Subject: NEW STORY:"Patty" By Dirty Dawg
From: drambo@cloud9.net (Dawson Rambo)

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                    "Patty" By Dirty Dawg
                             -1-

   I checked my appointment calender one more time, even though I
knew what was going to be there before I opened it. The block from
five to six was X'd off, a thick black magic-marker line telling me
all that I needed to know. There was no name there, no patient
number, nothing to indicate the identity of the man that would be
on my couch that afternoon. Call me paranoid, but I knew that the
enemies of the man that was coming to see me would love to know
that he was seeing a therapist; it would give them ammunition to
hasten his downfall. Anything to undermine him, anything at all,
could and would be seized by them and used against Pete.

   Pete. Just the whisper-mention of his name by the voice inside
my head sent tingles of anticipation and excitement running through
my body. Pete had come to me three months before, asking to be
treated for what he considered to be clinical depression. The
method of his approach to the theraputic enviornment should have
raised a red flag with me, but I will admit to being so intrigued
that I ignored all the mental warnings until it was too late, until
a theraputic relationship had been established and nutured..I
ignored all the warnings even after I was aware that I was deeply,
hopelessly in love with my most special patient.

   Pete had originally decided to seek therapy because of
nightmares that he'd been having. Dreams filled with violence and
death and guns and blood. When you take into account Pete's
occupation, the dreams don't seem all that hard to understand. Pete
was what the so-called intelligence community of our government
calls a 'case agent.' What that means is he is one of that rare
breed, the actual on-the- ground-agent-in-the-field, the old-style
James Bond, jetting off to countries at the four corners of the
globe, exchanging microfilm in the shadow of the Berlin wall,
bribing Chinese officials for a look at North Korean nuclear power
plant plans, doing whatever dirty job was required in the
furtherance of our country's foreign policy.

   And that was where the problems started. Well, not actually, but
they could all be traced back to Pete's ten- year career with the
Defense Intelligence Agency. Pete, as it turned out, was very good
at his job. Too good. He got tapped for every dirty, impossible,
suicide mission that the fools on the National Security Agency and
the four-star idiots in the National Command Authority could dream
up. All this while trying to maintain a marriage and a family.
Nancy, his high-school sweetheart, had paid the ultimate price for
Pete's success as a case agent.

   Pete had been on the trail of two North Koreans who wanted to
purchase Kytron triggers, which I understood to be some kind of
necessity if you were the type of government that wanted to build
nuclear weapons. And we all know that Poonygang is that type of
government. Somehow the Koreans found out not only that someone was
on their tail, but that it was <Pete> who was on to them.

   They sent a message through channels, or what passes for
channels in the high-stakes game of geopolitical intelligence
activities. Only the message hadn't gotten to Pete. The message was
simplicity itself: Stay away, or your family will suffer. Some low-
level diplo-dink in the DIA had round-filed the message, thinking
that the Koreans were bluffing.

   Two days later, Nancy's car exploded as she was preparing to go
to work. And Pete blamed himself for her death. That was when the
nightmares had started. Realizing that he had a problem, Pete
started coming to me.

   How did he find me? Again, simplicity itself. He picked me out
of the yellow pages, followed me for a few days to satisfy himself
that I wasn't in any way involved in any of the politics of
Washington, and then approached me. His terms were concise and
simple: He needed psychotheraputic counseling, he needed it on the
QT, and it had to be the most closely-guarded secret I'd ever kept
in my life. He explained that he was not your normal patient, and
that by telling me the things that had happened in his life, he
would be violating the secrecy oath he had signed upon graduation
from Annapolis, and that was something that he took very, very
seriously. He went on to explain that if his theraputic
relationship with me was discovered, I might be in danger.

   Normally, if a patient had told me that, the first thing I would
have done would be to show him the door. Pete. ..had something
about him. The way he'd looked at me, seated on the other side of
my desk, his eyes silently pleading with me, begging me to help
him...overcame all my fears and doubts. I agreed to take him on as
a patient.

   And so started the most intense relationship with a man I have
ever had. The sessions started slowly, sporodically...Pete's
schedule was spotty at best. At one point he managed to get out of
the field for about six weeks, taking a desk job at the Pentagon so
he could continue to see me. The fact that he was in therapy was
still a closely guarded secret. We joked between us that he
recorded time spent with me as meetings with confidential
informants. But, we both felt that it was necessary and vital to
Pete's continued mental well-being.

   As for me, I had other motives. I knew that I was attracted to
Pete; wildly attracted. Hell, just the sight of him made me feel
faint. When Pete told me what he did, I almost didn't believe him.
He even looked the part: Tall, and brawny, his body rippled with
sinewy muscle. His eyes, the same blue as the ocean on a stormy
day, bored right through mine, into the back of my head. His dark
brown hair only highlighted his eyes, and the rest of him
was...well, perfect. The only thing wrong with this man was in his
head, and I was determined to work as hard as I could to help him
get over the crushing guilt of his wife's assassination.

   As the therapy began, I decided to get as much background
information as possible. Departing from my usual technique, I
neither recorded our sessions, nor did I take notes of any kind. I
leaned back in my chair, crossed my legs, and listend to Pete talk
for hours. Every so often I would interject a question to clarify
a point or make something a little less vague. When he could, Pete
would accomodate my questions. The only question he would not
tolerate from me was "Why?" If I asked him why he had to do
something, he would always give me a look that told me he wished he
could answer, but there were some things it was just better that I
did not know.

   And what stories he told. Stories filled with excitement and
danger and hair-raising close calls. The number of times Pete had
come within a hair's breadth of death was amazing. He had the luck
of the truly blessed, and the nine lives of a cat.

   When I pointed this out to him, Peter chuckled. He stood and
smiled at me and unbuttoned his shirt, pulling the left side of it
away to show me an angry, rude scar. It looked puckered and washed-
out, the skin around it a pale white, never to be tan again. He
told me that he'd been shot there, by an angry Soviet Spenatz agent
somewhere inside the iron curtain.

   "You want to see more?" he asked, and started to unbutton his
pants. I held up a staying hand, not sure if I was ready to see
Pete drop his drawers in my office. I will admit that part of me
was very curious to see what might lurk underneath his clothes, but
I knew myself well enough to realize that if I did let him get
near-naked in my presence, it wouldn't be long before he had me
flat on my back on the desk, tearing my own clothes off.

   And that's when it started. That singular thought, and the image
that it evoked, began playing at the corners of my mind, a little
movie-fantasy that popped into my head at odd times. I would be
with other patients, or at home, even asleep, and that fantasy of
Pete taking me on my desk would flash across the movie screen
inside my head, and I would be instantly aroused and excited.

   The fact that my own personal life had been kind of arid lately
did nothing to help matters. I missed a man in my bed, and I had
this...MAN in my office three times a week, telling me tales of
adventure and intrigue that seemed only to exist between the pages
of a good novel (or a Dirty Dawg story,) and it was having a
definite effect on me.

   And so, I've told you everything you need to know to bring you
up to speed. Today was Thursday, and as always, Pete was my last
appointment for the day. I buzzed Marcy, my earstwhile secretary
and told her that she could go home, that I'd be staying late,
again. She gently chided me for working too hard, but I knew ths
second we hung up she'd be out the door. She was a sweet girl, but
she had a serious case of the hots for her boyfriend, and would
waste no time in getting home and getting down to it, if you know
what I mean.

   I got up and used the private bathroom off of my office,
stopping to check my makeup and to make sure that my clothes were
ok. I was wearing something just this side of businesslike; my
clothes were designed to flatter my tall, lithe body, and I saw
that they did just that. The silk blouse peeking out from under my
jacket was just enough to hint at the softness beneath.

   Don't ask me why, but I had a feeling that something was going
to happen today...something wonderful.

   -2-

    Pete made his usual entrance, looking around gultily like he
expected the Inspector General himself to be lurking under my desk.
He smiled softly at me and took the chair opposite my desk. He
looked tired, and the dress uniform he wore only seemed to heighten
his masculinity. He had four rows of decorations beneath his SEAL
badge, and the three fat gold stripes of a Commander on his
shoulder boards.

   "Commander," I said formally, biting the inside of my cheek not
to laugh.

   "Doctor," he said, just as formally, and then his face broke
into a warm, familer smile. We shared our private joke, and a quiet
moment between us. Just looking at this man was getting me excited.
I shifted in my high-backed executive chair, trying to get a little
comfortable.

   "So," Pete said. "Where were we?"

   "We were talking about what happened immediately after you were
informed of your wife's death."

   Pete nodded. "I was in the field, like I said before. I was on
a mission, chasing those two North Koreans all over hell and gone.
I'd called my control officer via the Satburst cellular to report
my progress. That's when they chose to tell me." Pete stared off
into the distance, his eyes suddenely far away. His brow creased
slowly. "When I realized what had happened, that...my career...what
I did for a living...had cost Nancy her life, and our happiness...
I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me. I have never felt
so...guilty in all my life. I remember dropping the cellphone and
bursting into tears."

   I reached for a pencil on my desk and began toying with it so
I'd have something to do with my hands. What I wanted to do was
reach for HIM, for Pete, and hold him close. I wanted to stroke his
hair and tell him that it was OK, that Nancy understood the risks
she was taking, and that she had gladly accepted them, just as she
had accepted his love and devotion to her. Just as I would have
gladly accepted those same risks if he would only ask me.

   Pete stood and started walking around the office, stopping every
few feet to examine something. He thought better on his feet. It
was a ritual that he followed every session.

   "Somehow, I managed to finish the job. We caught up with our two
little friends, did what had to be done, and then I came in from
the field, back to Washington, to bury my wife." Did what had to be
done. What an interesting phrase. During the late 60's, the term
was "Terminate with Extreme Prejudice." The words, the euphamisms
had changed, but the basic result had not. The two North Koreans
had died a violent death at Pete's hands.

   "I remember the funeral...or at least, bits and pieces of it. I
remember...seeing Nancy's family...the looks they gave me...did you
know that there wasn't enough of her left...to..." He fell silent,
lost in his thoughts, in his memories again. His back was to me,
and then I saw his shoulders drop about two inches. I watched as
his body began to shake. And then it was just too much for me. I
stood up and walked to him, placing my hands on his shoulders.

   He moved as if my touch had shocked him, and I slowly turned him
around until he was facing me. Bright, fat, salty tears were
streaming down his face, and I stepped into him, burying my face
against his chest. Through the scent of brass and starch, I could
smell his unique masculine scent. His body felt wonderful against
mine, and I sighed.

   "Patty," he started.

   I raised a silencing finger to his lips. "Shhh," I said. "Just
let me hold you for a minute. It's not in any of the textbooks, but
I've always belived in hug therapy." Slowly, he nodded, and then
his arms came around me, drawing me closer. I have never felt so
secure in my entire life. His strength radiated off of him in
waves, enveloping me in his warmth.

   For a long moment, neither of us said anything.

   "You know," he finally whispered, "I really miss her. I just
miss her so much, Patty. She used to wait for me at the front door.
I'd get home from...wherever I was, and I'd open the door, and
there she would be, standing, waiting for me, offering me a hug and
a kiss. She always knew that it took me a while to come down after
I got back from one of my missions...she could just <tell> what I
needed. Sometimes, I needed to be left alone for a while...and
sometimes, I just needed to be held...like right now."

   I leaned back a bit and raised my chin, looking him in the eye.

   "I understand-" I started to whisper, and then something
wonderful happened. Pete lowered his face to mine and kissed me
softly, gently. He pulled away a fraction of an inch, and then he
kissed me again, longer this time. The kiss...grew. That's the only
way to describe it. It fed on itself, getting longer and deeper. I
raised my hand and captured his cheek in my palm, my thumb softly
stroking his face.

   I knew that I was breaking every single professional rule of
conduct in the books, but I didn't care. None of that mattered: All
that mattered was the man before me, in who's arms I stood, who was
kissing me, who I wanted to make love with in a such a desperate,
hungry way that I was afraid of my own passions and needs.

   I broke the kiss and Pete looked at me, afraid that I was going
to rebuke him. Nothing could be further from the truth. Like most
psychologists, I had a leather couch in my office. It was more for
those patients that had a preconcieved notion of what therapy was
about than for any real practical reason. At that moment, I was
very glad that I'd given into the momentary impluse and spent the
money on it.

   "Patty-" he started to say. Taking him by the hand, I led Pete
to the couch and we sat down. We were close enough for our thighs
to touch.

   "If...if we continue this," I said in a halting, barely
controlled voice, "...our theraputic relationship must end. But I
want you to know that I want this to happen very, very much...and
that I will continue to be here for you, that I will listen to you,
and try to help you as best I can. Just...not as your doctor, but
as your...lover. If you'll have me." I looked away, afraid of the
expression that might be on Pete's face.

   I felt his hand on my neck, and then he was turning me to face
him. His obvious need and hunger and desire were written all over
his face. And then Pete was kissing me, hard and deep. I returned
the kiss, my arms snaking around his neck, drawing him down on top
of me as I lay back on the couch. What happened next almost defies
description.

   Pete's mouth was hungry and demanding, and I responded. This man
was touching things inside me, igniting passions I'd never
acknowledged. I had never been so aroused in my entire life, and I
couldn't wait to share myself with this man in the most intimate
way possible. His hands moved over my body, discovering all my
secrets, lightly stroking the skin on the inside my my thighs, a
hand testing the weight of my breast, a finger scraping across a
nipple, making me gasp, his lips, warm and wet and gently sucking
at my neck, his tongue licking my lips. The light in his eyes was
bright and passionate and all for me.

   I was wearing way too many clothes, and Pete knew this. The
jacket vanished first, and I felt gloriously free for some strange
reason. The blouse was next; Pete's skillfull fingers worked the
buttons like a magician, and he slid it off my shoulder and down my
arms. I was reaching for the clasp of my bra when Pete's hands
stayed mine.

   "Don't," he whispered. "Let me make you naked for me." I just
smiled and kissed him back, surrendering to his desire for me, his
hunger for me. I felt beautiful and desired and so goddamned sexy
that I thought we might actually ignite the couch.

   Pete's hands slid to my shoulders, and he gently rubbed me
there, still kissing me hungrily. His kisses were incredible; they
tasted like mint, and his warm tongue was in my mouth, licking my
teeth, my tongue, filling me with him. It was unbelievable. I felt
him lift the bra straps off my shoulders and slide them down just
a bit. Then his hands slid around my back. Unlike the fumblings of
most men, the bra came open in Dan's fingers without a struggle; I
felt the pressure in the cups release, and then it was falling
away, landing in my lap, a little lace wisp of nothing, my breasts
jiggling with my breathing.

   "My God," Pete whispered. "You're gorgeous!"

   And then he was kissing me between them, his hot breath on my
skin, his moist tongue licking me in the valley. I gasped at the
contact, hunching at him, wanting more of it, wanting all of it. My
hand trailed from his ass around the front of his slacks, finding
his need with my hands. It jumped in my fingers as I stroked it,
and I suddenely wanted to see it, wanted to touch its flesh. My
nimble fingers made short work of his belt and zipper, and then I
was fishing through his Navy-issue boxers. I felt the sleek, hard
length of him in my fingers and I groaned.

   "I need you," he whispered, the tone of his voice telegraphing
the almost desperate hunger he had; he was almost afraid that I was
going to change my mind, that I was going to push him away and
primly declare that we just couldn't do this, that we had no
business thrashing around on the couch like a pair of hormone-
crazed teenagers. Nothing could be further from the truth; I wanted
this man completely, utterly, forever and ever.

   The word "Forever" blew across my mind and I stifled a moan. It
was true; the hunger and need I felt inside my body would not be
quenched by this wonderfully lusty encounter on my office couch. If
anything, the desire I felt for Pete would only be increased by
this act.

   And that was what I wanted.

   We seperated for a moment, shedding clothes like madmen. And
then we were gloriously, completely naked. Pete came back into my
arms, settling his weight between my legs. I looked into his eyes,
his wonderfully blue, depthless eyes as he lowered his face to mine
for another kiss. I felt the hard length of him against my tummy,
pressing into me, slowly leaking lubrication.

   "I want you," I whispered. "Inside me...NOW!"

   Pete moaned into my mouth, still kissing me. He shifted,
arranging himself; I reached between us, grasping the delicious
thickness of him and placed him where I needed him. He entered me
slowly, and we both closed our eyes and groaned at the sensation.
I was incredibly wet and slick and aroused for this man, and he
filled me completely. He fed me himself an inch at a time, and
soon, I had captured his entire length inside my body, where it
belonged. The stretched, full feeling was exquisite, and we savored
it for a long, delicious moment.

   Pete began slowly stroking, withdrawing almost all of himself in
a long, slow, agonizing pull, and then pausing, and then filling me
again, just as slowly. My breathing deepened as the excitement
began to build and grow inside me.

   "Love me," I whimpered. Pete sped his strokes just a little,
picking up the pace by a tiny, perfect increment. The sound of our
lovemaking, a wonderful combination of our bodies meeting on the
couch and the liquid tease of my arousal, filled our ears. Pete's
hands found my breasts, his weight on his elbows and knees as he
moved above me. I ran my fingers over his chest and abs, one hand
curling around to grasp a muscular buttock, using my fingernails to
guide his pace and depth.

   Pete expression changed, and our lovemaking took on a new air;
before, it had been slow and wonderful. He felt, just as I did,
that the time for release was near. He and I both knew that there
would be plenty of time for tender, caring lovemaking in our
future, whatever that turned out to be; the time to release was
near, and we wanted to arrive at that place together.

   His pace increased by an order of magnitude. His actions were
hungrier, more demanding, more insistent. He began twisting his
hips at the bottom of every stroke, bringing me along with him,
making me climb higher and higher; the world began to grey around
the edges, the room began to swim in my vision. All that remained
was the image of Pete above me, his eyes boring into mine as we
moved together as one, climbing ever so higher towards that
ultimate release point.

   And then we were there together. I felt the pleasure detonate at
the same instant Pete grunted and filled me with himself one final
time. I felt him jumping and spasming inside me, filling me with
his essence. The sensation of his seed filling me added that one
final spark I needed, and I dissolved into a monumental climax,
clutching at him with my hands, my legs wrapped around his waist,
hunching my hips up off the couch to capture every last thick
exquisite inch of him inside my body.

   Slowly...in degrees, we came down together, gasping and
sweating, clutching each other. Pete's face was against my neck,
and I took a second to smooth his hair, cooing in his ear at the
pleasure he'd given me.

   "God," Pete whispered. "Oh God..."

   I giggled.

   "No, you don't understand," he said, and there was something in
his voice, a tone, a pitch, that I didn't like.

   "What?"

   "I came here to tell you that I have to go; I have another
mission. I leave in the morning."

   Suddenely I was cold. I didn't regret a single thing that had
transpired in my office that morning. I wouldn't trade a single
moment for anything in the world. But the thought of Pete leaving
me, the thought of him going to some far-away place and undertaking
some dangerous mission left me feeling empty and afraid.

   "When will you be back?" I asked softly, still holding him.

   "I don't know," he said softly. "But when I do-"

   "I'll be waiting for you, Pete."

   "It'll be dangerous," he whispered. "Very dangerous for you if
we...marry."

   And then I knew that everything would be all right.