The Addicted

By Charles H. Lease

The Addicted is a compelling legal drama which intersects the world of sex addiction with the criminal justice system. How far will an addict go to get his fix? Murder? The obsession of the mind that is in all addicts is so great, they do the most unnatural things. The question this book tries to answer is whether someone who is in the throes of his addiction has the mental capacity to intentionally commit murder. This book contains sex, high drama, pain, touching moments and recovery. Enjoy it from cover to cover.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 18, 2019
• ISBN: 9780998597232

Book preview

Years

The Crime

The anticipation of what was about to happen was almost more than I could bear. Sure, my partner and I had choked each other before in our sex games, but she told me on the phone that she had something special planned for me and to get to the hotel we regularly went to as soon as possible.

I checked all the lies I had told so that I could make this happen—friends, clients, and family. My friends covered me with my family, and my family covered me with my clients. What a beautiful set up I thought. There was no way I could get caught. Besides, when I wanted to do something, I could not be stopped.

I arrived at room 522, our usual suite, shaking and sweating with excitement, finding my lover in a sheer white nighty. Her gleaming red hair shined through the thin fabric. I kissed her hard and asked her what she had in store for us.

She went into the bathroom and returned with a long noose in her hands. Seriously? I asked. What are you going to do with that? I am going to hang myself while you watch and masturbate. After I pass out, you are going to take me down and revive me. Then we are going to fuck like we never fucked before.

I was panicked and thrilled at the same time. Isn’t that incredibly dangerous? I asked. Not if we do it right, she said. Get your clothes off, and I will set up the room.

My brain was spinning. It was telling me not to do this and do this at the same time. My lover turned off the overhead lights and put a lamp behind the ceiling fan in the center of the ceiling. I took my clothes off and sat at the chair she set up for me to rest in. She took the noose and threw it over the fan and put a step stool below the loop.

What’s the matter, baby, you look tense? she asked. Jesus Christ, you’re getting ready to kill yourself, I stammered. My lover asked me if I knew CPR. I guess I should have asked you that first, she said. You think? I yelled. I had in fact been a water safety instructor in my earlier days, and so I had to learn CPR back then.

I haven’t practiced CPR in twenty years, I said. It’s like riding a bike, my lover retorted. Once you learn, you never forget, she said.

My lover looked down at my limp cock and asked, Are you going to be able to do this? I’m not sure, I stuttered. My lover knelt down and put that gorgeous head of red hair between my legs and began to lick and suck my cock until I was hard as a rock. There, that’s better, she said. I asked if I could still record our session as I had always done in the past and she said sure.

She positioned herself below the noose and placed it around her neck. You better not let me die, she said. I won’t, I assured her. I flipped on the recorder. She kicked the stool away, and she slowly began to choke to death, her beautiful, sexy body slightly swinging from the rope. Her nipples became engorged from the rush of blood from her neck down.

I started to stroke my cock, slow at first, and then harder. I was excited and horrified at the same time. I knew my lover was beginning to pass out and I knew I had to get her, but I hadn’t come yet. I quickened my pace on my cock and these words slipped from my lips—Die you fucking bitch.

I was squirting come everywhere when I jumped up to take her down from the noose. Her eyes were bulging, and she was utterly lifeless. I started CPR immediately, asking, no begging for her to come around. I could not get a pulse. I panicked. I knew I had to try and save her but that if I did, I would destroy myself, my family, my entire world.

I knew she was a single mom and I could not bear to think of her kids being left without their mother. I called 911 and continued CPR until they arrived. After working on her for about five minutes, they turned to the police officers who had come and said, she’s gone.

Oh my God, what have I done? I cried.

The Early Years

Junior High school sucks, plain and simple. All I wanted to do was fit in. I wanted to be part of any group; I didn’t care which one. The jocks, bandies, geeks, geniuses; whatever, I didn’t care. All I knew is that I felt like I didn’t belong, that I was uncomfortable in my own skin. I was too tall, too thin, too clumsy, too ugly, too uncool, too everything. The thing I didn’t realize at the time is that everyone felt that way. We were all covered in acne, and our hormones were raging in every direction. Girls’ breasts were popping like Jiffy Pop popcorn. Us boys would get a hard-on whenever the wind blew. Sometimes, when it didn’t.

I was kind of a jock; that is to say, I participated in sports that weren’t considered real games. I was also kind of a genius as my grades were excellent, but not great. I became a chameleon: I blended in with everyone, yet never truly connected with anyone.

My grades kept my parents off my back. I had two friends. It’s an interesting phenomenon to connect with kids who, like me, didn’t connect with anyone else. It’s like being picked last for a dodgeball game, even after the kid in the wheelchair. It made our friendship bond tighter because we knew that, if we didn’t stand together, we would be left alone, fighting in a storm of ego and macho bullshit.

I shudder to think how we talked in those days. The more racist and sexist we sounded, the colder we were. A pretty girl was a hot piece of ass. Blacks were coons, and Spanish speaking people were spics. I can’t remember where we learned to speak like that. Probably everywhere—heard it from our fathers, our older brothers maybe even our mothers. We’d heard other things too.

We were told that blacks were lazy and just wanted to live off the government and not work. We heard that Spanish-speaking people were always on siesta and would steal from you if given a chance.

I also had a nanny who was white but was married to a black man. My mom, who hired here was very liberal and forward-thinking. At that time in the world, the marriage was pretty taboo and especially so in the small town where I grew up. I don’t know why my parents hired her as I’m sure this stuck in my dad’s craw. Mom probably hired her behind my dad’s back, just to hold it to him. I had to have a nanny because my mom was a drunk, even though she always seemed to get dinner on the table for the family.

My nanny took me to a Baptist church, where I learned to sing gospel music and yell, Hallelujah. (We didn’t get to scream in the church my family dragged me to.) She and her husband took me fishing and to barbeques. I was treated the same as anyone else, and I learned to manage them like anyone else.

There were only a few things you could do in my small hometown at night: drink, cruise, bowl or screw. After I escaped from Junior High to High school, I wanted to act like an independent big shot. I didn’t start drinking until I was seventeen and didn’t lose my virginity until I was eighteen. Needless to say, I was a hell of a bowler. I had one hell of a cruiser too. A fire-engine-red 1971 Camaro convertible with a white top. It was beautiful. It may have been my dad’s, but once I turned sixteen, he’d let me drive it. Every Friday my friends and I would take it up and down Main Street trying to pick up girls.

When I turned seventeen, I got a girlfriend. At that age, the most critical thing in a girlfriend was the size of her tits. The bigger her boobs, the more relaxed you were. Not to brag, but I was very cool.

I spent a year and a half trying to get under my girlfriend’s bra and into her pants. To be honest, I didn’t know what I was going to do once I got in there, but I wanted in there, nonetheless. I finally succeeded on prom night our senior year, at which point I realized I had no idea what to do next. Two minutes later I was apologizing – I don’t think I’ve ever been so embarrassed in my life. I vowed that night to learn how to please a woman. I knew if I wished them sexually, I could get their love and approval.

I also had a homosexual experience with some neighborhood boys when I was relatively young, but they figured out pretty quickly that I was not interested, and that was that. Good to know I was not queer, I thought, even though I didn’t see why that was good.

My home life was an interesting mix of reality shows like Survivor and Intervention. While my mom was an alcoholic, my dad was a workaholic. He was gone traveling for business most of the time. Every time he left, mom’s drinking would increase. It made some sense to me. Mom was left with dealing with us kids without any help whatsoever. Every time she did laundry or made dinner or anything else that was needed for the family to get by, her resentments and anger against my dad grew. The more she drank, the less she felt.

My dad was my God. I believed everything he said, and I followed him around like a lost puppy. He taught me lessons that conflicted with reality. For example, he demanded honesty from everyone around him while lying to my mom about not having affairs with other women. He made it clear that I while I was better than other people, I wasn’t good enough for him.

Think about that for a moment. I felt I was superior to everyone else in the world while, at the same time, feeling I was inferior because the only person whose judgment I valued told me so. Try and square that one in your head.

My dad enabled my mom’s drinking by buying her the booze she craved while hating her alcohol at the same time. He considered her alcoholism to be caused by a weakness in her character and they would yell and scream about it after my sisters and brother, and I had gone to bed.

I really didn’t understand my mom and her uncontrollable drinking. Because my dad thought she was weak, so did I. Because my dad argued with her, so did I. I wanted a mom as the other kids had, but my mom would drink, slur her words, be abusive and pass out. I didn’t bring friends to my house for that reason. Sometimes I felt like I didn’t have a mother. She, on the other hand, leaned on me slowly. She was lonely. She decided that, since she had no emotional connection with her husband, she would use me to have that type of a relationship. Some sort of emotional incest, I guess.

She used to call me lover and nibble on my ear. At some level, I knew this was bizarre, and that I should feel uncomfortable, but I loved the attention, so I didn’t say anything. My mom made me feel like I mattered, loved, I guess, but I discounted it as not real because of how my father thought about my mother. The competing messages that were being sent to me by my mom and dad left me completely bewildered. But, since dad was God, I knew I wouldn’t be worthy until my dad thought I was worthy, and that was not happening.

I finished high school as an insecure, co-dependent and angry young man. I knew I was a decent writer but didn’t feel confident in anything else. When I went off to college, there were women everywhere that I wanted to get to know better. I decided that before I did that, I needed to learn how to pleasure a woman. With prom night fresh in my mind, I began to read every book about sex that I could find and studying them obsessively.

I couldn’t wait to put my book knowledge to the test. My first attempt was a rousing success. She moaned, she writhed, and she orgasmed. Repeatedly. My own pleasure was secondary—her coming was what got me off. To make another person happy and satisfied was my only goal, and I got very good at it. The more I did it, the more I wanted it. I soon realized that I was hooked.

I had three sisters and one brother. I never really got to know my brother because he was a lot older and had moved out by the time I was five years old. My sisters treated me like royalty, dressing me up for all their friends to see. I was a pretty cute kid, so their friends would always coo and fawn over me, and I ate it up like candy. An occasional squeeze here or there would be laughed off as childish ignorance. To be honest, they didn’t seem to mind.

The Present

How did it get to this point? Here I am, sitting in a cell, waiting for my public defender to arrive. My thoughts were coming a mile a minute. Murder . . . Me? Don’t they know who I am? I’m a respected trial lawyer with 25 years as a trial lawyer, and I don’t have a mark on my record, not even a speeding ticket. Well, whatever they thought I did, I knew one thing; it wasn’t my fault.

There is plenty of time to think in prison. I recalled my childhood as I sat waiting. My mother was a drunk and an addict, and my father was a narcissist and a workaholic. My father would often tell me I was better than everyone else but then would tear me down by telling me I wasn’t good enough. It was as if he knew I was worthless and he wanted to share the secret with me, to keep me less than him.

My father also used what psychologists call negative reinforcement to get me to work harder and to strive to do more. If I got all A’s in school and one B, he would chastise me and say, What’s with the B? It was like I