The Addicted Natural Ch. 15

It was her turn to gawk at me. "But surely you know …." She studied me closely. "You gave her the mark …."

I suddenly bristled. "I've never 'marked' Brenda!" I retorted. "I've never lifted a finger against her in anger. I've NEVER struck her! Nor will I ever. I love her; and I love Dee; and I love YOU! And I'd never …." I stopped at her expression.

"Not that kind of mark!" she said, smiling. She gazed at me for another moment. "Frederick, Brenda is an empath. An extremely adept empath."

I searched my mind. I'd heard the term somewhere. "You mean, like, if I break my arm, she takes the pain away and bears it herself?"

She gave a little laugh. "No. Empaths deal in the emotional, not the physical. If you are deeply troubled by a strong emotion, Brenda senses it and shares it. But emotions tend to cloud judgment. Most people can't find a solution to their emotional problem. Brenda possesses the unique ability to see the various solutions to that problem and choose the right path.

"But the empath's strength is also her curse. She must attach herself to those who most need her. That is why, when she saw ME in that campground restroom, she felt compelled to coax me back to her campsite and try to get me to open up to her. I had had dealings with empaths before, and even though I knew exactly what she was and what she was doing, I felt myself unable to resist her charm, her comfort. It's extremely difficult to resist an empath. And, as I said, she seeks out those who are most in need of her abilities. That is why she attached herself to Dee. And, I'm sure, that is why she attached herself to YOU."

I jumped a little and glared at her.

"Oh," she said. "Poor Frederick. You thought YOU had found HER!"

And now, dear reader, it's time for my LAST literary device: a review and clarification; which, thankfully, will be very short. I suppose you've all experienced a moment in a restaurant when you try to attract the attention of the waiter and he simply ignores you, always looking the other way; never quite "seeing" you. In the hit Broadway musical "Chicago," there's a number sung by a guy that calls himself "Mister Cellophane;" in which he bemoans the fact that people "look right through" him. That was me; and not just in restaurants, either. Earlier in this saga, I told you that I'd had half a dozen sexual encounters before I'd met Brenda. Actually, there had been only four. Three had been overseas, while I was in the military; all of whom had been prostitutes. And the two who had asked for "dates," i.e., given me "freebies," afterwards, had probably had ulterior motives for doing so: getting to the States and starting a new life, most likely. The one sexual "conquest" I'd had in recent years before I'd met my lovely wife had involved a girl who was so drunk that she didn't even remember me the next morning. Women didn't notice me. They barely even saw me. To put it succinctly, life before Brenda had been crap. But my life had changed since I'd "acquired" my beautiful slave-spouse. People DID notice HER. And since she deferred to me in almost all incidences, they had to notice ME by default. I had become … real.

And now, this white-haired self-proclaimed psychic was suggesting that I had just been a mercy fuck! I was obviously not amused. I closed my eyes and counted to ten again. She must have sensed my reaction.

"Please, you mustn't doubt the depth of her love for you. She NEEDS you. She loves you completely. You are her Master. You are as vital to her as the air she breathes!" She reached out and put her hand on my arm, and her eyes were infinitely tender. But then a question entered them. "But the mark …."

"What mark?"

"The heptagram," she said.

"The hepta-what?"

"Heptagram. It's a symbol: a square merged with a triangle."

My eyes widened with sudden recognition.

"A seven pointed star," she said. "The patch of pubic hair you had her leave just above her pussy. The sign of the empath."

I had a lot to think about. None of this could be true. It just didn't happen. Not for real. The girls talked all the time. Was it possible this was some sort of mass-hysteria? I looked at the lovely girl-slave sitting on the edge of the bed, watching me with hope. Would I tell her I believed her, just to make her happy?

"You've done well telling me the … truth, Willie. Thank you. I always want you to be open and honest with me. I'm going to reward you now." I took the watch out of my pocket and held it close to her, just above her eye-level.

"Oh!" she said in a whisper. She looked up intently at it while it spun lazily on its chain. Slowly, she cocked her head to the left; her mouth relaxed and opened, a small drop of saliva forming at the left corner of her slightly smiling lips. Slowly, without my uttering a word, her eyes began to droop.

She sighed contentedly.