Guilty Pleasures
Kitty Thomas
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2011 Kitty Thomas
all rights reserved.
Smashwords Edition License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Publisher's Note:
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Contact burlesquepress@gmail.com
Acknowledgments
Thank you to the people who supported and helped bring Guilty Pleasures into existence:
Annabel, Natasha, Claudia, and Susan: for offering critique, feedback, and copyedits.
And to M for his love and support.
Disclaimer
This is a work of fiction, and the author does not endorse or condone any behavior done to another human being without their consent. Further, this book contains no use of condoms or talk of STDs. It is fantasy, not reality and should not be read in any way as resembling reality.
Warning: This book contains sexual situations of dubious consent, coercion, sexual blackmail, multiple partners, master/slave, girl on girl, humiliation, boot worship, oral play, and anal play.
ONE
When will this be over? The headboard of the bed thumped against the wall in rhythm to Michael’s thrusts while Vivian perfected her dead fish act. What was the saying? Close your eyes and think of England? It had been six weeks since they’d had sex. Her husband’s nagging had finally pushed her over the edge.
Nothing in this interaction could be called making love. But it couldn’t be called fucking either. With fucking, you at least got off. Vivian hadn’t had an orgasm in two years, and even then it was acquired with her own fingers. Whoever said the thirties was a woman’s sexual peak had sold her a line of shit.
A trickle of sweat from Michael’s brow dripped off his face and slid between her breasts. She wondered how much time, free from his touch, this mockery of the sexual act would buy her. Vivian’s shopping list scrolled through her head, a welcome distraction.
He grunted indelicately and came.
Birth control for such an infrequent joining. What a waste of money. Then again, Michael was rolling in money. He collapsed on top of her with a groan, his skin slick with sweat. She lay there, barely breathing, waiting. A couple of minutes of this pseudo-intimacy passed before he rolled off her.
“I’m going to take a shower. I’ll be late for work.”
She didn’t bother bringing up the fact that he owned the company. Michael had a pathological need to be punctual.
He reached out to touch her again, and she couldn’t stop the instinct to pull away. His answering look of contempt made her feel dirty for having had sex with her own husband.
“You’re never here with me,” he said.
Vivian rolled over, ignoring the accusation. He’d just had an orgasm. She hadn’t, and he never seemed to care to help her with that matter. Even as she thought it, she knew she was lying to herself.
He’d made the effort, and she’d been just as unresponsive. Just as frigid. She’d pushed his fingers away from her clit, just wanting him to do what he was going to do, so they could be done with it, and she could try to forget her day had started this way.
A loud sigh came from his side of the bed, then footsteps receded to the bathroom. The door slammed. Vivian waited for the shower to start before getting up. She’d use the bathroom on the first floor, and with any luck, Michael would be out of the house by the time she got through.
She’d almost finished washing the memory of him off her body when a sharp rap sounded on the door.
“Vivi!”
She shut off the water and wrapped a towel around herself.
“What?”
“After the shit you just pulled you’re really not making me breakfast, either?”
She flung the door open, the steam flowing out of the bathroom as if pre-announcing her ire. “You have some fucking nerve. You knew I wasn’t in the mood.”
“When are you ever in the mood?”
There were a million things she wanted to say, but she didn’t know how to express how violated she felt every time he touched her. She wasn’t even sure it was his fault anymore. She wasn’t sure it was anyone’s fault. She just couldn’t come. It took too long. It was too difficult. She’d given up her own pleasure and resented her husband for not joining her and giving up his.
Though how much satisfaction he got fucking her limp, disinterested body was anybody’s guess.
Instead of saying any of this, she brushed past him down the hallway to the kitchen, leaving a trail of water in her wake. “What do you want?”
“Coffee and toast is fine. An orange if we have any. I don’t have time for much else. I have a meeting.”
She felt his eyes on her as she took the bread from the bread box and slid two slices into the chrome toaster. The appliance made four at a time, but she couldn’t bring herself to sit across a table from him. When she turned, the look in his eyes was hungry for something he hadn’t gotten upstairs and wasn’t about to have served to him on a plate with a cup of coffee.
Vivian turned away again to get his fruit. She had some idea of where his mind had just gone. Seven years of marriage will do that to you. He was likely picturing himself ripping the towel off her and fucking her on the kitchen island. It was a hot idea in theory, but in practice sexual fantasies weren’t hot for her. She’d long given up fantasizing because she was tired of the disappointing reality.
It wasn’t him. He was beautiful. His blue eyes used to make her heart beat faster. The slight dimple in his cheek had brought out her own smile. He worked out three times a week and had a golden tan. Nearly every time he stepped out of the shower she had the almost maddening urge to lick the drops of water off his body.
But that would lead to sex.
“This shit has to stop, Vivi. You act like it’s a crime for me to want to have sex with my own wife.”
She bristled. “You treat me like I’m your fucking property. Here to cook and clean up after you and spread my legs whenever you get the urge.”
The glare in his eyes was predatory, just shy of pure evil. “I get the urge every day. More than once a day. I’ve pressed for sex maybe three times in the past month.”
“Whatever.” She put his toast and orange on a plate, poured coffee, then set the dishes on the table as hard as she could without breaking anything. The coffee sloshed around the edges of the mug.
“Are you going to clean that up?”
Vivian left the kitchen without a response and climbed the stairs, locking the bedroom door behind her. The tears she’d held back came spilling out. She bit back the sobs before they became loud enough for Michael to hear. He’d only think she was crying to get her way. He’d never understand.
She felt trapped in a marriage everyone believed was perfect. And she couldn’t tell anyone they were wrong because the illusion was the only good thing she had going. She had no marketable skills, no fucking degree. He’d been Prince Charming, and she’d been in a fairy tale. She hadn’t realized her happily ever after came with the strings of a gilded cage.
How had she allowed herself to become so isolated? There was no one Vivian could call family, but she’d once had friends. Before Michael had whisked her away into a socio-economic class that seemed to shut everyone but others of means out. The connections she’d forged with her husband’s social circle felt shallow and claustrophobic at best.
The front door slammed, and she went to stand in front of the window, wiping the tears off her face. The next door neighbor was working in her garden, wearing an outfit that made it look like she only pretended to garden in porn. Her shorts were short, frayed denim that showed too much of her ass. And she wore a bikini top tied together with strings that looked as if they were about to come undone. Her feet were encased in the least sensible shoes it was possible for a gardener to wear.
Vivian raised the window as quietly as possible.
“Good morning, Jewel. You’re up awfully early this morning,” Michael said, oozing charm.
Vivian gritted her teeth as she watched the rehearsed bullshit artist and aspiring porn star. Jewel giggled. “Hello, Michael. You know I get up this early just to see you off.”
He chuckled and got in the car. When the BMW left the driveway, Vivian slammed the window shut. Jewel looked up from her garden and smiled, her hand moving up in a wave. Vivian smiled and waved back.
It was hard to know if her neighbor was the most conniving slut this side of the Atlantic, or if she really was that innocent and unaware of her own glaringly loud sexuality.
The doorbell rang a few minutes later, and Vivian raised the window again. “Just a minute.”
She threw on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, pausing in front of the vanity to swipe a dab of concealer under her eyes. Maybe it wouldn’t look like she’d been crying.
“Have you had breakfast yet?” Jewel said as soon as the door opened.
“No, I just made something for Michael.”
“Good. I made homemade muffins, and I want you to try them.” She grabbed Vivian’s hand to drag her out of the house.
“I don’t have shoes on.”
“It’s not hot out yet. You’re fine. Don’t be such a baby.”
Vivian sighed and allowed herself to be dragged. What the hell is wrong with me? She’s not a slut. She’s just a 21-year-old kid with a trust fund, having fun.
“Do you like my new shoes? I was coming over to show you but got side-tracked by some weeds. I don’t get why they keep growing in the flowers. I’m doing everything right.”
“They’re very cute.” Great. Keep talking so I feel like an even bigger bitch.
They pushed past three yapping Yorkies into the kitchen. “It’s my grandmother’s recipe. I don’t think I have it right yet, but hopefully they’re edible.”
The tears Vivian thought she’d managed to stifle, came pouring out again.
“Oh honey, what’s wrong?”
She wiped her face quickly as if in doing so she could make Jewel forget the sudden outburst.
“Nothing. I’m fine.”
The woman arched a brow but decided to let it go in favor of prying the muffins out of the pan.
“Are these fresh blueberries?” Vivian asked when she bit into one.
Jewel beamed. “Oh good, you can tell. I picked some up from the farmers’ market yesterday.”
The dogs had positioned themselves on the floor in front of the two women, staring and willing something to fall that they could fight over.
“Are you going to tell me why you were crying?”
Vivian waved a hand in dismissal. “Really, nothing. Michael and I had a fight.”
“Oh.” Jewel looked wistfully away, twirling a strand of blonde hair while she ate.
Vivian could tell from the faraway look in her eyes what she was thinking, and wondered once again if Michael was having an affair. What a thrill it must be to get away with it right under the wife’s nose.
Don’t say it, Vivian thought. But of course Jewel said it anyway.
“I wish I had a man like Michael. It’s lonely having as much money as I have. Too many of the men I’m interested in just want to use me.”
For a moment Vivian was stabbed with jealousy so sharp she thought it was the muffin disagreeing with her. Thinking about how much happier Michael would be with this 21-year-old smart, pretty nymphette. Someone who no doubt would come like a rocket when he looked at her, let alone touched her. Someone who didn’t need to be taken care of in the pathetic way Vivian did.
“Why don’t you find a man with some money?”
Jewel shrugged and slid her knife into the butter, spreading it evenly over the remaining muffin half. “They’re too busy. Michael seems so devoted. That’s hard to find now.”
A dryer buzzed and the three dogs jerked their little heads toward the laundry room in unison.
“Oh shit! I’m going to be late for class.” She jumped up and put her plate in the sink, then disappeared into the next room.
Vivian didn’t bother asking why Jewel didn’t have a maid. She knew why. It was the same reason she and Michael didn’t. Maids were nosy.
Jewel returned, untying the bikini in a rush. Perfect, pert breasts bounced out like they’d been waiting all day to be taken for a walk. Vivian looked back at her plate and tried not to make mental comparisons while her neighbor finished dressing.
“I’m sorry to run out like this. I’ve just got this stupid ten am physics class, and if I’m late the bitch will lock the door on me. She seems to think I belong in fashion design or pottery. I’m pulling a high B in there. Doesn’t matter to her.” She slid the jeans on like fancy wrapping for candy every male on campus––and Michael––probably wanted to taste.
“It’s okay. I’ve got errands.”
“Take some muffins if you want,” Jewel said, running a brush through her hair.
Vivian filled a couple of Ziplock bags and left through the back door.
When Michael arrived home, she was curled in a chair, reading a women’s magazine that had arrived with the mail.
“What’s for dinner?”
“I’m ordering take-out.”
He sighed. “Vivian, you’re home all day . . . ”
She slammed the magazine shut with a crisp snap of pages and tossed it onto the coffee table. “And what, Michael? Are we poor? Is there some reason we need to be watching the money suddenly?”
“I just like it when you cook.”
She rolled her eyes. “Was there a veiled compliment in there?”
“You know I’ve always liked your cooking.” His voice turned softer as if begging her not to start another fight.
“And you know I never cook on manicure day.”
Vivian watched his lips draw together in a disgusted line. She could practically see the cogs in his head turning, linking manicure day with one of her famous no-sex excuses, on par with the classic headache line.
He finally made a noncommittal grunt and retreated into the kitchen. A moment later he was back. “And, there’s not even any coffee made.”
“I’m not your slave. I don’t know why you think my life revolves around serving you. It doesn’t.”
“Well, what does it revolve around, Vivi? Enlighten me. I’d really like to know. From what I can tell you don’t do anything useful during your day at all. The least you could do is see to the house and cooking.”
“That’s all I’m worth to you, isn’t it? Wouldn’t it be much less drama for you to hire a maid and get a whore? You’ve got the money for it. Or would your conscience destroy the enjoyment of that since you’d be leaving me off on some corner somewhere? Or maybe you’d resent the alimony.”
Michael’s eyes flashed dangerously, and for one tense moment she thought pain was coming. He’d never raised a hand to her before. And yet, the thought was there, behind the surface. She could see it shining in his eyes.
He angrily reached inside his jacket pocket and retrieved a lavender card on linen paper. He thrust the rectangle at her. “Here.”
“What is this?”
“It’s a business card for a therapist.”
“You think I’m crazy?”
“I think you’re unhappy. And I know I am.”
“Then why do I need the therapist and not you?”
His face was unreadable, but the anger still simmered beneath the surface. “Tell me, Vivi, what do I do wrong? I give you a life with all the comforts and security you need. I’m attentive. I take you out. All I ask for in return is that the woman I love not be so cold all the time.”
“Do you really love me, Michael? Or do you feel obligated to me?”
He made a sweeping motion with his arm. “See? That, right there. I don’t know where the hell that comes from. That, and whatever sexual hangups you’ve got going on, they need to be dealt with. If not with me, then with someone else because I can’t go on this way.”
Vivian peered closer at the card: Dr. Lindsay Smith, licensed sex therapist.
She crumpled the paper into a ball and threw it across the room. “You have got to be kidding me. This is all about your fucking libido?”
Michael advanced on her, pressing her against the wall. The frenzied look in his eyes made it clear something inside him had ripped apart at the seams to reveal the primal animal underneath. An animal who had no doubt been fighting and bucking in his cage for years.
“Michael, you’re scaring me.”
“Good,” he growled. He held her arms to the wall and looked her over like prey. “You. Are. Going. Are we clear?” His stare alone could have pinned her.
“Michael . . . I . . . ”
“The only acceptable answer here is yes.”
Vivian nodded, too afraid of this new, unrestrained version of her husband to refuse his request. He released her wrists and went into his study, leaving her confused and more aroused than she cared to admit.
TWO
Vivian stared up at the high-rise building, shielding her eyes from the reflective glare of the sun. “Um . . . Miss . . . I don’t have change for this large a bill,” the cab driver said, leaning over the seat toward the open passenger-side window.
“Keep the change,” she said, not taking her eyes off the building.
The driver peeled down the road before she had a chance to change her mind. Vivian took a fortifying breath and went to meet her doom.
As soon as the elevator opened on the tenth floor, soothing jazz drifted to her ears. The music had a hypnotic effect as it wrapped around her and pulled her off the elevator and toward the waiting office. Dr. Smith’s waiting room was filled with house plants. If the world ran out of oxygen, this room would be the last safe haven.
It was empty, something she found odd for a Friday afternoon. Not even a receptionist. She thought Michael said he’d made the appointment for three thirty today. Maybe she got the dates mixed up.
She turned to leave when a deep voice stopped her. “Mrs. Delaney? You’re my three thirty?”
“Yes?” She couldn’t bring herself to turn back around just yet. She’d thought Lindsay Smith was a woman. Apparently not.
“Please, come on back. I apologize there was no one to greet you. My receptionist had a personal emergency.”
Vivian turned and plastered a smile on her face. “Dr. Smith?”
“That’s right.”
The doctor stood at a little over six feet tall in a well-tailored, dark suit and exuded the calm command of a stock broker. He appeared to be in his late fifties with gray at his temples. He was in good shape, what she imagined Michael might look like in twenty years.
He smiled at her and turned to go into the inner office, clearly confident she’d follow.
She considered fleeing the building, but then she thought about the look in Michael’s eyes the previous night, and the moment of terror at seeing a new side of her husband nearly unleashed on her.
When he’d pinned her against the wall like that, with that wildness peering out at her, she’d felt the faintest drop of wetness on her panties. The idea that she could have such an inappropriate reaction, after months of nearly no reaction, scared her more than the thought of him losing control.
No, she’d stay for the appointment this once. Then she’d reason with Michael. She had to at least appear to be trying to comply with his wishes if she wanted him to listen.
Dr Smith’s office had lavender walls that matched the business cards. Not the first color choice she’d pick for a man, but the furniture and striking oak desk made up for any lacking masculinity in the wallpaper. The inner office had about as many plants as the waiting area. A long wall featured several orchids lined in a fastidious row.
The room had no couch, just a couple of comfortable-looking leather chairs that sat on either side of a small table with another orchid on it. She was glad for the lack of couch. She wasn’t sure she could lie down to talk about her nonexistent sex life to an attractive male doctor. Especially with no one in the waiting room to act as a safety buffer. It felt too exposed.
He gestured and Vivian sat in the offered chair, smoothing down her skirt, wishing she’d worn pants.
“You seem very uncomfortable,” he commented.
“You’re observant. This must be why they pay you the big bucks.”
He chuckled. “Your husband has already taken care of the financial arrangements. Would you like some coffee?”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
He sat in the chair across from her and observed her quietly. “You’re uncomfortable with the fact that I’m male, aren’t you?”
Vivian looked at her hands. “I thought Lindsay was a woman.”
“You wouldn’t be the first patient with that initial impression.”
“Maybe you should put a picture on your business card to clear up the confusion.”
“Indeed.” He was silent for a moment. “Mrs. Delaney, we won’t speak about anything that makes you uncomfortable. We’ll go at your pace.”
She let out a slow breath and nodded.
He glanced down at a page of notes. “My receptionist gathered a bit of information for the appointment from your husband. He says you’re unhappy with the relationship?”
Vivian balked at that, wondering how many personal details her husband had decided to divulge to a stranger over the phone. “I think Michael needs to come to therapy, too. If I’m coming to therapy.” That had sounded more petulant than she’d intended.
“Perhaps we can arrange that for a future session.”
He looked at his notes again, and Vivian suddenly wished she’d been the one to call and make the appointment. But she’d been stubborn.
“Why don’t you start by telling me why it makes you so uncomfortable to be intimate with your husband.”
She shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Mrs. Delaney . . . ?”
“Really. I don’t know. All I know is that every time he touches me I just want to crawl inside myself and die. If I knew why, I wouldn’t be here.”
“Was it like this from the beginning of the relationship?”
“No. In the beginning it was different.”
“What changed? Did your husband do something?”
“I don’t know. Before we got married things were fine. Then after . . . . ” Her voice trailed off.
“Are you able to achieve orgasm with your husband?”
Vivian looked away and smoothed her skirt again. “No.”
The doctor made a notation in the black notebook perched on his lap. “Sometimes these problems can be rooted in emotion. Do you believe he loves you?”
There was a long pause. She had to work to speak around the lump in her throat. She would not cry in front of the doctor. Absolutely not. “No,” she said.
The silence hung between them, making the air feel thicker. Was he waiting for her to speak again?
After another beat, he said, “Why don’t you believe your husband loves you?”
“Why would he?”
“You’re a very beautiful woman.”
“I’m on the wrong end of thirty-five. Beauty fades. Then what? I can’t be his trophy forever. He’d do just as well with a maid and a whore.”
The doctor visibly flinched at that. “You believe he feels obligated to you.” He paused for only a moment before asking his next question. “Do you masturbate?”
Whoa. That was quite a subject jump. “I . . . um . . . I’m not really comfortable with that question.”
“Very well. Let’s broach the subject from a less personal place. Have you ever had a massage, at a spa or from a massage therapist?”
“No.”
“Why not? Isn’t that a normal part of routine pampering for someone of your level of affluence?”
She shrugged, feeling awkward with how close they were sitting.
As if he’d heard her thoughts, the doctor stood and retreated to his desk. He fumbled in the top draw until he came out with a card and handed it to Vivian.
“What’s this?”
“Where I think you should start. You’ve exhibited discomfort with my gender, discomfort with your husband being intimate with you, and overall discomfort with being in touch with your own pleasure. I’d like you to make a weekly appointment for a massage. Allow yourself to feel something good for a change. Do you think you can do that for me?”
The business card was an aquamarine color with brown lettering that read, Dome in a blocky, modern font. In smaller letters in an elegant script underneath, it said, spa and massage therapy. She slipped the card into her purse.
“They accept walk-ins. No need for an appointment,” he said, moving behind his desk. The doctor didn’t say anything more, but began to busily shuffle through stacks of paper on his desk.
“What? Now? You want me to go now?”
He looked up as if shocked she was still in his office. “Why, yes, Mrs. Delaney.”
“But it’s only been twenty minutes. Don’t I get a full hour?”
His eyes twinkled with amusement. “Five minutes ago you couldn’t get away fast enough. Now you want forty more? Have you ever heard the term masochism?”
Was it okay for a therapist to say that? Then again, he was a sex therapist. Once a doctor asked if you masturbated, few topics were off the table.
“I only meant that I’m sure Michael paid for the full session.”
“You show that card I gave you at Dome and tell them I sent you, and your first massage will be free. That sounds fair, right?”
He went back to the papers on his desk, effectively dismissing her.
Vivian, not knowing what else to do, stood and headed for the door. Her hand was on the doorknob when his voice stopped her.
“Mrs. Delaney?”
She turned, still flustered. “Yes?”
His teeth flashed bright white as he smiled at her. “You’re going to lose all of your inhibitions.”
Thirty minutes later Vivian stood outside Dome, arguing with herself on whether she should go inside. She’d never gotten a massage because the idea of being naked underneath a towel while a stranger touched her had never held much appeal.
Yet, hope flared that maybe it was such a simple matter. Maybe massage could loosen her up and free her to experience in bed what she’d experienced with Michael so long ago. Her hand trembled as she pushed open the heavy door and stepped inside.
A silver bell jingled overhead. The place was deserted just as the therapist’s office had been. A warning buzzer in her brain started to sound, as if she were being led into a trap. And yet that seemed so silly. Before she could take the thought apart, a blonde woman in her twenties came out into the lobby.
“Oh, hi. Do you have an appointment? Fridays are generally for special appointments. Walk-ins are Monday through Thursday.”
Vivian chided herself for being so paranoid and felt a small relief that there was a logical explanation for another seemingly empty building.
“Dr. Smith gave me this and told me to come by today.” She retrieved the card from her purse. “I’ll just come back next week.” Maybe.
She felt herself blush, wondering if the receptionist would judge her for seeing a sex therapist. But the woman remained professional.
“If Dr. Smith sent you, we can work you in.” The blonde led Vivian to an empty room with candles and a burbling table fountain. Eastern music played in the background.
“You can undress in here, then drape yourself with the towel.” The girl pointed, indicating the cushioned table with a red button on the side. “Push that button when you’re ready, and someone will be right with you.”
“Thank you.”
The woman smiled and left the room, closing the door behind her.
Vivian took in her surroundings. The room had a second door opposite from the one she’d been led into. Perhaps a bathroom? A flat screen television on one wall played a video with a low, calming voice talking about the spa and the various services offered by Dome.
Lucky bamboo grew in tiny pots around the room. There was an oriental-style privacy screen with a chair and large towel behind it. Thankfully there was no mirror. The staff at Dome must have realized how few women enjoyed looking at themselves naked, and how right before a massage wasn’t the time to be reminded of one’s imperfections. Though Michael had always told her she was perfect.
She considered walking out, still uneasy with the concept of being touched by a stranger. But she was afraid the receptionist might think her odd.
It was odd. The doctor was right. She was entirely too uptight for a woman in her thirties. She took a deep breath and disrobed, unsure what to do about her panties. Deciding to leave them on, she situated herself on the table. She hesitated a moment, then pressed the button.
Five minutes of tension passed before the door clicked open. Vivian lay there with her eyes shut, trying to relax. It was just a massage. Millions of women did this every day. And even liked it, if all the raving at the country club was any indication.
“You’re my next appointment?” A male Eastern European accent––possibly Russian––greeted her ears. She squeezed her eyes more tightly shut. Couldn’t she get a female for anything? She considered requesting a woman, but then she got a look at him.
Wavy, jet black hair fell over the best cheekbones she’d ever seen up close and in person on a man. The definition of his chest was visible through a white t-shirt. He had strong, well-defined arms, and large, yet elegant hands, like those of a concert pianist. She could see how those hands could be equally at home playing flesh draped over a massage table.
Her eyes traveled slowly back to his face. It was expectant. Waiting for something. Oh, yeah. An answer to his question.
“Yes,” she managed to stammer.
“Very good. My name is Anton. I’ll be taking care of you today.”
The way he said it seemed like both a sinful promise and a sinister threat, causing Vivian’s heart to start doing erratic things in her chest. He moved closer, and she tensed.
“Relax, my dear. Dr. Smith was correct. You are quite a closed-budded flower. We will open you.” He made it sound so sexual and wrong. A warmth fluttered in her center and spread outward.
Her voice came out breathy, “You spoke to Dr. Smith?”
“Just a few moments ago. While you were getting ready for me.”
She turned her head away so she could stop looking at him with helpless longing. She’d experienced testosterone overload today. Too many men near her in situations that were far too sexual for her comfort.
“You are Vivian, yes?” he said as he selected a body oil from a cart near the table. He was the king of the rhetorical question.
“Yes.”
The slick oil made a sound as it coated his hands. He pulled back the towel to reveal her bare back. “Lovely,” he murmured.
Vivian wasn’t sure if he was admiring her skin, or if he was referring to her name. Before she could decide which, and whether or not it was appropriate, his hands were on her body, and she forgot how to think in full sentences. The strong, gentle kneading along her back caused her to, inch by inch, loosen and open to him and the pleasurable sensations he was delivering to her.
He was silent as he worked out the tension around her shoulders, and then her upper back and neck. Her arms and hands came next. Everything slowly began to unclench, starting with the muscle group he was rubbing and spreading outward as she let herself relax. Her body felt loose, liquid, suspended in a tranquil bubble of calming sensations.
Anton worked on her like this for about fifteen minutes, and then his hands began to slide lower, pushing aside the terrycloth until the towel was bunched around her thighs.
“Really, Vivian. Underwear? I’m disappointed.”
She reached behind her frantically for the towel to cover herself. Now there was no question he’d crossed the boundary. Wasn’t a massage therapist supposed to protect their client’s modesty and comfort?
He gripped her wrist hard, not so hard to damage her, but hard enough to make her gasp in surprise at the rough contact and the menace behind it.
“Are you going to be a good girl and put your hands back where you had them?”
The threat sent an inappropriate flip of excitement through her stomach.
She couldn’t twist to maneuver fully without exposing her breasts. Though she had the creeping feeling he would be seeing them soon enough anyway. A tear worked its way down her cheek as she tried to process the sudden shift of events. “Let me go. I’ll scream.”
“Do it. No one will hear you. The room is sound-proofed, and Janette went home after she announced your arrival. We’re the only ones here.”
The muscles in his arms were suddenly more than eye candy. They were evidence that he was the one with the power here, and he would have whatever he wanted from her.
“Anton, please . . . ” She had the irrational belief that if she spoke his name, she’d reach something human, something that would stop him before this went too far.
“Lie back and relax. Fighting me is futile. You will lose, and I will be angry.”
The options scrolled through her mind. She could call his bluff and scream, but somehow she knew he was telling her the truth about the uselessness of that choice. She could fight him, and lose, and end up with injuries. He could lose control and kill her. If he was willing to do this much, he was an unknown quantity. One she didn’t want to stir up and test.
A few moments before, she’d found his appearance and touch heavenly. Would it be horrific to let him keep going? To just surrender to it? Could she say she’d come out the winner if she submitted rather than fought? Would it feel like less of a violation? Which would be worse? Would she hate herself later if she didn’t fight hard enough, even though she could see how he’d closed off her hopes of escaping him?
She felt the palm of his hand press against her back until she was lying on her stomach again. He went back to the expert, innocent kneading of before and the fight ebbed out of her.
“Are you going to hurt me?” She hated how her voice sounded.
“Not unless you force me to.”
A tear pricked at the corner of her eye. “Are you going to rape me?”
“No. I’m just going to touch you. I’m going to make you come for me, Vivian. I’m going to make you purr my name.”
She shuddered as his words sent an involuntary spark of arousal between her legs. This was so wrong. She couldn’t let this happen. She had to fight him. At least make the effort. But his hands were still rubbing her back, and she felt her body betraying her brain. Felt it as she succumbed to his talented touch.
“Please . . . Don’t do this to me.”
“That’s enough talk, Vivian. I want you to lie there and close your eyes and feel. Dr. Smith tells me you can’t achieve orgasm with your husband. I am going to fix you.”
An intense shame washed through her at the way he spoke. As if molesting her on a massage table was helping her. What he was doing was disgusting. It was wrong. A voice in the back of her head chided her. Wouldn’t you have let him do this without a fuss if you were single? Would the question of consent have even been broached?
“You’re thinking too much,” Anton said.
“How can I not?”
Her words were punctuated by his hand moving over her ass in a whispering caress. The towel slid to the floor. His fingers hooked underneath the edges of her panties as he slid them down.
She lay there bare and exposed, both too frightened and aroused by now to put up a meaningful fight.
His hands rubbed her ass in much the same way as they had her back. A soothing touch that nearly had a moan escaping her throat before she caught herself. Then his finger strayed into the cleft between her cheeks. She tensed and drew in a sharp breath.
He chuckled. “Not today, my flower. Another day. Roll onto your back.”
“Just let me go.” A moment of pregnant silence stretched between them as he ignored her request and waited for compliance. Finally, she did as he asked, and crossed her arms over her chest.
He stood back and surveyed her. “Don’t cover yourself. I want to look at you.”
She couldn’t make herself obey him. It was ridiculous since her pussy was already on display. Why should she be so modest about her breasts? Her nipples had formed hard, achingly aroused points, and she could feel the moisture gathering at the apex between her thighs. What was wrong with her that this was turning her on?
Anton tugged her arms away from her body. “Look at me.”
Her gaze slid self-consciously up to his. The look he gave her was so heated, she was afraid she’d combust under the power of it.
“Are you going to be a good girl for me?”
“Please . . . ” she whimpered.
“The time for begging is over, Vivian. Are you going to be a good girl?”
She knew what he wanted, her verbal surrender to this violation. This violation that was at least as arousing as it was upsetting to her. She bit her lip as he held her gaze, waiting, his patience clearly capable of outlasting her defiance.
“Yes,” she whispered. Her eyes drifted to the other end of the room, unable to look at him in her defeat.
Then his hands were on her breasts, stroking over the hardened peaks until he dragged another whimper from her. Vivian’s legs fell open, her body unconsciously searching for something she knew he’d give her. Whether she wanted it or not.
“Don’t move.” He went to the sink to wash the fragrant oil from his hands and dried them on a monogrammed spa towel. She started to bring her legs back together but stopped when she saw the displeased look he gave her.
Oh, god. Why did that look fill her with so much shame? He held her gaze while he squirted lube onto his fingers.
THREE
A tear trickled down her cheek, and Anton was immediately beside her to wipe it away. “Shhhh, Vivian. Do you not find me attractive?”
“Yes, but . . . ”
“Do you not enjoy the way I’ve made you feel so far?”
She looked away from him. Her body strained to have the completion he could give her. The completion she hadn’t felt with Michael for too long. But like this? With a stranger, under duress?
“Give in.” His lubed fingers stroked the swollen and moist folds of her sex, eliciting a moan. Her hips bucked of their own accord to meet those long, expert fingers as they teased her opening.
“Please . . . ” It was a breathy sigh.
“Please what?”
She knew she should say ‘please stop, please don’t’, but suddenly the only thing she wanted was for Anton to fuck her with those gorgeous, elegant fingers. To hell with all the bullshit and protests spinning inside her brain.
He stopped touching her, and she looked up to find him watching, waiting for her to say it. A blush crept up her neck and into her cheeks.
“Please, Anton. Make me come.”
A feral grin lit his face, and his fingers went back to work. Massaging, teasing, then finally plunging inside. As he penetrated her, his thumb caressed her swollen clit. Vivian’s breath came faster as her body lurched and spiraled out of control. He finger-fucked her harder as she convulsed around him.
Anton retreated to the sink while she sat up and tried to cover her nakedness. She couldn’t believe she’d let him . . . Well, let wasn’t the right word. Was it?
“You may get dressed now.”
She scurried behind the oriental screen flushed with embarrassment, both at what she’d just submitted to and the casual way he dismissed her now.
“You may require these.” His hand, the hand whose digits had just been inside her, draped a pair of red lace panties over the panel.
She grabbed them and dressed quickly, trying not to think too hard about what had just happened. When she came around the screen he was leaning against the massage table.
Vivian smoothed her skirt down for the millionth time that day. “Are you going to let me go?”
“For now.”
What did he mean for now? As if he had any power to bring her back here. I’ll never let him do this again. The thought felt like a lie in her mind. Already her pussy ached from the absence of his fingers. Already she wanted to buck her hips at him in a vulgar invitation for more. She wrapped her arms around herself.
“You will make an appointment to see me every Tuesday and Thursday at three thirty. Do you understand?”
Her startled eyes rose to his. “I most certainly will not.”
“That is your choice, of course. But if you don’t, I will be sending your husband a carefully-edited version of this.” He clicked a button, and the flat screen television switched from the spa information to a recording of her begging Anton to let her come.
She looked quickly around the room, searching for the hidden camera that had captured everything.
“Turn it off,” she said, unable to stand watching her own desperation on replay.
“So then, I’ll see you Tuesday?”
“Yes.” If he edited the video, she’d never be able to make Michael understand what had happened and why it didn’t look like rape on the screen.
Vivian walked three blocks before hailing a cab, not wanting to get in the back seat of someone’s car while she could still feel the wetness between her thighs.
Michael’s voice carried from the kitchen when she got home. “How was the therapist appointment?”
She dropped her purse on the kitchen island. “The doctor made me uncomfortable.”
Michael looked up from his financial papers, concern in his eyes. “Really? Why did she . . . ”
“He.”
“Excuse me?”
“The doctor was male.”
“Oh.”
“Didn’t you know the doctor was a man?”
Michael shrugged. “It never occurred to me. A friend at the club gave me the card. The doctor’s name was Lindsay, and the cards were lavender. Kind of girlie. I just assumed.” He laid the papers on the table, his eyes narrowing. “Did he come on to you?”
Vivian looked away as she felt her flesh heating again. “No. I just wasn’t comfortable.” She wasn’t about to tell him about Dome and Anton.
“We’ll find you another doctor,” he said as if everything were settled.
Vivian crossed her arms over her chest. “No we won’t. I did your thing. I tried it. I’m not going to therapy because you want sex. Get a mistress like a normal man, and leave me the fuck alone.”
He arched a brow, his expression darkening. “I don’t want a mistress. I want you.”
“Well, you can’t have me. I’m not your sex toy that you can just take off the shelf whenever it suits you.”
His chair scraped out, and he advanced on her. “Do not try my patience, Vivi.”
She stared him down, unwilling to let him win again. “Don’t bully me, Michael.”
He looked for a moment as if he would do something rash. Backhand her, maybe. Or perhaps lift her skirt and bend her over the kitchen island to take what he wanted. Like Anton had. She held her breath, half-hoping he would.
“I’m going to the gym,” he said, instead.
When Michael had gone, Vivian went to take a bath in the downstairs tub. She lathered and scrubbed her skin raw, trying to erase what she’d done. No, what Anton had done. She was the victim, here.
But even as she thought it, she wasn’t sure she believed it. Was she reframing this so she didn’t have to feel guilty for what might be classed an affair of sorts? No, he’d planned to do what he’d done with or without her consent. He’d shown her how her avenues of escape had been shut down. Her consent didn’t matter.
Was she trying to scrub his violation off, or her own internal submission to the way he’d played her nerve endings like a well-tuned instrument? She absently turned on the jets and found herself sliding down, twisting her body until the pulsing water vibrated against her clit.
Gripping the side of the tub, she pressed herself harder against the stream. Her mind drifted to Anton’s hands inside the most private parts of her, fanning the flame of a desire she couldn’t remember feeling before. Her breathing sped faster as she came, then sagged against the tub, waiting for the pounding in her chest to slow.
She jumped when she heard the front door and fumbled to turn off the jets, trying to get her breathing to appear normal, trying not to look like a woman who’d had her second great orgasm of the day.
The bathroom door burst open, and she threw a towel over herself. Michael looked annoyed by the display of modesty but didn’t comment.
“Have you seen my cell phone? I thought I had it with me.”
“Why do you need your phone for the gym?”
He rolled his eyes and shut the door behind him. A few minutes later, the front door slammed again, the car started, and she was alone.
As she climbed out of the tub, her legs trembled from the adrenaline surge of almost getting caught.
When Michael returned, his mood had shifted. Vivian had the momentary fear he’d taken her up on her casual challenge to take a lover, that maybe he already had one.
He kissed her cheek. “Get dressed. The little black number with the slit up the side. I’m taking you to that Japanese steakhouse you like.”
Vivian took a physical step back. Things had been strained between them for months, and now he was acting like he had at the start of their relationship.
Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“Can’t I take my wife out? You’re right. You aren’t my slave. I bring in very healthy money, and we don’t get to spend a lot of time together doing couple things like we used to.”
She was sure her face still held the wary expression. Who was this and what had he done with grumpy, sexually-frustrated Michael? Was it a ploy for sex? She wouldn’t do therapy, so maybe he could seduce her by dating her?
Even if that was his aim, she wasn’t sure why she should be angry about it. It just felt so mercenary and plotted-out. She’d seen glimpses of her husband in his business dealings. He was a manipulative shark, always knowing exactly how to play on the right emotion to lead his opponent down the path he wanted them on.
The trait had seemed sexy at first, but over the years her trust in him had diminished as she saw just how well he played the game of good cop/bad cop. Could she trust anything from him? Any declaration of love? Any gentle caress? The dinner-date-your-wife scheme was a tactic on the same level of what he played in business dealings.
She plastered the good wife smile on her face and decided to go along with it. Fighting him wouldn’t do any good. If he was willing to be pleasant, for however long it lasted, she would accept the reprieve. And she did like the Japanese steakhouse.
An hour later she was dressed as he’d asked, with her hair in a dramatic upsweep. Her manicure was still fresh from the day before, and the striking red of her nails added an extra touch of sophistication. Michael stepped out from his walk-in closet, dressed sharply in Armani, his cologne wafting to Vivian’s nose.
The man knew how to wear just the right amount. On the first inhalation, one wasn’t sure if it was cologne, a special soap, or if he just naturally emitted such a pleasant aroma. Unlike many, he didn’t take a bath it in. He used the smallest amount and let it blend with his natural, male scent.
Her heart lurched in her chest. Stop, she thought. She couldn’t let herself love him again. Too much had come between them. She couldn’t feel safe sharing the deepest parts of herself with this man.
It didn’t help that she couldn’t shake the belief, irrational or not, that he continued to stay with her as a financial decision to avoid losing money in a divorce or out of social obligation to a woman who’d never learned to fend for herself.
His hand cupped her elbow as he steered her toward the door. It was a possessive move, akin to how a man might place his hand on the small of a woman’s back, while leading her through a crowded venue. A bolt of something she could barely remember shot through her at his touch, and she was simultaneously assaulted with sense memory of Anton’s hands on her earlier that afternoon.
Michael didn’t seem to notice her reaction. “Shall we go?”
Vivian nodded, not trusting her voice.
The restaurant was busy, but a reservation had been made, probably before Michael ever left the gym. She bristled at him making a reservation without so much as mentioning it or asking her opinion.
A petite Japanese woman took menus from behind the hostess stand and led them to an empty table.
A few minutes after they’d placed their order, a porcelain bottle of sake was placed on the table along with two small cups without handles. Michael had told her what they were called once before, but she couldn’t remember. Ochoko?
When the waiter left, Michael poured the alcohol. Vivian sipped the cool, sweet liquid. Sakura served only top-notch sake. It was the cheaper grades of the beverage that were typically served warm. She remembered drinking it warm before she’d met Michael, back when she’d had very little money and thought it was supposed to be served that way.
He’d gently teased her the first time he’d brought her here when she’d complained about the temperature of her drink.
“Hello, Mrs. Delaney.”
Vivian looked up, startled from the memory, to find Dr. Smith standing beside their table. He nodded at her husband. “Michael. It was good meeting you today.”
Her husband nodded back.
Vivian’s eyes narrowed. “I thought you didn’t know the doctor.”
“We met at the gym earlier. You know what a small world it is at the nicer clubs. He mentioned Sakura. I didn’t realize he’d made dinner plans here as well.”
Vivian rolled her eyes, not buying it for a minute. “Is this some trick to talk me into going back to therapy?”
Dr. Smith looked surprised. “You aren’t coming back?”
Michael put down his cup. “Stop being so paranoid, Vivi. He mentioned it. I got the idea to bring you. I didn’t think we’d run into him. I’m trying here.”
Vivian wasn’t convinced. It seemed too much like a set-up.
“I do apologize. I saw the two of you and decided to come by and say hello. I thought it would be rude not to.” The doctor quickly excused himself.
“Vivi, I swear I didn’t know he was coming here tonight.”
Vivian stood from the table. “I’m going to the ladies room.”
But she didn’t go to the ladies room. Instead, she followed Dr. Smith to the back of the restaurant. He appeared to have come to Sakura alone, no wife or girlfriend on his arm. Maybe he’d met up with friends. Or maybe it really was a set-up, orchestrated by Michael to try to get her back into therapy. But if that was true, neither man had made much of an effort toward that goal.
Vivian caught up and placed a hand on the doctor’s arm, causing him to slow his stride.
He looked down at her hand. “Mrs. Delaney?”
“I just need to know.”
He guided her into the coat room, away from the noise and bustle of the restaurant. His eyes crinkled at the corners. “And what is it that you needed to know, Mrs. Delaney?”
She suddenly became tongue-tied, unsure how to phrase her question. The question that had been burning through her since Anton’s fingers had turned her body into a raging furnace of need. “Um . . . ”
He crossed his arms over his chest and regarded her, amused. He seemed to know exactly what she would ask, but enjoyed watching her struggle to find the right words.
“When you sent me to Dome, did you know?”
“Know what?”
Of course, he would make this difficult. She flushed with embarrassment. If he did know, she had to find out why. If he didn’t, she owed it to every other woman who crossed the threshold of the therapist’s office, to tell him.
“Did you know that Anton would touch me?”
“Yes, Mrs. Delaney. That would be in the job description of a massage therapist.”
“No! I mean . . . did you know he’d touch me inappropriately?” she said, growing more flustered. What kind of person suspected such vile behavior from a doctor? Yet, he had made the recommendation.
“I did, yes.”
She was speechless for a moment, not quite able to believe he’d admitted to sending her willingly to a spa to be molested. “Why would you do that to me?”
He took her arm and eased her into a corner. His large hand slid along her thigh, moving beneath the slit of her dress. “Anton lets me sample some of his ladies in exchange for sending them to him. Though normally I don’t get to sample quite this soon in the process.”
For the second time that day she felt the wetness soak through her panties as the doctor’s lips grazed the side of her neck.
“Too soon in what process?”
He chuckled against her throat. “You’ll find out soon enough, my dear.”
She pushed against his chest, and was shocked when he voluntarily backed off. “Are you even a real doctor?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.” She tried to move past him, but his broad body blocked her exit. “I’ll tell Michael what you’ve both done.”
“No you won’t. You’ll lose him, and you know it. Your credibility will never be higher than mine, and Anton’s when he shows your husband the video.”
Lindsay pressed her against the wall and left a soft, lingering kiss on her neck. Vivian felt her pulse pounding at his lips. She shuddered and struggled to get away. The doctor’s hand moved underneath her dress, his fingers brushing against the wetness of her panties.
“Let me go,” she said.
“It doesn’t feel to me like you want that. You’re such a responsive little thing. Why couldn’t you respond this way for your husband?” His words held no accusation, only curiosity.
Vivian squeezed her eyes shut and looked away as his hand began to grind against her heat. She was horrified to find her hips betraying her to press harder against him.
His mouth moved close to her ear. “Is it the danger you love? Is it strangers, the thrill of someone you don’t know running his hands all over you? Perhaps you just need variety. The newness, the excitement.”
She whimpered, her eyes meeting his, pleading with him to stop because she didn’t trust her voice, or how it would sound coming out of her throat just then.
He considered her for a moment, then shook his head. “No, that’s not it either. You like being under someone else’s control. You get off being dominated like a bitch in heat.”
Though his words were cruel, his tone was soft, soothing, nonjudgmental. Her eyes widened at that, not sure what to make of him. Not sure why she didn’t scream, or try harder to get free.
“Yours is a token struggle, isn’t it?”
She looked away again, unable to bear the perception in his gaze, wondering how many others like her he’d done this with, and why the idea excited her so much.
“Just let me go. Please. I can’t . . . I can’t take this.”
“If you can tell me honestly that you don’t like what I’m doing to you right now, I’ll stop.”
A finger slipped beneath the satin fabric of her panties to touch the yielding, soft flesh and incredible wetness. She flushed.
“Tell me something, Vivian.”
Her eyes shot up to meet his at the use of her first name.
“If you were single, would you struggle?”
“Yes.” She would struggle. Because if not for Michael and the idea that she couldn’t just give in sexually to other men, she would have to struggle to avoid dealing with what could be wrong with her to be so turned on by this. Two attractive males touching her against her will, making her wet. Making her writhe for them.
Hadn’t she felt the same way when Michael had let that thread of menace seep out with her?
“What’s wrong with me?” Fresh tears ran down her cheeks, dripping onto her dress.
“Nothing. You’re perfect. Just let yourself feel.”
“What you’re doing is wrong. What I’m feeling is wrong. It’s just . . . it’s so fucked up.”
“Shhhh” His fingers had found the opening of her pussy and started to pump in and out of her in a rhythm far too pleasurable for the situation.
“Michael will come looking for me. He’ll think I’m cheating.”
“And aren’t you?”