by W. Arthur
Prologue
Dr. Sylvia Beltran stood motionless at the floor-to-ceiling window and looked out over the city. She loved this view from her office on the eighth floor of the Collins Tower. She particularly appreciated watching the sun begin to set over the skyscrapers in the west. It never failed to remind her how fortunate she was to be here.
Of course, she also knew that she had worked and studied long and hard to attain this full measure of success. She thought about how far she had traveled in life as she continued her gaze. Just sixteen years ago, she was a seventeen-year-old high school senior helping her mother clean rich people's houses for less than minimum wage. Now, she was a highly respected psychologist, charging some of the sons of these same rich people $250 an hour to help them see the modern twenty-first century world in, what she would term, less masculine ways.
Sylvia glanced over at the large ornate brass and wood wall clock, a gift from one of her first clients. It was now fifteen minutes before five o'clock. Reluctantly, she turned away from the window and gave the large office a quick scan. The white pillows on the tan sofa were properly fluffed. The top of her long cherry-wood desk was neat with her appointment book aligned next to her silver HP laptop. The gold-framed 8x10 photograph of her husband, Tom, was angled on one corner. Next to the photograph was the antique oak hairbrush with the over-large flat back. On the wall behind the desk were her framed diplomas and certifications (her 'power wall' some would have called it).
She smiled when her eyes fell upon the hairbrush. She recalled the many male patients (she preferred the term patient over client) she had spanked with that hairbrush over the course of the six years she had been in practice. Dr. Beltran was no dominatrix, not that she had any particular problem with women who inflicted pain and abuse on men who paid for the privilege - after all, fantasies and fetishes were all a part of a person's complex psychological make up.
Rather, she was a fully licensed and credentialed therapist who treated patients (mostly men) with particular issues regarding gender status. Occasionally, during the course of therapy, the patient might require a harsh spanking as part of that therapy. The spanking may have been an unconventional treatment (certainly one that wouldn't be in the textbooks), but it was almost always successful in minimizing or even eliminating outdated attitudes, attitudes that could very well be holding the patient back, keeping him from attaining the full measure of success in life.
When she reached her desk, Sylvia sat down in the black leather office chair and looked at the leather-bound appointment book. Her next patient was Jason Greer. On her laptop, she brought up the small file she had started on Jason Greer: 26-years-old; a junior financial advisor at Bitterson Financial Services; MBA from Avery Phillips School of Business; referred by his supervisor, Jenny Logan.
She smiled knowingly: A young (and probably very arrogant) male occupying an entry level position in a highly competitive business and supervised by a woman. Sylvia had seen this pattern before many times. Just needs to be broken and enlightened, she thought. Men stuck in such an antiquated mold cannot grow. She saw her job as helping these men break out of such molds before they become too stagnant, victims of their own misogyny.
She had done it before many times; it was her specialty, and she was the best in the business. And, even though she had not yet met Jason Greer, she was very confident she could do it with him. She glanced over at the photo of her husband and nodded. "Easy," she said.
Seeing that it was now five minutes before five o'clock, she stood up, smoothed down her tight, knee-length black wool skirt and checked her long dark hair. When she was satisfied with her appearance (which had to be as close to perfect as possible), she turned and opened the door to the small waiting room outside her office.
Sitting in the chair with the soft (but not too soft) mauve cushions nearest the door was a young man wearing a black tailored suit, light blue shirt, and red tie. He was looking at his smartphone, apparently absorbed in whatever he was reading.
Sylvia observed him for a few seconds. From her perspective, he appeared to be a fairly typical male millennial practically glued to his handheld device. "Mr. Greer?" she called softly.
The young man looked up from his smartphone. "Yes," he replied in a nervous voice.
She smiled at him. "I'm Dr. Beltran," she said. She reached out her right hand.
Jason Greer stood up and slipped his phone into the inside pocket of his jacket. He was perhaps an inch or two taller than Sylvia, but wearing heels, she could look him in the eye. After a quick scan, he extended his right arm and they briefly shook hands. Jason's hand was warm and moist; his grip was light. He never made eye contact.
Sylvia made a mental note of the interaction. She had learned through study and experience that she could quickly size a man up through his handshake. What she had learned about her new patient was that he was nervous but trying not to show it. Also, his light grip suggested that he was holding back because she was a woman.
She stepped aside and swept her right arm toward the open door. "Let's go into the office and get your session started." She wanted him to go in first because she wanted to observe his walk and his reactions.
He looked back and forth between her and the open door, apparently trying to make a decision. Finally, after several seconds, he rotated toward the open door and moved inside. To Sylvia, his actions appeared to be those of a man entering a doctor's office for the first time, which he was.
Easy, she thought again as she followed him and closed the door. "Please make yourself comfortable on the couch," she said.
"Should I sit or lie down?" Jason asked in a nervously sarcastic voice.
Sylvia didn't flinch. She had heard that veiled attitude before many times. "Whatever makes you comfortable, Mr. Greer."
He eyed the couch and sat down in the center. He crossed his legs. "May I take off my jacket?"
Again, she didn't flinch. So far, the session was going exactly as she thought it would, almost as though it had been scripted. "Whatever you like."
He nodded, stood up, removed his jacket, and folded it neatly over the back of the couch. Then he resumed his seat and re-crossed his legs, being careful to pull down his pant leg so that the top of his sock wouldn't show.
Sylvia sat down in her office chair. "Let's get started," she said, keeping her eyes firmly on her new patient. "Tell me why you're here."
"To get my head shrunk. I thought you already knew that," Jason replied quickly.
No imagination whatsoever, Sylvia thought. "My notes tell me that you were referred by your manager at Bitterson Financial Services. But I need to hear it from you in your own words."
Jason Greer took a deep breath, briefly made eye contact, then glanced away, his blue eyes finally settling on his hands, which were folded piously in front of him. "Well... I guess I've been having some trouble at work lately."
"What kind of trouble?"
He kept his eyes firmly on his hands. "I guess I haven't been as, you know, successful as I should be."
Sylvia made a mental note of his discomfort. "My notes indicate that you are a financial advisor. Is that correct?"
"Yes," he said with a distinct firmness in his voice.
She noted that as well. "That must be interesting work but also a bit stressful." She was thinking of her own rather substantial portfolio, now managed by her husband.
"It can be," he said. "But I'm a competitive person by nature, so it fits my personality."
"How are you competitive?"
Jason took a deep breath. "I guess I'm like most men. I like to compete for what I want, to win. I played a lot of sports in high school and college, and I still play tennis and golf whenever I can."
He's trying to impress me with his masculinity, Sylvia thought. "You say you like to compete for what you want. What is it that you want?"
He rolled his eyes and scowled, as though he couldn't believe she was asking him such a dumb question. "I suppose I want the usual things a man wants - money, women, glory."
She was about to ask the obvious follow up question, but stopped herself. "Tell me about your parents."
Jason looked at her as though he wasn't expecting this change in the direction of the conversation. "My parents?"
"Yes."
"My father died two years ago."
"I'm sorry for your loss," Sylvia said. "What about your mother?"
"Yes, she's still living," Jason said. "She moved in with my older sister and her husband after our father died."
"What was your father's occupation?"
"He was the corporate attorney for McHenry Manufacturing."
She processed the name. McHenry Manufacturing was very well-known and respected in the area. She now knew that Jason Greer did not grow up poor or in any way disadvantaged. "How about your mother? What was her occupation?"
"She was a housewife," he said quickly. "Oh... I guess that term is politically incorrect these days. She managed the household."
Once again, Sylvia noted his expression. She understood that her patient was being sarcastic. Time to move the session along, cast some bait. "Would you say that your father was the head of the household when you were growing up?"
He thought for a second, apparently trying to determine the intent of the question. "You could probably say that, yes."
Okay, wiggle the bait a bit, she thought. "Who was the family disciplinarian - your mother or your father?"
Jason's eyes widened. "Why do you want to know that?"
"Humor me," she said.
"My father most of the time," he replied after a few seconds.
"Do you believe that men should always be the head of the household?" she asked as though the question was as natural as asking about the weather.
He leaned forward on the couch. "Are you trying to trap me?" His voice rose slightly.
Yes, she thought, but didn't say it. "I'm trying to help you," she replied calmly. "It's a simple question. Please give me an answer, preferably an honest one."
Jason Greer squirmed a little. A small bead of sweat appeared on his smooth forehead. He was already trapped and probably knew it. "Well... if I have to be honest-"
"Please be honest," she interrupted. "I can't help you if you're not honest."
He sighed. "Okay... then, I guess I do think that men should be the head of their households. It is the natural order of things." He sat back in the couch to await the fallout from the obviously sexist remark.
But Sylvia didn't pounce. She knew and fully appreciated that her job was to help him change his attitude, not criticize him for having it. Time to change the direction again. "Let's talk about work," she said. "As I understand it, Jenny Logan is the manager at Bitterson Financial and your direct supervisor. Is that correct?"
"Yes," he said. He wiped the bead of sweat from his forehead.
She baited another trap. "What do you think of Ms. Logan as a manager? Is she competent?"
He looked at her again, sensing the trap but not quite sure how to avoid it.
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