Damian Ch. 02: BABY STEPS

BABY STEPS

The one where Damian and Tara start to rebuild his sexuality. And he learns about feet.

Reader's Note: Damian was the victim of a traumatic retribution from his wife over an affair. She's gone on to become a Dominatrix as a result of the way she took revenge and Damian is seeing a therapist to recover from his wife's vicious attack.

--

Anne knows I'm distraught.

It's been a week since the hearing. DCS didn't remove the children, but Cassie has a lot of restrictions on her, including keeping Cynthia completely out of the boys' view. Breaking any of the restrictions would get them put in foster care. I still haven't broken the code on how I could care for them alone; I'll need to hire a nanny or something, but I'm working on it.

I'm spinning. My anxiety level is so high that I often awaken in the middle of the night with my heart racing. But I refuse, again, Anne's suggestions to get medication: I have to make sure DCS sees me as perfectly stable and well adjusted. That prescription would burn me.

I don't tell DCS I have the gun either.

The gun is my lollipop. Sometimes I suck on the barrel at night. It may yet be my solution. It may save me from the mess I've become. Maybe there's nothing else for me. No one else. Is it already too late?

And now I can't even fully open to Anne. DCS is going to want to talk to her, so she has to believe I'm solid as a boulder.

When DCS comes up, I remind her again that the gun thing was patient-doctor confidential and say that I was just being dramatic at the time. I'd mused, fantasized but would never actually do it. And that I got rid of it. Little does she know.

I change the subject and bring up, again, how sexually frustrated I feel. How unattractive. Emasculated. In front of all those people at the club, Cassie ridiculed my penis and fucked my best friend instead. I can't get it up (except with the barrel of the gun in my mouth, but I don't tell Anne that) and I can't even think of opening myself to another relationship, though God knows I need one. I incessantly work out at the gym now and I've lost almost twenty pounds. I think it's just to have something to do, but it's working: my dad bod is getting less... dad. I'm getting back the definition. Objectively, I admit, I'm looking good. The gym babes notice me, but I don't want to engage. I can't. Subjectively, I feel like I've lost it.

"It's possibly premature, Damian, but I've been thinking about your case long and hard and I truly believe you need a new approach. You are building walls within walls within walls and you know it. Your ability to connect with other people is vital to who you are - you're a people person and... earth... and loving and you need people. You need someone. But you can't find your way out of this emotional abyss.

"Damian... it may seem a little weird to you, but... hear me out. I have a special professional who I've worked with before. Her particular skill is in helping people learn... or relearn... how to build healthy, meaningful connections. How to help them learn how to trust and build intimacy."

I scoff "that sounds like a sex surrogate."

"Exactly."

I'm shocked. "I... I thought that that was... like a thing in the movies. Like... there are maybe ten actual surrogates in the United States or something..."

"No, it's more common than you think."

I look around her office. It's so cliché: a leather couch, a burgundy leather chair, a table, of course a box of Kleenex: I bet she buys it by the case. The carpet isn't old but it isn't new and there are stains here and there. There's also an annoying water spot on the ceiling tile that prevents me from ever lying down on the couch; I can't stand to look at that yellow stain.

I shrug and sigh. I feel so helpless after being in this soundless emotional abyss for months that I can't even decide if it sounds like a good idea. "Anne... maybe that is what I need." I struggle to support my argument "I need something.... connection. I need to get beyond feeling... ema... emasculated." It hurts to say that word.

"Okay, Damian, good. The first step is for the two of us to work on your goals for this therapy..."

We talk at length and agree on short-term and longer-term goals. Short term, my goals are to allow myself to touch and be touched. To have personal conversations with a simulated partner and to see how she judges me. Longer-term, it would be to be able to trust someone enough to truly allow myself to accept a physical relationship. After that, my goals could morph and grow, but it was a good start.

What I didn't admit to her... for fear she could cast me in the same evil role that I've cast Cassie in... is that I'm now immensely curious about dominant/submissive relationships. But do I want to say it? Do I want to put that out into the universe? I think it would help me with my healing: to get an inkling about what has happened to my sweet, innocent wife. I've watched the porn. It never did anything for me. But now, I keep putting in new keywords when I search for porn. It still doesn't help me get it up.

--

We meet later that week with Tara, my surrogate, in Anne's office. Tara is short and has mid-length pink hair with brunette roots. It's French-braided down each side of her head. That makes her look a bit severe, though I think she's trying to exude professionalism. I can't say I love the tattoo thing, but her fish sleeve is actually very artistically done. Yeah, she has a few extra pounds which makes her body curvy. Not my first choice, but when I think about it, it has a different kind of appeal. She's not at all the gym rat I'm used to, but that makes her somehow more, well, available. She's not intimidating. Her clothes are nondescript. A mid-length brown pencil skirt and a blue loose-fitting blouse with a geometric design. She wore strappy heels which don't look, much, to match the rest of her clothes. It makes her seem somehow awkward.

We go over the basic outline of my therapy and Anne leaves us to chat.

I realize in a little panic that we haven't told Tara anything about what happened to me or my drama. But Anne's plan dawns on me. That's part of my challenge: to learn how to share and to experience the judgment. And Anne is leaving me to it.

Tara lays down the rules of our engagement. We meet twice a week for a baseline of two hours a meeting, though it could go longer organically. I am to be respectful (okay, I guess she had to say that: she doesn't know me) and we each have safe words to use if play gets out of hand.

She acknowledges that we may wind up having sex and that's okay with her... then she considers and reaches out carefully, gingerly, to touch my arm. I don't flinch, but I feel nothing. As she touches me, she says, "and I have to admit... you are very, very attractive, Damian. I hope it actually goes there since I really think I'd like it."

Her smile wins me, and then she bites her lip and I feel a faint, distant echo of a stirring that I've missed for months.

She looks over my shoulder at something. "I may be the luckiest surrogate in the state..."

Wow... she's so relaxed and direct. It's like seeing into her mind instead of guessing at the façade. The frankness is disarming and so, so sexy.

She backs off of the flirtation and my stirring fades.

Then she reiterates the warning that Anne gave me. "Always remember, we're not in a relationship. When the therapy ends, we won't see each other again. Don't get attached to me. Instead, get attached to what I represent. I'm just a 'practice' friend."

We discuss places and times and make a date to meet for dinner near my place Thursday evening. I am to meet again with Anne on Friday.

--

I've been anxious about this, but surprise myself. On Thursday, I find a glimmer of hope burning in my chest as I awaken and now find myself even a little excited at work. My team picks up on my mood and the whole office seems happier. It's not joy exactly. It's more the relief you'd feel seeing that there might - just might - be a light leading you out of the darkness. I find the energy to do a report I've been avoiding for a couple weeks and find it flows much more easily than I'd feared. Then I catch up on some of my backlog of mail and I even plan for a meeting tomorrow. It wasn't a great day, but it was the best day I've had since Cassie emotionally castrated me.

I see Lily that day in a meeting and I also feel a bit of pride remembering how I'd had the balls to cut her clean. She doesn't seem at all happy; probably working on her next evil plans against some other unsuspecting office mate. I could swear from the corner of my eye that I caught her glaring at me for a moment, but her eyes averted quickly when I looked to confirm. Fuck you, Lily.

5:00 comes none too soon and I rush to the restaurant.

I splurge a bit on the venue. It is an upscale Italian since Tara said she liked Italian (might explain the extra pounds and soft curves on her body). She smiles and gives me a chaste hug. We sit at a dimly-lit table for two in a corner with a cliché red and white checkerboard tablecloth and LED candle in a vase. She gives me the "don't get attached" lecture.

"So, Damian. This is for you. Where do you want to start? Are you able to tell me your story?"

Terror strikes me: FUCK! we're getting right to the hardest part. what if she laughs? What if she sympathizes with Cassie and decides I'm the shit. What if she thinks I'm a weak, unattractive, beta man for letting it hit me so hard? The waiter stops by for our drink orders - just in time to save me - and we order a bottle of dry red wine as I compose my thoughts.

"Well... look, Tara. OK... uh... first... I need you to actively listen. Tell me how you react to each thing I say. My story is very, very difficult for me and I'm going to have to tell it again... I need to know how to say it and that it's okay... or not okay... to come completely clean. I'm going to tell you the whole thing. The good, the bad and the ugly. I will appreciate if you listen and respond honestly. As a potential girlfriend might inside their head.

"And honestly, Tara... if you find me unattractive after this... it's okay. Really, it's okay. I just need to know..."

Over dinner I go over the details. Well, not the blow-by-blow details, but enough so she gets the whole honest picture. When I admit to my adultery, she confesses to a tiny bit of sympathetic anger at my betrayal of Cassie; I'm happy she does: if she can admit that, then I know I'm getting an unfiltered, sincere reaction. I kind-of explain my rationale - if you'd call it that - and I can't say I think she was any more sympathetic, but maybe understood me a bit better in the process.

Then I unfold what little I knew about Cassie's interactions with Lily. I tell it chronologically, even though I learned it out of order. She gasps and shakes her head. Then she surprises me:

Left turn: she admits that it gets her a little turned on to hear about this. That sets me back a bit.

At the same time, back on track, she's also outraged - and I didn't lead her to it - that Cassie would fall into that trap but still be an accomplished psychotherapist.

Then I tell her about the Lost and Found and Cassie's plot to assassinate my self-esteem.

After the initial disbelief, Tara actually tears up a bit for me. "Really? She did that?"

Again, I don't lead her to the conclusion, but she struggles with how Cassie could do that to me without ever trying to work it out. Her empathy is like sparkling drops of rain to me on a miserably hot day. She chews on her thoughts and many expressions crawl across her face; it looks like selecting from all the yellow emojis on my phone. After a long silence. She just says, "Unbelievable."

I feel the tiniest of chinks in one of my emotional shield walls. Maybe a brick or two crumbled.

We collect ourselves. "Okay, Damian. You asked for an honest opinion about how you might tell a girl this story. Here it is: Never on a first date." She smiles and winks at me: it's so disarming. We share our first genuine laugh.

"So let me get this straight. I'm looking at the hunkiest client I've ever had and you're telling me... you only had sex with one woman for the first thirty-eight years of your life?" She puts her hand over her heart.

That's what she took out of my story? "Yeah... something like that. Before Lily..."

"That is so... sweet. And now what's your body count?"

"Two."

"TWO?" she practically shouts it. "Two...her and... two? Oh. My. Fucking. Goddess."

"Yeah..." I feel a little guilty for lying to her. It was probably closer to five, but I have to be consistent with my half-truths or I'll slip sometime.

"And now 'three' is a bridge too far...? Why's that?"

I realize she's holding my hand: I hadn't even noticed. I take time to compose my answer. To compose myself. I can't cry again. "I... I..."

"Shh... shh... that's okay. You don't have to say it. We can work on that."

I look into her sweet eyes, full of compassion. Cassie used to look at me that way. It makes me feel better. But also worse - because it wasn't Cassie.

She sees her spell start to fade and moves quickly. "So, hunk... can we go to your place? I promise to be well-behaved..." She's very empathic.

I pay the bill and we suck down the last of the wine. I am both looking forward to -- and dreading -- what may be in store for the rest of the evening. I let her in to my apartment; it was the best I could get on short notice. The furniture is the generic brown stuff you find in a hotel and there are still no pictures on the wall, but there's an 8x10 on the end table of the boys in their jerseys, proud after a winning game. I have no artifacts from my life here. Just a couch, chair, dining table and TV. I'd tidied up so it wasn't a bachelor pad vibe. But as I looked around, it felt sterile and empty.

Like me.

"Look, Damian... we don't need to rush into anything. Tonight, all I'm offering you is a backrub. Would that be okay?" She looks at me deeply.

I just nod, slowly.

She smiles and takes a bottle of oil from her backpack. She had this planned. "May I get more comfortable? It's okay if you say no..."

I bite my lip and nod.

She slinks out of her dress slowly, while watching me intently: maybe for my reaction for clinical reasons? But somehow, I think that she's looking for my reaction for herself: for personal reasons. Validation. Yes, she has extra pounds on her, and a bunch more tattoos that aren't visible when she's clothed. but at this moment, she's the sexiest woman I've ever seen. I realize I'm getting a little hard - it shocks even me, but she has done something to me. She's touched me in a way I've not been touched lately. Or am I just romanticizing? She's wearing only a white cotton bra and panties: department store couture.

"May I take these off too?" She's clearly aware of the bulge forming in my slacks and emboldened that she's made me rise to the occasion.

"Please." It may have been the hardest word I've said in a week.

She finishes her undress: a little shyly, but there it is. Her breasts are medium, maybe B or C cup, and somewhat firm looking, but not perky. They're a bit more, hmmm, comfortable. Relaxed. Her brown nipples are pierced and a bit erect, I think, but that also might be because of the piercings. And, damned if I didn't catch a glint of metal below her neatly trimmed bush. I laugh to myself - it's trimmed in a triangle, but to me it's like an arrow pointing down.

She wants validation. "You... you're beautiful..."

She smiles a quirky half-grin. "OK, then, you! Strip and let me enjoy this, hunk." She barks it as a playful order, but it is an order.

I get a funny thrill being objectified and ordered around by this strange woman. But I do it. I even do a little Magic Mike butt shake for her and she laughs and catcalls. I strip down to my underwear which is now clearly tented.

She whistles when she sees it. "Whuoaaa, baby!" I ask myself what the rules are here. I guess I expected a clinical, dispassionate interaction, but she's not acting terribly professional. I mentally shrug and realize that this is her clinic and this is her professional persona. She's here to help me feel good about myself and who doesn't feel good with the opposite sex appreciating their body? She is being professional: just a profession I've never encountered.

She uses that authoritative voice again. "Now, Tiger, lay down on the bed, face-first."

There it is again. A buzz behind my ears. I realize I like her telling me what to do. It's somehow liberating; I don't have to think or control. I'm so out of my element at the moment - emotionally more than physically - that it's a relief not to have to work it out. I'm freed to experience this. And giving up control also means I'm giving up the stress of trying to stay in control: of everyone and everything. She actually said in Anne's office that she's looking forward to being with me. I like that. I like that this isn't all a one-way street. If it was all for me, I'd feel self-conscious and I wouldn't really be able to open as much. It might feel sterile and forced. I feed on Cassi... no... on 'my partner's' passions and pleasures. It's almost better to watch her cum than to cum myself.

I lay down and Tara hooks her fingers into the sides of my briefs.

"May I?"

I nod and lift my ass a bit. Then the last vestiges of my modesty are quickly and unceremoniously ripped down my legs and there I am: nude.

"Nice ass!" she says and then the unexpected: She spanks me on the ass. Once. Hard, but playfully. "Oooh! Nice!" She giggles again and swats the other cheek.

I freeze. No one has ever done that. Did I like it?

"You okay, big boy? Am I going too fast?"

"No, it's okay..." There it is: I'm turned on. I'm actually turned on.

She massages me starting with my neck and shoulders. It's a sensual massage, or at least I think it is. She's good enough, but I don't think she has the strength to really get in my muscles even if that's what she's trying to do.

She smells feminine and flowery. I try to relax into it, giving her my tension and my stress, but I can't fully relax with a now raging hard-on leaking onto the sheet. What's happening to me? Then it strikes me: I haven't cum in almost three months. I like this. I like it a lot and want to tell her, but I'm immersed, so I just moan again.

I guess she takes that as a sign, spanks me again and says "good boy" moving to my lower back. I realize I should've gone to the bathroom before we'd started as she presses on my kidneys and her weight is squeezing my bladder. But somehow even that helps turn me on. I guess it's all connected down there. This back rub goes on for a dreamily long time. I give in to the feeling, the sensation. Those hands are the nicest thing I've experienced in my months of celibacy. I'm still hard, but giving in to the comfort takes the edge off. "that's really nice."

"May I... go lower? Can I make love to this gorgeous ass with my hands? I want to feel you. I want to touch you. May I? No pressure, Damian, but I want to go as fast as you'll let me."

"Please... Yes." I give her permission and realize as she slides down my body that there's a wet spot where she had been sitting, suddenly cooling with the air conditioning blowing on it. I get a thrill, thinking that this woman I've barely met had developed such an honest reaction to doing this.

She realizes it too and giggles. "Now look what I've done..." she scoops up the wet spot onto her fingers, thinks and asks, carefully, sinfully "do you want to smell it, Damian?" Then she holds her fingers near my nose.

Wow, she's direct!

I tense and my cock comes back to life. I do... I really do. Is this happening? "uhhh... yes, please." She holds it to my nose. It's pungent and maybe a little flowery; she might've used some sort of product on herself, but it still smells like woman. Before I know it, my tongue has betrayed me and touched it.