Page 1 of Lust
Karens ignore trigger warnings, only to later complain about said warnings. Don't be a Karen. This book contains somnophilia and a graphic non-consensual sexual scene that made some readers uncomfortable. It also includes unsavory topics such as suicide and abuse. This book is only intended for open-minded readers interested in exploring their fantasies in the realm of fiction while exercising good judgment to differentiate it from real-life situations
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“And how does that make you feel?” I rolled my eyes at the most basic question a therapist could ask. For three hundred dollars an hour, I expected something less cliché.
How does that make me feel?
Frustrated that I was having this conversation in the first place.
“You are the expert, so you tell me. How doyouthink it makes me feel?”
Grabbing a water bottle from the mini-refrigerator stationed at the left corner of the plainly decorated room, Michael sat at the edge of his desk. He studied me closely, Nordic blue eyes gleaming with purpose. He knew I was fucking with him but decided to play ball.
“Frustrated,” he answered decidedly.
Goddamnit. I hated that he was good at his job and always had a direct line into my thoughts.
He stood to his full six-feet four-inch height and took the seat across from me. Michael didn’t look much like a therapist. He was young with shoulder-length honey-blonde hair. None of those traits reflected a sought-after clinician with the ability to change your life.
Yet, here he was, so successful that appointments with him were rare, client list exclusive. Mary pulled a lot of strings for me to be sitting here. Although I resisted the idea of therapy, her insistence wore me down.
And somewhere deep down, I admitted to not having returned to normal even three years after Dad’s death. Enough of this grief. Suddenly, the idea of a confidante in an enclosed space wasn’t so horrific. After months of dragging my feet, I was now a regular.
For our current session, we were discussing Mary’s upcoming nuptials to my soon-to-be stepfather.
“Why do you think I feel frustrated?” I asked curiously for his take on the topic. After all, I didn’t have a problem with my mother remarrying. She had suffered for long enough as a widow.
“If I told you, it would defeat the point of charging you three hundred dollars an hour. Don’t you think?”
The sly smile on my face was a rare, genuine one. Michael was upfront, the type of honesty that was unmatched in my society.
“Why don’t we start with your stepdad? Tell me more about him.”
I shrugged. “What’s there to tell?”
That was obviously a lie. There were tons to tell about my soon-to-be stepfather, Raguel Nineveh.
He had migrated from Brazil to the United States for college, then met the love of his life, Maya. They married shortly after and settled here in Washington, DC. The vibrant capital was also where they had Sara, their one and only darling daughter. All was well until Maya met her fate during a car accident, leaving Raguel a broken man.
Nonetheless, Raguel’s olive skin and distinct gray eyes attracted the attention of tons of other women, my mother amongst them. They recognized the despondency in each other’s eyes and decided to be together. They had only been together for six months when Raguel put a ring on it. Their fast-track relationship was supposedly a courtesy to “the kids.”
Raguel’s daughter, Sara, deviated toward Mary upon their initial meeting, craving the mother’s love she lost too early in life. In contrast, I was cold to her. Like every other person in my life, my mother couldn’t break through to me anymore. When Dad died, so did my ability to connect with others, landing me at Michael’s doorsteps.
Mary’s constant efforts to change my outlook were off-putting, whereas Sara was the poster child she craved. She wanted to adopt Sara, which brought on the formality of marriage. Raguel insisted on adopting me in return, which was plain weird.
“From what I understand, you like Raguel. So, why are you opposed to this adoption?”
“It’s a little weird to be adopted at my age, don’t you think?”
“You are only fifteen—”
“Almost sixteen.”
“Nonetheless. You’ve mentioned struggling with making real connections since your dad passed away. Clearly, you miss familial bonds. This would be a great opportunity to start over. Don’t you think?”
I was silent.
Logically, there weren’t any good reasons to oppose the idea. Not only was Raguel a good man, but he could also prove beneficial to my future career.
