003