Guilty Pleasures

by Kitty Thomas

  TWO

  Vivian stared up at the high-rise building, shielding her eyes from the reflective glare of the sun. “Um . . . Miss . . . I don’t have change for this large a bill,” the cab driver said, leaning over the seat toward the open passenger-side window.

  “Keep the change,” she said, not taking her eyes off the building.

  The driver peeled down the road before she had a chance to change her mind. Vivian took a fortifying breath and went to meet her doom.

  As soon as the elevator opened on the tenth floor, soothing jazz drifted to her ears. The music had a hypnotic effect as it wrapped around her and pulled her off the elevator and toward the waiting office. Dr. Smith’s waiting room was filled with house plants. If the world ran out of oxygen, this room would be the last safe haven.

  It was empty, something she found odd for a Friday afternoon. Not even a receptionist. She thought Michael said he’d made the appointment for three thirty today. Maybe she got the dates mixed up.

  She turned to leave when a deep voice stopped her. “Mrs. Delaney? You’re my three thirty?”

  “Yes?” She couldn’t bring herself to turn back around just yet. She’d thought Lindsay Smith was a woman. Apparently not.

  “Please, come on back. I apologize there was no one to greet you. My receptionist had a personal emergency.”

  Vivian turned and plastered a smile on her face. “Dr. Smith?”

  “That’s right.”

  The doctor stood at a little over six feet tall in a well-tailored, dark suit and exuded the calm command of a stock broker. He appeared to be in his late fifties with gray at his temples. He was in good shape, what she imagined Michael might look like in twenty years.

  He smiled at her and turned to go into the inner office, clearly confident she’d follow.

  She considered fleeing the building, but then she thought about the look in Michael’s eyes the previous night, and the moment of terror at seeing a new side of her husband nearly unleashed on her.

  When he’d pinned her against the wall like that, with that wildness peering out at her, she’d felt the faintest drop of wetness on her panties. The idea that she could have such an inappropriate reaction, after months of nearly no reaction, scared her more than the thought of him losing control.

  No, she’d stay for the appointment this once. Then she’d reason with Michael. She had to at least appear to be trying to comply with his wishes if she wanted him to listen.

  Dr Smith’s office had lavender walls that matched the business cards. Not the first color choice she’d pick for a man, but the furniture and striking oak desk made up for any lacking masculinity in the wallpaper. The inner office had about as many plants as the waiting area. A long wall featured several orchids lined in a fastidious row.

  The room had no couch, just a couple of comfortable-looking leather chairs that sat on either side of a small table with another orchid on it. She was glad for the lack of couch. She wasn’t sure she could lie down to talk about her nonexistent sex life to an attractive male doctor. Especially with no one in the waiting room to act as a safety buffer. It felt too exposed.

  He gestured and Vivian sat in the offered chair, smoothing down her skirt, wishing she’d worn pants.

  “You seem very uncomfortable,” he commented.

  “You’re observant. This must be why they pay you the big bucks.”

  He chuckled. “Your husband has already taken care of the financial arrangements. Would you like some coffee?”

  “I’m fine, thank you.”

  He sat in the chair across from her and observed her quietly. “You’re uncomfortable with the fact that I’m male, aren’t you?”

  Vivian looked at her hands. “I thought Lindsay was a woman.”

  “You wouldn’t be the first patient with that initial impression.”

  “Maybe you should put a picture on your business card to clear up the confusion.”

  “Indeed.” He was silent for a moment. “Mrs. Delaney, we won’t speak about anything that makes you uncomfortable. We’ll go at your pace.”

  She let out a slow breath and nodded.

  He glanced down at a page of notes. “My receptionist gathered a bit of information for the appointment from your husband. He says you’re unhappy with the relationship?”

  Vivian balked at that, wondering how many personal details her husband had decided to divulge to a stranger over the phone. “I think Michael needs to come to therapy, too. If I’m coming to therapy.” That had sounded more petulant than she’d intended.

  “Perhaps we can arrange that for a future session.”

  He looked at his notes again, and Vivian suddenly wished she’d been the one to call and make the appointment. But she’d been stubborn.

  “Why don’t you start by telling me why it makes you so uncomfortable to be intimate with your husband.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Mrs. Delaney . . . ?”

  “Really. I don’t know. All I know is that every time he touches me I just want to crawl inside myself and die. If I knew why, I wouldn’t be here.”

  “Was it like this from the beginning of the relationship?”

  “No. In the beginning it was different.”

  “What changed? Did your husband do something?”

  “I don’t know. Before we got married things were fine. Then after . . . . ” Her voice trailed off.

  “Are you able to achieve orgasm with your husband?”

  Vivian looked away and smoothed her skirt again. “No.”

  The doctor made a notation in the black notebook perched on his lap. “Sometimes these problems can be rooted in emotion. Do you believe he loves you?”

  There was a long pause. She had to work to speak around the lump in her throat. She would not cry in front of the doctor. Absolutely not. “No,” she said.

  The silence hung between them, making the air feel thicker. Was he waiting for her to speak again?

  After another beat, he said, “Why don’t you believe your husband loves you?”

  “Why would he?”

  “You’re a very beautiful woman.”

  “I’m on the wrong end of thirty-five. Beauty fades. Then what? I can’t be his trophy forever. He’d do just as well with a maid and a whore.”

  The doctor visibly flinched at that. “You believe he feels obligated to you.” He paused for only a moment before asking his next question. “Do you masturbate?”

  Whoa. That was quite a subject jump. “I . . . um . . . I’m not really comfortable with that question.”

  “Very well. Let’s broach the subject from a less personal place. Have you ever had a massage, at a spa or from a massage therapist?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? Isn’t that a normal part of routine pampering for someone of your level of affluence?”

  She shrugged, feeling awkward with how close they were sitting.

  As if he’d heard her thoughts, the doctor stood and retreated to his desk. He fumbled in the top draw until he came out with a card and handed it to Vivian.

  “What’s this?”

  “Where I think you should start. You’ve exhibited discomfort with my gender, discomfort with your husband being intimate with you, and overall discomfort with being in touch with your own pleasure. I’d like you to make a weekly appointment for a massage. Allow yourself to feel something good for a change. Do you think you can do that for me?”

  The business card was an aquamarine color with brown lettering that read, Dome in a blocky, modern font. In smaller letters in an elegant script underneath, it said, spa and massage therapy. She slipped the card into her purse.

  “They accept walk-ins. No need for an appointment,” he said, moving behind his desk. The doctor didn’t say anything more, but began to busily shuffle through stacks of paper on his desk.

  “What? Now? You want me to go now?”

  He looked up as if shocked she was still in his office. “Why, yes, Mrs. Delane
y.”

  “But it’s only been twenty minutes. Don’t I get a full hour?”

  His eyes twinkled with amusement. “Five minutes ago you couldn’t get away fast enough. Now you want forty more? Have you ever heard the term masochism?”

  Was it okay for a therapist to say that? Then again, he was a sex therapist. Once a doctor asked if you masturbated, few topics were off the table.

  “I only meant that I’m sure Michael paid for the full session.”

  “You show that card I gave you at Dome and tell them I sent you, and your first massage will be free. That sounds fair, right?”

  He went back to the papers on his desk, effectively dismissing her.

  Vivian, not knowing what else to do, stood and headed for the door. Her hand was on the doorknob when his voice stopped her.

  “Mrs. Delaney?”

  She turned, still flustered. “Yes?”

  His teeth flashed bright white as he smiled at her. “You’re going to lose all of your inhibitions.”

  Thirty minutes later Vivian stood outside Dome, arguing with herself on whether she should go inside. She’d never gotten a massage because the idea of being naked underneath a towel while a stranger touched her had never held much appeal.

  Yet, hope flared that maybe it was such a simple matter. Maybe massage could loosen her up and free her to experience in bed what she’d experienced with Michael so long ago. Her hand trembled as she pushed open the heavy door and stepped inside.

  A silver bell jingled overhead. The place was deserted just as the therapist’s office had been. A warning buzzer in her brain started to sound, as if she were being led into a trap. And yet that seemed so silly. Before she could take the thought apart, a blonde woman in her twenties came out into the lobby.

  “Oh, hi. Do you have an appointment? Fridays are generally for special appointments. Walk-ins are Monday through Thursday.”

  Vivian chided herself for being so paranoid and felt a small relief that there was a logical explanation for another seemingly empty building.

  “Dr. Smith gave me this and told me to come by today.” She retrieved the card from her purse. “I’ll just come back next week.” Maybe.

  She felt herself blush, wondering if the receptionist would judge her for seeing a sex therapist. But the woman remained professional.

  “If Dr. Smith sent you, we can work you in.” The blonde led Vivian to an empty room with candles and a burbling table fountain. Eastern music played in the background.

  “You can undress in here, then drape yourself with the towel.” The girl pointed, indicating the cushioned table with a red button on the side. “Push that button when you’re ready, and someone will be right with you.”

  “Thank you.”

  The woman smiled and left the room, closing the door behind her.

  Vivian took in her surroundings. The room had a second door opposite from the one she’d been led into. Perhaps a bathroom? A flat screen television on one wall played a video with a low, calming voice talking about the spa and the various services offered by Dome.

  Lucky bamboo grew in tiny pots around the room. There was an oriental-style privacy screen with a chair and large towel behind it. Thankfully there was no mirror. The staff at Dome must have realized how few women enjoyed looking at themselves naked, and how right before a massage wasn’t the time to be reminded of one’s imperfections. Though Michael had always told her she was perfect.

  She considered walking out, still uneasy with the concept of being touched by a stranger. But she was afraid the receptionist might think her odd.

  It was odd. The doctor was right. She was entirely too uptight for a woman in her thirties. She took a deep breath and disrobed, unsure what to do about her panties. Deciding to leave them on, she situated herself on the table. She hesitated a moment, then pressed the button.

  Five minutes of tension passed before the door clicked open. Vivian lay there with her eyes shut, trying to relax. It was just a massage. Millions of women did this every day. And even liked it, if all the raving at the country club was any indication.

  “You’re my next appointment?” A male Eastern European accent––possibly Russian––greeted her ears. She squeezed her eyes more tightly shut. Couldn’t she get a female for anything? She considered requesting a woman, but then she got a look at him.

  Wavy, jet black hair fell over the best cheekbones she’d ever seen up close and in person on a man. The definition of his chest was visible through a white t-shirt. He had strong, well-defined arms, and large, yet elegant hands, like those of a concert pianist. She could see how those hands could be equally at home playing flesh draped over a massage table.

  Her eyes traveled slowly back to his face. It was expectant. Waiting for something. Oh, yeah. An answer to his question.

  “Yes,” she managed to stammer.

  “Very good. My name is Anton. I’ll be taking care of you today.”

  The way he said it seemed like both a sinful promise and a sinister threat, causing Vivian’s heart to start doing erratic things in her chest. He moved closer, and she tensed.

  “Relax, my dear. Dr. Smith was correct. You are quite a closed-budded flower. We will open you.” He made it sound so sexual and wrong. A warmth fluttered in her center and spread outward.

  Her voice came out breathy, “You spoke to Dr. Smith?”

  “Just a few moments ago. While you were getting ready for me.”

  She turned her head away so she could stop looking at him with helpless longing. She’d experienced testosterone overload today. Too many men near her in situations that were far too sexual for her comfort.

  “You are Vivian, yes?” he said as he selected a body oil from a cart near the table. He was the king of the rhetorical question.

  “Yes.”

  The slick oil made a sound as it coated his hands. He pulled back the towel to reveal her bare back. “Lovely,” he murmured.

  Vivian wasn’t sure if he was admiring her skin, or if he was referring to her name. Before she could decide which, and whether or not it was appropriate, his hands were on her body, and she forgot how to think in full sentences. The strong, gentle kneading along her back caused her to, inch by inch, loosen and open to him and the pleasurable sensations he was delivering to her.

  He was silent as he worked out the tension around her shoulders, and then her upper back and neck. Her arms and hands came next. Everything slowly began to unclench, starting with the muscle group he was rubbing and spreading outward as she let herself relax. Her body felt loose, liquid, suspended in a tranquil bubble of calming sensations.

  Anton worked on her like this for about fifteen minutes, and then his hands began to slide lower, pushing aside the terrycloth until the towel was bunched around her thighs.

  “Really, Vivian. Underwear? I’m disappointed.”

  She reached behind her frantically for the towel to cover herself. Now there was no question he’d crossed the boundary. Wasn’t a massage therapist supposed to protect their client’s modesty and comfort?

  He gripped her wrist hard, not so hard to damage her, but hard enough to make her gasp in surprise at the rough contact and the menace behind it.

  “Are you going to be a good girl and put your hands back where you had them?”

  The threat sent an inappropriate flip of excitement through her stomach.

  She couldn’t twist to maneuver fully without exposing her breasts. Though she had the creeping feeling he would be seeing them soon enough anyway. A tear worked its way down her cheek as she tried to process the sudden shift of events. “Let me go. I’ll scream.”

  “Do it. No one will hear you. The room is sound-proofed, and Janette went home after she announced your arrival. We’re the only ones here.”

  The muscles in his arms were suddenly more than eye candy. They were evidence that he was the one with the power here, and he would have whatever he wanted from her.

  “Anton, please . . . ” She had the irrationa
l belief that if she spoke his name, she’d reach something human, something that would stop him before this went too far.

  “Lie back and relax. Fighting me is futile. You will lose, and I will be angry.”

  The options scrolled through her mind. She could call his bluff and scream, but somehow she knew he was telling her the truth about the uselessness of that choice. She could fight him, and lose, and end up with injuries. He could lose control and kill her. If he was willing to do this much, he was an unknown quantity. One she didn’t want to stir up and test.

  A few moments before, she’d found his appearance and touch heavenly. Would it be horrific to let him keep going? To just surrender to it? Could she say she’d come out the winner if she submitted rather than fought? Would it feel like less of a violation? Which would be worse? Would she hate herself later if she didn’t fight hard enough, even though she could see how he’d closed off her hopes of escaping him?

  She felt the palm of his hand press against her back until she was lying on her stomach again. He went back to the expert, innocent kneading of before and the fight ebbed out of her.

  “Are you going to hurt me?” She hated how her voice sounded.

  “Not unless you force me to.”

  A tear pricked at the corner of her eye. “Are you going to rape me?”

  “No. I’m just going to touch you. I’m going to make you come for me, Vivian. I’m going to make you purr my name.”

  She shuddered as his words sent an involuntary spark of arousal between her legs. This was so wrong. She couldn’t let this happen. She had to fight him. At least make the effort. But his hands were still rubbing her back, and she felt her body betraying her brain. Felt it as she succumbed to his talented touch.

  “Please . . . Don’t do this to me.”

  “That’s enough talk, Vivian. I want you to lie there and close your eyes and feel. Dr. Smith tells me you can’t achieve orgasm with your husband. I am going to fix you.”

  An intense shame washed through her at the way he spoke. As if molesting her on a massage table was helping her. What he was doing was disgusting. It was wrong. A voice in the back of her head chided her. Wouldn’t you have let him do this without a fuss if you were single? Would the question of consent have even been broached?