desire for Touch: a M/F, D/s love story (RiverHart Book 1)

by Adira August

  She ran a quick search and soon had a diagram of the nerves that served the posterior and the sex organs in both men and women. They came from the same root nerve, that split and sent branches to sex organs, bladder, anus, rectum, upper thighs and more.

  Now she knew why the thing that humiliated her, felt so incredibly good. So intensely arousing. He was massaging her anus and the tangled nerves were sending impulses to her clit. (Feel me.)

  It was all the same system, like the branches of streams running into a river. All those signals from different parts merged as a single stream to the brain. To be felt. And that river ran in both directions. Seeing that demonstration video on his website or simply thinking about his touch had sent strong impulses to those parts of her body.

  I’m going to spank you at our first session because ... I want you to know how much pleasure you can derive from it.

  “Well, I’ll be go to hell,” she said with wonder in her voice as everything she thought she knew about her own sexuality tilted and slid off a table in her mind to be replaced by a huge complex structure, many portions of which were still in shadow.

  “Avia?” Carson asked. “You okay over there with your nerd porn?”

  “Carson, tell me if you like pain during sex.” She said.

  “Uh - well - if you mean extreme pain where the body gets injured, no, I’m not into it. But if you mean the regular kind, everybody likes pain during sex. I mean, it’s not pain, anymore, is it?”

  He peered around and could see her making notes. “What the fuck, Avia, are you interviewing me for your story?”

  “Yeah, deep background,” she said, flipping a page. “Tell me what that means, ‘It’s not pain anymore.’”

  He cocked an eyebrow at her. “I am not going into detail about my sex practices, but - think about it. You must have things that happen that you like, but if someone did them when you weren’t turned on, they’d be painful. Or at least unpleasant.”

  Of course. She liked her nipples squeezed, like most women. And the more aroused she was, the harder she wanted him to pinch or suck or even use his teeth. But that would definitely not be a fun thing done on the spur of the moment. She liked a guy to grab her hair, hold tight. But unaroused? No, she definitely wouldn’t like that.

  “Thanks,” she said, finishing her note. “Listen, I’m sending you some links about nerves and stuff. Take a look when you get a minute, okay? Just tell me if you knew all this, already.”

  “Okay. Where’re you off to?” He asked as she gathered her notebook and laptop. “No more pictures of dissected penises on your agenda, today?” He gave a shudder and made an ew face.

  “I have to talk to J.J. Then I have a meeting. Thanks for giving me sanctuary.” She leaned over and kissed the top of his head.

  “Anytime, kiddo,” he murmured, once again lost in his code.

  “Are you saying you want me to put someone else on it?” Janet asked.

  “I’m saying I’m not sure how thoroughly I can separate my personal feelings from the story. Whether you keep me on it, is up to you.” Avia said. “Did you get the link I sent you?”

  “I did. I looked at it.” Janet told her.

  “Did you know that stuff?”

  “Did I know about the clitoris? Yes.”

  “How?” Avia asked, amazed again at her own ignorance, wondering if she was the only adult woman in Denver who didn’t know how her own body was made.

  Janet shrugged. “It was either Twitter or Facebook, I don’t remember. And I’ve suggested strongly, several times, you get on social media,” Janet reminded her.

  “And I told you my homepage is full of news links.” Avia answered.

  “Not newsy, enough, apparently,” Janet replied. “CNN and the BBC seem to have missed the big news about the clitoris.”

  “What the hell happened to sex education in school?”

  “The religious right. I want you on this story, Avia. Not just because of your reporting skills, but because I think you’re like a lot of women. You’re too busy, involved with your own life, career-oriented, whatever it is that’s kept you from knowing much about the broader aspects of sexual expression.”

  “Broader aspects?” Avia repeated. “I think the adjective you’re looking for is ‘kinky.’”

  “No, it isn’t,” Janet insisted. “Because ‘kinky’ is pejorative. It carries a connotation of being abnormal, whatever the hell that means. You’re discovering new things, yourself. I want your readers to discover those things through this article. Make it personal. Tell your story.”

  “We aren’t supposed to be the story, J.J., you know that.”

  Avia’s boss and friend smiled. “I do know that. But I’m in charge and I get to break rules when I want to. We do features. And it’s appropriate in this case to share a little of your journey to enlightenment!”

  Great, Avia thought, Now J.J.’s talking about journeys. I thought I was fine where I was.

  “What?” Janet asked, seeing Avia’s sudden pensive look.

  “Nothing, just trying to figure out how to approach it.”

  “I’d suggest you start keeping a journal. A private blog or hard copy, whatever suits. Just get everything down and you can sort it out later. But you also - yes?” Janet’s assistant stuck his head in.

  “Sorry to interrupt, you have Irene Mackin on two. I think you want to take it.” Geordi said.

  Janet frowned. “For Avia?”

  “No, ma’am. For you.”

  She picked up the phone. “This is Janet Johnson.” She picked up a pen and automatically noted the time and name of the caller on a pad. “ … okay … I see … wait … who has your phone? … Are you alone there? Is someone coming to … Are you saying you don’t have a car?”

  Avia leaned forward as J.J. looked more and more concerned, making notes of the information she was being given. Avia was concerned, too, as Mackin was a big interview for her, an “in” to the mystery that was Benedict Valor Hart.

  “Okay. … Don’t worry about that. I’m sending Ms. Rivers to you, anyway. She’ll take you home and help you get your car. … I insist. … No interview, not now, just to help you out … . Twenty minutes. … Okay. … No problem.”

  Janet hung up. “Irene Mackin can’t meet you for a brunch interview, she’s at a walk-in clinic on South Broadway being treated for what sounds like an assault. But I’m not sure.”

  “Did she call the police?”

  “She says they can’t help her. It was her lawyer and it’s her own fault. Somehow. And he has her phone so she had to call from a landline at the clinic.” Her brow furrowed. “This doesn’t make any sense. And I hate it when things don’t make sense.”

  Avia stood up. “So I’m going to go try and make sense of it?”

  Janet leaned forward on her desk. “Yes. Be helpful. Be objective. Be careful.”

  “You don’t trust her.”

  “She and/or her attorney tried to use the media to blackmail my friend. I’m afraid this thing is personal to me, too. So, go do your journalist thing and let me know what’s happening. You, I do trust.”

  Avia stood. “On my way. Call you when I know something?”

  “I have a couple meetings. I’ll text you when I’m free.”

  Because some of his erotica writers insisted on anonymity, Ben Hart had special protocols for teleconferencing with them. They could all hear one another, but they could only see Ben, who addressed them by their pen names.

  In the case of George Floros, Ben used his one male pseudonym, Zachary Kane. George wrote under five other female names, all very successfully. It paid for his house on the island of Oahu, where he was at the moment. Bitching at Ben.

  “It’s the middle of the damned night!” George whined.

  “You’re drinking fruit juice on a sunlit patio surrounded by blooming flowers, Zach. You have my sympathy. … Let’s get started.” Ben made eye contact with the two women on his screen and everyone nodded.

  “It w
as brought to my attention by a reader of all three of you that none of our heroines, or the billionaires, deal much with the fact of his wealth in the stories. She felt it was unrealistic and I agree.”

  “Since when do you ever talk to a reader?” George asked. “And we deal with his money all the damned time, don’t you ever read anything we write? He flies ‘em around in his jet. Buys ‘em ridiculously expensive underwear he rips apart with his bare hands, gives them cars and jewelry -”

  “Take a breath, Zach, you just woke up, remember?” Ben told him. “I’m talking about the women having zero interest in the money and only wanting his ‘heart.’ These heroines are not wealthy themselves, usually. They have to be dealing at some level with the fact of his money. Their own reaction to it. How much a part it plays in their reaction to him. It’s unrealistic to think it’s just not a concern at all.”

  “You’re serious? Everything about billionaire romance is unrealistic, Ben. You should know that, being one.” Alexa said.

  “You’re uncharacteristically quiet, Miranda.” Ben said to his third and most successful writer. Miranda consistently made the top ten of every bestseller list in her genre and had one film and a TV series made from her books.

  “I’m thinking it’s story fodder,” she said. “It could be used to generate more conflict. Maybe even the inevitable break-up.”

  George sat up from his chaise looking interested. “Maybe he goes undercover to work in one of his own restaurants as a cook’s assistant. Has to live on that income to prove what kind of man he is.”

  Alexa looked excited. “I know exactly what to do with this! But I’m not telling.”

  “You never reveal, Alexa, but you always deliver,” Ben said, and turned to George. “And I read most of what we publish, Zach. At least, I sample it. So, we’re all good?”

  They agreed and Ben moved on to cover art, bringing his graphics designer online and letting them critique each other’s covers.

  But his thoughts were on Avia and how she’d honed-in on something that none of them had seen. How much he wanted to tell her how valuable her insight had been. How you going to prove yourself to her, Ben Hart? While the others were engaged with each other, Ben pulled out his cell.

  Avia’s text alert sounded just as she pulled into a parking spot in at the mini-mall where South Denver Urgent Care was located. It was from him.

  WRITERS REVAMPING STORIES PER YR REMARKS. TNKS.

  Something warm and bright bloomed over Avia’s heart at how thoughtful the text was.

  I'M HONORED.

  She deleted both texts, as he had instructed her after she’d accepted Companionship, and turned the phone off as she headed inside. She didn’t want to be interrupted if she had a chance at connecting with Irene Mackin and establishing some trust.

  The woman at the counter already had her name and showed her back to a curtained-off examination area. Irene Mackin turned out to be a raven-haired beauty. At least, Avia could see she would be a beauty in other circumstances. She was slender and probably only five feet-four or five. It was hard to tell as she was lying on her stomach in a hospital gown. Some kind of tent arrangement kept a sheet suspended over her from waist down to her feet.

  Avia at first thought Irene’s mouth was bloody, but then saw it was lipstick, smeared around her lips. The lips, themselves, pale, any remnants of the lipstick long erased. Mackin appeared to be asleep, her right hand curled up at her chin, her index finger between her lips, as if she’d fallen asleep sucking it, in a childlike gesture of self-comfort.

  Avia sank quietly into the visitor’s chair. Mackin’s hair was long and messy, her shirt looked wrinkled, but Avia could see no obvious signs of assault. She wondered what was going on under the tented sheet and if the woman had been sexually molested, somehow. An IV bag on the far side of the bed dripped into a tube. Avia stood and leaned over for a better view. The tube ran to an intravenous line in Mackin’s forearm just above the wrist.

  As she sat back down, the cheap plastic chair slid a little, making a scraping sound. Irene Mackin’s eyes flew open in panic, she looked around wildly, “Is he here?” She asked. Then she blinked and seemed as if she became more focused, like someone waking. She saw Avia. “I - are you - who are you?” Mackin had a little girl voice. Breathy and soft.

  “I’m sorry I woke you. I’m Avia Rivers from The Week. Janet Johnson told you I’d be by?”

  Irene seemed to relax. “Oh. Yes, that’s right. I’m fine, though. They just wanted to do an x-ray to be safe. Once someone reads it I can go.” She smiled. “They gave me morphine.” She gave a little girl giggle. “It makes me woozy. Are you going to interview me?”

  Avia shook her head. “Is someone coming to help you? Ms. Johnson said you don’t have your phone or your car?” Avia asked.

  Irene Mackin’s eyes grew teary. “My phone fell out. I forgot it. I left - well - I was in a hurry …” The tears started falling. “... before he … I got on the bus outside. I had to stand.”

  She looked around and reached for a tissue box on a side table. As she stretched the sheet dislodged and slid off the frame. Unaware she was exposed, Irene went on. “I saw this place from the bus and got off at the next stop - what’s wrong?”

  Avia had seen a lot of unpleasant, or, in fact, horrifying things since she became a professional journalist. But always when she’d expected to. When she knew there’d been a murder or high speed clash of metal on metal.

  But she’d never expected to see the brutal damage inflicted on the tiny woman before her. Her backside and upper thighs were dark red with what looked like burns. Parallel welts at two to three inch intervals, she couldn’t tell as they overlapped, blood crusted in lines marking the edges of whatever had been used to beat her. In some places, the top layer of skin was stripped off.

  Don’t lose it. Do NOT lose it. Avia reached over calmly and pulled the sheet back into position. “There you go.” She said, offering Irene a brief smile. Avia sat back down.

  “So, we can arrange to get your car to your home and I can retrieve your phone from wherever you left it. I can also take you home whenever you’re released. My car is a hatchback. With the seat down, you can lie on your side.”

  This speech brought a fresh spate of tears from Irene Mackin. She just nodded.

  A tall black woman of about forty in a white coat with “Dr. Canaday” on a name tag entered.

  “I have the results of your x-ray,” she said and glanced at Avia. “Perhaps your friend will step outside?”

  “No, it’s fine,” said Irene in her little girl voice. “Am I okay?”

  “The x-ray reads clear. Your spine, sacrum and pelvis are intact. You have extensive, deep bruising. Swelling. It’s possible you’ve sustained some nerve damage, but we won’t know until there’s something you can’t do normally. Like control your bowels or bladder. The surface injuries are dramatic-looking but, they’ll heal in a week or so. I’ll give you an antibiotic ointment to apply to the welts to prevent infection. Do you have questions?”

  Irene shook her head.

  “Someone will be along with discharge papers. Your friend is taking you home? You shouldn’t drive with morphine in your system.”

  “I’ll take care of it.” Avia said.

  “Fine. Someone will be in to remove your IV and go over aftercare instructions with you, but to prevent any permanent damage while you have this much swelling, you’ll need to refrain from sexual activities until you’re healed or at least for a few days. No sitting, obviously, and then not for extended periods at first, when you do sit.”

  And she was gone. “Well, she was … efficient,” Avia said.

  Irene smiled a sad smile. “It’s okay. They always disapprove. Medical people. You know.”

  “You’ve been through this before?”

  Irene nodded. “I thought, I mean, I thought this time would be different, but …” She shrugged. “I guess they’re all the same if you make them mad.”

  Avia frown
ed, wondering exactly who she was including in “they.” “Irene, if he beat you in anger, that’s assault. I can contact a detective I know, she’s very understanding.”

  The frail-looking woman seemed frightened. “No. No, it’s - I can’t talk to anyone. I - he’s a lawyer.” She said it as if this should have special significance to Avia.

  “Lawyers commit crimes, too. The prosecutors are also lawyers.” Avia said.

  “I can’t talk about it. Can’t, you see?” Irene Mackin insisted. “It’s okay, I’m ... used to it, you know? I mean, he just thought I did something and I didn’t but he wouldn’t believe me. It’s not like it’s a real crime.”

  “Did you ask him to stop?” Avia asked.

  “Well, I mean, before he started, but then I was gagged so I couldn’t -” The look of shock on Avia’s face got her attention. She shrugged and smiled a little sadly. “It’s just what they do, you know. Tie you down and gag you.”

  More tears ran down her face. “It’s just one person’s word against another’s, you see. Men like this, important ones? Nobody is going to care about - I mean - they’ll just say it was my own fault.” She shrugged. “They’re probably right, too. … Is it okay if I don’t talk about it?”

  Avia nodded, glad to have some time for her own thoughts. Because Irene Mackin had just described Avia’s own experience.

  “The fact that you can expel it, does not mean you may. You will wear it when I say and not remove it until I say.”

  Avia felt sick to her stomach.

  Mackin was one of Ben Hart’s “Companions.” She looked back through her notebook. The letter of intent claimed a time period of contact between Mackin and Hart of from four to six months ago. She had to be referring to him. Could he, too, have damaged her like this with his “disciplinary strokes?”

  “But I can use the phrase any time ...”

  “With one exception. If you say it during disciplinary spanking, I’ll ignore it.”