Chapter 8: Sharing is caring
The frequency of her summons increased. Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, Friday. Never on week ends. The patterns shifted. Sometimes it was the brutal, functional use of him as an object—her foot planted on his back as she did pistol squats, his tongue cleaning the sweat from her skin afterward. Other times, it was the protracted, liturgical practice of the Yoni massage, where his touch was a language of such subtle inquiry it felt like a confession. He grew proficient. He could now easily and usually would draw marrow-deep orgasms from her in twenty minutes where once it took an hour. But the climaxs were different, of desperation but also greatness.
“Faster,” she’d sometimes gasp, abandoning the script, clawing at his shoulders. He would comply with a roughness that made her scream, her heels drumming against his back. Afterward, she’d lie still, staring at the ceiling. “I ruins what works”, she murmured once, to the room more than to him.
His other life frayed at the edges, then began to unravel. His business partner, Julien, cornered him after a missed third investor meeting. “Who is she, Alex?” Julien asked, not jealous, but concerned. " You look… polished. You smell like a fucking boutique. And you’re never here.” Alex deflected with vague excuses about a demanding private client in finance, a story that grew thinner each week. He stopped going to the expat football socials. His phone, the personal one, sat unanswered for days, filled with bewildered texts from friends.
At work, his focus, once laser-precise, now drifted. He’d find himself staring at a screen, seeing not the data streams but the elegant line of Lynn’s spine as she arched under him. A major product architecture analysis landed on his desk a day late, riddled with uncharacteristic oversights. His manager, a shrewd British woman called Claire, called him in. “This isn’t you, Alex,” she said, tapping the flawed report. “The promotion to VP… it’s going to Sato. He’s present. You, recently, are not.” The news should have felt like a gut punch. It registered as a distant muffled thud. The stakes in that world—titles, bonuses, corner offices—felt like play money compared to the dark currency of Lynn’s suite.
One evening, she had food brought to the bed—oysters, a delicate sea urchin risotto, champagne. They ate naked. She fed him a glistening oyster from her fingers, her eyes watching his lips. It was after, when the trays were removed and she was leaning back against the headboard, knees drawn up, that she made the request.
“I need a favor,” she said “You can refuse. It is not in our agreement.”
“What is it?” Alex was curious. For the first time, she was asking, not telling.
“A friend of mine. Clara. She is going through a… particularly vindictive divorce. Her husband is a small, vengeful man. It is taking a toll.” Lynn took a drag, her gaze distant. “I offered her my therapist. I have offered her you.”
Alex felt his stillness sharpen.
“She needs to forget. To be reminded she is not the broken thing her husband claims she is.” Lynn’s eyes met his, cool and analytical. “I have told her I have a discreet specialist. A therapeutic service. She believes you are a trained body and mind healer. She will be blindfolded. Your identity remains protected.”
“And what am I to do?”
Lynn’s smile was like a scalpel. “If you do that, it's on her terms. Mines are just to fuck her mind up, Alex. You are my recommendation, my brand" she pauses. "And not just her mind if that's what she wants. Use everything you have learned. From me. From your instructors. Make her feel so desired, so unraveled, so utterly claimed in that moment that the ghost of her pathetic husband evaporates. Your reward will be whatever she decides to give you. Might be nothing. What happens between you is yours and hers. I will not dictate it.”
The silence stretched. Alex heard the hum of the minibar, the distant wail of a siren twelve stories below. He thought of the proxy, of the jealousy in her eyes. He thought of the promotion he’d lost, the friends he’d pushed away. He was already in the deep end. What was one more fathom? He saw an opportunity, to test if Lynn will be showing a hint of jealousy.
“Okay,” he said.
“Okay,” she echoed.
The location was the hotel. To Clara it would feel anonymous and safe. She didn't knew about Lynn's habit. To him it would feel familiar. The day was agreed. The day before, Alex requested the proxy. Lynn was hesitant. He explained that he hadn't had sex in weeks if not month since the last time he saw her. He needed to release his accumulated frustration to not take it on Clara. Lynn understood.
On the day, when Alex came into a room, stood a woman. Clara. Near a large canvas splashed with violent reds and blacks. She was willowy, with long, anxious hands, dressed in a simple silk wrap dress. A black satin blindfold covered her eyes.
“Clara,” Alex's voice was warm, clinical. “I'm your therapist. I'm here for you. Before we start I'd like to go through some ground rules. The blindfold stays on. You may use any words you wish. You may do anything you want. You may ask anything you need. There's no time. If you want to stop at anytime, just let me know”.
Clara nodded, her head turning slightly at the sound of his voice. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice shaky.
Then Alex saw her, quietly entering the suite. Lynn was there, dressed in black. She looked like part of the installation. Lynn gave Alex a slight nod. Then she melded back into the shadows near the doorway, a silent spectator.
Alex approached Clara. The air smelled of oil paint, beeswax, and her perfume—something floral and terrified. Up close, he saw the tension in her jaw, the slight tremor in her shoulders. He didn’t speak. He followed the first principle of his training: touch as question. He laid his hands very lightly on her shoulders. She flinched, then exhaled.
Slowly, he untied the belt of her wrap dress. The silk parted. She wore nothing underneath. Her body was slender, almost fragile, her skin pale. He saw faint bruises on her upper arms—not the loving marks of passion, but the ugly, plural fingerprints of a mean grip. Rage, cold and sudden, flashed through him. Not for her, but for the unseen man. For her, he amended. He channeled it into a terrifying focus
His hands, gliding over her skin, weren't seeking pleasure. They were reading a topography of distress. He guided her to the padded massage table set before the daunting canvas. “Breathe,” he murmured. “Just breathe.”
He laid Clara on the massage table, face down. Her spine was a tense rope beneath his palms.
He began with his massage technique, looking for her body signaling where to go next. His thumbs found concrete slabs of tension in her shoulders, her lower back screaming with held anxiety. He worked silently, listening to her breaths turn from shallow sips to deeper gulps. After a while she slightly opened her leg and arched her back. His trained eyes saw the invitation.
He moved on to the Yoni techniques, but not as reverence. As reconnaissance. His fingers traced the energy maps, finding the knots of trauma held in the muscles of her inner thighs, the protective tightness at her core. She whimpered, a sound of pain and profound relief. He worked until her body softened, until her breath grew deep and rhythmic. He kissed the bruises on her arms, a feather-light touch, a conscious erasure of the cruel hands that had put them there, and turned her over.
Her face, still blindfolded, was turned towards him, lips parted. The black satin was damp at the temples. As he massaged her inner thigh, she started to moan, a low, aching sound, and parted her legs. He proceeds to make her cum. His fingers, skilled and relentless, built a cascading wave inside her that broke without warning. Her back arched clear off the table, a silent scream on her lips as her body convulsed under his hands.
From the shadowed doorway, Lynn masturbated quietly in the other room, her fingers working in slow, tight circles under the hem of her dress. Her eyes were fixed on Alex’s hands, on Clara’s shuddering release.
Clara’s chest heaved. “He never kissed me down there,” she whispered to the darkness, her voice raw. “Is that something you can do?”
Alex’s eyes flicked towards Lynn’s silhouette. He leaned close to Clara’s ear. “I can do everything he never did,” he said, his voice a low, sure promise. “I can do anything you want.”
He proceeded to lick her. He ate her with a thorough, vulgar hunger, his tongue spearing into her, lapping at her clit with broad, flat strokes. He fucked her with his mouth, the wet, obscene sounds echoing in the gallery space. Clara’s hands fisted in his hair, her hips bucking. “Oh god, don’t stop, please don’t stop,” she chanted.
Lynn’s breathing hitched, her own movements quickening, her knuckles white. Lynn and Clara both orgasmed. Clara’s cry was a shattered thing; Lynn stifled hers into a sharp, swallowed gasp against her own wrist, her body trembling against the doorframe.
As Alex touched Clara’s breast to prolong her orgasm, rolling a nipple between his thumb and forefinger, Clara’s hand wandered down. She started rubbing him through his pants, feeling the hardened length of him. “Can I do that?” she asked, her voice wonderstruck.
Alex replied yes if this is what she wanted. 'You re in your safe space". Lynn had seen enough and left without looking back as Alex unzipped his trousers, freeing his cock. The door sighed shut silently behind her, but the air still thrummed with what she’d witnessed.
Clara took him in her mouth. Her technique was clumsy, overeager, but the raw enthusiasm was a potent aphrodisiac. She sucked him deep, gagging slightly, then pulled off with a wet pop. “Your mouth again,” she panted. “I like the feeling of it.”
He crushed his mouth to hers, letting her taste herself on his lips, his tongue. She came again, shaking against him.
Then she went on her knees, the canvas of violent art looming behind her. “Fuck my ass,” she said, the words not a whisper but a clear, defiant command. “Do it. Fuck me there to erase him. I want to feel it tomorrow and know it was you.” The broken woman was reborn from her ashes.
He spit into his palm, slicking himself, then pressed the blunt head of his cock against her tight hole. He pushed in slowly, the invasion monumental, unforgiving. She cried out, her nails scraping the leather table.
He pushed more. A brutal, invading inch. She cried out, a sound of pain and shocking relief. “Yes!” she screamed into the suite.
He set a punishing rhythm. Each slam was a verdict against the ghost in the room. Clara began to babble, a torrent of filthy, liberated praise. “Oh god, your cock is so deep, you’re splitting me open, yes, ruin me, own it, own all of it!” She came, violently, her inner muscles pulsing around him, her shouts echoing off the high ceilings.
He pulled out, flipping her onto her back. Her blindfold was damp with sweat and tears. He mounted her, driving back into her ass, her legs held high. He gripped her throat, not enough to choke, but to claim. He pounded into her, a final, mechanistic piston, his own climax ripped from him with a guttural shout he didn’t recognize. He stood there, supporting her legs as his cum leaked from her asshole. For long minutes, the only sound was her ragged breathing.
"Fucking Lynn" she said "Is that what you treat her with? "
Alex replied professionnaly "I couldn't tell you Clara. Every patient has different needs. If there's nothing else, I will go".
Clara laughed. "What else could there be, you ruined me like he needed to be".
He helped her from the table, guiding her to the en suite bathroom with a hand on her elbow. He washed her with a soft, warm cloth, his movements methodical and clean, an erasure of the event itself. She stood pliant, her blindfold still securely in place, shivering slightly under his touch. “Thank you,” she whispered again, the words carrying a weight that had nothing to do with politeness.
He left her there, wrapped in a fresh robe, with instructions to take her time. In the main suite, the air still hung thick with the smell of sex, sweat, and oil paint. He gathered his therapist’s uniform—dark trousers, a simple black shirt—and dressed in his own clothes: the jeans, the soft cotton tee, his own sneakers. The transformation back to Alex felt like shrugging off a skin.
The elevator down was a silent capsule. His body hummed with spent adrenaline, his mind a strange, clear blank. The hotel lobby was its usual cathedral of hushed opulence. As he walked towards the grand exit, his eyes drifted to the bar.
She was there. At the very corner stool where she had first appraised him months ago. A half-finished glass of whisky, clear and sharp, sat before her. She was staring into the liquid, her profile stark and unreadable in the low light.
He stopped. The automatic doors whispered open to the humid night, then closed again. He turned and walked towards the bar, the sound of his sneakers on the marble floor feeling obscenely casual. He took the stool beside her, not asking permission.
“The service is concluded?” Lynn asked, not looking at him. Her voice was flat, a professional inquiry.
“Yes. She’s in the suite, recovering. She seems… restored.” Alex signaled the bartender for a whisky, neat.
Lynn nodded slowly, finally turning her head. Her eyes scanned him, taking in the ordinary clothes, the absence of the watch. “And you? What was your assessment of the client’s satisfaction?”
Alex accepted his glass, took a slow burn of a sip. “Clinically, or personally?”
“Both.”
“Clinically, she achieved multiple orgasms of a cathartic nature. The requested mind-fuck was administered. The husband’s ghost was, I believe, successfully exorcised, at least temporarily.” He swirled the amber liquid. “Personally, she's broken indeed but she was grateful. She asked if that’s how I treat you.”
Lynn’s posture didn’t change, but a faint ripple of tension passed over her knuckles where they gripped her glass. “And what did you say?”
“I maintained professional confidentiality.” He held her gaze. "Did you? Treat her like me?“
Alex hesitated "I owe her the same Lynn. For the most part, yes. She had different needs that she had to hide for years it seems. Let's say that there's always more than meets the eyes" "My turn. A question.”
She inclined her head, a slight, regal gesture of consent.
“The proxy,” he began, his voice low. “That first night you left me with her. Were you testing her loyalty, or my corruption?”
A true smile, thin and cold, touched her lips. “I was calibrating a transfer of energy. Her usefulness was waning, saturated with my grief. You were new, hungry. I needed to see what would flow into the vacuum.” She finished her physics. “It was not about loyalty. It was about physics. Physics has limits. I don't do dicks anymore but I'm not into girls.”
They sat in silence for a long moment, the bar’s quiet jazz a meaningless soundtrack. Alex watched the lobby, the discreet comings and goings of the wealthy and transient. Then he saw Clara. She emerged from the elevator bank, walking with a new, deliberate steadiness. She was wearing her silk dress again, her hair smoothed. She didn’t glance toward the bar; she moved through the lobby like a woman on a stabilized orbit and passed through the doors into a waiting car.
Lynn’s phone, face-up on the bar, lit up with a text. Her eyes flicked down. She read it, and something in her expression shifted, hardened into a possessiveness so acute it was like a change in atmospheric pressure.
She slid off her stool. “Come,” she said, the word a command that brooked no interval. She didn’t wait for him, walking back towards the elevators with that familiar, decisive clip. He followed, his whisky left half-finished.
The elevator was empty. She pressed the button for her floor, then turned to him as the doors sealed them in. “She wants more,” Lynn stated, her voice echoing slightly in the metal box. “She texted to thank me for my ‘remarkable therapist’. She asked about the possibility of a standing appointment.” Lynn’s dark eyes locked onto his. "She can’t have you.”
The suite was dark, only the city’s neon glow painting geometric shapes across the floor. Lynn didn’t turn on the lights. She walked to the center of the living room, stood facing the wall of windows, her back to him. “Kneel.”
He went to his knees on the thick carpet, the ghost of Clara’s scent still a faint whisper in the room.
Lynn turned slowly. She lifted her black dress hooking her thumbs into the waistband of the delicate lace beneath, and pushed it down just past the curve of her hips. “She wants more of it,” Lynn said, her voice a low, venomous purr. “But this mouth is mine to fuck. This is what she’s really craving. And she will never, ever have it again. I said no.”
She fisted a hand in his hair, yanking his head forward. She was already wet, her folds glistening in the ambient light, the musky, familiar scent of her engulfing him. There was no ritual, no slow build. This was a reclaiming.
“Show me,” she demanded, grinding herself against his lips. “Show me whose instrument you are.”
He opened his mouth, his tongue lashing out to spear into her. He ate her with a brutal ownership that mirrored her own, his nose buried against her, his lips sealing around her clit to suck hard and mean. He was no visitor here; he was a conqueror laying siege to his own territory.
“Yes, you unfaithful toy,” she hissed, her hips pumping against his face. “That’s it. Run your mouth on me. Let her dream of this taste.”
He drove his tongue deeper, fucking her with it, lapping up the salty-slick evidence of her arousal. He could feel her thighs beginning to tremble, her grip on his hair becoming frantic. Her other hand fumbled between her own legs, her fingers finding his tongue and pushing it where she wanted it. “Right there, you slut, right there!”
Her orgasm was a violent, buckling wave. She cried out, a raw, torn sound, her body bowing over him as she rode his face, smearing herself across his skin. She held him there, trapped, until the last shudder passed through her.
She finally released his hair, pushing his head back. He looked up, his face wet and shining. She stared down at him, her chest heaving, her trousers still rucked around her thighs. Her expression was one of pure, triumphant possession.
“My trophy,” she breathed, trailing her fingers through the mess on his lips and chin. She brought her fingers to her own mouth, tasting herself on him. “Clara can want all she likes. She wants the masterpiece. But she’ll only ever get a print.” She pulled her clothing back into place, the gesture final. “Now get out. I’m tired.”
Alex rose, his knees stiff. He walked to the door, the taste of her iron-sharp and absolute on his tongue, replacing Clara. As he pulled the door shut behind him, he heard her phone chime once more in the silent, dark suite.