Samantha

By A.K. Anders

In 2009 the author, A.K. Anders, purchased a large property in Pimlico, South-west London, with the intention of converting the 4 storey Victorian property into flats. The building had previously been used as business premises, with an architects practice on the upper floors and a psycho-therapist in the basement. While clearing rubbish from the basement, Anders discovered an old box of audio tapes in a locked filing cabinet. Later he discovered the tapes were recordings of sexual therapy consultations. Many of these revealed intriguing case scenarios. Some patients even seemed to be well known personalities of the 70's and 80's. Anders made enquiries and found that the eminent therapist/doctor of his time had retired and since died. Publishing the transcripts was a difficult decision, Anders says, but one he felt might help others plagued by sexual problems or those with an interest in human sexual behaviour. The result is fascinating, and compulsive reading. 'Samantha' is one patient, whose life we are given the unusual ability to look into.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tinderbox Publishing
• Release date: Nov 19, 2013
• ISBN: 9781310362385

A.K. Anders

The publisher comments: A.K. Anders is an author and trained lawyer (specialised in sanitation litigation - he handled the Middlesex County Blockage case). His writing, like his personality, is hard hitting and straightforward. Some say he is unsocialised. It is true that he does not pussyfoot about. Many find this refreshing, while some find him shocking. He ruffles feathers big time. Primarily Anders is a writer of erotica. Often his material has a humorous bent. At Tinderbox we describe him as a reclusive extrovert. Yes, he is hard to categorise. We can certainly say he is far from normal and at times even deranged, but he is loveable. Asked for an opinion, the boss says "He's dangerous to have on our books alright, but he's very worthwhile at office parties and he keeps the seagulls off the roof." Have no doubt, when Anders is discovered all hell will break loose.

Book preview

Introduction

Some years ago, motivated by rising property prices, I had the presence of mind to purchase an old building in Pimlico, Southwest London. It had previously been used as commercial premises. The upper three floors had housed an architect’s practice, while the basement had for years been used as the office and consulting rooms of a psychotherapist. The psychotherapist was a physician of some repute it transpired, who among cases of special interest treated many of the rich and famous of the time.

My intention to convert the property into three apartments necessitated first stripping out the entire building. After engaging a firm of local builders, I took delivery of a rubbish skip and decided to make a start by myself, removing the furnishings, various partitions and the accumulated commercial junk. It was harder work than I expected, but the effort proved worthwhile. Gathering dust in an attic, I found a few exquisite old architectural drawings of regency buildings in London, which I later framed and sold for a substantial sum. Later, I made a surprising discovery in the basement. Opening a battered metal cabinet in the office I found numerous files. Most of these files contained excerpts from psychological journals, all of which seemed to point to a specialisation of treating patients with psychosexual problems. These dated right back to the late 1950’s.

Having established from the property agent that the psychotherapist was now deceased and that the practice had not continued, I reluctantly consigned these files to the skip. If there had been client files there, I might have delivered them to whatever professional body governed psychotherapists, but the cuttings were rather dated and of little interest to anyone. It was as I cleared the final shelf at the top of the metal cabinet, however, that I came across something that later proved more valuable to me. Something was pushed right to the back and I could easily have missed it, had I not taken the trouble to fetch a stepladder. There, out of sight, was an old box once containing knee-high boots. Lifting the corner of the lid, I saw that it now contained cassette tapes. Curious, I decided to take these home to see what was on them.

*

It was several days before I found the time to check the tapes. Pouring myself a glass of wine after arriving home one evening, I looked over at the battered old manila box, the lid secured by one of those elasticated belts, with a snake-buckle. It was similar to one my