by Lynn Cooper
His tongue takes possession of my mouth, and it’s an exquisite combination of strength and softness. A velvet caress with the power to delight and devour. To capture and set free.
Before I can give as good as I am getting, he pulls back a fraction. Yet, he keeps his lips close to mine, making sure I can feel the breath of his words. “So warm and wet. How can just one kiss make your beautiful cunt rain on my hand?”
I can’t form a single thought much less a word of reply as his finger slips from my love bud to caress a trail down to my entrance. Without pretense, he penetrates me, groaning as he slides it deeper inside. With a look of desire and determination, he finds the spot that makes me writhe and push against him like a wanton hussy.
“If you were mine,” he growls, “If I were capable of caring for you, I’d fuck you in every room of this office building until your honey coated every surface. I’d make you come every chance I got, multiple times an hour for the entire duration of the day and night. You’d squirm beneath me, begging and pleading for me to stop torturing you with pleasure.”
His filthy words are so intensely arousing that I quiver to my core.
“Please, Quill,” I whimper.
“Please what, Temptress? Please stop? Please don’t?” he asks with an arrogant smirk.
“I—I don’t know,” I cry, feeling as if I’m about to unravel from the inside out. How can mere words evoke such overwhelming sensations?
Pulling his finger from me, he brings with it a band of moisture to cover my clit. The natural lubrication combined with his expert maneuvers liquefies my body, sending currents of pure lust through my limbs. Each flick of his finger over that sensitized bundle of nerves threaten to surge like a tidal wave, tossing me around like a ragdoll.
Once again, he presses his lips to mine as I dangle dangerously close to the edge of a precipice that promises more pleasure than I have ever known. In a few fiery seconds, my entire body shakes as the orgasm I’ve been straining toward rips through me. I fall apart on the plush theatre seat, completely shattered and sated.
Glancing at the clock on the wall, Dr. Midian gets to his feet and says, “Our time is up for today, Miss Patton. Don’t forget to stop by Helen’s desk and schedule your next appointment on your way out.”
Just like that, he turns away, dismissing me. Like nothing out of the ordinary has happened. Like what we shared doesn’t matter to him at all.
The least I can do is leave with some shred of dignity, I think as I pull my trench coat on and tie the belt tightly around my waist. This flimsy, fabric is all that’s holding my shell-shocked soul together.
IF HELEN NOTICED MY kiss-swollen lips, flushed face or disheveled hair as I was leaving, she didn’t let on. Like the nice, consummate professional she is, Dr. Midian’s receptionist bid me goodbye, treating me with an air of respect I definitely do not deserve.
Sliding behind the wheel of my car, I refuse to feel even the slightest twinge of guilt over not making my next appointment. It’s only Monday, and I have the rest of the week to set something up. I wouldn’t be so stupid as to violate my parole but, right now, I need to burn rubber. To have some semblance of control. To put a little distance between myself and what transpired in that office.
Disobeying Dr. Midian was probably not wise, but it was dare-devilish. A smile breaks across my face when I think about how much Myrna would admire my act of rebellion. Feeling an overwhelming urge to share my experience with her, I turn my car in the direction of Burlesque Boulevard.
The continuing deluge of rain makes me wish I had not left my umbrella at home. Between the inclement weather and mid-morning traffic, it takes me a good thirty minutes to get to her apartment building. By the time I enter the lobby, I look like a drowned rat. My coat is vulgarly clinging to me, and my hair is plastered to my head in wild, dripping-wet strands. If Dr. Midian could see me now, he might think twice about repeating the obscene things he did to me earlier.
When I reach the second floor, I see Father Kempton inserting his key into his door. He gives me a nervous look as if he is terrified that at any moment I might untie my belt and flash him. I offer him a small smile, hoping to reassure him a little. He nods curtly and rushes inside without a backward glance.
I feel a surge of sadness, like the kind that comes when you know your actions have hurt your fellow man. Damn Dr. Midian for getting into my head. For making me see that my choices and behaviors affect more than just me. I can’t help but wonder what sort of rippling results his conduct will have. The way he treated me in his office earlier will most certainly carry heavy consequences.
Refusing to get bogged down with scenarios that haven’t happened yet, I knock on Myrna’s door. I’m in the mood for crazy food combos and alcohol. A little girl time with my best friend is exactly what I need.
When my repetitive banging is met with silence, fear infiltrates my mind. The panic creeps up around my throat as I use the extra key Myrna gave me to gain entrance. I step over the threshold, and the smell of stale air assaults my nostrils. The whole place is dark. I call out her name, thinking maybe she is having one of her migraines and has gone to lie down in the bedroom.
The answer I get chills my bones. The voice doesn’t come from inside the apartment but from behind me. And it’s definitely not Myrna.
It’s Dr. Midian.
Spinning around, I shoot him with invisible death daggers from my eyes. Too bad a look can’t kill for real. Fury infuses my voice as I ask, “Did you fucking follow me?”
“Yes. I slipped out the back of my office and tailed you here,” he says, stepping deeper into the apartment and shutting the door.
“Why?”
“I knew my somewhat chilly brush off would rile you. It was logical for you to run to your best friend in hopes of having a little man-bashing party to cheer you up.”
“Somewhat? I let you kiss me and put your finger in my pussy. You acted as if it meant nothing. You were a real bastard! Correction—you are a real bastard!”
“There’s no need for repetition, Zuri. And if we’re being honest here, you didn’t let me do those things; you begged me to do them.”
“Go to hell, you whack job! How did somebody as insane as you ever get to be a psychotherapist?”
“For your information, I’ve already been to hell, woman. The road to my career path was a long, winding one. A story for another time. This little exercise we’re about to embark upon is all about you, Temptress.”
Chapter Eight
Quill Midian
SURVEYING THE ENTRYWAY, IT’S obvious this apartment hasn’t been inhabited in months. There are more cobwebs in the corners than in the entire Munster’s mansion. Zuri’s delusion is so deeply seated, she truly can’t tell fiction from fact. But I’m going to help her. Show her what’s real.
I feel like shit for the way I acted after our shared intimacies, but rebuffing her was the only way to force her in this direction. Once I get her on the other side of all this, she and I can more closely examine what’s between us. I just hope I can resist her long enough to do what needs to be done.
I didn’t think she could look more beautiful than she did in my office, but I was wrong. With that silly trench coat suctioned against her flawless skin and her mane of thick hair glistening with rain water, she is breathtakingly gorgeous.
So badly I want to strip her naked, dry her with a soft, fluffy towel and carry her to the nearest bed. But the placement of her hands on her hips and the glint of hate in her glare tells me my efforts would not be welcome. I take a tentative step forward. Her nostrils flare from anger. I don’t like being on the receiving end of her animosity. I would prefer to have her panting beneath me, purring in pleasure while I fuck her senseless.
Although it is highly inappropriate, I crave her in the worst way. Not her company. Not her conversation but her pussy. Her peach of an ass. I want to believe this desire raging inside me is strictly physical, but she’s done something bad to me. She’s turned
my heart from a cold, black, desolate abyss back into a warm, glowing, living entity. And I don’t like it worth a damn. I don’t want to need her. To pine over her or write her sappy love songs. I want to expunge myself of her via sex. Bend her over that old, dusty chair filled with crafting crap and slide my aching cock deep inside her. I want to pin her in place with the front of my thighs pressed hard against the back of hers. With my hands clamped like steel brackets around the curves of her hips, I want to make her scream and squirm while I relentlessly drive into her sweet, wet depths.
But what I want isn’t important. The only thing that matters is her healing. I can help her with that. This is what I do best.
With a huge huff, she asks, “Why are you here, Dr. Midian?”
“To meet Myrna, of course.”
Zuri spreads her arms and looks around. “Well, I guess you’re shit out of luck, mister. As you can clearly see, she isn’t here.”
“Isn’t she?”
“What the hell are you suggesting? You think Myrna’s playing hide-and-seek with us? That she’s crouched down in the closet, waiting for us to find her?”
“No. I think if you want to find Myrna, all you have to do is look in the mirror.”
She whirls on me with her hand careening toward my cheek. I don’t know when this woman will learn. I’m too fast and too strong. She’s never going to land a slap.
Grabbing both her wrists and securing them in my hand, I drag her to the living room. From the entryway, I can see the square, brass frame of an antique mirror. It’s time for Zuri to literally face the truth. Standing behind her, I hold her gaze in the reflection. Her eyes mist, and her shoulders sag.
On a sad sigh, she says, “A few weeks after Ritter’s funeral, I came here to talk to the landlord about getting out of our rental agreement.”
I release her wrists and wrap my arms around her waist in a nonsexual way. My patient looks like she could use the physical support. “The two of you were going to live in this apartment?”
She nods. “Only for six months until we could find some land to build our dream house on. He and I actually slept here a couple of nights before his fatal accident.”
I recall her responses during our word association exercise:
Me: Car.
Her: Wreck.
Me: Death.
Her: Ritter.
“Two grownups playing house.”
She smiles through her tears. “Yeah. For laughs, he pretended to be an elderly man, reading the newspaper then napping on the sofa. I pretended to be his bride of fifty years, knitting and cross-stitching in that dusty, old chair,” she says sniffling. “That’s how our life should have played out. We were supposed to be married for a long, long time. The night before our wedding, he asked me if I wanted to take a car ride in the country to see a horse he was thinking about buying.”
“But you didn’t go with your husband-to-be.”
“No.”
“Why not? I should think you would have wanted to spend every possible minute you could with him.”
“I did. I never wanted to be away from him, but my stupid, selfish mother insisted I spend my last night at home with her. I should have stood my ground. But she ran that old I-gave-birth-to-you guilt trip on me, and I caved.”
“When you and I met, you told me you were an orphan.”
She shrugs. “I lied. Not intentionally, mind you. At the time, I believed what I was saying. I suppose I invented that delusion just like I made up Myrna.”
I’m relieved to hear Zuri’s admission. Now we can get down to the business of getting her well. “That makes perfect sense. You were angry at your mother. You blamed her for Ritter’s accident. So your subconscious got rid of her for you.”
“I was angry and still am, but not for the reason you said.”
“Oh?”
“I don’t blame her for the car wreck. It probably would have happened even if I had been with him. A tire blew, and he lost control of the car, hitting a tree head-on. That wasn’t her fault. But I do blame her for robbing me of those last precious hours with him. I should have been there for my fiancé.”
“Had you been, you might have gotten injured. Perhaps ended up in a wheel chair or, worse, been killed as well.”
“Maybe. But at least that way, we would have gotten our ‘til-death-do-us-part moment.”
“You’re romanticizing a tragedy.”
“So what? I’ll tell you this: dying with Ritter would have been a heck of a lot easier than mourning him. Grief sucks! Do you know what it’s like to be so cold inside you think you’ll never get warm again? To have your heart hemorrhage uncontrollably?”
“Yes.”
“When Ritter died, the cops came and told me the news as nonchalantly as if they were reciting baseball scores. To them, he was nothing. To me, he was everything. The loss was immense, truly soul-shattering. His dying hollowed me out,” she says, shaking in my arms. “Dr. Midian, I wish I could tell you the shock dulled the pain, but it didn’t. The second I heard Ritter was gone for good, my legs literally buckled. I stumbled into the wall. You would have thought I’d slide down easy, but no. My knees crashed first onto the hardwood floor. My vision blurred with tears. Once they started, I couldn’t stop crying, gasping, trembling. I was inconsolable. Dizziness and nausea overwhelmed me, driving me to the bathroom where I retched for hours. I’ve tried to move on. To get past the hurt, honest I have. I thought time would heal my wounds, allowing the ache to ebb away. But if anything, it has become even more potent. More deeply rooted, digging its sharp fangs in until I can do nothing but walk around in a dense fog, bleeding internally.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, Zuri.”
“I don’t want your dumbass auto-response. I need something real and honest. Something to ground me. Something to connect to.”
Wrapping my arms a little tighter around her, I say the most honest thing I know. “Most of our lives, we keep secret corners of ourselves hidden behind fake smiles and insincere pleasantries. But in times of grief, we can no longer hide our true selves. The pain is too real and raw to be concealed. It becomes a thread of steel, binding together all who have ever suffered such degrees of sadness.”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass about philosophical generalizations. I want to know what’s inside you. Tell me, Doctor, have you ever experienced a hurt so devastating it destroys you on a molecular level, altering who you are?”
“Yes.”
“Is yes the only thing you can say, Quill? How the fuck can I believe you have the foggiest clue about what I’m feeling if you give me nothing but one-word answers?”
“Fine. When I was fourteen, my mother died suddenly from a brain aneurysm. One minute she was baking Christmas cookies, the next she was lying on the hard tiles of our kitchen with blood gushing from her ears and nose. The doctor said she was dead before she hit the floor, but that was little consolation to me and my baby brother Benjamin.”
“Oh, no. I’m so sorry—l”
“Fucking save it. There’s more. This is what you want, right? To hear all about my heartache,” I say, loosening my grip on her waist and spinning her around to face me.
“I—I—”
“Stop your damn stuttering. A year later, I came home early from football practice. I had twisted my ankle, and the coach told me I should go lie on my couch, ice and elevate it. When I approached our house, I saw a light shining beneath the garage door. My dad’s truck was parked in the driveway. It seemed odd at that time of day,” I say, taking a steadying breath. “As I got closer, I could hear little, twelve-year-old Benjamin sobbing. I grabbed the handle and flung open the garage door. My fucking bastard of a father had my baby brother bent over a saw horse. He was sodomizing him.”
“Oh my God!”
“Zuri, if there was a God, sick shit like that wouldn’t happen. Anyway, I tore into the disgusting pedophile. While I was beating the damn daylights out of him, Benjamin ran off. I was so engrossed in the act of punis
hment that I didn’t notice until it was too late.”
“Too late for what?”
“To save Ben. It was only after I heard the blare of sirens that I knew what he had done. He ran across the neighbor’s field to the old water tower. While I was trying to avenge him, Benjamin was climbing to the top and jumping to his death. So the answers to your questions are yes, yes, and goddamn, yes! I know all about grief. I know exactly what it’s like to have chunks of your heart ripped out until there’s nothing left. I know how it can fucking decimate a person. How it can change them from a normal, functioning human being into a delusional mess like you. Or a self-mutilating sociopath like me,” I bellow, shucking off my jacket and ripping open my shirt for her to see just how well I understand pain.
Chapter Nine
Zuri Patton
THERE’S A CRISSCROSSING LATTICE work of scars covering Quill’s muscled chest and ripped abs. So many I can’t even begin to count them. Some are fine lines, others are wide and raised, but all of them are faded and flesh-toned. My psychotherapist is a cutter. Or, at least, he was.
I must have been wearing the question on my face, because he automatically offers up clarification.
“I stopped the cutting when I went to college. Once I had a definite direction for my life and other outlets for the pain, I was able to lay my knife down.”
I’m speechless as I trace a web of wound patterns with the tips of my trembling fingers.
His hands move to my shoulders, but he doesn’t stop me from studying and touching his torso.
“Just as my body has healed, your mind will heal, too, Zuri. I’m here to help you.”
I look up to see the sincerity of his voice reflected in his dark eyes. “How can you help me when you can’t even help yourself?”
“I’m giving you physical evidence of my own recovery. I have healed myself as well.”
“Bullshit! Just because you no longer slice your body up doesn’t mean you are any better off than I am.”
“So you’re an expert now? Pray tell, Dr. Patton, what’s your professional opinion about my state of mind?”