Chapter 2

I enjoy my job. It’s satisfying to see kids come in broken and go out, weeks or months later, if not whole then with most of the pieces and a big old pot of glue. I see the abuse victims, the kids who are getting a hard time at school, the depressed and the anxious. Pills help some, but you got to be careful with pills and kids, and anyway that’s up to the family doc or the psychiatrist not me. When I’m talking to the kids I need a way in. With boys it’s oftentimes the same things - sports, video games, cartoons for the younger ones. Girls it’s a bit harder. Get the wrong band, not be up on the latest apps they’re using and you risk looking like their mom or their teacher and they close up. That’s kinda why I took myself back to the Girl Scouts. Don’t get me wrong GSA were great for me: the outdoorsy stuff; the confidence building and leadership stuff; heck even the cookies helped me when it came to setting up my own practise. I wanted to help other girls do the stuff I’d enjoyed, but I also wanted a chance to watch girls “in the wild” so I could keep my finger on the pulse of fashions, cliques, and what was “normal”. Taking on leading the Cadette level group in my local troop works out great for me. Before or after a meeting I just listen in to their chatter and pick up on the gossip, what’s (and who’s!) hot. I even pick up the odd babysitting gig, partly for pocket money (students loans, apartment rent, office rent... ) but mostly so I can chat to more kids and work out what makes them tick. There are perhaps half a dozen girls and a couple of boys I know well who have “perfect” lives. Y’know the kind: they’re polite without being timid, bright without being nerdy; sporty without being dense; confident but not arrogant, and just generally well-rounded, undamaged kids. Two caring parents at home, financially comfortable but not spoiled, and suffering the bare minimum of teenage angst. They’re pleasant to spend time with, in a bland sort of way, but I have an urge.

I’ve spent a lot of time putting kids back together, and now I want to break one. There. I’ve said it. I want to break one of these perfect kids like dropping a vase onto concrete. Not physically, you understand. No, any thug can break bones. I want to break a mind.

I’ve said it, I’ve admitted the desire to myself, but do I really want to go through with it? I shouldn’t: I spent years studying so I could make people better, and now I want to hurt one. I’ve spend a bit of time reading up about this, and it seems to be about power and control. Maybe dabbling into the BDSM scene will help solve matters?

A few discrete enquiries later and I’ve found a 43 year-old dental supplies salesman who wants to be tied up, dominated and humiliated. And he’s willing to pay for the privilege. We meet in a back street cafe to discuss his requirements.