by Jaden Wilkes
- La Rochefoucauld
Monday, April 7th 7:36AM Mistress
Jane and I spent the evening together on Saturday, but strangely all we did was kiss. She’s confusing to me. If I am completely honest, I am not really attracted to her but I enjoy being around her. My entire existence has been categorised as those I fuck and those I don’t fuck so I don’t waste time. Jane exists in some grey hinterland between the two.
We went to a late movie on Granville Street, something with subtitles and an agonizingly slow progression. It didn’t matter to me; it was nice sitting in the dark with her hand in mine.
I didn’t even try to get a hand job or jerk off next to her when the lights went down. Very strange.
Sunday was uneventful. I worked out late again but didn’t run into the gym dude from yesterday. I didn't see him this morning either. I don’t know if I was relieved or disappointed.
I seem to be a mess of contradictions lately.
The office is quiet again, but the lights are on. I thought with the new green initiatives the City put forth; we were supposed to turn them off at night. Somebody must have beaten me in.
My office door is slightly ajar and the scent of cigarette smoke wafts out to me. My hands tremble as I push the door open. I have that strange sense of detachment I've been experiencing lately, as though the hand belongs to another.
As I expected, it's her. Mistress.
She’s wearing the same tight red dress as before, her heels are the same but she's not wearing any gloves. I wonder if she's wearing panties.
"Alexandre, you've been a very busy boy," she says as I enter. I can feel my insides turn to liquid and I want to prostrate myself in front of her, beg her forgiveness. I know she must have found out what I’ve been up to. I wonder if she’s the one who warned the partners in my clinic.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say in a pathetic attempt to remain nonchalant.
“You do know,” she replies and smiles. Her smile is unsettling. She is definitely a beautiful woman but there is an undercurrent of malevolence that throws me off kilter the smallest fraction of an inch.
“I don’t,” I tell her, “ Why don’t you tell me what I’ve been doing?”
“Oh Alexandre,” she replies and her smile becomes a grin, “are we going to play it like this then? Ok, I will list another wicked thing you have done. Does Marie ring a bell? Forcing yourself into her ass despite her protest not to?”
“She wanted it,” I protest and make my way to my desk. I shrug off my jacket and hang it on the coat rack in the corner of the office. I open the window again to help erase the stifling scent of cigarette smoke and the cloying smell of her perfume. “She begged me to keep going.”
“Are you certain of that?” Mistress asks and butts her cigarette out on the side table next to the couch. It holds a box of tissues, a Tiffany table lamp from my mother’s bedroom... gift to me when I started his practice...and now a cigarette butt and possibly a mark.
“Would you please stop smoking in here?” I reply, walk to the side table and reach for the burnt nub. She blocks me with her hand, takes a tissue, wraps it up and slips it in her handbag.
“Can’t have anyone knowing about these little visits now, can we,” she says and arches her brow. “Now back to Marie, how can you know that she wanted it? Could it be that she was just so eager to please you, her handsome Doctor Dane, that she let you abuse her body like that?”
I roll back in time to the moment I shoved my cock up her ass and forced her face into the couch. The very couch Mistress is seated on now, the one that Mistress seems to have claimed as her own. I suspect that everywhere she goes, she owns her space like a Queen of old. I can’t think straight, but I am positive that Marie was completely into our encounter. Would a raped woman want to cuddle her attacker? Did she want to cuddle afterwards?
Now I’m not so sure. The events seem to overlap with other things I’ve done and I am completely unable to pinpoint exactly what happened in this office just a few short days ago.
So I lie. “I am completely certain of it,” I tell her confidently. I know she must see through it and she gives me a look that lets me know she doesn’t believe it for a moment. The kind of look a frustrated mother gives a very naughty little boy.
“Come here, sit by me,” she says and pats the couch next to her. I don’t want to go, I would prefer to sit on the other end with a couple of spots between us, but I am compelled to obey her. I sit exactly next to her as she asked. “Now unzip your trousers, we have to make this fast. Your work day is about to begin.”
“Unzip? What for? What are you doing?” I ask, surprised but growing harder by the second as I imagine the things she could do to me. I worry that I’ll come on her hand the moment I feel her skin on me. I am concerned that she will find my cock too crooked or too thick or lacking somehow.
“I don’t have time to explain,” she replies and releases a heavy sigh. “If you want me to go, I’ll go.”
“No,” I say and pull the zipper on my pants all the way down. “I’m just not used to a woman like you telling me what to do.”
“Oh, I am aware of that,” she says and reaches in to grab my cock. Her hand is cool and dry. I shudder at her touch. She almost repels me. I think of Jane’s heat, her wet vitality pulsing under my grasping attempts to seduce her. “I am aware that you like to be the boss, you like to treat women like trash.”
“What are you going to do to me?” I ask and gasp as she slowly jerks the shaft, hitting the rim at the top and palming it with her small hand.
“I am going to do what should have been done years ago,” she whispers and shoves her hand back inside my pants. She grips my cock with her other and I feel her pushing and prodding around my balls. I tense up, unsure of her intent as she continues to talk. “You have been so wicked for so long, there is really no hope for you. You deserve to be punished, and I have been sent to do this thing.”
“Sent by—” I ask but I am cut short when she grabs the skin encasing my testicles and starts to squeeze. “Fuck, that hurts,” I protest but feel too spellbound to push her off of me. She simultaneously milks my cock and squeezes my balls to the point that they feel like they’re going to pop. “Please,” I whisper and moan at the combination of ecstasy and horrific pain.
“This is what you deserve, Alexandre,” she says in my ear, her breath is hot and demanding. “Now lay back and close your eyes while I administer your punishment.”
I don’t even question her at this point. I lay back and she straddles my thighs, keeping her hands in place. I close my eyes and sink into the mixed sensations. She pulls on my cock faster now, and I know I’ll finish soon but the pain is holding me back. She shifts slightly and starts to pinch my scrotum with her fingernails, tearing at me as tears run from my eyes.
“Please stop,” I say, “you’re hurting me.”
“You hurt yourself,” she whispers harshly and pinches tighter. “Now let’s get this clear. Stop preying on vulnerable women or you will be taken out of service. There are forces at work here that you don’t understand. You must stop what you are doing or you will be punished for your wicked, wicked sins. Do you understand?” She loosens her grip on my sac and concentrates on my shaft. She jerks it like a pro and I feel the tell tale sign that I’m going to explode. I feel shame for the fact that I am about to loose my cum on her hands, dirtying her flesh. I don’t want her to be dirty.
“I do,” I moan and squeeze my eyes tighter.
“Good,” she says and I can hear the satisfaction in her voice, “you may finish now.”
I do explode, and as I reach the peak of my pleasure, as I release my come and it hits her hand, she tightens her fingernails around my balls. I twitch and expel my desperate need, she brings me the harshest pain I’ve ever encountered. I try not to scream as I feel her fingernail tear the delicate flesh.
She takes her hands away at the same time, so all at once I am softening pleasure and sting
ing bite. I keep my eyes closed and say, “Thank you,” as I feel her stand up from the couch. I feel her hand on my shirt as she wipes her hand clean.
“Alexandre,” she says from somewhere above me, “look at me.”
I open my eyes and see her looming over me, her lips set in a grim line. “Yes?” I ask as the pain finally begins to recede.
“Remember what I said or it will get worse,” she tells me and watches my reaction like a hawk.
“Yes,” I reply and will her to leave, to exit my office.
“Yes, what?” she asks with her trademark arched eyebrow.
“Yes, Mistress,” I tell her, feeling utterly defeated. I close my eyes again and hear the click of the door as she exits. I lay like this for a few moments, trying to calm my beating heart and surging adrenaline. As much as I wanted her gone, the moment she leaves I want her back. I need her back. I crave her touch, even if there is so much pain mixed with the pleasure...for the small pleasure she gave me promises heights of joy I’ve never experienced.
And that intense amount of joy would mean that I’m feeling something. And to feel something while in the act of sex is my ultimate fetish.
*****
It’s tough by the time I have my first appointment. I’m having a hard time sitting comfortably. No matter the position, there is a constant stinging reminder of Mistress’ warning. Her voice still echoes in my head and I’m grateful I have no treatment patients today.
Julia strides in exactly at nine on the nose. I was hoping she wouldn’t make it in today. I don’t think I can handle an entire hour of her nasally droning voice describing the finer nuances of how her mother hates her and she’ll never get married.
“It’s just that,” she says about ten minutes in, “nobody really gets me, you know?”
“Why do you think you are so disconnected from your peers?” I ask and fight the urge to sigh dramatically and tap my watch. I’m finding it more difficult to control these impulses; a year ago and I would convince myself that I gave a shit about these people’s lives. Now? Not so much. I would scream at her to get the fuck out of my space, but Mistress’ warning hangs heavy in the air.
“I’ve always been different,” she replies, “not that you would get it. You are the type who fits in everywhere you go.”
“Why do you feel like you don’t fit in?”
“You remember last week when I told you about my fiancé?” she says, dodging my question.
“Yes, the rape,” I say, playing along.
“He broke up with me because his parents didn’t like me,” she tells me, “They never liked me and after that...horrible event...they made him dump me. I know they forced him to dump me.”
“Why would they make him do that?” I ask and listen to her plodding reply.
“They hated me, everybody hates me. Even my own father hated me,” she says and I perk up. I love patients with parental issues. I know it’s cliché, looking at the parent to blame for their fucked up children, but there’s something special about a girl with Daddy issues.
“How could you tell?” I ask.
“He left when I was a baby, he hated me and he left me,” she says and suppresses a brave sniffle. She’s a terrible actress.
“Have you seen him since?” I ask and she shakes her head.
Abandonment issues. The least sexy of all the things a girl can have wrong with her parents. Daddy walked out on them, boo fucking hoo.
“No, I have not. But I’ve seen him on Facebook with his new family. They are all perfect. Skinny and beautiful with perfect teeth,” she tells me in a pathetic quivery voice, “all he has are photos of his new kids...my brothers and sister I guess.”
“Do you have any siblings at home?” I ask.
“A younger sister,” she replies, “everybody loves her but she’s such a little bitch.”
“Do you have the same father?”
“Yes, but she’s totally fine with him being gone. She’s eaten up all the attention since she was a toddler. It’s pathetic.”
“Does she compete with you intentionally?”
“Of course she does, everybody fawns over her constantly and she eats it up with a big spoon.”
“Have you ever thought of finding your own thing? Something you do that can give you confidence?”
“I’m a fucking failure. At everything. Everybody hates me.”
I hold in a dramatic sigh and clench my fist. I hate self centered whiners like this. They are pathetic, if only I could get out of my chair, kick her in the cunt and slap some sense into her. Sadly I am trained to coddle and support every self serving shit bag that makes an appointment.
I’m done here though; I can't hack another thirty minutes of this. How to get rid of her sniveling face without damaging her psyche though?
“Have you considered suicide?” Shit where did that come from?
She jerks her head up from the bundle of tissues she had it in. Like a feedbag strapped to her face. “Are you suggesting I kill myself?”
Shit, rein it in here. Control yourself. I smile and say, “No, I mean have you ever been suicidal?” She gives me the old side eye and I don’t think she quite bought my recovery.
“Uh, no,” she says, still eyeballing me with suspicion. “I mean, I tried to cut my wrists once,” she continues and holds up her hands, wrists facing outward. I can see white thin lines going across her veins. Classic attention seeking.
“If you really wanted to kill yourself, you’ll cut down the arm,” I tell her and pantomime a slashing motion down the length of the inside of my arm. Shit fuck. I’m on a roll today and it might not end well. It doesn’t feel like it’s going to end well.
Her eyes bug out and she swallows a couple of times. “Seriously Doc, if you want me to fucking kill myself, why not just write me a prescription and tell me to overdose?”
“That could be traced back to me,” I say, then smile. I’m attempting to look comforting but I’m sure I’m coming off more like Heath’s Joker. What the good fuck is taking over me today? What has gotten into me?
“That’s it, I don’t have to put up with this shit,” she says, “especially coming from you. You look half fucking crazy yourself, asshole.” She stands up, grabs her purse and stomps from my office. She slams the door as hard as she can as she exits, making the walls rattle with the impact.
I sit back in my chair and smile. The cat that ate the canary is the name of the smile I wear. God I can’t stand pathetic weaklings, but I know she won’t actually go through with it. She is too wrapped up in her own narrative to end it now.
I lean back a little farther and see a ceiling tile has been knocked out of the metal frame. Just a sliver of darkness is exposed and I don’t think I need to call building maintenance. They always take too long to come and treat us doctors like imbeciles because we can’t manage simply tasks. Well, I’d like to see them pass their thesis defense or heal a broken mind.
I stand up, slide the wooden coffee table over underneath the spot, stand on top and reach up to slide the tile back in place. I see something tucked just inside the edge of the metal bracket. I tug at it gently to find out exactly what it is. I don’t want to inadvertently pull my phone wire out of the ceiling; I don’t like the guys in building maintenance and would always rather fix things myself.
It’s a wire attached to what looks like an external hard drive. I can see a steady green light glowing in the darkness, mocking me with its unseeing eye.
I pull steadily and that seems to be the extent of it. Upon further inspection I see a pinpoint camera at the end. It must have been peeking out of the tile at me, recording my office goings on.
Was this put here by the person who reported me? I move the tile back into place and sit at my desk to examine the device. I can’t figure out how to open the hard drive or to turn it off. It appears to have no power source.
I hit the button for the front desk and wait for Beatrice to pick up.
“Hello?” she says, sounding
a million miles away through the crackle of the phone.
“Cancel all my appointments for the day,” I tell her and hang up before she asks for an explanation. If anyone asks, I’ll claim the flu and hint at diarrhea. If ever an excuse is needed, make it something to do with shitting, and nobody will press for details.
The camera frustrates me, being so technologically illiterate that I don’t know what to do with it. I remember then that Jane has a degree in engineering. Maybe, or she took some engineering courses. I don’t know, but it’s enough for me to text her.
“Can you come over?” I write and set my phone down. I shove the camera in my middle desk drawer and shut it.
My phone buzzes immediately. “I’m at work. Is three ok?”
“Sounds good. I’ll still be at work.”
“See you then. ”
I hit the button on my phone again and Beatrice picks it up, sounding harried. “Yes,” she says.
“Send my girlfriend back when she arrives at three,” I tell her. She pauses, sighs and hangs up the phone on me.
I am taken aback. I’m generally Bea’s little golden boy and I wonder what’s gotten in her bonnet?
Pleased that I’ve managed to stay off the day’s patients, but now I’m a little trapped. If I leave, they will wonder why I’m not seeing anyone but if I stay then I’m stuck trying to avoid anything touching my swollen sack. I cross to the couch and lay down with my legs slightly apart to alleviate the pain in my groin. It’s a sweet pain, I consider stroking myself there before I fall asleep but the camera incident wigs me out. Instead, I play with my phone a few moments, put it back in my pocket and close my eyes. I regulate my breathing and consider the source of the camera but I come up with nothing solid. I have suspicions but my brain is too muddled to determine anything definite.
*****
I sleep until I am woken by a light knock on the door. I sit up and check my phone. It’s just before three. I have the oddest sensation that time has gotten away from me, but I was asleep so I cannot tell.
I get up and open the door to find Jane. She’s early and she’s lovely. Plain Jane is looking radiant today so I tell her as much.
