Addiction comes down to one simple, primitive concept. Desire.
My name is Dr. Dixon Matthews, and I’m New York’s finest shrink. For $500 an hour, people tell me their darkest, most sinful secrets.
My own addiction? Sex. A good f**k really is the best medicine.
I might be certified in solving other people’s problems, but not mine –
I know I’m a lost cause. I don’t do relationships. I don’t even do the same woman twice.
But that’s all about to change, thanks to two entirely different women who awaken my deepest desires.
Who will I choose?
I know who I should choose, but I never said I was the hero of this story, or even the good guy. And besides, who wants to be good, when it feels so good being bad?
My tale isn’t for the fainthearted. If you’re game, strap yourself in and expect the unexpected. But don’t say I didn’t warn you…
Act I
1
Addictions
DIXON
“I just…can’t…stop…eating,” says Shamu the Whale, inhaling her third Twinkie in one ghastly bite.
I really should be more horrified that this grossly obese girl is making out with her sugary treat in front of me, but funnily enough, I’m not. And that’s because all I can focus on is the way her plump, supple mouth gobbles down on that golden sponge, and I can’t help but envision it’s my dick she’s devouring like it’s her last meal, not the damn Twinkie.
Shifting subtly in my leather seat, I tell my cock now is not the time to rear its sinful head as I’m here to help Shamu, or rather Sharon, with her addiction.
Addiction, according to the ever-resourceful Wikipedia, is: “the continued repetition of a behavior despite adverse consequences, or a neurological impairment leading to such behaviors.”
So, what triggers an addiction? What makes people like Sharon here so completely and utterly addicted to something they can no longer function without it? I mean, it sounds utterly ridiculous that we can’t stop certain behaviors because we are the ones in control of our actions—no one else but ourselves.
So maybe it’s habit. But habit is done by choice; therefore, we could stop if we wanted to. So, in that case, maybe it’s a repressed memory biting at our heels, and we’re just using that as an excuse to get high, drunk, STD-ridden, or—in Sharon’s case—fat.
We all have addictions, whether big or small, in one form or another, and we human beings are complex characters that either deal with it, or sweep it under the rug and just don’t talk about it. But the people who do want to talk about it, whatever their addiction, come and see me.
My name is Dr. Dixon Mathews, and for $500 an hour, one can unload their deepest, darkest secrets and leave my office feeling healed and reborn. Most people just want the confirmation that there is nothing wrong with them, and their abnormal tendencies aren’t that abnormal after all. And my patients get that from me, they get the verification from one of New York’s top psychiatrists that their need to eat cat hair, or their need to masturbate in public, is completely normal.
In just a few sessions, I pledge that my treatment will cure them of their neurotic behavior, and they can blend back into society where citizens are none the wiser that they are walking amongst some batshit-crazy loony tunes.
The reason I can guarantee this is because the majority of people who walk through my doors just want to whine and complain, and once they get whatever the hell off their chests, most see the light and stop with the crazy. The small minority who do have earnest issues, I prescribe the ever-reliable benzodiazepines to treat their insanity, and the world thanks me for creating another pill-popping, asocial zombie.
So call me a bastard, but at thirty-two years of age, I think I’m allowed to be a little jaded and apathetic toward the dregs of society. You would be too if you had to listen to the same old sob story day in, day out, from the spoiled, rich folk who never had to work a hard day in their life. Yet they come to me with pathetic stories of injustice and wrongdoings, totally oblivious to how lucky they really are.
As Sharon is droning on about the woes of her life, I think back to my original question. What triggers addiction? Many trained professionals have stated that the causes of addiction vary considerably, but they are generally caused by a combination of physical, mental, circumstantial and emotional factors. But me, I know addiction comes down to one simple, primitive concept.
Desire.
Whether we desire success, beauty, food, alcohol, drugs, nicotine, porn or sex, the end result is the same, we all want to experience the euphoria that comes with these factors, and that’s what we become addicted to. The actual trigger differs from person to person, but in the end, we all just want to be…happy. And in most circumstances, desire leads to pleasure.
People with addictive personalities blow their addiction out to creepy levels, but the majority of us, we just dabble in our addictions to achieve that happiness, that euphoria, because we’re human, and we crave the proverbial “happily ever after.”
I told you I’m good.
“Dr. Mathews,” Sharon says in a small voice. “Shouldn’t you be writing this down?”
Nodding my head, I refocus my distant eyes on her. “How about you tell me a little more about your father?” I suggest softly, giving her a gentle smile.
And 5, 4, 3, 2…and 1.
Right on cue, I witness Sharon’s full bottom lip tremble, and her eyes well with tears.
“There’s nothing to say,” she states, crossing her arms across her bountiful chest as she bites her lip to stop the tears.
“How would you describe your relationship with him?” I press, casually crossing my legs while attempting to hide my imminent erection as I try not to stare at her tits.
“It’s fine.” She sniffs, curling in on herself, her bright red hair shrouding her tears.
We all have a trigger, and I’ve come to learn that the trigger for overweight women is their non-existent fathers. I’ll never understand why they use food as a comforting tool, but maybe the binge eating fills a hole, and I do mean that in the literal sense.
So like I said, call me a bastard, because a shitload of daddy issues also means one thing: trying to find the perfect father figure to fill that vacant, loveless void. These women unconsciously seek out their future mate, using their asshole daddies as the blueprint for what they’re looking for in a companion. Or in some circumstances…a fuck.
Suddenly, my dick becomes very, very interested in Sharon Witherstone. Yes, she may be about fifty pounds overweight, but in this instance, I’m leading with the head between my legs because like I said, we all have a trigger, and just like everyone else, I want to find my happily ever after. And at the moment, my HEA is bending Sharon over my desk and fucking her senseless.
I may be certified in solving other people’s problems, but not mine—I know I’m a lost cause. I’m an asshole, and each day I’m losing sight of who I am, and who I once was.
I’m not a total prick, however, and I make women just like Sharon Witherstone feel good, because sex without emotional ties is so much easier than…feeling.
Placing my notepad onto the armrest, I slowly stand and peer down at Sharon, giving her a smile which I know will disintegrate her panties in seconds. She raises her eyes, and I can see the confusion flicker behind her emerald orbs. But as her gaze descends down my hardened body, that confusion turns to…desire.
Her entire demeanor changes and out comes daddy’s little girl as she shifts in her seat, pushing out her chest daringly. It’s really too easy, but I prefer easy as opposed to working hard, putting your heart and soul on the line, only to find out your fiancée is sleeping with your best friend.
So this, this is much easier.
“Do you love your father?”
“No, I hate him,” she confesses in a seductive whisper, biting her lip.
“Oh? Would you be comfortable telling me why?” I take a seat near her on the leather sofa, ensuring our knees are only inches apart.
“Because he loves my stepmother more than me,” she replies, her lust-filled stare focusing on my lap, as my erection is no doubt poking through my pressed slacks.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I tenderly coo. However, I don’t mean a single word. “That must be very hard on you.”
“Yes, it is. It is very hard.” She nods, and I feel a single finger slide deliberately up my thigh toward my crotch.
Opening my legs in welcome, I ask, “Is that what you think triggered your addiction?”
“What can I say, Dr. Mathews? When something delicious is in front of me, I just can’t say no,” she huskily purrs, her fingers dancing around my straining fly.
“Well, sometimes,” I whisper, “it’s okay to say yes.” I know, I’m going to hell.
And that’s all the trigger Ms. Witherstone needs as her head dives into my lap, her fingers fumbling with my zipper.
As her warm, hungry mouth wraps around my red-hot erection, I close my eyes in disgust. I’m disgusted at myself for using someone I have no intention of ever seeing again. But I never said I was the hero of this story, or even the good guy.
Who wants to be good, when it feels so good being bad?
2
Beauty Within
DIXON
Reaching for the jacket off the back of my high-backed leather seat, I try not to recoil when I see my paperwork slightly askew. Memories of Ms. Witherstone’s face pressed into my mahogany desktop while I fucked her from behind come flooding back, and I make a quick beeline for the exit before I throw up.
Locking my door, I see that my receptionist, Susanna, is still here.
“Ms. Vale, you should have left hours ago,” I reprimand, as it’s now 7:30 p.m.
“Oh, that’s okay. Leroy is out of town fishing with his buddies, so I don’t mind working late,” she replies with a nod, her gray hair bobbing with the motion.
Susanna Vale should have retired years ago, but she keeps telling me she’s not ready to hang up her boots just yet. Good help is hard to find, so I’m not going to argue with her.
“Well, make sure you note down how many extra hours you’ve worked, and I’ll ensure Nancy pays you.”
“Oh, Dr. Mathews,” she protests with a wave of her wrinkled hand, “don’t be silly. Who else is going to make sure you leave at a decent hour?”
I give her a small smile because it’s true. On more than one occasion, Susanna has sent me home at an ungodly hour, but I went home to what? I returned to my empty Manhattan condo, which reminded me too much of her. Even after twelve months, her presence, her essence, is still living in the walls.
Shaking aside those unwelcome memories, I play it cool, not wanting my nostalgia to show. “If only you were ten years younger,” I tease, finishing the sentence with a playful wink.
“Oh, you beast.” She shoos me out the door. “Go get something to eat…you skipped lunch.”
I blanch at her comment, as my lunch break was occupied with eating—just not food. With that heinous thought in mind, I quickly bid my assistant goodnight and catch the elevator down to the ground floor. I’m meeting my two best friends, Finch and Hunter, at a local bar around the corner. We were once a foursome, but that was a lifetime ago when I believed in loyalty and love.
“Here he is. Dr. Love has entered the building,” shouts Hunter from across the room, as I walk in.
His loud, obnoxious voice alerts me to where he sits, but of course I know where to find him, as he never leaves the bar.
“Holy fuck balls,” he loudly curses, narrowing his eyes. “You totally got laid today.” He raises his Budweiser in salute while Finch chuckles.
“How ’bout you shout a little louder? I don’t think our neighbors in New Jersey heard.” I slap the back of his head playfully.
Taking a seat near Finch, I raise my hand, alerting the pretty blonde behind the bar to my presence. She gives me a small wink while mixing a cocktail.
“So, who’s the lucky girl?” asks Finch, nudging me in the ribs with a sharp elbow.
“I don’t remember.” I snag his drink and take an unsatisfying sip. “Ugh, where’s the rum?” I cough, nearly gagging on the watered-down Coke.
Finch laughs while twirling his gold wedding band with a smile. “Gotta look after Gabriella in the morning. Heidi has some mothers’ club thing, so I’m on baby duty.”
I nod, because that’s what responsible parents do. They don’t go out with their single, man-whoring friend, who is looking to get drunk and drown his sorrows in a bottle of Jack jammed between the tits of some blonde barfly. That’s what a typical Friday night for me is like, but for Finch, who has been married for two years to the love of his life, Heidi, Friday night consists of one non-alcoholic drink with his best buddies before going home to his hot, loving wife and having amazing, freaky sex.
With that thought in mind, I reach past him and snatch up Hunter’s beer.
“You look like shit,” Hunter states, and as much as I love his honesty, I really am not in the mood.
But he presses, regardless of me clamming up. “It’s been a year, man.” He holds up a finger, just in case I didn’t hear him, but I got it, loud and clear.
“I don’t want to talk about this,” I object with a firm shake of my head, and quickly chug the contents of my stolen beer.
“We’re just worried about you,” Finch joins in, his gray eyes softening when he witnesses my emotional retreat.
“I’m fine,” I retort, really needing another drink.
I try to flag down the bartender, but the crowd has suddenly grown, and she’s attending to other thirsty patrons.
“Do you want your dick to fall off?” Hunter bluntly demands.
“Excuse me?” I ask, unable to wipe the smile from my face, amused by his melodramatics.
“You heard me.” He leans forward, his huge body invading Finch’s small frame.
“No, Hunter, I do not want my dick to fall off. Get to the point, already,” I reply, rolling my eyes.
“Well, that’s what’s gonna happen if you keep boning these random girls.”
“I seriously doubt that,” I scoff, but Finch nods, obviously agreeing with Hunter.
“Chicks instantly drop their panties the moment you flash those big baby blues their way. It really is too easy, and in turn, you’re becoming New York’s biggest man-whore,” Hunter declares. His bluntness suddenly pisses me off.
“When did you turn into such a pussy?” I bark at him, narrowing my eyes. “I expected it from him…” I gesture with my head toward Finch. “No offense,” I add, and he shrugs, not at all offended.
“But you, man,” I say to Hunter. “Last I checked, you had no problem screwing random chicks. So quit it with the holier-than-thou crap.”
I’m getting pissed off rather quickly, but getting advice from Hunter, who of all people shouldn’t be lecturing me about my hook-ups, I can’t help but lose my cool. I’ve known these boys for the majority of my life. We did everything together. I know the shit we’ve done, especially Hunter.
Finch, however, he’s been our voice of reason. He’s saved us from many situations that could have turned sour if not for his levelheadedness. But Hunter, he’s always been wild and free.
I love these two morons like brothers. They’ve seen me at my worst and never once judged me until now.
“What’s with the third degree?” I ask, calmed down somewhat.
Finch nervously lowers his eyes, and I still have no fucking clue what’s going on.
When Hunter sees my confusion, he clarifies. “We’re worried, man. Next week is…ya know?”
“No, I don’t know. Are you high?” I loosen my navy tie as it’s suddenly suffocating me.
Finch’s thin lips pull into a tight line, which is never a good sign.
“Spit it out, Finch.”
“In a couple of weeks, it’s the thirteenth,” he replies, finally meeting my eyes.
“Yeah. And?” I question with a baffled shrug.
“Oh, dude.” He sighs, and I can hear the pity in his tone. “It would have been your one-year anniver—” He suddenly pauses, not wanting to fill in the blanks.
One year?
Holy shit. One year ago I would have been married to the love of my life, Lillian Davis. Just thinking her name makes me want to dig my brain out with an ice-cream scoop.
If I believed in soul mates, then Lily was mine. We met three years ago in a line at Starbucks, and it was love at first macchiato. I proposed to her halfway through our relationship because we were happy and ready to take the next step. Well, I was. And I believed she was too, until she met my buddy Leo.
Leo also grew up with Hunter, Finch and me in New Jersey, and he too moved to the Big Smoke. But Leo obviously didn’t value our friendship the way I did, because he was fucking Lily behind my back for months.
Lily dumped me six weeks before our wedding because she was in love with Leo. I couldn’t accept the words coming from her lips, but when she showed me the reason behind her recent weight gain, her words became crystal clear. Not only was she in love with my best friend, she was also having his baby. I knew it wasn’t mine because we hadn’t had sex in over three months. I know, I know, I should have seen the warning signs, but love is blind and all of that crap.
So things couldn’t get any clearer after that.
She blamed her infidelity on me, stating she never saw me and I put work first. I did put work first, but only so I could pay for the three-carat diamond on her finger, and the lavish, upscale Manhattan condo she insisted we buy.
I did all of this for her. And she thanks me by screwing my best friend and bearing his spawn.
So after she left me, I went a little wild.
But this lifestyle, it’s no longer just a phase—it’s who I am. I’ve become addicted to senseless, shameless sexual acts with random women, completely knowing that, on some level, I’m hoping to replace the face of the one woman who took an axe to my heart and hacked into it, leaving behind a bloodied, broken mess of the man I once was.
But these hook-ups, they’re slowly losing their appeal, and I’m afraid that one day, I’ll wake up and no longer recognize the person staring back at me in the mirror.
So, there you have it, that’s my life in a nutshell. I eat, sleep, work and fuck because that’s what I have to do to survive. It’s a sad, miserable existence, but it’s better than being a lovesick puppy, pining after a woman who doesn’t give a damn.
Snapping back into the now, my shields slip into place and I try my best to appear nonchalant. “Big deal. I’m over it. I’m over her.”
Finch frowns, while Hunter disputes my claim. “No, man, you’re not. If you were, then you’d have no problem with me telling you that Leo the Ass and Lily the Whore are getting married next month.”
“Jesus, Hunter!” Finch scolds, shaking his head.
“What? If he’s over it, me telling him this shouldn’t be a problem,” Hunter states with a shrug.
Hunter’s tactlessness doesn’t bother me in the slightest. His statement, however, does.
“She’s marrying that asshole?” I spit out, disgusted, but more so, I’m hurt.
What does he have that I didn’t? I swallow down my defeat and repulsion, and need to get the hell outta Dodge before I fucking lose it.
“Dixon,” Finch says with nothing but pity in his tone, but I don’t want his sympathy.
Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand after finishing my lukewarm, stolen beer, I stand, hoping my friends understand why I need a minute alone.
“I’m going out for a cigarette.” I pat down my jacket pockets to find my smokes.
Thankfully, the boys let it go and don’t make a fuss when I push through the massive crowd. As I step outside onto the pavement, I light a Marlboro and take a much-needed drag as I lean back against the brick wall.
I would be a complete liar if I said I never thought of Lily, because I think about her more often than I care to admit. I gave up long ago on the dream of reconciliation, but deep down, I wished her relationship with Leo had failed.
My life is a mess, and the only person I could talk to about this is dead.
My mom passed away six months ago from breast cancer, and the loss destroyed my father. He had a major mental breakdown and now resides at Sunnyfields Hospital. Ironic, isn’t it? Dixon Mathews, New York’s finest shrink, can’t even help his own father.
Automatically taking a drag of my cigarette, I’m lost in the past—a place I’d rather not be. So when I hear the animated voices of a couple to my left, I welcome the distraction.
Turning to see what the commotion is all about, I see a short brunette being manhandled by a meaty jock, who is jerking her a little too roughly by her upper arms. She’s fucking tiny and his huge paws are going to snap her into two.
“Let me go,” she scowls, attempting to pull out of his grip.
I’ll give her points for trying, as she looks like she’s putting up a pretty good fight. But this asshole has about a hundred pounds on her.
Flicking my smoke into the gutter, I decide to intervene, as it’s pretty obvious she’s trying to get away. Her anxious green eyes flick in my direction when I’m feet away, and she silently pleads with me to help her.
“How about you let her go,” I say firmly, and the wildebeest turns my way with a cocky grin.
“How about you mind your own business, old man,” he replies with a deep, southern accent.
Old man?
Fuck this little pubescent jerkoff.
“How about you mind your manners? Let the lady go.”
“Or what?” he chides, but thankfully he loosens his grip.
“Or I’ll call the police, because from where I stand, those marks on her arms—” I point to her biceps as he releases them “—are a clear indication that you’re a low-life douchebag who likes to beat up on women to make yourself feel like a man. What’s wrong?” I mock. “Trying to act all tough ’cause you want to make up for what you’re lacking?” I hold up my pinkie.
The girl giggles, but quickly stifles her outburst with her hand when douchebag turns and glares at her.
“Ah, c’mon, there are pills you can take for your anger, and also, for your little problem,” I say in a sarcastic whisper as I point to his crotch.
His face blazes a bright red and I can’t help but laugh, because questioning a dude’s manhood always has the desired effect. I can see him mentally sizing me up, and he knows there is no way he can take me on. This guy is big, but he’s jacked up on too many steroids, and his ridiculous, air-inflated muscles wouldn’t pack a punch.
“So how about you do the world a favor and fuck off? Go work off that anger with some tweezers and a photograph of your mom.”
This time, the girl bursts out into fits of laughter, and the sound is utterly magical.
“Fuck you,” douchebag snarls. He leaves in a huff when he realizes this is a fight he’s bound to lose.
We both watch as he rounds the corner, and when I’m certain he’s not coming back, I turn to look at the woman in front of me.
During my tirade, I failed to notice that she is a total fox. She’s young, I’m guessing twenty-three, but holy shit, she’s beautiful. Large green eyes complement a head of long, brown hair which sits straightened just past her shoulders. Her full lips are the prettiest pink I have ever seen, and when her mouth tips up into a timid smile, I know I’m staring like a creepy old man.
Quickly composing myself, I ask, “Are you okay?” and make a point of looking at her arms.
She wraps her small fingers around her left bicep, as if attempting to hide the red finger marks. “I’m…fi-fine,” she stutters unconvincingly, but quickly recovers. “I’m fine. Thanks for the save.”
“No problem.” I’m mesmerized by the way her straight teeth tug at her lower lip, because in no way is she doing this on purpose.
She’s not openly flirting with me, or trying to get into my pants, and honestly, it’s like a breath of fresh air. She’s simply a hot, young, innocent girl with no ulterior motives, and no expectations to where our strange, yet electrifying encounter might lead.
I’ve forgotten what innocence looks like—how fucking sad is that?
“I’m Madison,” she says, extending her hand, and my huge palm dwarfs her tiny one as we shake.
“Dixon,” I reply with a genuine smile.
“So, do you make it a habit of rescuing damsels in distress?”
“What can I say, it’s a hobby of mine,” I reply with a casual shrug, and Madison laughs.
“Well, Dixon, thank you again for coming to my rescue.” I nod, letting her hand go as I realize I’m still creepily shaking it.
“Anytime. Are you sure you’re okay?” I ask as I don’t fail to see a small shiver pass through her body.
“Honestly, I’m okay. His bark is worse than his bite.”
I notice she doesn’t elaborate on who her assailant is. I want to say more, but for once, me, the fancy, sweet-talking shrink, is speechless. And the reason for that is because I have a feeling Madison would see through my bullshit and call me out for the fake I am.
“Maddy? Are you out here?” asks a concerned voice from behind us.
We both turn, and I suddenly have the urge to grab my nuts to protect them when I see a flaming redhead storm our way. She glares at me before focusing on Madison.
“Are you okay?”
Madison nods.
“I’m fine,” she replies, giving me a small smile as she extends her hand my way. “This is Dixon.”
Her friend looks at me, making it no secret she’s sizing me up. “Where did nimrod go?” she asks, totally ignoring me, and I smirk, as I like this girl’s spunk.
Madison brushes a tendril of hair behind her ear and frowns. “Oh, he left. Dixon saved the day,” she reveals, giving me a shy smile.
Her friend looks at me once again and this time it doesn’t appear she wants to skin me alive. “Well, in that case, it’s nice to meet you, Dixon,” and she gives me a small wave.
“Likewise,” I reply. “And it was nothing. I was just in the right place at the right time.”
Or wrong time, as the closer I look at Madison, the more intrigued I become. What is the matter with me?
“Well, regardless, thanks for looking out for my friend.”
I give her a small, polite nod, as her protectiveness over Madison reminds me of my friendship with Hunter and Finch. Madison is, without a doubt, someone worth protecting. I mean, look at her.
I can’t stop my eyes from darting over to her, and I’m surprised to see her returning my gaze. Her friend must also sense some weird stare-off going on between us, because she clears her throat, an octave higher than needed.
“Well, we better go back inside. Our friends are probably waiting for us,” she explains, breaking my trance-like stupor.
Dixon, don’t be a chump, talk to her. But what do I say? I haven’t properly spoken to a girl in so long; especially not to a girl I actually wanted to talk to. I’ve forgotten how to communicate with the opposite sex—and “faster” or “fuck me harder” doesn’t count. So like a wimp, I stand mute and smile.
“Okay, well, it was nice meeting you,” Madison says, biting her lip, lingering.
“You too. Stay safe.”
I restrain from groaning, as who the hell says “stay safe” other than your parents? I open my mouth, ready to add in a quirky response, but Madison is being dragged toward the entrance by her friend.
She suddenly turns over her shoulder and yells, “I work at The Pony Bar. If you’re ever in the neighborhood, come visit.”
Before I have time to reply, she’s gone.
What the hell was that? Madison has left me standing on the pavement, now questioning mymanhood.
Like a chicken shit, I let the first girl in forever who I actually liked, leave. I need to go back in there and talk to her. I need her to see what a great guy I can be. But that’s the problem; I’m not a great guy. This week, I’ve fucked four different women, and I can’t even remember most of their names. Or faces. They all blur into one disgusting regret, one I wish I could erase but can’t.
Girls like Madison are too good for the likes of me, and I’m doing her a favor by keeping away. However, tell that to my attentive dick, who became interested in Madison the moment she opened her mouth. Yes, she’s fucking gorgeous, but the fact I didn’t see her as a conquest is what I find myself most attracted to. I haven’t felt that way since…Lily.
All thoughts of Lily come flooding back, and I suddenly remember why I was out here in the first place.
“Hey, handsome,” purrs a voice, snapping me back into the here and now.
Raising my eyes, I see the blonde bartender from earlier addressing me, inches from where I stand.
“Hey.” I quickly recover when I see her waiting for me to respond.
“I saw you inside.” She motions with her head toward the bar while checking me out.
I know I’m not ugly, and if I were a chick, I’d probably want to fuck me, too. I’ve always been tall, but I stopped growing when I shot up to 6’3”. My dark brown hair is naturally messy, always styled into a “fohawk” as one girl I was screwing called it, and my blue eyes complement my trademark dark stubble; most days, I’m just too lazy to shave.
“Oh, yeah?”I ask, unbelieving at how easy this is.
“Yeah,” she confirms with a slow nod, biting her glossy bottom lip. “Can I bum a smoke?”
“Sure.” I search through my pockets and offer her one.
As she places the Marlboro between her lips, she waits for me to offer her a light. I try not to recoil when she leers forward, pursing her lips like a fish while I light it. My horny libido tells my stupid brain that this blonde bimbo is exactly what I need to forget all about my encounter with the brown-haired beauty. They are exact opposites, and that’s what I need. This is what I do best.
“So, sweetheart. How long a break you got?”
She bats her fake eyelashes and smirks. “Fifteen minutes.”
Bending down to meet her short frame, I whisper, “I’ll make it the best fifteen minutes of your life.”
And that’s all the miles I have to put in as she flicks her cigarette to the ground with a sly grin. Reaching for the scruff of my shirt collar, she leads me around the corner and I make good on my promise.
It may be the best fifteen minutes of her life, but it’s the worst fifteen minutes of mine.
3
Angel of Sin
DIXON
Nobody likes Mondays—especially when you’ve had a shitty weekend. After jacking off in the shower—twice—you’d think my mood would have improved.
My weekend was strange. After boning the blonde on Friday night, I went home alone, which is no surprise, but oddly enough I was kind of disappointed. My number one cardinal rule is never, ever bring anyone home. My home is my sanctuary, it’s the one place where I can truly be myself, and I refuse to pollute that purity with my whoring ways. Also, I still see my home as ours. Lily is still ingrained into every crevice, and I can’t bring myself to taint the happy memories we once shared there.
But Friday night, I found myself wondering what it would be like to actually bring home a chick and fuck her in my bed, as opposed to screwing her up against a brick wall.
I’m a psychiatrist, so I know how the human mind works—most of the time. My need for comfort was triggered by the lovely Madison. Her innocence sung to me, and I haven’t felt that way for a long while. As brief as our encounter was, there was something there. Too bad I was too gutless to find out what that something was.
I felt fucking disgusting after consorting with the blonde, so for the rest of the weekend, I kept my nose clean and out of random chicks’ crotches. It was fairly boring on all accounts, but I feel somewhat unpolluted after my sexual abstinence for two whole days. That’s a long time for someone who uses sex as his shield.
“Dr. Mathews, your twelve-thirty appointment is here,” Ms. Vale says through the intercom on my phone.
Her singsong voice jars me out of my rut, and I clear my voice before replying, “Send her in.”
Pulling up my new patient information sheet on my laptop, I begin entering Ms. Juliet Harte’s details into my computer.
Age: 26
Gender: Female
Address: 18 Union Square West, New York
Problem: Sex Addiction
Oh boy.
“Dr. Mathews?” asks a soft, velvety voice, which has my dick standing in direct salute.
Raising my eyes from the screen, I see that Ms. Juliet Harte is complete perfection wrapped in pure sin.
Her long blonde hair is wrapped into a twist, and strands fall around her face, drawing attention to her “come fuck me” blue eyes. The sexiest lips I have ever seen are coated in a clear gloss, and images of what those lips could do to me have me subtly rearranging myself in my seat.
My newfound celibacy has just mentally motorboated Juliet’s perfect breasts. However, putting my game face on, I give her a small smile and gesture to the leather chair in front of my desk. “Please take a seat.”
She nods and saunters over, making sure to straighten out her cream tunic dress before taking a graceful seat.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Harte,” I say with a nod, getting the formalities out of the way.
“Good afternoon, Dr. Mathews,” she replies, her eyes focusing intently on me.
I see no fear or apprehension behind her poised gaze, and her self-confidence is an absolute turn-on. But I have a job to do.
“So today, we’ll mainly be discussing your history. Think of this as ‘a getting to know you’ session. In order to properly evaluate you, I need you to trust me. In no way will you be judged or condemned for your thoughts. No matter how perverse or wrong your thoughts may be, I need you to be totally honest with me. Do you think you can do that?” I ask with a smile.
Juliet nods. “Yes, I want to get better. I’ll do anything it takes.”
“Good,” I commend. “How about we take a seat on the sofa where we’ll both be more comfortable.”
Juliet’s mouth tips up into a secretive smile, but I ignore it as I reach for my notepad and make my way to the leather recliner. My eyes flick to the clock on my mantel, and I honestly don’t know how I’m going to get through an hour session with this vixen, talking about her sex addiction, without ripping her clothes off.
Clearing my throat, I try not to stare as she takes a seat on the black leather sofa. As she slowly crosses her long legs, images of her black skyscraper heels digging into my ass while I fuck her up against my office wall assault my brain, and I barely suppress my moan at the erotic vision.
“So, what brings you here today, Ms. Harte?”
Juliet shifts in her seat, the leather creaking under her sinful ass as she replies, “I have a problem.”
I nod, encouraging her to go on.
“An addiction, I guess you could call it.” She pauses, lowering her eyes.
I wait for her to continue, as I will try my hardest to act professional.
As she meets my gaze, she huskily whispers, “I’m addicted…to sex.”
Those glorious words coming out of her mouth is what every hot-blooded American male wants to hear, but I appear unaffected as I ask, “How long have you felt this way?”
“For a while now.”
“How long roughly?” I press, my pen poised over my notepad.
“For about two years,” she discloses, her composure never wavering as I write down her secrets.
“I would like to talk about your personal life, Ms. Harte, would that be okay?”
She nods.
“Did anything happen around that time? Anything that may have caused this behavior change?”
I can see her mulling over my question. “Well, there was this one thing,” she states, and I remain impassive, allowing her to continue. “It was the first time I had sex with a girl. Does this mean I’m bisexual? Or gay?” she asks, genuinely curious.
“I don’t like to categorize sexuality, Ms. Harte,” I reply, pressing the notepad over my looming erection. “How did being with a woman make you feel?”
“I liked it. A lot,” she confesses. “There are some things men cannot provide in the bedroom.”
“And what’s that?”
“Being with a woman, it’s soft and familiar. They provide that gentleness and comfort a man doesn’t usually offer. The way a woman touches another woman’s body, exploring the soft curves and supple planes, it really is beautiful. But being with a man, it’s rough and raw. The way a man eats you out, compared to the way a woman does, is completely different. A man wants to devour his meal, while us ladies, we want to take our time and savor the taste,” she explains, her pink tongue darting out to wet her bottom lip.
If my erection got any harder, I’d be able to pound nails into the wall. I know I have to steer this conversation into another direction before I show her not all men are barbarians, and we too, like to savor our meals.
“So apart from this event, did anything else happen? How’s your family life? Work? Social life?”
Juliet’s composure doesn’t shift, and she happily answers, “It’s all good. I live by myself in an apartment Daddy bought me. He’s an investment banker, and well, we’re quite well off. My mother passed away when I was seven, so I don’t really remember her. Daddy got remarried to Rachel, and Rachel treated me like I was hers. She has two children of her own, and they are both nice people.”
“Are they older? Younger? What’s your relationship like with them?”
“One older, one younger, and I love…both of them.” I don’t fail to notice the apprehension in her strained admission.
“What do you do for work?” I question, writing down her stepsiblings as a possible cause for her addiction.
“I work for a law firm. I’m just a file clerk, but I don’t really need to work, as Daddy takes care of me.”
I nod, feeling a tad disturbed that a twenty-six-year-old woman refers to her father as “Daddy.” I write down that a possible cause to her issues could be because she was sexually abused as a child. Most sex addicts describe their parents as being rigid, distant and uncaring. But in Juliet’s case, it seems her father was the complete opposite. I make a note to revisit this point later.
“What about your social life? Do you smoke? Drink? Take drugs?”
Juliet smirks, and straightens in her seat. “Yes to all of the above.”
Ms. Harte is getting more complex by the minute. “What drugs to do you take? Prescribed or illicit?”
“Mainly illicit,” she calmly states. “I like acid, ecstasy and cocaine.”
Holy shit, this woman is bad, bad news. But the more she confesses her sins, the more I want her.
“That’s quite a cocktail of drugs. When did you start using?”
She ignores my question as she slowly, and purposely, uncrosses her legs. I can clearly see the white triangle of barely-there cloth scarcely covering her pussy, but I remain professional as I don’t want to blow this. I know if I give in to my rampant libido, this will be the last time I see Ms. Juliet Harte, and after this introduction, I want more.
“Have you ever fucked while on acid, Dr. Mathews?” She closely gauges my reaction to see how I will respond to her crude question.
“This isn’t about me, Ms. Harte, but rather about you and your feelings. Did you want to tell me how you felt when engaging in a sexual act while high?” I coolly question, cocking an arrogant eyebrow.
I’ve been in the game for a long, long time, and it’s going to take more than a hot piece of ass with a filthy mouth to get me going. She’s testing me now, and Ms. Harte is a lot smarter than I gave her credit for. I must watch my back, and dick, with this femme fatale.
“It felt unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before. My entire skin was on fire, and my senses were so in tune with my body, I anticipated every move my partners made. Every touch, slap, lick, pull, thrust, tickle, everything—it was amplified, tenfold, and nothing has ever felt that good,” she says, her pupils dilating, no doubt reliving the memory of her ménage à trois, as I didn’t fail to note her intentional mention of the word “partners.”
“So you enjoy sex?” My over-stimulated brain is begging me to stop with the torture.
She nods, and her eyes dart to my crotch. “Yes, I love it.”
“What exactly do you love about it? Besides the physical gratification, that is.”
Juliet smirks, before replying, “I love the power.”
Images of being cuffed to a bed while I call Ms. Harte “Mistress” flash through my brain, and I realize that this woman could be quite hazardous to one’s health.
Ms. Harte is one fucked-up little unit, and I can’t wait to find out what makes her tick.
________________________________________
An hour later, I’m sitting in my chair, highly strung, and about ready to come in my pants. Ms. Harte is in the bathroom freshening up, as our session got a little heated and I reduced her almost to tears. I still can’t work out whether they were genuine or not, which troubles me. She really is an anomaly, which is a strange, almost-refreshing change, as most women don’t keep me guessing. But she does.
“So, same time next week?” she asks, exiting the bathroom and jarring me out of my thoughts.
Looking up from my desk, I see that she has applied a bright red shade of lipstick, which stands out against her pale hair. Nodding casually, I pretend to type on my laptop, appearing informal and laid-back.
“Sure, that’ll be fine. Please go ahead and schedule your session with Ms. Vale.” My curt response is a silent dismissal, and she reads it loud and clear.
”Thank you for today, Dr. Mathews. I feel…better,” she says, but I have a sneaking suspicion “better” was not the word she wanted to use.
”See you next week, Ms. Harte,” I reply, giving her a small smile.
“Okay, see you then.” She firmly nods and I keenly check out her tight little ass as she exits my office.
The moment the door closes, I let out a deep, agonizing breath and allow my staged composure to slip. That was damn intense, and the unrelenting wood I’m sporting is proof of how damn tense that really was.
If I were smart, I would tell Susanna to cancel any future appointments Ms. Harte has made and refer her to another doctor. But I never said I was smart. School smart—yes. But sex smart—hell to the fuck, no. I have never met such a sexually aggressive woman before, and I’m man enough to admit that Juliet Harte turns me on and scares me, all in the same breath.
I have no idea how to approach this as there is some unseen sexual spark between us. I know that sounds ludicrous, seeing as she is a self-confessed sex addict. But there is something more to her, and I’m intrigued to find out what.
Looking down at my lap, I sigh, as this tenting erection is going nowhere. Deciding to rub one out before my next client, I lock my door and make my way into my personal bathroom. The moment I switch on the light, her perfume assaults my nostrils and I take a moment to bask in her scent. The floral fragrance does nothing to help my predicament and I quickly unsnap the button on my pants, ready to get to work. However, my hand freezes as my eyes fall to the mirror above the basin.
Written in bright red lipstick across my mirror is a phone number—no guessing whose. Underneath sits a perfect imprint of her lipstick-stained kiss marks, taunting me with their blatant sexual innuendo. This is obviously Ms. Harte’s way of hinting that I call her, as I’ve already obtained her contact details via her client form.
Goddamnit, I’m screwed.
Surrendering, I unzip my fly, reach into my pants, and find my release within minutes. Who would have thought an innocent, lipstick-stained kiss mark could warrant such an explosive orgasm? But I know there is absolutely nothing innocent about Juliet Harte.
4
Twisted
DIXON
This week has been an absolute disaster. So when 6 p.m. Friday night ticks over, I’m out the door, happily bidding sayonara to the week from hell.
I’m meeting with Hunter and his parents, Marie and Ralph, who are in town for the weekend.
Walking into a popular bar and grill, I spot them sitting at a booth in the corner of the room. Hunter gives me a quick wave and I make my way over to them, dodging a lingering waitress who gives me a sultry smile.
After the fucked-up week of jacking off with zero satisfaction, I’ve decided to steer clear of all women, because at the moment, two women are more than I can handle. I shouldn’t even be thinking about Juliet Harte because it’s wrong on all counts, the kind of wrong that would send me straight to hell. Yes, I’ve bagged a few of my clients, which I know is ethically and morally and professionally wrong. But they weren’t genuine clients; they never really needed my help.
But Juliet, she is someone with genuine issues, and the doctor in me wants to help her. However, the horny male in me wants to help her by screwing her six ways to Sunday.
Pushing these inappropriate thoughts from my mind, I give Marie a double cheek kiss and a warm hug as I approach their booth.
“Hello, Dixon. Oh my, I love your hair,” she says, playfully running a hand through my messy locks.
My hair at the moment most likely resembles a bird’s nest, as I’ve been yanking at it in frustration all week.
“Nice to see you, Ralph.” I extend my hand.
“You too, son,” he replies, shaking it.
We all take our seats and I snatch the menu from Hunter, who bumps me playfully with his shoulder.
“So how was traffic?” I ask, my eyes perusing the menu uselessly, as food will not satisfy my current hunger.
“Ah, it was awful, as usual. It’s so much better on our side of the river.”
I give Marie a small smile, as I know she’ll be forever loyal to New Jersey.
“You look tired, Dixon. Are you unwell?” She reaches across the table and feels my forehead.
Usually, I would shy away from such motherly tendencies, but it’s Marie, and I’m used to her babying me.
“Yeah, Dix, you do look a bit off-color. Everything okay?” Hunter teases, looking at my lap. “Is everything where it should be?”
I roll my eyes at his idiocy and ignore him.
“I’m fine, Marie. Work is just crazy at the moment.”
“Yeah, lots of loons out there, that’s why,” Ralph innocently says, taking a sip of his ice tea.
“Ralph!” Marie scolds, throwing a reprimanding look his way.
“What?” he asks with a shrug.
Her eyes dart my way discreetly, and I know she’s subtly attempting to play facial charades, drawing attention to the fact that one of those loons is my father.
“It’s fine, Marie,” I insist with a wave of my hand.
I haven’t seen my father since the day I admitted him, which was close to four months ago. Seeing my once healthy, vibrant father wither away into a shell of his former self is a sight I can’t stand. Call me a bastard, but I would rather remember my dad being happy and well, as opposed to the medicated zombie he most likely resembles nowadays.
Marie must read my expression as she softly says, “I saw your father the other week. He’s looking better.”
Better? Better than what? Better than the drooling basket case he was when I admitted him? I hate to break it to Marie, but being dead is the only “better” in this scenario.
But I give her a small nod, and try to appear unmoved, as I don’t want to hurt her feelings. “That’s great. I’ve been meaning to go see him, but I’ve just…work has been busy,” I conclude unconvincingly.
She smiles. “I understand.”
Clearing my throat, I propose, “Maybe you could tell him I said hi? Next time you see him?”
“Of course. I can do that. You know, maybe you could call? I think he’d like that,” she softly suggests.
“Yeah, maybe,” I reply, not meaning a word.
Thankfully, the waitress interrupts our awkward conversation and puts an end to me justifying why I’m not a terrible son.
________________________________________
The evening is still young, so we decide to walk down to Central Park.
Ralph and Marie are at a vendor’s cart buying pretzels when Hunter pulls me aside and asks, “What’s up with you?”
“Care to be a little more specific?” I say, while reading through the emails on my phone.
“You haven’t checked out one single girl all night. That pixie waitress was basically offering her tits as a plate for your steak, and you hardly noticed. What’s up, dude? I’m worried. You’re not about to go ‘Livin’ La Vida Loca,’ are ya?” he asks seriously, and I can’t help but chuckle, as Hunter is never one to mince his words.
“First of all,” I state, holding up a finger. “You call me a man-whore. And now—” I add a second finger “—you’re questioning my sexuality. Hunter, your overactive imagination never ceases to amaze me. Maybe you’re in the wrong profession. I heard Walt Disney is hiring,” I say with a grin.
“Joke all you want, but I know something is up. So spit it out.”
Sighing, I run a hand through my disheveled hair, and I know the only way to shut him up is to tell him the truth. “I met this chick at work. Actually, I met two chicks,” I correct.
“You do remember your workplace isn’t a brothel, right?”
“Ha, very funny. I met girl number one, Madison, on Friday night,” I explain, unable to keep the affection from my voice.
“I thought she was just a random hook-up?”
I pull a grossed-out face when I realize he’s talking about the blonde. “No, not her. I fucked her to get Madison out of my system.”
Hunter grins. “But I’m guessing it didn’t work?”
“You guessed right. She was so incredibly…sweet.”
“And girl number two?” he asks, folding his arms across his chest.
I sigh. “Girl number two is the complete opposite to Madison. For starters, I met her at work.”
“Uh oh,” Hunter butts in, but I hold up my hand, telling him to zip it. Thankfully he complies.
“She’s a patient, and before you start with the third degree, I didn’t do anything.”
Hunter nods, his lips pulled in tight.
“She’s trouble, man, I know it, but I can’t stop thinking about her. She wrote her fucking number in bright red lipstick across my bathroom mirror,” I confess.
“She what?” Hunter says incredulously. “No way!’
“Yes way,” I counter, because it’s very true.
“So, what’s she seeing you for?” he asks, totally ignoring patient/doctor confidentiality.
“I can’t tell you. That’s between my patient and me,” I reply, half serious.
“Oh, bullshit! If you’re thinking about screwing her, then I think that rule is entirely void.”
He’s right, so I sheepishly reply, “She’s addicted to sex.”
Hunter’s mouth pops open. He shakes his head animatedly and jams his finger into my chest. “You need to stay away from this little nympho, Dix. With your man-whoring tendencies, and her out-of-control libido, you’ll end up fucking one another to death. Not to mention, she is your patient,Dr. Mathews.”
“I know, I know. And you’re right. But Hunt, I’m intrigued by her.”
“You’re intrigued by her zeal to fuck anything in sight more like it,” he replies with a smirk.
“That’s not it. This isn’t about sex.”
Hunter raises an unconvinced eyebrow.
“Okay, it’s a little about sex. But there is something more to her. There is something more to both. I haven’t been interested in a chick since…” but I remain mute, not wanting, or needing, to finish that sentence.
Hunter runs a hand down his face and blows out a breath. “Look, bro, this nympho sounds like trouble. Personally, I would refer her to another doctor and forget you ever met her. This will get sticky, and I mean that in every literal sense there is.”
I nod, defeated, and also, disappointed. I don’t want there to be any truth in what he says, but there is. I need to stop this before things spiral out of control. “You’re right. That’s what I’ll do,” I say with a firm nod. “Treating her is not good for either of us.”
“’Attaboy,” he says, playfully punching me on the arm. “You’ll forget you ever met this little sexual deviant in no time.”
“Dr. Mathews,” a voice says from behind us.
Both Hunter and I turn around and are faced with Juliet Harte. My memories of her have paid her no justice at all, and with the super tight jogging outfit she’s currently wearing, I’ve just made new memories, which I plan on revisiting later tonight.
“Ms. Harte,” I reply, hoping I appear calm while I check out her gorgeous rack in the white crop top she’s sporting.
Hunter clears his throat loudly, ruining my ogling, and I sigh. “Hunter, this is Ms. Harte. Ms. Harte, Hunter,” I say, waving my hand between the two.
“Please, call me Juliet,” she says with a small smile.
“Very well.” I nod.
And then, there is silence.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Juliet,” Hunter says, totally saving my ass, as I have no idea what to say to her. “O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou, Romeo?” he teases, placing a hand over his heart dramatically.
Juliet giggles, while I shake my head at my friend’s stupidity.
The Chihuahua at her feet begins yapping, thankfully cutting through the silence, and Juliet sighs. “I better go. Marcia gets cranky if her walk gets interrupted.” The Chihuahua yaps in agreement. “I’ll see you Monday?” she says, but it actually sounds more like a question.
“Yes. Monday it is,” I reply stiffly.
Juliet looks overjoyed by my response. “Okay, well, it was nice meeting you, Hunter. Awesome name, by the way,” she says with a playful wink, before re-inserting her ear buds and taking off into a slow sprint.
Hunter and I eagerly watch, mesmerized by how amazing her ass looks in those tight spandex pants.
Once she’s out of sight, Hunter mumbles, “That’s the nympho?”
“The one and only,” I reply with a sigh.
“Change of plans. Fuck finding her another doctor. Send her my way. Make up some excuse as to why she needs to buy stocks.”
I don’t reply and only shake my head because I know once Monday rolls over, I’m a goner.
As we wait in silence for Marie and Ralph to hurry up and buy their damn pretzels, Hunter lightheartedly mutters, “It’s a lot about sex, you lying bastard.”
5
Good vs Evil
DIXON
Another uneventful weekend has passed where I stayed indoors and steered clear of all females. Bumping into Juliet on Friday night has thrown me, because I can’t stop thinking about her. What I told Hunter was true. Yes, I am ridiculously attracted to her, but it’s not just the physical attraction. She really does intrigue me.
Although I’ve been lost in my Juliet spell, I haven’t forgotten about another woman I found just as intriguing as Juliet. Madison. It’s uncanny that I have met two women in the span of a week. I say uncanny because I couldn’t even find one woman after Lily who remotely sparked my interest, but now I have two.
These two women are polar opposites, yet I find myself attracted to both. From the brief minutes spent with her, I could tell Madison was sweet, innocent, and pure. But Juliet, there’s nothing sweet nor innocent about her. They truly represent the stereotypical devil and angel icons.
“Dr. Mathews, Ms. Harte is here to see you. She’s a little early. Is it okay to send her in?” Susanna says through the intercom, jolting me from my thoughts.
Taking a deep breath, I push down on the button. “Thank you, Ms. Vale. Please send her in.”
Looking at the clock on my laptop, I see that Juliet is fifteen minutes early, and knowing this sly vixen, there’s a reason why. I remain seated as the door opens, and in strolls the devil.
Juliet looks out-of-this-world hot, and irony has once again decided to play with my emotions, as she’s wearing a bright red dress, totally dressed for her hellish part.
“Ms. Harte,” I address her, clearing my throat.
She knows I’m checking her out, but she doesn’t shy away—she simply reaches around her lithe torso and locks my door. Turning around to meet my stunned eyes, she grins, her glossy lips looking good enough to eat.
“Ms. Harte?” I repeat, attempting to sound stern, but I’m so pathetically turned on, my voice betrays my awakening.
“May I call you Dixon?” she calmly says, taking a small step toward me.
________________________________________
End of this sample Kindle book.
1
Addictions
DIXON
“I just…can’t…stop…eating,” says Shamu the Whale, inhaling her third Twinkie in one ghastly bite.
I really should be more horrified that this grossly obese girl is making out with her sugary treat in front of me, but funnily enough, I’m not. And that’s because all I can focus on is the way her plump, supple mouth gobbles down on that golden sponge, and I can’t help but envision it’s my dick she’s devouring like it’s her last meal, not the damn Twinkie.
Shifting subtly in my leather seat, I tell my cock now is not the time to rear its sinful head as I’m here to help Shamu, or rather Sharon, with her addiction.
Addiction, according to the ever-resourceful Wikipedia, is: “the continued repetition of a behavior despite adverse consequences, or a neurological impairment leading to such behaviors.”
So, what triggers an addiction? What makes people like Sharon here so completely and utterly addicted to something they can no longer function without it? I mean, it sounds utterly ridiculous that we can’t stop certain behaviors because we are the ones in control of our actions—no one else but ourselves.
So maybe it’s habit. But habit is done by choice; therefore, we could stop if we wanted to. So, in that case, maybe it’s a repressed memory biting at our heels, and we’re just using that as an excuse to get high, drunk, STD-ridden, or—in Sharon’s case—fat.
We all have addictions, whether big or small, in one form or another, and we human beings are complex characters that either deal with it, or sweep it under the rug and just don’t talk about it. But the people who do want to talk about it, whatever their addiction, come and see me.
My name is Dr. Dixon Mathews, and for $500 an hour, one can unload their deepest, darkest secrets and leave my office feeling healed and reborn. Most people just want the confirmation that there is nothing wrong with them, and their abnormal tendencies aren’t that abnormal after all. And my patients get that from me, they get the verification from one of New York’s top psychiatrists that their need to eat cat hair, or their need to masturbate in public, is completely normal.
In just a few sessions, I pledge that my treatment will cure them of their neurotic behavior, and they can blend back into society where citizens are none the wiser that they are walking amongst some batshit-crazy loony tunes.
The reason I can guarantee this is because the majority of people who walk through my doors just want to whine and complain, and once they get whatever the hell off their chests, most see the light and stop with the crazy. The small minority who do have earnest issues, I prescribe the ever-reliable benzodiazepines to treat their insanity, and the world thanks me for creating another pill-popping, asocial zombie.
So call me a bastard, but at thirty-two years of age, I think I’m allowed to be a little jaded and apathetic toward the dregs of society. You would be too if you had to listen to the same old sob story day in, day out, from the spoiled, rich folk who never had to work a hard day in their life. Yet they come to me with pathetic stories of injustice and wrongdoings, totally oblivious to how lucky they really are.
As Sharon is droning on about the woes of her life, I think back to my original question. What triggers addiction? Many trained professionals have stated that the causes of addiction vary considerably, but they are generally caused by a combination of physical, mental, circumstantial and emotional factors. But me, I know addiction comes down to one simple, primitive concept.
Desire.
Whether we desire success, beauty, food, alcohol, drugs, nicotine, porn or sex, the end result is the same, we all want to experience the euphoria that comes with these factors, and that’s what we become addicted to. The actual trigger differs from person to person, but in the end, we all just want to be…happy. And in most circumstances, desire leads to pleasure.
People with addictive personalities blow their addiction out to creepy levels, but the majority of us, we just dabble in our addictions to achieve that happiness, that euphoria, because we’re human, and we crave the proverbial “happily ever after.”
I told you I’m good.
“Dr. Mathews,” Sharon says in a small voice. “Shouldn’t you be writing this down?”
Nodding my head, I refocus my distant eyes on her. “How about you tell me a little more about your father?” I suggest softly, giving her a gentle smile.
And 5, 4, 3, 2…and 1.
Right on cue, I witness Sharon’s full bottom lip tremble, and her eyes well with tears.
“There’s nothing to say,” she states, crossing her arms across her bountiful chest as she bites her lip to stop the tears.
“How would you describe your relationship with him?” I press, casually crossing my legs while attempting to hide my imminent erection as I try not to stare at her tits.
“It’s fine.” She sniffs, curling in on herself, her bright red hair shrouding her tears.
We all have a trigger, and I’ve come to learn that the trigger for overweight women is their non-existent fathers. I’ll never understand why they use food as a comforting tool, but maybe the binge eating fills a hole, and I do mean that in the literal sense.
So like I said, call me a bastard, because a shitload of daddy issues also means one thing: trying to find the perfect father figure to fill that vacant, loveless void. These women unconsciously seek out their future mate, using their asshole daddies as the blueprint for what they’re looking for in a companion. Or in some circumstances…a fuck.
Suddenly, my dick becomes very, very interested in Sharon Witherstone. Yes, she may be about fifty pounds overweight, but in this instance, I’m leading with the head between my legs because like I said, we all have a trigger, and just like everyone else, I want to find my happily ever after. And at the moment, my HEA is bending Sharon over my desk and fucking her senseless.
I may be certified in solving other people’s problems, but not mine—I know I’m a lost cause. I’m an asshole, and each day I’m losing sight of who I am, and who I once was.
I’m not a total prick, however, and I make women just like Sharon Witherstone feel good, because sex without emotional ties is so much easier than…feeling.
Placing my notepad onto the armrest, I slowly stand and peer down at Sharon, giving her a smile which I know will disintegrate her panties in seconds. She raises her eyes, and I can see the confusion flicker behind her emerald orbs. But as her gaze descends down my hardened body, that confusion turns to…desire.
Her entire demeanor changes and out comes daddy’s little girl as she shifts in her seat, pushing out her chest daringly. It’s really too easy, but I prefer easy as opposed to working hard, putting your heart and soul on the line, only to find out your fiancée is sleeping with your best friend.
So this, this is much easier.
“Do you love your father?”
“No, I hate him,” she confesses in a seductive whisper, biting her lip.
“Oh? Would you be comfortable telling me why?” I take a seat near her on the leather sofa, ensuring our knees are only inches apart.
“Because he loves my stepmother more than me,” she replies, her lust-filled stare focusing on my lap, as my erection is no doubt poking through my pressed slacks.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I tenderly coo. However, I don’t mean a single word. “That must be very hard on you.”
“Yes, it is. It is very hard.” She nods, and I feel a single finger slide deliberately up my thigh toward my crotch.
Opening my legs in welcome, I ask, “Is that what you think triggered your addiction?”
“What can I say, Dr. Mathews? When something delicious is in front of me, I just can’t say no,” she huskily purrs, her fingers dancing around my straining fly.
“Well, sometimes,” I whisper, “it’s okay to say yes.” I know, I’m going to hell.
And that’s all the trigger Ms. Witherstone needs as her head dives into my lap, her fingers fumbling with my zipper.
As her warm, hungry mouth wraps around my red-hot erection, I close my eyes in disgust. I’m disgusted at myself for using someone I have no intention of ever seeing again. But I never said I was the hero of this story, or even the good guy.
Who wants to be good, when it feels so good being bad?
2
Beauty Within
DIXON
Reaching for the jacket off the back of my high-backed leather seat, I try not to recoil when I see my paperwork slightly askew. Memories of Ms. Witherstone’s face pressed into my mahogany desktop while I fucked her from behind come flooding back, and I make a quick beeline for the exit before I throw up.
Locking my door, I see that my receptionist, Susanna, is still here.
“Ms. Vale, you should have left hours ago,” I reprimand, as it’s now 7:30 p.m.
“Oh, that’s okay. Leroy is out of town fishing with his buddies, so I don’t mind working late,” she replies with a nod, her gray hair bobbing with the motion.
Susanna Vale should have retired years ago, but she keeps telling me she’s not ready to hang up her boots just yet. Good help is hard to find, so I’m not going to argue with her.
“Well, make sure you note down how many extra hours you’ve worked, and I’ll ensure Nancy pays you.”
“Oh, Dr. Mathews,” she protests with a wave of her wrinkled hand, “don’t be silly. Who else is going to make sure you leave at a decent hour?”
I give her a small smile because it’s true. On more than one occasion, Susanna has sent me home at an ungodly hour, but I went home to what? I returned to my empty Manhattan condo, which reminded me too much of her. Even after twelve months, her presence, her essence, is still living in the walls.
Shaking aside those unwelcome memories, I play it cool, not wanting my nostalgia to show. “If only you were ten years younger,” I tease, finishing the sentence with a playful wink.
“Oh, you beast.” She shoos me out the door. “Go get something to eat…you skipped lunch.”
I blanch at her comment, as my lunch break was occupied with eating—just not food. With that heinous thought in mind, I quickly bid my assistant goodnight and catch the elevator down to the ground floor. I’m meeting my two best friends, Finch and Hunter, at a local bar around the corner. We were once a foursome, but that was a lifetime ago when I believed in loyalty and love.
“Here he is. Dr. Love has entered the building,” shouts Hunter from across the room, as I walk in.
His loud, obnoxious voice alerts me to where he sits, but of course I know where to find him, as he never leaves the bar.
“Holy fuck balls,” he loudly curses, narrowing his eyes. “You totally got laid today.” He raises his Budweiser in salute while Finch chuckles.
“How ’bout you shout a little louder? I don’t think our neighbors in New Jersey heard.” I slap the back of his head playfully.
Taking a seat near Finch, I raise my hand, alerting the pretty blonde behind the bar to my presence. She gives me a small wink while mixing a cocktail.
“So, who’s the lucky girl?” asks Finch, nudging me in the ribs with a sharp elbow.
“I don’t remember.” I snag his drink and take an unsatisfying sip. “Ugh, where’s the rum?” I cough, nearly gagging on the watered-down Coke.
Finch laughs while twirling his gold wedding band with a smile. “Gotta look after Gabriella in the morning. Heidi has some mothers’ club thing, so I’m on baby duty.”
I nod, because that’s what responsible parents do. They don’t go out with their single, man-whoring friend, who is looking to get drunk and drown his sorrows in a bottle of Jack jammed between the tits of some blonde barfly. That’s what a typical Friday night for me is like, but for Finch, who has been married for two years to the love of his life, Heidi, Friday night consists of one non-alcoholic drink with his best buddies before going home to his hot, loving wife and having amazing, freaky sex.
With that thought in mind, I reach past him and snatch up Hunter’s beer.
“You look like shit,” Hunter states, and as much as I love his honesty, I really am not in the mood.
But he presses, regardless of me clamming up. “It’s been a year, man.” He holds up a finger, just in case I didn’t hear him, but I got it, loud and clear.
“I don’t want to talk about this,” I object with a firm shake of my head, and quickly chug the contents of my stolen beer.
“We’re just worried about you,” Finch joins in, his gray eyes softening when he witnesses my emotional retreat.
“I’m fine,” I retort, really needing another drink.
I try to flag down the bartender, but the crowd has suddenly grown, and she’s attending to other thirsty patrons.
“Do you want your dick to fall off?” Hunter bluntly demands.
“Excuse me?” I ask, unable to wipe the smile from my face, amused by his melodramatics.
“You heard me.” He leans forward, his huge body invading Finch’s small frame.
“No, Hunter, I do not want my dick to fall off. Get to the point, already,” I reply, rolling my eyes.
“Well, that’s what’s gonna happen if you keep boning these random girls.”
“I seriously doubt that,” I scoff, but Finch nods, obviously agreeing with Hunter.
“Chicks instantly drop their panties the moment you flash those big baby blues their way. It really is too easy, and in turn, you’re becoming New York’s biggest man-whore,” Hunter declares. His bluntness suddenly pisses me off.
“When did you turn into such a pussy?” I bark at him, narrowing my eyes. “I expected it from him…” I gesture with my head toward Finch. “No offense,” I add, and he shrugs, not at all offended.
“But you, man,” I say to Hunter. “Last I checked, you had no problem screwing random chicks. So quit it with the holier-than-thou crap.”
I’m getting pissed off rather quickly, but getting advice from Hunter, who of all people shouldn’t be lecturing me about my hook-ups, I can’t help but lose my cool. I’ve known these boys for the majority of my life. We did everything together. I know the shit we’ve done, especially Hunter.
Finch, however, he’s been our voice of reason. He’s saved us from many situations that could have turned sour if not for his levelheadedness. But Hunter, he’s always been wild and free.
I love these two morons like brothers. They’ve seen me at my worst and never once judged me until now.
“What’s with the third degree?” I ask, calmed down somewhat.
Finch nervously lowers his eyes, and I still have no fucking clue what’s going on.
When Hunter sees my confusion, he clarifies. “We’re worried, man. Next week is…ya know?”
“No, I don’t know. Are you high?” I loosen my navy tie as it’s suddenly suffocating me.
Finch’s thin lips pull into a tight line, which is never a good sign.
“Spit it out, Finch.”
“In a couple of weeks, it’s the thirteenth,” he replies, finally meeting my eyes.
“Yeah. And?” I question with a baffled shrug.
“Oh, dude.” He sighs, and I can hear the pity in his tone. “It would have been your one-year anniver—” He suddenly pauses, not wanting to fill in the blanks.
One year?
Holy shit. One year ago I would have been married to the love of my life, Lillian Davis. Just thinking her name makes me want to dig my brain out with an ice-cream scoop.
If I believed in soul mates, then Lily was mine. We met three years ago in a line at Starbucks, and it was love at first macchiato. I proposed to her halfway through our relationship because we were happy and ready to take the next step. Well, I was. And I believed she was too, until she met my buddy Leo.
Leo also grew up with Hunter, Finch and me in New Jersey, and he too moved to the Big Smoke. But Leo obviously didn’t value our friendship the way I did, because he was fucking Lily behind my back for months.
Lily dumped me six weeks before our wedding because she was in love with Leo. I couldn’t accept the words coming from her lips, but when she showed me the reason behind her recent weight gain, her words became crystal clear. Not only was she in love with my best friend, she was also having his baby. I knew it wasn’t mine because we hadn’t had sex in over three months. I know, I know, I should have seen the warning signs, but love is blind and all of that crap.
So things couldn’t get any clearer after that.
She blamed her infidelity on me, stating she never saw me and I put work first. I did put work first, but only so I could pay for the three-carat diamond on her finger, and the lavish, upscale Manhattan condo she insisted we buy.
I did all of this for her. And she thanks me by screwing my best friend and bearing his spawn.
So after she left me, I went a little wild.
But this lifestyle, it’s no longer just a phase—it’s who I am. I’ve become addicted to senseless, shameless sexual acts with random women, completely knowing that, on some level, I’m hoping to replace the face of the one woman who took an axe to my heart and hacked into it, leaving behind a bloodied, broken mess of the man I once was.
But these hook-ups, they’re slowly losing their appeal, and I’m afraid that one day, I’ll wake up and no longer recognize the person staring back at me in the mirror.
So, there you have it, that’s my life in a nutshell. I eat, sleep, work and fuck because that’s what I have to do to survive. It’s a sad, miserable existence, but it’s better than being a lovesick puppy, pining after a woman who doesn’t give a damn.
Snapping back into the now, my shields slip into place and I try my best to appear nonchalant. “Big deal. I’m over it. I’m over her.”
Finch frowns, while Hunter disputes my claim. “No, man, you’re not. If you were, then you’d have no problem with me telling you that Leo the Ass and Lily the Whore are getting married next month.”
“Jesus, Hunter!” Finch scolds, shaking his head.
“What? If he’s over it, me telling him this shouldn’t be a problem,” Hunter states with a shrug.
Hunter’s tactlessness doesn’t bother me in the slightest. His statement, however, does.
“She’s marrying that asshole?” I spit out, disgusted, but more so, I’m hurt.
What does he have that I didn’t? I swallow down my defeat and repulsion, and need to get the hell outta Dodge before I fucking lose it.
“Dixon,” Finch says with nothing but pity in his tone, but I don’t want his sympathy.
Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand after finishing my lukewarm, stolen beer, I stand, hoping my friends understand why I need a minute alone.
“I’m going out for a cigarette.” I pat down my jacket pockets to find my smokes.
Thankfully, the boys let it go and don’t make a fuss when I push through the massive crowd. As I step outside onto the pavement, I light a Marlboro and take a much-needed drag as I lean back against the brick wall.
I would be a complete liar if I said I never thought of Lily, because I think about her more often than I care to admit. I gave up long ago on the dream of reconciliation, but deep down, I wished her relationship with Leo had failed.
My life is a mess, and the only person I could talk to about this is dead.
My mom passed away six months ago from breast cancer, and the loss destroyed my father. He had a major mental breakdown and now resides at Sunnyfields Hospital. Ironic, isn’t it? Dixon Mathews, New York’s finest shrink, can’t even help his own father.
Automatically taking a drag of my cigarette, I’m lost in the past—a place I’d rather not be. So when I hear the animated voices of a couple to my left, I welcome the distraction.
Turning to see what the commotion is all about, I see a short brunette being manhandled by a meaty jock, who is jerking her a little too roughly by her upper arms. She’s fucking tiny and his huge paws are going to snap her into two.
“Let me go,” she scowls, attempting to pull out of his grip.
I’ll give her points for trying, as she looks like she’s putting up a pretty good fight. But this asshole has about a hundred pounds on her.
Flicking my smoke into the gutter, I decide to intervene, as it’s pretty obvious she’s trying to get away. Her anxious green eyes flick in my direction when I’m feet away, and she silently pleads with me to help her.
“How about you let her go,” I say firmly, and the wildebeest turns my way with a cocky grin.
“How about you mind your own business, old man,” he replies with a deep, southern accent.
Old man?
Fuck this little pubescent jerkoff.
“How about you mind your manners? Let the lady go.”
“Or what?” he chides, but thankfully he loosens his grip.
“Or I’ll call the police, because from where I stand, those marks on her arms—” I point to her biceps as he releases them “—are a clear indication that you’re a low-life douchebag who likes to beat up on women to make yourself feel like a man. What’s wrong?” I mock. “Trying to act all tough ’cause you want to make up for what you’re lacking?” I hold up my pinkie.
The girl giggles, but quickly stifles her outburst with her hand when douchebag turns and glares at her.
“Ah, c’mon, there are pills you can take for your anger, and also, for your little problem,” I say in a sarcastic whisper as I point to his crotch.
His face blazes a bright red and I can’t help but laugh, because questioning a dude’s manhood always has the desired effect. I can see him mentally sizing me up, and he knows there is no way he can take me on. This guy is big, but he’s jacked up on too many steroids, and his ridiculous, air-inflated muscles wouldn’t pack a punch.
“So how about you do the world a favor and fuck off? Go work off that anger with some tweezers and a photograph of your mom.”
This time, the girl bursts out into fits of laughter, and the sound is utterly magical.
“Fuck you,” douchebag snarls. He leaves in a huff when he realizes this is a fight he’s bound to lose.
We both watch as he rounds the corner, and when I’m certain he’s not coming back, I turn to look at the woman in front of me.
During my tirade, I failed to notice that she is a total fox. She’s young, I’m guessing twenty-three, but holy shit, she’s beautiful. Large green eyes complement a head of long, brown hair which sits straightened just past her shoulders. Her full lips are the prettiest pink I have ever seen, and when her mouth tips up into a timid smile, I know I’m staring like a creepy old man.
Quickly composing myself, I ask, “Are you okay?” and make a point of looking at her arms.
She wraps her small fingers around her left bicep, as if attempting to hide the red finger marks. “I’m…fi-fine,” she stutters unconvincingly, but quickly recovers. “I’m fine. Thanks for the save.”
“No problem.” I’m mesmerized by the way her straight teeth tug at her lower lip, because in no way is she doing this on purpose.
She’s not openly flirting with me, or trying to get into my pants, and honestly, it’s like a breath of fresh air. She’s simply a hot, young, innocent girl with no ulterior motives, and no expectations to where our strange, yet electrifying encounter might lead.
I’ve forgotten what innocence looks like—how fucking sad is that?
“I’m Madison,” she says, extending her hand, and my huge palm dwarfs her tiny one as we shake.
“Dixon,” I reply with a genuine smile.
“So, do you make it a habit of rescuing damsels in distress?”
“What can I say, it’s a hobby of mine,” I reply with a casual shrug, and Madison laughs.
“Well, Dixon, thank you again for coming to my rescue.” I nod, letting her hand go as I realize I’m still creepily shaking it.
“Anytime. Are you sure you’re okay?” I ask as I don’t fail to see a small shiver pass through her body.
“Honestly, I’m okay. His bark is worse than his bite.”
I notice she doesn’t elaborate on who her assailant is. I want to say more, but for once, me, the fancy, sweet-talking shrink, is speechless. And the reason for that is because I have a feeling Madison would see through my bullshit and call me out for the fake I am.
“Maddy? Are you out here?” asks a concerned voice from behind us.
We both turn, and I suddenly have the urge to grab my nuts to protect them when I see a flaming redhead storm our way. She glares at me before focusing on Madison.
“Are you okay?”
Madison nods.
“I’m fine,” she replies, giving me a small smile as she extends her hand my way. “This is Dixon.”
Her friend looks at me, making it no secret she’s sizing me up. “Where did nimrod go?” she asks, totally ignoring me, and I smirk, as I like this girl’s spunk.
Madison brushes a tendril of hair behind her ear and frowns. “Oh, he left. Dixon saved the day,” she reveals, giving me a shy smile.
Her friend looks at me once again and this time it doesn’t appear she wants to skin me alive. “Well, in that case, it’s nice to meet you, Dixon,” and she gives me a small wave.
“Likewise,” I reply. “And it was nothing. I was just in the right place at the right time.”
Or wrong time, as the closer I look at Madison, the more intrigued I become. What is the matter with me?
“Well, regardless, thanks for looking out for my friend.”
I give her a small, polite nod, as her protectiveness over Madison reminds me of my friendship with Hunter and Finch. Madison is, without a doubt, someone worth protecting. I mean, look at her.
I can’t stop my eyes from darting over to her, and I’m surprised to see her returning my gaze. Her friend must also sense some weird stare-off going on between us, because she clears her throat, an octave higher than needed.
“Well, we better go back inside. Our friends are probably waiting for us,” she explains, breaking my trance-like stupor.
Dixon, don’t be a chump, talk to her. But what do I say? I haven’t properly spoken to a girl in so long; especially not to a girl I actually wanted to talk to. I’ve forgotten how to communicate with the opposite sex—and “faster” or “fuck me harder” doesn’t count. So like a wimp, I stand mute and smile.
“Okay, well, it was nice meeting you,” Madison says, biting her lip, lingering.
“You too. Stay safe.”
I restrain from groaning, as who the hell says “stay safe” other than your parents? I open my mouth, ready to add in a quirky response, but Madison is being dragged toward the entrance by her friend.
She suddenly turns over her shoulder and yells, “I work at The Pony Bar. If you’re ever in the neighborhood, come visit.”
Before I have time to reply, she’s gone.
What the hell was that? Madison has left me standing on the pavement, now questioning mymanhood.
Like a chicken shit, I let the first girl in forever who I actually liked, leave. I need to go back in there and talk to her. I need her to see what a great guy I can be. But that’s the problem; I’m not a great guy. This week, I’ve fucked four different women, and I can’t even remember most of their names. Or faces. They all blur into one disgusting regret, one I wish I could erase but can’t.
Girls like Madison are too good for the likes of me, and I’m doing her a favor by keeping away. However, tell that to my attentive dick, who became interested in Madison the moment she opened her mouth. Yes, she’s fucking gorgeous, but the fact I didn’t see her as a conquest is what I find myself most attracted to. I haven’t felt that way since…Lily.
All thoughts of Lily come flooding back, and I suddenly remember why I was out here in the first place.
“Hey, handsome,” purrs a voice, snapping me back into the here and now.
Raising my eyes, I see the blonde bartender from earlier addressing me, inches from where I stand.
“Hey.” I quickly recover when I see her waiting for me to respond.
“I saw you inside.” She motions with her head toward the bar while checking me out.
I know I’m not ugly, and if I were a chick, I’d probably want to fuck me, too. I’ve always been tall, but I stopped growing when I shot up to 6’3”. My dark brown hair is naturally messy, always styled into a “fohawk” as one girl I was screwing called it, and my blue eyes complement my trademark dark stubble; most days, I’m just too lazy to shave.
“Oh, yeah?”I ask, unbelieving at how easy this is.
“Yeah,” she confirms with a slow nod, biting her glossy bottom lip. “Can I bum a smoke?”
“Sure.” I search through my pockets and offer her one.
As she places the Marlboro between her lips, she waits for me to offer her a light. I try not to recoil when she leers forward, pursing her lips like a fish while I light it. My horny libido tells my stupid brain that this blonde bimbo is exactly what I need to forget all about my encounter with the brown-haired beauty. They are exact opposites, and that’s what I need. This is what I do best.
“So, sweetheart. How long a break you got?”
She bats her fake eyelashes and smirks. “Fifteen minutes.”
Bending down to meet her short frame, I whisper, “I’ll make it the best fifteen minutes of your life.”
And that’s all the miles I have to put in as she flicks her cigarette to the ground with a sly grin. Reaching for the scruff of my shirt collar, she leads me around the corner and I make good on my promise.
It may be the best fifteen minutes of her life, but it’s the worst fifteen minutes of mine.
3
Angel of Sin
DIXON
Nobody likes Mondays—especially when you’ve had a shitty weekend. After jacking off in the shower—twice—you’d think my mood would have improved.
My weekend was strange. After boning the blonde on Friday night, I went home alone, which is no surprise, but oddly enough I was kind of disappointed. My number one cardinal rule is never, ever bring anyone home. My home is my sanctuary, it’s the one place where I can truly be myself, and I refuse to pollute that purity with my whoring ways. Also, I still see my home as ours. Lily is still ingrained into every crevice, and I can’t bring myself to taint the happy memories we once shared there.
But Friday night, I found myself wondering what it would be like to actually bring home a chick and fuck her in my bed, as opposed to screwing her up against a brick wall.
I’m a psychiatrist, so I know how the human mind works—most of the time. My need for comfort was triggered by the lovely Madison. Her innocence sung to me, and I haven’t felt that way for a long while. As brief as our encounter was, there was something there. Too bad I was too gutless to find out what that something was.
I felt fucking disgusting after consorting with the blonde, so for the rest of the weekend, I kept my nose clean and out of random chicks’ crotches. It was fairly boring on all accounts, but I feel somewhat unpolluted after my sexual abstinence for two whole days. That’s a long time for someone who uses sex as his shield.
“Dr. Mathews, your twelve-thirty appointment is here,” Ms. Vale says through the intercom on my phone.
Her singsong voice jars me out of my rut, and I clear my voice before replying, “Send her in.”
Pulling up my new patient information sheet on my laptop, I begin entering Ms. Juliet Harte’s details into my computer.
Age: 26
Gender: Female
Address: 18 Union Square West, New York
Problem: Sex Addiction
Oh boy.
“Dr. Mathews?” asks a soft, velvety voice, which has my dick standing in direct salute.
Raising my eyes from the screen, I see that Ms. Juliet Harte is complete perfection wrapped in pure sin.
Her long blonde hair is wrapped into a twist, and strands fall around her face, drawing attention to her “come fuck me” blue eyes. The sexiest lips I have ever seen are coated in a clear gloss, and images of what those lips could do to me have me subtly rearranging myself in my seat.
My newfound celibacy has just mentally motorboated Juliet’s perfect breasts. However, putting my game face on, I give her a small smile and gesture to the leather chair in front of my desk. “Please take a seat.”
She nods and saunters over, making sure to straighten out her cream tunic dress before taking a graceful seat.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Harte,” I say with a nod, getting the formalities out of the way.
“Good afternoon, Dr. Mathews,” she replies, her eyes focusing intently on me.
I see no fear or apprehension behind her poised gaze, and her self-confidence is an absolute turn-on. But I have a job to do.
“So today, we’ll mainly be discussing your history. Think of this as ‘a getting to know you’ session. In order to properly evaluate you, I need you to trust me. In no way will you be judged or condemned for your thoughts. No matter how perverse or wrong your thoughts may be, I need you to be totally honest with me. Do you think you can do that?” I ask with a smile.
Juliet nods. “Yes, I want to get better. I’ll do anything it takes.”
“Good,” I commend. “How about we take a seat on the sofa where we’ll both be more comfortable.”
Juliet’s mouth tips up into a secretive smile, but I ignore it as I reach for my notepad and make my way to the leather recliner. My eyes flick to the clock on my mantel, and I honestly don’t know how I’m going to get through an hour session with this vixen, talking about her sex addiction, without ripping her clothes off.
Clearing my throat, I try not to stare as she takes a seat on the black leather sofa. As she slowly crosses her long legs, images of her black skyscraper heels digging into my ass while I fuck her up against my office wall assault my brain, and I barely suppress my moan at the erotic vision.
“So, what brings you here today, Ms. Harte?”
Juliet shifts in her seat, the leather creaking under her sinful ass as she replies, “I have a problem.”
I nod, encouraging her to go on.
“An addiction, I guess you could call it.” She pauses, lowering her eyes.
I wait for her to continue, as I will try my hardest to act professional.
As she meets my gaze, she huskily whispers, “I’m addicted…to sex.”
Those glorious words coming out of her mouth is what every hot-blooded American male wants to hear, but I appear unaffected as I ask, “How long have you felt this way?”
“For a while now.”
“How long roughly?” I press, my pen poised over my notepad.
“For about two years,” she discloses, her composure never wavering as I write down her secrets.
“I would like to talk about your personal life, Ms. Harte, would that be okay?”
She nods.
“Did anything happen around that time? Anything that may have caused this behavior change?”
I can see her mulling over my question. “Well, there was this one thing,” she states, and I remain impassive, allowing her to continue. “It was the first time I had sex with a girl. Does this mean I’m bisexual? Or gay?” she asks, genuinely curious.
“I don’t like to categorize sexuality, Ms. Harte,” I reply, pressing the notepad over my looming erection. “How did being with a woman make you feel?”
“I liked it. A lot,” she confesses. “There are some things men cannot provide in the bedroom.”
“And what’s that?”
“Being with a woman, it’s soft and familiar. They provide that gentleness and comfort a man doesn’t usually offer. The way a woman touches another woman’s body, exploring the soft curves and supple planes, it really is beautiful. But being with a man, it’s rough and raw. The way a man eats you out, compared to the way a woman does, is completely different. A man wants to devour his meal, while us ladies, we want to take our time and savor the taste,” she explains, her pink tongue darting out to wet her bottom lip.
If my erection got any harder, I’d be able to pound nails into the wall. I know I have to steer this conversation into another direction before I show her not all men are barbarians, and we too, like to savor our meals.
“So apart from this event, did anything else happen? How’s your family life? Work? Social life?”
Juliet’s composure doesn’t shift, and she happily answers, “It’s all good. I live by myself in an apartment Daddy bought me. He’s an investment banker, and well, we’re quite well off. My mother passed away when I was seven, so I don’t really remember her. Daddy got remarried to Rachel, and Rachel treated me like I was hers. She has two children of her own, and they are both nice people.”
“Are they older? Younger? What’s your relationship like with them?”
“One older, one younger, and I love…both of them.” I don’t fail to notice the apprehension in her strained admission.
“What do you do for work?” I question, writing down her stepsiblings as a possible cause for her addiction.
“I work for a law firm. I’m just a file clerk, but I don’t really need to work, as Daddy takes care of me.”
I nod, feeling a tad disturbed that a twenty-six-year-old woman refers to her father as “Daddy.” I write down that a possible cause to her issues could be because she was sexually abused as a child. Most sex addicts describe their parents as being rigid, distant and uncaring. But in Juliet’s case, it seems her father was the complete opposite. I make a note to revisit this point later.
“What about your social life? Do you smoke? Drink? Take drugs?”
Juliet smirks, and straightens in her seat. “Yes to all of the above.”
Ms. Harte is getting more complex by the minute. “What drugs to do you take? Prescribed or illicit?”
“Mainly illicit,” she calmly states. “I like acid, ecstasy and cocaine.”
Holy shit, this woman is bad, bad news. But the more she confesses her sins, the more I want her.
“That’s quite a cocktail of drugs. When did you start using?”
She ignores my question as she slowly, and purposely, uncrosses her legs. I can clearly see the white triangle of barely-there cloth scarcely covering her pussy, but I remain professional as I don’t want to blow this. I know if I give in to my rampant libido, this will be the last time I see Ms. Juliet Harte, and after this introduction, I want more.
“Have you ever fucked while on acid, Dr. Mathews?” She closely gauges my reaction to see how I will respond to her crude question.
“This isn’t about me, Ms. Harte, but rather about you and your feelings. Did you want to tell me how you felt when engaging in a sexual act while high?” I coolly question, cocking an arrogant eyebrow.
I’ve been in the game for a long, long time, and it’s going to take more than a hot piece of ass with a filthy mouth to get me going. She’s testing me now, and Ms. Harte is a lot smarter than I gave her credit for. I must watch my back, and dick, with this femme fatale.
“It felt unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before. My entire skin was on fire, and my senses were so in tune with my body, I anticipated every move my partners made. Every touch, slap, lick, pull, thrust, tickle, everything—it was amplified, tenfold, and nothing has ever felt that good,” she says, her pupils dilating, no doubt reliving the memory of her ménage à trois, as I didn’t fail to note her intentional mention of the word “partners.”
“So you enjoy sex?” My over-stimulated brain is begging me to stop with the torture.
She nods, and her eyes dart to my crotch. “Yes, I love it.”
“What exactly do you love about it? Besides the physical gratification, that is.”
Juliet smirks, before replying, “I love the power.”
Images of being cuffed to a bed while I call Ms. Harte “Mistress” flash through my brain, and I realize that this woman could be quite hazardous to one’s health.
Ms. Harte is one fucked-up little unit, and I can’t wait to find out what makes her tick.
________________________________________
An hour later, I’m sitting in my chair, highly strung, and about ready to come in my pants. Ms. Harte is in the bathroom freshening up, as our session got a little heated and I reduced her almost to tears. I still can’t work out whether they were genuine or not, which troubles me. She really is an anomaly, which is a strange, almost-refreshing change, as most women don’t keep me guessing. But she does.
“So, same time next week?” she asks, exiting the bathroom and jarring me out of my thoughts.
Looking up from my desk, I see that she has applied a bright red shade of lipstick, which stands out against her pale hair. Nodding casually, I pretend to type on my laptop, appearing informal and laid-back.
“Sure, that’ll be fine. Please go ahead and schedule your session with Ms. Vale.” My curt response is a silent dismissal, and she reads it loud and clear.
”Thank you for today, Dr. Mathews. I feel…better,” she says, but I have a sneaking suspicion “better” was not the word she wanted to use.
”See you next week, Ms. Harte,” I reply, giving her a small smile.
“Okay, see you then.” She firmly nods and I keenly check out her tight little ass as she exits my office.
The moment the door closes, I let out a deep, agonizing breath and allow my staged composure to slip. That was damn intense, and the unrelenting wood I’m sporting is proof of how damn tense that really was.
If I were smart, I would tell Susanna to cancel any future appointments Ms. Harte has made and refer her to another doctor. But I never said I was smart. School smart—yes. But sex smart—hell to the fuck, no. I have never met such a sexually aggressive woman before, and I’m man enough to admit that Juliet Harte turns me on and scares me, all in the same breath.
I have no idea how to approach this as there is some unseen sexual spark between us. I know that sounds ludicrous, seeing as she is a self-confessed sex addict. But there is something more to her, and I’m intrigued to find out what.
Looking down at my lap, I sigh, as this tenting erection is going nowhere. Deciding to rub one out before my next client, I lock my door and make my way into my personal bathroom. The moment I switch on the light, her perfume assaults my nostrils and I take a moment to bask in her scent. The floral fragrance does nothing to help my predicament and I quickly unsnap the button on my pants, ready to get to work. However, my hand freezes as my eyes fall to the mirror above the basin.
Written in bright red lipstick across my mirror is a phone number—no guessing whose. Underneath sits a perfect imprint of her lipstick-stained kiss marks, taunting me with their blatant sexual innuendo. This is obviously Ms. Harte’s way of hinting that I call her, as I’ve already obtained her contact details via her client form.
Goddamnit, I’m screwed.
Surrendering, I unzip my fly, reach into my pants, and find my release within minutes. Who would have thought an innocent, lipstick-stained kiss mark could warrant such an explosive orgasm? But I know there is absolutely nothing innocent about Juliet Harte.
4
Twisted
DIXON
This week has been an absolute disaster. So when 6 p.m. Friday night ticks over, I’m out the door, happily bidding sayonara to the week from hell.
I’m meeting with Hunter and his parents, Marie and Ralph, who are in town for the weekend.
Walking into a popular bar and grill, I spot them sitting at a booth in the corner of the room. Hunter gives me a quick wave and I make my way over to them, dodging a lingering waitress who gives me a sultry smile.
After the fucked-up week of jacking off with zero satisfaction, I’ve decided to steer clear of all women, because at the moment, two women are more than I can handle. I shouldn’t even be thinking about Juliet Harte because it’s wrong on all counts, the kind of wrong that would send me straight to hell. Yes, I’ve bagged a few of my clients, which I know is ethically and morally and professionally wrong. But they weren’t genuine clients; they never really needed my help.
But Juliet, she is someone with genuine issues, and the doctor in me wants to help her. However, the horny male in me wants to help her by screwing her six ways to Sunday.
Pushing these inappropriate thoughts from my mind, I give Marie a double cheek kiss and a warm hug as I approach their booth.
“Hello, Dixon. Oh my, I love your hair,” she says, playfully running a hand through my messy locks.
My hair at the moment most likely resembles a bird’s nest, as I’ve been yanking at it in frustration all week.
“Nice to see you, Ralph.” I extend my hand.
“You too, son,” he replies, shaking it.
We all take our seats and I snatch the menu from Hunter, who bumps me playfully with his shoulder.
“So how was traffic?” I ask, my eyes perusing the menu uselessly, as food will not satisfy my current hunger.
“Ah, it was awful, as usual. It’s so much better on our side of the river.”
I give Marie a small smile, as I know she’ll be forever loyal to New Jersey.
“You look tired, Dixon. Are you unwell?” She reaches across the table and feels my forehead.
Usually, I would shy away from such motherly tendencies, but it’s Marie, and I’m used to her babying me.
“Yeah, Dix, you do look a bit off-color. Everything okay?” Hunter teases, looking at my lap. “Is everything where it should be?”
I roll my eyes at his idiocy and ignore him.
“I’m fine, Marie. Work is just crazy at the moment.”
“Yeah, lots of loons out there, that’s why,” Ralph innocently says, taking a sip of his ice tea.
“Ralph!” Marie scolds, throwing a reprimanding look his way.
“What?” he asks with a shrug.
Her eyes dart my way discreetly, and I know she’s subtly attempting to play facial charades, drawing attention to the fact that one of those loons is my father.
“It’s fine, Marie,” I insist with a wave of my hand.
I haven’t seen my father since the day I admitted him, which was close to four months ago. Seeing my once healthy, vibrant father wither away into a shell of his former self is a sight I can’t stand. Call me a bastard, but I would rather remember my dad being happy and well, as opposed to the medicated zombie he most likely resembles nowadays.
Marie must read my expression as she softly says, “I saw your father the other week. He’s looking better.”
Better? Better than what? Better than the drooling basket case he was when I admitted him? I hate to break it to Marie, but being dead is the only “better” in this scenario.
But I give her a small nod, and try to appear unmoved, as I don’t want to hurt her feelings. “That’s great. I’ve been meaning to go see him, but I’ve just…work has been busy,” I conclude unconvincingly.
She smiles. “I understand.”
Clearing my throat, I propose, “Maybe you could tell him I said hi? Next time you see him?”
“Of course. I can do that. You know, maybe you could call? I think he’d like that,” she softly suggests.
“Yeah, maybe,” I reply, not meaning a word.
Thankfully, the waitress interrupts our awkward conversation and puts an end to me justifying why I’m not a terrible son.
________________________________________
The evening is still young, so we decide to walk down to Central Park.
Ralph and Marie are at a vendor’s cart buying pretzels when Hunter pulls me aside and asks, “What’s up with you?”
“Care to be a little more specific?” I say, while reading through the emails on my phone.
“You haven’t checked out one single girl all night. That pixie waitress was basically offering her tits as a plate for your steak, and you hardly noticed. What’s up, dude? I’m worried. You’re not about to go ‘Livin’ La Vida Loca,’ are ya?” he asks seriously, and I can’t help but chuckle, as Hunter is never one to mince his words.
“First of all,” I state, holding up a finger. “You call me a man-whore. And now—” I add a second finger “—you’re questioning my sexuality. Hunter, your overactive imagination never ceases to amaze me. Maybe you’re in the wrong profession. I heard Walt Disney is hiring,” I say with a grin.
“Joke all you want, but I know something is up. So spit it out.”
Sighing, I run a hand through my disheveled hair, and I know the only way to shut him up is to tell him the truth. “I met this chick at work. Actually, I met two chicks,” I correct.
“You do remember your workplace isn’t a brothel, right?”
“Ha, very funny. I met girl number one, Madison, on Friday night,” I explain, unable to keep the affection from my voice.
“I thought she was just a random hook-up?”
I pull a grossed-out face when I realize he’s talking about the blonde. “No, not her. I fucked her to get Madison out of my system.”
Hunter grins. “But I’m guessing it didn’t work?”
“You guessed right. She was so incredibly…sweet.”
“And girl number two?” he asks, folding his arms across his chest.
I sigh. “Girl number two is the complete opposite to Madison. For starters, I met her at work.”
“Uh oh,” Hunter butts in, but I hold up my hand, telling him to zip it. Thankfully he complies.
“She’s a patient, and before you start with the third degree, I didn’t do anything.”
Hunter nods, his lips pulled in tight.
“She’s trouble, man, I know it, but I can’t stop thinking about her. She wrote her fucking number in bright red lipstick across my bathroom mirror,” I confess.
“She what?” Hunter says incredulously. “No way!’
“Yes way,” I counter, because it’s very true.
“So, what’s she seeing you for?” he asks, totally ignoring patient/doctor confidentiality.
“I can’t tell you. That’s between my patient and me,” I reply, half serious.
“Oh, bullshit! If you’re thinking about screwing her, then I think that rule is entirely void.”
He’s right, so I sheepishly reply, “She’s addicted to sex.”
Hunter’s mouth pops open. He shakes his head animatedly and jams his finger into my chest. “You need to stay away from this little nympho, Dix. With your man-whoring tendencies, and her out-of-control libido, you’ll end up fucking one another to death. Not to mention, she is your patient,Dr. Mathews.”
“I know, I know. And you’re right. But Hunt, I’m intrigued by her.”
“You’re intrigued by her zeal to fuck anything in sight more like it,” he replies with a smirk.
“That’s not it. This isn’t about sex.”
Hunter raises an unconvinced eyebrow.
“Okay, it’s a little about sex. But there is something more to her. There is something more to both. I haven’t been interested in a chick since…” but I remain mute, not wanting, or needing, to finish that sentence.
Hunter runs a hand down his face and blows out a breath. “Look, bro, this nympho sounds like trouble. Personally, I would refer her to another doctor and forget you ever met her. This will get sticky, and I mean that in every literal sense there is.”
I nod, defeated, and also, disappointed. I don’t want there to be any truth in what he says, but there is. I need to stop this before things spiral out of control. “You’re right. That’s what I’ll do,” I say with a firm nod. “Treating her is not good for either of us.”
“’Attaboy,” he says, playfully punching me on the arm. “You’ll forget you ever met this little sexual deviant in no time.”
“Dr. Mathews,” a voice says from behind us.
Both Hunter and I turn around and are faced with Juliet Harte. My memories of her have paid her no justice at all, and with the super tight jogging outfit she’s currently wearing, I’ve just made new memories, which I plan on revisiting later tonight.
“Ms. Harte,” I reply, hoping I appear calm while I check out her gorgeous rack in the white crop top she’s sporting.
Hunter clears his throat loudly, ruining my ogling, and I sigh. “Hunter, this is Ms. Harte. Ms. Harte, Hunter,” I say, waving my hand between the two.
“Please, call me Juliet,” she says with a small smile.
“Very well.” I nod.
And then, there is silence.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Juliet,” Hunter says, totally saving my ass, as I have no idea what to say to her. “O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou, Romeo?” he teases, placing a hand over his heart dramatically.
Juliet giggles, while I shake my head at my friend’s stupidity.
The Chihuahua at her feet begins yapping, thankfully cutting through the silence, and Juliet sighs. “I better go. Marcia gets cranky if her walk gets interrupted.” The Chihuahua yaps in agreement. “I’ll see you Monday?” she says, but it actually sounds more like a question.
“Yes. Monday it is,” I reply stiffly.
Juliet looks overjoyed by my response. “Okay, well, it was nice meeting you, Hunter. Awesome name, by the way,” she says with a playful wink, before re-inserting her ear buds and taking off into a slow sprint.
Hunter and I eagerly watch, mesmerized by how amazing her ass looks in those tight spandex pants.
Once she’s out of sight, Hunter mumbles, “That’s the nympho?”
“The one and only,” I reply with a sigh.
“Change of plans. Fuck finding her another doctor. Send her my way. Make up some excuse as to why she needs to buy stocks.”
I don’t reply and only shake my head because I know once Monday rolls over, I’m a goner.
As we wait in silence for Marie and Ralph to hurry up and buy their damn pretzels, Hunter lightheartedly mutters, “It’s a lot about sex, you lying bastard.”
5
Good vs Evil
DIXON
Another uneventful weekend has passed where I stayed indoors and steered clear of all females. Bumping into Juliet on Friday night has thrown me, because I can’t stop thinking about her. What I told Hunter was true. Yes, I am ridiculously attracted to her, but it’s not just the physical attraction. She really does intrigue me.
Although I’ve been lost in my Juliet spell, I haven’t forgotten about another woman I found just as intriguing as Juliet. Madison. It’s uncanny that I have met two women in the span of a week. I say uncanny because I couldn’t even find one woman after Lily who remotely sparked my interest, but now I have two.
These two women are polar opposites, yet I find myself attracted to both. From the brief minutes spent with her, I could tell Madison was sweet, innocent, and pure. But Juliet, there’s nothing sweet nor innocent about her. They truly represent the stereotypical devil and angel icons.
“Dr. Mathews, Ms. Harte is here to see you. She’s a little early. Is it okay to send her in?” Susanna says through the intercom, jolting me from my thoughts.
Taking a deep breath, I push down on the button. “Thank you, Ms. Vale. Please send her in.”
Looking at the clock on my laptop, I see that Juliet is fifteen minutes early, and knowing this sly vixen, there’s a reason why. I remain seated as the door opens, and in strolls the devil.
Juliet looks out-of-this-world hot, and irony has once again decided to play with my emotions, as she’s wearing a bright red dress, totally dressed for her hellish part.
“Ms. Harte,” I address her, clearing my throat.
She knows I’m checking her out, but she doesn’t shy away—she simply reaches around her lithe torso and locks my door. Turning around to meet my stunned eyes, she grins, her glossy lips looking good enough to eat.
“Ms. Harte?” I repeat, attempting to sound stern, but I’m so pathetically turned on, my voice betrays my awakening.
“May I call you Dixon?” she calmly says, taking a small step toward me.
________________________________________
End of this sample Kindle book.
Monica James spent her youth devouring the works of Anne Rice, William Shakespeare and Emily Dickinson. When she is not writing, Monica is busy running her own business, but she always finds a balance between the two. She enjoys writing honest, heartfelt and turbulent stories, hoping to leave an imprint on her readers, and her inspiration comes from every day life. She is an Amazon best selling author in the US, UK, Canada and Australia. Monica James resides in Melbourne, Australia, with her wonderful family, and menagerie of animals. She is slightly obsessed with cats, chucks and lip gloss, and secretly wishes she was a ninja on the weekends.
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