New short story, 'Transformed'

Not sure where this will ultimately go... just here on the blog or published.

Enjoy.

*****

Transformed

Copyright 2019

by Chris Bellows

“You’re healing nicely, Mr. Von Webring,” the handsome doctor grasping a well scrubbed bed sheet of pure white.

Lying supine, her hands hold the cloth up at my chest, veiling any view I may have as she visually examines my nether region. There was a time when baring myself there and being subjected to the scrutiny of a becoming woman would bring arousal. But not this morning... not last morning... and probably not tomorrow morning... her visits daily. 

I have been in a accident... at least that is what I have been told. And there seem to be complications... some misunderstanding... or whatever. For I am strapped in place. Wrist cuffs, ankle cuffs, thigh cuffs, arm cuffs, a broad waist belt, even a prosthetic high and well padded neck collar all hold me completely immobile. I am catheterized for sure, my bladder in no need of draining. I should be vehemently protesting, but oddly, I have not the strength. And more oddly, I just don’t feel like mustering the strength.

“And another injection for you,” the doctor reaching to a nearby tray.

“What is it doc?” even my voice seeming to be meek.

I inquire each time and never receive a specific response.

“You may call me Dr. Gehorchen,” her German birth and heritage evidenced by the Teutonic inflection of her surname. “We prefer our... patients... to be formal with us. We demand... and deserve... courtesy, Mr. Von Webring. Respectful courtesy.”

With that she flips over the right side of the sheet and presses the hypodermic needle into the side of my right cheek, smiling. I believe the term is Schadenfreude... but despite my own German heritage know nothing of the language. 

“Your wife will be visiting. You will be polite with her, yes?” again that look of Schadenfreude as the words come across as more of a command than a question.

I am about to correct the woman, but this subject matter has been discussed. In my state of languor I merely smile, feeling the spreading warmth of whatever has been injected.

I have been separated from Taylor Phipps for over a year. Thus I do not think of her as my wife other than as a matter of law. My suit for divorce is being contested and all attempts to come to terms are now negotiated between attorneys. Though I remain living on the sizable Phipps estate, I sleep and eat in the quarters over the large garage, designed for the chauffeur back when vast wealth and the fleet of horseless carriages required full time maintenance and repair.

It is now home, comfy and far enough from the main house that I come and go for many days without crossing paths with my estranged.

Stunning, erudite, well educated, wife Taylor... prospective ex wife... is an heiress. Old money earned in the steel business back when the metal was used to build just about everything... thousands of miles of railroads included. I don’t know the exact number, the bank and brokerage statements always kept from me, but the wealth probably approaches nine figures... no decimal point.     

And me? Well despite the regal surname, I’m a working slob, waitering tables to put myself through college, then in being glib... smooth... going into public relations where to date I have excelled. But not excelling and talking smoothly enough to convince Taylor to just sign the papers and separate.

So after suggesting we amicably part ways, my husbandly duties deemed inadequate based on evidence of her afternoon trysts, my attorney Pamela Harrison... as aggressive a divorce lawyer as known in the metropolis... advised me...

‘Go after the wealth. She’ll come to terms.’

And so began the war. I claimed millions of her money, Taylor decided to go after my income. And that is when I realized a rather egregious error in conducting our... my... financial affairs over the seven plus years of betrothal.

A cadre of Phipps family lawyers pointed out that I have been paying for everything, supporting Taylor in letting her wealth accumulate. With my six figure income such was not a strain. But now... if and when presented to a judge... Taylor can claim that I have been supporting her and to maintain her life style alimony of fifty percent is needed.

And my claim for her assets? Well, it seems the strategy of Pamela Harrison was a bit of a stretch. Assets acquired outside the marriage... such as inheritance... are not community property.

Yes, it was a bluff and it was called.

I have no savings. Every paycheck has gone to living expenses. Worse, in my field, the compensation road can become very rocky, at times even my glib personality not producing the sizable annual bonus which has in most years paid down the credit card debt.

So for over a year I have been living over the garage and paying the rent for the entire estate to the trust which owns the property. Yes in a tax scheme the turn of the century mansion and many attached acres were placed in an historic trust with the proviso that once it is no longer utilized by a Phipps family heir, it goes to the state as a public park or museum, or whatever.

So there you have it. The prospect of losing this divorce battle is daunting. No inheritance money. Half of my income to my wife. The need for a new place to live, since I will no longer be a Phipps family member. And should a bad year arise, impoverishment.

“I’d... ah... really like to move a little,” noting that the doctor is scribing on my chart, the ultimate task before departure.

“Were you addressing me?” the query gently goading as the room is otherwise empty.

Her hand returns to the right side of the bed, lowering. She pulls something and there comes an instant stab of pain, sending a message... of who is in control... and conversely who is completely at the mercy of an in charge woman. Yes, giving the tube a quick and easy yank translates to agony where a man feels most his vulnerability. I am definitely catheterized.

“Ah... yes, Dr. Gehorchen... are all these... ah... bindings... are such necessary?”

No objection to the tug, for some reason deciding to quietly cede to her authority.

“For now yes, Mr. Von Webring. The psychiatrist and your wife will decide otherwise.”

“But she’s not... we don’t live as man and wife.”

“That’s not how the court order reads, Mr. Von Webring. Ms. Taylor Phipps is your legal guardian in the even of your incapacitation... under law she has your medical proxy.”

“But I am not incapacitated!” the choice of words resolute but my tone so ineffectively humble.

Why?

“You are considered incapacitated until it is decided otherwise.”

“And who decides?”

Again comes that smile. One may consider it charming... assuming one is not so helplessly tethered, turned into a pin cushion, and subjected to such simple but torturous tugs of her hand.

“Your wife of course... in consultation with the medical staff.”

With that she leans, her perfume filling my nostrils, the scent not at all feminine.

“So you be a good gir... boy for us, Max,” her whisper readily interpreted as wicked.