by J. D. Chase
If someone is determined to take their life, they’ll find a way eventually, no matter what you do. Many people who commit suicide have made attempts previously. To break through, you have to give them reason to doubt their conviction. I tried to do that. If I’d answered my fucking phone in time, I could have done that. I should have stayed at the hospital, waited for them to transfer him to a ward and then taken him out of there. He should have been under constant observation. It should have been impossible for him to walk out, for me to take him. But it was so easy. If only I’d known. Dan would still be here. Fuck knows what I’d have done with him—he’d have had to sleep on my sofa—and don’t ask me how The Kid would have taken that and coped with it. But Dan would be here. Living. Breathing. Healing. Taking one day at a time.
In the last twenty four hours, I’d begun to feel like I was fighting an unwinnable war. Dan needed me and that meant I let Dean down. Dean turning up at my door, needing me meant I let Dan down. I can’t be in two places at once. I’ve also had to juggle the way I work to accommodate The Kid and his needs, but lately, I feel like I’m letting him down because of all the shit that’s going down around me. With Thierri being so ill, I’ve been forced to keep an eye on Vouloir.
I feel like I’m drowning. And then there’s today’s unscheduled and unwanted trip down memory lane. There’s nothing like kicking someone when they’re down.
They say everything happens for a reason. It’s rare these days that something triggers me to that extent. Dean’s choice of words did the trick. Well, ultimately it was Elaine’s actions. And those only occurred because I let Dean down . . . there we go, I’m back into the cycle of shit.
I suppose I should feel bad for losing control in front of a client. It’s not professional after all. But then, I’m human and I believe that health professionals shouldn’t sit there all perfect and proper. Of course I don’t usually lose it, but I’m always honest about having a dark past. I’m upfront about being able to identify with much of what people feel. It helps to form the first bonds of trust between therapist and client.
And it’s hard to feel bad when my loss of control led to Dean’s breakthrough. We spent an hour talking things through once we’d concluded the physical component. We covered a lot of ground. He accepts now that he’s a natural submissive—after falling to his knees like that, he’d be kidding himself if he tried to deny it. We talked about his issues at home. His mother needs a good slap. I skirted around it but she’s at the root of a lot of his issues. I’m not saying she’s the reason he’s submissive. But she’s the reason he’s used to taking orders from a woman, not to mention feeling humiliated and inferior. She’s the reason for his lack of confidence around women and for the frustration that had built up before he took advantage of his boss.
The way she treats him would probably force most men in the opposite direction—something that Dean had tried and failed to do. But he’s naturally submissive. That doesn’t mean he has to be a full-on submissive. It simply means that it’s part of his true personality. Whether he chooses to pursue the lifestyle in that role is up to him. He could, of course, choose to find a partner he’s emotionally and sexually compatible with, without needing to formalise it in a D/s sense.
He has a lot of therapy before him. He has promised me faithfully that he’ll obey my orders to the letter from now on—even if I have to cancel an appointment. He needs time to make sense of today’s events. It all happened rather fast—the situation wasn’t premeditated but it fitted. So Dean had his first taste of submissive sex and his first ménage. I think he’s reeling more from the second revelation than the first. Okay, so his quiet acceptance of the fact that he’s not ever going to be a Dominant was softened somewhat by my mouth on his cock, but the serene, aroused, enraptured expression on his shining face when he made me come with his mouth is what will stick in my mind.
Actually, as well as teaching him how to satisfy a woman, if he chooses to pursue his submissive kink and wants to begin training, it could help me out. I can’t take ownership of a sub because of the situation with The Kid. Maybe, just maybe, there’s a way to make this work for both of us. I can’t force Gabe to break his pledge again (although it didn’t happen today, obviously). But I have needs. Always have. Always will. Having a high sex drive can be both a blessing and a curse. As having select sexual preferences can be.
Dean won’t be able to satisfy me—he’s not alpha enough outside of sex—though I love training subs. But the guy with Elaine at the club, now he might be able to finish off what Dean starts . . . I’d heard he was looking to be owned outright. But if he agrees to go to the playroom with me under different conditions, he may well be willing to compromise, at least in the short term, until he finds ownership.
Grabbing a bottle of white wine from the fridge, I pour myself a glass. I can’t stop my mind from indulging in a little fantasising . . . that sub is damned hot and his skills and fetishes certainly seem to tick my boxes. Okay, so it’s more than a little fantasising. By the time the buzzer sounds, the bottle’s nearly empty and I’m feeling incredibly aroused. I’m almost tempted to fuck whoever’s on the other side of that door.
‘Den of debauchery, Mistress Sin speaking,’ I announce into the intercom.
There’s a pause and I begin to wonder whether my joke was wise. After all, it could be anyone standing downstairs.
‘Perhaps I should call back another time.’ As soon as he speaks, I know who it is. His voice sounds unimpressed, and suddenly, I know who it is because I’m supposed to be expecting him. Fucking Jones! Dammit.
I’m tempted to agree with him, The Kid’s asleep after all. And, although I’m feeling significantly less horny since hearing his disembodied voice, I’d rather not have to see him. Not now. Being taken back to the past once today is more than enough.
‘Ah, Jones. I’m afraid he’s asleep so—’
‘I’m not,’ a voice behind me says. ‘I’m awake now. And starving. Let him up. What’s for dinner?’
I turn and smile at The Kid. It’s forced, making my face feel like plastic. It’s also a stalling tactic while my brain searches for another plausible excuse to get Jones to fuck off.
Drinking wine on top of a few beers at the club has clearly dulled my brain. I can’t think of a single thing so I press the button to release the door. The Kid beams and I feel guilty for attempting to rob him of the one request for company that he’s made since being here.
‘I’ve no idea about dinner. Shall I order a takeaway once he’s gone?’ I say, brightly, already searching for reasons to excuse myself and leave them alone. Risky, I know but I’ll just be in another room. I’d kill for a long, bubbly bath. That would do nicely.
The Kid says nothing. I think I’ve got away with it until Jones arrives.
‘Which takeaway meal do you like best?’ The Kid asks him, the second Jones is over the threshold. I glare at him but he shrugs, saying ‘I think this will take a while and I really am starving. Jones and I can eat while he teaches me. He could probably teach you some things too.’
He’s gorgeous, so innocent and yet I want to slap my hand over his mouth to stop the words coming out.
‘I like most things . . . I’m pretty easy to please,’ Jones replies.
Why is he looking at me when he says that? And why do his words sound like a blatant double entendre?
I narrow my eyes at him and I see his flash. I give him my best ‘don’t fuck with me’ stare and walk off into the living room saying that Jones can order whatever he likes. I’m really not hungry.
I boot up my laptop and make sure that The Kid is feeling comfortable in Jones’ presence, then announce that I’ll leave them to it. I’m feeling increasingly on edge. I’ve studiously avoided looking at the former Commando, but his presence is enough. The more I try to ignore him, the more hyper-aware I become.
They barely notice me leaving the room. I decide to have that indulgent bath. My nerves are frazzled and every part of me is tir
ed.
Ten minutes later and I’m reclining in an almost overflowing bath with bubbles up to my chin. The heady scents of sandalwood and ylang ylang fill the air. The bubble bath was a gift from Rav, my last sub. He’d had it mixed for me and would have a bath ready for me whenever I was home late or whenever I got stressed. He would wash me, soaping my skin with a reverence that calmed me. Of course, I knew that he’d deliberately chosen sensual essential oils so his gift hadn’t been completely altruistic. But those baths had been followed by some of the most satisfying sex of our relationship.
I lie back and allow the scent to trigger those memories before my thoughts turn, once more, to the events of the afternoon. As my hands run over my skin, slowly and purposefully, the images in my head change. Gabe becomes the sub I was fantasising about earlier. The restrained acts of the afternoon become unrestrained desires in my deviant daydream.
Before I know it, there’s water sloshing everywhere as I forcefully rub my clit, bringing myself close and then restraining. Why the hell don’t I keep a waterproof vibrator in the bathroom? As soon as my impending orgasm has subsided a little, I begin to pinch my nipples and rake my nails across them. I almost take myself back to the edge with that alone. I’m so damned frustrated. What I need is a hard cock filling me . . . stretching me . . . banging into my fucking cervix. A hard cock that is skilled in the art of orgasm control. The thought creates a little growl in my throat as I force my hands to caress less sensitive parts of my body for a couple of minutes.
But then I’m furiously strumming once more, putting myself at serious risk of picking up a repetitive strain injury. My nipple is also in danger of being tweaked right off my body. I’m panting like a rabid dog, eyes squeezed shut, back arched when I allow myself to come. Hard. I let out a satisfied growl and throw my head back as I slide my fingers inside. I fuck myself slowly, feeling my muscles spasming around them as some of the tension and frustration leaves my body.
I open my eyes. And freeze.
Fuck!
Jones is standing in the doorway. Eyes glazed. Jaw tensing . . . and that’s not the only thing tensing.
He seems to jolt back to life. Then, without a word, he exits, pulling the door closed behind him.
Anybody else, and I might have put on a show. But him? No fucking way.
I removed the lock on the door when I moved in. It’s something I just have to do, another trigger. The Kid and I have an understanding. If the door is closed, the bathroom is occupied. If it’s open—even if one of us is inside, cleaning teeth or whatnot—it’s okay to enter.
Fuck! I’m not used to having company in the flat for social reasons nowadays. My visitors are usually here for therapy—so I’m hardly going to be taking a bath.
Fuck it. It would have to be him, wouldn’t it? And he would stand there perving at me. Well, of course he would, what man wouldn’t? But that’s beside the point. The knowledge that he’s seen me naked makes me feel violated. I know it’s irrational, but that doesn’t change it. He watched me come. He watched me fucking myself with my fingers. And it made him hard.
Why couldn’t The Kid choose to befriend a prude? Or a sissy? Or just someone that didn’t remind me so much of him? The man who tried to break me . . .
I REACH THE BATHROOM and the door is closed. I listen carefully but I can’t hear a sound. I try the handle; it’s unlocked. I’ve pushed the door open and stepped inside before I realise that she’s had a bath or a shower. The room is like a sauna.
I stand still to get my bearings when I hear splashing. Vigorous, purposeful splashing. Instinctively, my head turns before I can stop it. I’ve left the door open and the steam is clearing fast. I see her, La Veuve Noire. Rubbing her clit and squeezing her tit as she gets herself off, water sloshing over the sides of the bath and giving me a virtually unrestricted view of that body. Fuck me. Even without her corset, she has curves to kill for.
She’s pinching her nipple . . . pulling at it and twisting it with such greedy need that I’m half tempted to grasp the other one. Her tits are way too big for her hands. I wonder how they’d look in mine.
She’s getting close, I can tell. I wonder whether I should leave. The idea that she knows I’m here flits around my head. She didn’t lock the door . . . didn’t start masturbating until I’d opened the door. Did she hear me come in? Does she want me to see? She’s not shy after all. She lives for sex, she said so herself.
Oh my God, she’s coming! I should get out of here, just in case she doesn’t know I’m here.
Her back arches and she groans through gritted teeth. No, it’s more of a growl and I can relate. Sometimes, I need to wank my cock so hard to achieve the release that I need. It’s like satisfying a primitive urge. So you strip it back to the bare bones (not literally . . . fuck, that would hurt!) but you know what I mean. No niceties. No graces. Just me and my cock and the need to come. You shut it all out because nothing else matters.
That’s what she’s doing. But when I see her fingers dash down and plunge inside her, I know that she’s not satisfied that primal urge. She fucks herself, trying to milk the act dry.
Man, the temptation to pull my jeans down and get in that fucking bath and satisfy it for her is So. Damn. Strong.
And, but for the way she looks at me, like she despises me . . . I’d do it. I’d fucking show her what satisfying that primal urge feels like.
Then, when she was satisfied, I’d fuck her again. Just to make my fucking point.
She stills and my eyes take in that ‘born to fuck’ body, sweeping back up to her face. I start when I notice that she’s glaring at me.
Well, that answers that. She wasn’t putting on a show. And now she has a solid reason to despise me.
I back out without a word. I couldn’t piss now anyway—my fucking cock is solid. One thing’s for sure though, she won’t be the only one to wank for all she’s worth today . . . although I have a feeling that satisfying my primal urge is not going to come easily.
Walking back into the living room with the gait of a gorilla, I perch on the edge of the sofa to hide the uncontrollable bulge in my jeans from the youngster beside me.
I needn’t have worried, he’s immersed in the map of the local area that’s on the screen. I’ve never seen anything like it, he’s obsessed with Street View. I know it’s pretty impressive and everything but he keeps viewing the road outside the flat and then clicking to advance the view. Then he returns and starts off again, taking a different route.
I’ve tried to get him to decide what he’d like to eat so I can order something but he’s too distracted. And now, I find that I’m ravenous . . . and not just for food.
I can’t get those images out of my head. I’ve struggled to forget her since I met her earlier in the week, but now? Now I’ve seen her naked, I know there’s only one way I’m going to get the image out of my head before it’s completely ingrained . . . and I’m not even sure that’ll work. Fucking her might seal the memory of her so that it’s completely ineradicable.
And, to be completely honest, I’m not sure which prospect is worse—having her haunt and taunt me for wanting, no needing, to fuck her, or living with the memory of fucking her, when there’s a good chance that fucking any other woman afterwards will not even begin to compete with the pleasure of fucking her.
Pleasure I can only dream about.
Pleasure that I need.
And she can’t even stand to fucking look at me. I’ll take her from behind so she doesn’t have to.
I grin and my cock twitches at the thought.
But then, I realise that she is the only one with whom I’ve wanted to explore different aspects of sex. The only woman I’ve met who seems strong enough to take me on. I can’t fuck up the chance of that. I need to tread carefully. I know she has vulnerabilities . . . but I know that’s only where kids are concerned.
I look at the kid next to me. He says he’s nineteen but he acts so much younger. At first, I thought he had learning difficu
lties but, after spending time with him, I know he doesn’t. He’s much too quick at picking things up. He asks pertinent questions—they may seem immature to me, but he quickly processes my replies and comes back with more questions until they become age appropriate and beyond.
He’s any teacher’s dream. Enthusiastic, focused and determined. Not to mention bright. It’s odd. He’s fascinated with what’s on the other side of the door. I thought he wanted to look further afield, that maybe he’d not been out of London before. Now, it’s like he’s never been out of the flat.
Maybe that’s it. Maybe he’s confined to this flat. Perhaps he’s agoraphobic and can’t go outside.
But his mother’s a therapist. It seems unlikely, but then I’m no expert. My only knowledge of the condition is when former Commandos have experienced it, or something like it. It kind of gets all bundled up under the heading of PTSD, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
But here’s a nineteen-year-old kid who doesn’t seem to leave the flat. No college. No job. Maybe he’s just lazy and she indulges him. I doubt it, somehow. It seems very unlikely.
I decide to probe a little. There’s no point right now, he’s still engrossed in the map, taking yet another route from the flat into the wide world beyond. He’s like a prisoner, planning his escape route but I doubt that’s the case either. We left him here last night and he was still here when we got back.
Something’s not right. My mind is used to sussing things out—when your life is at stake, you tend to pick up that habit. I can’t help but feel the need to solve the puzzle of this kid.
I get my chance to find clues a short time later. He seems satisfied that he’s investigated what’s outside his front door. He turns to me and asks, ‘Could you use this map to find somebody?’
‘How do you mean? You could find somebody’s address . . . their home or their work, yes.’
He frowns. ‘What do you type in? Do you have to know their name?’
I have to admit, I’m a little thrown by his line of questioning. ‘You type the address in. You could type the name of a building or business and it would probably find it. It zooms in on it.’
