The Psychic

BY : SerafintheGreat
Category: Original - Misc > General
Dragon prints: 12924
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblances to real people, situations, or locations are coincidental.

Tonight I don’t dream of his eyes.

 

I wake up and the memory of everything comes to the forefront. I feel a little dead. I turn to my side. He’s still there, all the way on the other side of the bed. He seems to be sound asleep. He kept to his word, and he left me alone the whole night, at least to my knowledge. I don’t feel the “hangover” that I would feel after he put his controls on me, nor do I feel sore in my “down there.”

I look at my phone. It’s 7am. It’s far earlier than I would normally get up.  I lie back in bed, and I stare at his back. He’s wearing my high-school graduation t-shirt. I can spot my name in the list of graduates. I almost want to reach out and touch him, just to see if he still feels the same as when I left him.

I look at the ceiling, and I close my eyes. There’s no way I can fall back asleep. I have far too many thoughts. I’m shocked I got almost six hours of sleep. Perhaps he made it so….

I look at my phone again. I check the dance class schedule. I could go to a ballet class at 9am. It’s beginner level, and I’m beyond that level, but ballet is ballet. More importantly, I can’t be stuck in the apartment with him. It feels like a bold move, but I have to establish my freedom immediately.

 I go to the bathroom. I brush my teeth, and I wash my face. I put my hair into a messy top bun. With my curls I don’t really have a choice. I go back to my room, and he’s still asleep. I go to my drawer, and I find a leotard. I turn once more toward him to make sure he’s still asleep. Then, I drop my shorts and put the leotard on. I shimmy it under my t-shirt, and I make sure it’s over my breasts before I take my t-shirt off.

“Where are you going?”

I jump when I hear his voice. I turn to him, and he’s still lying on his side, his eyes open blearily.

“I’m going to a ballet class.”

“When will you be home?”

“I don’t know.”

“How long is the class?”

“Ninety minutes.”

“Then shouldn’t you be home in two hours?”

“I might take a class after that,” I respond, defiantly, “then I have to go to work tonight, so I don’t know when I’ll be home.”

 “You only got six hours of sleep, most, isn’t that too much activity?”

“I’ll get a coffee,” I respond.

He doesn’t say anything else. Instead, he closes his eyes, and he turns over.

Was that it?

“You can go, just” he yawns, “don’t tell anyone I’m here.”

I don’t believe him. I walk toward the door, like it’s a threshold, and I step outside.

I ride the metro over to the class in the Midtown District. I think extensively about the man in my bed. He made no attempt to deny my freedom this morning, but how long is he going to stay? I commit to putting it out of my mind.

Shortly, I arrive at the dance class. They scan my card, and I find the studio. I find a position at the barre, and I lie on my back. I stretch my legs.

When I was kidnapped, the first thing to go were my muscles. Regaining my physical strength felt like starting over again. It wasn’t until about six months of taking dance classes did I start to feel strong again. I felt comforted by the soreness of my body, the proof that my body was ripping itself apart only to rebuild stronger. I seek that soreness. I want to be so sore that it hurts to laugh. Though, I don't really laugh much these days.

The flexibility wasn’t as hard to regain. I can almost touch my knee to my face as I stretch it over my head. In the house, I would often find time to stretch my muscles, but never to the point of developing a regimen.

The teacher enters. He’s a gentle man, lithe, pleasant, with the most flexible ankles I’ve ever seen on a person.  As he guides us through our first series at the barre, I promise myself that I will not think about him. I have to prove to myself that I’m stronger now. I block him out completely, focusing only on my muscles. Making sure that as I lift my leg into passé, that my thigh and pelvic floor muscles work hard to maintain my turn out. All that matters right now is maintaining my turn-out and my pelvic alignment. My lower ribs are connected to my pelvic bone, and my shoulders are relaxed and plugged into my lats. 

When class is over, I thank the teacher. He's very kind, and I smile a little, because I actually feel happy.

I look at the dance schedule for the rest of the day. Nothing of interest. I don’t have to work until 5pm.  I start to feel the extent of my exhaustion, and I’m hungry. Just like the Psychic said, 6 hours of sleep in conjunction with a weed hangover in conjunction with the trauma of seeing him will not sustain me. Usually willpower can fuel one dance class. I need something more if I want to take a second dance class. More importantly, I need to go back to bed, and hopefully he’s gone.

I ride the metro back to my home. Everything has almost returned to normal, the city feeling a new sense of ease knowing the Psychic is dead, but he isn’t. He’s in my apartment. I can feel my heart grip anxiously, knowing he’s there.

I don’t think he’s going to kill me. He told me he isn’t. He hasn’t yet, but why should I believe him? How do I know he isn’t going to take me away from the life I’ve established? I didn’t make it far in terms of addressing any type of trauma. I put it far back into the recesses of my brain, refusing to address the situation. Pretending immediately that I was okay. Perhaps it was because, deep down, I always knew this day would come and I wasn’t prepared to “let go” because I’ll never be able to let go.

I turn the lock on the door, and I enter my apartment. He’s in the kitchen, cooking. I smell the bacon immediately. He must have gone shopping because I don’t own that stuff.

“Would you like some breakfast?” he asks me.

I shake my head, “I’m going back to bed.”

“But I can hear your stomach growling from outside. Eat something, at least.”

“I don’t like eating before I go to bed.”

“But you might not be able to sleep with your stomach growling like that. Just eat a piece of toast, and then go back to bed.”

“Christ! You’re not my mom!” I almost scream at him.

I freeze. He looks at me. He takes a deep breath, and he pushes the bacon around in the pan.

I want to apologize for yelling, but why should I? He’s in my home using my pan to make bacon I don’t want. I go to my room, and I close the door. I collapse onto the bed, and I try to weep into the pillow, but no tears come out. I scream into it, and I pound my fists against the bed instead. After a moment, I’m tired, but he’s right, the smell of bacon incites my stomach even more. I leave my room.

He’s at the kitchen table, eating his breakfast and drinking orange juice. I didn’t own orange juice either because I make real juices with my real juicer. His back is toward me, but I stop, and I look at him.

“Would you like something to nibble on?” He asks.

I go to the cupboard, and I find a box of cereal. I don’t bother to sit. I lean against the kitchen counter and I feed myself dry bits of raisin bran directly from the box. I eat each flake slowly and deliberately, pairing one with a raisin every so often.

We both look at whatever is in front of us. I’m starting to feel bad for rejecting his hospitality.

“I have an idea. Why don’t we go out for dinner tonight? Somewhere nice.” He suggests. I look at him, and he’s looking at me. I can’t say he’s pretending that it never happened, but his suggestion is so insane, that he might have actually forgotten it did happen.

“What?” Is all I can muster up in response.

“We should go out somewhere nice for dinner.”

“You mean, like real people?”

“Yes.”

“Oh! This is a joke. I get it.” I laugh a little.

He is not amused.

“I have work tonight.”

“Do you work tomorrow night?” He asks.

I can tell he knows I don’t work tomorrow night, “I have plans.”

His expression doesn’t change, “With whom?”

“I thought you weren’t going to take my freedom away.”

I feel frail as I feed myself single pieces of raisin bran flakes. My stomach feels satiated enough to try to go back to sleep. I put the box away, and I look at him.

“I assume that if you don’t want me to call the police on you, that it’s my right to ask you don’t murder or kidnap me while I sleep. Is that too much to ask?”

He looks at me, tight lipped, like he’s trying really hard to not smash my head against a counter, “You have no reason to fear me. I’m not going to hurt you.”

I don't believe him, but I go back to my room. I close the door behind me. I lie down, and I close my eyes. I wait for him. I wait for him to knock, to let himself in, something, but instead I hear dishes being cleaned, which doesn’t make any sense because I have a dishwasher.

 

I wake up in two hours, still alone in the bed. I can’t hear him, but I assume he’s in the living room. Without thinking too hard, I put my hand between my legs and I start massaging myself. I close my eyes, trying not to think about anything in particular. I just want the end result.

But then thoughts start to infiltrate as they usually do: his body on top of mine, his eyes, his hypnosis, his lips on my neck. Not anyone’s lips, but they’re his lips.

His lips, he has a fat lower lip and a thin upper lip. They would cushion my lips, when he was attempting to be my lover.

I cum. I lie with my hand between my legs. I look at the time. It’s 1:30pm. I should take a shower and make myself pretty for tonight.

I strip out of my pajamas and into my bathrobe. I tie it tight, and I leave my room.

He’s in the living room, sitting on the sofa. He’s staring at nothing in front of him, but I know he must know what just happened. I wonder if he resents me for doing it so freely in my own home without him. That would have been unheard of in the house. One night, he made me cum twice and when it was all over, he held my chin in place, and very carefully explained to me that I was not allowed to masturbate in the house, that he would take care of me, that he would make sure I was pleasured regularly. He made it sound like it was something that was good for my health. Like, if I were a dog he’d be taking me for walks. Instead, he was making me orgasm.

He doesn’t say a word to me, but with his power, there’s no way he didn’t know that I just took care of myself. I go to the bathroom, and I turn the shower on. I remove my bathrobe, and I clean myself. First, I rinse out my wet pussy. I smile a little when I realize the work I’m going to do tonight. That I’m going to be doing all sorts of sexual things to men tonight, and he’s going to get nothing. I even did it to myself while he was in the apartment with me. Maybe I’ll even do the same thing tonight. They always want to watch me cum, and I usually fake the shit out of it, but not tonight.

I look at my pussy again. I have to wax now because of my thong, but I see peeks of new hair coming out. He won’t like that either. He enjoyed my hair. He would never let me own a razor, he claimed for fear of me using it against myself, so for the time I was there, everything grew. My armpits, my leg hair, my bush, it didn’t stop him from doing anything. I didn’t leave much of my body the way he remembered it.

I turn the shower off, and I go to the mirror. I put product in my hair, and I wrap it up in a t-shirt turban. I leave the bathroom, and he hasn’t moved.

He heard everything.

Every one of my thoughts, he heard, and I’m so happy he did. I go to my room. I think on it. Why the hell do I think he cares what I do outside of here? He just wants a warm place to sleep and crash while he gets his affairs in order. He’ll be gone soon enough. You were at his side so long out of convenience, not emotion. I’m disappointed in myself suddenly for this whole scenario I created. I get myself ready fast. I don’t bother blow-drying my hair as I leave my room, and I get my things in order.

I’m stuffing my purse right in front of him on the sofa when he finally speaks, “When will you be home tonight?” He asks.

“I dunno.”

“When does work get out?” He tries again.

11pm, everyday, I think, “I don’t know.”

He looks at me, finally. He knows I’m lying.

“Sometimes we go out for drinks after work. What do you care?” I challenge.

“JUST, come home tonight.”

I look at him now. I guess I don’t have a choice.

I nod, and I put my fall coat on, and my scarf, and I leave.

 

Mistress Darla and Mistress Candy are my co-horts tonight. Steven never liked the name Candy because it’s a stripper name, not a dominatrix name, but the girl insisted she be named Candy. Candy was the kind of the girl you’d expect to work at a place like this. She was here to work out issues with her father, who was apparently verbally abusive. I know this because she brings it up everyday. That along with her ADD, ADHD, borderline Bi-polar, etc….She has very striking Jewish features. Long nose, pale skin, dark thick hair. Her crazy was good company because it would distract me from my crazy.

Darla’s a blond hair, blue eyed masterpiece with a huge ass. Her father raped her. Everyone tells me everything about themselves for some reason.

Did I mention that my boss’s daughter committed suicide at age 17?

Anyway, that's my company tonight, and I hope I'm absorbed in work stuff, so I don’t have to engage in any type of small talk. I also didn’t want room to think about the skinny French elephant in my room.

“You have Tom at 5:30, Victor at 7, and John is coming in to see all of you at 9,” Steven calls out to me.

“Excellent,” I think. A regular who acts like a normal guy with a surprisingly huge dick. He always wants to see me orgasm. I’ll do that for him tonight. I count that I’ll make at least 250 from tonight not including any tips, but I’ll make tips, so I’ll have at least over 300 tonight, even more if I win the pissing contest all the girls have for John.

 

The night went on as expected, except I got to squeeze one more “John” in at 8pm. My regular got to see me cum, for real. I put the vibrator to my own clit and looked him in the eyes as it happened. It was like I wasn't really there, the whole night. I have a wad of $400 burning my pocket.

"You want to get Korean fried chicken?" Candy asks. 

I do, I do….but the warning.

As if on cue, I get a text, “When will I be expecting you?”

I don’t have the number saved, but it is obviously the Psychic. Candy looks over my shoulder, “Who’s that?”

“Just some guy,” I respond, but I can't hide the scare in my voice, and the thing about crazy people like Candy is they are intuitive.

“Are you okay? You look pale.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.”

“You sure? Is he hurting you?”

“Candy, don’t be so dramatic. I’m fine, I’m just….he doesn’t know what I do.”

It’s a perfect little lie, and it might be true, but it’s enough to explain my apparent trepidation.

“Oh, well,” Candy sniffs me, “You don’t smell like sex. Get home, I guess, convince him you’re just a waitress or whatever.”

“I will, good night.”

I turn from her, and I walk home in the darkness. In this neighborhood, 11pm isn’t late, but the business types really don’t come in past that time, and Steven and his wife don’t want to stay up later than that. I remember the text. I respond:

“Ten min”

He doesn’t text back.

I feel strange texting him. I never had a phone, and I always knew when he’d be home because my clock was linked to him internally. As a result, many things were linked. Sometimes I would hear his thoughts and feel his emotions. His emotions were so devestatingly painful to experience. Whatever he's hiding, I end up experiencing.

I pass by the late night taco place, and my stomach growls. 

 

I come home, and he’s still sitting on the sofa. He must have gotten up to move, but based on the way everything is, it looks like he hasn’t. 

“You’re late,” he says without even looking at me, “You said you’d be ten minutes.”

“I got tacos.”

“Don’t play games with me,” he responds.

I lift up the bag and show him the tacos, “I’m not. I was hungry. It was a whim. It took five extra minutes.”

“Seven.”

“Seven extra minutes. I’m sorry, but I don’t understand why … you care.”

He doesn’t say anything.

“Would you like a taco?” I offer, “I have three of them. I’m not that hungry. I just wanted a snack.”

“What’s your day tomorrow?” he asks.

“I work in the morning.”

“Then you will have dinner with me.”

“I have dance classes I go to after work.”

“What time?” he asks, quick.

I have to think just as quickly, but he got me. I have no explicit plans. In fact, I usually take Thursday evenings off.

“I’ve made reservations for 8:30pm. That gives you plenty of time.”

“For where?”

“The Modern.”

I’ve heard of the restaurant. It’s a fancy one inside the Modern Art Museum. I spend a lot of time at art museums contemplating life choices and non-choices. I would stare at the restaurant from afar, but I always felt too classless to actually step inside.

“We are going to the Bar Room, so there is less fuss. I thought you would prefer that.”

I don’t really have anything to say to him. I can’t think of a fast enough way to deflect this, so it’s too late, I have to.

“Your tacos are getting cold.”

“I’m not hungry,” I respond.

I leave the tacos on the table, and I go to my room. I slam the door, but I don’t bother locking it. There’s no point. I want to ask him ‘why?’ Why is he doing this to me? Why does he want to take me out to dinner? Is it to humiliate me? To pretend we are dating? Why?

I know I have to do my bed things, so I leave the room. He still hasn’t moved from the sofa, but I notice the tacos are gone.

“I put them in the fridge,” he responds, reading my thoughts. I stop for a moment, realizing how quickly he could read my thoughts. I think hard about how I put the hitachi wand on my own clit, and I let myself reach a real orgasm in front of Tom. He loved it so much. I even stuck my finger in my own vagina, and I let him lick my finger.

The Psychic’s leg begins to shake. Perhaps it’s in response to my thoughts, perhaps it’s something else. I go to the bathroom, and I do the things I need to do.

 When I’m done, I go to my room. He’s already curled off to the side of the bed, underneath the blankets. I close the door, and I change in the darkness. I wonder if he can see the outline of my body as I change into my shorts and tank top, if it creates any desire inside of him. I go to the other side of the bed.

Even though he isn’t in my head, I feel a deep sadness. I can’t tell where it comes from. It could be his, but it could just as well be mine. I reach into my nightstand for my vaporizer.

It isn’t there. I push everything around. I get up, and I turn the light on. I push everything around in the nightstand more frantically. Then I look at him.

“Where’s my weed?” I ask him.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“That’s mine. You have no right to take it.”

“Of course I don’t, but I did anyway.”

“Just fucking give it back to me!”

“You don’t need it.”

“You don’t tell me what I need.”

My breathing gets hallow. How am I going to fall asleep? How am I going to sleep when I can’t stop thinking? My heart races.

“Please, just give it back to me. I can’t sleep without it.”

“How do you know?”

“Oh, jesus.” I get up and leave the room. I go to the bathroom, and I drop to my knees in front of the toilet. I feel nautious, but I know it’s purely psychological, nothing is going to come out, but it feels comforting to heave in front of it.

My weed, my one coping mechanism. He took that from me for no good reason, due to some arrogant sense of what is right. Alcohol, that’s fine to him, but weed?  

There’s a knock on the door.

“Just come back to your room. I have your weed.”

I open the door, and he’s standing there with my vaporizer. I take it, and I quickly take a hit.

He follows me as I go to the room.

“Did you just throw up?” He asks.

I shake my head, as I take another hit.

“You shouldn’t take drugs.”

“It’s weed.”

“It’s still a drug…”

“What do you expect me to do?” I respond to him, “How do you think I sleep at night? Jesus Christ, I could either take sleeping pills, smoke or kill myself.”

I lie back onto the bed, still shaken from the moment. I take more hits than is healthy. He’s back in bed with me. He turns his back toward me and lies down.

I sit back as well. I turn off the light, and I wait for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. Perhaps I'm an addict, but the circumstances are extenuating, I’d say. The thoughts fade slowly as the high begins to set it. I feel extremely heavy and also horny, but I’m not going to do anything about that right now.



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