Yes, please!

The doctor's room is larger, much larger, almost imposing - much like the doctor himself. He stands to greet you, his hand swallowing your's as you shake, the grip firm, insistent, in control.

"Wow, Dr. Carvigo - that's a heck of a handshake."

He guides you to a small chair in front of his wide mahogany desk before returning to his high-backed executive seat. "Well observed. Confidence isn't a word or an action, it's a state of mind that informs all of your words and actions." His baritone is reassuring, instructive. As he sits, he loosens the top button of his shirt, and you can see his pecs strain against the starched white fabric, the curls of dense black chest chair rising in the opening. "You're my last client of the day. That's all right with you."

It isn't a question - he's telling you that it's all right, and you find yourself nodding in agreement. It is all right with me.

"Tell me. What can I help you with?" Ordinarily, you'd hesitate, but he's so direct and commanding you immediately tell him everything. He nods sagely, absorbing every humiliation you detail.

"Maxie was right - you're exactly the sort of case where I can do the most good."

"But... what is it you do, Doctor? I'm sorry, I just don't... entirely get it." You feel silly even asking the question, but the doctor's understanding nod makes you feel better.

"I help people get what they want, that's all. That's what confidence is about. Getting what you want. When you came in here you were very nervous, correct?"

"Um, yes, Doctor."

"And are you nervous now?"

"No, Doctor, I feel very at ease."

"That is because I want you to feel at ease." He stands as he speaks, opening a small liquor cabinet in the corner of his office. Ordinarily you'd find him mixing a drink to be rather unprofessional, but already you feel very comfortable around him, almost as if you're personal friends. "If I'm going to help you, you need to be honest with me. Are you comfortable being honest with me?"

"Yes Doctor, I think so."

"Then tell me. What do you want?" He pauses to stare at you, measuring you with his gaze.

You're about to answer quickly - but your breath catches in your throat. You feel under the microscope, studied - and you don't want to disappoint the Doctor. "I... want the men to stop bothering me."

"Are you sure?"

What? Of course I'm sure... but the way the Doctor looks at you, you realize, perhaps, you're not so sure after all.

"If you wanted the boys to stop bullying you, you don't need me, you need a gym trainer. Get strong. But you haven't done that. Why not?"

"Uh... well..." Why haven't I done that? "I guess..."

"If you haven't done that, it must not be what you want. Drink?" He stands over you, holding out a glass of some dark ****. It has a pungent smell, strange, something you can't place... You hesitate...

"Ordinarily I wouldn't drink with clients, but under controlled circumstances it can help me understand you better. Drink it."

It isn't a sharp order, harsh or intense - but it is an order, and the urge swells within you to comply. You find it hard to look away...