Page 21 of Body and Soul

With a gentle but firm pressure, I steered Eli out of my office and down the industrial stairs of The Playground. The main floor was empty at this early hour, the stage and lounge abandoned. Our footsteps echoed in the cavernous space, the only sound aside from Eli's shallow breathing.

I kept my hand at the small of Eli's back as we emerged from the Playground into the rainy afternoon. Fat raindrops plopped into puddles all around the parking lot. Eli hunched in on himself, a mimicry of his posture on my couch mere minutes ago. Without a word, I shrugged off my blazer and draped it over his head and shoulders. He startled slightly at the unexpected weight but clutched the fabric close, burrowing into the residual warmth of my body heat.

I guided Eli to my Range Rover parked in the alley behind the club. He hesitated briefly before allowing me to usher him into the passenger seat, movements stiff and wary. As I slid behind the wheel, I noted how Eli huddled against the door, putting asmuch distance between us as the confines of the vehicle allowed. His fingers plucked restlessly at the hem of my black blazer, a nervous tic.

Eli flinched as the engine purred to life. Guilt pricked at me for the sadistic thrill I felt, knowing I was the one who made him jump. I wanted to be his source of comfort, not fear. At least, not the kind of fear that would send him running. No, the fear I craved from Eli was a more insidious sort. The kind that kept him off-balance, dependent, malleable.

As we pulled out onto rain-slicked streets, I reached over to turn on the heated seats. Eli made a small, involuntary sound of pleasure as warmth seeped into his body, chasing away the bone-deep chill. I hid a smile, filing away that little tell. The boy responded beautifully to simple creature comforts, starved as he was for any scrap of care. It would be all too easy to ply him with these small luxuries and to bind him to me with silken chains of his own need.

I stepped into Shepherd'sapartment and froze, feeling like an intruder. The polished hardwood floors gleamed beneath my scuffed sneakers, each step leaving a ghost of grime on pristine rugs in deep crimson and navy. I tugged at my greasy uniform shirt, suddenly aware of every rip and stain, wishing I could shrink into the shadows.

Shepherd led me into the living room, gesturing for me to sit. I perched on the edge of the black leather couch, its softness a little too inviting, too pristine. Just sitting here felt like a risk, as if my presence alone might leave a mark. Sleek, minimalist art hung on the cream-colored walls—abstract swirls of charcoal and scarlet.

Floor-to-ceiling windows framed a breathtaking cityscape. The lights of downtown twinkled against the rainy afternoon sky. So different from the view from my cramped apartment, where I was lucky to catch a glimpse of the occasional smoggy sunset between the dilapidated buildings.

“Can I get you a drink?” Shepherd asked, moving to a bar cart stocked with crystal decanters of amber liquid.

I shook my head mutely, still taking in my lavish surroundings. A stone fireplace flickered with dancing flames. Built-in bookshelves lined an entire wall, filled with leather-bound tomes. Shepherd's stainless-steel kitchen gleamed, all granite countertops and state-of-the-art appliances.

It was a stark contrast to the kitchen I shared with Hal, Cherry, and Ketchup, which was little more than a hot plate and a fridge that sounded like a jet about to take off. The constant drip-drip of the faucet had lulled me to sleep more times than I could count. The rest of the time, I fell asleep counting cracks in the ceiling.

I wandered to the bookshelves, fingers grazing the spines of thick volumes, and pulled out a book at random.The Modern Clinician's Guide to Intersectional Sex Therapy. I mouthed the title to myself, brow arching.

“What exactly does a sex therapist do?” I asked, sliding the book back into place.

Shepherd emerged from the kitchen carrying two steaming mugs. The rich scent of coffee wafted through the air. He set one on a coaster on the glass coffee table in front of me before settling back into his chair with the other.

“Sex therapists help individuals and couples address various sexual issues,” he explained, taking a sip of his coffee. “Anything from sexual dysfunctions to intimacy problems to healing from sexual trauma.”

I reached for the mug, wrapping my hands around its warmth. “And the BDSM stuff? Is that part of it, too?”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of Shepherd's mouth. “BDSM can be incorporated into sex therapy when appropriate. It's about exploring power dynamics, building trust, and pushing boundaries in a safe, consensual way.”

I took a gulp of the coffee, savoring the bold flavor. Definitely a step up from the instant crap I usually drank. “Sounds…intense.” I couldn’t decide if it was fascination or a wary tension twisting in my gut.

“It can be,” Shepherd replied, eyes glinting with something I couldn’t place—pride, maybe, or an invitation I wasn’t sure I wanted. “But when done correctly, with clear communication and utmost respect, it can also be incredibly fulfilling for both parties involved.”

My face heated at the implication in his words. I ducked my head, focusing intently on my mug. “I wouldn't know. It's not exactly my area of expertise.”

“Few people are true experts,” Shepherd mused. “But anyone can learn and grow with the right guidance.” He leaned forward and put down another coaster, letting his mug rest on top of it.

I met Shepherd's gaze, curiosity getting the better of me. “So how does someone even get into being a sex therapist? Especially with the whole BDSM thing. It's not exactly a conventional career path.”

Shepherd leaned back, steepling his fingers thoughtfully. “It was a natural progression for me, given my longstanding interest in both BDSM and mental health. I've always been fascinated by the intricacies of the human mind, the ways in which our experiences shape our desires and behaviors.” He paused, his expression growing more somber. “My interest in mental health is also personal. It stems from my own struggles, my own trauma.”

I blinked in surprise at Shepherd's confession. His own trauma? The put-together, dominant man before me hardly seemed like someone wrestling with inner demons. But I guess you never know what battles people are fighting beneath the surface.

“Trauma?” I echoed. “From being in the cult?”

“It’s a little different from what you’re dealing with,” he said. “I have dissociative identity disorder.”

I shifted in my seat. “Is that like…PTSD?”

Shepherd shook his head. “No, DID and PTSD are distinct conditions, though they can co-occur. Dissociative identity disorder, previously known as multiple personality disorder, is characterized by the presence of two or more distinct personality states.” He took a deep breath, as if steeling himself. “These alters, as we call them, each hold different memories, serve different roles and function on their own. Most of the time, I’m the one out, but if you’re going to be staying here, it’s only fair that you know the truth. It’s possible you’ll have to meet one or more of them while you’re here.”

My breath caught, my fingers tightening around the mug.Multiple personalities?The words felt surreal, like something from a movie. But here was Shepherd, eyes steady, waiting as if my shock were just another predictable layer of his story.

“So... the other personalities, they're part of you?” I asked hesitantly, struggling to wrap my mind around the concept.

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