Abuse: The Complete Trilogy (18 page)

“Hate cannot
drive out hate: only love can do that.”

— Martin
Luther King, Jr.

~~~

Grant
Wilkinson

André bailed on
me, the ass hat. What do I do now? I’m alone with this beautiful, barely
clothed woman—my
therapist,
of all things! I feel as if I’ve jumped out
of a plane without a parachute.

Or more
accurately… I’ve been pushed.

Renata’s eyes
never leave my face as she steps nearer until she’s standing right in front of
me. She's so close; I can almost feel her body heat. My chest rises as I inhale
her scent.

Even with my
boots on and her barefoot, I’m only a few inches taller than she is. Her lips
are near to mine. Unable to even blink, I stare at them. They’re so inviting. I
can hardly believe it, but I feel the urge to kiss her. I never want to do
that.

I don’t kiss.
It’s a courtesy, really.

Monster!
Pervert!

She raises a hand
toward me. I should back away, I should stop her but I honestly find I’m unable
to move or speak. Just the sight and scent of her causes every muscle I have to
tighten.

I’m dumbfounded
when her fingers carefully feather over my facial scars. They brush along my
eye and cheek, trailing down along my jawline and chin.

Soft. So soft
and gentle.

I simply can’t
believe she’s
touching
me.

I’m hypnotized by
her.

In awe and
wonder, I try to make sense of her expression, but I can’t. Is it kindness?
There’s understanding in her eyes. When I look at her, all of my anger fades
away.

What’s going on?
Something’s happening here. Whatever it is, it’s constricting my chest and
making it difficult to breath.

The unbelievable
sensation of her tender caress upon my scarred skin is intense, powerful and
well beyond divine. How can someone so lovely accept something so ugly?

A fine tremor
begins in my body. I’m shaking and I can’t stop. A tight knot deep inside
me—one I didn’t even know I had—begins to loosen.

Other than
doctors or nurses, no one except me has ever touched my injury.

Damn it all to
hell.

What the fuck is
wrong with me? A kind and beautiful woman is willingly caressing my face. She’s
tenderly stroking my hideous scars without an ounce of revulsion.

She sees me.

She’s touching
me.

Why then, do I
feel like crying?

Our eyes meet and
I bite back a groan. This woman is killing me. I can almost read her thoughts
behind those amazing blue eyes, I see her emotions—there is no pity, no horror.
She isn’t hiding anything. Renata isn’t disgusted. What does she see that I
can’t?

Too good for
me. Far too good for me.

A burning fist of
sexual desire coils deep in my gut and groin. I imagine opening her robe,
moving my hands down her body and over the curve of her butt. I long to throw
her down on this bed, and thrust myself inside of her. I want to take her again
and again, until frustration, guilt and angst disappear.

God, I want
her.

I want to bury
myself until I’m mindless—until I’m purified by her goodness. I need to drive
into her body until the raging voices of conscience, hate and self-loathing are
gone.

God, I need
her.

My cock aches and
my blood boils with hungry, burning desire. Heat. Longing. Lust. Our eyes lock
and a blast of sensual energy passes between us. Wordlessly, everything I am
demands to know, will she have me? I read her answer in the naked desire that
shines in her blue, blue eyes:
“Yes.”

My whole world
stops. The stillness is profound. I’m only aware of
her.

Why does she want
me
? Doesn’t she see how broken I am? How can she stand my scars? It’s
then I notice that she’s trembling.

I don’t believe
it.

This can’t be
real.

With shaking
fingers, Renata opens her robe, pulling it off and dropping it down at her
feet. I manage to curb back the moan that comes from deep within me. As I
suspected, she’s buck-naked. She has a classic Scandinavian figure; slim arms,
large, high breasts with soft pink nipples—luscious curves in all the right
places.

Desire heats my
blood and pounds throughout my body. My breath sounds harsh to my ears. I stare
as she stretches her arms out towards me.

I’ve never
witnessed anything so beautiful in my life.

My barriers
lower, my resistance fails. It’s wrong, but I don’t care anymore—if she’ll have
me, by God, I’ll take her.

“Come to me,
Grant,” she whispers, as she offers herself to me.

I have absolutely
no control of my own reactions.

I hear a strange
combination between a growl and a sob as I pull her into my arms. Just as I’d
imagined, I grip her ass and she parts her legs. Cupping her buttocks, I lift
her to me, pulling her soft sex against my aching cock.

Accommodating and
willing, she wraps her legs around me while her fingers dig into my shoulders. My
chest rises as I inhale deeply. God, she smells divine.

I love the long,
slim, length of her, and how we’re nearly the same height. She tries to press
her lips against mine but even though I long to, I can’t. Instead, I bury my
face in her damp hair that curls around her neck and shoulder.

No kissing on the
mouth.

I’m completely
unprepared for my own response—unprepared for this rapid, all-consuming longing
of body and soul.

I’m a determined
man who has resisted the attentions of many young ladies over the years.
Beautiful women who thought they wanted me. Women who had no idea
who
or
what
I am.

It’s strange to
discover such powerlessness at Renata’s proximity. I’m weakened by her
kindness—or strengthened—I don’t know which. I do know I can’t fight this urgent,
aching desire.

Freely, I give
myself over to the gentle power of this pure and perfect woman. It’s a kind of
surrender, a willing admission of defeat.

I’ve never known
such a roaring tidal wave of need.

We fall on to the
bed. I cover her with my body, pressing my hardness against her softness, crushing
her breasts against my chest. I brush her hair out of the way, so I can run my
tongue and lips along her neck. Nuzzling against her earlobe, biting, kissing,
licking, I latch on to the place where I feel her pulse throbbing.

Renata moans
invitingly, low in her throat.

I don’t take my
clothes off when I have sex; I never have before. I grab a condom, unzip my
jeans and groan with relief as I free my aching cock. I can put a condom on
with my eyes shut, mainly because I’ve only had sex in the dark before. The
light in this room hides nothing.

I’d never have
allowed it, except my scars don’t disturb her.

She touched my
scars.

That one generous
act cut me wide open. It’s as if I’m exposed, heart and soul. It feels incredible,
yet I’m vulnerable and raw. What is this exquisite pain? This agonizing
ecstasy?

Her skin is warm,
smooth and silky; her scent is all woman.

I feel the
stiffness of her nipples even through my shirt. Her swollen breasts are
fantastic. I fondle and squeeze them, finding her nipples with my thumbs.
Fascinated, I rub them back and forth. When I do, her breath burns hot against
my neck as she shudders in response.

“Yes, yes,” she
murmurs, her hands exploring my back, my shoulders and stroking my hair.

I kiss and nibble
her neck but I won’t last long. “I’m sorry, I won’t be gentle—I can’t be
gentle,” I gasp in a hoarse voice.

“You can’t hurt
me. I want you. Take me, Grant. Take me now.”

Blood is drumming
in my ears. My entire body is superheated and sensitized. It’s scorching hot,
this erotic fever I can’t contain. I concentrate on getting inside her. Never
have I felt such overwhelming desire. I move a hand between her legs, my
fingers moving against her folds and spreading her open for me.

“You’re so wet,”
I say, stunned.

Can a woman fake
that? I have no idea. The prostitutes I’ve been with used a clear kind of gel.

“Oh, um,” she
squirms deliciously under my hand. “Please,” she whimpers.

I’m surprised by
the sounds of arousal she makes because they seem so real. I can almost believe
this isn’t a job and she actually wants me—scars and all. Is it possible? It
doesn’t matter. I won’t stop. Right now, she belongs to me.

I close my eyes
for a brief moment and pretend she truly wants me.

I pretend she’s
mine.

This unexpected
desire to possess her is dark and primitive. I ruthlessly push inside of her,
stretching her and filling her in one smooth thrust—calling out with the
intense pleasure of it.

As I do, Renata
gives a soft breathy groan that sounds loud against my ear. My dick jerks inside
of her—I almost climax. Squeezing my eyes shut, I pant raggedly while I regain
control.

More blood shoots
into my cock. I swear I can feel my dick swell. Even more shocking than the exquisite
sensation of pleasure, is the absolute
relief
that floods me in
scorching, sensual waves.

I need this. I
need her.

She’s hot, and
tight, and our bodies intertwine. Her legs and arms wrap around me as if she’ll
never let me go. Her slender form quakes under me, as I draw my hips back and
savagely push myself inside of her, balls deep once more. She gasps and quivers
deliciously, so I do it again.

Pushing into her,
pulling back out, slamming back into her
hard
and
deep.

In and out.

In and out.

Faster, faster,
faster with force and strength—I fuck her exactly the way I want to, the way I
need
to. I cover every part of her, driving one way, then another, listening to
her sexy gasps—her erotic moans of pleasure.

I’m relentless—I
can’t hold back.

Again. Again.
Again.

For once in my
life, my mind is free of bullshit.

She’s light to my
darkness. Beauty to my ugliness. With each plunging thrust, I feel as if I’m
cleansing my soul.

Strength. Rhythm.
I’m inexorable. Harder and harder, I grunt each time I drive into her, slapping
against her soft flesh with my thighs and hips. I feel ferocious—like a wild
animal in a violent male rut. I can’t get deep enough. I can’t push myself into
her hard enough, or far enough.

This is more than
primal, animal need.

I’ve never known
such intimacy. I feel wanted, powerful and complete. This, right here and now
is the best a man can be.

I can think of
nothing except the redemption and wonder of
her.
Passion and lust blind
me. Every sense I have is in
this moment.
There’s nothing else, only
here
and
now
and
her.

Chest heaving, we’re
both panting and sweating. Excruciating ecstasy or euphoria… words cannot
describe it. How can such a purely animal activity feel so spiritual and
divine?
Being in this woman’s arms makes sense.

It’s
the only thing that’s ever made sense.

I’m fit and
healthy and I haven’t had sex for over a year. I’m in no hurry to finish, yet
the feel of Renata’s young, firm body bucking and writhing under my own
overpowers me. I don’t doubt her arousal anymore. If I wasn’t wearing clothes,
I’d have scratches all over my back and chest. As it is, I’ve lost buttons on
my shirt.

The heady smell
of sex, the sensation of driving deeply—my hips pressed between her soft
thighs, her gasps, loud moans, murmurs and cries of her pleasure and my own—it
all adds up to an explosive peak.

Renata cries out
loudly. Her internal muscles clamp down hard upon me in tight, rhythmic spasms.

My cock jerks in
a hard wet pulse.

I feel the sudden
sensation of cramping, then an erotic blast of release. Throwing my head back
and thrusting my hips forward, I climax. A powerful rush of exquisite pleasure
flows through me as I empty myself inside her.

“Renata,” I call
out thickly, in a joyous, mindless shout of possibility.

Every part of my
body pulses in spasms; buttocks, back, shoulders, thighs, balls and cock. I’ve
never known such a
maelstrom of sensation. I’ve never
experienced such bliss.

Every thought I
have is gone completely.

My
heart pounds and my chest heaves, rising and falling. I’m totally spent. After
a night of no rest, rocked by the force of this never-before known physical and
emotional release, I collapse almost to unconsciousness.

Why did she
accept me? What does she see?
Being with her is earth
shattering. More like life shattering. Or life changing.

I’ll
never be the same man again.

I’m
drunk on this woman—intoxicated and addicted already. Better than the finest
whisky, she offers me much more than oblivion. Renata gives me the first real
sense of peace I’ve ever had.

Lying
on her soft warmth, our bodies joined together, sleep pulls at me. Languid and
content, I willingly surrender to its restful embrace.

“There are
only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The
other is as though everything is a miracle.”

— Albert
Einstein

~~~

Renata
Koreman

I’m officially
blown away.

I have no idea
what just happened.

Where has this
guy in my arms come from? He has wide shoulders and narrow hips, set on a lean,
muscular body. There’s strength and power in every line.

That wasn’t
simply a sweet sexy ‘spark’ of chemistry we just shared—it was more like a
raging forest fire. Some sort of blazing conflagration of pussy-melting, heart-stopping,
erotic heat.

For a moment, I
shut my eyes as a vivid sensual memory of him pounding inside of me fills my
senses. Everything about him is hard as stone—particularly that punishing cock
of his. Never in my life, have I experienced such savage need.

This sexy, potent
man hadn’t even bothered to remove his clothes. Jeans, long sleeve shirt… he
still has his cowboy boots on! Grant didn’t engage in foreplay—I wasn’t even
kissed on the lips! Instead, the moment I gave him my agreement for sex, he’d
thrown me across the bed. Then he fucked me fast and hard—harder than I’ve ever
been fucked before.

Talk about rough
sex. I’d be surprised if his thrusting hips didn't leave bruises. I’m sore, but
not uncomfortable. It's more like achingly satisfied and satiated.

If any other man
had done this, I’d consider him selfish, or perhaps just being a dominant who
was using his submissive or slave.

With Grant? No
way. Body and soul, I felt consumed by his intensity.

He’d
needed
me.

My racing heart
begins to slow. Collapsed on top of me, Grant’s face and body are slack.
Relaxed. Relieved. Released.

I lay here naked
with a fully dressed man lying heavily upon me, the rasp of his breath hot
against my neck and throat. I love the size and weight of him. I love the look
and smell of him.

He’s deeply
asleep, but I swear to God his cock is still thick and hard, twitching inside
of me in the aftermath of his orgasm.

Grant
Wilkinson.

Even his name is
beautiful. Lazily stroking his back and shoulder with one arm, I cherish this
enigmatic man at my breast. His touch had been firm and implacable, while raw
lust had flared in his hooded gaze. My body responded, but I did little or
nothing. Overwhelmed by his ferocious need, I simply held on, riding the storm.

He’s such a
mystery. How did he get those scars? And why won’t he kiss me?

His body’s
totally covered with his clothes, but he’s lost a few buttons. I did that—not
intentionally. I’m pretty sure I was trying to get closer by clawing at his
shirt. The thing is, now I can see just the hint of a colorful tattoo at the top
of his shoulder, near his neck.

What kind of
design does he have under there? Is it a picture, printed words or both? I wish
I could see it—it might give me a glimpse… some insight into his soul. What
would a troubled man like him have inked upon his flesh?

Flesh. Mmm.

The word triggers
a vivid memory of Grant above me, his flesh driving deep and his body hard
against mine. I shut my eyes once more as my pussy involuntarily clenches
around him. Even unconscious, the man’s cock remains rigid, still pulsing with
heat inside of me.

That wasn’t sex.

Grant had a need
for release, yes, but what we just did together was far beyond need. It was
consummation. Completion. Acceptance. Maybe even love.

Fondly, I stroke
my hand down his muscular back. I don’t want him to leave. I want to spend all
day with him—laughing, talking and making love. I long to know everything about
this incredibly passionate man.

There’s so much I
don’t understand about him and what happened between us. Grant has horrible
secrets. André told me he’d been sexually abused by a man. My heart breaks to
think of how his innocent trust was betrayed.

I know so little
and I want to know more. Much more. Who was the bastard who hurt him? How old
was he at the time? What were the circumstances and how did it end?

I hope Grant will
be comfortable sharing his story with me.

Yesterday, I
spent time in my safe place thinking about Grant and wondering how sexual abuse
influenced and shaped his life. My own childhood trauma affected me and
continues to do so even now. It's been such a struggle.

Our situations
are different, but I can’t help but feel a bond.

I had no idea
he’d be so scarred—or so scared. I’d wanted to like him… but I’d never expected
this level of connection. How can I feel this strongly toward him, especially
so quickly?

My heart melted
at first sight.

I felt shredded
by his pain. I wanted to banish the sorrow and hurt in his eyes—eyes that have
seen too much.

Have I ever met
anyone as isolated and alone?

Grant expected
someone else—that was obvious. He’d been so angry, too. Angry people usually
frighten me, but not Grant. I immediately saw right through that defensive
façade. This big strong man had been afraid.
Afraid of me!

Hiding one’s fear
through anger is such a common human ploy.

When I saw him
there—so vulnerable and uncertain—when I looked at him and touched his scars, I
had the oddest impression.

I felt certain
he’d been about to cry.

The way his
hooded eyes drank me in and the way he almost seemed to worship me—I felt
adored. Yet, I could recognize the sadness, loneliness and grief behind those
intense, slate blue eyes. I could see it so clearly.

It was like
looking at myself.

My throat aches
as I remember the way he reacted when I caressed his wounds. Why had I done it?
Some instinct compelled me. So much pain, so much sorrow… so much courage.

Scars or not, I
did like his face. We’d shared something beautiful—an instant bond. I’m sure we
both
felt it. My eyes sting with the memory of that miraculous emotional
connection.

I recall watching
as he began to climax, I saw his face contort and his eyes squeeze tight. Then…
in a wild and desperate plea or maybe more like a prayer, he’d said my name.

I felt
ridiculously privileged to watch him come, and so honored. The way he called my
name moved me deeply. I felt it like a jolt of pure happiness, right to my
heart.

I know. Crazy,
right?

It was just sex…
but I swear to God it wasn’t—it was so much more. Now, if I could only figure
it out. What the hell just happened?

Grant’s sexual release
felt like absolution... and rapture. It was as if I’d been some sort of
priestess granting forgiveness with love and acceptance.

I’ve acted as a
sexual surrogate with two different men in the last two days. Both needed me.
Both lacked finesse, each getting on top and hammering away. So alike, and yet
so different.

Joshua Marks had
been a virgin. My purpose had been to help him find a reason to date women. Despite
his social disability, Joshua could never be considered to be damaged or
broken. He’s healthy, happy and fulfilled in life.

This man was
something else.

When I looked
into Grant’s eyes I saw so much. Under his angry, invincible, tough guy
exterior, I’d recognized a tortured soul. Somewhere inside of him is the
confused and injured heart of a child—a child who’d suffered the agonizing pain
of betrayal.

I’ve been with
men that were far more sexually satisfying. Yet somehow, with Grant, I find
myself more satisfied than I’ve ever been in my life.

Grant had needed
me completely and utterly—mentally, emotionally and on a purely primitive
level. I’ve never known anything like it. Intense joy surrounds me so
powerfully, as if it’s a tangible aura.

I look at his lax
body and I tingle with the memory of him. Something magical and important
happened.

Now I just have
to figure out what it was. Yet, holding this tormented man and giving him
peace—it’s why I’m here. I’m caught by the wonder of it, this miraculous moment
of life.

Grant’s body
stiffens abruptly as he jerks to consciousness. He was only out for a couple
minutes.

To my surprise,
he rolls off me suddenly, his face averted. He gets up quickly and quietly,
then strides into the bathroom without saying a word.

Huh
. Shy
maybe? Embarrassed? He had to dispose of the condom. I guess that made him
self-conscious?

I hear the toilet
flush, the sink faucet turns on, then off. After that, it all goes quiet. At
least five minutes pass.

“Grant? Are you
OK?”

Another couple of
minutes of silence and then to my complete astonishment, the door opens. “Gotta
go,” he mumbles almost incoherently and takes off.

“G-G-Grant?” I
call after him, falling into an uncertain stutter. He doesn’t answer and he
doesn’t stop.

Shit. I hate it
when I stutter.

Impulsively I
jump up and run after him. I’m halfway through the lounge before I realize I’m
naked. I quickly run back to my bedroom, throw my bathrobe on and run back out
as fast as I can.

“André!” I call
out, hoping for reinforcements, but in a place this size he must not hear me as
he doesn’t reply.

“Gr-Gr- Grant,
come back! D-D-Don’t go. Wait! Wh-wh-wh-what’s wrong?”

By the time I get
to the penthouse elevator, the doors are just closing. Grant’s inside, I can
see his boots.

“Wait!” I manage
to yell without stuttering… but he’s already gone.

I’m panting
loudly, but I’m not really out of breath. I’m breathing hard from panicked
anxiety. My heart’s racing and my chest hurts. My thoughts are scattered—I’m overwhelmed
by emotion and sensation.

I feel as though I’m
going to die.

I get these
attacks on occasion but I haven’t had one for a very long time.

If I don’t get on
top of this—if I can’t break the cycle—I’ll continue to spiral out of control
and end up a total wreck. Luckily, from experience, I recognize the symptoms. I
know how to calm myself down before it gets worse.

My practiced
response kicks in automatically.

With my hands on
my chest, feeling myself inhale, I concentrate on relaxing my muscles and
slowing my breathing.
I’m OK. I’m OK. I’m OK. I’m OK,
I begin my mental
chant.

The words help me
focus. I’m OK…
one,
I’m OK…
two,
I’m OK…
three...

I breathe through
my nose and concentrate on my mantra. By the time I reach twenty, I know I’ve
successfully held off a full blown panic attack.

I’m so grateful
to have regained control.

But Grant is
gone.

Holy hell, what
just happened? I like him so much. How did I screw this up? For the life of me,
I have no idea where I went wrong.