by Jaden Wilkes
Jen moves under me, sighs and smiles.
“That was hot,” she mumbles and reaches for me. I put the cigarette butt back in my pocket, withdraw, wipe myself on her blanket and zip myself up. I stand, look down at her and reach back into my pocket to feel the cigarette. I have to know it’s safe. I have a sudden flash of holding Jen down, slitting her throat and running my hands through the blood. I almost feel like I have done this before and need to do it again. I can’t recollect when though, and don’t know if I ever will. I'm confused for a moment, it was probably something I watched in a film one time. Besides, I like my freedom too much, and I like fucking warm bodies.
I lean down, pull her cum stained blanket across her body and watch her for a moment longer. She looks peaceful, serene, considering the events that just occurred here. She doesn’t know how lucky she is that I don’t like getting my hands dirty.
I turn and leave, take a long walk through the streets and reach my apartment as the sun rises and the city wakes up.
Monday, March 31st 9:00AM - Julia
“I was raped,” she says and starts our first session. “It was brutal, and terrible and I don’t know how I can go on.”
I resist the urge to say, “No shit, Sherlock,” and make an encouraging noise in the back of my throat instead. Most of my patients have been raped. That’s what I do.
“It was a guy I was seeing. That’s what hurt the most; I thought we were having a good time. He decided I wasn’t putting out enough.”
“And how does that make you feel?” I ask in my gentlest voice. What I really think is that she’s lucky any man wants to fuck her fat ass. She’s not completely unattractive, in her early twenties so she has youth on her side, but a fucking cow. She must weigh at least one forty, and at five and a half feet that puts her dangerously close to the too fat to fuck category.
I know I’m an asshole. I get it. Most of you are probably hitting close on your kindle app right now, but hang in there. I might be a piece of shit but it makes for a good read. I guarantee I’ll have your cunt dripping by the time you finish our crazy fucking ride.
“How do you think it makes me feel?” she asks and lifts herself off the low sofa to glare at me.
Ah, what a snotty little bitch. No wonder her boyfriend fucked her stupid, he probably knew the only way to shut her up was with a cock down the back of her throat.
She’s not ugly though, I think I’m just being hard on her because my standards are so exacting. Women are here to serve men’s sexual desires. I believe this from the base of my ball sack to the top of my cerebellum. Not keeping themselves in perfect physical shape is an affront to nature and a slap in the face to any hot-blooded man such as myself.
I consider taking her to the next level with my special brand of therapy, but don’t know if I can get a hard-on for this one. She’s got that undercurrent of snotty bitch and a strong connection to her wealthy family. She’d squeal like a pig on a hot summer day if I fed her my cock.
“It’s up to you,” I tell her in my smooth, neutral therapist voice. “This is your session and you are in charge of where we take it. How much I help you is entirely your call.”
She sighs and settles back down on the sofa. “I’m sorry,” she says, and I know I’ve broken her. Reminded her that I’m in charge here by giving her the illusion of freedom. “I have just been so tense since it happened.”
“Tell me about it then, unburden yourself of it,” I tell her and adjust my clipboard. I move one hand under it and start to stroke my cock through the fabric of my suit while I listen to her voice.
“Well, we were dating for six months. We got engaged even. He knew I had pledged my virginity to God and he accepted that when we first got together,” she tells me. “After our engagement he got demanding, and one night he brought me home and said I would have to put out or he’d take his ring back. I was terrified, my parents were out of town and he knew we had the house to ourselves. “
“Go on,” I tell her and find the sensitive edge of my cock head, maximum sensation with minimum movement. I do have a reputation to uphold after all. I am known as one of the best post traumatic sexual event therapists in all of Vancouver. I know, not that it means a lot in this little part of the world, but it means something to me. I’ve spent years cultivating a certain image, and I wouldn’t want some whiny slag to bring it tumbling down because I’m jerking it to her rape sob story.
“He forced himself on me,” she continues and shudders as she says, “he told me he would tell everyone we did it anyhow, so I did.”
“What did you do?” I ask her in my best impression of a detached clinician. I want to hear this though, the gory details. I want to picture this little simpering cunt down on her knees as her fiancé shoved his cock down her throat, choked her on it like a fucking whore. I want to shoot my load in my pants, while she prattles on about her feelings of guilt and insecurity because of the incident. I want to get up, shake her hand at the end of session and have a noticeable wet stain on my upper thigh. I wish I could get my hands in my pants and make her touch my cum. I can’t though—too risky—so I say, “It’s important to share these details in a safe environment.”
She goes on, the brave little soldier that she is, “I let him do it, I let him do everything.” She pauses, takes a long quavering breath and says, “He made me suck his penis, he held my face down onto it even though I was gagging.”
I stroke faster at the thought of this rich little twat being forced to suck a cock. I make a small noise of encouragement and she keeps talking.
“It was awful Doctor Dane...I tried to fight him off, I tried to keep myself pure...but he said he’d dump me if I didn’t…” her voice trails off and she moves as though getting up.
“Just relax and continue,” I say and pretend to scribble in my note pad. I didn’t even pull my hand away from my cock and she settles back in. She’d better get descriptive pretty fucking fast; this was going to take longer than expected.
“He tore my skirt up and came all over my...my...vagina,” she says and sighs, a dramatic, “Woe is me” sigh. Good lord.
“Go on,” I say, slow down my strokes and wait for the next part. This had better get good.
“Then he made me clean up and make him dinner,” she says, “and he dumped me the next day!” She starts wailing, I pull my hand away from my cock, take a box of tissues, get up and hand them to her. “Thank you Doctor,” she says and blows her nose. As if her boring story hadn’t been enough to soften my hard-on, her tissue soaking whale spout of snot seals the deal. I deflate like a popped balloon and glance at my watch. Fuck, forty more minutes of this.
“You’re doing great,” I tell her and settle back into my classic mid-century modern Eames chair to play the part of the good Doctor for the rest of session. I narrow my eyes and chew on the end of my pen as I listen to her drone on, make appropriate responses and prescribe her Effexor at the end of our appointment.
What a letdown. I looked in my book and saw nothing interesting for the rest of the day, so I shut off my libido and watched the parade of angry middle-aged housewives and depressed youth shuffle their way through my office.
*****
Monday evening allows me some release. I cruise an online hook up site for some fast action and immediately find one interesting prospect. An attractive suburban couple who want to add some spice to their lives. We exchange pics and texts and arrange to meet for a drink at a bar someplace out in the Fraser Valley.
I fucking hate it anywhere out of metro Vancouver. I hate the suburbs, but I love what these two are into.
He likes CBT, also known as cock and ball torture, she likes to watch, and I like to fuck. We’re the perfect threesome.
The bar is one of those pathetic themed franchise places, cookie cutter and desperate to hit the mark on every cheesy niche you can think of. Sports memorabilia hangs on the walls and the seats are dark wood and upholstered with green faux leather. I almost cringe touching such cheap
materials, but I understand it’s just one of those things you do if you need a fast track to getting off. Suffer for your craft and all that.
They are almost as attractive as the photos they sent. She’s a little older and a little tenser than the pictures testified. He’s shorter and has a bit of a paunch, but they’re definitely fuckable. I’ve done more with less.
“Shall we order a drink?” I suggest and flip over the plastic drink menu. Ridiculous sounding drinks in pastel colours take up the entire page. When the waitress comes, he orders a martini, she orders a lemon water and I ask for their best scotch. I’m not expecting much.
“Do you want anything to eat? Dessert?” I suggest and hand the oversized menu towards the two of them. Silvia and Derrick. I’ll have to remember their names.
“I don’t think I need any more dessert,” Derrick says and rubs his paunch. His self deprecation gives away an important clue; he’s insecure about his looks. I file that away for later use.
“No, I don’t eat sugar,” Silvia adds and I give the menu to the waitress and shake my head. No on dessert then. And yes on Silvia being a ball busting control freak. I know who wears the pants in their relationship. I’m sure dear old Derrick is a closet sugar addict, gorging on treats when he’s at work and away from Sylvia’s watchful eye. I could probably help them immensely if they were in treatment, but I would never take them on after what I have planned for them.
“So Derrick,” I say and fold my hands on the table, “what do you do for work?” I deliberately ask him first, ignoring Silvia’s look of disapproval. I want to make him like me, trust me.
“I’m in insurance, I manage a small office in the mall,” he says and glances at Silvia. “It’s not the best, but I like it.”
“It sounds like you enjoy helping others, that’s a good thing,” I reply and smile.
Our drinks arrive and Silvia carefully fishes the lemon wedge out of the glass with a fork, squeezes it into the water and wraps the rest in a napkin. When she catches me watching her, she says, “I hate the thought of the peel in my water, all those filthy hands touching it. I should have told them just a squeeze.”
I nod and say, “Understandable, you never know what kind of people had access to them.”
She looks smug at my agreement. I wonder how these two ended up together. Silvia’s controlling nature must have forced Derrick’s hand when they were dating. She seems like one of those ultimatum types, she waked up one day and it’s all, “Ask me to marry you or it’s over.”
“So, how do you want to proceed?” I ask them. “Do you have any questions for me? Have you done this before?”
They look at each other and exchange an illicit glance. I have my answer; this is not new for them.
“We’ve done something like this before,” Silvia tells me and leans forward. I get the hint so I mirror her action; our heads are close together over the table. “We don’t live far from here, and we have quite a comfortable set up, so if you’d like to come home with us we would love to discuss this further.”
“How do you know I’m not a psycho?” I ask her and laugh. This is working faster than I ever thought.
“I, um...I looked you up,” Derrick admits, clearing his throat. His face is red; he’s embarrassed for having done his due diligence. What his little search didn’t show him is that everything I’ve done has been under the radar.
“Well, did you find anything?” I ask and take a sip of my drink.
They exchange a look, and laugh. “Well, not much really. You are who you say you are, and that’s all we needed to know,” Silvia replies and Derrick nods. Silvia picks up her glass, swirls the water and ice cubes around, the sound is hypnotic. I watch as she picks it up and puts the straw to her lips, closes them around it and sucks. She sees me watching her and meets my gaze. She doesn’t break it, tries to stare me down. She is a beautiful woman, but unfortunately she knows this.
Derrick is blissfully unaware of what’s happening at the table right under his nose. He’s sipping his drink and chattering away about his job. It sounds like a hideous kind of office torture, the kind of thing only the simplest of creatures could handle. I do like him though; I think he’s got quite a spirit for having suffered the likes of Silvia for so long.
“How long have you two been married?” I ask, and notice Silvia’s flinch. I’ve scored a point somewhere but I don’t know where or why. If only people knew how much they told me through their body language. It’s like having a secret decoder ring for every person you’ve ever met.
“Coming up ten years now,” she answers and finally looks away, towards Derrick as though defying him to say something negative about their union.
“Ten wonderful years,” Derrick says and covers her hand with his.
“That’s wonderful,” I reply and smile at the happy couple. Silvia glances at me from the corner of her eye and I pretend not to see. She seems like the type who secretly yearns to give up control. I think I can help her with that.
We make a little more small talk, I tell them about my practice and they seem duly impressed. It’s on Broadway in Vancouver, with an office overlooking the city and a view to the North Shore Mountains. I share front office staff with several other counsellors, therapists and a psychiatrist. The nature of my work means my office is secluded though, at the end of the hall past the washrooms and elevators. I have had acoustic tiles added to the walls to make it even more muffled when the girls express themselves.
When I express myself.
Silvia finally takes a look at her phone and says, “We should go back to our place and see where this goes.”
We’ve been talking for a grand total of twenty-seven minutes. Twenty-seven minutes, eight emails exchanged and a few dirty text messages and they’re ready to have me enter their most intimate places. Their home, their bodies...their minds.
I love our world today. Everything is so insta-this and insta-that, it seems perfectly natural to invite a total stranger home with you to fuck you silly and leave you panting. It makes it so easy for me.
We leave the pub together; I pick up the tab with my American Express Black card. Silvia’s eyes meet mine in a moment of approval and I am struck with the need to have her approve.
This offends me. She’s a nobody living out here in some cowshit smelling outer suburb of the Lower Mainland. She’s probably one of those idiots who says she lives in Vancouver even though she’s forty five minutes away from the city centre. I shouldn’t care what she thinks about anything, especially me.
They drive a Mercedes G Wagon. Nice ride, but a little over the top for a daily driver. Derrick catches me looking at it was we approach and hastily tells me, “We bought it for the safety features.”
I don’t really care why they chose to spend over a hundred grand on an off road vehicle that will never leave the pavement. I just wonder two things: does Silvia’s financial investment job pay more than I initially thought, and why do they care about auto safety if they’re bringing me home with them. They clearly don’t consider their own personal safety an issue.
I pull up behind them in my Audi R8 and see Derrick rubberneck out the passenger side of their vehicle. It’s a nice car, the kind of car a man with lots of money and no wife would buy.
We drive less than ten minutes, winding through a new development of cookie cutter homes. Minivans and white picket fences, clichés abound.
Their house is at the end of a cul-de-sac. It’s set back from the curb slightly, boxy and beige. Nothing stands out to indicate there’s a freaky couple living in here. Silvia pulls into the driveway, the garage door slides open and their G Wagon disappears. I pull up to the closing door and cut my engine. I wait until Derrick appears at the front door before I get out. I wonder what their conversation was like as they moved through the secret warren from the garage to the interior of their house. Most likely something that included the phrase, “Hit the jackpot.”
“Come in,” Derrick tells me and clicks the door shut
behind me. Silvia has already gone to the kitchen and is mixing drinks. The house is an open concept; I can see her across the great room. A single staircase thrusts up in the centre of the space. It’s very modern, very unexpected and thankfully, very child-free.
I don’t care for kids, really. Intellectually I know I will most likely reproduce at some point...biological compulsion for the continuation of the species and all that jazz. But to me the thought of devoting my entire life to the care and maintenance of another human being seems unnatural. I’m not hard wired for compassion, what makes me think I would be able to switch it on for a baby?
I don’t like playing with people who have children either. Every once in a while I’ll pass some older soccer mom, maybe she doesn’t have the perfect body or her hair is a disaster and her clothes are frumpy...but she’s got that swing in her hip and the stride that tells me she’d fuck like a wild cat. Those are the mothers I’d consider railing.
Mother in general, not so much. Something happens to a woman after she becomes a mother, something nurturing grows inside her brain and unless you are threatening her sacred offspring, it’s highly unlikely I’m going to uncover any buried shame and emotions to feed my particular fetish.
Besides, scaring kids is so cartoon villain, and that’s not how I roll.
“I’m making us some sangria,” Silvia calls to me as I inventory their house, “sugar free of course,” she adds and laughs. She has a nice laugh; she should use it more often.
“Do you want to sit down?” Derrick asks and gestures to the low-slung black leather sectional in front of the fireplace. He notices the leather satchel I set on the floor next to the couch but doesn’t comment on it.
“Don’t mind if I do,” I reply, kick off my shoes and settle in. “Does the fireplace work?”
