Long Slow Tease: Penance Part 15

The other woman extended her hand and Mich.e.l.le took it, noting with some surprise that her therapist had her eyebrow and nosed pierced. All of the therapists that Mich.e.l.le had been to had an uber professional air about them, but something about Lisa relaxed her instantly. It helped that Lisa wore a long summer dress in orange and pink tones that Yuki would have loved and that when she took a seat in the wide grey chair across from the couch where Mich.e.l.le sat, she didn't give Mich.e.l.le that probing, uncomfortable stare that always made her want to clam up.

Lisa sat back in her chair and gave Mich.e.l.le a small smile. "So Mich.e.l.le, what brings you here today?"

Seeing the other woman, looking so composed and put together while Mich.e.l.le felt like hot mess did nothing for her temper. "Why am I here? Because I'm weak, flawed, broken, and I can't handle my s.h.i.t anymore. I mean isn't that why people come to therapists? Because we're f.u.c.king head cases?"

Instead of getting angry, Lisa shrugged. "Actually people who come to see a therapist are probably some of the strongest people I've met. Why don't you tell me about why you decided to come to the appointment today. Are you here for something you want to work on or because someone else wants you to be here?"

She looked down at her hands, trying to ignore the sorry state of her nails. They were in desperate need of a manicure. h.e.l.l, she couldn't remember the last time she'd actually given a s.h.i.t about how she looked, and that freaked her out a bit.

"What has Wyatt told you?"

"I was contacted by a friend of mine who referred Wyatt. All I know are the basics because I wanted an opportunity to talk to you to find out what you hoped to get from this process. Mich.e.l.le, you came in here saying that you're weak, flawed, broken, and can't handle your s.h.i.t anymore. And that people who go to therapy are f.u.c.king head cases? Is that how you feel or a message someone has given you? From what I know about you, you are a veteran of the armed forces and served with honor. Not only that, but you're a well-respected doctor. That isn't the sign of someone who is weak, flawed or broken. Additionally, I know that you're in the lifestyle as am I, and that as a Domme you hold yourself to a high standard of control and do what is best for your submissive. I'm hoping in our sessions together we can start to work on why you're feeling like you are broken."

"You're in the lifestyle?"

Lisa smiled and turned, lifting her hair off the back of her neck so Mich.e.l.le could see the elegant triskelion tattooed there. "Yep. Feel free to talk about anything you want, I'm not here to judge you, and I don't give a s.h.i.t about what society thinks may be right or wrong about our lifestyle. You and I both know that BDSM is just another way to love."

Tears filled Mich.e.l.le's eyes and she swallowed hard, taken off guard by Lisa's understanding. She wasn't anything like the high priced therapist her mother dragged her to after Owen's death. Lisa seemed to actually care. Still, it went against everything Mich.e.l.le had been taught to open up to a stranger about her issues so she shrugged and looked away.

Instead of being put off, Lisa said in a gentle voice, "Why don't you tell me about some of your time before you joined the service. How things were at home? Who is in your family and your life?"

She hesitated, not wanting to tell this woman who her family really was, that she was the daughter of a Senator and a famous movie star. Once that came out, no matter how much the other person tried to act like it was no big deal, it was. She went from being Mich.e.l.le Sapphire to being Senator Sapphire's daughter. But she didn't want to be that here. She just wanted to be...herself.

"I guess you could say I had a normal life for a child born into a life of privilege. I had everything I ever wanted, a doting father, a loving and perfect mother." She looked away from Lisa, instead focusing on the ocean beyond the windows of Lisa's office. A little girl with long, wet hair was being picked up by a man Mich.e.l.le a.s.sumed was her father and swung up into the air. "I mean she really was perfect. I can't think of a time as a child when my mother wasn't impeccably dressed, always a lady, always in control."

"So you were encouraged to be perfect?"

That startled a laugh out of her. "I said my mother was perfect, not me. I was always messing up my clothes, or forgetting my homework, or any of a thousand other things that annoyed her. And of course I was expected to act a certain way. My family was...is very visible in the public arena. Every one of our actions in public was scrutinized. I can remember being at a speech my father was giving, I must have been around eight or nine, and I got bored and started picking at my nails, then looking around, kicking my feet and you know, entertaining myself. The next day, I was on the front page of the newspaper with some trite caption about Sena...my father's mischief maker. My mother was appalled."

A wave of melancholy went through her, fading the smile from her lips and making her shoulders slump. "She wouldn't speak to me for two weeks afterwards. I think it would have been longer if my father hadn't put his foot down. She hated to be embarra.s.sed."

"Was that how things typically went when you disappointed your mom, you got the silent treatment?"

Memories of sitting at the dinner table, enduring her mother's icy silence made Mich.e.l.le's stomach clench. "Yes either that or hour-long lectures."

"How did that make you feel?"

"How do you think that made me feel? I hated it, hated that I had to be what she viewed as perfect in order for her to love me. It would have been easier if she'd just yelled at me, punished me, spanked me or did anything other than ignoring me."

"And how about your father? Did he give you the silent treatment as well?"

"No, he'd punish me and then we'd move on. My mother...she knows how to hold a grudge."

"How so?"

Mich.e.l.le looked down at her nails again, thinking of how appalled her mom would be at their sorry state. She wanted to tell Lisa about her dad cheating on her mom and how her mother had held a grudge against her father for years, but she didn't feel comfortable airing her family's dirty laundry. One thing she'd been taught from birth was that she must do nothing that would hurt her father's political career and her mother's social standing.

She had to be perfect, they had to be perfect, no matter what.

"I'd rather not talk about that right now."

"That's fine. We can discuss it when you're ready. It sounds like you didn't like the life that was chosen for you as a child."

She bristled, the need to defend her family filling her. "I had a good life. I had everything I could ever want. The best schools, the best clothes, the best of everything."

"If you had a child, would you want him or her to be raised the same way you were?"

"Me, have children?" She'd never really thought about that before, it had always been an abstract concept, especially considering she never intended on loving another man like she'd loved Owen.

"Is that something you don't think will ever happen?"

"No, no I just...I guess I never really thought about it."

She'd like to have that someday. Would love to be able to sit back with Wyatt in one of those bright beach chairs and watch their children play in the surf. An intense mental image of just that filled her mind and she wanted it, wanted to have a family with Wyatt more than she'd ever wanted anything. Wyatt would be a wonderful father and while she wasn't ready to be a mother yet a she was too f.u.c.ked up to even take care of herself at the moment a she thought that maybe she could be strong for her children.

That thought came over her like a sort of epiphany. She could be the kind of mother she'd always wanted, she could let her kids get dirty, let them make mistakes and forgive them. They wouldn't have to always be picture perfect, she'd let them screw up and still love them.

Lisa was watching her patiently and she swallowed hard. "I'd be different."

"What would you do differently?"

"I'd love them, unconditionally."

"So would you say your parent's love was conditional?"

"Not my dad, but my mother, yes." She slumped back into the sofa, and even as she did her mother's voice told her to sit up straight and stop looking like a slob.

"Do you have any siblings?"

"Yes, two brothers."

"And was she as focused on what she thought of as perfection with them as she was with you?"

"No, because they were boys."

"And boys weren't supposed to be perfect in your house?"

She thought about it, remembering all the times her brother's screwed up and her mother would just brush it off as 'boys being boys'. "No, I don't think they were held to the same standard I was."

"Do you have any idea why?"

Frowning, she shook her head. "No."

"Our time is getting short. Mich.e.l.le, I'd like you to do something for me if you would."

"What?"

Lisa smiled at her suspicious tone. "I'd like you to write a letter to your mother telling her how you feel about her. I don't want you to actually send it to her, but I do want you to write with complete honesty. Tell her everything that you didn't like about how she raised you, along with the things that you did."

"Why?"

"Sometimes it's easier to think things through when we write them down, and to be honest with ourselves."

"Do I have to show it to you?"

"That is entirely up to you, Mich.e.l.le. I'm not here to judge you, I'm here to help. If you feel like showing me what you wrote I can promise you I will keep your complete confidence, if you don't feel comfortable sharing it with me that is all right as well." Lisa leaned forward a little bit. "The human mind is a very weird and wonderful place, but it can also be completely irrational. Sometimes we do things or react in ways that don't make any sense on the outside because of things from our past."

Mich.e.l.le wanted to argue that blaming her past for her present was a bunch of psychobabble bulls.h.i.t, but that wasn't true. If she believed that then she would have to believe that Wyatt's PTSD wasn't real, and she knew that wasn't true. She'd seen firsthand what his memories did and if she was being honest with herself, and she was really trying to be, she had her own form of PTSD that was f.u.c.king up her life, except hers seemed to be more guilt based than Wyatt's.

A small chime sounded and Lisa stood. "Thank you for coming to see me today, Mich.e.l.le. It took a lot of courage for you to walk through that door."

Mich.e.l.le stood as well, feeling uncomfortable as she looked at the stranger that suddenly knew so much about her. "Thanks for taking the time to listen to me."

Lisa went over to the side table by the front door and picked up what looked like a business card. "Here, this has my number on it. Feel free to call me any time of the day or night if you want to talk."

"Thanks." She slipped the piece of paper into her pants pocket and took a deep breath. "When can I see you again?"

"How about we start off with twice a week?"

She had no idea how long she would be here, that was entirely up to Wyatt and whatever his plans for her were, but she had a feeling it would be for at least a couple more weeks. The idea of only having to see Lisa a few more times made it somehow easier for Mich.e.l.le. "Sounds good."

Chapter 13.

Later that evening, after another enormous dinner that Wyatt made for her, Mich.e.l.le was standing at the sink, nude, doing the dishes while Wyatt was stretched out on the hammock on the deck, reading a book as the sun set over the ocean. While doing ch.o.r.es sucked, it felt good in a kind of domestic way to be doing such a mundane task. It made her feel almost normal, in an odd way. Well, except for the naked part.

Wyatt hadn't spoken to her much on the ride home, but once again, he held her hand. She wanted to ask him about his session, how he was doing with his PTSD, all the things she could focus on other than her own issues, but he still wasn't allowing her to speak, which she was finding increasingly irritating. In a way it was like her mother's silent treatment, but instead of ignoring her Wyatt was forcing her to ignore him, but that wasn't quite right either. If anything, her inability to talk to him made her want to show him her affection physically even more a when he allowed her to.

Though he wasn't her Dom, he did currently hold the majority of the power in their relationship and he was the one setting the boundaries. It was a very new and odd state of affairs for Mich.e.l.le. She was used to being the one in charge, the one calling the shots, and she realized that it scared her to put her trust into Wyatt, to give up as much control as she could to him. On some basic level she feared what would happen if she trusted someone completely and it occurred to her that as much as she said she trusted Wyatt, she didn't really.

Yes, she loved him with everything she had, but she kept waiting for him to leave her, to realize that she wasn't perfect.

Earlier she'd written the letter to her mother, which ended up being ten pages, front and back. As she wrote, she remembered a conversation she had with her mother after she found out Owen was seeing Daniella. Mich.e.l.le had gone to her Mom, crying and hurting, only to have her mother coolly tell Mich.e.l.le that if she tried harder, if she worked at being everything Owen needed, he wouldn't need to see another woman. At the time, her mother's words devastated her and only added to Mich.e.l.le's feelings of guilt about not being good enough for Owen. But now that she thought back on it, she realized it was right around the same time her father had begun to have an affair with one of his aides, an affair her mother probably already suspected, and Mich.e.l.le couldn't help but wonder if maybe her mother had been projecting her own insecurity onto her.

With a sigh, she dried her hands off with the cheery yellow hand towel before hanging it on the oven door handle. She glanced out the sliding gla.s.s doors and chewed her lower lip as indecision spun through her. Her first instinct was to go out to Wyatt and drape her body over his and enjoy him as her own personal mattress while the sun finished setting over the Gulf, but she didn't have that right anymore. She tried to get into her submissive mindset, knowing it would be easier for her if she did, but she just couldn't. The best she could manage was to endure Wyatt's dominance over her.

She walked slowly to the sliding doors, now open to capture the cool breeze and hear the crash of the surf. Wyatt was stretched out in the padded hammock, wearing only a pair of faded jeans and a t-shirt, looking good enough to eat. He had one of his arms behind his head, the firm muscle of his bicep bulging nicely, highlighting his toned physique. While she'd been trying to sleep her life away Wyatt had obviously been taking care of himself, and the thought made her unexpectedly angry.

While she'd been suffering he was off with Petrov, probably enjoying everything that Chicago had to offer. She knew her mentor well enough to know that both he and his wife would have enjoyed Wyatt's company. Mich.e.l.le wondered how many parties Wyatt had attended, how many beautiful female submissives he'd dominated. Jealousy reared its ugly head and she clenched her fists. If she could speak to him right now, she'd demand to know what he'd done with his time and who he'd spent it with. Yes, she knew he said he hadn't had s.e.x with anyone else but, he had to have at least touched other women to learn whatever it was Petrov taught him.

Knowing Wyatt, he'd probably given those women wonderful o.r.g.a.s.ms as well. It was in his nature to please women, and if they'd been as needy as she knew he could make her, then she doubted he would have left those women suffering. Rapid fire images of Wyatt playing with all the equipment at the club, an attentive audience of adoring women watching him work and wishing he was their Dom flashed through her mind. Then a terrible mental image of Mistress Daniella mentoring Wyatt raced through Mich.e.l.le's thoughts and she trembled with rage.

The picture of them together on the Internet of Wyatt dressed in a black suit looking as s.e.xy as always, and Daniella dressed in a little red c.o.c.ktail dress smiling up at him hit her like a blow to the gut.

As if sensing her, Wyatt looked up from his book with a welcoming smile that quickly faded. "No matter how hard you try, Mich.e.l.le, you aren't going to kill me with that angry glare of yours, though I am curious as to what has your panties in such a twist...if you were wearing any."

Her nude state further enraged her, anger that he'd denied her the right to wear clothes, making her feel vulnerable physically as well as emotionally.

"One question, Mich.e.l.le, that's all you get. Ask whatever it is that's got you in such a snit."

"How could you f.u.c.k Daniella?"

With a graceful display of strength he rolled out of the hammock and threw his book onto the deck, his lips firming and his brows drawing down as he gave her a p.i.s.sed off look that almost knocked her out of her own anger. "You think I f.u.c.ked her? You think I would sleep with a woman that I know is a trigger for you? I can't f.u.c.king believe you would think so little of me. I told you I didn't have s.e.x with anyone while we were apart."

"What the f.u.c.k do y..."

Before she could finish her statement, his big hand was clamped over her mouth and he pressed her against his body, easily pinning her to his solid frame. Perversely enough, despite her anger, her body reacted instantly, her p.u.s.s.y softening while her nipples drew up to hard points. It had been far too long since she'd had s.e.xual release of any kind, and she craved Wyatt's touch, his scent, his taste.

The gentle wind coming in off the water ruffled his dark hair and pressed this close to him she could see the faint amber flecks in his dark eyes. "I said one question. That's all you get."

She had no idea how she could want to choke him and kiss him in the same moment, but she did. Her emotions were like a runaway freight train, as if her mind was making up for the time she'd spent in her fog of depression, her feelings so intense she couldn't control them. The fact that Wyatt was continuing to take the dominant role in their relationship rankled her and she tried to bite his palm.

She knew that was a mistake the instant her teeth sank into his calloused flesh.

He growled and jerked his hand away, then shoved her to her knees. "Stay there. If you f.u.c.king move I swear you'll spend the night out here Mich.e.l.le a alone. I won't see you or speak to you until the morning."

Panic struck and she ducked her head. No, she couldn't bear not being near him tonight, even if it was chained to his bed. Once again, her insecurity and fear had gotten the better of her and she f.u.c.ked up, letting her anger and her own self-doubt cause her to strike out at Wyatt. With her mind on her mother all day she couldn't help but compare her actions to the way she'd watched her mother react all her life. Lash out, refuse to believe that she was worth Wyatt's love, and let her doubt hurt them both.

By the time Wyatt returned she was biting back tears, wondering why he was even bothering with her. She was so f.u.c.ked up, so cruel to him. He didn't deserve to be yelled at, especially since he was obviously trying so hard to help her. If he was just interested in dominating her for a thrill, or revenge, he wouldn't have arranged counseling for both of them. h.e.l.l, he wouldn't have even come back for her in the first place. She was so unworthy of him, so sorry for constantly doubting him, and her heart ached.

"Follow me with your eyes to the floor."

She stood, her knees throbbing a bit from kneeling on the hard wood, and dutifully followed him into the house.

The sun had almost completely set and Wyatt had turned on one low watt lamp in the living room. She took a quick glance around and drew in a soft breath. He'd moved the furniture back, and in place of the coffee table was a purple velvet s.e.x wedge. The almost triangle-shaped piece of velvet covered foam could be used to help a submissive hold a variety of positions for an extended period of time. Like bent over it so her a.s.s was in the air and her face angled to the ground, or on her back with the little pillow cushioning her head so her hips were up in the air for a deeper penetration, or any of a thousand other positions.

Her desire roared to life and she swore the hair on her arms stood up as her skin became sensitized to the point where the faintest breeze felt like a stroke against her.

"I want you over the wedge on your stomach, with your a.s.s in the air."