She released the knife.
Chris let her go and picked up the weapon for himself.
Dammitdammitdammit. She backed away.
Chris maneuvered around the counter to get to her. “I've got your claw, little kitty. What were you planning to do with this?”
Megan felt heat against her back. She had retreated in front of the stove. She smelled the steaming rice, and thought of the saucepan, filled with water and starch at a temperature exceeding 212 degrees.
She grabbed the handle of the saucepan and threw it in Chris's face. The lid caromed off his forehead. Rice and hot water covered the left side of his face and dripped down onto his neck and shoulders. He roared with a volume that instinctively made her flinch.
But he didn't drop the knife. He is going to kill me. His left eye was shut, but his right eye showed cold fury.
Chris came at her in a bull rush, holding the knife in front of him like a spear.
Megan remembered her practice with Eric. She ducked low, sidestepping him. She extended her leg in front of him and pushed him with her one good hand, adding to the momentum of his charge.
Chris tripped over her leg. He spun wildly as he fell, slashing with his knife rather than trying to break his fall. It was a poor choice, as it allowed his head to hit the corner of the doorway with a loud crack. Megan saw plaster fly.
Chris collapsed and lay still.
Fucking bastard.
Megan let herself fall to the kitchen floor. She closed her eyes and took deep breaths. Med school lectures came back unbidden. She was still experiencing the fight-or-flight response brought on by the epinephrine rush. They used to call it adrenaline, she recalled for no clear reason. She held her broken wrist in her lap.
Megan looked at Chris's unconscious form. Blood was pooling underneath his head from a scalp wound. The burns on his face were bad. He was breathing, but had taken a nasty concussion. He needs a hospital, her inner doctor told her.
Megan heard someone at the front door. “Megan, why is the door open?”
“ Eric.” It was half call/half moan. She closed her eyes.
She felt and heard him come into the kitchen. He cursed and did a sharp intake of breath as he saw the scene.
She didn't open her eyes. She knew she would lose it if she did. She was not going to sob into the arms of the big strong cop. He hadn't won this fight.
She had.
“ Are you OK?”
“ Broken… wrist”. She had to breath between each word. “Otherwise… fine. Call 9-1-1. Check… him. Carmen's…in bathroom.”
Eric called in, gave his badge number, and asked for two ambulances and two squad cars. He stayed on the phone. At the same time, she heard Eric examine Chris. She heard the click of cuffs.
“ Steady pulse, probable concussion, widespread second degree burns on face and neck.” He relayed to the dispatcher. “Also have twenty-eight year old woman with broken wrist.” He paused, listening to the dispatcher. “No, I don't think I would use the word 'victim' for Megan.”
She smiled at that. Damn right.
He settled next to her, putting his arm around her. I'm not going to cry.
She finally opened her eyes to look at him. He was beaming down at her — his countenance showing not pity, but pride. “That's my girl.” He whispered in her ear, stroking her hair. “That's my girl.”
With a burst of love exploding in her heart, Megan leaned into his chest… and cried.
The sex that night when they returned from the hospital had been incredible, despite her being “an angel with a broken wing,” in Eric's words. They had each told the other “I love you” for the first time.
Megan came out of her reverie. She lay alone in her bedroom, stewing in sexual frustration. She wanted Eric, and she somehow knew masturbation would just frustrate her further.
There was no way she was getting back to sleep, all hot and bothered. She rose, got dressed, and headed downstairs to make herself breakfast. By the time she had finished her bowl of granola, her arousal had diminished. She breathed a sigh of relief — she was worried that she might be horny all day long.
Her heels clicked on the linoleum as she walked to put her cereal bowl in the dishwasher. Heels? Why am I wearing heels?
She stopped to assess her clothes. She was wearing a satin red cocktail dress that she had never dared to wear outside the dressing room, along with stockings and her only pair of three inch stiletto heels. Her undergarments felt funny, and she felt for them as well. Oh God. She was wearing a peekaboo black shelf bra that didn't even cover her nipples, along with her g-string, and a garter belt. Her stockings were thigh-highs. She was decked out in the lingerie that Eric thought was her sexiest, and she had done it without even realizing it.
Well, what's the point of having clothes like this if not to wear them? Everything in its proper place.
Monday
Eric had arrived home the night before after she had already gone to bed, and she only saw him for a few minutes before he headed out to work earlier than usual. He was evidently planning on a long day. Which was fine with her. She had to work Saturday next weekend, so she had today off. She was waiting outside Esmer's building when he arrived shortly before 8AM.
“ Dr. Fletcher?” He didn't seem surprised to see her, or concerned.
“ Dr. Esmer, may I talk with you?” What are you a doctor of?
“ Are you having an interesting week?” His smile was one of amused curiosity.
“ What did you do to me?”
“ What I was paid to do — save your marriage.”
“ You hypnotized me without permission. That is a violation of medical ethics.”
“ You would know more about that than I would. Unlike you, I am not a doctor of medicine. I am a mere marriage counselor, which requires no licensing in this state. Hypnotherapy itself is not a recognized medical practice by most states, including Indiana, so I don't have to worry about any ethics beyond my own.”
“ What kind of doctor are you?”
“ My doctorate was in the history of medicine. In researching the history of hypnotism I discovered I had a knack for it, and my career branched out.”
“ You're a fraud?” Her heart sank. They had reached his office, and she sat down in the chair opposite of his desk.
“ It has been almost a week since our treatment. You really think my treatment was fraudulent? Surely you have seen it's effects by now?”
“ You turned me into some sort of sexual slave.”
“ It's an odd sort of slavery when the master has to clean house for his slave.”
“ You didn't give us a choice.”
“ Yes I did, satisfaction guaranteed or your money back. Are you requesting a refund?”
“ What happens if I do?”
“ Well, I obviously can't hand back $2000 and let the customer keep the product, so I will speak a post-hypnotic phrase that will permanently remove all of your conditioning.”
Megan said nothing.
“ Is that what you want, Dr. Fletcher?”
“ Why didn't you tell us what you were doing.”
“ I tried that at first, but it's too slow. No one believes me and I waste time convincing them. Then you argue over free will and identity for four weeks, and half the time the customers don't come back. My way is easier. You now know what I did, and can decide whether you want to keep it. So I repeat the question, what do you want, Dr. Fletcher?”
“ What will this do to me? What if someone else cleans near me? What if Eric starts washing dishes when we are at a friend's house, and I… embarrass myself in public? What if we have kids, and one of them needs help and I can't respond because I have some sort of compulsion to have sex with my husband?”
“ The conditioning only works in response to your husband's behavior, and has a much less potent impact while in the presence of others, or when some other powerful need is at hand. I daresay you would be able to control your urges when necessary.”