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)
Her brows furrow, the crease between them deepening to display her confusion, as if it never crossed her mind that such things occurred. It speaks of her ignorance of what the shadows of the world actually contain, but it doesn't explain why she's unhappy that she's strapped to a St. Andrew's cross in a sex club.
I take a full step back, satisfied that, although unhappy, she's a willing participant in this activity.
Knowing it lights something inside of me.
For the first time since approaching her, I allow my eyes to drop, fully taking in her body.
My mouth waters to taste the furled tip of her breast.
My fingers ache to brush across the goosebumps scattered across her torso.
My cock thickens with the need to slide through the growing slickness of her pussy.
My eyes snap back up to hers, narrowing, but before I can question my body's reaction, I sense movement beside me.
"Please step back," the attendant says as she moves forward. She looks at the lady on the cross. "That's an hour. Are you ready to go?"
The woman dips her head without hesitation, and I slink into the shadows, watching as she's released from the cross, helped back into her robe, and led away.
I wait for over an hour, but the woman never reappears into the room. When I leave, I feel grateful that she never showed her face again.
It's been years since I've ever had such a visceral reaction to someone, and that just tells me that whoever she is, she's dangerous and more trouble than I'm willing to get into at this point in my life.
Chapter 1
Caitlyn
"It was the worst thing I've ever done in my life," I say, my hands still trembling just thinking about the other night.
"You said that the last time you went. We knew it would be hard," Dr. Moore says, and I can't help but cringe.
We?
We weren't the ones who had to face those nights.
I was the one who had endured five nights of immersion therapy. Dr. Moore was on vacation that week and the following three weeks. I've wondered more than once if we agreed to my unorthodox therapies taking place while she was gone was purposeful on her part, so she wouldn't have to listen to me bitch about how hard it was going to be.
"I can't do it again," I mutter.
Silence fills the line, and I know she's giving me an opportunity to consider my words, but I've done nothing but think about those nights. Every single moment of it makes my skin crawl.
"It's not going to work," I say confidently. "I tried."
"The defeatist wording you're using—"
"Rhonda," I whine. "Please don't do this right now."
"As your therapist—"
"As a therapist myself, I'm telling you—"
"This was never going to be easy," she interrupts, her tone softening slightly. "And it wasn't going to be fun. You know a cure wasn't going to happen in one trip. Immersion therapy isn't a light switch that can be turned on and off. Tell me one good thing about your experiences, Caitlyn."
"Nothing," I mutter, dropping to the sofa and letting my hand roam down Kiva's back.
The elderly mixed-breed dog grunts her approval, shifting her weight a little so I have better access to her stomach.
"There has to be something," Rhonda says. "One thing, and don't tell me when it was over."
I pause before my rejection instinct runs my mouth for me. I've wanted to find at least a middle ground with the way my body reacts when I'm touched by others for years. As a therapist, I know that it's natural to reject the changes that would be required for that to happen. I'm only wasting both of our time if I don't actively participate in my own therapy, even though it's a survival skill to find fault in everything that makes me uncomfortable.
"There was one man," I confess. "On the first night."
"His touch didn't bother you as much?" she asks.
"He didn't touch me," I clarify.
"Okay," she says, but I can hear the doubt in her tone. As if she understands that, of course, him not touching me would be a highlight.
But not touching me isn't part of the therapy, and we both know it.
"He asked me if I was there against my will."
"The night was supposed to be spent in silence," Rhonda reminds me.
"I didn't speak to him, and the attendant gave the rules, but not speaking to me wasn't mentioned. I think his asking about my well-being made me slightly more comfortable."
"That's understandable. How about—"
"I don't want to go back. We need to try something else."
"I've suggested hypnotism to get to the bottom of the trauma," she offers.
It isn't the first time she has brought up the option, but the idea of not being in control of my body makes me sick to my stomach as much as thinking about the strangers touching me at the club. Not being in control of my body is why I've never drank or done drugs. The idea of being incapacitated is almost as bad as thinking of someone brushing against me on the street.