Vouloir

by J. D. Chase

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ he says, the muscles in his jaw clenching. ‘And at least Dean’s okay.’

  As soon as he says it, he holds his hands up in horror. ‘Oh God, that sounds awful. I didn’t mean . . . ’

  ‘I know what you meant,’ I say, forcing a tired smile. ‘And it’s true. It could have been worse for him.’

  And I’ll make sure it isn’t worse for anyone else. The reminder that I have that to deal with tomorrow is not welcome. Why is it that everything seems to turn to shit at once?

  Jones gives a weak smile of gratitude.

  I head to the door and he takes the hint, following me.

  ‘Goodnight,’ he says to us both, before turning to address The Kid. ‘Look after her, man. She’s lived through a nightmare tonight.’

  Whether it’s because it’s him, or whether it’s because I’m on edge, I don’t know but either way, I bristle at his words. I don’t need looking after. I’m as tough as any man. I’m too tired to take the sexist pig to task. I just want him gone.

  ‘I will,’ The Kid says, puffing his chest out and almost making me smile.

  Jones is halfway out of the door when The Kid pipes up, ‘Wait!’

  He looks embarrassed and unsure of himself when Jones turns back to face him, a look of surprise on his face. And he’s not the only one on that score.

  ‘Hmm?’ Jones enquires.

  Scuffing his toes against the carpet, The Kid can’t bring himself to look at Jones. ‘Would you maybe, um be able to come here sometime and show me how that map thing works on the laptop? I’d like to see more of . . . um . . . ’

  Outside. I know that’s what he means. Jones looks more than a little fazed but he takes it in his stride and nods. ‘Sure thing.’ He looks to me and says, ‘Let me know when it’s okay and we’ll set it up.’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ The Kid blurts. ‘Can you come tomorrow?’

  I mentally kick him and will him to shut up, although it’s too late now.

  ‘Yeah,’ Jones replies with a smile. ‘I can do tomorrow afternoon. Although technically, it’s today. I need to grab a few zeds first.’

  They both look to me. My instinct is to say no—of course it is! But The Kid’s face is lit up like a brothel window. How can I refuse when it’s him instigating contact with another male . . . and to find out more about what’s outside the front door? The simple answer is that I can’t.

  I nod. ‘Okay. Can we leave it until late afternoon or early evening though please? I need to see Dean and then sort out the shitfest at Vouloir and I’ve no idea how long that will take. Can we say five o’clock?’

  Jones nods and I look to The Kid, who’s beaming, and I know I’ve done the right thing. But right now, I need Jones gone and I need a drink. A large one.

  I CLOSE MY DOOR behind me and throw my keys onto the console table. I walked home, needing to clear my head and work the stiffness from my muscles.

  What is it about that woman that puts me on the back foot?

  There’s something about me that she doesn’t like, I’m sure of that. I unsettle her more than she wrong foots me.

  I turn on the tap and slosh some water into the kettle. While it’s boiling, I take a piss and peel off my clothing. Everything is black but I know that some of the kid’s blood will have seeped onto mine from the therapist’s clothes. The therapist . . . I don’t even know her name. La Veuve Noire, The Black Widow . . . what sort of name is that?

  A name as confusing and beguiling as the rest of her.

  I stuff my clothes into the washing machine and set it to do my bidding. Then I make a decaf coffee and pull up a seat at the breakfast bar, next to the window. It doesn’t bother me that I’m naked. I’m happy in my skin and, after years of wearing a uniform, I enjoy the freedom.

  I look out of my sixth floor window. Dawn has just broken and it’s casting a golden glow over the city streets. What a fucking night. I stare into the distance, unseeing. Somewhere out there, a couple will be getting the shock of their lives when two uniformed police officers turn up on their doorstep. I don’t know if I could do that job—dealing with the aftermath of death and breaking people’s hearts in the process. I can take life if I’m ordered to, but it’s cold and clinical. There’s no emotion involved. Plus I know it’s in the nation’s best interests. Or at least that’s what I’m told and I have to believe that or I couldn’t pull the trigger, use my knife or push that button.

  I sip my coffee but it doesn’t really taste right. Maybe the night has left a bitter taste in my mouth. In a matter of hours, I’ve been called by a stranger to assist with a case of sexual abuse with a bloke I barely know then I’ve assisted in a futile search and rescue of another stranger for a woman I barely know. And people say my career choice is fucked up. The Corps had order, routine and discipline . . . this sex therapist’s M.O. seems to be total chaos.

  I can still smell her scent on my skin from where she nestled her head into my neck. She looked more like an innocent child than a sexy Dominatrix tonight. There are definitely two sides to her . . . I found myself wanting to protect the former—although there was nothing I could do to protect her from pain and sadness tonight, as much as I want to take on the latter.

  I’ve promised to go back to hers later to show her son how to use Google Maps. I don’t know why she can’t show him . . . she doesn’t strike me as being useless. I think he may have learning disabilities though. Perhaps she’s tried. Perhaps I’ll be wasting my time. One thing’s for sure—she doesn’t want me there. And the more she makes that clear, the more I can’t resist needling her. God knows why.

  I throw the last bit of my coffee down the drain. I need to be asleep. For the first time in a while, I wish I wasn’t alone. An image of the sex therapist flits unbidden into my mind. And, as I crawl under the covers, I can’t help but begin to fantasise about what might happen if only I could persuade her to take me on as a client. The more I read on the subject of BDSM, the more I want to experience it. I’ve even begun to search for BDSM themed pornos, purely for educational purposes. There’s no rule against stroking my cock as I learn. And there’s no rule against wearing down desirable sex therapists either.

  FUCK MY LIFE! AND when it’s fucked, fuck it again . . . up the arse, with a twelve inch dick. Fuck it till it can’t fucking walk.

  My foul temper is caused, in part, by the fact that I’m lying in a puddle, or at least that’s how it feels. I’ve had a shit night’s sleep thanks to that crazy bitch. The pain in my cock and balls kept me awake for most of the night, although I’d taken painkillers. And even when I managed to get some sleep, fucking nightmares took over. Each time I woke up drenched in sweat.

  I attempt to slide out of bed but, as soon as I move my groin, it feels like I’m being smacked in the balls with a sledgehammer. I lift the sheet and take a look. I was too afraid last night. My balls are purple and blue. My cock has angry red welts around it as well as some black bruises. The head looks like I’ve dipped it in acid. And it feels like it.

  I can’t stay in bed. I feel dirty. From the sweat and from what happened last night. I want to wash her off me. But also because my mother will be up, wanting to know what’s wrong. She doesn’t believe in ‘rotting in bed’ if you’re ill so there’s no point in me pretending to have a headache or something. She used to pull the bedclothes off and threaten to throw a bucket of cold water over me. She’s more careful since the last time she did that. She hadn’t realised I sleep naked nowadays. I don’t know who was more horrified.

  Instead, she’ll open the curtains and the window then bring the vacuum cleaner in and set about making my room completely dust free—although there’s barely any to begin with. And all the time, she’ll be making sarky comments about the youth of today, not knowing they’re born, not knowing what illness really is . . . until I get so pissed off that I get up. She’s right. I’m never ill enough to stand that. Going to work is easier to bear when you feel like shit. If it’s a non-work day, I’ll force m
yself to sit in the living room until she finds me something to do.

  So I hold the bedclothes off me and slide to the edge of the bed. Standing up makes my eyes water. It takes me ages to strip the bed of its sweat-soaked sheets. The dampness feels gross against my body. I throw them on to the floor in the corner of the room. I need a shower. My skin feels rank.

  I pull on my robe and shuffle across the landing and into the bathroom without encountering my mother. I feel every single step. In the shower, I visualise all the things I’m going to do to that perverted, deranged lunatic bitch when I get hold of her. Not my mother—the sadistic slut from last night.

  Back in my room, I pull on some baggy cotton boxers that I never wear and a pair of loose running shorts. No sooner have I donned a tee-shirt than there’s a cursory knock on the door and my mother appears.

  ‘Oh, so you are getting up today. And there was I, thinking that you were preparing to rot,’ she says. ‘I need you to have a look at that socket in the kitchen. You were supposed to do it last night but obviously you were too keen to get out of the house. Going to see someone. Someone who’s more important to you than me.’

  Oh here we go . . .

  ‘Morning, Mum. I told you last night that I can’t take the socket off the wall. I’m not qualified. And even if I risked electrocution and took it off, I have no idea what I’m looking for. I changed the fuse in the food mixer—even though I showed you that it worked using another socket. I gave you my time, despite the fact that I had plans to be somewhere. But it was pointless spending more time on it. I don’t have the experience and it’s bloody unsafe.’

  ‘Dean Rogers, watch your mouth. You’re not too old for me to wash your mouth out, you know.’

  ‘Sorry, Mum. But I did put you first. I’d already planned to pop into the hardware store today to see if they can recommend an electrician who’s reliable and reasonable. And I will. Okay?’ I’m fighting to keep my tone neutral when I’m so pissed off.

  ‘Your cousin, Matthew, would be able to fix it for his mother. He knows about all that sort of stuff. But he didn’t flunk college, did he?’

  I feel like she’s slapped me. The ungrateful bitch!

  I dropped out of college to look after her because she was in and out of hospital. Operation after operation. Probably because she wouldn’t stay in fucking bed when she should have done.

  I stare back at her and wait for her to take it back, my fists clenched at my sides. She knows she’s hurt me. She knows what she said is unfair. But instead she takes off, slamming the door behind her. I should have known better.

  One of these days, I’m not going to be able to hold it in. One of these days, I’m going to tell her what an unfeeling, ungrateful bitch she can be. I know I’ll never be good enough. I’ll never be the son she wants. I’ll never be Matthew, who is a constant source of joy and pride to his parents. Growing up, he had two parents, not one. He was sent away to a fancy university, no expense spared. His parents haven’t had to claim on their private health care insurance. I had to quit college to look after my mother and then get a job to pay the bills.

  I’d leave now if I had somewhere to go. But I can’t. I don’t even know whether I’ve got a job to go back to. I’ve got two weeks’ leave. Then I’m expected back. What I don’t know is whether my boss can face working with me after what I did.

  Oh who am I kidding? If I told my mother I was leaving, she’d run out of the room sobbing. Then she’d probably wail for hours about how ungrateful I am, how I don’t care enough for her, not to mention how she won’t cope without me. She’s mastered the guilt trip. And although I know what she’s doing, I can’t stand up to her. I let her win—every damned time. And she knows it.

  But then, if I don’t have a job, I’m going nowhere anyway so what does it matter?

  That reminds me: I need to call my therapist. She may have some idea how to control the pain in my privates. She may also be able to explain what the hell goes on in that club. I doubt I can bring myself to set foot in there again. It’s not what I thought it was. It’s dangerous. And what’s worse, it must happen often because the barman didn’t want to get the police involved. Any club that thinks it’s above the law is not one in which I’m willing to take risks.

  I manage to get down the stairs—and with every step, it feels like the psychotic bitch is still torturing my balls. By the time I reach the bottom, I’ve broken out into a cold sweat.

  I put my hand inside my clothes and cradle my boys in my hand and lean against the wall. I just need a second to recover.

  No such luck.

  ‘I need you to . . . oh, for goodness sake! Do you have no manners? I don’t know what I’ve done for you to treat me like this,’ she cries.

  I pull my hand out as though I’ve been stung. ‘I was just rearranging . . . I was uncomfortable.’

  She gives me a look that could melt glass. ‘I don’t want to hear it. You should look up the address of the nearest sexual health clinic to get checked. Oh, but you probably already know it, don’t you?’

  I picture my hands shooting out and locking onto her neck before tightening my grip and rotating my hands.

  I shake myself out of it, before I’m tempted.

  ‘I don’t have an STD, mother,’ I say, far more calmly than she deserves.

  I don’t know how she does it but she gives me this smile that is more insulting than any words could be. ‘Why, have you been for the tests?’ Her tone is gloating.

  ‘No!’ I cry.

  ‘Then how do you know?’

  ‘Mother, I was uncomfortable, that’s all . . . oh, why am I even bothering?’ I walk past her. I need to get out of here. I’m really not in the mood for her today.

  As soon as I’m past she snipes, ‘I know you were with a woman last night. I could smell her on your clothes. And why have you stripped your bed? Do I need to burn your sheets?’

  I stop, not bothering to turn around. ‘Yes, I spent time in the company of a woman last night. Although why you felt the need to go sniffing my clothes is anyone’s guess. You could just have asked me. And, for your information, I didn’t have sex with her. So I don’t need to go and get checked out for STDs. I had a bad dream. I woke up sweating. I stripped my bed because you raised me that way. I’m sorry I’m such a disappointment to you and I’m sorry I forgot to keep you appraised of my every move last night. Right now, I’m going out. I don’t know where I’m going. I just need to be anywhere but here. Goodbye, Mother.’

  I stride out as fast as my battered and bruised bits will allow. I make it to the end of the road, where I’m just out of sight of the house and I call a cab. I’m in fucking agony. Then I call La Veuve Noire. It’s time to get some answers.

  I’M UNLOCKING THE DOOR to the club when my phone rings. It’s Dean, sounding incredibly pissed off. I don’t blame him, of course, I don’t. I wondered what time he’d surface and how he’d be feeling. I tell him to make his way to the club. It’s after lunch and I’m hungry. For food and for blood.

  I cancelled my first appointment of the day after I barely slept and woke feeling utterly debilitated. Guilt. Grief. I was at rock bottom but I had to attend my second; it had taken too much time and effort to set up. I’d been contacted a few weeks ago by a frustrated wife. She loved her husband but, as time had gone on, their sex life had dwindled despite her attempts to keep it alive. He thought of her as his princess, treating her with utmost respect and gentleness—she wanted to be his dirty girl, fucked hard, rough and used for his pleasure. She had a much higher sex drive and was resorting to masturbating each day, when his chaste kisses and loving embraces didn’t come close to satisfying her need. Neither did their twice weekly love making.

  She didn’t want to fuck around behind his back. She’d considered it but couldn’t bring herself to be unfaithful with another man. She’d even considered experimenting with another woman, in the belief that should her secret be discovered, it would be less likely to break up her marriage. But,
as far as she knew, she wasn’t into women.

  Consequently, the husband had received one hell of a shock that morning, and so had his wife. We’d lured him to a dimly lit conference room on the pretext of meeting a business colleague but instead, he’d found his wife. Bound and gagged. I’d stepped out of the shadows and explained to him exactly what it was that she wanted, demonstrating on her flesh exactly how she needed it. I’d wound her up into a frenzy of unleashed passion. I’d wound him up until his balls were fit to explode. I’d seen the predatory look in his eye. Then in hers. A threesome was on their minds. I walked out.

  Now, I let myself into the office and set about locating the security camera footage that I needed. Fuck, I’m horny. I’d been tempted to indulge the couple with a little ménage . . . but I wanted them to experience their newfound lust for a bit of kink alone first. I almost gave in; I need to lose myself in pleasure—rough . . . raw . . . unrestrained pleasure. But I refrained. I need an experienced sub to take care of my needs, not an inexperienced couple. They may well decide to pursue that avenue but it’s a dangerous game, and not suited to everyone. I hope he’d fucked her good and hard after I left. And I hope he takes her again, the moment he walks through the door tonight. She’s a willing little sex kitten. It would be a shame to let her enthusiasm go to waste.

  Leaning back and resting my boots on the desk, waiting for the computer to power up, I consider my options for sating my heated veins and find that they are extremely limited. My time is very limited. I have Dean on the way over and I need to sort out that whole fucking mess before seeing another client—a non-physical client. Then . . . I have the joy of having Jones at my place to see The Kid. I have no plans for the evening but I don’t think I can wait that long. Plus, I need to spend time with The Kid.

  As I select the cameras that keep the bar under surveillance, my hand wanders between my legs . . . I can take care of myself and, although it’s far from satisfactory, it will do. For now. I pull up my tight, stretchy skirt and pull down my damp, flimsy knickers. I lick my fingers and begin to rub across my clit. I can bring myself to orgasm in seconds but if I get myself close and then deny myself a few times, the resulting orgasm is always a little more powerful. Then I repeat. As many times as I need, or I have time for. Still far from what I need but it will have to do. With my other hand, I drag the footage forward to eight o’clock. I see Dean arrive and get his drink. The minutes tick by and I stare at the screen. I’m bored to tears, even with my busy fingers. I’m not even close to coming. I’m probably too distracted.