How in holy hell did I get here? A fucking therapist’s office? I’ll tell you how—my cock. He’s the reason for this whole mess. In fact, when I look back on my life, he’s the reason for most of the trouble in it. And yes, my dick is a “he.” It would be fucking weird for a man to refer to his manhood as a “she.” Let’s just be honest, most men name their junk. I don’t know why. We just do. And this time, King (yes, that’s the well-deserved name for my dick) has landed me in a shit storm.
I look down at the court order for therapy, my name in bold at the top—Pierce Kingston. At least I didn’t end up in jail. It does pay to be rich and know a few judges. This is what I get for trying to be nice.
A few weeks back, a young woman and her boyfriend had too much to drink and got into a huge fight in the bar of the hotel I own. She threw some drinks on him, and he told her not to bother coming home. I own and operate a classy boutique hotel in New Orleans, The Kingston, so this kind of thing usually doesn’t happen in my place.
The girl was a complete wreck. I got her a room in my hotel. She came on pretty strong, but I didn’t lay a finger on her, and we both know she’d have let me fuck her seven ways to Sunday, but no. I had to be a nice guy and let her sleep it off. The next morning, she calls me, still ready to play. Of course, mid-blow job, she changed her mind, leaving my dick hard, my balls throbbing, and my mind focused on only one thing. But when a woman says stop, you stop. That’s the way it is. Even if you are two seconds from blowing your load.
An older woman opens the door to the office with a smile. “Pierce Kingston? Come on in.” She motions toward her door. “I’m Dr. Lorraine.”
I pause at the door, letting her enter first. I might be an asshole, but I still have good manners. She smiles, and her white teeth almost take over her face. She has a nice face. Not in the I want to screw her way, but just nice. Like a flight attendant. Most of them have pleasant faces. Most of them I do want to take to bed, though.
I definitely don’t want to take my middle-aged therapist to bed. I do have some standards. This woman could be my grandmother, if I had one.
“Take a seat.”
She points to the sofa. I almost roll my eyes, it’s so cliché. Her diplomas are framed and hanging behind her desk. Makes me wonder where mine even are. There are no windows, reminding me of one of those rooms people pay to go to try to escape from. Seems there’s no escape for me.
She sits in a chair across from me and opens a file. I hand her my paperwork and lean back as her eyes scan the paper. Maybe I should’ve included my resume. Pierce Kingston. Age thirty. Hotel owner in New Orleans, Louisiana. Given why I’m here, she’d probably be more interested in my fuck resume, which reads a little differently.
Experience: Long and extensive.
Objective: Making women come hard and often.
Skills: Dirty talk, oral and manual stimulation.
Qualifications: Vast knowledge of the g-spot, and a huge cock I know how to use.
Goals: Never been married. Don’t want to be. Never been in love. Not gonna happen.
Dr. Lorraine closes the file and grabs a pen. Crap, she’s going to take notes.
“Prostitution,” she says, raising an eyebrow.
“Not me,” I say. “I own a hotel. There was a bust, and I got caught in the wake.”
“Of course,” she says condescendingly, like I’m one of those fuckers who beat their wives and blame them for it.
“You can read my paperwork. It’s all there.”
“I believe you,” she says. “You should know I’m very upfront. I don’t see the point in not being direct.”
“Good, so tell me what happened.”
“Do we really have to do this? Can you just sign off that I was here? I can write you a check—just name the amount.”
She leans back and tilts her head side-to-side like a boxer in a ring. Her brown eyes stare me down, but I stare right back. No way an old shrink is going to get the best of me. Maybe she’s used to dealing with whiny clients who come in complaining about their marriages, but she’s met her match with me. I cross my leg over my knee and lean back. I can do this all day, lady.
She smiles and starts to write. Now I’m totally fucked. She’s probably saying I’m defiant or some shit. “Just name an amount,” I say, relaxing my arm on the back of the sofa, refusing to let this woman best me.
“Do you not realize I have your balls in a vice?” she asks.
My jaw drops open. I can’t help it. This lady surprises me. “I see that, just don’t squeeze.”
She laughs a big, hearty laugh. “I like you, so I’m going to overlook your attempt at bribery this one time. I can see you’re a man who’s used to getting what he wants. So tell me – what is it that you want?”
“I want to be done here.”
“Then I suggest you talk, because these sessions are court-ordered, and they have no end date. You won’t be free of me until I say so.”
“No, thank you,” she says, flashing me a smile so broad all her white teeth show.
Okay, now I really like her. “Fine, what do you want to talk about?”
“For starters, explain what brought you here.”
I figure it’s best to start from the beginning of that day and tell her about the girl from the bar, from drink throwing to blue balls. I figure it will pass the time and keep her from trying to probe my mind. Who the fuck wants that?
“So this girl left you with a set of blue balls? Then what?”
“I decided to go see Daphne. She’s a woman I’m involved with.”
“You have a girlfriend, and yet you were trying to seduce this other woman?”
“We have an open relationship.”
Dr. Lorraine leans forward. “Really?”
“Well, my side of the relationship is open.”
“I see,” she says, jotting down a note. “We’ll get back to that. You went to see Daphne?”
“Her kids were home, and she has a strict rule about no sex when her kids are there.”
Okay, before you have a stroke, Daphne knew what she was getting with me. She knew I didn’t want to play daddy. She understood what was between us, and I take good care of her—so you can stop cursing at me! Besides, things with us lately have been rocky at best.
“Then I had to work all day.”
“No women at work?”
“I don’t get involved with employees. It’s bad for business. The only thing I like more than sex is money, and it’s a close contest.”
“Well, at least you have values,” she says sarcastically.
“So you worked that day. Did you masturbate?”
I have to pick my jaw up off the floor again. “Once, after I left Daphne’s place.”
“But you weren’t satisfied?”
“Look, I’m not sure what it’s like for women, but for guys, whacking off is a hold over. It’s just enough so we don’t lose our fucking minds, but satisfaction doesn’t come until we’ve buried ourselves deep into a woman.”
She doesn’t flinch. No reaction at all.
“Any part of a woman in particular?”
Third time I have to pick my jaw up. “Nope, doesn’t matter.”
Her mouth turns up. I can tell she likes me. All women like me.
“Let’s get back to how you ended up here,” she says.
“It was late that day, and I got a call from a frequent hotel guest. A local, a prominent person in the community. It’s not uncommon for certain politicians, athletes, and celebrities to request a back or side entrance to my hotel, wanting to protect their privacy. When I opened the door for him, he wasn’t alone. That wasn’t a surprise. He asked to pay in cash, and he was with an escort.”
“She was a high price one, but yeah, I knew.”
You don’t run a hotel without learning to overlook things. I wouldn’t tolerate my place being used to sell drugs or take advantage of underage girls, but prostitution is not uncommon. I usually have plausible deniability. After all, it’s not really my business what goes on inside the room. There are laws about what you can and can’t allow on your property. Still, this is New Orleans, and there’s usually not much of a fuss about it—except this time, of course.
“You’ve done this for him before?”
“Not exactly. I mean, he always uses the side entrance, but he was always alone before.”
“So you were afraid you’d lose his business if you didn’t allow his. . . guest?”
“Hell if I know. Maybe because it was late, and I wanted to go home and get fucked myself. Maybe because the poor sap looked desperate. Or maybe it was because he looked like he had a seriously bad case of blue balls, and I knew what that felt like. Guess the reason I’m here is that my dick was too sympathetic.”
She rolls her eyes at me. “Then what?”
“The police busted him. I got caught in the crossfire. I did a lot of damage control, called in a lot of favors and managed to keep it out of the press. I was lucky. My lawyer met me. Called a friend of mine that’s a judge. I didn’t have to go in a cell or anything.”
“But you ended up here,” Dr. Lorraine says, glancing at the clock.
I look as well, and see our time is up. It hasn’t been as bad as I thought.
“Next time,” she says, “I want . . .”
“Next time?” I ask, sure my voice went an octave higher.
“Yes, next time,” she says. “It’s best you just accept this. I take what I do seriously, so you will be seeing me twice a week.”
“Twice a week? I’ve got a hotel to run, and . . .”
“I’m available nights and weekends,” she says. “I’ve even made house calls.”
“No, thanks. My nights and weekends are spent doing other things.”
“Oh, that reminds me,” she says. “No sex for thirty days.”
“What?!” I can’t possibly have heard that right. “Why?!”
“Some people use drugs or alcohol as coping mechanisms. Others use work or sex.”
“I’m a workaholic, too, but you didn’t order me to take a month-long vacation!”
She leans back, saying, “I’ve been doing this a long time. Something tells me there’s more to this, to you. We won’t get to it until we remove your crutch.” She starts scribbling her prescription down in her file. “Yes, I like this idea. You are to abstain for thirty days.”
“You can’t be serious?”
“No fucking, screwing, banging, love making, whatever you want to call it, for a month.”
“You can’t force me to do that.”
“No, I can’t, but I can keep you in therapy until you do.”
“I can just lie.”
“But you aren’t a good liar,” she says. “That’s why you like to be direct.”
Damn, how’d she know that? “Fuck this, I’m getting a new therapist.”
I get to my feet, bolt out of the office, and slam the door behind me. Who the hell does that woman think she is? I hop in my car and speed off down the street. Not wanting to waste another second, I don’t even wait for the Bluetooth connection on my Mercedes G-Wagon to connect. Instead, I pick up my phone and call my attorney, leaving a voicemail complete with a string of curses and demands that my court-ordered therapy be dropped, or that I be given a new therapist because mine has lost her mind.
I finish my rant and disconnect when I see blue lights behind me. Holy fuck, this is the worst month of my life.
I roll down my window, and a blonde ponytail falls in front of my face. Maybe my luck is changing. I glance in my rearview mirror. A motorcycle cop means no partner.
“License and registration, please.”
I reach for my wallet and slide my license out. “What seems to be the problem, ma’am?” My good Southern manners often come in handy.
She takes off her sunglasses and tucks them in her shirt pocket. “You were on your phone, you were speeding, and you don’t have your seatbelt on.”
I hold up my hands and smile. “Sorry,” I say, and she smiles back. Damn right, she does.
“Maybe I can let you off with a warning.”
“I’d appreciate it,” I say.
She hands me back my license. “Just slow down, Mr. Kingston.”
“Slow isn’t really my thing,” I say.
And that’s all it takes. Two minutes later, Little Miss Hot Cop slips me her number. All and all, not a bad morning, once I got out of that therapist’s office.