The Psychic

BY : SerafintheGreat
Category: Original - Misc > General
Dragon prints: 12916
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblances to real people, situations, or locations are coincidental.

He looks at me as he processes what I’ve called him. He rises and steps away, turning his back toward me. We’re both silent. I don’t know if I’m scared. I just let a really big cat out of the bag.

“What makes you think it was me?” he asks, finally.

I look toward him. He’s looking at me again, waiting for my answer, anger finally setting in again, for the both of us.

“Because I know.”

“Do you remember it happening?” he says approaching me.

“Well, no-“

“So how do you know it was me?” He asks, something patronizing about his voice as he still feigns innocence.

“Who else could it be?”

“Like I told you, the Doc.”

And finally, I can’t take it, “How stupid do you think I am?” I ask.

“I decided your brain needed a time out," he continues, trying to mimic logic, "Doc used the opportunity to hurt you because he knew you couldn’t do anything about it.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Why not? You have a hard time believing Doc would want to hurt you?”

“Right before you gave my brain a fucking vacation, you hurt me.”

“You deserved that!”

“What?” and I finally rise. I grab my robe from the floor and wrap myself tightly, and I approach him, “Because some mobster you left me with rubbed his erection against me? That was my fault? Let me guess, I was asking for it. Was it what I was wearing? That’s funny because you put me in that dress.”

He’s silent.

“Or maybe it’s the way he tried to pry into my life, and I refused to give him any information about you. Or maybe it’s because I tried so hard to remove myself from him. Yeah, I deserved that.”

“You lied to me.”


He’s silent. Finally, I realize.

“You mean each time you tried to control me? I’m sorry I don’t want to be controlled. I know, it’s weird, right?” My sarcasm is lost entirely on him. “You know, maybe it’s best we do sleep in separate rooms. I’ll go.”

I go to leave, but he grabs my arm.

“You leave this room, you’re dead.”

I stop, no other choice.

 “So if you know what I’ve done, you’re acting very bold for someone who knows the strength of my powers.”

“So you admit it?”

“I’m not admitting anything.”

“I’m sick of this run-around. What do you want me to do? Whatever you want, whenever you want, I’ll just do it.”

“I want you to lie down, and go back to sleep.”

I look away from him and nod. I go back to the bed, and I lie down, with my back toward him. He’s right. What’s the point of arguing about anything? I know he did it, he knows I know he did it. He did it. The end. It doesn’t change anything.

“You will also never talk to the Doc again.”

“Okay,” I respond.

“That doesn’t bother you?”

“Why would that bother me?” I ask, turning to look at him.

He still hasn’t joined me in bed, and he’s looking at me like he makes sense.

“I get you’re fucking crazy, but you really defy all logic.”

Everything stops when I say that. I see him, and his eyes are on fire. I go to turn away, but he comes at me, grabs me by the throat and makes me look him in the eyes. Then, he squeezes my throat.

I can’t breathe. He has me, and then everything fades.  


My eyes open. I see a ceiling and nothing else. Then, some blurry fingers come into my line of vision and snap a few times. Suddenly, everything is in focus.

I’m lying on a couch, and I shoot upright when I see him standing next to me. I cower to the other side of the sofa.

He sits on the furthest seat away from me, “calm down, you were never close to death.”

I don’t know what I’m supposed to say to him. Am I supposed to thank him for that?

He comes closer to me, he takes my chin turning me to face him, “let me look at you.”

I dodge his eyes just as he’s about to look at me, and I bury my face into my arms.

“Darling, I don’t know why you’re trying to resist me so hard, I’m just trying to help you. Why won’t you let me look at you?” He asks as he strokes my hair, my back. He massages my shoulder with his strong hand. I realize my guard is coming down, but I don’t dare look at him.

As if sensing, he continues, “Look at me, sweetheart, I’m just trying to make you feel better.”

I shake my head again, as it stays buried in my arms. He rests his body onto my back, rubbing my shoulders hard.

“Why won’t you look into my eyes?” he whispers into my ear, seductively, the power present in just his words.

“Because I don’t feel like a human when I look into your eyes.”

Everything stops when I say that. He moves away from me, but I feel his eyes on me, still. Suddenly something happens in me. I feel a deep, deep emotional pain, like I’m about to cry for days, but it’s as if the feeling of sadness didn’t manifest in me.

“That is the most awful thing anyone has ever said to me,” he says, finally, his voice lacking any emotion.

But I feel it. I feel his sadness. I want it to stop desperately. My whole body trembles as it takes over my entire body. I rise from the crook of the couch, shaking. I turn to him, and I finally look at him.

He himself seems shocked by this sudden turn. I grip onto him, “make it stop. Please, make it stop.”

He looks at me, speechless still.

“Please! Please, make it stop. I’ll do anything you want me to do. I’ll suck your dick, I’ll-“

And when I say that, I feel another pang of deep, crippling sadness. It’s so painful I almost want to throw up. He takes my face in his hands, and I look into his eyes, hoping he can take this all away.

He looks into my eyes, and he searches desperately for words until, “You…you think that’s what I want?”

“I don’t know what you want,” and then I run away from him and find the wastebasket. I throw up into it, but there are no contents of my stomach. It’s mostly just gagging and water.

He grabs onto my face again, and he makes me look at him. I can feel his eyes are searching mine, trying to take the sadness away, but to no avail.  It’s mine.

Finally, he stops looking at me. He looks at the floor, trying to steady his own breathing.

“I don’t understand,” he speaks, “I’m just trying to make you feel good when I look at you. I’m just trying to make you happy. I’m just trying to make you calm. I’m…I’m not trying to control you, I’m just trying to, how do you say, take the edge off. Make it not so painful for you. I can’t let you go. I’m just trying to make it okay.”

When he says that, I finally start crying, and I feel a great release in my body as the tears flow. He grabs me, and he hugs me into his chest, and finally, I feel something else.

He means it. Every last word he just said, he really means. I recognize that he’s been trying to make me happy this whole time. In his own deranged, uncontrollable way, he is trying to make me happy. However, the last time he was trying to hurt me, he-

“Don’t cry on the floor,” he says, interrupting this train of thoughts, as he takes my arms and helps me to my feet. He brings me back to the sofa where I sit and cry into my hands. He has one arm on my back, rubbing it, but soon he brings the other arm around me and hugs me into his body again.

“I’m sorry,” he continues, “I don’t know how to make it stop for you.”

“Can’t you just look at me and make everything stop?” I ask.

“Do you want me to?”

“Yes, please!” I beg of him, wanting all this sadness to end.

I look into his eyes, and he looks into mine. Before anything can even happen, I kiss him on the lips. He kisses me back, but then I pull away. I open the robe I’ve been wearing, and I show him the bruises that are still on my stomach.

“You did this to me,” I tell him.

He nods, his eyes closing, but then he opens my robe, and he pushes me horizontal onto the couch. He kisses all the bruises on my stomach, making his way down to my pussy. He kisses my inner thighs.

This is the only way he knows to apologize to me.

But I don’t want an orgasm right now. I'm far too emotional to even consider it.

“No,” I rise. “Can you…can you just hold me right now?” I ask, averting eye contact. He comes closer to me and he just hugs me close.

After a moment, his hand slips down my robe, to my pussy where he starts rubbing.

I’m not sure I want this, but it feels so much easier to just give in. To just let him take me wherever he wants to take me. To just let go.

He rises and slides himself behind me, so that I’m between both of his legs. He wraps one arm around my neck from behind and continues rubbing me with the other hand. I arch my neck back over his shoulder and he kisses my lips as he rubs me. I kiss him back, submitting to his touch.

My body tenses as I feel myself approach the edge. I concentrate hard, willing it to come, and it finally does, gentle and completely of my own volition.

I rest against him, panting hard. He strokes my hair and kisses me again on the neck. Finally, I close my robe and I stand away from him. There is so much shame to what I’ve just done, but I don’t want to admit to any of it anymore. I can accuse him of something, but I allowed this to happen. I think I wanted it to happen.

I don’t want to leave, but I feel like that’s the thing I’m supposed to do.

“Don’t leave,” he says, as if reading my thoughts, which I now know isn’t impossible.

I won’t look at him, and I can feel he isn’t looking at me either.

“What do you want from me?” I ask him now.

 And he doesn’t answer. I realize I’ve given him an impossible question to answer. He probably has no idea himself.

“I want you to get comfortable,” he responds to me.


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