Abuse: The Complete Trilogy (24 page)

“I am in
love—and, my God, it is the greatest thing that can happen to a man. I tell
you, find a woman you can fall in love with. Do it. Let yourself fall in love.
If you have not done so already, you are wasting your life.”

— D.H.
Lawrence

~~~

Grant
Wilkinson

“Really? You’d
come and live with me? What about your psychology course?”

“Most of my study
is done on-line. I can defer if I need to.”

Hope wells up
within my heart. Having Renata there to help me with my nephew would do much
more than simply solve Alex’s problems. My secrets don’t frighten her. I could
keep talking to her. I could keep learning. I might figure out how to be a
normal human being with Renata around, leading the way. And… I could see her
every
single day.

That thought
makes so incredibly happy, I’m unable to speak.

We look at each
other for a few intense moments in silence. Her blue eyes are bright and
there’s a hint of mischief in her expression. I’m frowning because I still
can’t believe it.

“But your vet job
and your apartment?” I finally say. “Can you really drop everything? You’d do
that
for me
?” I ask in utter disbelief.

“Sure,” she
smirks. “I was a runaway living on the streets, remember? I don’t need much and
I’m used to moving around.”

There’s so much love,
happiness and hope welling up from deep within me. Renata says she loves
babies. How lucky can I be? Having her help look after my nephew solves
everything.

Our eyes lock and
there it is again—that incredible sense of connection. There’s a compelling
energy between us. It’s a living, breathing thing that almost has a life of its
own.

“I wouldn’t do
this for just anyone, of course,” she says with a mischievous smile, “but I’ll
make an exception for
you.
”

I’m so
unbelievably happy! I find myself picking her up once more and swinging her up
in the air, over and over again. We both laugh and I finally let her slide down
through my hands.

She’s circled by
me, embraced in my arms—God, I love the sensation of holding her. Renata’s arms
curl around my neck, her hands run through my hair. Her long slender body
presses deliciously against mine. I’m achingly hard for her and Renata knows
it. My stiff erection is difficult to miss, but that’s OK.

I can hardly
believe it. We want each other.

The persistent,
lonely emptiness that’s haunted me as far back as I can remember, is gone. I’m
not alone and I’m learning to like myself. Renata likes me, so I can’t be
that
bad.

This time when we
kiss, I kiss her without reservation. It’s a passionate joining and sexy as
hell. Her lips are soft, warm and smooth. She tastes and smells delicious. My
heart beats double time as I push my tongue through her lips. I ardently
explore her mouth and Renata joins the intimate dance.

Her breath
catches—mine does, too.

The world
disappears as we fall together. There’s only Renata and me—but I’m not sure
where I start and where she begins—I feel that close to her.

Is this love?

I don’t know what
love
is.

On the drive
home, I park the car at a shopping center and tell Renata to wait just a
moment. I leave the car running with the air on, so it stays cool.

I jog off into
the mall where I find a flower shop and order a large bouquet. I don’t want
anything as commonplace as red roses. She may have a boring streak similar to
my own in terms of her taste in ice cream, but Renata’s far from ordinary.

I end up ordering
a unique garden bouquet with purple and white alstroemeria lilies, green button
poms, monte casino daisies, yellow sunflowers, a few pink roses and red tulips
all set in an elegant clear glass vase.

Her eyes shine
when I open the passenger door and hand them to her.

“Thank you so
much, Grant. They’re beautiful,” she says, but she doesn’t seem at all
surprised.

When I get back
into the driver’s side of the car and sit down, she leans over and gives me a
kiss on my scarred cheek. A rush of tingles flow down my spine from her touch. I
don’t think I’ll ever get over her kissing or touching my scars.

And Renata’s
smile? It could melt even the hardest heart.

“Thank you, again
for these flowers,” she says warmly, smelling a rose. “I’ve had a lovely day.”

“You’re welcome,”
I say with a smile. “My day was perfect. Did you know I was going to get you
flowers?”

“Yes.”

I shoot her a
questioning look.

“I knew you’d buy
me flowers from the moment I told you how much I love them,” she says. “You
made me happy then, and you’ve made me happy now.”

“I’m glad,” I
say, and I really, truly am.

After Renata
makes a call to check with André. I only hear one side of their discussion, but
when she hangs up, she says her mentor is on board with our plans. Renata
agrees to fly out with me first thing in the morning.

Finally
,
my life is coming together. I think of all I’ve achieved over the last year.
André and Renata have changed
everything.
I’ve never felt more hopeful
for the future. And now Renata and I are going
home
together. She going
to live with me and help me with Briley.

Euphoria swells
inside of me; it’s hard to contain. I’ve never been so glad to be alive. Can life
get any better than this? What’s really incredible is that I believe it will.

My cup runneth
over.

I’ve heard psalm
23 so many times, but I’ve never
felt
it. It’s the idea that your cup in
life is so full, it spills out and runs over. There’s an abundance of goodness
and joy in every single person’s existence—because God isn’t stingy.

I’ve never
believed in God, yet right now, I feel so grateful. If there
is
a God,
my heart swells with the overwhelming desire to thank him.

I’ve made a deal
with Renata. We promised to tell each other the stories of our abusive
childhoods. We’re going to share our darkest secrets. I want to tell her
everything. I know she’ll understand.

From this moment
forward, I feel as if I’ve got a chance to start over.

Frowning, I
remember.
There’s one secret I can never tell. Not to André. Not to Renata.
Not to anyone.

It isn’t until
much later, back in my hotel room, when I finally listen to a voicemail from my
mother. Mother goes on and on about “a terrible scandal” and how she, “can’t
bear it.” When I finally get through the nonsense, I discover she’s upset about
a court order.

Apparently, our
father’s body is being exhumed to test for drugs.

The sheriff has
been tipped off from a “reliable informant.” Whoever it was, said dad’s death
wasn’t accidental. The police now suspect he was murdered.

Fuck.

End
of Abuse

Results of a 2005
American Survey:

What do women
need to do to conform to cultural norms?
Be nice, be thin, show modesty
by not calling attention to oneself, be domestic, care for children, keep
sexual intimacy contained within one committed relationship, and use all
available resources to invest in appearance.

What do men
need to do to conform to cultural norms?
Winning at all costs, emotional
control, risk-taking, violence, dominance, playboy behavior, self-reliance,
primacy of work, disdain for homosexuality, pursuit of status.

— Boston
College Research

I lie on my
stomach, out of breath and panting. My pulse is racing, but it’s beginning to
slow.

“Excusez-moi,
ma petite souris,”
a quiet voice says from behind my back. Excuse me, my
little mouse, he says.

André has always
called me that from the first day I met him. I’m 5’10,” not at all little or
mouse-like in size. Yet, ‘little mouse,’ suits me.

I grew up in the
shadow of a violent father, which resulted in me being fearful of everything. I
became nervous around people and could only stutter—when I was able to talk at
all.

I’m so much
better now. I can hide my fear around strangers. I can meet their eyes and talk
to them, but I’ve still got a long way to go.

André presses
his lips to the skin between my shoulder blades in farewell. I shiver as his
simple touch causes a flare of sensual fire to flash down my spine. He gets up
from where he’s been lying on top of me, and strides with confident grace
toward the bathroom.

I watch him
leave, admiring his broad shoulders, narrow hips and tight, muscular ass. He's
so manly, yet so beautiful.

Languid and
utterly boneless, I notice a sheen of sweat on my forearm. What a workout! The
man has killed me with pleasure, but what a way to go. A liquid sensation of
delicious erotic release thrums through my whole body with every beat of my
heart.

Each and every
aching desire I have has been well and truly satisfied.

I’m done.

Well
done.

Char-broiled in
fact.

It’s been a big
day—in fact, it’s been a big week. This week I celebrated my twentieth
birthday, something I’ve been waiting for what seems like
forever.
I
haven’t been intimate with anyone since my best friend Jamie died.

During the last
five days with André, I've more than made up for any lack of sexual activity.
It's been spectacular—well worth the wait.

When I was
homeless, I had sex all the time. I wanted it. I needed it. Sexual intimacy
made me feel loved. It’s funny, but since I met André, I haven’t had sex—and yet,
I feel more loved than I’ve ever felt before.

I’ve lusted
after André for a long time, but he always refused my advances. I’ll never
forget what he said the first time I asked him to take me to bed. He looked at
me with a kind expression and those ridiculously long, black eyelashes.

Instinctively, I
knew he wanted me—just as I wanted him.

“
Ma belle,”
he
had said tranquilly, despite the hunger in his dark eyes.
“Pardon
… I
refuse to make love to a teenager.”

Thus, we both
had to wait. I first came to live with André, three months before I turned
eighteen. Consequently, I’ve had a powerful case of the hots for him for years.
He’s starred in countless erotic fantasies.

Five days ago, I
finally left my teens behind. The day I turned twenty is a day that will be
forever etched in my memory. All sense of restraint between us was gone.
Passions that had built up during our time together were finally set free. The
resulting raw, animal violence of our passion astonished us both. We struggled
and fought, straining to get closer, our bodies sweating and molding together
into one.

He took me in
every possible way, just as I took him. André and I went at it like rabbits,
all day—all night. We even ate in bed.

It was amazing.

It was also the
best birthday gift anyone could
ever
receive.

André loves me
and I love him, but it can never go any further between us—I’ve always known
that. For a start, he’s into BDSM. It's a part of who he is and what he needs.
He could never leave that behind.

I was utterly
powerless and abused as a child. Because of my past, I’m repelled by the idea
of bondage or domination. After suffering a lack of freedom and choice for so
many years, I need to be in control of myself and my actions.

Also, as much as
André loves me, he doesn’t
need
me. As far as I can tell, André doesn’t
need anyone—people need
him.
Long ago, I realized whoever becomes my
life partner, he must
need
me.

I
need
to
be needed.

I shift my
pillow around to put my face on a cool spot and sigh a deeply satisfied sigh.
My nipples are tender, my ass is pleasantly sore and my pussy’s stretched and
aching.
Mmm.
Thoroughly used and sated, my entire body hums from
mind-blowing pleasure.

How did I go for
so long without sex?

It’s been
wonderful to break the drought.

Yet, life has
been demanding, exciting and full of change over this time. I’ve been learning
so much, I didn't mind missing out. My attention was focused elsewhere so my
need for sex was downgraded in priority. I received comfort and support in
other ways, I guess.

“Ma petite,”
André
says with a broad smile, striding naked back into the bedroom without the
slightest hint of inhibition. His voice is soothing, his manner pleased. How
does he manage to look so elegant, even without any clothes?

The moment I see
him, my heart skips a beat and I freely grin back.

My body flushes
with potent sensual memory.

With desire.

With love.

André’s presence
is like a powerful kind of music that stirs me, heart and soul.

People read,
write and talk about ‘finding’ themselves. I discovered who I was just by being
around André. Whatever I thought, said or did, he gave me absolute acceptance.
He represents safety, kindness and the warmth of honest friendship.

I used to be a
frightened mouse all of the time. Often I still am. I have to force myself to
look people in the eyes. Every day I struggle not to hide, to face my
anxieties, to speak and be part of the real world.

Yet, I’m never
nervous, shy or tongue-tied with André. I can be myself with him.

He brings a
glass of water, a towel and a warm washcloth back to the bed with him. He hands
me the glass. I push up, finish the drink completely and slouch back down on
the bed. I don’t move as he applies the cloth and towel, gently wiping away the
aftermath of sex from my body.

I’ve grown used
to his care and attention.

After cleaning
and drying me, he straddles my hips and begins to give me a neck and back-rub.
He's never massaged me before and I close my eyes, languorous with pleasure.

“Oh, André, that
feels so good,” I moan.

He chuckles. “I
am glad. This week, I am reminded of when you first came to me. Before you
comfortably recalled how to use your voice, you wrote to me in your little
notebook. Do you remember?”

“Of course.”

“I asked if
there was anything that particularly attracted your interest. You wrote, “I
like sex and I’m good at it.”

I give an
inelegant snort and break into laughter. “I remember that conversation. How
could I forget?”

Sex was pretty
much the one thing I felt comfortable with in life. In bed with a trusted friend
was the only time I felt safe enough to relax and be myself.

“I kept that
piece of paper and dated it. Did you know?”

I snicker. “No,
really? Why?”

“The goals and
interests one has when one is young? They are later found to be the strongest
driving forces in one’s lifetime. Not always, of course—yet often.”

“Mmm,” I moan as
he continues his backrub, hitting a particular spot, squeezing both shoulders
at the same time. “I didn’t know that.”

“Wounded as you
were, I knew of your caring nature. I perceived the potential in you to become
a gifted sexual surrogate even then,
ma petite souris.”

I blink. “You
did?”

“Mais, oui.”

I met André
after my best friend died. It was a dark period for me, a time of grief and
madness that forever changed the course of my life. This period of despair
could only be exceeded in horror by one previous event, on my twelfth birthday.

Eight years ago,
senseless violence stole both my mother and my baby brother away from me.

Loss and grief
are strange emotions. They’re like photographs that persist, stagnant in one’s
mind. No way forward, no way back—just an unchanging image and constant state
of misery.

“I was so lost,”
I say. “It’s a wonder you saw anything of value at all. I was such a mess. I
can never thank you enough for all you’ve done for me.”

“I vow it was my
pleasure.”

“Merci, merci
beaucoup, André. Je t'aime,”
I say in French—thanks, thank you so much. I
love you.

“And I love you,
little mouse,” he says, while continuing his massage. The man makes me feel
even more boneless… if that’s even possible.

Today my skilled
and loveable Frenchman has been showing me the difference between clitoral and
G-spot orgasms. They're both enjoyable, but each type of climax provides unique
sensations.

The big,
mind-bending O comes from having both a clitoral and a G-spot orgasm at the
same time.

Using a dildo
vibrator pressed against my G-spot, André simultaneously worked his tongue as
fast as a hummingbird’s wings on my clit. My breasts tender and heavy, nipples
erect, clit pulsing, pussy rippling—I’d sobbed with need, screaming with
pleasure as I came.

The resulting
ecstasy robbed me of my ability to speak.

I collapsed in a
tangle of arms and legs, my head in the clouds.

With barely a
break to regain any semblance of composure, André moved on with the intention
of upping the ante. He was determined to show me the ultimate bliss of a
combined
anal,
vaginal
and
clitoral orgasm.

I’d had anal sex
before and enjoyed it. Still, I resisted, moaning my disagreement with his
plan. I was bushed. I was done—wrung out and spent. There was no way I could
possibly climax again. In my exhausted and highly sensitized state, I just
wanted to rest and recover.

My protests only
resulted in putting a devilish glint of mischief in his eyes. André loves a
challenge.

I find him
utterly
impossible
to resist.

So many things
happened at once. The dildo stretched my vagina, vibrating away against my
G-spot while André toyed with my clit. The sensation of stretching and utter
fullness was powerful as he entered my back passage. My erect, aching nipples
rubbed roughly against the sheets, while he began to slowly rock, deep inside
of me.

I’ve never felt
so complete, so full!

Wave upon wave
of desire and pleasure spread through me. Together, we moved in a sensual
rhythm—our bodies moving in time with our panting breath and racing heartbeats.

Throbbing need
became pulsing pleasure when he began to pound his hard cock deliciously, deep
into my ass.

Talk about an
overload of erotic sensory input! Every part of my body buzzed with need and
sensation. The building pleasure became so blindingly intense, it was
excruciating. I could only compare it to pain.

We were fused
together through sensation.

Ragged
breathing. Burning heat.

Moans, grunts
and astonished gasps.

By the time his
talented fingers began to strum my swollen clit, I’d pretty much lost my mind.
All that erotic stimulation triggered something primal within me. No longer
human, I felt like a wild animal.

The resultant
all-consuming release seared my soul.

I’d never
experienced such violent, whole-body convulsions. For a moment, I passed out—I
certainly disconnected from any working brain cells at any rate.

It was at least
a good five minutes before I remembered my own name.

I’m here to tell
you that the big, big, BIG, mind-bending O comes from clitoral, anal and G-spot
simultaneous
stimulation. And if your partner climaxes with you, like
André did? Well, all I can say is there should be a special name for that kind
of powerful, mutual orgasm.

One word
wouldn’t cover it. Maybe something like,
the elusive, mind-bending, over the
top, taste of heaven, nirvana, ‘is this a fucking dream?’ and ‘can I die from
pleasure?’ orgasm.

There’s
nothing
like it.

The French have
an expression referring to the fireworks in the mind’s eye during sexual
climax.
Voir les anges.
Literally, it means, “To see the angels.”

I’m pretty sure
I did, too. I certainly recall seeing multi-colored stars.

André adores
making a woman come, as much or even more than he enjoys climaxing himself.
I’ve wanted him for ages and I know he’s been wanting me too. Years of
anticipation enhanced our experience, heightening each touch, every kiss.

He finds a knot
on my right shoulder blade. I moan, close my eyes and absorb the sensations as
he works on it.

“It is good?”

“God, yes.
Très
bon, merci.”

His laugh is
lighthearted but his magical fingers don’t stop.

“Is this a
special birthday backrub?” I murmur. “Or do you do this to everyone you’re
with?”

I feel him
shrug. “I enjoy taking care of those with whom I am intimate. It is a
selfishness, I fear. It pleases me to please them.”