Abuse

by Nikki Sex

  Just now, he wanted to feel her climax with his mouth.

  He quickly discovered that Mindy dearly loved having her labia, plump wet inner folds and clit played with, so he focused on that.

  A woman’s clitoris was a major erogenous zone, yet, he knew better than to zero in only on her clit. The idea was to gently tease and torment it with light feather touches. Touches that made the swollen flesh of her sex sit up and desperately beg for more.

  He varied his tongue movements, moving up and down and swirling round and round. He flicked, nibbled and sucked, gaining intensity, speed and pressure. He tried a side-to-side tongue motion on the base of her clitoris and an up-and-down rhythm. The hooded area could easily become over sensitive, so he carefully avoided it… for now.

  Once he figured out what she liked best, he kept that up for a while, or he’d have fun trying new things. But he always returned to what she reacted to most passionately. Lightly, lightly he tormented… never quite giving her as much as she craved.

  “Oh, shit! Please, Stan, please!” Mindy thrust her hips toward him and began piteously pleading.

  Stan laughed.

  He licked a circle around her clit while stroking her labia with his thumb. Inserting two fingers inside of her, he curled them up toward her G spot. She bucked—a beautiful response. Then he reversed places. He licked and tongue-fucked her dripping sex, while lightly stroking the root of her clit with a purposeful finger.

  The entire time, Mindy was panting, gasping, sweating, squirming and crying out.

  Stan adored it. It was such a huge turn on to have a woman so blown away by him. He stroked his own aching dick while enjoying every delicious second.

  A large part of Stan’s attention automatically read her body, listening to her breathing, groans and whimpers, noticing her reactions—particularly muscle tension and hip thrusts. Whatever got her going, he simply did over and over.

  Another part of him concentrated on doing whatever the hell he wanted to do to her. Stan wasn’t exaggerating when he said eating a woman out was one of his favorite things.

  Stan was in Heaven. Apparently, Mindy was right there along with him. She was close, really close—he could feel it in the coiling tension in her body. Now was the perfect time.

  Drawing Mindy’s swollen, throbbing clit into his mouth, he sealed his lips around it. Flicking her clitoral hood with his tongue, he gently suckled her in a soft, pulsing rhythm.

  Mindy screamed her pleasure and her body began to tremble uncontrollably.

  The volume of her shriek from this activity made him consider holding his ears. Instead, he pulled her legs up and over his shoulders. Her pelvis tilted closer as she wrapped her silky thighs hard upon him, right over his ears.

  That was just as well. It muted the deafening sounds of her euphoric pleasure.

  Mindy was mindlessly thrashing, and her screams were getting louder and louder each moment. She was at the peak.

  After all this build-up, her crescendo was amazing.

  He had her swollen clit in his mouth, working her with pulsing sucks and flicks of his tongue while humming; delivering sensations that would put even the most expensive of vibrators to shame. At the same time, he finger fucked her, tickling her G spot. He placed the wet index finger of his other hand on the puckered ring of her anus, gently yet inexorably pushing and then finally breaching her rear entry…

  The moment he did, Mindy lost it completely.

  Her tight ass contracted around his thick finger as she came hard, convulsing, screaming and spraying with surprising force, drenching both him and the couch.

  Her reaction was the ultimate compliment.

  Stan was in his glory.

  As Mindy lay there spent, relaxed and boneless, still convulsing with aftershocks and trying to catch her breath, Stan wiped his face and neck on his T-shirt. He checked the time. It had taken fourteen minutes for her to reach ecstasy. Not bad, especially considering he purposely tried to make it last since he was enjoying himself so much.

  “That was incredible. You blew my mind,” Mindy breathed, once her wits partially returned.

  “Yeah, but we have to do it all again now.”

  “What?” she said, clearly confused by his statement. Pupils dilated, hair mussed, eyes glassy and heavy lidded—Mindy was still dazed with pleasure. “Why?”

  “Because I forgot to put cocaine on your clit!”

  ~~~

  Much later that night, when they parted, Stan put her phone number in his cell, typing in “Mindy. Screamer,” on her ‘new contact’ information. Of all the women he’d had, she was the best fuck ever. Together they’d enjoyed a ton of cocaine and a ton of sex.

  After a good night’s sleep and a good meal, they both figured they could do it all over again tomorrow.

  During his relaxed, lazy drive home, he was still a bit buzzed. Stan had an open bag of blow on his lap. Just for fun, he decided to have one last hit. It was awkward to hold the steering wheel, a tiny spoonful of powder and to inhale a quick hit.

  Unfortunately, two of the effects of cocaine are over-confidence and poor judgement. While high, people tend to take careless and unnecessary risks. Like many drugs, coke seemed to magically bring out a person’s, “inner dumb-ass.”

  Snorting while driving was difficult to do, even when not already heavily under the influence.

  Consequently, Stan accidently ran a red light, swerved and hit the brakes in order to miss another vehicle. Blow—already all over his face, went all through the car.

  It was then he noticed flashing lights. He only had enough time to think, “Oh, fuck! I’m in deep shit!”

  That was when the cops pulled him over.

  Chapter 13.

  “…disappointment, embarrassment, irritation, resentment, anger, jealousy and fear, instead of being bad news, are actually very clear moments that teach us where it is that we’re holding back… They’re like messengers that show us, with terrifying clarity, exactly where we’re stuck.”

  — Pema Chödrön

  ~~~

  Grant Wilkinson

  The next few days are a fantastic break. The hard part is over… for now.

  André arranges for a five day, white water rafting tour down the Colorado River in the Grand Canyon. There are eight of us in the group, six men and two women.

  Being out amongst nature and the thrill of shooting through rapids is the type of outdoor sport I live for. Physical and mental challenges snap me out of the fog of misery, guilt and other shit I often find myself stuck in.

  The relentless power of the Colorado River, the beauty of the Grand Canyon and the pleasant stimulation of good company, make me happy. I’m thrilled with a sense of achievement. In facing my fears with André, I’ve cut out the cancer that’s been destroying my life and eating away at me—heart and soul.

  I feel more myself and more alive than I have for years. It's as if a weight's been lifted from me—one that's held me down for a long, long time.

  During springtime in Nevada, wildflowers and cactus bloom with cheerful abundance, matching my inner joy. Our group goes for hikes in the canyons, seeing big horn sheep, wild burros and even horses.

  The weather is perfect and the water is clean and sparkling.

  We all sit in a circle companionably around the campfire at night, while a spray of stars fills the sky. Way out here, without city lights, the sky is completely different. The Milky Way is a giant swath of cloudy haze and it seems as if I could touch the stars, they glitter so brightly.

  Living in such close proximity to each other, my rafting companions become used to my facial scars. They laugh and tell jokes and stories around the campfire. While I’m usually an introvert, I manage to relax and feel comfortable enough to tell a couple of amusing tales myself.

  André is naturally popular. He doesn’t even have to open his mouth before everyone likes him. Yet, he’s reserved in this group. I think he’s holding back, wanting me to find my confidence and take the lea
d.

  The more we’re together, the more I understand him.

  The reason for this trip is implied. I’ve had a difficult time, but I stuck it out. André’s rewarding me with a physical adventure, while allowing time for me to process everything that we’ve recently discussed.

  André knows I isolate myself. With this vacation, I can hang out with others long enough that they get used to my scars. This is a laid back, fun trip, and I’m genuinely enjoying myself.

  He also made sure we shared a tent. I’ve had many opportunities to see him naked, damn him to hell. And I’ve seen his dick a lot. I bet I could pick it out of a line up by now. I may even recognize the damn thing faster than my own.

  So what?

  Being able to think and feel “So what?” about a man’s cock is an incredible relief. The compulsion of a lifetime is gone, virtually overnight. I swear, Andre is a miracle worker.

  In these few short days, I honestly can’t remember how I used to get into such an emotional knot over something as basic and familiar as a dick. I’m overjoyed with this result. After a lifetime of suffering with this unwanted urge, I’m free. I can now look, and even more importantly, I don’t feel as if I have to look.

  Maybe I’m not such a monster after all.

  I used to feel queasy at seeing a naked man. After sharing such close quarters with the utterly uninhibited André, it’s not a problem for me anymore.

  The crazy Frenchman sleeps bare-assed naked.

  The first few times I saw him without his clothes, my stomach roiled as I tensed and averted my gaze.

  He said nothing.

  As time went on, I began to do as he’s always advised me to do. I considered and observed the emotions, attitudes and thoughts I was experiencing, especially when confronted with a negative trigger.

  André loves triggers.

  “Do not fear unwanted feelings,” he says. “Embrace your emotions, thoughts and attitudes. Learn from them! They are signs on the road, comprenez-vous? If you pay attention, they point in the direction you need to go.”

  One morning, I peer up at him as he gets up. He carefully pretends to be unaware of my scrutiny. He knows I know; but he also knows I don’t want to talk about it. As usual, he lets me watch—he wants me to watch—while he pays me no attention.

  I keep to my daily regimen of one-hundred pushups, fifty squats and another hundred star jumps… yet right now, I stay in my sleeping bag and try to study his naked body. Up until now, I’ve seen him out of the corner of my eye and avoided directly looking. Why? Because it makes me uncomfortable.

  This day I decide, “Screw it.” Just this once, I’m going to take a good look. I stare at him, registering every detail.

  The man is cut. There’s not an ounce of fat on the guy. His skin is tan and smooth, his hips narrow, shoulders broad, and his ass, thighs, arms and chest are all muscle. The six-pack that adorns his flat stomach is more like an eight pack.

  I hear myself think, Wow. He really is a work of art.

  It’s a surprising thought. But even better was what I suddenly realized at the same time. My father was often naked in front of me. With my father came his games and of course, all of the lousy shit that followed.

  The animal part of my brain has been telling me this for years: naked man = erections = sex = orgasm. That’s why the sight of a man without his clothes on has always been so disturbing.

  This is a mind-blowing revelation. Anxiety from looking at naked men comes from my fear of being turned on.

  André, ever attentive, even when he’s trying to appear not to be, must hear my indrawn breath of surprise. He turns toward me and arches an eyebrow in curious inquiry.

  My gaze takes him in, dick and all. A bubble of laughter tickles inside me and I grin.

  André tilts his head and gives me a, “Let’s hear it,” gesture with one hand.

  “I’ve been afraid that if I looked at you—or any man—without their clothes on, it would make me hard,” I blurt out.

  Both eyebrows shoot up as understanding gleams from the depths of his dark eyes. “Voyons! Je comprends très bien! It is very, very well, my friend. Of a certainty, this clarifies much.”

  Naked men and penises. Of course, they’d set off memories from my childhood. Of course, my thoughts and emotions concerning both would be abnormal, generating guilt and shame and self-disgust.

  How stupid am I? I couldn’t see what was so obvious.

  I explain to André that I realized the male form, and more specifically his body, was beautiful, but it in no way turned me on.

  There’s a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Now, shall I be flattered, or insulted?” he teases, and we laugh some more.

  Once again, I’m ridiculously happy. Like a long lost friend returning home—over the last few days, happiness has been a regular guest at my table.

  After another action-packed day on the Colorado River and hiking for miles, fit as we both are, neither one of us is tired. In our tent at night, there’s plenty of time to talk privately before we sleep.

  “All is association, my friend,” he tells me, resting on his forearms, his bare chest half out of his sleeping bag. “We seek to change the relationship between you and the triggers of your abusive history, yes?”

  “Yes,” I agree.

  “In the past, the male body and particularly the penis were associated with events you were trying not to remember and trying not to have happen again. At this moment, you are able to remain in the present while your past—it stays in the past. And the associations? We have changed them, no? Now when you think of a penis, you think of me.” He grins a wide, smug smile. “And you like me.”

  I smirk. “Yeah, you’re likeable, alright.” I shake my head. “But you know, I’m pretty sure everyone in this white water rafting group thinks we’re gay.”

  His shoulders shake as he laughs. “Oui, oui, I believe so as well. It is très amusant, no?

  “Yes,” I say, and I sincerely mean it.

  Ordinarily, the fact that people may think I’m gay would seriously bother me. Not because I have a problem with men who are attracted to men—but because I had a problem dreading that I might be attracted to men.

  Happily, this is no longer the case.

  Chapter 14.

  “I would much prefer to be sinned upon than the sinner. It is easier, comprenez-vous? With the clear conscience one sleeps very well. The sinner may deny it, but in his heart, he knows. He does not deserve to be happy.”

  — André Chevalier

  ~~~

  Grant Wilkinson

  André gets out his notepad. It’s his visual form of showing me something he wants to communicate. On it, he draws a series of concentric circles. As a marksman, I instantly recognize a bullseye when I see one.

  “Much has been achieved, mon ami. And so. Where shall we go from here? I have given this some thought, and I wish to show you.”

  “OK.”

  Using his pencil, he points to the center of the target. “You are here.”

  I grin. I’m a sharp shooter and André’s using a bullseye to represent my life. There’s a kind of poetry in that. I feel an absurd sense of rightness with this perfect parallel.

  “Here, I think, is the start,” he says, tapping his pencil on the bullseye. “Right now, together we explore only your life. How your childhood affected you, how it colored the emotions, the behavior and attitudes toward yourself and others. We focus on you and consider in what manner we can bring you back to yourself. Back to the true man you are inside—to who you were meant to be.”

  I nod. “OK.”

  “Once emotions, thoughts and goals have been explored and you are stable and happy, then you can go further. These other circles I use as an example, you perceive.”

  He points to the second circle, the one next size up moving out from the center of the bullseye. “Your father, he created oh-so many negative effects on others. This circle may represent your brother, your sister and other famil
y members, do you see?”

  “OK.” I frown because right now I’m not sure where André is going with this.

  “You, your mother and your siblings—each developed their own patterns of behavior in response to the evils in the family, the pathology. You have told me your brother, Alex takes nothing seriously. He makes jokes and is a cocaine addict. Your sister—she is an alcoholic and is selfish and bitter. You, Grant, isolate yourself from others, because you have always feared there is something very wrong with you. And your mother? She is in denial. She ignores her family, giving all of her attention and support to others, no?”

  I snort. “Yeah, that about sums up the Wilkinson family.”

  “All people, whatever they are doing, no matter how crazy or irrational it seems to you… it is how they need to act—from their perspective. I do not justify or rationalize an individual’s behavior—no. I simply tell you there is always a reason.”

  I consider this for a moment, and it makes sense.

  They say pedophiles were abused as children themselves; and wife beaters had a violent upbringing. My mother avoided her husband and children. Why she did is a mystery to me. She spent all of her time ‘helping others’ who were ‘less fortunate’ than we were.

  Perhaps in her heart of hearts, she felt she couldn’t help us.

  Did she have any idea what was happening under her own roof? This idea haunts me. Denial is a powerful force and an effective way to protect oneself. Maybe it hurt too much to know the kind of a man she married. Maybe she decided to help others in order to assuage her guilt—or to convince herself she’s a good person.

  I don’t like my mother and I’ve never fully understood why. She fed me, dressed me and made me attend to my homework. She never abused me. My mother was a cold, proud and distant woman who commanded respect—but she wasn’t into hugging or kissing her children.

  It’s a painful yet, bittersweet memory when I recall that the only hugs I got as a child were from my father.