Accuse

by Nikki Sex

  Pissed off, Grant glares at me. “I don’t have sex with any woman I don’t pay for,” he says in a controlled, edgy tone. “I pay André and he pays you. Otherwise, I would never have had sex with you.”

  I laugh because I think he’s just called me a hooker. The insult amuses me, who knows why?

  “Did you just call me a prostitute?” I ask.

  Any trace of anger leaves as his face whitens. “I… no, I didn’t mean—”

  “Forget it,” I interrupt. “I’m not offended. Honestly. When a person gets something for nothing, they don’t appreciate it—that’s what André says. It’s why he charges the really big bucks. But I’d work with you, Grant, even if André wasn’t paying me. You’re a good man who deserves my help. On top of that, I care about you… I care about you a lot.”

  Disbelief, hope, shock, uncertainty—a flood of complex emotions flash across his face, too fast to clearly follow.

  As is often the case, he shuts down completely while he processes these ideas.

  I wonder who hurt him so deeply? A member of his church? A trusted teacher? A close friend of the family? Perhaps a ‘kind’ and doting uncle?

  Whoever it was, the asshole really did a number on him. I know that Grant sincerely loved the guy. I can tell because of the way he doubts himself.

  Grant doesn’t have faith in love.

  I won’t ask him who destroyed the innocence of his childhood—even though I really want to know. In time he’ll confide in me, but only when he’s ready to do so.

  Grant equates intimacy with guilt, ‘I did bad’ and humiliation ‘I’m so embarrassed and ashamed of myself because I am bad’. Talk about trust issues.

  He’s like a determined boxer taking on the reigning champion in the ring. The man weaves and ducks around the subjects of love and sex as if he’s in a battle for his life. It’s painful to watch him struggle.

  I don’t want him to fight me.

  I want him to love me.

  The unconscious thought blasts through my mind and surges into my awareness. I’m a terrible person! I shouldn’t be thinking of myself. I clear my throat.

  Focus on him. Be in the present. Be the counselor. This is not about you.

  “Listen, Grant,” I say calmly. “We all do whatever we need to do. Your coping strategy of buying sex wasn’t cruel or detrimental to others. When people can’t talk about things, or if they can’t effectively deal with their issues, they find different ways to get by. I was no exception.”

  I think about the ‘people-pleasing’ mouse I’ve been all my life and how my self-esteem has been tied up in rescuing others. I’m not happy or fulfilled unless I’m needed. Yet no matter what I do, a voice inside me whispers that it’s all a mistake. My mother and my brother are dead. I should have saved them. I don’t deserve to be happy.

  Grant considers my words for a long, quiet moment.

  He nods. “André told me all people, whatever they’re doing, no matter how crazy or irrational it seems, it is how they need to act—from their perspective.”

  “Exactly,” I agree.

  His lips curve and we smile at each other as we both can relate to this perfect truth.

  “I’ve still got a long way to go myself, Grant. Progress, not perfection, right?”

  “Right,” he says, but his smile doesn’t last long. Abruptly, he frowns and looks away.

  “What? What is it?” I ask.

  “You said only the strongest among us are willing to risk personal exposure.”

  “Yes.” I say. “It’s about honesty—André goes on and on about it. He says everyone should find someone they trust. If an individual doesn’t reveal themselves—if they don’t tell their personal story, they’ll never know the joy of sharing a true connection with another.”

  His gaze locks on mine.

  His look is so intense, I find myself holding hold my breath.

  “I had far too much shame to talk to anyone until I met André,” he begins. His gaze moves toward the window once more and he doesn’t speak for a long silent moment. “I could never tell anyone anything before him, and now I can with you.”

  “Oh?” I murmur softly.

  Face composed, Grant’s body is stiff, his fists clenched. I sense vast wells of emotion emanating from this private, self-contained man.

  I have no idea what he’s trying to say.

  He turns toward me, pinning me motionless with his eyes. “Renata, the only reason I can be strong is because of you,” he says, his voice low and compelling. “You listen and you understand. You don’t judge me. It isn’t hard to be brave when I’m sharing things with you.”

  Now it’s my turn to be silent and to look away.

  I simply cannot meet his gaze.

  My pulse kicks and my heart is so full of love and joy I’m afraid I might burst into tears. I don’t think I can speak—my throat is too tight.

  Minutes pass as I regain my composure.

  “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” I finally tell him. “Thank you, Grant.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  His sexy slow smile totally melts me. I’m so completely crazy about this guy. Intelligent and confident, yet also troubled, insecure and alone—Grant needs my help. He needs me. I suppose that’s a somewhat insane criteria for falling in love, but there you have it.

  Scars and all, I still find him the most attractive man I’ve ever seen.

  It’s time to get off these emotional ‘mind’ and ‘spirit’ subjects. Tonight is about the pleasure of the body. With that thought, I lower my eyes so my gaze falls on to his erect shaft.

  Grant sees where I’m looking. Eyes alight with amusement, he shakes his head as if I’m a lost cause—which I most certainly am.

  The man’s indomitable dick has been hard for hours. Even this difficult conversation hasn’t lessened his cock’s mindless enthusiasm. Lust…need… the man wants me.

  That’s good because I burn for him too.

  I recall the instant I first saw him naked. He’d stood up to remove his brown leather belt on a dare, and I nearly burst into flames with desire and anticipation. The sexy sound of him lowering his zipper ratcheted up my arousal.

  When he finally removed his boxers, I just about lost it.

  I took one look at that big, beautiful cock of his, raised my hands in the air and shouted, “Hallelujah! There is a God!”

  We’d both cracked up, bursting into uncontrollable laughter—which was the idea, of course. I hoped to lighten the mood and break the tension. I want Grant to form new associations. I need him to discover that sex is fun.

  Tonight, we’ve mostly been laughing our asses off. This is a lighter side of Grant, an easygoing side when he’s not burdened by shame or crushed by the weight of his terrible past.

  Unfortunately, it’s impossible to escape from one’s past.

  Chapter 11.

  “There is only one good, knowledge—and one evil, ignorance.”

  ― Socrates

  ~~~

  Renata Koreman

  Ignorant people thoughtlessly assert, “That was years ago, why don’t you just get over it?” That simple statement is easy to say, but so difficult to do.

  Survivors would love to ‘get over’ their issues and move on—if they only knew how! Denial only goes so far. Recovery takes time, hard work and, more often than not, professional help.

  There’s no magical cure. Most people don’t realize how deeply their past influences their present. Their personalities, responses to life, thought patterns and feelings are affected daily in so many ways.

  Some think accepting therapy shows weakness. They couldn't be more wrong. It takes bravery and strength to open up to someone. Hell, sharing oneself means a person must face the trauma that hurt them so badly—not to mention personal fears, failures and shame.

  Memories are fearsome demons more horrific than in any Stephen King novel or nightmare. Ugly, hard truths hurt like the devil. If a person isn't r
eady to face up to their past and themselves, counselling doesn’t work.

  As the old joke goes: How many psychologists does it take to change a lightbulb?

  One, but he must be ready to change.

  As corny as this joke is, it’s true. In order to respond favorably to therapy, a person must make a real effort to change.

  I’ve worked hard to overcome a lifetime of fear. I still work hard at it. Sometimes things happen, forcing me to see how far I have yet to go. I take anti-depressants to help manage my inexplicable low moods. Rejection kills me. At times, I stutter. I still have sudden panic attacks and I often feel stupid and undeserving.

  At times, I feel as helpless as the child I once was. Fear, grief, depression and panic can trap me in an unexpected emotional ambush.

  Words, a smell, a taste, maybe even an old song can transport me into the past. Within a heartbeat I return to a time and place that hurts. Such memories are sharp and sudden, like a kick to the gut—or maybe more like a knife, slashing open an old wound.

  Abuse is a timeless memory that brands a person’s soul.

  These hidden scars never go away. As André says, they must be addressed. Otherwise, just like cancer, the poison spreads and can destroy a person’s life.

  André states people are unhappy because they’re afraid to tell their stories. This is certainly true for those of us who have been abused. When a bullied or molested person speaks up, they are often met with disbelief, denial, blame or disgust.

  Sometimes they are simply ignored.

  Grant blames himself for being a victim. When I look at him, I see glimpses of myself. He feels guilty and unworthy of love.

  Why is it his fault?

  Because it happened to him!

  Yet, in this magical moment—in fact, all evening, Grant has felt none of these things. Usually, just the idea of intimacy freaks him out.

  I hope to avoid triggering bad memories by instituting the ‘no touching’ rule. I won’t touch him and he won’t touch me—unless he’s absolutely certain it won’t disturb him.

  Control was wrested from him far too often as a child. That’s why I’ve told him if he’s confident enough to touch, he can go ahead and do so.

  This is his therapy, so all choices need to be his.

  Even then, we’ve both agreed there will be no penile penetration tonight. That has always been his most dangerous trigger for humiliation and shame.

  So far, this plan has been working. I’m thrilled because at this moment, he’s light-hearted and carefree. It's wonderful to see.

  Grant never takes off his clothes during sex. Yet, right now, he’s naked in a well-lit room and still able to be himself in front of me. This is a significant milestone.

  Knowing this fills my heart with a special kind of joy. I’m helping him face lifelong problems and it’s working.

  Pride is one of the seven deadly sins, but I just can’t help myself.

  Damn, I’m good!

  Grant says he’s underweight compared to what he used to be, but I see no evidence of this. Physically, I think he’s perfect—smoking hot, in fact. He’s only about an inch taller than I am, but he’s probably twice my size in bulk.

  His gorgeous body is all well-defined muscle, his strength and forceful personality make him seem huge. He’s such a powerful, masculine presence.

  Deliberately, I slowly run my eyes over his tight, muscular frame in a seductive I-want-to-fuck-you-more–than-life-itself visual caress.

  His eyebrows arch and his lips curve up in a slow, knowing smile. Grant’s intense gaze sizzles with erotic fire. It’s obvious he desperately wants to fuck me too.

  My core tightens and my breath catches.

  I crave him. I want to bite his broad shoulders and lick his washboard abs. I imagine running my fingers through his dark brown hair then gliding them along his neck and trailing them over his broad, bare chest.

  This inability to touch him is torture.

  I long to devour him, immersing myself in his masculine scent and taste. I want to lick every inch of him. I’d kiss and nibble each curve, valley, dip and ridge of his scorching hot flesh. I’d caress his massive biceps, lingering on his thick forearms, wrists and hands.

  Grant has strong hands.

  Manly hands.

  Hands with long, thick fingers made to touch and pleasure a woman. They match his gorgeous hard-on.

  I flip my card—I throw a four. With a smart-ass grin, sure of his win, Grant flips a three. Both of us laugh uproariously for no particular reason except that we both wrongly assumed I’d lose this round.

  “Truth or dare,” I say.

  “Truth,” he responds.

  “How did you get those scars?”

  I’ve wanted to ask him that question since I first met him. I haven’t, because I’ve been afraid to upset him. Yet, he’s so upbeat at the moment, I figure he can deal with anything I throw his way.

  “I’ll never tell you that,” Grant says in a subdued, final tone that clearly signals the end of that discussion.

  “Bummer,” I say, intentionally lighthearted. “OK. Well, then you’ll have to take a dare, and because you’ve already gotten out of one request—you can’t renege on this one.”

  His eyes narrow as he looks at me suspiciously. “Fine.”

  I lick my lips with anticipation. “I want to see you play with yourself while I imagine sucking you off.”

  His erect dick jerks at my words and his whole body tightens. Rendered helpless by the gorgeous feast before me, I can’t help but stare at Grant’s red, swollen flesh. I shut my eyes for a moment, imagining it pulse as he climaxes.

  I swallow and shake my head. “Fucking hell, I really need to watch that big cock of yours come.”

  Grant’s body strains with sexual tension but he says nothing. Somehow, I manage to lift my gaze from his fascinating erection. Our eyes lock as a sizzle of sensual electricity flows between us.

  Will he do it? It would be a big step, another first. He’s told me he’s inexperienced with women and has never had a relationship. He’s admitted he only agreed to see me because he knew he’d be paying for it.

  Other than quick pecks, the man never kisses on the mouth. What will that be like, when he finally thoroughly kisses me? The kind of penetrating, sexy, tongue in the mouth kiss that makes a woman imagine being penetrated somewhere else?

  His inexperience is such a turn-on.

  Can he pleasure himself while I watch? He’s certainly horny enough—that throbbing shaft of his is dripping. My mouth waters from the mere thought of watching him stroke himself. Man, I wish I could taste him.

  My breath quickens.

  A few moments pass quietly while we stare at each other.

  “I want to tell you my fantasies while you jerk off,” I say, with a suddenly dry mouth. “I need to know what that thick, hot cum of yours looks like and feels like when it sprays on my tits.”

  I’m down to only wearing my light blue panties. Our sexy ‘Truth or Dare’ card game has created an entire evening of seductive foreplay. My swollen breasts are flushed and full—I ache to have his hands upon them. My erect nipples are bigger than they’ve ever been before. They look like erasers from the tips of oversized pencils.

  Grant hasn’t moved but his eyes smolder with lust as he stares at the dark, moist stain on my panties—clear evidence of my arousal. He knows exactly how much I want him.

  Will he take the dare?

  His penetrating gaze cuts right through me as he shifts his buttocks forward to the edge of his chair, giving me a great view of his bobbing erection.

  Lips firm, Grant’s expression still doesn’t show any obvious reaction.

  Despite trying to remain focused on his face, my eyes are drawn back to his cock. Thick and heavy, it sticks straight up from a dark thatch of pubic hair. Its tip glistens invitingly, making my mouth water. Eager and reaching, it wants to be inside of me. It needs to plunder the dark, wet heat of my body.

  My in
ner walls clench at the thought. That’s exactly what I want, too.

  Our ragged breathing is the only sound in the room. He parts his legs, showing me his heavy balls. Fuck, he’s as hot as hell.

  An absolute ocean of lust surrounds us both. I can smell his arousal, just as I’m sure he can smell mine.

  “Watch me,” he says boldly, his voice a low growl.

  Chapter 12.

  “Sex is as important as eating or drinking and we ought to allow the one appetite to be satisfied with as little restraint or false modesty as the other.”

  — Marquis de Sade

  ~~~

  Renata Koreman

  Eager anticipation runs through me, jolting every nerve. I feel as if I’ve received a booster shot of adrenaline.

  His smoky eyes are hard upon me. They slide over my face and body in slow, hungry appraisal, taking time to focus blatantly on my lips, my breasts and then between my legs.

  Much to my joy and surprise, there’s nothing at all reserved about his bold, sensual stare. I’d assumed that he'd be insecure and would hold back because of his past. How wrong could I have been?

  Grant, modest? Meek? Shy? No way!

  Woo hoo!

  This is an in-charge, alpha male sitting here before me, gloriously on full display.

  His gaze locks with mine.

  Riveted by his dominance, I tremble and can’t look away. With the palm of his right hand¸ he grips the base of his cock and begins to stroke the area slowly. With his other hand, he cups and fondles his balls.

  Holy fuck! I think my heart just stopped. He’s so incredibly sexy!

  I can’t help but squirm under his concentrated attention. My pulse spikes and my body begins to tingle. Blood rushes south between my legs, stirring countless nerve endings. A small sound, a whimper, escapes from the back of my throat as goosebumps rise across my sensitive skin.

  At first, he takes long, lazy strokes, slowly and deliberately pumping his palm up and down the rigid length of his erection. From time to time, he adds a sensual twisting motion.