Therapist

By Jaden Wilkes

I am a sociopath. 

I know this because I diagnosed myself.

I have a PhD in Clinical Psychology from a very prestigious university.

I am charming, attractive, and you probably want to sleep with me.

I take what I want, when I want, and I enjoy picking the most tragic of all my patients to experiment with.

I have no remorse, I am unrelenting in my pursuit of tragedy, and I am about to meet my match.

Her name is not important, I am only allowed to call her Mistress. She is a femme fatale, a patient, and now an obsession.

She will destroy me, I will do anything to get inside of her.

I can already feel her inside of me.

**Trigger warning. This novel is not a love story, but more of a journey through a few short days in the life of a madman. What you see is not always what you get, reality is altered through his eyes and sometimes there is no happily ever after.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jaden Wilkes
• Release date: May 19, 2014
• ISBN: 9798201168766

Jaden Wilkes

Jaden is the pen name of a girl living on the prettiest farm in BC. She shares her space with her husband, her children, and an Irish Wolfhound named Tiberius. She can now be found lurking in the dark corners of the internet looking for artful porn gifs, dirty poems and places to promo her work.

Book preview

Part 1

R E V E L A T I O N

When the light is crooked, the shadow is crooked. –A Proverb

1 Saturday, March 29th 7:00PM

I hear the group before I see them. Blythe’s obnoxious laughter carries across the packed restaurant, and I suppress a wince. Her barking laugh is immediately followed by Patrick’s deep guffaw. She is such a fucking cow, and poor old Paddy is constantly trying to claw his way into her oversized La Senza panties. So gross. I tell the maitre’D my name, and he guides me through crowded tables and elegant diners to the gathering near the back. 

There he is! Alexandre, Blythe calls out when I arrive. She claps her hands together like a tubby little seal and gives me a huge grin. Her teeth are definitely not her best asset. She stands as though to give me a hug, but I bypass her and pretend I didn’t notice her attempt. The group joins in clamouring for my attention, so I give them all a cheerful wave and take my place by the window, at the end of the table. Blythe looks stricken but sits down, her face a confused mess. What is she thinking? Why would I want to feel her sweaty little body against my suit?

Hey gang! I say, as I sit down, Who’s buying the mojitos? This is an old joke, one that was exhausted years ago but never seems to get old in this particular circle. 

You are, they all reply, and laughter breaks out all round.

I guess I am, I say and shrug my shoulders. I raise my hand to attract the waitress’s attention, and the evening starts. 

Jason is to the left of me. He is the most tolerable of my former classmates. We all suffered through the rigorous Doctorate of Clinical Psychology program at the University of British Columbia together. It creates a bond, all those long hours and anxious nights spent worrying over the nuances of the language in your thesis while preparing for exams. They’d all completed the program, done their research, earned their grant money, and been licenced by the province to practice in their respective fields, as had I.

Many hadn’t made it, so in some strange way, this is why I still put up with their bullshit, years later. I feel like these people are the closest thing I have to peers, although I am infinitely more clever than the lot of them combined. But they don’t need to know that.

Jason, tell me all about the conference in Seattle, I say and smile warmly at him. He launches into a long, detailed explanation of his presentation at the American Psychological Association’s annual meeting. He covered the topic of sociopaths, and the irony is not lost on me as he talks. 

He leans close to talk to me above the din. It was bollocks, really amazing, he says and takes a drink from his glass. Jason spent a year in London and never did quite pick up the local vernacular. Sometimes I wonder if he is legitimately ignorant or just fucking with us all. I’m leaning towards the former.

What happened? How did your talk go? I ask and survey the rest of the table—eleven in total, including myself. None of the others are of much consequence, except for Jane. Plain Jane. I almost fucked her once before I knew what I was doing. I know she wants to hook up desperately. Her desire is palpable every time I’m around her. She probably has notebooks full of Mrs. Jane Dane written in cursive over and over.

It was never going to happen. Not only is the name Jane Dane utterly ridiculous, but her hair is too thin and her tits too small. I almost feel bad for continually rejecting her. She catches me looking and gives me a small smile, almost a grimace. I smile back and look away, but see her stare at me in my peripheral vision, her face betraying her longing need.

I killed it. The talk I did was incredible, Jason tells me. I fade out as he starts to detail the points of his research paper. His research is so far away from mine, I found it hideously dull. I nod and make appropriate noises, and take the chance to scan the rest of the restaurant: nothing interesting, a few groups like ours, but most likely coworkers.

I was on the fence about picking somebody up tonight. Today’s session with Rebecca had gone so well that I almost think it might hold me over until Monday.

Back to Jason, make appropriate noise of admiration, make eye contact, let him talk. And he does talk. He truly loves the sound of his own voice. 

Partway through our drinks, the chef sends out amuse-bouche for our party. I lean back to let the waitress set the tiny dish in front of me, and that’s when I see her. At first, I catch a glimpse of long legs in black stockings, a short, tight-fitting cherry red dress, elbow-length white evening gloves, and elegant black strappy heels. Very old Hollywood, and not exactly out of place in a high-end restaurant such as this, but noticeable because she is smoking. Vancouver has been a no smoking city for several years. I am entranced by her with her defiant smoke hanging in the air around her head like a halo. She is mostly in shadow, I can barely see her face, but I can make out her dark red, full lips parting to receive the cigarette. I watch her inhale, and the end lights up, a signal amid the noise. A red light at the end of the dock instead of green, appropriate given my backwards life.

I cannot seem to look away. I want to taste her mouth. I want to slide my tongue in between those lips and suck the nicotine from her moist insides. I’m not a smoker, but my body craves her taste. Suddenly I understand a summer of longing staring out across the water. I need her to notice me.

Hey, are you gonna eat that? Jason breaks into my reverie. I turn and smile at him, reach down, and pop the minuscule crab cake into my mouth.

Fucking right I am, I say, and the group laughs. I am such a card.

I turn back and notice that she has gotten up and is leaving the restaurant. I can just see the back of her now. Her hair is black and thick and rolls down her back like a landscape. The flashing red soles of her Louboutins like the tail of a deer, taunting me and challenging me to follow.

Her ass has the slightest jaunty wiggle as she exits. Just as the door is closing, she turns and looks at me. I want to look away because I have been caught staring at her ass, but I still cannot. She arches one perfectly sculpted brow, a smirk passes over her lips, and she is gone.

I shake my head and turn back to the group. I can’t escape the feeling that I know that woman from somewhere. I look back at the doors, half expecting her to be back, but she isn’t.

I join the conversation and argue amicably about the latest season of The Bachelor. I have never seen an episode, but I can fake my way through anything. I spend the rest of the evening half there, but half of me has gone with the woman, and I can’t make myself focus fully. Nobody notices, and we wrap up the night on a happy note. They all love me, I love me, it’s all good.

On the way out, I notice a cigarette butt just outside the door. It’s stained with bright red lipstick, so I bend and slip it into the pocket of my suit jacket.

What was that? Blythe asks as she slips her handbag over her shoulder.

Oh, a lucky penny, I reply and shoot her my winning smile.

You are so old-fashioned, she says and smiles at me, her thin lips stretching over her too-large teeth. She links her arm in mine, turns to the group, and loudly announces, "Hey guys, Alexandre just picked up a lucky penny, isn’t that adorable?"

The group agrees, and we all start off down the sidewalk. A bar is decided upon, and most of us head in that direction. Blythe’s hand burns on my arm as I resist the urge to pluck her fingers off and push her to the pavement. All I can think about are those red lips forming a perfect ‘O’ as the mystery woman took a long drag on the butt I have in my pocket. I need to find her, or at least a reasonable substitute tonight. I need to fuck a woman until she cries, and then fuck her some more.

* * *

She’s drunk, really drunk. I don’t know if she can stand on her own, but I’m taking her home. To her home, I would never take her to my apartment. She said her name is Jennifer, but truth be told, I don’t fucking care.

The rest of my group left long ago, and I found this one parked by the washroom, sniffling about her boyfriend ditching her for another girl. Ever the gentleman, I offered to get her safely on her way.

I signal a taxi and wait on the curb as it slides slowly towards us.

Where are you taking me? She slurs her speech and can barely focus on my face.

Home, sweetie, remember? You’ll be ok, I reassure her and guide her into the back seat.

She’s petite, blonde, tight ass, and huge tits. Perfect. 

I hope you don’t think you’re gonna take advantage of me, she whispers loudly as we settle in. This is followed by her hand placed firmly on my cock, through my pants.

I think I’m the one that has to worry, I tell her and smile. She smiles back. She trusts me. Perfect again.

I’m at 2288 East First, she tells the taxi driver. A dirty, terrible area, she probably thinks she’s there for the ethnic diversity and pays exorbitant rent to live midpoint between a Cuban restaurant and a Vegan grocery.

Are you ok? I ask as she leans her head on my chest. I like them drunk, but I don’t like them throwing up.

I’m fine, she replies and closes her eyes. Her breathing slows, and I worry that she’s fallen asleep. It’s going to look pretty bad if I have to carry her into her apartment. I plan my actions always with the idea that I might have to explain them to the police at some point. I’m meticulous in my behaviours so that I will have hundreds of people to back me up if anybody ever accuses me of anything. I’m that nice guy next door who nobody ever suspects.

The driver is looking at me in the rearview mirror. I smile and say, I think she had a little too much to drink. We’re supposed to be meeting my parents in the morning. It freaked her out.

He laughs and says, I think I was the one overdoing it before I met my in-laws. I know how she feels.

Tension broken, we make small talk as he weaves in and out of busy Friday night traffic. Subjects include the unseasonably wet winter, the Canucks’ shitty performance in Tampa last night, how much he hates the new Cambie Bridge bike lanes...it passes the time, and it helps me blend in with any one of the hundreds of young party goers he’ll drive home tonight. If anything comes up, he won’t remember me. This is how I like it.

We pull up in front of an older, low-rise apartment, and I shake her gently. Jen, I say, we’re home.

She opens her eyes and looks up at me. She smiles and says, I remember you! I laugh and roll her off me, help her up out of the cab, and let her lean against me as I pay the driver. I give him a twenty for a seventeen-dollar fare. I don’t want to stand out by being too cheap or too generous, so I land right in the middle.

He drives off, and we head to her front door. She fumbles with the keys and finally gets us in. She’s on the second floor, and I help her up the stairs. She giggles and talks too loudly the entire time, but we make it to her apartment without pause.

Inside, I take the time to make sure she lives alone. It’s a bachelor, nicely furnished with splashes of pseudo tribal shit thrown here and there. A wooden African mask, a rain stick propped in the corner, an apache blanket draped on the sofa.

I lead her to the futon in the corner, and she sits down. It’s already flat and obviously her bed. A black cat is glaring at me from a stack of papers on a desk nearby. Files and folders are haphazardly strewn about the floor underneath. That’s right, she told me she’s a grad student of something. Anthropology maybe?

Are you going to be ok? I ask. She looks up at me and focuses her eyes. I continue, I should probably get going.

Don’t you dare, she replies and grabs my jacket. She drags me down to sit next to her and pulls her knee-high leather boots off, one by one. Don’t think you’re getting away that easy, mister, she laughs and tosses them across the room.

I think you’re too drunk for this, I tell her and rub her shoulders. This is like catnip to drunk college girls. Being told they are too drunk for something is the most effective reverse psychology of all. Get her to agree to her own sloppy fuck. It’s golden.

No way, she slurs and pulls her tight sweater over her head, "I did not have too much to drink. Besides, I’m not wearing any panties." She grabs my hand and shoves it between her legs to make her point. Her cunt is hot and dripping—she’s ready for me.

Are you sure about this? I ask and let her kiss me. She smells a bit off, so I don’t kiss her for long. She reeks of some hippy perfume masking pungent sweat and tequila shooters. At least she’s not a smoker. But I’ll bet you twenty dollars she’s got one of those magical crystals she rubs on her pits every day to combat body odour. Here’s a hint; they don’t work.

She falls back a little, going limp. She’s passing out, but I still haven’t gotten off. I take her hand and place it on the bulge in my pants, she rubs slowly, but I can sense her fading fast.

I let her slide down onto my arm and lay her gently on the messy futon. Her lack of underwear is perfect, no tearing or dragging panties off her body. She moans and shifts, wiggles back onto the bed, and spreads her legs. You’ll have to make this fast, she says, her voice barely louder than a whisper, I think I’m passing out.

No problem, I say and move between her legs, on my knees. I unzip my pants, I slide them down over my hips, pull out my cock, and shove it into her. No ceremony or niceties needed. I plunge deep inside her; she’s tight even though she’s barely conscious. She’s so fucking hot and wet I want to explode right then and there. I feel her juices coat my balls as I pick up rhythm. Her slack body jerks as I pump her cunt, her head lolls to the side, and she coughs. Come on, baby, don’t puke, I say and put my hands on her hips to steady her.

She moans, and I can feel her cunt tighten around me. She’s present in there somewhere, and that’s good enough for me. I feel like I’m about to finish, but I can’t quite get there. She’s passed out, so no tears. I like tears. I like humiliating the stupid little bitches I’m fucking. I like them to go through all the emotions I am incapable of. My fetish is humanity, and I want to drain my balls into the sticky, hot mess of feelings that I bring up in the bitches stupid enough to open their bodies to me.

I don’t know how to get this one feeling enough for me to come. I move up and balance over top of her, still railing her, covering her like an animal and pounding her hard enough I can feel her hip bones crashing against me. I grab her nipple and twist, but she doesn’t react. I slap her face, and she mumbles something but doesn’t wake up. 

Come on, you stupid little cunt, come on, I snarl at her, but she’s passed out cold. I