The Client

THE CLIENT

by ladyphoenix

Why was there never a good masseuse around when you needed one?

Kicking her red leather pumps off under her desk, Charlotte grimaced at the ache in her arches, rubbing her feet together in an attempt to relieve it. Tearing several pages of notes from the yellow pad on her desk, she tucked them into a manila folder, put the client's name on the tab and put it in the "FILE" pile. It was the end of the day, she'd seen seven clients with issues ranging from anxiety and depression to one serious case of 'fuck-off-there's-nothing-wrong-with-me-despite-the-serious-problems-I-create-in-my-life' denial, and she was tired.

Not physically tired. For some reason she was practically humming with energy; she was just emotionally and intellectually tired. Tired of listening to excuses and bitching all day long. Tired of having to stay calm, cool and collected in the midst of all those rationalizations and complaints, and tired of leading people to solutions they didn't want.

Getting up from her chair, Charlotte went to the one small window of her office, pulling dark curtains closed against slanting rays of hot sunlight. It was almost 6:00, she had one more client to see, and she was looking forward to the half-full bottle of strawberry merlot in her fridge at home, a long, hot bath, and an intimate evening with her vibrator.

That explained the energy, she thought as she went back to the desk, slipping her shoes on. She hadn't dated since 'train wreck Tony' four months before and she needed to get laid. Vibrators and dildos were fine but getting fucked by a living, breathing man with a nice thick cock was so much more satisfying. Fleetingly she thought she might have to post a Craigslist ad for a volunteer when a knock at her office door cut off the idea.

"Come in."

Her assistant and front desk manager, Tess, stuck her head in, smiling. "Hey. Just wanted to let you know your appointment's in the waiting room. Sure you don't need me to stay?"

"No, it's okay. I'm fine. Enjoy your evening."

"Thanks. G'night!'

Tess was moving down the hall toward the employee entrance before Charlotte could answer. It was the normal procedure for Tess to stay in the office if there was a new client coming in this late in the day but Charlotte had already seen this particular gentleman and he was hardly a threat.

Putting on a gracious--if fake--smile, Charlotte went out to the door separating the therapy office from the lobby.

"Mr. Gerald?"

Her client was sitting stiffly in a hard chair in the corner, leaning slightly forward and looking uncomfortable; when she said his name he unfolded his body from the seat and gave her a pressed-lip smile, moving toward then past her and into her office.

"How have you been, Mr. Gerald?"

Taking a seat on one of the oversized leather chairs in her office, he met her glance. "Tom. I told you. Call me Tom."

Nodding, Charlotte closed the office door, taking a seat across from him in a matching chair. She preferred having an informal seating area to meet with clients rather than talking to them across the desk so here they were only about four feet apart, with nothing between the chairs and a thick, dark rug under their feet. Crossing her legs, she adjusted her black skirt just over her knees.

"Okay, Tom it is," she answered, suddenly feeling a bit edgy. She'd been alone with clients before at even later hours, so that wasn't it. He wasn't a new client. But there did seem to be something different about him this evening, starting with the hard irritation in his voice when she hadn't called him by his first name.

Tom Gerald was in his mid-fifties, tall, with a body most women would drool for. Thick, dark hair with some gray at the temples, ice blue eyes, and if his hands and feet were any indication of the size of his...

"Doc?"

His voice shocked her away from the thought.

"Are you upset, Tom? You seem different this evening." Always best to talk about the elephant in the room.

Glancing up quickly, Tom frowned. "Yes. There's something...bothering me."

"Would you like to talk it out?"

He kept his gaze on her, level and intense. Charlotte squirmed, pressing her thighs together under that glare. Something was wrong. The air in the room felt heavy.

"I lied."

Charlotte blinked and her client looked away, relaxing marginally back in his chair. Okay, it wasn't anything serious. He just needed to come clean about something.

"Tom, it's fine. You've only seen me for a few sessions. It's difficult to tell a stranger about all of your struggles. If you didn't feel comfortable sharing something during your assessment, just know that you can share it anytime you like without judgement."

Looking down at his feet, Tom flattened his palms on his thighs before nodding. "I think I should talk about it."

Charlotte didn't answer. Silence is often the most effective tool in therapy so she stayed relaxed and didn't push.

"I have a...an addiction."

She made a soft, accepting murmur to encourage his revelation.

Tom leaned fully back into his chair, sliding his palms to his knees then back until they were high on his thighs. Charlotte fidgeted, unable to keep herself from thinking about the healthy bulge under the placket of his jeans.

"Sex."

She heard herself gasp softly. "I...sorry?"

"I think I'm a sex addict."

Recovering instantaneously, Charlotte put her 'calm, cool therapist' face back on. "I see. What makes you believe that?"

"I think about it constantly."

"You said your last relationship ended about a year ago, yes?

"Right."

"Have you dated since? Had any sexual contacts? It may be that this is nothing more than your need to have some normal sexual activity with a partner."

"It's not NOTHING," he snapped, fingers flexing on his thighs.

Charlotte didn't reprimand him for the outburst; he was upset that she hadn't appeared to take his concern seriously. Then she noticed that his right thumb was sliding slowly back and forth over that bulge. Turning her gaze slightly to one side and away from him directly, she decided it was likely an unconscious movement and she would ignore rather than address it.

"Are you still working, Tom?"

"Yeah."

"Still able to function day-to-day? Keep up with your normal habits and hobbies?" Glancing back to him, she saw his hands were still, though they remained high on his thighs. He nodded.

"I'm still playing baseball. Jogging. Usually go out with a few guys from work on the weekends to catch a game or grab a few drinks. So I guess the answer is yes."

"That's good. It means you haven't let anything take over your life and overshadow things that you need to do, and things you enjoy doing. So I wonder if this is more a preoccupation than an obsession."

"You don't understand. I might work and go to the bar and play sports but I'm not seeing anyone. I can't. It's too hard not to..."

"Not to--?"

Meeting her eyes, Tom's expression turned hard. "You don't want to know."

"I can't help if I don't know, Tom. It's okay."

Shifting in his seat, he shook his head. In the silence, Charlotte could feel his tension rising. He went rigid and back to rubbing his thumb over his crotch. She could hardly help but see his cock was swelling as the denim tightened and the bulge enlarged.

"Tom. You need to stop. That's not appropriate."

He was looking at her or, more correctly, staring at her. Moving his gaze from her face and down; she could feel her skin prickling under the white blouse and black skirt. She uncrossed her legs.

"Tom, we should probably take a break and continue this next week."

"NO!"

She started to stand but the word hit her like a blow, forcing her back down again. "Tom, I'm sorry but I don't think this is the best time. I'm feeling uncomfortable--"

"UNCOMFORTABLE?" he hissed. Standing, he took one step forward, closing the distance between them to nearly nothing. He put his right hand fully onto his crotch, rubbing it obscenely. "Try living with THIS day after day after day. You said I could tell you, and now you want to run away?"

For the life of her, Charlotte couldn't think of a single de-escalation technique. She was genuinely afraid now, wondering how this had taken such a hard left turn. In a panic she tried to calm her voice and speak softly; reassuringly.

"Tom--"

"Shut the fuck up!" he growled. Leaning in, he grabbed her upper arms to haul her out of her chair and into his chest.

Charlotte's lips parted on a harsh intake of breath. His hands were rough and hot on her skin, his chest pressing hard into her breasts.

"You fucking 'doctors' think you're so damn superior, don't you? All those fancy ass diplomas on your walls and your holier-than-thou attitude, always looking down your noses at the rest of us. Fucking CUNT!"

The word hit her hard as he shoved her roughly back into her chair. She landed in a disheveled heap, hair falling out of the neat chignon she'd worked so hard to perfect that morning and blouse pulling out of the waistband of her skirt. Watching him pace angrily away, turn on a heel and come stalking back toward her, she realized only when his eyes went down her body that he was seeing the tops of her black stockings because her skirt was crumpled up high on her thighs.

'Change tactics,' Charlotte thought fuzzily, slowly straightening in the chair and pulling her skirt back to cover her knees. The problem was, she couldn't think of a single new tactic to try.

"Fucking insurance companies pay you a shitload of cash, don't they? What are you getting for me? Two hundred? Three? For a fucking HOUR. Shit. You're just a prostitute with a fancy degree. Selling yourself to insurance companies by the hour."

Charlotte looked away. He saw the move and cursed.

"How much?" he demanded.

Charlotte kept her face away, staring at the curtained window.

He was over her in an instant, his face in hers. "HOW FUCKING MUCH?"

She didn't answer. Couldn't.

"HOW MUCH?" he roared.

"Five," was all she could manage on a terrified whisper.

Tom pushed away from her chair, running a hand through his hair. "Five hundred dollars for a fucking hour of your precious time," he muttered quietly.

Charlotte actually winced; his quiet response was even more terrifying than his scream. "Tom--"

"Don't you try to justify that shit to me!" He was shouting again, and went back to pacing.

After several minutes he stopped, turned to look at her, and walked back to the chair across from hers, sitting down again.

"Earn it."

"I...sorry?"

Both hands on his thighs he leaned forward, glaring at her with icy eyes, and whispered, "They've already paid you twice. This is my third session. For fifteen hundred bucks you should be able to cure this shit. So do it." Glancing at the heavy watch on his left wrist, he added, "you have forty-seven minutes."

"You can't expect--"

"Oh yes, I do," he growled, leaning back, spreading his knees open and starting to rub his crotch through his jeans boldly. As he spoke he held her gaze, ensuring she received every word. "I don't just want to fuck. I have this need. To grab a woman by her hair, slam her down on the nearest bed, or floor or--" glancing away he moved his gaze slowly around the office. When he returned to her, he smiled a small, almost cruel smile. "Or desk. Then I want to fuck the living shit out of her while she screams and fights me. I want to force my cock deep into her tight little cunt and make her my bitch."

Charlotte sat frozen, his monologue sending fear crawling up her spine. And she felt something much more horrifying. A hot, wet ache in her pussy and her clit. A perverse feeling of excitement merged with the fear.

What the fuck--?

"Forty-five minutes."

Snapping her thoughts back into place, Charlotte tried to focus. "Tom, have you--"

"No, doc. That's why I'm here. It's your job to keep me from walking out of this office, finding the first fuckable cunt I see and doing exactly what I want to with her."

"If you do this, you're responsible for it. You can't lay it at my feet."

Another wicked smile; he leaned forward. "If I leave here and do it, you'll never forget this. That you had the opportunity to stop it. You'll wonder what you could have done--should have done--to save some poor bitch from me. You'll be useless, doc, and you'll never be worth five-fucking-hundred-dollars an hour again in your miserable life."

He leaned back into the chair, pushing his hips forward and spreading his knees wide. "Just making myself comfortable," he said before putting his hands to his belt buckle, unfastening it, and unzipping his jeans.

"Please don't--"

His jeans open, now the press of his hard cock was more obvious against the pale gray of his briefs, but he went no further to expose himself. He did resume touching himself, staring her down as if to challenge her.

"What's wrong, doc? Afraid to see a real man's dick? What are you, some kind of repressed old maid?"

Stinging, Charlotte tried to force bravery. "I don't think you want to rape a woman, Tom. I think you get your thrills trying to scare them. You'll probably go home and get off thinking you're some kind of sexual beast. It's pitiful, really."

She hadn't taken a breath before regretting the tactic. Tom came out of his chair, lunging for her, and she screamed sharply but couldn't escape before he had her again by the arms. He dragged her from her seat, the rug providing at least a measure of softness as her knees slammed down.

She fought. Clawing at him, trying to pull herself free of his grip, she heard herself pleading--that he release her, that she wanted to help him--anything to be freed. His response was silence, to tighten his grip on her right arm and release her left, only to put his other hand in her hair, tearing the pins from it until her hair was loose and falling in disarray over her back and shoulders.

"What do you think now, doc?" Holding just one of her arms, he shook her. "Look at me, you fucking cunt!"

Charlotte gave up fighting and looked up, seeing him through lashes wet with tears. She was horrified that her pussy was aching, hot and just as wet. She was trembling, and when he shook her again she whimpered in fear.

"I'm not some pathetic kid beating myself off watching porn in mommy's basement," he said, every word dripping with icy condescension and edged in an almost maniacal pleasure. "But maybe you need convincing, huh doc? Take it out!"

"W--what?"

"Take my cock out, you fucking whore. I want to see you like this...on your knees with my dick in your hands. Better way to earn that five hundred anyway. Now take it the fuck out before I slam you down and fuck the shit out of you right here, right now." Leaning down until his face was in hers he said nastily, "Or maybe that's what you want, slut. Maybe you want me to shove you face down on that pretty desk of yours and fuck you 'til you beg for mercy. That what you want, doc?" Straightening again he towered over her. Holding her with his left hand, he shoved the thumb of his right hand into the front pocket of his jeans, waiting.

"Please--" Charlotte hated the sound of her voice; it was soft, pitiful; almost whining.

"That's better," he hissed. "Now be a good little whore and do what you're told."

Charlotte dropped her head, lifting her hands to the lewd, open vee of his jeans. Slipped her fingers into the waistband of his briefs. She pulled down, but had to pull them out as well to get them over the thickness of his cock, flinching when it sprang up, fully hard, thick and pulsing, against her face. She jerked away, only able to turn her face to one side when he wouldn't let her back away.

He made a rough sound that was part satisfaction, part humor, and let go of her arm, telling her that if she moved he would make her regret it. Then he went to the office door and locked it.

When he turned back to her, Charlotte felt a shiver of apprehension and at the same moment a deep flutter of arousal in her cunt. He stalked back to her slowly, his cock jutting out obscenely. Halfway back to her, he took it in his right hand, slowly stroking himself, and stopped to look at her. She was able to turn her head, ashamed at her body's response.

"What's wrong, doc? This getting you wet? You need a good fucking to remind you what you're really worth?"

"What else do you want? Does it make you feel powerful to terrify me? Then you've accomplished your mission. Why don't you just go?"

"So you can call the cops and have me locked up?" He smiled a wholly nasty smile. "No thanks, doc. I need a little insurance first." Walking back to her, he came close enough that she had to turn her head away to avoid touching him but he only settled back into his chair, legs spread, cock pulsing. "Get on your feet."

Unsteadily, Charlotte stood, trying to straighten her clothes.

"Don't bother. They're coming off."

"What? No. NO."

He was holding his cellphone in both hands, thumbs pushing at something on the screen.

"Strip, doc. And try to look like you're enjoying it. You scream or cry or act like a little bitch and we'll be using your desk for more than just therapy."

Charlotte wrapped her arms around her middle; he shouted, "DO IT!" then added mockingly, "and do it pretty, doc. Make it sexy."

"No." Shaking her head; hating the break in her voice, she said it again, weakly. "No. Please."

He got up again, taking her around the waist with one arm to secure her to him; with his free hand he took one of hers, forcing it down to his cock. She yelped and squirmed, trying to pull away, but he wrapped her slender hand around the thick base of his cock and, with his hand over hers, began masturbating himself, moaning roughly into her ear.

"Oh, you will," he whispered to her, moaning as their hands slipped over the head where precum lubricated the strokes, his hips jerking forward. "You will, because you know what I can do to you. Because you know how much I want to bend your ass over that desk, shove this up your prissy little cunt and make you scream for me. Now--your choice: strip and make it look good, or--" He moved her--half-pulling, half-lifting--to the edge of her desk, turning her toward it and slamming her upper body down onto the surface.

"No...please don't.....please...I'll do whatever you want. Please!"

He ignored her, holding her in place with one big hand pressing her back while he jerked up her skirt, exposing the tops of her black stockings and white lace panties.

"Ohhh, doc," he murmured approvingly, roughly caressing the backs of her thighs and her ass. "Maybe you are a little slut after all. Those sexy panties and red heels...you're just a high class whore. I'll bet after work you earn a lot more than five hundred an hour, hmm?" Forcing his hand between her legs, he cupped his palm against her right thigh and shoved it open, using his left knee to move the other until his prick was pushing hard into her ass, wetting her panties.

"No! Don't!" Charlotte grabbed for anything she could reach on the desk--a pen, the desk phone, a letter opener, but he held her with one hand on her back, his groin on her ass, and took everything away from her that she was able to reach. She tried opening one of the desk drawers, only to have it pull too far out and slam onto the floor, scattering staples, tape, pens and notepads over the carpet. He moved his hand from her back to the back of her neck, forcing her face into the polished wood and effectively demonstrating that if she continued to fight he could--and likely would--cut off her air. She knew if he were going to rape her he wanted her conscious but could easily choke her out to further terrorize her. She gave up, opening her hands in a gesture of surrender.