Resistance; Melody

<p>I remember the day I found her. My beautiful, gentle Melody. She was a blogger on a tween website, one of my favourites to visit upon lurking the mind of a seventeen year old girl. My curiosity couldn't be any more innocent than the next divorced psychiatrist who had lost his way in life. Of course, that is not how I would share my opinion of such obscenity within what is appropriate for a man my age. I do belong in prison for what I have done, after all. <br/> But this is not what I am here to talk about, reader. My obsession with Melody may have gone a tad too far. What I made of myself will live with me forever, all because of my attraction to her. She is a gem. She is perfect to me, with her raven curly hair and cynical hazel eyes. Her pale skin – so soft to touch yet tender. The unforgettable taste of her.<br/> Melody was a dream. If I could give her the life she wanted alongside myself without a chance I'd have to do what I had to do to meet her in person, I would never have to spend my remaining thirty years incarcerating women like her just to scare them into… never forgetting who I am. <br/> It's not that the majority of women find out. I touch them while they are intoxicated on their nighttime pills – sleeping aids that never fail the team and I. Oh, how the psych ward would function miserably without the patients sound asleep all night, males tipping us to allow them into females' rooms as we did ourselves. We were a disgusting bunch of filthy perverted men helping ourselves to whomever decided to pay a visit. However, Melody was mine. For two whole months. Twice.<br/><br/>TWO YEARS AGO<br/><br/> She was with her best friend Candice in her profile photo. Now, I only remember the other lass's name as she had been mentioned multiple times during her first visit. She had even came in to see her rather traumatized friend who pleaded her to help her find a way out of the "hellhole". Anyways, Melody and her friend had just turned seventeen. She had been angsty beforehand, but shortly after her birthday things had changed.<br/> She had become miserable. Peeking into the lifestyle of hardcore drug use just as her unstable step father entered the picture, supplying her with oxycodone, sedatives and suggesting Benadryl when she was out of pills to insufflate, I watched Melody fall off the rails.<br/> "I'm without any oxy. The only time I can ever feel happiness is when it is in my system providing the bliss I do not gain from seeing my family fall apart. Amy, my sister, is gone. I feel abandoned and this man whom I can never call my father is in the picture making sure I am high instead of crying to my mother and begging her to leave him. I don't know what to do. Someone message me." She wrote one day on her little online blog. The temptation to do what I knew had to be done sent a rush of ideas through my brain. What typing style to use. What level of egotistical jerk she was drawn to at that age. How sexual I needed to be to make sure she had a safe outlet to feel herself around. <br/> Please don't question how I prepared myself for younger women. Had I not become a psychiatrist, I may not have known what teenaged girls enjoyed. With generations constantly changing, the typical young adult woman could have the maturity of a fourteen or twenty eight years old. It depended on the environment they were surrounded in and their moral systems. <br/> What I craved in Melody was her all-perceiving outlook. It made her more beautiful to know she was ahead of her age yet wrapped and constricted in her personal nihilism due to her living situation. Something teens often hid she brought to life. And it wasn't like she was exaggerating. <br/> I knew I needed to meet her. I contacted my rather criminal nephew and asked him for a favour that I promised I would return. He knew of my affinity to younger girls as I had… slept with one at one of his house parties once. As disgusting as it sounds, the lad congratulated me and that is where our little business began.<br/> He would message the girl initially. I would take over with the texting part, as he couldn't charm intellectual teens as well as myself. Find out her address. Call her on the phone to assure her he wasn't some old creep like myself. Meet her once. Do what he will and then break up with her, send friends to drug her beverages via breaking and entering until her parents sent her to see the emergency doctor. In most cases, they are automatically sent to my psych ward if hard drugs are found in the system. We're not even obligated to tell them why they are sent here either. They remain under the impression that they are sick when the culprit was organized gang-stalking. Rather, a ruthless form of it. <br/> Do I feel bad for doing this for personal gain? We all do when we see the suspicious looks on their faces as they walk our halls having been accosted the night before. How many women I had to diagnose with schizophrenia and medicate into becoming overweight because they knew. Melody surprised me there, but we'll get to that. Her articulate personality wasn't all that met with my admiration for her.<br/> I messaged her initially as I could not bother my nephew at soccer practice. Using his photo I quickly hacked her webcam to see her look at her screen right as she opened her message. She was so beautiful. I remember grabbing out my length and stroking to her eloquent, wistful vibe. She needed someone to talk to. More importantly she needed to be eaten out and fucked as soon as possible. And not by her step father who was obviously assaulting her. I made a mental note to drug him with bath salts. <br/><br/> "Pour it on his weed," I told my nephew, Matt. "And take his oxy and replace it with the trazodone your doctor prescribed you. He won't read the pill imprint if he's a true addict."<br/> I wasn't the kind of man to hate another, though I did take a have heavy distain for the profligate who was turning my sad doll into an addict. I saw it on her face the first day she had looked me in the eyes through her drugged out daze. <br/><br/>—<br/><br/> <br/> "D-do you have heroin?" Her question was as soon as I entered her room. It was normal sleep talking but I felt the need to reply. The disparaged look on her face made me feel deep sympathy for her.<br/> "Not right now, dear." I answered, "But I will assist you soon." <br/> That was a promise. <br/> I approached her bed, tracing my hand from her butt to her upper thigh upon arrival. She asked me what I was doing to which I replied, "Giving you what you need, love." <br/> I placed the syringe alongside her bed and went to work. <br/> I ended up crawling under her sheets, syringe set up beside her bed as I knew her to be an opiate addict, and laying over top of her. I kissed her forehead as she protested, claiming she didn't want to be fucked. <br/> "I won't fuck you tonight," I assured her. Her eyes softened. She wouldn't remember this, as it was a simple sleeping pill blackout, but I wanted her to. I began kissing her neck, hearing her soft moans in my ear as my cock stiffened. I pressed my hard length under my jeans against her clit and began grinding against her wet panties, tempted to place them in my mouth, suck the juices out, and spit them back onto her wet tongue. Just so she could taste herself. I already knew she tasted divine, like maturity and teen angst. Her nectar being the essence of why I even wanted her–<br/> Enough with the fucking fantasizing. My cock hardened in my pants as I made my way down her body. I licked her skin slowly, kissing my way down to her slender, macilent figure. More than halfway down, I stopped at her thighs to warm her up. <br/> I lifted her legs until her knees were pressed against her chest and began kissing her delicate thin inner thighs. They had to be fifteen inch thighs; months of anorexia's work. Once I began making my way to her wetting length, I found her shoving my head towards her cunt. This is where I licked her panties slowly, making sure she was holding out well as I massaged her thighs with my hands. <br/> I finally let go of her slim legs and let them wrap around me as I continued to eat her out. Gently moving her panties over to the side, I kissed her lightly. Kissed it again. It was minutes later that I got out my tongue and go to work on her pink vulva. I licked slowly. From bottom to the top, not forgetting to circle my tongue around her vaginal entrance where I can taste her sweet cum dripping from her hole. <br/> Once I reached the top, I focuses on her clit. I flicked my tongue around her slow, then fast, making sure she feels every inch of the tip of my tongue on her. I licked until she was moaning loudly. <br/> I moved my hand onto her stomach and grabbed her's as I began her to suck clitoris gently until she begs for me to go harder. Taking it in my mouth, I gave it a long wet kiss that causes her to twitch under me. I was still holding her hand as I pinned her down so she cannot move against me, or attempt to shove me off. I sucked harder on the bud of her clit, shaking my head around and moaning into her soaking wet cunt. <br/> "Melody," I look into her soft hazel eyes. "Cum for me."<br/> She responds rather well.<br/> "Oh, oh my God," she moaned in her chaste voice. As she climaxed, she shuddered and I am proud of my girl. She orgasmed intensely, moaning and claiming she loved me with no clue of who I was.<br/><br/><br/>—<br/><br/><br/> It's an average day at the psych ward when she crosses my mind. I am remembering the moment I shot her up. In it went into her left arm vein. A rather slow injection providing her with what one could compare to orgasmic pleasure. The intense look of awe overcoming her face said it all. She was a newcomer to heroin, which made me slightly awful, to know myself as the first man who got her hooked on hospital H. <br/> I still remember her first admission. How afraid she was of being surrounded by creeps ranging from all ages, all conditions from drug abuse to paranoid schizophrenia. Any woman who isn't stupid would fear being raped in an inpatient psych ward. We listened in on one of her phone calls with her mother only to be met with disappointment amongst my nursing staff team discovering her dysfunctional home life. They didn't know I had done my research on this one. In less words, I knew everything she needed. What she wanted. Her web history had said more than enough. <br/> "Doctor, one of the patients is stripping in the lounge again. Should they be medicated or sent back to their room?" Shelley, a true empath alerts me as I walk past the nursing station. My thoughts of Melody cease.<br/> I take a quick look through the computer screen displaying her on camera, undressing herself as though an exotic dancer, the room being her altar. She strikes a yoga pose in her nudity, angling her snatch at the camera. She wants attention. She is going to get it all right. <br/> "Give her 7.5mg Valium and throw on the restraints. She's been warned three times now not to slut around in that room." I say. I'm on my way to a family meeting and have no time to write up an expected Xanax prescription for this attention whore. Shelley will take care of everything, as she is dependable and dedicated to her work in my psych ward. <br/> "I just want fucking heroin," I hear the whore scream at Shelley and I'm instantly reminded of her. Though she wasn't an obnoxious girl, Melody, I mean, she had the same amount of suffering written on her face and micro expressions. Ones that made me want to keep her longer. <br/> "Well, you're not getting it. You're taking this tablet and going to sleep in the seclusion room as I cannot have you stripping in front of patients." Shelley responds, taking the tablet out of the pack.<br/> The young lady protests as the rest of the nursing staff enter the room to restrain her. She isn't stupid enough to resist, and that is my cue to finish my spectating. She is a mere patient whose parents pay taxes to provide the same healthcare she is receiving. We see it all the time; government leeches, attention seekers, drug-seeking behaviour, the scummiest of people checking themselves in with the only reason being that they cannot afford their rent. They often are pushed with the newest FDA-approved drugs until let go after weeks of trialing new medication for future prospects. It's an obligation at this point. If you don't pay taxes, you don't get better. <br/> Amber, the patient who continues to beg for heroin from the nurses, shoots me a dirty look from the stretcher she is laying on. <br/> "I will get you for this." She tells me as I turn my head and continue walking past her room to greet the family I must attend a meeting with in regards to their son with adult ADHD and manic bipolar disorder. I grant her a sympathetic look and continue walking down the hall to the private meeting room.<br/> "Good afternoon," I greet the mother of Kyle. She wears a beige wrap overtop of a chartreuse halter top. She looks concerned for her seemingly hopeless son. "The good news is that because we have a diagnosis, we can now start aggressive treatment. He does admit to having drug abuse issues, which often triggers mania in patients with bipolar disorder. That is a step to his recovery as he has no intention to hide it from the team." <br/> "Thank you, Dr. Watts." Her response is so grateful despite that aggressive treatment means trial-and-error with newly approved medications. I needed to contribute to the field. In reality, the man just needed some Lithium. <br/> Melody had borderline personality disorder from childhood abuse and bullying on her brother's behalf. His friends would rape her and her mother wouldn't believe her, which made complete sense why she would turn to drugs. Unfortunately, I could not blame her for choosing opiates. Poor tortured Melody. What I would do to have her in my custody again. <br/> "I will make arrangements to discharge him once he is stable. He is still talking to things that aren't there in his room and assuming his bedroom camera is hacked by the CIA." I inform her. <br/> "Oh, god!" She exclaims in response. "I was hoping he wouldn't act this way. I am so sorry."<br/> I'm sorry you cannot accept your son for who he is either, love. <br/> "This is completely normal once bipolar mania has become psychosis. With the right medication, you'll have your son back in a few weeks. Happens all the time with bipolar patients who don't take their meds."<br/> She is silent for a few seconds, not exactly relieved, but reassured. <br/> I continue to speak as she gathers her thoughts together. "Because giving him stimulants can increase risk of onset psychosis, I will add an antipsychotic–"<br/> "Antipsychotic?" <br/> "Risperidone should help him."<br/> This conversation always scares parents. They must know subconsciously how awful these medications make patients feel. I remember taking one to test out the high awhile back and suffered side effects such as chest pain, anxiety, and paranoia. As a psychiatrist my obligation is to break them out of mania and psychosis using medication and cognitive behavioural therapy. If they're back in my psych ward within two months, they are a write off. <br/> This isn't a dire statement based off of one patient. It's simple. Drug addicts cannot change. They don't want to. When they do, it is only so long until they are triggered back into their old ways by some life event that they feel they cannot handle. <br/> I used to be a heroin addict in my twenties. The only thing that saved me from my awful tendencies was pharmacology class in my graduate years. Otherwise I would have failed school and never found a way to quit junk, as it was my ultimate drug of choice. That was around the time, at about twenty eight years old, when I came to realize I had a fetish for young, broken-hearted women. Preferably between ages sixteen to eighteen – the years when they become mindful and deep. Untouched by many. <br/> My life quickly became engulfed in my obsession with angsty women. During my second year of university, my roommate, a software engineer taught me the basics of advanced hacking. Having the brain for it, it clicked instantly. And so did my computer mouse every time I spotted someone who caught my eye. <br/><br/></p>