Deja Vu: The Invitation

Deja Vu: The Invitation

Postby Burke_Rakers » Sat May 26, 2012 1:59 am

Deja Vu: The Invitation
by Tainted Sins

Brury, Utah. A small town. A twenty minute drive to Salt Lake City from here. The snow had fallen in the early morning. Now, 6:02 pm, the powder still hung thick in the bare branches of the trees and the grass below, and in the streets brown slush splashed to curbs and sidewalks as cars passed by, their headlights blurry in the fog.

Dr. Karen Matheson's office was normally not open this late. As a psychologist, she was able to set her own hours and she liked getting home in time to catch the nightly sitcoms while she ate (tonight she had been planning on rice and fish, and perhaps a glass of wine), then maybe a hot bath and some reading--the journal articles of her colleagues to sneer or nod her head to, or perhaps just a good book. She cherished the time alone after a day of the incessant and monotonous complaints of her clients. Her practice was reaching its tenth year, and she hoped to God she'd have enough money saved to retire before she ever reached eleven.

Karen's finger tapped the oak desk. She glanced at the clock. Mr. Mark Weight sat directly across from her on the oversized blue and white checkered loveseat. He held a gray piece of paper close to him, crumpled between two sweaty palms. Something shaped like a pool ball rested on the second cushion wrapped in newspaper.

"I'm sorry to have called on such short notice," he said. "I'm sorry to have called so late. The police wouldn't listen to me."

"You know my office hours are generally eleven to five, and normally appointments must be made a week in advance, Mr. Weight. We've discussed this before." It was true. If Mark Weight hadn't sounded so panicky on the phone, Karen would have declined the late appointment. All she needed, though, was some nutcase killing himself and mentioning her in the note.

"I know, I know. I'm sorry. It's just that--"

"The police wouldn't listen to you," Dr. Matheson cut in. "Fine. Why don't you tell me all about it?"

Mr. Weight looked down at the paper as if it might tell him what to say. Then he looked back up, back to Dr. Matheson. He leaned forward and in a sharp whisper said, "They know. They know what I've done. They know all about it, and they're coming here!"

Karen sighed.

Mark Weight had started coming to see her five years ago, shortly after his seventeen year old daughter committed suicide. Mark blamed himself for the incident, and apparently his wife did too--divorcing him and moving her and their younger son out of state before the body was even cold. During the years of therapy he'd told Karen all about it multiple times. He'd been too strict, he said. His daughter started acting out, she wouldn't follow any of their rules anymore, and he didn't know how to handle he had turned to the occult.

The man's delusions contained enough complexity and detail to fill a book. The one common thread in all the stories he told involved the manipulation of his daughter's age with some magical device as punishment for bad behavior. It became obvious to Karen early in the man's telling what was really going on: Mark Weight had sexually abused his daughter years earlier, and, upon her death, the guilt for his past behavior was too much for his brain to process, so instead he had created this fantasy as a way of dealing with it.

"Mark," Dr. Matheson said, "we've talked about this before."

"I know." He lowered his head.

"Those stories aren't real. You just didn't know how to handle Serena's death, alright?"

"I received this in the mail yesterday." He stood and crossed the distance between him and the desk and set the gray paper down in front of her.

Karen read the handwritten gold lettering:

Dear Mr. Weight,

As you may or may not know, the torment of your daughter at the hands of the legendary Orb of Etin has become widely known and applauded within certain circles. While we find your recent inactivity quite disturbing, all can still be forgiven.

The Order will rise. And it will begin at the heart of your homeland in Brury.

All activists in age manipulation, whether from this world or the next, will be contacted and required to make a showing. Failure to appear and to offer a demonstration of your talents to the local population within a week's time will result in the most dire of consequences. I cannot stress this last point enough.

The note was unsigned.

Karen looked it twice over. She had long since diagnosed Mark as an untreatable but stable case and had contented herself to an hour's daydream each week as he rambled on, collecting heavily from the wealthy man's medical insurance at the end of every month. But now things had escalated to a whole new level.

"Mr. Weight," she said.

"We locked it in a safe in the basement years ago," he muttered, pacing the office, wringing his hands, "me and my wife...years ago, just before she left. We locked it in a safe. I don't even know the combination. When I got home today, it was just sitting there on my bed along with the letter I'd already thrown in the trash."

"Mark," she said, "I think we need to discuss checking you into a hospital. You need help."

"I don't want to do it. I don't want to."

"I know it's hard."

"I don't want to do it. I don't. But the police won't help me, no one will help me, and they're coming here, and I don't want them do anything to me!" He was back at the couch, he was unwrapping the newspaper.

"It's alright, Mark. It's okay. It's all going to be okay. I'm not going to let anyone hurt you, alright?" She was reaching for the phone.

Mark turned around. He held a small black ball in his hand. It looked heavy. "I'm sorry Dr. Matheson, but you're the biggest bitch I know, and I have to do it to someone."

"What are you talking about?"

"You know how this works, Dr. Matheson. When I'm holding this orb, all I have to do is imagine something about someone's age and it becomes true. You never believed all the stuff that happened to my little girl, so now I'm going to show you what happened to her."

Karen stood up. She spoke in a firm tone. "Mark, look at yourself. You're holding an eight ball with the number painted over. Think about what you're saying."

"It was just so easy." He ran his fingers over the black polish. "If you didn't want your teenager having sex, you didn't have to worry. It didn't matter if they snuck around behind your back, you just imagined them being a virgin again and they were."

The first thing Dr. Karen Matheson was aware of was her brow furrowing. Her mind was awash.

"That's ridiculous, Mark," she said, the memory of her last romantic encounter a week ago quite clear. No, not a week, she thought. A month. Yes, it had been a while. At least a year. God, had it really been that long? Five years since she'd gotten laid. No, not even then. Well, she could certainly remember her first time at least. Her parents had been gone for the night--some party--and her then boyfriend, Mike Stewart was his name, had stopped by. He'd brought her flowers, six lilies from a flower shop. They'd sat on the couch in the living room and watched some TV, but it wasn't long before they started fooling around. He squeezed her breasts through her top, she'd pulled down her panties, he'd unzipped his pants, and then they... Wait. Was that right?

The tightening sensation in her crotch marked the return of Dr. Matheson's hymen.

No, she'd never gone all the way with Mike, or with anyone for that matter. Karen couldn't believe it, but it was true. Technically, she was a thirty-nine year old virgin. She'd just stuck with blowjobs her whole life, which she was actually quite good at, average at, clumsy, never done it. The idea of having a dick in her mouth now seemed strange and gross, and kind of scary.

She put her hand to her forehead. She felt confused. "Mark, I think there's something wrong with me. I can only remember giving guys handjobs, well, actually, I've only given one handjob, but I was nervous and couldn't get the strokes down right and the guy had to finish himself. Or is it just that guys do that by themselves? Yes, that's right. I've never given a handjob. I've never even seen a penis in real life. I just stick to dry-humping,... er making out,... er kissing, well not really. I wonder what it's like to kiss a boy."

"Are you finished?" Mark asked.

Karen's head cleared and she blushed as she realized she'd been babbling, as she recalled what she'd just said, as she pieced her own words together, as their meaning struck her at the pit of her stomach: It was true. It was real. Mark Weight had just robbed her of all her sexual experience. He'd reduced her to a shy, quivering awkward virgin.

Despite now being timid in bed, in this office, Karen Matheson was very pissed off.

She screamed at him, she screamed at him with her whole body, it felt like, she was so angry: "You son of You son of a..., uh, a big poo poo head!"

Mark's fingers continued to caress the orb. "I'd tell you to watch your mouth, but then, I guess you really don't have a choice in the matter, do you? You see, that's how it would work with Serena. She'd use foul language, and I'd just imagine a time when she didn't know any bad words and the problem was solved. Take you for example--"

"--You can't do this to me!--"

"--You're smug, and conceited and judgmental towards everyone around you because you're a psychologist. But then I just imagine the time before you went to college, and now you're not a psychologist anymore."

Karen's head spun. "No, please!" Her credentials vanished from the wall. Then the wall itself vanished. They weren't standing in her office anymore. She didn't have an office anymore. Instead they were back at her place. Not the lavish townhouse that had once been her pride and joy, but an apartment she struggled to pay rent for with her job as a receptionist in a small office for a group of psychologists.

"But then," he said, "You don't teach someone not to be bad simply be preventing them from acting that way. You have to show them how it feels to be treated badly. How their actions made others feel. So, if you made other people feel stupid, I guess I should think a little further back..."

Karen started to cry as she looked down and saw she was wearing a McDonalds uniform. She was a thirty-nine year old high school dropout. Her apartment was gone. She lived in her parents' basement, who were both pushing their mid-sixties. A panicked feeling struck her as she realized she was late for the nightshift at the drive-through.

"This is stupid," she said between sobs. "It's not fair."

"Life's not fair," Mark said simply. The woman's eyes lost their sharpness as her mind reduced to that of a junior high school student. "You'd better hurry, or your boss might yell at you for being late again."

A fear of authority Karen had not felt in years welled up. She thought on her options, on the craziness of this situation, but her intellect and maturity weren't what they used to be. "I hate you!" she screamed with the stomp of a foot then stormed out.

A few minutes later, Mark heard a car start outside and pull out of the driveway. His hands were shaking. The newspaper he'd left on the loveseat was now scattered in Karen's left-open underwear drawer. He sorted the paper from her bras and panties and carefully rewrapped the orb.

He'd done it, he thought. Karen would be in public now, working at McDonalds. And whoever might be watching him, judging him, would be sure to see what he planned to do next...
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Re: Deja Vu: The Invitation

Postby Eidio » Thu Jan 11, 2018 5:22 pm

I always liked this story. To bad there isn't more.
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Re: Deja Vu: The Invitation

Postby bela04 » Fri Jan 19, 2018 2:14 am

Eidio wrote:I always liked this story. To bad there isn't more.

It really is a shame... One of my favorit too! Enjoying it every time I'm reading it.
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