Abuse

by Nikki Sex

  I have a sudden, unexpected epiphany, blinding in its clarity. This is the triangle Renata was talking about.

  Body. Mind. Spirit.

  I have control of my body, my lust and my hungers. In controlling my body, I have better control of my mind. As for my badly tarnished soul? Well, who knows?

  She leans in closer, intently checking out my tattoos. “So gorgeous. Colorful, too. I love them. Will you tell me about them, or do I have to wait to use a ‘Truth’ question?”

  Her strong interest isn’t going to disappear anytime soon. I don’t see any way out of it. Why postpone the inevitable? Sighing, I get up and walk over to sit down on the bed beside her.

  “Yay!” she says, grinning broadly.

  I point to my right arm sleeve tattoo, made up mainly of an oak tree, a number of flowers, leaves and thorns. I trace the intricate branches and leaves. “The oak represents wisdom, strength and endurance. Flowers are there because I love my garden. The thorns are there because there's always bad and good together.” I snort. “I guess it’s to remind me to watch out for the bad things in life.”

  “Can I touch it?” she asks tentatively.

  Stiffening, I nod.

  Her fingers begin to gently trace the oak tree. It's a wonderfully tantalizing soft caress. I close my eyes and bite back a moan. Sometimes—like now—I’m at ease with such an innocent touch. My pulse begins to drum at the scorching pleasure of feeling her soft fingers on my skin.

  Stiff already, I immediately become hard as stone.

  “I’ve never seen any tattoo this colorful,” she says. “Different shades of red, yellow, green, blue and black. It looks fantastic. What does this say? And this?”

  Her enthusiasm warms me. I trace the red lettering. “This says, ‘Fear is the mind killer.’ And this?” I point to dark blue letters. “It says, ‘Man's mind may be likened to a garden, which may be intelligently cultivated or allowed to run wild.’ I had them translated into Latin, as private messages to myself.”

  Renata frowns, her expression pensive. “Tell me what they say again.”

  I repeat myself and add, “The garden quote is by a man named James Allen. ‘Fear is the mind killer,’ comes from a book called Dune, by Frank Herbert. The hero goes through rough times as a boy. I kind of identified with him.”

  “You compare your mind to a garden? That’s rather apropos for you, huh? Weed out bad thoughts and cultivate good ones. Good plan. It’s important for you to be in control of your thoughts and emotions, isn’t it?”

  My lungs expand as I take a deep breath and slowly exhale. “Yes. I had some pretty major hate and anger issues when I was growing up. Fear, too, I guess. I was wild and defiant for a time and heading down a bad path.”

  Her eyes sparkle. “You’re in complete control now.”

  My lips curve into a self-mocking smile. “Mostly,” I say.

  I’m thinking about my raging hard-on and how much effort I'm exerting to curb my more primitive impulses. I have to fight against a powerful urge to take her right now.

  This is another reason why I keep away from women.

  My body burns and throbs with unbearable need as raw hunger claws at my belly. I long to pounce upon her, tearing into her without restraint… like a wolf takes a lamb. I’m so desperate to give in to my primal urges, to ravish her, to spread her legs and fuck her hard and fast.

  And right after that? After I climax?

  Well, then I’ll be lost and empty, swiftly followed by feelings of disgust, panic and downright nausea. I'll need to leave—and quickly. It’s my dreaded run of shame. It takes place after a climax, unless I'm alone.

  “What is this on the bicep of your other arm?”

  I moisten my dry lips and give her a sheepish grin. “That’s the face of Thor, the God of Thunder. See? Here’s his hammer.”

  Renata laughs and her eyes light with humor. “Why?”

  I shrug. “This here’s a Christian cross.” I point to where it’s weaved in amongst the leaves of the oak tree. “When you’re in a battle zone fighting for your life, you kind of want to cover your bases, I guess.”

  Her grin fades as the thought of war sobers her.

  “Thor is usually depicted as an honorable man, associated with storms, oak trees, strength and the protection of others. You’d be surprised by how many service men and women have Thor tattoos or wear his hammer as a charm around their necks.”

  “I see.” She tilts her head. “Thank you so much for showing me.” She grins. “I’ve been dying to get a look at those tats since the first day I met you.”

  “Oh?” I ask, confused. “How did you know about my tattoos?”

  “I could see just the hint of this one here,” Renata brushes her soft fingers gently along the top of my right shoulder, “when I ripped the buttons off your shirt, remember?”

  My jaw clenches, my groin does, too. “I remember,” I say in a hoarse voice.

  I stare into her unblinking blue eyes. There’s that intense bond we have again, making its presence known. I swear I can see her every thought and emotion clearly, as if I were reading a novel. Renata draws me in.

  I love the way she looks at me.

  Renata wants me.

  Damned if I know why anyone would want me, especially someone as perfect as she is. Yet, she does.

  Until this moment, I never realized how much I want to be wanted. I want to be needed by her as much as I need her.

  My erection hardens even further, which seems almost impossible at this point. I'm throbbing just thinking about it.

  “When you tore my buttons?” I say, in a voice I barely recognize as my own. It's breathy and harsh with lust. I can hear my own ragged breathing.

  “If I live to be a hundred, that is one moment of my life that I’ll never, ever forget.”

  Chapter 10.

  “Owning our story can be hard but not nearly as difficult as spending our lives running from it.

  ― Brené Brown

  ~~~

  Renata Koreman

  Thanks to our ‘Truth or Dare’ card game, I’m now down to wearing only my panties. Grant is—praise the Lord—totally naked.

  Since the moment I met him, I’ve been fantasizing non-stop, imagining what he looks like without his clothes. Believe me, I’m not in the least disappointed.

  Grant’s big sexy body, his fascinating tattoos and his dark compelling eyes are such turn-ons. I’m aroused by the masculine scent of him, his soft Texas drawl, his slow, deep voice and the well-considered things he says.

  The man utterly captivates me, especially when he smiles. Kind and courteous, he’s a Southern gentleman through and through. I love everything about him, even his flaws.

  Just the thought of Grant and his powerful maleness makes me damp with desire.

  I was worried about how to move forward with him, but our little card game has been such a fantastic icebreaker, full of sexual tension and flirty fun. We’re finding out so much about each other and now we’re both almost completely naked.

  ‘Truth or Dare,’ as a prelude to sex—especially for someone with Grant’s history, is a perfect idea—if I do say so myself.

  So far, Grant’s discovered my longing to visit Paris, my wish to meet UN Women Goodwill Ambassador, Emma Watson, and I’m a Libra—my birthday is October 3rd.

  I now know Grant's favorite color is green, his first childhood crush was on Annabeth (a girl in grade school who never even knew he existed), and he’s a Gemini, born June 1st. He says he’s never been in love.

  “Truth,” I say, after losing the last card toss with a seven of diamonds to Grant’s ten of spades.

  Grant’s chest rises as he sucks in a deep breath. “Have you ever worked as a prostitute?” he asks.

  I burst out laughing at his question—more from surprise than humor. It’s obvious that he’s been working up the nerve to ask me that one.

  “Why would you think that? Because I lived on the street as a teenager?”

 
“Yes,” he replies. His cheeks tinge pink with embarrassment, but he doesn’t look away from me or show any other form of discomfort. “Every prostitute I’ve gone to worked the streets.”

  I tilt my head, studying him for a few beats and smile. “My, my, I sense a story. First, the answer is no. I’ve never worked as a prostitute. However, I have had sex with many. I know for you, sex has largely had negative connotations. For me it’s always been a playful, loving connection. It’s the most fun you can share with someone you like.”

  “I’m sorry I asked you that,” he says apologetically.

  “Don’t be. I'm not offended. It’s a valid question. So… um… are you going to tell me about the prostitutes or do I have to use a ‘Truth’ question for that?”

  He averts his gaze, studying the gently moving curtains in his open window for a long silent minute.

  “Childhood…” he stops, clears his throat and then starts again, “Events in my childhood made me think I was a monster. These events… um, they turned me off sex. I’ve never dated or had a relationship with a woman.”

  He pauses, meets my eyes and adds, “I’ve only ever experienced sex with prostitutes… and now with you.”

  Chin up, Grant stares at me as if in challenge. Is he waiting for condemnation, perhaps? There’s a small flare of anxiety in his eyes. Does he expect my disapproval? I’ll bet he’s worried I’ll judge him—but he hopes I won’t.

  “Wow,” I say, allowing genuine awe to fill my voice. “Thank you for telling me that, Grant. I'm honored you shared that with me. I have the deepest respect for you. In fact, my opinion where you’re concerned couldn’t be higher.”

  Grant shows no reaction and he says nothing more. Have my words affected him at all?

  It’s when he’s entirely unemotional like this that I worry. I wish I knew what was going through his mind. Does he think confiding in me was a mistake? Is he worried that admitting imperfection is a sign of weakness? Maybe he’s like me and simply cannot accept a compliment.

  “Disclosing a difficult truth takes real courage,” I tell him. “Only the strongest among us are willing to risk that kind of personal exposure. You’re not a weak man, are you? And you’re certainly no coward.”

  His lips part and his eyebrows rise. OK, now I can see I’ve surprised him.

  I frown. “What? Did you think I’d despise you?”

  “It was a possibility.”

  “Fucking hell,” I curse vehemently. “In the scheme of things, meeting your needs with prostitutes is no big deal. Now, raping someone—that is something I would judge you for. You’d need to make amends to the victim and go to jail for doing something like that. You haven’t molested anyone, have you?” I ask. I don’t see that kind of behavior as remotely possible in him, but still…

  His face instantly tightens—there’s true rage behind his eyes. “Prostitutes,” he snaps, shooting his reply back to me faster than a pitcher in major league baseball game. “I always use prostitutes and I pay them well.”

  Grant may have been a victim at one time, but not anymore. His body is taut, his fists clench. Something raw and violent radiates behind his no-nonsense glower. No matter what happened to Grant as a child, he absolutely won’t take shit from anyone ever again.

  He’s trying to hide it to some degree, but my question has enraged him.

  I hate confrontation and angry people frighten me. My adrenaline spikes at Grant’s fury, but he doesn’t really scare me. Why is that? André would probably call it female intuition.

  For whatever reason, I know Grant would never hurt me.

  I can’t help but admire his ability to vehemently reject something with which he doesn’t agree. How does he do that? I’m afraid to hurt or embarrass people. Rejection kills me and I have a pathological craving for love and acceptance. Thanks to André, I know my own brand of crazy. To a large degree, I’m able to work around this shit.

  Pissed off, Grant glares at me. “I don’t have sex with any woman I don’t pay for,” he says in a controlled, edgy tone. “I pay André and he pays you. Otherwise, I would never have had sex with you.”

  I laugh because I think he’s just called me a hooker. The insult amuses me, who knows why?

  “Did you just call me a prostitute?” I ask.

  Any trace of anger leaves as his face whitens. “I… no, I didn’t mean—”

  “Forget it,” I interrupt. “I’m not offended. Honestly. When a person gets something for nothing, they don’t appreciate it—that’s what André says. It’s why he charges the really big bucks. But I’d work with you, Grant, even if André wasn’t paying me. You’re a good man who deserves my help. On top of that, I care about you… I care about you a lot.”

  Disbelief, hope, shock, uncertainty—a flood of complex emotions flash across his face, too fast to clearly follow.

  As is often the case, he shuts down completely while he processes these ideas.

  I wonder who hurt him so deeply? A member of his church? A trusted teacher? A close friend of the family? Perhaps a ‘kind’ and doting uncle?

  Whoever it was, the asshole really did a number on him. I know that Grant sincerely loved the guy. I can tell because of the way he doubts himself.

  Grant doesn’t have faith in love.

  I won’t ask him who destroyed the innocence of his childhood—even though I really want to know. In time he’ll confide in me, but only when he’s ready to do so.

  Grant equates intimacy with guilt, ‘I did bad’ and humiliation ‘I’m so embarrassed and ashamed of myself because I am bad’. Talk about trust issues.

  He’s like a determined boxer taking on the reigning champion in the ring. The man weaves and ducks around the subjects of love and sex as if he’s in a battle for his life. It’s painful to watch him struggle.

  I don’t want him to fight me.

  I want him to love me.

  The unconscious thought blasts through my mind and surges into my awareness. I’m a terrible person! I shouldn’t be thinking of myself. I clear my throat.

  Focus on him. Be in the present. Be the counselor. This is not about you.

  “Listen, Grant,” I say calmly. “We all do whatever we need to do. Your coping strategy of buying sex wasn’t cruel or detrimental to others. When people can’t talk about things, or if they can’t effectively deal with their issues, they find different ways to get by. I was no exception.”

  I think about the ‘people-pleasing’ mouse I’ve been all my life and how my self-esteem has been tied up in rescuing others. I’m not happy or fulfilled unless I’m needed. Yet no matter what I do, a voice inside me whispers that it’s all a mistake. My mother and my brother are dead. I should have saved them. I don’t deserve to be happy.

  Grant considers my words for a long, quiet moment.

  He nods. “André told me all people, whatever they’re doing, no matter how crazy or irrational it seems, it is how they need to act—from their perspective.”

  “Exactly,” I agree.

  His lips curve and we smile at each other as we both can relate to this perfect truth.

  “I’ve still got a long way to go myself, Grant. Progress, not perfection, right?”

  “Right,” he says, but his smile doesn’t last long. Abruptly, he frowns and looks away.

  “What? What is it?” I ask.

  “You said only the strongest among us are willing to risk personal exposure.”

  “Yes.” I say. “It’s about honesty—André goes on and on about it. He says everyone should find someone they trust. If an individual doesn’t reveal themselves—if they don’t tell their personal story, they’ll never know the joy of sharing a true connection with another.”

  His gaze locks on mine.

  His look is so intense, I find myself holding hold my breath.

  “I had far too much shame to talk to anyone until I met André,” he begins. His gaze moves toward the window once more and he doesn’t speak for a long silent moment. “I could never tell an
yone anything before him, and now I can with you.”

  “Oh?” I murmur softly.

  Face composed, Grant’s body is stiff, his fists clenched. I sense vast wells of emotion emanating from this private, self-contained man.

  I have no idea what he’s trying to say.

  He turns toward me, pinning me motionless with his eyes. “Renata, the only reason I can be strong is because of you,” he says, his voice low and compelling. “You listen and you understand. You don’t judge me. It isn’t hard to be brave when I’m sharing things with you.”

  Now it’s my turn to be silent and to look away.

  I simply cannot meet his gaze.

  My pulse kicks and my heart is so full of love and joy I’m afraid I might burst into tears. I don’t think I can speak—my throat is too tight.

  Minutes pass as I regain my composure.

  “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” I finally tell him. “Thank you, Grant.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  His sexy slow smile totally melts me. I’m so completely crazy about this guy. Intelligent and confident, yet also troubled, insecure and alone—Grant needs my help. He needs me. I suppose that’s a somewhat insane criteria for falling in love, but there you have it.

  Scars and all, I still find him the most attractive man I’ve ever seen.

  It’s time to get off these emotional ‘mind’ and ‘spirit’ subjects. Tonight is about the pleasure of the body. With that thought, I lower my eyes so my gaze falls on to his erect shaft.

  Grant sees where I’m looking. Eyes alight with amusement, he shakes his head as if I’m a lost cause—which I most certainly am.

  The man’s indomitable dick has been hard for hours. Even this difficult conversation hasn’t lessened his cock’s mindless enthusiasm. Lust…need… the man wants me.

  That’s good because I burn for him too.

  I recall the instant I first saw him naked. He’d stood up to remove his brown leather belt on a dare, and I nearly burst into flames with desire and anticipation. The sexy sound of him lowering his zipper ratcheted up my arousal.