Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 85228 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85228 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
I sense people all around me and hear voices as people carry on conversations.
As far as sex clubs go, there's nothing really thrilling about what I'm doing. There are people in scenes that do so much more, but that doesn't prevent others from lining up to participate before they're even told what the rules are.
Roxie helps me out of the robe, and I fight the urge to lift my hands to cover the most private parts of me. She helps me up to the cross, keeping her touches to my skin minimal and only to my wrists and ankles as needed to tie me into place.
I keep my eyes squeezed shut as she begins to speak.
"Touching only. No penetration of any kind. Use nothing more than the tips of your fingers. Breaking these rules will lead to your permanent expulsion from the club."
I jerk with the first touch, grateful that it's only fingertips to my lower back, but before I can relish the safety in that another touch brushes the tip of my left breast. A tremble begins in my body, and before long, it's unmanageable.
My breaths are uneven, fear swimming inside of me, trying to find a way to escape.
It seems harder now, and I wonder if it's because of the length of time since my last visit or if this form of therapy is actually causing more trauma.
I'm only up here an hour, but each minute ticks by as if taking a year for every second. Touch after touch to my body does nothing but ramp up my anxiety, with it growing worse and worse.
Eventually, the petting and traces of fingers on my skin slow, some minutes passing with no touches at all, and this is how it has always been. People grow bored with so many other activities around the club to participate in.
I chance a look, opening my eyes and letting them roam quickly around the room. It seems no one is paying attention to me at all, but even knowing that my body takes no comfort in it.
I squeeze them shut again, but they're only closed for a moment before the atmosphere seems to shift around me. I wait for the touch, for someone to whisper all the dirty things they want to do to me, but it never comes.
I risk another look, an electric jolt running up my spine when I see Jersey sitting in the same spot he was that first night.
His eyes are locked on me, and as hard as I try to close my eyes again, I feel entranced by his attention.
Maybe Dr. Moore was right. Maybe our bodies know who might be important to us even though there's no context.
Instead of immediately climbing to his feet and crossing the room to me, he lifts his glass, sipping a dark, amber liquid.
I swallow, thinking about the burn of it in his throat, my mind racing with thoughts I normally never have, like wondering what his taste might be right now if we kissed.
I jerk, my body instinctively on high alert, when a shadow crosses in front of me.
I keep my eyes locked on him as the man circles me.
"Such pretty, unmarked skin," he says, his voice so rough and unappealing that I feel the hair follicles on my head activate, the need to scratch making my hands clench into tighter fists. "A blank canvas of sorts."
My eyes are planted across the room, and I see Jersey's eyes narrow a second before the brush of a fingertip skates across my left butt cheek.
I swallow the cry that threatens to bubble up, but the touch doesn't last long, and then the man walks away.
I watch as Jersey drains his glass before standing, and suspense of an unknown origin begins to build inside me.
As he sets his empty glass down and approaches, my nipples tighten. Although there's something akin to anticipation bubbling inside of me, it tangles with a nearly suffocating fear. I still can't manage to look away. As he draws closer, I know the urge to close my eyes has less to do with not wanting him to touch me at all and more to do with not wanting him to witness the vulnerability I feel when he does. It's as if some part deep inside me wants him to witness my strengths, which makes no sense to me.
Vulnerability is the entire point of this exercise, and I want the opposite where he's concerned.
He doesn't speak this time as he circles me. He doesn't lift his hand to press to my skin. He doesn't press his mouth to me, but I can feel his breath on my skin. Then again, I might be imagining it.
I wait for him to circle me fully, but he pauses behind me.
Then I feel the tip of one finger along the top curve of my right shoulder. Without thought, my head leans in that direction, my body still trembling but also on fire in an insanely foreign way.