by Monica James
“So, what brings you here today, Ms. Harte?”
Juliet shifts in her seat, the leather creaking under her sinful ass as she replies, “I have a problem.”
I nod, encouraging her to go on.
“An addiction, I guess you could call it.” She pauses, lowering her eyes.
I wait for her to continue, as I will try my hardest to act professional.
As she meets my gaze, she huskily whispers, “I’m addicted…to sex.”
Those glorious words coming out of her mouth is what every hot-blooded American male wants to hear, but I appear unaffected as I ask, “How long have you felt this way?”
“For a while now.”
“How long roughly?” I press, my pen poised over my notepad.
“For about two years,” she discloses, her composure never wavering as I write down her secrets.
“I would like to talk about your personal life, Ms. Harte, would that be okay?”
She nods.
“Did anything happen around that time? Anything that may have caused this behavior change?”
I can see her mulling over my question. “Well, there was this one thing,” she states, and I remain impassive, allowing her to continue. “It was the first time I had sex with a girl. Does this mean I’m bisexual? Or gay?” she asks, genuinely curious.
“I don’t like to categorize sexuality, Ms. Harte,” I reply, pressing the notepad over my looming erection. “How did being with a woman make you feel?”
“I liked it. A lot,” she confesses. “There are some things men cannot provide in the bedroom.”
“And what’s that?”
“Being with a woman, it’s soft and familiar. They provide that gentleness and comfort a man doesn’t usually offer. The way a woman touches another woman’s body, exploring the soft curves and supple planes, it really is beautiful. But being with a man, it’s rough and raw. The way a man eats you out, compared to the way a woman does, is completely different. A man wants to devour his meal, while us ladies, we want to take our time and savor the taste,” she explains, her pink tongue darting out to wet her bottom lip.
If my erection got any harder, I’d be able to pound nails into the wall. I know I have to steer this conversation into another direction before I show her not all men are barbarians, and we too, like to savor our meals.
“So apart from this event, did anything else happen? How’s your family life? Work? Social life?”
Juliet’s composure doesn’t shift, and she happily answers, “It’s all good. I live by myself in an apartment Daddy bought me. He’s an investment banker, and well, we’re quite well off. My mother passed away when I was seven, so I don’t really remember her. Daddy got remarried to Rachel, and Rachel treated me like I was hers. She has two children of her own, and they are both nice people.”
“Are they older? Younger? What’s your relationship like with them?”
“One older, one younger, and I love…both of them.” I don’t fail to notice the apprehension in her strained admission.
“What do you do for work?” I question, writing down her stepsiblings as a possible cause for her addiction.
“I work for a law firm. I’m just a file clerk, but I don’t really need to work, as Daddy takes care of me.”
I nod, feeling a tad disturbed that a twenty-six-year-old woman refers to her father as “Daddy.” I write down that a possible cause to her issues could be because she was sexually abused as a child. Most sex addicts describe their parents as being rigid, distant and uncaring. But in Juliet’s case, it seems her father was the complete opposite. I make a note to revisit this point later.
“What about your social life? Do you smoke? Drink? Take drugs?”
Juliet smirks, and straightens in her seat. “Yes to all of the above.”
Ms. Harte is getting more complex by the minute. “What drugs to do you take? Prescribed or illicit?”
“Mainly illicit,” she calmly states. “I like acid, ecstasy and cocaine.”
Holy shit, this woman is bad, bad news. But the more she confesses her sins, the more I want her.
“That’s quite a cocktail of drugs. When did you start using?”
She ignores my question as she slowly, and purposely, uncrosses her legs. I can clearly see the white triangle of barely-there cloth scarcely covering her pussy, but I remain professional as I don’t want to blow this. I know if I give in to my rampant libido, this will be the last time I see Ms. Juliet Harte, and after this introduction, I want more.
“Have you ever fucked while on acid, Dr. Mathews?” She closely gauges my reaction to see how I will respond to her crude question.
“This isn’t about me, Ms. Harte, but rather about you and your feelings. Did you want to tell me how you felt when engaging in a sexual act while high?” I coolly question, cocking an arrogant eyebrow.
I’ve been in the game for a long, long time, and it’s going to take more than a hot piece of ass with a filthy mouth to get me going. She’s testing me now, and Ms. Harte is a lot smarter than I gave her credit for. I must watch my back, and dick, with this femme fatale.
“It felt unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before. My entire skin was on fire, and my senses were so in tune with my body, I anticipated every move my partners made. Every touch, slap, lick, pull, thrust, tickle, everything—it was amplified, tenfold, and nothing has ever felt that good,” she says, her pupils dilating, no doubt reliving the memory of her ménage à trois, as I didn’t fail to note her intentional mention of the word “partners.”
“So you enjoy sex?” My over-stimulated brain is begging me to stop with the torture.
She nods, and her eyes dart to my crotch. “Yes, I love it.”
“What exactly do you love about it? Besides the physical gratification, that is.”
Juliet smirks, before replying, “I love the power.”
Images of being cuffed to a bed while I call Ms. Harte “Mistress” flash through my brain, and I realize that this woman could be quite hazardous to one’s health.
Ms. Harte is one fucked-up little unit, and I can’t wait to find out what makes her tick.
* * *
An hour later, I’m sitting in my chair, highly strung, and about ready to come in my pants. Ms. Harte is in the bathroom freshening up, as our session got a little heated and I reduced her almost to tears. I still can’t work out whether they were genuine or not, which troubles me. She really is an anomaly, which is a strange, almost-refreshing change, as most women don’t keep me guessing. But she does.
“So, same time next week?” she asks, exiting the bathroom and jarring me out of my thoughts.
Looking up from my desk, I see that she has applied a bright red shade of lipstick, which stands out against her pale hair. Nodding casually, I pretend to type on my laptop, appearing informal and laid-back.
“Sure, that’ll be fine. Please go ahead and schedule your session with Ms. Vale.” My curt response is a silent dismissal, and she reads it loud and clear.
”Thank you for today, Dr. Mathews. I feel…better,” she says, but I have a sneaking suspicion “better” was not the word she wanted to use.
”See you next week, Ms. Harte,” I reply, giving her a small smile.
“Okay, see you then.” She firmly nods and I keenly check out her tight little ass as she exits my office.
The moment the door closes, I let out a deep, agonizing breath and allow my staged composure to slip. That was damn intense, and the unrelenting wood I’m sporting is proof of how damn tense that really was.
If I were smart, I would tell Susanna to cancel any future appointments Ms. Harte has made and refer her to another doctor. But I never said I was smart. School smart—yes. But sex smart—hell to the fuck, no. I have never met such a sexually aggressive woman before, and I’m man enough to admit that Juliet Harte turns me on and scares me, all in the same breath.
I have no idea how to approach this as there is some unseen sexual spark between us. I know that sounds ludicr
ous, seeing as she is a self-confessed sex addict. But there is something more to her, and I’m intrigued to find out what.
Looking down at my lap, I sigh, as this tenting erection is going nowhere. Deciding to rub one out before my next client, I lock my door and make my way into my personal bathroom. The moment I switch on the light, her perfume assaults my nostrils and I take a moment to bask in her scent. The floral fragrance does nothing to help my predicament and I quickly unsnap the button on my pants, ready to get to work. However, my hand freezes as my eyes fall to the mirror above the basin.
Written in bright red lipstick across my mirror is a phone number—no guessing whose. Underneath sits a perfect imprint of her lipstick-stained kiss marks, taunting me with their blatant sexual innuendo. This is obviously Ms. Harte’s way of hinting that I call her, as I’ve already obtained her contact details via her client form.
Goddamnit, I’m screwed.
Surrendering, I unzip my fly, reach into my pants, and find my release within minutes. Who would have thought an innocent, lipstick-stained kiss mark could warrant such an explosive orgasm? But I know there is absolutely nothing innocent about Juliet Harte.
4
Twisted
DIXON
This week has been an absolute disaster. So when 6 p.m. Friday night ticks over, I’m out the door, happily bidding sayonara to the week from hell.
I’m meeting with Hunter and his parents, Marie and Ralph, who are in town for the weekend.
Walking into a popular bar and grill, I spot them sitting at a booth in the corner of the room. Hunter gives me a quick wave and I make my way over to them, dodging a lingering waitress who gives me a sultry smile.
After the fucked-up week of jacking off with zero satisfaction, I’ve decided to steer clear of all women, because at the moment, two women are more than I can handle. I shouldn’t even be thinking about Juliet Harte because it’s wrong on all counts, the kind of wrong that would send me straight to hell. Yes, I’ve bagged a few of my clients, which I know is ethically and morally and professionally wrong. But they weren’t genuine clients; they never really needed my help.
But Juliet, she is someone with genuine issues, and the doctor in me wants to help her. However, the horny male in me wants to help her by screwing her six ways to Sunday.
Pushing these inappropriate thoughts from my mind, I give Marie a double cheek kiss and a warm hug as I approach their booth.
“Hello, Dixon. Oh my, I love your hair,” she says, playfully running a hand through my messy locks.
My hair at the moment most likely resembles a bird’s nest, as I’ve been yanking at it in frustration all week.
“Nice to see you, Ralph.” I extend my hand.
“You too, son,” he replies, shaking it.
We all take our seats and I snatch the menu from Hunter, who bumps me playfully with his shoulder.
“So how was traffic?” I ask, my eyes perusing the menu uselessly, as food will not satisfy my current hunger.
“Ah, it was awful, as usual. It’s so much better on our side of the river.”
I give Marie a small smile, as I know she’ll be forever loyal to New Jersey.
“You look tired, Dixon. Are you unwell?” She reaches across the table and feels my forehead.
Usually, I would shy away from such motherly tendencies, but it’s Marie, and I’m used to her babying me.
“Yeah, Dix, you do look a bit off-color. Everything okay?” Hunter teases, looking at my lap. “Is everything where it should be?”
I roll my eyes at his idiocy and ignore him.
“I’m fine, Marie. Work is just crazy at the moment.”
“Yeah, lots of loons out there, that’s why,” Ralph innocently says, taking a sip of his ice tea.
“Ralph!” Marie scolds, throwing a reprimanding look his way.
“What?” he asks with a shrug.
Her eyes dart my way discreetly, and I know she’s subtly attempting to play facial charades, drawing attention to the fact that one of those loons is my father.
“It’s fine, Marie,” I insist with a wave of my hand.
I haven’t seen my father since the day I admitted him, which was close to four months ago. Seeing my once healthy, vibrant father wither away into a shell of his former self is a sight I can’t stand. Call me a bastard, but I would rather remember my dad being happy and well, as opposed to the medicated zombie he most likely resembles nowadays.
Marie must read my expression as she softly says, “I saw your father the other week. He’s looking better.”
Better? Better than what? Better than the drooling basket case he was when I admitted him? I hate to break it to Marie, but being dead is the only “better” in this scenario.
But I give her a small nod, and try to appear unmoved, as I don’t want to hurt her feelings. “That’s great. I’ve been meaning to go see him, but I’ve just…work has been busy,” I conclude unconvincingly.
She smiles. “I understand.”
Clearing my throat, I propose, “Maybe you could tell him I said hi? Next time you see him?”
“Of course. I can do that. You know, maybe you could call? I think he’d like that,” she softly suggests.
“Yeah, maybe,” I reply, not meaning a word.
Thankfully, the waitress interrupts our awkward conversation and puts an end to me justifying why I’m not a terrible son.
* * *
The evening is still young, so we decide to walk down to Central Park.
Ralph and Marie are at a vendor’s cart buying pretzels when Hunter pulls me aside and asks, “What’s up with you?”
“Care to be a little more specific?” I say, while reading through the emails on my phone.
“You haven’t checked out one single girl all night. That pixie waitress was basically offering her tits as a plate for your steak, and you hardly noticed. What’s up, dude? I’m worried. You’re not about to go ‘Livin’ La Vida Loca,’ are ya?” he asks seriously, and I can’t help but chuckle, as Hunter is never one to mince his words.
“First of all,” I state, holding up a finger. “You call me a man-whore. And now—” I add a second finger “—you’re questioning my sexuality. Hunter, your overactive imagination never ceases to amaze me. Maybe you’re in the wrong profession. I heard Walt Disney is hiring,” I say with a grin.
“Joke all you want, but I know something is up. So spit it out.”
Sighing, I run a hand through my disheveled hair, and I know the only way to shut him up is to tell him the truth. “I met this chick at work. Actually, I met two chicks,” I correct.
“You do remember your workplace isn’t a brothel, right?”
“Ha, very funny. I met girl number one, Madison, on Friday night,” I explain, unable to keep the affection from my voice.
“I thought she was just a random hook-up?”
I pull a grossed-out face when I realize he’s talking about the blonde. “No, not her. I fucked her to get Madison out of my system.”
Hunter grins. “But I’m guessing it didn’t work?”
“You guessed right. She was so incredibly…sweet.”
“And girl number two?” he asks, folding his arms across his chest.
I sigh. “Girl number two is the complete opposite to Madison. For starters, I met her at work.”
“Uh oh,” Hunter butts in, but I hold up my hand, telling him to zip it. Thankfully he complies.
“She’s a patient, and before you start with the third degree, I didn’t do anything.”
Hunter nods, his lips pulled in tight.
“She’s trouble, man, I know it, but I can’t stop thinking about her. She wrote her fucking number in bright red lipstick across my bathroom mirror,” I confess.
“She what?” Hunter says incredulously. “No way!’
“Yes way,” I counter, because it’s very true.
“So, what’s she seeing you for?” he asks, totally ignoring patient/doctor confidentiality.
; “I can’t tell you. That’s between my patient and me,” I reply, half serious.
“Oh, bullshit! If you’re thinking about screwing her, then I think that rule is entirely void.”
He’s right, so I sheepishly reply, “She’s addicted to sex.”
Hunter’s mouth pops open. He shakes his head animatedly and jams his finger into my chest. “You need to stay away from this little nympho, Dix. With your man-whoring tendencies, and her out-of-control libido, you’ll end up fucking one another to death. Not to mention, she is your patient, Dr. Mathews.”
“I know, I know. And you’re right. But Hunt, I’m intrigued by her.”
“You’re intrigued by her zeal to fuck anything in sight more like it,” he replies with a smirk.
“That’s not it. This isn’t about sex.”
Hunter raises an unconvinced eyebrow.
“Okay, it’s a little about sex. But there is something more to her. There is something more to both. I haven’t been interested in a chick since…” but I remain mute, not wanting, or needing, to finish that sentence.
Hunter runs a hand down his face and blows out a breath. “Look, bro, this nympho sounds like trouble. Personally, I would refer her to another doctor and forget you ever met her. This will get sticky, and I mean that in every literal sense there is.”
I nod, defeated, and also, disappointed. I don’t want there to be any truth in what he says, but there is. I need to stop this before things spiral out of control. “You’re right. That’s what I’ll do,” I say with a firm nod. “Treating her is not good for either of us.”
“’Attaboy,” he says, playfully punching me on the arm. “You’ll forget you ever met this little sexual deviant in no time.”
“Dr. Mathews,” a voice says from behind us.
Both Hunter and I turn around and are faced with Juliet Harte. My memories of her have paid her no justice at all, and with the super tight jogging outfit she’s currently wearing, I’ve just made new memories, which I plan on revisiting later tonight.
“Ms. Harte,” I reply, hoping I appear calm while I check out her gorgeous rack in the white crop top she’s sporting.
