by J. D. Chase
I managed to get past them to see him. Eventually. They were literally guarding his room. My guess is that they’re waiting for his boyfriend to turn up. If they bothered to talk to their son, they’d know he doesn’t have a boyfriend—part of the reason for his acts of despair. I left the building with his promise to contact me—even if the Trust didn’t end up referring him to me officially. Bernie is fighting for it, but with NHS cutbacks, it’s looking unlikely. I have to tread carefully. Very carefully. I don’t understand the intricacies of budgets and politics.
All I know is that these kids need help. And I said so, when I went toe-to-toe with the financial director of the Trust—and found myself staring at a possible criminal conviction. Well, it was more like hand-to-face than toe-to-toe, when all he could do was quote figures. It still makes my palm itch. How can you put a price on a kid’s life? I’m not sure whether it was my outspoken passion for helping vulnerable kids that won over the chief executive or whether it was the thought of a potentially embarrassing story in the press. Either way, no charges were brought against me but I have to keep a low profile. I do what I can to put pressure on them through charities and patient groups and by lobbying my useless MP but it makes no difference.
I find myself on the verge of giving them free treatment sometimes but I have to be strong and refrain. Why? Because my week would be full of them and I’d still have to turn some away. I’d have no money, no roof over my head—or The Kid’s—and we’d end up back at square one, except that I’d have nowhere to practise, I’d be living in a homeless shelter if I was lucky enough to find a space and my reputation would be in tatters. And the final slap on the face? Nothing would have changed—it would all have been for nothing. Well, except for the fact that I probably wouldn’t be able to help these kids in any way, not if I was homeless and potless. Besides, if it meant that I lost The Kid, I’d probably be rocking backwards and forwards in a padded cell somewhere. So I do what I can to strike a balance and to put pressure on the system. But I know it’s not enough. It’s never enough.
The thought of what could happen to Dan makes my blood boil. Two attempts at taking his life by the age of seventeen. In a fair and just world, it wouldn’t be a question of finance when it came to saving a life. But then, if it were a fair and just world, Dan wouldn’t feel that there was no way out other than to end his life.
The frustration over uncertainty about his much-needed treatment has made me antsy. I know how to cure it and I know I need to do so before I meet with Dean. Me, in this mood, is the last thing he needs. For now, anyway.
I stride down the corridor, peeking into the rooms whose occupants have brazenly left the doors open. I see nothing. Nothing that will satisfy my needs.
I head into the main club area, eyes scanning the dimly lit room. It’s early yet. I almost growl in frustration. I know I shouldn’t. I know I promised. But, in my defence I had my fingers crossed when I promised. I sweep up to the bar.
My favourite barman, Gabe, sees me approach. He regards me warily. And with good reason. He’s an incredible sub. He can read people well—especially when they’re radiating dominant vibes directly at him. He quirks an eyebrow. Oh yeah, he knows. He shakes his head and his gaze silently implores me. But I’m in no mood to be gallant. I need a sub at my feet and I need it now.
I respect his pledge of chastity to his Mistress. But we both know that I’m excluded from that pledge. He wishes to honour her completely and, up until now, I’ve refrained from tempting him. I released my last sub from service when The Kid became a part of my life. I don’t regret that. I’d do anything for him but at moments like this . . .
Gabe is saved when my attention is drawn to the far end of the bar. Settling himself onto a barstool is Spike, one of my former clients. He’s not fully broken in but, in order to save Gabe’s modesty, he’ll do. Gabe follows my gaze and I see relief wash over him. I want to reach out and cup his cheek but I don’t. He’s gorgeous. Inside and out. I should have taken him when I had the chance over a year ago—something I’ve kicked myself for more than once. He’s just my type: so incredibly fucking manly. Outside of the bedroom, he’s all alpha. Inside, he’s one of the strongest submissives I’ve ever encountered. Obedience personified and with such dignity and grace. Letting him slip through my fingers is one of the few things in my life that I regret.
I wrap my fingers around his substantial biceps and lean in close to his ear. ‘You escape. This time, babe.’
I catch the lobe of his ear between my teeth and nip. He barely flinches. As I pull away I see regret as well as relief in his eyes. The resultant ego boost sends me striding down the bar to the delight of Spike. As soon as our eyes meet, I click my fingers and turn. He follows me out back without hesitation.
Forty minutes later, I’m feeling much calmer. It’s amazing how ensuring your sub gets exactly what they need can concentrate the mind. And how several orgasms can then relax it. I even have nice shiny boots—though not courtesy of Spike’s tongue. I remembered that, as much as he’s into verbal degradation, he’s not a huge fan of humiliation. So, after I’d cable tied his balls and sat on his face until he could barely feel his tongue, he’d polished my boots the traditional way. I’d rewarded him with four more orgasms (mine) and a little more CBT (his).
Now, I cradle a Jack Daniels as I wait for Dean. It’s time and he’s not here. It irks me. I hope he turns up sober otherwise I’ll have the bouncers kick him out on his arse. He’s royally pissed them off lately so they’ll be none too gentle—despite what I say.
I glance at the clock again and I can feel my calm state begin to slide, despite Dean only being a couple of minutes late. So far. I’ve left The Kid alone too much lately. I know that I need to do some serious work on his social skills. I think he’s ready. Ready to begin to socialise within the safe confines of my flat. Before we take the next step. Literally. Getting The Kid to set foot outside the front door will take some doing. At nineteen, he’s rather too big to strap into kiddie reins or to hold my hand. I picture that briefly and smile. People would most likely think I have a young lover—almost half my age.
Call me weird, but that appeals to me on some level. Not because of my vanity—The Kid is a good-looking young man—but because it flies in the face of ‘normal’ people’s expectations. The knowledge that it would make some folk raise an eyebrow or feel the need to pass judgement and gossip is what makes it appealing. Especially since it’s so far from the truth. I guess I’ve always been a non-conformist—the idea of living within society’s perception of ‘appropriate’ has never appealed to me. Maybe that’s part of what makes me such a successful therapist for people whose situations are deemed to be ‘unusual.’
I laugh at the fact that my brain is putting quotation marks around dubious vocabulary. I always seem to do that. I guess it’s how I get my head around the fact that others don’t always see the world as I do. I’m a liberal. I’m a pacifist. I’m just one Homo sapiens in a world of seven billion others. A world that often feels the need for prejudice against anyone who doesn’t conform to the ‘norm.’ A world that barely gets a handle on the fact that there are lesbian, gay, bisexual, transsexual, transgender and gender-nonconforming individuals walking the planet every day.
More and more of my clients come from such backgrounds in some way and often, although I never set out to specialise in child and adolescent therapy, my clients are children—either they or their parent(s) fall into one of these groups. Social stigma, discrimination and bullying often the cause of suffering—and for what? To sate other people’s need for spite, born out of nothing more than ignorance. And the do-gooders campaign for tolerance. I hate that fucking concept! We shouldn’t tolerate differences. We should accept them. Embrace them. Fucking celebrate them.
Although I set out to specialise in BDSM relationship matters, I cannot turn my back on those kids. Kids like The Kid. I screw my eyes shut, trying to block out what I know of his background. Whilst I’d never belittle
children in therapy for one of the aforementioned reasons, their issues seem like a walk in the park compared with The Kid’s. Some days I can barely face up to it but God knows, he has to. Every single damned day. They say time is a healer. I know it’s true—I’ve seen it. And felt it. But there are some things that are too infected, too poisonous, too evil to heal fully.
I shudder and toss back my drink. So much for nursing it. It makes me shudder again. I pull a face and signal to Gabe to pour me another. As he slides it across the bar and into my waiting hand, he leans over and whispers, ‘Better?’
I blink demurely and ignore the question. I could tell him that it would have been better if he’d been the one to kneel at my feet. But I don’t have to. He knows.
He looks down the length of the bar to where Spike is sitting, listening to the conversation of two other regulars who are discussing something or another. Their expressions look angry, contorted with the passion of their beliefs. Spike has a huge smile plastered on his face.
‘Someone’s certainly feeling better,’ Gabe smirks.
I grin. ‘Was there ever any doubt of that?’
‘Lucky bastard,’ he mutters, looking suitably miserable.
I reach out and take his hand in mine. ‘One day, Gabe. One day, I promise.’ I give his hand a squeeze.
He looks at me with hope in his eyes. Hope that’s immediately erased by guilt. I give him a tight smile.
‘Do you need me to cage you?’ My intention is purely to help him to refocus. Working in a place like this with a vow of chastity hanging over your cock, cannot be easy.
He frowns and purses his lips slightly, as if choosing his words carefully. ‘Right now, a cage would probably cripple me—I’m too preoccupied with thoughts of just what it was that you did to Spike to put that smile on his face. Besides, if your hand was to come within a foot of my cock, I doubt you’d be able to get a cage to fit . . . at least, one that wouldn’t defy the object of the exercise. It’s a good job I have the bar to hide behind as it is.’
I throw back my head and roar with laughter, drawing the attention of everyone in the vicinity. The devil in me is tempted to sneak a peek over the bar but I’m reined in by the appearance of Dean, looking somewhat harassed.
‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ he gushes, slightly out of breath.
I give him merit for rushing and for his apology but I’m no pushover. Noting his sobriety, I look to Gabe and say, ‘Give the man a pint. He looks like he needs one.’
Then, as Gabe busies himself obeying my request, I turn to Dean. ‘I presume you have a good excuse for your tardiness?’
He nods, looking like a naughty schoolboy. ‘Yeah, my mother—’
A suspicion raises its head in my mind—not for the first time. ‘I didn’t say I wanted to hear it. I’m giving up my time—free of charge, since you can’t afford to pay me at the moment—to help you. The least you could do is not waste any of it,’ I snap with unnecessary force—well, it’s necessary to confirm my suspicion.
Chastisement complete.
He looks at me with puppy dog eyes, full of remorse and sincerity. Then he nods and apologises again before looking to me in earnest.
Bingo!
Attention rapt. Eager to please. A mummy’s boy.
Naturally submissive.
A submissive?
The planned evening’s entertainment should give me the answer to that.
I give him chance to drink his pint. It doesn’t take long.
‘Something on your mind, Dean?’ I ask, when he lowers the empty glass.
‘Huh?’
I regard him shrewdly, taking my time to explain. ‘You seem agitated. I want to know why.’
He shrugs. ‘I was late.’
‘Because of your mother . . . ’
He nods. ‘She says I’m drinking too much and wasting my holiday.’
I continue to regard him closely. ‘She thinks you’re taking annual leave from your job?’
He shoots me a look of abject horror. ‘What, you think I’d tell her that I took advantage of my boss when she was pissed? Not to mention the rest.’
‘The rest?’
He scowls. ‘You know what I mean.’
I smile. ‘Yes, I do. And I didn’t expect you to have told your mother exactly what had happened. I was just clarifying the situation—whether you’d told her you’d booked some time off. What’s interesting is your reluctance to verbalise ‘the rest.’ You have to face up to it, Dean. You face up to it, accept it and then deal with it. Tell me. You took advantage of your boss when she was pissed . . . ’
I look at him expectantly. He looks like he wants the floor to open up. Then he looks at his empty glass mournfully. Finally, he sighs.
‘I fucked my boss but couldn’t satisfy her. I couldn’t make her come.’
Man, he looks miserable. It would be easy to tell him that his boss was pissed, and that if she hadn’t been, she might have faked it like women do every day. But I wouldn’t be doing him any favours. When I met him last night, I suspected there was more to it than being unable to bring a woman to orgasm. My suspicion now partially confirmed, I can’t let him off the hook easily.
I decide it’s time to move things along.
‘Come on,’ I say, as I stand. ‘We’re expected and we’re already late.’
Dean’s still staring at his empty glass.
‘Gabe, we’ll be in the playroom. Could you give us five and then bring us refills?’ I call down to him.
He nods, not breaking from the conversation he’s having as he serves someone further down the bar.
For the second time tonight, I stride off to the back of the club with an eager man in tow. This time though, it’s all about him. I’m working. Besides, I doubt there’ll be anything that I’ve not seen before. Probably nothing that I’ve not experienced before. But Dean, he’s practically a virgin. I’ll bet within five minutes he’s going to be like a kiddie in a sweetshop. All big eyes and drool. Oh, and with a raging hard-on. Okay, so perhaps that’s not the most appropriate analogy. Hmm, a teen in a gaming convention with a porno playing on the big screen—that’s better. But for me, it’s just another day in the office.
I FOLLOW MY SEX therapist past the bouncers who control access to the private rooms and into the corridor out the back. My heart’s pumping. I’m not used to these places and being in her presence unnerves me.
She told the barman we’re going to the playroom. What the fucking hell is that? What are we going to play? We’re in a sex club . . . naked Twister?
I feel a weird mixture of curiosity and fear. Like I can’t wait to find out but I also don’t want to know. I’m afraid to find out. Afraid that I might make an idiot out of myself. I find myself not wanting to disappoint this woman—not even slightly. I had to run here until I could hail a cab after my mother detained me. All I could think of was not letting my therapist down. She throws me, this sexual creature who is several years older than me, but has a whole world of experience under her belt. She’s gorgeous. Fucking sexy as. But she’s like nobody I’ve ever met before. She’s fearless. Completely inappropriate. Confident as fuck. Scary as fuck too. And for some reason that I can’t fathom, she wants to help me. For free.
Oh my God! What if she’s going to fuck me? In the playroom? And . . . fuck—there might be other people watching. And . . . I can’t. I can’t do this.
I find my feet glued to the floor. I try to turn but my feet are blocks of concrete. I can’t even get out of here. Panic wells up inside me. I’ve made enough of a twat out of myself lately. I can’t face doing it again.
Then she’s there. Right in my face. An inquisitive look on hers. She reads my unspoken fears and smiles.
‘It’s okay,’ she whispers. ‘We don’t get naked tonight. Not even if you beg. Tonight we watch and we learn. Okay?’
Relief floods through me like I’ve just won a reprieve on death row. But my chest still feels like it’s constricted and my skin tingles—the rem
nants of my narrowly averted panic attack. She takes my hand and smiles and, just like a switch has been flicked, it’s gone. If that’s part of her skill as a sex therapist, then she’s fucking awesome because I find myself being pulled along and into a large room, feeling as relaxed and eager as anything.
The room is almost in darkness and it’s silent. I think we’re the only ones inside. She leads me to a large bed in the centre of the room. When I say large, I mean massive. It could sleep probably six people comfortably—if it wasn’t piled high with cushions.
I follow her lead and clamber on the bed, sitting upright against a wedge of cushions.
‘Okay,’ she says. ‘This is the deal. You’re going to see quite a lot of different couples and groups engaging in different sexual activities. You are to watch them from here. They’re all perfectly okay with that. You are not to speak to them or approach them. If they approach you and invite you to join them, you decline politely. We will be discussing what we see but we do so discreetly so as not to disturb anyone. Do you understand?’
I gulp. I nod but the realisation that there are going to be couples and groups . . . groups! . . . in front of us having sex and that they might invite me to join in is mind-blowing.
I know I’m not very sexually experienced. I know I’m no Christian Grey (whatever he does, exactly). And I’m certainly not in the league of La Veuve Noire beside me. But suddenly, I feel like I’m on the edge of something. On the edge of something big. And I don’t mean the bed. My skin starts to tingle again—this time not through panic—it’s my adrenaline pumping out of excitement.