by Jaden Wilkes
I pause at the door, turn back to surveil the scene, a mental snapshot for my collection. “Derrick is going to be sore when he wakes up,” I said and flash her ‘the smile.’ “It’s been fun, but I’ve got an early appointment in the morning. Tell him he was fantastic and I can’t believe that was his first time.”
“Fuck you,” she screeches and staggers to get up. “Derrick, are you ok?” I hear her call out. I begin to whistle a wordless tune, shut the bedroom door and practically skip to my car.
Tuesday, April 1st 4:00PM - Erica
Erica is a funny case. She is a high paid escort who is now working through some issues with her sexuality. She thinks she might be a lesbian, I think she’s just very confused.
We’ve been working on her cock sucking skills, getting her past a terrible gag reflex that appeared mysteriously during a bachelor party two months ago. Unfortunately not one of the men present was an emetophile, and they kicked the shit out of her after making her clean her vomit from the front of the man she’d puked on.
Her company was going to fire her unless she figured her shit out. The problem was that she was very in demand. She is gorgeous. She has huge doe eyes, soft and brown with thick luxurious black hair and a body that fucking won’t quit. She’s the perfect little whore, full red lips and eyes that plead so endearingly that you can't help but make the little bitch cry.
We’ve been working on choking her with my cock so she can prove to her company that she’s cured and can start working again. The last two sessions have been very productive. She was able to finish me off and swallow both times. I am rock hard by the time she strolls through my door, looking confident and defiant. Excellent. I am ready to have her down on her knees and humiliate her into tears.
“Erica, come in, how are you doing?” I ask her and motion for Beatrice to close the door. I’ve noticed the old bird hangs around the ones who are participating in my experimental therapy. She might be suspicious or turned on. I do suspect she has a bit of a crush on me.
“Doctor Dane, I’m doing fucking awesome,” she tells me and throws her bag onto the sofa. “I met somebody,” she adds and sits down on the edge, looking nervous and full of anticipation.
“You met someone? Didn’t we go over this last week? You’re not ready for a committed relationship,” I tell her, furrow my brow to emphasize my disappointment and flip my notepad open. More than anything, I am annoyed. I prefer those in my experimental program to be free from all personal ties. Less chance of them fucking up and telling somebody a little too much about what I’m doing here.
“She’s just so amazing though,” Erica replies, her eyes are bright and shiny, the eyes of somebody who has found love...or at least sex. The thrill of hormonal attraction.
“Erica,” I say in a stern voice, “You are not ready for this sort of thing.” I stand and move towards her. She leans back, widens her eyes instinctually and nods her head.
“I know,” she whispers, “But I’m just so lonely.”
I hold my hand out to her and she takes it. I pull her up to stand in front of me. I tower over her by almost a foot, I can see directly down her shirt to the deep V of her cleavage. Her breasts look two sizes too large for the bra she’s wearing, and I approve. She knows her body is her only asset, and she’s working it.
“You’re only lonely if you are running from your feelings,” I tell her and move her closer. I take her hand and press it against my hard cock, let her feel how it’s raging for her, screaming for her to wrap those beautiful lips around it and use her throat like a cunt.
“I know,” she says and looks up at me, tears gathering in the corner of her eyes, “I just thought—”
I slap her face and cut her off. “You just thought what? That you know better than me? That you are entitled to ruin a month’s worth of work I’ve put into you? That you think having some cunt pressed against your face every night will erase the years your father made you suck his dick?” I demand and watch my hand print go red on her cheek. I have half an hour before the front office staff is gone for the day, nobody will see the damage I have done.
“I’m sorry,” she says and looks down. She moves her hand against my cock; she has admitted defeat.
“It’s ok,” I tell her and hook my thumb under her chin to pull her up so she can look me in the eye. “I care about you, Erica,” I say, “and I want to see you happy. You have to trust me.”
“I do trust you,” she says and her chin quivers. “I trust you with my life.”
She unzips my pants and slides her hand inside. I’m not wearing underwear just for this reason, easy access. She starts to slide her hand across the shaft of my cock, cups the tip and fingers the sensitive ridge around the top. She takes my precum and lubes it up, starts pumping faster and looks up at me.
I want to kiss her; I’ve never kissed her. I lean down, she opens her lips and her eyes are full of excitement. She wants this. I want this. She’s jerking my cock harder now, she’s taken it from my pants and it stands straight up between the two of us. My lips brush hers and I taste cigarettes and cheap booze. I smell it. It clings to her like a disease. She tastes of cancer and poison and sickness.
Cigarettes and booze and angry pinching fingernails.
I push her back; her face is surprised as I slap her hand away from my cock.
“You fucking stink,” I spit at her and push my hard-on back into my pants. “You smell like a cheap whore.”
She’s shocked, her mouth opens and closes like a fish and she doesn’t reply.
“Were you drinking last night? This morning?” I demand and smooth my shirt down as I tuck it in.
“I...I...I was out with my girlfriend, yeah. We were partying, celebrating her new job,” she replied at last.
“Well, you fucking stink like it. You smell like rotten pussy and cheap wine,” I tell her and sit back down in my chair. I pull out my notebook and start writing furiously. It’s nonsense, I just want to emphasise my disappointment to her.
She sinks slowly to the sofa, her legs are askew and I can see her panties. A thin pink strip covers her cunt; she’s taunting me with it. “I’m sorry, Doctor Dane. I never thought—”
“You never thought what? That I would mind the mouth of a filthy whore sucking my cock? That I would mind you crawling from some slut’s apartment straight to my office, reeking of her filthy cunt?”
She starts crying, sobbing, heaving and choking on her tears. I lean across to my desk, pick up a box of tissues and throw them at her. “Blow your nose,” I sneer and watch her hands shake as she takes one from the box and blows into it. I don’t offer the trashcan; I let her sit there, tears leaking and snot dribbling, with a wet tissue in her lap.
She disgusts me. She defies me with her poor decisions.
“Are you going to disappoint me again?” I ask.
She shakes her head and takes another tissue, blows her nose and holds it, balled in her hand with the other one.
“I can’t hear you,” I say and curl my lip at her.
“I won’t,” she says and looks at me. “I promise.”
I stand and walk to her, loom over her and love the fear in her eyes as she looks up at me. Cigarettes and cheap booze. Fucking pathetic.
“I don’t think you will,” I say and push her down onto the couch. She understands what is going to happen and complies as I move her legs over, shove her face into the cushions and drop to my knees behind her. “I don’t think you’ll ever disappoint me again, will you?” I ask and unzip my pants.
“No,” she sobs and holds onto the tissue box like it’s a life preserver. I push her face into the cushion and grab a fistful of her hair. With my other hand I tear the panties from her body and toss them to the side. I shove a couple fingers up her cunt and find her dripping, waiting for me.
“You will never disappoint me again,” I repeat and guide my massive cock to her wet cunt. I push myself in and watch her body jerk against me as I pump my anger into her limp body. I han
g onto her hair and hold her in place. I pound into her, driven into a frenzy by the little mewling noises coming from the pillow. I slam into her repeatedly, jerking her head and forcing her face farther into the sofa until I feel my need rising and shoot my load into her hot cunt.
“That’s my girl,” I say as I come, “There’s my little slut, dirty fucking whore, diseased cunt, there you are. Doctor Dane has what you need.” I finish with a long thrust, grab her hair and hold her pinned against my cock as I spurt the last of it.
When I’m done, I pull out, admire the sight of my seed spilling from her tight hole, and think next time I’m taking her ass. I unwrap my hand from her hair, pick up her panties and clean myself off. She moves slowly, like she’s in shock. She takes the panties as I hand them to her, balls them up with the tissues, pulls her skirt down and sits back on the sofa.
Her face is streaked with tears and she looks stunned.
I zip my pants up, sit back down in my Eames lounger, and scribble a few notes. She is watching me like a mouse in front of a snake. I love it; she’s really into this little performance.
“Now do you understand how much I want to help you?” I ask her and lean back, cross my leg over the other and stare at her.
“Yes,” she mumbles and tries to straighten her hair. She’s a mess. She takes a long breath and wipes her nose with the balled up panties and tissue. She can’t make eye contact yet.
“Hey,” I tell her and she looks up, “it’s ok, tell me what’s on your mind.”
She looks at me then, takes another shuddering breath and asks, “Are you ever going to kiss me?”
I smile and nod and reply, “Yes, when you are worthy. When you are clean.”
She gives me the smallest smile and sits up straighter on the sofa. We make small talk until I see the clock has hit four forty five. I cut her off in mid sentence and say, “You need to leave now, you’re a fucking mess and I can’t look at you anymore.”
Her face falls, but she doesn’t protest. She takes the ball of tissues and panties and shoves them into her bag. As she stands, she looks over at me and says, “Is there somewhere I can clean up?”
“Yes, yes,” I say, “there’s a public restroom on the second floor. I’ll see you next week, same time.”
“Yes, Doctor Dane,” she replies and opens the door to leave. “Thank you for today’s session, I feel like we have made progress.”
I smile at her and see her face lighten up. She’s like a puppy, the more you kick her the less it takes to make her happy. “That’s right, there's my bright girl. I’ll see you next session.”
She closes the door and I lean back, hands behind my head, to examine the trigger. What was it about the booze and cigarettes that brought that turn of events?
It occurs to me at last and I reach for my phone. I call Jane and ask her to meet me for drinks. Plain Jane itty bitty titty Jane Dane. I have the oddest compulsion to talk to somebody about this.
*****
We end up in an executive lounge in the West End. Luckily she was down there already for some licensing issue, and it’s dead this time of day.
“So what’s this about?” she asks as we settle into our booth. “I can’t say I wasn’t surprised to hear from you, I don’t think you’ve ever called me out of the blue like this.”
“I don’t know,” I tell her and we turn as the waiter comes to take our drink order. Jane has a Manhattan and I order a scotch.
I continue after he leaves, “I had a weird reaction to a patient this afternoon.”
“Weird reaction, how?” she asks and looks at me.
“She made me angry,” I tell her, “I covered it up, she never knew, but I don’t know why she pissed me off.”
She looks surprised. She leans back, looks me up and down and says, “Alexandre, angry? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you even raise your voice. You’re the nicest guy I know. What about her triggered you?”
“It was a smell, she reeked of cigarettes,” I said and felt immediately foolish. I don’t know what compelled me to reach out; it’s so unlike me.
“Did your parents smoke?” she asks and plays with a coaster.
“They both did,” I say and smile to myself. Every therapist I know goes right to the parents when something goes wrong. It’s always dear old mom and dad.
“What were they like?”
“Typical love story,” I say with a sardonic smile, “my mother from a wealthy British family who lost all their money but wouldn’t admit it. My father was a vulgar man from Slovakia with more dirty money than class. He wanted a classy wife to go legit; she wanted his money. They each got exactly what they wanted. Neither of them wanted me.”
“That’s terrible. Were you born in London? When did you move here?”
“Yes, born in London and moved here when I was rather young. It was a strange transition, but I think I handled it swimmingly.” Strange is an understatement. I was the kid with the weird accent and weirder parents who had all the earmarks of an unfeeling bastard even in grade two. It took a few years to win over the love and adoration of my classmates and learn how to use my accent to my advantage. Everything sounds nicer in a crisp, British accent. Even when you’re lying like a criminal, people believe you.
“How was your relationship with your father?” she asks and flips the coaster over and over again.
“He was distant, worked a lot, drank a lot. He had multiple affairs,” I tell her and will myself not to react. Multiple affairs that he used me to help cover, women he paraded under my mother’s nose and eventually made no effort to hide.
“How about your mother?” she asks, still playing with the coaster.
“She was also a bit distant. She didn’t work but she was doting when she was present,” I say and feel my blood pressure rise. I can feel my pulse throbbing in my temple with each beat of my heart. One beat and I think about my mother slowly exhaling smoke, it hangs in a cloud around her face. Two beats and I think about her long legs and elegant, stylish clothing. Three beats and I can feel her creeping into my room at night when my father is out with one of his whores. Four beats and I can feel her long fingers wrapping around me, touching me and whispering “Nobody will ever love you like mommy does.” Five beats and I can feel her long fingernails digging into my flesh when I can’t respond to her advances. I was so little, I couldn’t respond, I could never give her what she needed. And she needed so much, always so fucking much.
“Your drinks,” our waiter says interrupting my momentary lapse into memory. I am grateful and take the time to compose myself. Jane smiles up at him and he smiles back, he looks a little enamoured with her which makes me smirk. She’s so plain, how could he possibly find her attractive? I hate the thought of him actually possessing her though.
“Thank you,” I interject and dismiss him with a wave of my hand. Jane shrugs and looks embarrassed, but he gets the hint and fucks off. I really hate the thought of him climbing up inside of her. My Jane.
She takes a sip of her drink, swallows and looks at me, “Sorry, you were saying something about your mother. I know you lost them recently, how have you been since the fire?”
“I’ve been better since their deaths,” I tell her and sip my own drink. The ice clatters in the glass and soothes me. I look out the window and continue, “You know it was a house fire, the RCMP suspected arson but couldn’t prove a thing. Five months later and, although they had to clear it as an accident for insurance purposes, they still think arson. I believe it was one of my father’s business associates. I’m sure of it.”
“Oh my god, I’m sorry,” she says, her face stricken. “I didn’t know. Why didn’t you tell anyone? Why would they ever think it was you? Weren’t you out of town when it happened?”
“I didn't tell anyone because I didn’t want to upset anyone,” I tell her and see her sympathy turn to understanding. Good old Alexandre, always putting others before himself. “You know, the good old British stiff upper lip and all. And yes, I was
gone. That trip I took to Los Angeles to meet with Doctor Haden at UCLA. I was away when they burned...we lost everything.”
“Oh god,” she says and reaches across the table for my hand. She places hers over mine to comfort me. I wasn’t gone at the time of the fire though; I had come back two days early. Nobody ever knew though, and nobody ever suspected me, the loving son. I collected the insurance money and made a clean break, a fresh start. No blood on my hands and more in the bank than I could ever possibly spend in a lifetime. I woke up the next day still reeking of gasoline and smoke.
I still feel vaguely guilty about the fire, as though I struck a match myself. Did I? I hadn’t given it a second thought until the investigators showed up at my apartment a couple months ago, questioning me about it. Luckily Blythe was able to confirm my visit to LA, so they have stopped coming around.
“It’s ok,” I tell her and let her keep her hand on mine even though I want to push it away. Twist her fingers until they snap. Her need and expectation weighs heavily on me and I don’t want her to confuse this visit for feelings on my end. “I think I’m just stressed, I’ve been working too much. This is nice though, I need more time away from the office.” I smile at her, she smiles back and she buys it all. Plain Jane itty bitty little titties Doctor Jane Dane. I almost feel sorry for her.
We spend the better part of an hour making small talk. I half listen to her as the lounge fills up around us. Finally I make an excuse to leave and hail a cab home.
We wait on the curb together and in the moment before the cab reaches us, she says, “Why haven’t you been talking to Blythe?”
“I never do really,” I say, surprised that she would suggest this.
“Ok, I just thought...never mind…” her voice trails off and doesn’t finish as the cab comes to a stop.
