Then his tongue is in my mouth, probing and searching. His metal stud explores the roof of my mouth, tapping the back of my front teeth.
Checkmark. One lifelong dream accomplished.
Once a live girl, I'm now a puddle of viscous fluid. Dripping. Dribbling. Deforming.
His strong hands find that tender spot in my lower back that sends goosebumps through my sides to my fingertips. I find myself grinding on his crotch. There I feel a torpedo struggling to cut through those jeans.
I can't help myself. I drift down to my knees, licking his bare chest over the vest on the way down.
My hands clasp his firm buttocks as I reach them, my prize now throbbing in front of me, only a thin piece of denim removing me from its splendor.
I reach forward and undo his belt buckle, then undo his jeans. Down goes his zipper.
No underwear. Handy.
Out comes the most beautiful sight I've ever seen, raised to full attention.
I lean forward and marvel at the magnificence of the solid splendid shaft towering above me. Ten inches, at least. Straight as a rod. Thick and meaty. Giant head.
I've always fantasized about what Damien Cage's cock would look like, painting fantastic pictures in my mind. Amazingly, the real deal is even better than I ever imagined.
I open my mouth to take it inside.
But he grabs me by the neck, stopping me.
Damn you! I want my prize. It's right here in front of me. What the fuck is wrong with you?
I look up at him. He stares deep into my eyes.
"Why did you come over here?" he says.
"I thought you said you knew," I say.
"I do, but I want to hear it from you."
God, we're going to talk? Right now? With this giant pole of veiny delight awaiting my lips and my tongue?
"I... uh… felt like I had to get away," I say.
"Get away?" Damien says. "Get away from what?"
"From that room."
"Why?"
"Because it was… um… I don't know. It got... no, I got... weird."
I look up at his face. His eyes are like daggers, winnowing deep into my soul, reading me. Almost cruel, like he distrusts me.
A disturbed look appears on his face, the moonlight cutting sharp shadows into his straight square jaw.
He raises me up, then lets go. He pulls up his pants, sealing up his beautiful torpedo.
Shit, what did I do wrong?
"You're conflicted," he says. "You're not free."
My head is spinning. I need a translator.
"Huh?" I say. "What… uh… do you mean?"
"You're stuck in a mind loop right now. I can see it in your eyes."
Mind loop? What the fuck is a mind loop?
Well, don't just think it, Annika! Ask him.
"What the fuck is a mind loop?" I say.
"There's a war going on in your head," he says. "I don't know what it is but I see it. You're conflicted... not free."
God, I'm so fucking confused. Not to mention frustrated. In turmoil. In heat. Aggravated. Horny. Afraid. Nearing overload.
"You won't let me suck your cock," I say, "but any one of those bouncing bimbos… sure, it's okay for one of them, right? What, I'm not worthy enough or something?"
Don't know where that came from. Just bubbled up from an inner cave somewhere in me.
"No, not at all," he says. "But there's a reason you walked out of that room."
Shit, he's right.
"What was it, Annika?"
"I'm not sure."
"Maybe you liked it. And that scared you."
Oh God, how does he read my mind?
"Whatever your fear is," he says, "you've got to confront it. You're much more complicated than I thought you'd be, Annika Spenser from MiamiImproper.com." He smiles. "I like that. Monday 10 a.m."
"Monday 10 a.m. what?"
"Our first session."
"Session?"
"You're going to write my book and I'm going to set you free. I will teach you freedom, liberty, and independence. But be warned. Lesson one is freedom. Freedom is submission. Submission is freedom."
"Jasmine said something like that."
His eyebrows go up.
"Jasmine is the wisest person I know," he says.
"I have to work Monday," I say.
He turns and shoots me a perplexed look.
"I thought you're a writer," he says.
"I work part-time at a hotel," I say. "The writing job doesn't pay."
He laughs.
"Call out sick," he says.
"I can't do that. There are people depending on me. Good people."
He laughs again.
"I like you," he says. "That's noble. Points added. Tuesday then. 10 a.m."
"That works."
He turns, heading off into the darkness.
"Oh, and quit that hotel job. With what I'm going to pay you, you won't need it."
Chapter 11
Delphina Diamond's office is on the fourth floor of a semi-circular office building directly across from Coral Gables City Hall. I pull into a space out back, then back out of it and into it a couple times because my automatic gearshift doesn't always go into Park on the first try.
Yeah, I know, I know. Need a new car. Doors won't lock either. Right side window doesn't go down. Brakes shaky. Probably shouldn't be on the road, but I can't afford a new one right now.
I walk out front through the thick steam bath of morning sunshine, then in past the weight-loss clinic on the first floor toward the elevator.
The office on the fourth floor reads Coral Gables Psychotherapy Associates. I open the door and walk in. The waiting area is cool and dim, a nice contrast to the sauna inferno outside that we call home. Two lamps, still using now-illegal tungsten bulbs, emit an inviting glow. Smooth jazz rounds out the relaxing atmosphere.
There are about ten chairs positioned against the wall around the room, but all are empty. Just me today, apparently.
I'm a little nervous because I've never done this before. I was brought up to think that psychologists are agents of Satan on Earth.
But I'm past that now.
Right?
I sit in one of the chairs, looking around for Delphina. Two offices face me, both doors open. Both are empty.
A third door is shut, an odd little round device sitting on the floor making a noise kind of like a radio station that's gone off the air. What the fuck is that? I notice each of the other two offices has one but they are silent.
This is weird. I should go.
Shut up, Annika! This is a good decision. You've got some baggage here. You need to talk to someone. Why not Delphina Diamond?
What the fuck kind of name is Delphina Diamond anyway? I picture a middle-aged Bal Harbour-type wearing a black glittery dress with too many rings and too much makeup.
I shouldn't be so skittish because she comes so highly recommended from Isabella, who would often fly back home from Boston just for a session with her.
Must be nice.
But I'm not Isabella.
Isabella had to learn how to be comfortable with a sexuality that is off the charts compared to mine. Is Delphina Diamond going to understand me?
Close your eyes and breathe, Annika!
I say om a few times, then the door to the closed office opens.
My heart jumps.
Out walks a man in his forties with salt-and-pepper hair. He glances at me quickly, then shifts his directly ahead of him as he beelines toward the door and exits.
"Annika?" says a woman in her late thirties. Long wavy dark blonde hair. Blue eyes. Very plain looking. Pink shirt, khaki pants, flats. Not much makeup. Could afford to lose a few pounds, but not heavy by any means.
Certainly not a Delphina Diamond. More of a Sally Jane Marsh.
"Yes," I say as I begin to stand.
"I'll be with you in a minute," she says.
"Okay."
I sit back down.
Hm. Nothing like how I
thought she would be. Doesn't look like a psychotherapist at all.
What the fuck is a psychotherapist supposed to look like, Annika?
Well, I always pictured a short bald man with a beard and little round glasses in a tweed suit. At least that's always how they looked in cartoons.
The door opens again.
"Come on in," she says.
I get up and follow her into the tiny room, shutting the door.
There are no windows. The desk where she sits is on the left side wall. There is a chair to the side of the desk near the door. I sit there, avoiding the couch on the other side of the room. I want to feel like I'm on equal ground with her.
Above the couch is a framed photograph of a waterfall. Soothing.
To the right of the couch is a tiny play area for kids, full of toys and games.
"Annika," says Delphina Diamond as she taps keys on her Mac laptop. Wish I had one of those. "I know we spoke on the phone but I can't find your information. What's your last name again?"
"Spenser," I say.
"Oh, yes, here it is. Spenser with an S. Like the detective."
"Yes. You've read Robert B. Parker?"
"I'm from Boston. I've actually met him several times at book signings. I have first editions of several of his books."
"No kidding. He's one of my favorite authors too. No literary genius, just plain writing that tells a good story with a lot of sarcasm and interesting characters. Great dialogue."
"Are you a writer?"
"I'm trying to be."
We talk a little about my life, while entering my insurance information into her Mac.
I feel comfortable with her. She radiates a genuine warmth. She has an amazing capacity for listening intently. Her face brightens up and glows when I talk about things that I'm interested in like my job at MiamiImproper.com.
After about ten minutes, I'm much more relaxed. The paperwork is out of the way, we've gotten to know the very basics of each other, and an easygoing conversational vibe has been established.
Then she asks the big question.
"So what brings you in to seek therapy, Annika?"
Hm, you'd think I would have formulated an answer to this one. But I just sit there with my mouth open about to say something but saying nothing.
Delphina Diamond raises an eyebrow. Is my lack of ability to know why I'm here a clue?
"I… need someone to talk to," I say.
She just nods, squinting warmly with an encouragement that says go on.
"I'm having issues finding my way. My friend Isabella gave me your name and spoke highly of you."
She continues to nod. I thought she might acknowledge Isabella, but she doesn't. We're not here to talk about Isabella. Nope, this is all about me.
Shit.
I hate talking about myself. But that would kind of make the whole point of psychotherapy moot, right?
"Freedom," I say, borrowing from Damien.
Delphina Diamond's eyebrows raise.
"Freedom," she says.
"Yes," I say. "Not sure why I said that. Just popped out."
"Are you not free?"
"Um… well, I'm not jailed by anybody. Sort of.Well… I don't know how to, um…"
"What does freedom mean to you, Annika?"
"Um… the ability to do what I want, I guess. To live my own life. The way I want to live it."
"Are you not living your own life the way you want to live it?"
"Um… sort of, I guess. I mean… it's not that I don't have physical freedom. Although I have no money, which limits that. But it's more of a… um… mental thing?"
She nods again.
"Who do you live with?" she says.
"My mother," I say.
"How long have you lived with her?"
"Twenty-two years… well, I lived one semester at college."
"Oh!" Her eyes brighten up. "Where did you go to college?"
"The U", I say.
"The University of Miami?"
"Yes."
"Right here in Coral Gables?"
"Yes."
"Where did you grow up?"
"Here. Coral Gables."
She frowns and leans back.
"Why did you choose the U?"
I look down and to my left. There is a speck of lint on the cord that stretches from her laptop to the wall plug. I resist the urge to bend down and remove it.
"I needed to be close to my mom," I say.
"Why?" she says.
"Because when I turned eighteen I didn't think she was ready to be without me yet. She had put a lot into our life together and I didn't just want to abandon her."
"What about your dad?"
"He took off when I was six months old. Nervous breakdown after running for mayor of Coral Gables and losing. My parents had been married for eleven years."
Delphina Diamond looks up, then back at me.
"So he abandoned her?" she says.
"Yes," I say.
"Do you ever see him?"
"No. I don't speak to him anymore. He's a world class liar and tried to take our house away from us. He thought his name was still on the deed but he didn't know my mom had it removed. She was smarter than he thought."
"Does it piss you off that he abandoned you and your mom?"
"Yes."
"Did she deserve better than that?"
"Yes."
"Were you afraid of being like your father if you went to college somewhere else, an abandoner like him?"
Shit, Isabella was right. This woman cuts right down to it.
"Yes," I say with tears in my eyes.
"We have some work to do here," says Delphina Diamond.
Yes we do.
Chapter 12
I went into the office over the weekend to get away from my mother and try to write my article on Damien Cage.
Now it's Tuesday morning and I'm on my way to my first "session" with Damien. But I left my phone charger at my desk so I stop by the office. Need to check email too.
Shit, Steve's BMW is in the parking lot!
I had hoped I could avoid Steve seeing as I'm so behind with my work.
Fuck, I haven't even started my article on Damien Cage yet. Every time I try, I end up fantasizing about him which leads to whipping out my blue buddy.
I walk past the open door to the promotion company. Amber... or is it Ashley?... is there at her desk with her smug little smile.
The private eye's door is shut. Always shut, actually. Never seen him, in fact. Wonder if he actually exists.
At the door to MiamiImproper.com, I hesitate. I take a deep breath, open it softly, and glide in. I tiptoe past Steve's closed door and to my office. Well, actually, it's Dale's and my office. More like a closet, actually. Like I said, MiamiImproper.com isn't making much money.
On my desk is a bouquet of red roses. My heart leaps. There is an envelope that reads "Annika."
Oh my God!
I stare at the flowers. They're gorgeous. Red roses.
Red fucking roses!
I put my hand up to my mouth to stifle a happy laugh. I can't believe Damien sent these.
Gingerly, I take the envelope. My fingers caress the edges of it, savoring the moment.
I open it up, and take out the card. It reads:
Annika,
I will always love you.
Love,
Jared
I stare at the name, trying to change the letters around to form Damien. But no amount of willpower moves them. These flowers are from Jared.
Shit.
I really fucked that up, didn't I? Oh God, I'm a terrible human being.
I set my bag down quietly and boot up Windows XP. The Microsoft wakeup tone is loud. Too loud.
Steve's door swings open. He steps over to my door.
"Where the fuck have you been?" he says.
"Hi Steve," I say.
He leans on the doorjamb, arms folded. His giant shoulders blot out almost all light behind him.
"Do you even respond to your texts anymore?" he says.
"Sorry. Things have been a little weird lately."
I knew Steve was going to be mad. Don't blame him. After texting him that I did the interview last week, we had one quick phone call during which I promised I would have an article done by this week.
So far I have the first sentence. I think I've typed it forty-six times.
"You know," he says," I don't understand you at all. I give you the assignment of a lifetime and suddenly I don't even know you anymore. You're evasive. You have the personality of a rotted turnip. Where is Annika and what have you done with her?"
"Steve," I say as Windows XP finally comes to life, "I promise I'll have an article for you this week. I'm meeting Damien again today."
"Today? Why again? Between last week's interview and that party on Friday night, you should have enough material by now."
"Yes, I know, I know. But this is just so I'll have… um… more."
"I should have sent Dale. I don't believe this. You can't handle this. I should have sent Dale. I should have sent Dale."
"Steve, this is going to be really good. I promise. I'm getting deep here."
Steve just stares at me. He shakes his head.
"Oh my God, you fucked him, didn't you?"
"No! I swear I didn't. But... I did see his cock."
"I should have sent Dale. I didn't send you to see his cock. Wait, what do you mean you saw his cock? What, did he just whip it out to show you?"
"No... well, he did kiss me. It just... I don't know... it was weird. This whole Roman garden place we were in."
"Roman garden?"
Steve's voice has changed. It's a little deeper, coming from the back of his throat.
"Yes, outside. Somehow we ended up out there and he kissed me... and one thing led to another."
Steve keeps on staring at me.
"Sorry," I say. "Fine, you should have sent Dale."
There is a long pause. I read an email. Steve doesn't go away.
"What's it like?" Steve finally says.
"What's what like?"
"His cock."
I feel a warm flush traveling over my body at the very thought of it.
"Um... massive," I say. "Straight. Solid. Hard. Pointing upward. Giant balls."
Steve just continues to stare.
"I want something by Wednesday," he says, then quickly goes into his office and closes the door.
Skylar Cross - [The Cage Sessions 02] Page 3