Sex And The City: Carrie (F-mast, drugs, bond)
by Anonymous

It all started with an art exhibition being thrown by Charlottes gallery. It
was the perfect chance for Charlotte to hunt patrons, Miranda to hunt clients
and Samantha to hunt what Samantha was always hunting. As a matter of fact it
was a good chance for all of us to hunt what Samantha was always hunting. The
four of us had hit a simultaneous dry spell in our relationships and were
beginning to fear that there were no more eligible men left in Manhattan. An
upscale gathering was just what we all needed. As Samantha so eloquently
noted, if we couldn't get a partner, we could at least get laid. If we
couldn't get laid we could at least get noticed. And if we couldn't get
noticed, we could at least get drunk.

Time passed, wine flowed and each of us tended towards our own. Charlotte was
chatting to a handsome young artist, trying to get a partner. Samantha was
chatting to an even younger, even more handsome man, trying to get laid. And
Miranda, having had an embarrassing run in with an ex-boyfriend, now a major
law firm partner, was trying to get drunk. Meanwhile, I was attempting to
decipher the meaning behind a rainbow blur smeared on the wall before me.
After several minute spent there, the picture was still no clearer.
Apparently my expression was.

"Gina Marcos. 1984. The Rape of Venus."

I turned to the woman beside me. She was a tall enough woman to look thin,
but not thin enough to look ill, a genetic trait that all woman longer for.
Not only would she never have to bear the curse of stiletto heels but she
also sported a genetically perfect complexion, shiny, short blonde hair and
a pair of stunning blue eyes beneath thin glasses. Were I not so obviously
artistically inept, I would have hated her instantly, but she seemed to have
an air of confidence around her. After all, she had only said what was
printed under the painting, and she already sounded smarter than I felt.

"It was a counter attack on the Freudian concepts upon which much of modern
psychoanalysis was founded."

"Oh," was all I could reply. It was a poor delay, stalling for time as I
dredged my mind for something to say.

"I didn't think Venus was raped."

"That's the point. Freudian theory claimed that women's claims of molestation
as a child were simple fantasy and all women made them up."

"Oh." I replied again. I wasn't going to win points in the I.Q game. "I'm

She smiled and shook my hand. "I thought I recognized you. You write that
column don't you?"

I nodded, gratified that she was at least at the level of reading my work.

"Yes. It's wonderfully witty. A little laboured under concepts of union and
marriage but still entertaining. I'm Doctor Bonnie Nelson."

She must have caught the flash of surprise on my face because she continued
almost immediately.

"Please don't let the title throw you. I never really use it. I just throw it
out there in introductions to get it out of the way. Otherwise people feel
nervous later."

"So. What are you a doctor of anyway?"


"You're a shrink."

She laughed in a rather shrill, snorting tone that made me feel a little
better, simply through knowledge that she wasn't perfect after all.

"I don't like to think of myself as that. I hate to imagine talking to people
on a couch about how their mother never loved them. Yech."

The statement of Yech, couldn't have come at a more appropriate time.
Miranda, having discovered that Central park Nachos for lunch, Sushi for
dinner and a glass too much wine, was a recipe for disaster, tapped me on
the shoulder and pleaded that I take her home. Having to chose between a
friend in need of help or a potentially high winded art lecture, I chose
the prior and turned for the door.

Charlotte and Samantha had already vacated the central room with their
prospective men. I felt that Charlotte was less likely to have found her
life partner than Samantha was to have got laid. Either way I would be
escorting Miranda to a taxi alone. At least I would have, had Doctor
Bonnie Nelson not helped out. Perhaps she wasn't the perfect ivory tower
type I had thought she was. I thanked her for her held, she slipped me
her card, and I left, possibly to have never seen her again. As it
happened. I most certainly would.

With Miranda safely in her bed, I left her apartment, hoping that she would
wake up on time and not suffer too much for it. I was left to catch a cab
back to my apartment, single lonely and wishing that helping a friend offered
more of a warm glow than it did in real life.

While I was taking the ride back home, Charlotte was hopping into a hot tub
with her handsome young man and Samantha hadn't even made it to the hot tub
with hers. Bored with the view of the street, I looked at the card I had been


I read it again, assuming that the bad light in the cab had made my mind play
tricks. But there it was, clear as day. By the time I reached my front door,
the simple card had me thinking. Had we really fallen so low as to need a
sexual fantasy therapist? Had the field of psychology become so specified
that we now had specialist working on not how we interacted about sex or how
we performed sex but what we were thinking about when we were doing it? There
had to be a living in it. Doctor Nelson's fashion sense had told me that

* * *

"What I want to know is, what kind of sexual fantasy requires therapy
anyway." Samantha noted as she stabbed at her salad.

"I don't see why people need fantasies anyway. Can't they be happy with what
they have?" Charlotte asked.

Samantha and Charlotte were not in the highest of spirits. Charlotte, after
a very pleasant massage in the hot tub had been informed that there was
something she needed to know. This was going to be the part where he told
her he was married and couldn't be with her. At least, that would have been
the normal course. The reality of it was a little different. In fact, he
was married and he could be with her. Actually, he could marry her. He had
already done so three times. Before Charlotte could be asked to be one of
his four wives, she had exited the tub, redressed hastily and returned home
wet and distraught, not even having had sex once.

Samantha on the other hand, had had sex six times in one evening. The only
difficulty was that each of those experiences lasted shorter than thirty
seconds. Weighed down with the most disappointing love making she'd had in
recent memory, Samantha had chosen to drown her sorrows in a large plate of
salad drenched in vinegar. It was hardly splurging but it was out of
character for Charlotte.

"Oh please." Miranda retorted to Charlotte, "Don't tell me you don't have
sexual fantasies."

"Of course I do. But not any that need therapy."

"You see," Samantha pointed with her fork, "that's the thing, people won't
except their own fantasies. They need therapists to stop them from repressing

"I am not repressed." Charlotte defended.

"Sure you're not. And you never think about anything remotely kinky." Miranda

Miranda had come out her slumber remarkably well, aided by the three glasses
of water I forced her to drink before going to be. With a cold shower and
dark sun glasses, it was hard to tell she'd been drinking at all. "I don't
need to be kinky."

"Honey," Samantha smiled. "Now and then, everyone needs to be kinky."

The debate was all getting to heated for my liking so I had to cut in.

"Well, I'll find out what she's up by tomorrow." I stated calmly.

"Tomorrow why?"

"Because I'm going to see her. I made an appointment."

"You made and appointment with a sexual fantasy therapist?"

"Not in a professional capacity. More like an interview. I'm a journalist

* * *

5.30 and I found myself in the office of Doctor Bonnie Nelson, Sexual Fantasy
Therapist. Bonnie sat, filling out her prim and proper suit in all the right
places and none of the wrong ones. Rather than lie on the couch, I drew up a
chair, laptop at hand.

"Busy day?" I asked casually.

"Normal. No shortage of clients in this city."

"So people need help?"

"Or they think they do. Most of the time they're simply overlooking an
obvious solution."

"Such as?"

"Well I can't breach confidentiality."

"Well, hypothetically."

"Okay. A lot of the time it's a case of repression and guilt. People deny
their sexual fantasies because they see them as perverse and berate
themselves for being sick in the first place. It's the result of a social
moral ethic, in which some fetishes are accepted and others are spurned."

"Well," I nodded, having jotted down most of the ideas, "how do you help?"

"I attempt to help them come to terms with their beliefs. That doesn't mean
I want them to go out and act on the fantasies. In face often, it's quite the
opposite. But by exploring and accepting them in a safer form, they improve
their lives."

"I take it you're of the school that believes that outlets prevent actions?"

"To a degree. I believe that there is an impact of say, violence or
pornography. There is a proportion of society who will act on what they see.
But these people are often those most likely to act on their own fantasies
anyway. MY therapy, offers a better understanding to both sides. Can I get
you a drink?"



Bonnie stood, crossing to a jug and heating it.

"Okay. What's the weirdest fetish you've come across?"

"Patient confidentiality."

"I don't want names. Just details."

"Carrie." Bonnie smiled. "The way I deal with fantasies is not to
differentiate any from the other. The moment you start to be judgmental,
you start making these unbalanced for clients."

"But surely some things seem weird."

"All right. Consider this. Imagine a woman, whose sexual fantasy is to meet
another person she finds attractive. It happens that this person has a body
part she lacks. Her fantasy is to be with them, both naked, have them insert
that body part inside her, and move back and forth repeatedly. By definition,
that sounds pretty weird."

I had to agree with her. She had a way of saying things that made it hard
to argue against.


"Black. One sugar."

Bonnie nodded and passed me the drink. For re-heated afternoon coffee it was
pretty good. A little sweet but I wasn't picky.

"So what methods do you use?"

"Often simple discussion. The more you talk, the more people open up. I'm
opposed to things like dream analysis. Sex in dreams is anything but
normal, and shouldn't be considered part of fantasy. Sometimes I use word

"Word association? For sexual fantasy."

"It's not as odd as it sounds. Allow me to demonstrate. Lie on the couch."

"Right now?"

"It's free of charge." she smiled with perfect teeth.

I shrugged, putting the laptop and coffee aside, and lying on the couch.

"Now just relax. Keep your mind open. Try not to think of anything specific.
Just say the first thing that comes into your head."

"Okay." I replied, feeling more relaxed already.















"You see. It may not sound like much but you can learn a lot from these

I was confused. In fact, I couldn't see any pattern at all in the words.
Maybe I needed to get more sleep at night, rather than parties. All of a
sudden I was tired. Not that the couch I was lying on wasn't wonderfully

"Actually Carrie, I've been working on something new. Something that might
revolutionize therapy."

"Really?" I asked, struggling to keep my eyes open.

"Yes. But I need a willing subject. I couldn't use any of my patients. That
would be unprofessional."

"Oh..." I replied, watching the roof spin. I tried to lift my arm, but
instead found it was like lead, refusing to move an inch. The rest of my
body was the same, but strangely, I wasn't even concerned."

Bonnie undressed me with stunning speed and efficiency. I offered no physical
resistance what so ever, and in less than a minute I was lying on the couch
stark naked. For the first time, I noticed simple velcro straps, hidden under
the upholstery. Bonnie positioned my wrists and ankles, strapping me down.
Given the chance, I might have broken them, but in my condition I had no

"Most people don't even know their own fantasies Carrie. And discovering them
can take forever. But with this new technique, I hope to make it much easier.
Just relax, you'll be fine."

She opened my eyes dropping something into each one, holding them open. After
half a minute she let go, but both eyes remained wide open. Over them, Bonnie
slid a slim visor, covering my vision completely. I lay in darkness, feeling
the warmth of the drug flowing through my system. Somehow I wasn't concerned
at all. In fact, everything seemed fine. I felt electrodes being stuck into
place, all over my body. They covered my neck, my armpits, my breasts,
buttocks and thighs. Then I felt a warm, smooth probe being inserted inside
me. It was certainly unlike any vibrator I'd ever encountered. In fact, the
sensation was unlike anything I had ever felt before.

"You're ready now Carrie." Bonnie said softly. "Just relax and go with it.
We'll start slow then speed up."

And image flashed up before me. A double bed, covered in pink sheets. Seconds
later, another picture followed it, this time an ocean vista. The next was a
corn field. Then a spaceship. None of them meant anything to me but in time,
some of them would. There was an endless supply of images, all rolling one
after the other. There was no link to them in any way, simply a picture
designed to stimulate a reaction. They increased in speed gradually, just as
Bonnie had said. Soon they were moving very fast, hard even to make out. Then
they started moving faster, becoming just a blur. Then faster still, a strobe
flashing at me.

I started shaking, my wrists unconsciously tugging at the straps, body
gripped by seizures. There was no pain at all, in fact, I felt very calm,
even as my body fought. The pictures moved faster than my conscious mind
could place. But my eyes were unable to close or even blink. Every image
was flowing in to my brain for processing. And every image served to make
me react in a certain way. This was the function of the electrodes. They
monitored my body, testing my reaction to every image, discovering what I
liked and disliked.

The process continued, images flooding my brain faster than I could imagine.
Every now and then Bonnie would say words of encouragement, telling me to
relax and not fight. I had given up fighting long ago, the unavoidable images
washing me away.

Gradually I became aware of a sensation. At first it was hard to think, but
as it became stronger, I recognized it. I knew now that the sensors Bonnie
had slipped inside me were starting to show feedback. And the stronger that
feedback was, the more the computers processed them. The images were still
a blur, but they seemed like patterns now, flashing over and over, filtering
out what I liked and how much.

Fine tuning my prefect erotic fantasy. The patterns became smaller and as
they did, I felt the desire surge inside me. Mental lust converted to body
heat. Smaller. I was shaking now, no longer from the spasms, but from the
tension which gripped me. Smaller. I swore that the sensor between my legs
was going to be washed away in a tide of warmth. Singular. The image flashed
before my eyes, still to fast to see, yet I knew it was a single picture,
the raw key to my desire.

"Are you ready Carrie?" Bonnie asked.

I shook my head instantly, knowing my jaw was wide open, probably drooling.
A needle stabbed my arm and I felt another warmth flowing through me,
relaxing me. The shaking ceased and I relaxed completely, lying back on the
chair. Before me and image formed slowly. A cloud bank. I was floating,
flying up towards the clouds. Such lovely fluffy clouds. I could feel them,
their cool touch on my skin, encompassing me, caressing me. I floated in
the centre of the cloud, letting it touch me, letting it send cool thrills
through my hot body. Swirling around me. Caressing my body, cool air making
my nipples erect. The vapour all around me, clinging to me, entering me.
Filling my body, air stroking me from the inside. I could see it, see the
white clouds all around me, a magical white nothingness as it made love to
me. I felt myself rising, the clouds stretching me out, deliciously gradually
making me come. When the crest came, I felt my body shudder, pure pleasure
surging through me, my greatest fantasy unleashed from my mind. the orgasm
itself was an impossible turn on, the next climax already rolling over. I
let out a delirious moan, lost in my ultimate sexual fantasy. Time lost all
meaning, measured only in heartbeats, breaths and orgasms. I had discovered
true pleasure.

When I came too, I was looking at the roof of the office. For an instant I
thought that it had all been a dream but my senses soon proved otherwise.
I lay on the couch, stark naked and covered in sweat, the scent of sex
emanating from every pore. I sat up turning to the desk, where Doctor
Bonnie Nelson sat at her computer. She looked up at me and smiled.

"So Carrie. How was it?"

I opened my mouth to speak, searching for words.

"It was.. fantastic."

"I apologize for the coercion used. I think you might have resisted the

"I.. understand. I wouldn't have.. but now.. I mean this is.. wow.."

"The process can be refined of course. I've already made some alterations."

"If you need a subject-"

"That's very admirable of you Carrie. But I really don't want to taint the
research too much. Excessive stimulation like this could be damaging," she
threw me a towel.

Suddenly I thought of Miranda and her string of painful ex's, Charlotte and
her eternal search for the perfect husband, and samantha with her insatiable

"Well then." I smiled, wiping myself off. "I can think of a few people who
might be interested."


Back 1 page

Submit stories to: [email protected](dot)com
with the title heading "TSSA Story Submission"