The President's Secret Baby

by Gage Grayson

  “Come now, Charlie. Grab those papers like a good lad.”

  “I gotta run, mister…but thanks for the talk and—ah—everything.”

  “Not a problem, Charles. Remember what I said.”

  He nods as he bolts for the door.

  Prof gives me a look, which I return with a grin and a wave.

  This is good. This is very, very good indeed.

  I feel my smile breaking out, and I have to hold in a self-satisfied chuckle.

  Looking at pictures of me. Hiding them. Poring over them.

  Panting over them?

  Oh, god. Yes please.

  Alison

  It takes me three tries to open my apartment door. Three. And that’s not including the fact that I pushed the wrong floor in the elevator twice, much to the chagrin of the other passengers—an elderly couple who live three doors down from me.

  However, once in my home, amid my familiar and perfectly ordered world, I still find myself flustered, unable to focus.

  Locking the door behind me, I hang my purse on the hook by the door and drop my keys into the bowl on the small table beneath it. Then, I remove my kitten heels and place them neatly by the door.

  I wonder what Jaxon’s face would look like if I wore my black stilettos to our next session. I can picture him in an instant, those piercing eyes watching my every move, his tongue licking those cruel lips as he takes me in from toe to top. For the hundredth time today, I feel a wave of heat flare through my body.

  Would I be able to see how hard…?

  Stop it.

  Stop it this instant.

  He. Is. Your. Patient.

  Flustered and irritated, I bring my files and today’s case notes and drop them on the kitchen table. But I make no move to look at them. I need distance.

  And I need to order my mind before I try to make sense of today’s session. I need to figure myself out first before I start trying to decipher the delicious enigma that is Jaxon Covington.

  But as soon as the thought of him pops into my head, my mouth waters.

  I have to shake myself to clear it.

  I grit my teeth. Enough, Alison.

  I take a deep, shuddering breath to steady myself, and I feel a bit better.

  I’ve been obsessing. That’s all. I just have to do something to break the cycle.

  I continue into my kitchen and begin pulling out the implements to make tea. I find the familiarity of the task soothing.

  First, I take out the polished copper kettle and fill it with water then set it on the stove to heat. Then I open the cabinet where I keep the rest of my tea things and remove the heavy ceramic teapot, my favorite loose green tea, and a strainer. Finally, I grab my favorite mug—a diagram of the brain, created with all the words associated with it: the different parts, chemicals, and psychological disorders to be found within the mind.

  By the time the water has boiled and I’ve left the tea to steep, my mind feels more settled. I feel centered and once more in control.

  I take my cup and, pointedly ignoring the files on the kitchen table, move to the living room couch and pick up the Times crossword puzzle. With a contented sigh, I begin.

  I normally give in to my obsessions. I’ve performed enough self-diagnosis to know they aren’t clinical, just a byproduct of a high functioning mind and an ability to hyper-focus. I’ve even found them incredibly useful when puzzling out a diagnosis.

  People are a sum of their problems, and problems are puzzles, nothing more.

  There’s always a way to figure them out. There’s always a solution. Always.

  And, most of the time, when I let myself go, when I give in to the obsessive focus on the issue at hand, I usually find the solution quite quickly. I let my mind turn over and over, putting all the pieces of the person’s messy life on a cool, clinical table in my mind.

  I detach and then I dissect. I analyze from every angle.

  I take it all in and then I find the pattern. Because patterns of behavior lead to diagnosing the disease, and once the disease is determined, a method of treatment can be devised.

  Most people are easy. Almost too easy. Where’s the fun in that?

  Usually, within the first moments of a session, I have them psychoanalyzed, sorted, and solved. That is, until today…

  I shake my head again and mentally chide myself. Not yet.

  But it’s too late.

  There he is again.

  Jaxon.

  I know that what I’m doing right now isn’t healthy; for once, my single-minded focus is more of a hindrance than it is help. I throw down the crossword and my pen in disgust, and then lean back on the couch, gently rubbing my temples.

  What I need is a fresh start. A way to wash this day off of me and start over.

  I get up off the couch and make my way to my bedroom, unbuttoning my blouse as I go.

  I’ll take a nice warm bath, listen to some music, and let myself totally relax. I’ll slough off the day and then I’ll restart.

  Yes. It’s a good plan.

  And when I’m clean and fresh, I’ll be able to be myself again: cool and detached. A.I. Alison—a moniker from medical school for the way I could be fed data about a patient and quickly process and determine the solution.

  I liked it. Computers aren’t messy. There are no emotions involved.

  Emotions don’t solve problems. The scientific process does. Careful and reasoned analysis does.

  And, more importantly, Alison Hughes does.

  I draw a bubble bath, turn on my favorite relaxation music, and slip into the tub, my red hair piled high in a bun on top of my head.

  This is good. This is perfect. This is just what I needed.

  I relax and let my eyes drift closed.

  And there he is. Watching me.

  Gone is the prison uniform. Instead, he wears an immaculate custom suit that shows off his coiled strength and lanky build to perfection. Everything about him is easy and practiced appeal.

  But when I look at his eyes, I see their cold blue burn.

  For me.

  And then I can’t help myself. I brush my hands over my breasts and feel my nipples harden at my touch. In my mind, I’m sitting on my desk, facing him, when he gets up and stalks towards me, easy charm and a lithe, feral grace.

  There’s an animal prowling just below the surface. I know it. I welcome it.

  With one hand teasing my nipple, I imagine him sucking it into his lush, wicked mouth. Then I slide my other hand lower, teasing as I go.

  Gooseflesh trails my touch, sending me shivering despite the heat of the water.

  My breath hitches.

  In my fantasy, Jaxon’s hand follows my own. He snakes it up my skirt, and his eyebrows raise, eyes dancing with mischief, when he realizes I’m not wearing any underwear. But then I see him shudder when he feels my slick pussy—hot, wet, and throbbing for his touch.

  I want him.

  I spread my legs for him and for myself, my fingers rubbing soft circles over my aching swollen clit. And then he’s there between my thighs, teasing me with his tongue, mimicking the movement of my fingers. And I watch him from my perch, getting a thrill from this powerful, seductive creature paying homage to my body on his knees.

  That I alone am able to soothe the savage beast.

  I can hear myself whimper now as I finger-fuck myself, panting from my sharp arousal, wishing it was his hard cock.

  As I feel myself tighten with the first waves of orgasm, my dream shifts.

  Now I’m naked on my desk while Jaxon fills me. Every thrust is the most exquisite torture. He’s still partially dressed, but his jacket is gone, his shirt is askew, and he looks devilishly sexy.

  But his hands—his hands are covered in blood.

  In fact, he’s covered in blood. We both are. His warm, bloody hands leaving smudges of gore all over my porcelain skin…

  And I love it.

  I revel in it with him.

  And as I feel myself start to come,
I imagine myself pulling him down, devouring his mouth. And then I come—harder than I have ever come masturbating before—with the metallic taste of blood sweet on my tongue.

  I snap back to myself after the fog of oxytocin and endorphins recede.

  What have I done?

  I answer myself without even thinking:

  I’ve just masturbated to completion while fantasizing about a possibly psychotic patient covered in blood.

  This won’t work.

  I can’t possibly continue to treat Jaxon if I’m incapable of professional detachment.

  I sink deeper into the tub, but I’m afraid no amount of water will wash away my shame.

  Jaxon Covington can’t be my patient. And I see no other solution.

  I have to figure a way out of this.

  Jaxon

  Second session with Alison today.

  I’ve got my hair neatly combed, and I can’t quit playing with it as I sit at the cold metal table waiting for her. Maybe she prefers it tousled. I’ll have to find out.

  Pictures of me. Hidden on her desk.

  My cock throbs.

  I can’t wait to see her. I’ve been running her through my mind every second we’ve been apart. Her physical beauty is only an enhancement of her incredible mind.

  She gets me. I know it. Just like I know her.

  She must be starting to feel it.

  I start to worry, thinking she might be late.

  Why would she dawdle? What possible reason would she have for delaying?

  I rushed here this morning—made the guards bring me early because I couldn’t sit in my room getting annoyed by fucking jerk-offs.

  Finally, she comes walking down the hall.

  I’m not chained today. I didn’t expect to be. I knew it wouldn’t take much for her to feel safe around me.

  Well. Safe isn’t the point, is it?

  The point is that she wants my hands free to touch her…whether it’s safe or not.

  I know now, she wants me to touch her. She just doesn’t know how to go about it.

  I’ve learned so much about her. I have extensive records and quite a bit of rumor and hearsay. But I still don’t know how to approach her.

  That, I can only learn from watching her, absorbing her. Learning how she reacts.

  She’s making a psychologist out of me.

  I’ve always been an expert on human behavior. Now I’m learning a whole new game. She’s no quick study.

  She sweeps into the room, clutching her stack of files against her chest. Move them, pretty woman…

  Ah, the angel. She does.

  Her breasts push against a crimson blouse, buttoned down the front. Loose black skirt with dark stockings. The same black heels I saw last time.

  Must be her favorites.

  I’ll find out the brand and size and have them sent to her in every color.

  She smiles as she sits down, fiery hair flowing around her.

  “Hello, Jaxon, how are you today?”

  My hands twitch on the table. I want to touch her.

  But no. No sudden moves. Don’t scare the lovely doe.

  “Better now.”

  My voice is low and deep. I don’t move from my position deep in the chair, my eyes focused on her face.

  It’s time to cut the crap. I know she wants me. I need to let her know I want her, too.

  She looks uncertain, but I don’t move or change my expression. With my eyes, I trail over her, her face, her hair. I let my eyes crawl slowly over her body.

  With all my will, I direct my thoughts at her.

  Be certain. I want you as much as you want me.

  She ignores my intense stare and pulls out some papers. When she looks back at me, her eyes are bright yet detached somehow. What the fuck is going on?

  “Well then, Jaxon. Since our last session was ‘bullshit’—as you so eloquently put it— I’m wondering if you’d like to take another crack at the big question. Why do you hate being called ‘Jack?’?”

  My fists clench without my realizing. The whisper slips out before I can stop it.

  “It’s not my name.”

  “What did you say, sorry? I didn’t hear.”

  I clear my throat, sitting up. “Okay. You want the real story? The real reason I hate being called Jack? Well, I’ll tell you, Ali…”

  I let the pet name hang on the air. She smiles and blushes a little. I hear the ‘knock’ on the floor of her heel.

  There it is, that little twitch of hers. How I love it.

  “No one has ever called me Ali before.”

  “Wonderful.” I smile warmly for her. “That means it can be just between us.”

  She’s coming in, I can see it. Getting warmed up. Whatever reservations she had, they are fleeing now in the glamour of my physical presence.

  “I would very much like it if you can be honest with me.”

  “Okay,” I nod, solemnly, searching through my memories.

  I did the dear old Dad bit, didn’t I?

  “It wasn’t my father who was abusive. It was my mother. She used to duct tape me to the wall. When she did, she called me Jack. That was the only time. I was only three, I think, the first time she did it. She did it regularly. She would be sweet and loving, calling me Jaxon, giving me sweets and cake.

  “Then she’d suddenly say she’d had enough of me. She would grab the duct tape, paste me to the wall. It’s funny because she’s so fucking rich, it’s the only time she did anything that could be called manual labor. She’d get me strapped to the wall, then she’d start taunting me. ‘Find a beanstalk, Jack ol’ boy…’”

  The ‘click’ of her heel on the floor. She made a note.

  “You seem to be quite caught on the fairytale association to your diminutive name.”

  I’m actually startled. “What?”

  “You’ve mentioned on more than one occasion the fairy tales associated with the shortened version of your name. Do you care to comment on that?”

  “I…”

  I’m thrown for a second. Do I have an issue with the fairy tales?

  It never occurred to me. She really is fucking sharp.

  She looks up, her pale eyes fixing on mine and softening. It’s like she needs to be honest about something.

  Yes, baby. Spill your guts. Tell me all your truths.

  “Jaxon. I’m so sorry. But you might have a new doctor soon.”

  “WHAT?”

  I can’t take so many shocks at once.

  I feel suddenly vulnerable. I don’t like feeling like this.

  When I feel this way, people get hurt.

  “What are you talking about?” My eyes are stinging. “You can’t—I mean, no one has ever gotten me like you do.”

  I reach out and grasp her hand, just lightly. First touch.

  Tingles of pleasure all the way to my cock.

  “Ali. Please.”

  She shakes her head, all that red hair just shimmering like blood and flame.

  She squeezes my hand. “Jaxon—”

  “Don’t you want to see me anymore?” I force her eyes up to mine. “What’s wrong? You have to tell me.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Please. No one can fix me except you. You know that.”

  My guts are churning. She’s everything I need. She can’t just disappear.

  I won’t let this happen. I have to pull tight at her heartstrings, and quick.

  She’s about to speak again when there’s a buzz at the door. Prof has come to put in his two cents.

  Holy fuck, they aren’t going to give me to Charlie, are they? He’ll hang himself in a week.

  Alison heads out the door, where she and the prof begin to whisper frantically at each other. Blessing my free hands, I slide across the room like a cat to press my ear against the wood.

  “—you have two weeks to rehabilitate this patient. Do you understand, Dr. Hughes?” Prof sounds pissed.

  Well, so would I be if the last blow job I got was junior
high.

  “Doctor, I’ve been asking you to discuss this with me for some time. Not only are the parameters you set unrealistic, but I also have my doubts that I can—”

  “We have legal services waiting for our approval on this. We don’t have years. This case is so high profile; it’s the only test you need. He has to be ready for trial.”

  Ha! What a joke.

  I’m not going to trial. Prof might be smart, but he doesn’t understand how good my lawyers are.

  “With all due respect, doctor, under these terms and others I have previously stated, I’ll have to give up—”

  “Alison.” Prof changes his stance on the other side of the door. I picture him being fatherly, benevolent. “You know both I and the medical board expect great results on this. You’re not just gifted and talented; you have a drive that’s rarely seen in this field.”

  “You understand what’s at stake here,” he intones. “You must continue your work here and do it faster—no one else can work with this patient!”

  I lean against the door, grinning. Got that fucking right!

  I know I’m responsible for this. Not only have I got prof under the thumb, little Charlie’s school report probably also stated what a changed man Jaxon Covington is.

  All thanks to the very young, very talented Dr. Hughes.

  Prof hurries down the hallways, and I hear Ali sigh as she leans against the door.

  I lean against the door, too. Stroke it gently. Separated by an inch of wood.

  I leave my fingertips lightly against the door as I listen to her breathing.

  She’s so different from anyone I have ever met.

  Different from anyone I have ever bent to my will. She doesn’t react with emotion. She doesn’t let it get the better of her.

  She solves everything with her cold reason and never lets the world see how she really feels. God, how I adore her.

  Alison

  A sigh escapes my lips as I lean against the door and watch Doctor Gardner’s figure retreat down the hall after delivering his lovely ultimatum. And when that doesn’t adequately express my frustration, I add a whispered “fuck” for good measure.

  I take another moment to gather my thoughts and make a plan.

  This is just a challenge. It was never meant to be easy—that’s why it’s a test of my skills, my professionalism, and my clinical detachment.