Page 15 of Jersey

I've done this every time I've come here, whispering the words as if they're a mantra I need to remember to maintain my sanity. It's why when Jersey asked if I was there willingly, it struck such a chord with me. At that moment, it made me think there was a hidden camera or something in the room. I inspected the area when I got back and found nothing.

I jolt at the sound of the knock on the door.

"Ma'am?" Roxie asks. "We have a schedule for the cross."

I open the door, offering her a sheepish smile. "Sorry."

Instead of assuring me that it's okay, which I appreciate, she simply turns and waves her hand for me to follow.

The tilefloor is cold on my feet, but I know just how cold things will be in the large open room where I'll be momentarily. The reminder of it makes goosebumps start to form on my arms.

The deep bass of a song echoes around me, the beat coming alive the further into the massive room we walk. I keep my eyes down, refusing to look up because I know it would only make me lose focus and the nerve it takes to be so vulnerable.

I sense people all around me and hear voices as people carry on conversations.

As far as sex clubs go, there's nothing really thrilling about what I'm doing. There are people in scenes that do so much more, but that doesn't prevent others from lining up to participate before they're even told what the rules are.

Roxie helps me out of the robe, and I fight the urge to lift my hands to cover the most private parts of me. She helps me up to the cross, keeping her touches to my skin minimal and only to my wrists and ankles as needed to tie me into place.

I keep my eyes squeezed shut as she begins to speak.

"Touching only. No penetration of any kind. Use nothing more than the tips of your fingers. Breaking these rules will lead to your permanent expulsion from the club."

I jerk with the first touch, grateful that it's only fingertips to my lower back, but before I can relish the safety in that another touch brushes the tip of my left breast. A tremble begins in my body, and before long, it's unmanageable.

My breaths are uneven, fear swimming inside of me, trying to find a way to escape.

It seems harder now, and I wonder if it's because of the length of time since my last visit or if this form of therapy is actually causing more trauma.

I'm only up here an hour, but each minute ticks by as if taking a year for every second. Touch after touch to my body does nothing but ramp up my anxiety, with it growing worse and worse.

Eventually, the petting and traces of fingers on my skin slow, some minutes passing with no touches at all, and this is how it has always been. People grow bored with so many other activities around the club to participate in.

I chance a look, opening my eyes and letting them roam quickly around the room. It seems no one is paying attention to me at all, but even knowing that my body takes no comfort in it.

I squeeze them shut again, but they're only closed for a moment before the atmosphere seems to shift around me. I wait for the touch, for someone to whisper all the dirty things they want to do to me, but it never comes.

I risk another look, an electric jolt running up my spine when I see Jersey sitting in the same spot he was that first night.

His eyes are locked on me, and as hard as I try to close my eyes again, I feel entranced by his attention.

Maybe Dr. Moore was right. Maybe our bodies know who might be important to us even though there's no context.

Instead of immediately climbing to his feet and crossing the room to me, he lifts his glass, sipping a dark, amber liquid.

I swallow, thinking about the burn of it in his throat, my mind racing with thoughts I normally never have, like wondering what his taste might be right now if we kissed.

I jerk, my body instinctively on high alert, when a shadow crosses in front of me.

I keep my eyes locked on him as the man circles me.

"Suchpretty, unmarked skin," he says, his voice so rough and unappealing that I feel the hair follicles on my head activate, the need to scratch making my hands clench into tighter fists. "A blank canvas of sorts."

My eyes are planted across the room, and I see Jersey's eyes narrow a second before the brush of a fingertip skates across my left butt cheek.

I swallow the cry that threatens to bubble up, but the touch doesn't last long, and then the man walks away.

I watch as Jersey drains his glass before standing, and suspense of an unknown origin begins to build inside me.

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