by KC Decker
“Mercy, despite what you have just witnessed, this is a good plan. Do not make a judgment about the placement based on the obvious fact that Hilary pretty much mainlines caffeine straight into her veins. She will help you get on your feet, and then all you have to do is check-in with her.”
I want to scream at him, why have you forsaken me? But instead, with contraband up my sleeve, I just nod and try to determine if he has chest hair by analyzing how his shirt lays against his chest.
“It’s going to be great. Trust me.”
***
Lyla was caught off guard when I told her I was able to get the phone, and then had spent the rest of the day fretting about how to sneak her slutty outfits to me.
In the end, the bra and panty set that she had built the plan around, were in her dirty laundry. So, she was only able to bring me lacy black panties and black high heels that have no place on a mental health unit. They worry about dental floss on this floor, and here Lyla is, post suicide attempt, with lethal heals attached to her shoes. No shoelaces though—so, there’s that.
After dinner, some rec time, and daily reflection group, I have roughly thirty minutes to shower and get ready for bed, so the clock is ticking. However, I remain frozen in front of my open drawer because I still can’t bring myself to go completely topless.
Finally, I grab one of the white tank-tops I sleep in, a hoody, and sweat pants, then add them to the pile of Lyla’s stuff on my bathroom counter. There is no lock on the door, but I’m also not on the staff’s radar as far as being a danger to myself, so they should leave me alone.
I put the black panties and high heels on, and it’s enough to confirm that I’m not ballsy enough to completely expose my chest. I add the tank top and snap a few pics. They are not very sexy, certainly not worthy of being Lyla’s protégé. Then, I have an idea, so I slip off the shoes and turn on the water.
After a fast shower, I wring out my hair and as much of the tank top as possible, but the way the wet fabric clings to my body has me shivering and feeling anything but sexy. I snap a few pictures, then a few more.
The ‘mirror’ in the bathroom is more like a metal tray on the wall, and it doesn’t really serve to accurately portray my reflection. The images on my phone, however, are as clear as day. It’s almost shocking to see myself, nipples at full salute and clearly showing through the nearly transparent, wet tank-top.
I play around a little with the ropey strands of wet hair and then grip the bottom of the shirt, so my mid-section shows too. Then I get back into the tub and lie down before putting the shoes back on.
Now, the pictures are down-shots of my body and actually capture the cute panties and sexy shoes. I’m not gonna lie, posing in a wet bathtub while trying to look sexy is harder than you’d think, but I manage to get a few good pictures. Before taking the freezing cold tank off, I tug it down and take some even more revealing shots.
Through chattering teeth, I finally peel off the wet clothes and put my sweats on. After squeezing as much water as possible from the wet clothes, I place them at the bottom of my hamper, then brush my teeth. When I pull the hood up and over my wet hair, then unzip the hoody partway, it looks unassuming but undeniably sexy because I’m topless underneath. So, I adjust the fit, pose, and click, then I unzip more, pose, and click. Then I unzip it completely, pose, and click.
When the nurse pops in to check on me, I’m already in bed wearing head to toe sweats. I’m clutching the phone under my pillow, and freakishly paranoid that all of a sudden, someone will call me and the phone will ring out like an air-raid siren.
“You need anything, Mercy?” the nurse asks.
“Nope, I’m good,” I answer too loudly. “Night.”
“Alright then, Goodnight.”
I can actually hear my heart beating, it’s that loud. I didn’t really think about the ramifications of getting caught with a phone. Before now, it was all fun and games. But if I get caught, Sutton will get fired, and probably lose his medical license.
I wait at least an hour before I risk sliding the phone from under my pillow. Even then, it’s at a snail’s pace and transfers directly under the blanket. When nothing happens, and no one is alerted, I curl my body around it and scroll through the pictures.
I pick one with the wet tank top that only shows the bottom half of my face, and send it to Sutton before I change my mind. He can’t get fired if no one can tell it’s me, right? His reply is almost immediate.
Not Wes: Fucking hell!
Me: Are you mad?
Not Wes: I probably should be.
Not Wes: Jesus, that’s hot!
Me: So, does that mean you’re not mad that I kept my phone?
Not Wes: I can’t possibly be expected to process emotions right now, all the blood that normally nourishes my brain is presently hardening my dick.
Me: Did that picture give you a hard-on?
Not Wes: Yeah.
Me: Show me.
Not Wes: Are you crazy?
Me: I have more pics, that one was pretty tame…
Not Wes: I’m going to hell.
Then, after a few minutes, he sends a picture of himself shirtless with his bottom half under a white sheet. He is obviously in bed. The most shocking part of the picture is that he is griping his sheet-covered erection while it is aimed straight up his prone body. Holy shit. The sight of his bare chest and erotic pose has an undeniable effect on me. I pinch my thighs together, trying to relieve the pressure—or maybe to create it, I’m not sure.
Not Wes: Your turn.
I send one of the bathtub ones, mostly panties, and legs but the black lace and scandalous shoes pack a decent punch. I’m also feeling bolder now that he has reacted positively, so I send the one where I’m tugging down the tank and exposing my tits more—still only half a face, but I’m biting the side of my bottom lip, and the shot turned out really sexy for someone who isn’t particularly sexy.
Not Wes: Baby…
Not Wes: I’m so afraid of you getting caught with the phone.
Me: I’m being careful.
Not Wes: I need to hear your voice. Call me after safety check.
Not Wes: Don’t get caught.
Now, I wait. I’ll have to wait for the nurse to poke her head in and confirm I’m not at risk. After that, I will have roughly thirty minutes before she does it again. It takes every ounce of self-control I possess to keep the phone under my pillow. All I want to do is stare at the image of Sutton’s bare chest and the comfortable way he is holding his erection.
It seems so natural, his hand on his penis. I bet he is touching it right now…and looking at my photos. The thought is heady, and I can hardly sit still and pretend to sleep I’m so drunk with power.
I’ll have to commit that image to memory because I know he will make me delete it. The phone itself is bad enough, but any link to him—especially this type of exchange will ruin him. He is my doctor, he is easily ten years older than me, and he is in a position of trust. Whatever this is between us, is taboo on many levels. Not just taboo, I think it’s illegal.
After bed check, I wait another five minutes before bringing the phone to the edge of my pillow. I block the light from the screen with my body, the blanket, and my pillow, but it still feels risky because the stakes are so high.
But he wants to hear my voice.
The call barely rings through before he answers. His voice is gravelly, and the whisper of it rumbles in my bones and brings a triumphant smile to my face.
“Mercy, hi.”
“Hi,” I say, as quiet as possible while still emitting sound.
“God, you’re fucking sexy. I have a hard enough time getting my mind off of you without these images.”
“Good because I can’t get my mind off of you, ever,” I admit, it’s easier to say since I have to do it so quietly, but this is the first time I feel absolutely free of his moral dilemma. He is not my doctor right now, and I am not his broken patient.
“Tell me what y
ou are thinking about,” he prompts.
My thoughts are hazy and disjointed, but after a few false starts, I simply say, “Sutton, you make me feel.” I know it doesn’t make any sense, so I try again, just to be clear, “I feel like I’ve been numb my whole life, and now I have these pockets of joy with you—I feel like you are unlocking compartments of my heart that I’ve let wither and die. Does that sound dumb?”
“It doesn’t sound dumb at all,” he says, and I can tell he has a smile on his face. But before he has a chance to psycho-analyze what I’ve just said, I jump in.
“Send me another picture,” I whisper.
“You are making it very hard to keep a professional distance,” he murmurs. There is angst in his voice, like he is still trying to do the right thing.
“I’m not interested in a professional distance. Tell me, you want me.”
“No.” The word cuts through me, and my heart squeezes to a halt.
“Why?” The sound of my voice conveys my heartache, and I wish I could take it back.
“Because then it will seem like I only want your body. Mercy, the truth is, I want your heart.”
It takes a few seconds to register his meaning, then I simultaneously choke on a sob and squeeze my eyelids shut. I don’t respond, because I can’t, I’m too overwhelmed with emotion. After a few minutes, he speaks gently into the phone.
“Get some sleep, Mercy. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Ok,” I manage to get out.
“Sweet dreams, beautiful.”
Chapter 28
I’m not taking any chances this morning. I dare not leave the phone in my room, hidden or not, so it’s like having a ticking time-bomb strapped to my chest. Well, not exactly my chest. It’s down my pants, and that’s just as bad. My jeans are so tight, I probably have an iPhone menu screen imprinted on my skin next to my hip, but I can’t risk it sliding down my leg, or poking out of a pocket.
I’m jumpy too, because I can’t unload the thing until my session at nine, so that means I have to make it through breakfast and group therapy without anyone noticing the not-at-all anatomically correct rectangle pressed against my abdomen.
What I should have done is turn it off. I have it set to silent, and all the notifications are turned off, but I can’t help my irrational worry that the thing will start ringing in my pants. I’d have to fake a coughing fit and run to the bathroom.
I’m also nervous because I know my days here are limited. My wacky and overworked social worker, Hilary, said it would take a couple days to get the room cleaned up once the other occupant moved out, but does that mean tomorrow? Next week? A month from now? Who knows?
I have not at all come to terms with moving into the halfway house, or, excuse me, the step-down facility. I will be one of five residents, three males, and two of us females. From my understanding, the people who live there are high functioning adults, but they have various challenges—either mentally or physically.
I do have to participate in the house meetings, and I’m expected to clean up after myself, but I get the impression I can leave the premises. Hilary made a big deal about the nearby bus stop, and the sign in—sign out sheet by the front door. She also said the other residents had jobs, and that I would be expected to get one as well.
I didn’t bother to tell her about my computer that was donated from the university so I could get my graphic design degree a few years ago. Or that I’ve made a decent amount of money doing freelance design work. I also didn’t feel the need to tell her that I won’t be taking the bus to work because I can do it in my pajamas while sipping coffee.
***
Eagerly, I go to my nine o’clock standing appointment with Sutton about fifteen minutes early. His in-session light is on, so I pace the hallway for a while, and then just slide down the wall and sit on the floor to hug my knees.
After last night, all I want to do is take him by the hand and walk straight out of here and never look back. I want him with a hunger that gnaws like destiny. I can seduce him with my body, but he wants the broken parts too. He wants my heart.
The door finally flings open and a short-timer storms out of his office. The guy looks like he has been abused by life and been left angry and resentful by his need for resilience. I know the feeling. I used to sit in that office and feel the same way.
I walk to the doorway and ask timidly, “Everything ok in here?” He looks up at me and smiles. It’s impossible to know what went on in the last session, but it feels like some of the energy has been sucked out of the room.
“Things are starting to look up already,” he says from behind his desk as he stands up. After I close the door behind me, he holds out his hand.
“Give me the phone.” His voice is firm. I guess I’m dealing with Doctor Sutton this morning. There is no trace of longing in his tone, not like last night.
“No. I still get fifteen minutes.”
“That is supposed to be after our session. And I feel like your privileges may need to be revoked,” he says with a grin that he is trying to suppress.
“I didn’t have a nightmare last night. And I didn’t get caught with the cellphone. So, I think I’ve earned a few minutes to catch up with my friends before I have to submit to my grueling therapy regimen.”
“You have ten minutes. Go.”
Truth be told, I don’t really have anything new to report to Matty or Veronica, and I don’t have any new texts from either of them. So, instead, I look over the selfies I took. Funny enough, I’m still wearing the same zip-up hoodie, with nothing underneath.
I decide to send Sutton the unzipped sweatshirt shot. The one with my back arched, face turned to the side, and my arms bent back behind my head. It was a Lyla pose, and an explicit one. It also leaves nothing to the imagination. The others I sent were certainly provocative, but my nipples were at least covered—mostly. This pic is all me.
After I hit send, I keep my head down with my face pointed at the screen, but my eyes never leave Sutton’s face. His head is tipped down as well, but his gaze meets mine when he feels the vibration from the text notification. He keeps his eyes glued to mine while he retrieves the phone from his pocket.
I can’t help it, my cheeks are on fire. I know exactly what he is about to see. We have nearly an hour in here, hidden behind his in-session light, and I’ve just fired a shot across the bow.
He looks at his phone. There is silence, and a long pause before his eyes find mine again. He waits, doesn’t say a word, just stares at me. Then I start to toy with the zipper of my hoodie. As soon as he can tell there is bare skin underneath, he snaps.
“Mercy, come over here.”
I do as I’m told, and he rolls his chair back from the desk, so he can stand. He places his palm on the side of my neck and cheek, as if he needs to hold me in place while he looks penetratingly deep into my eyes. And, just when I think he is going to kiss me, he leans in and murmurs into my ear.
“Do you have any idea how inappropriate it is for me to conduct psychiatric sessions with a raging hard-on?” His cheek brushes against mine as he speaks, and the sensation is electric. I don’t respond because my lungs have cramped up, and a ticklish shiver has just run through my body.
He closes the tiny space between us, and asks, “Can you feel what you do to me?” I can feel the hardness of his erection as if it were an extension of myself.
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Can you imagine the filthy thoughts that kept me up all night stroking my cock?”
“Tell me,” I pant.
“No. But one day, I’m going to show you.” Then his mouth is on mine. It’s not a quick kiss, it’s one that says he’s just getting started. When his hand finds my sweatshirt zipper, a chill runs up my spine. I felt the same sensation last night over the phone when he was whispering in my ear. It’s like a thousand butterfly wings graze my skin all at once.
The needy effect he has on me is purely anticipatory, but my nipples are already hardening,
and the hairs on the back of my neck are standing on end. He unzips the sweatshirt, one tooth at a time, and when the hoody hangs open and free of any attachment to itself, his hand slides up my bare stomach.
The warmth of his palm and the confidence behind his touch will leave a mark on my skin for decades. It compliments his kiss with perfect synchronicity. At this moment. I can see our future together. Long after this institution is behind us, we can have a life together, and I have never wanted anything more. Nothing from my past has prepared me for this. All the want and desire to belong is nothing compared to how badly I want to find my place with Sutton.
When his hand finds my breast and his fingers gently pinch my nipple, I gasp against his lips. The sensation and the boldness, too shocking inside of this tiny moment. But when he slides the sweatshirt off my shoulders and begins to kiss his way down my neck, my thoughts get blurry.
“Touch me, Mercy,” he whispers on an exhale as he nibbles my earlobe. I realize for the first time that my hands, presently on his waist, are clenching fistfuls of his shirt, but are otherwise idle.
I’m so consumed with the riot he is inciting inside me, I have neglected to reciprocate his touch. Lyla and Veronica, and Wes, for that matter, have all coached me in the art of touching a man, but I’m also very good at reading cues, and evidently, Sutton is good at directing my novice hands.
When I drag my palm up and down his erection, he groans, and that’s all I need to confidently move forward. I undo his pants and slide my hand down the front of them. The feel of his bare skin is both hot and silky, and very, very hard.
“What are we doing, Mercy?” he groans with something that resembles despair. It’s enough to make me stop stroking his conflicted dick.
“What?”
“This is wrong, Mercy. We have to stop.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m your doctor, and I’m a lot older than you. This is completely unethical. I need to be using this time to transition you to the step-down facility, not for contemplating eating you out on my desk.”