Torn between the hunger that has always driven him and the man he hopes to become, he’s forced to confront a question he can no longer ignore: are these impulses separate from who he is, or are they the very key to understanding himself?
Part 6 – The Weight of Wanting
Angela was asleep beside me. Face buried in the pillow. Ass facing me like a silent dare. That perfect curve. Still glistening with sweat and my cum. Legs twitching every few seconds from the intensity of what I’d just done to her. I sat up slowly, resting my elbows on my knees. Breathing even. Mind not. The room smelled like sex. Expensive candles. And something more dangerous: emotion.
We’d fucked like addicts. Scratched, bit, cried, begged. She called me Daddy. I called her my dirty little slut. She came so hard she collapsed. I came so hard I blacked out for a full ten seconds. No joke. And now, in the quiet after, I wasn’t sure what I felt. Angela was chaos wrapped in silk and laced panties. She was a walking contradiction — wife, doctor, manipulator, goddess. She gave everything during sex. Left nothing on the table. And when she whispered “I love you,” I believed her.
Problem was, I think she believed it too.
I leaned back against the headboard, checking my phone. Three in the morning. No texts. No missed calls. And still… I thought about Liz. Not sexually — not right now. No, I thought about the way she looked post-orgasm. The way she held her coffee cup. That tiny smile she gave when she thought I wasn’t looking.
Angela stirred.
“Mmm… where’d you go?” she mumbled.
“Nowhere,” I said softly, brushing hair from her cheek.
She blinked up at me, eyes foggy with sleep. “Was I good tonight?”
“You were perfect.”
She smiled. Closed her eyes again. But my mind wasn’t with her anymore. Later that morning, I drove her home. We didn’t talk much. Just hands touching now and then. Her head on my shoulder at stop lights. Her perfume lingering in my seats. She kissed me before she got out — long, slow, with a kind of need I didn’t want to look too closely at.
“I miss you already,” she whispered.
“I know,” I said. And I meant it. But it wasn’t the whole truth. I drove straight to Harlem. Not to the gym. Not to the barbershop. To the river. It’s quiet there. Early mornings, hardly anyone around. Just wind, water, and time. I sat on the bench and lit a cigaratte. I wasn’t even supposed to be smoking, but stress hits different when your dick’s writing checks your heart isn’t ready to cash.
What the fuck was I doing?
Two women. Opposite ends of the emotional spectrum. One was danger I couldn’t quit. The other was safety I didn’t trust. And me? I was stuck between the thrill of control and the threat of vulnerability.
Steven never warned me about this part.
My phone buzzed.
Liz: Can I see you tonight?
Simple. No emojis. No heat.
But it hit harder than any sext Angela ever sent.
Me: Yeah. Come over after your shift. I’ll cook.
She replied almost instantly.
Liz: I’ll bring dessert. And not the kind you eat with a spoon.
I smiled. But it was the kind that didn’t quite reach my eyes.
That night, I cooked something stupid good. Garlic butter shrimp. Parmesan risotto. Roasted asparagus. Wine chilled.
She walked in wearing black jeans, white blouse, and those same damn curls pulled into a loose bun. Simple. Effortless. Lethal. Dinner was filled with laughter. That easy rhythm we had, like our mouths were synced even when we weren’t kissing. Then she took my hand. Led me to the couch. And things slowed down. No rush. No games.
Just hands. Mouths. Breath.
She climbed into my lap, kissed me like I was the prize. Stripped slow. Looked me in the eyes like she wanted to see me. Not just fuck me. And I let her. I let her ride me in silence. No dirty talk. No name calling. Just her hips grinding, her mouth open in pleasure, her hand pressed to my chest to feel my heartbeat. I came inside her. And felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time. Not just satisfied.
But seen.
Afterward, we lay there — her on my chest, tracing invisible lines on my skin.
“Tell me something real,” she said.
I didn’t answer right away. “I think I’m addicted to people who can’t love me back. And I think I don’t know what to do when someone actually can.”
She didn’t say anything. Just kissed my chest and whispered, “Thank you.”
I didn’t sleep that night. I just watched her. And thought about every mask I wore… And whether she might be the first person who could see past them all.
Part 7 – Echoes in the Mirror
Dr. Malek’s office had a way of quieting the noise. Not silencing it—just softening the edges, like cotton wrapped around a blade. I sat in the chair across from her. Same leather. Same scent of eucalyptus and old books. Her eyes on me. Patient. Predatory.
“You’ve been slipping,” she said.
“I’ve been living,” I replied.
She raised an eyebrow. “Is there a difference?”
I didn’t answer. Because I didn’t know.
The Session
We talked about impulse. About fantasy. About what it means to wake up and not remember who you are without someone else’s sweat still clinging to your skin.
“I don’t want to change,” I admitted. “I just want to stop pretending I should.”
Malek didn’t blink. “That’s not growth. That’s surrender.”
“What if surrender is the only honest thing I have left?”
She leaned forward. “You still think this is about sex. It’s not. It’s about proof. That you can take something, leave a mark, and not be forgotten.”
Her words hit like a confession I hadn’t meant to say out loud. And somewhere, deep in the back of my mind, Steven laughed. He spoke when I was alone. Not in whispers—he never whispered. His voice was silk over steel. Calm. Cruel. Knowing.
“You were never made for peace, Jay.”
“You were born for chaos. For the pull between thighs and regret.”
“You think love will save you? Love is just the itch that comes after the heat fades.”
I didn’t talk back. Because part of me agreed. And part of me missed him.
As I left the session, Brittany looked up from her desk.
“Rough one?” she asked.
I paused.
She tilted her head. “I make coffee strong enough to erase the last 50 minutes.”
I smiled despite myself. “I think I need something stronger.”
She winked. “Next time, maybe I’ll lock the door and let you take it out on me.”
Teasing or a promise? I walked out. The door clicked behind me.
And Steven’s voice murmured: “Told you. There’s always more.”
Part 7b – The Mirror and the Myth
The couch in Dr. Malek’s office was always too comfortable. Soft enough to disarm you. Firm enough to make you sit like a grown man and face your shit. She watched me from her chair—legs crossed, notepad closed, eyes sharp.
“You’re quieter than usual today,” she said.
“I came four times in the last twenty-four hours,” I replied. “I’m just trying not to fall asleep.”
She smiled, but didn’t blink. “And which woman helped you reach that level of exhaustion?”
I shrugged. “Depends. You want the list alphabetically, chronologically, or ranked by squirt radius?”
“Try ranked by emotional investment.”
I leaned back and sighed. “That’s... trickier.”
She waited. Didn’t speak. Just let the silence dig.
So I spoke.
“Angela gives me intensity. Liz gives me peace. But neither one lets me feel... enough. Like I’m always playing some role.”
“And what role is that?”
My mouth twitched. “The man who always knows what he’s doing. The one who doesn’t flinch. Who says the right thing. Fucks the right way. Leaves before he gets left.”
Malek nodded once. “So… Steven.”
I looked up. “What?”
“Steven St. Croix. You’ve mentioned him over a dozen times in our sessions. And each time, you speak about him with more reverence than your own father.”
I didn’t respond. Because she was right. Steven lived in my head. Not in a delusional way. Not a hallucination. But in moments — sharp, forked-path moments — his voice would emerge.
“Don’t flinch. Hold the eye contact.”
“Make her cum twice before you even take your pants off.”
You leave her wondering. Never the other way around.”
He was porn star, philosopher, ghost mentor, and blueprint.
When I was twenty-one and fucking like I had something to prove, I found one of his videos on a bootleg DVD. The way he moved. The way women reacted to him — like he wasn’t just fucking them, but teaching them about themselves?
That stuck.
I watched every interview. Read every article. He spoke about sex like a code. A calling. A contract. And somewhere along the way, I stopped asking, What should I do? And started asking: “What would Steven do?”
“Steven never fell in love,” I said finally.
Malek tilted her head. “And you think that’s strength?”
I didn’t answer.
She leaned forward. “Jay, what if I told you that everything you’ve built—the swag, the game, the women—it’s all armor. And that you’ve worn it so long… you forgot what your skin feels like underneath.”
I swallowed. Felt something tighten in my chest.
She nodded. “You say Steven never flinched. Never loved. Never broke. But I don’t see strength in that. I see fear dressed in leather and lube.”
I laughed despite myself. “You’re cold, Doc.”
“No,” she said. “I’m precise.”
She stood, walked over, and handed me a mirror from her shelf.
“Next week, I want you to look into this. For five full minutes. No mask. No Steven. No swagger.”
I stared at the mirror. Heavy in my hand.
“And then what?” I asked.
She smiled. “Then we’ll meet Jay Bridgewater for the first time.”
As I walked out of Dr. Malek’s office, there she was again tormenting me. Brittany. Perfect posture behind the front desk. Blonde hair twisted up in an efficient knot. Her blouse unbuttoned just enough to turn accidental glances into something more.
“You look like you just got your soul steam-cleaned,” she said, smiling.
I tried to answer. Failed. She stood. Walked out from behind the desk, heels clicking against the marble floor.
“The building’s empty,” she added. “Malek left through the back. I was just finishing up.”
She stopped in front of me. Not quite touching. “But maybe you need a little… aftercare?”
I didn’t say yes. But I didn’t move either.
She stepped closer. “Ever wonder what it feels like,” she whispered, “to completely lose control… in a place designed to put you back together?”
Then she turned and walked toward the file room. Didn’t look back. The lock clicked once. The invitation couldn’t have been louder. Dark. Clean. Cabinets along the walls. A couch used for exhausted therapists to collapse between sessions. Brittany leaned against it, arms crossed, eyes shining in the dim light. “I see the way you look at me when you think you shouldn’t.”
“I don’t pretend,” I said.
“No,” she whispered, stepping out of her heels. “But you lie to yourself. You pretend this hunger isn’t you.”
She unbuttoned her blouse. Slowly. One clasp at a time. Underneath—lace. Deep plum. Delicate. She didn’t undress further. She sat down on the couch, spread her knees, and crooked a finger.
I stepped forward.
She grabbed my belt. Undid it without looking up.
“You think you’re broken, Jay,” she said. “But broken men fuck better. They fuck like it’s the only thing keeping them alive.”
She pulled me out—hard, already throbbing. And without a word, she took me in her mouth. Deep. Slow. Purposeful.
I groaned. One hand found her hair. She moaned around me, then pulled back with a wet pop.
“You’re not gonna last,” she said.
I growled. “Then get on the couch.”
She didn’t need telling twice. She turned, lifted her skirt, and bent over the armrest. No panties. Already soaked. I entered her in one thrust. She screamed into her arm, back arching. The room echoed with the sounds of need and ruin. I fucked her like I wanted to forget the last hour. The last woman. The last life. She came twice—loud, shaking, begging me not to stop. When I came, it was deep, primal, teeth clenched, hand locked around her throat—not choking, just claiming. After, she pulled her skirt back down and turned to face me, cheeks flushed, lips swollen.
“I hope she helped you unpack your trauma,” she said. “Because I just helped you forget it.”
Then she winked. “See you at your next appointment.”
Later that night, I stood in my apartment. Alone. Mirror on the kitchen counter. Wine in my hand. Angela had texted something wild. Liz had sent a photo that made my knees buckle.
But I hadn’t answered either.
I just looked at the mirror. And asked the question.
Not: What would Steven do?
Not: What would Daddy say?
But this:
What the fuck do I want?
Part 8 – The Ghost with Lip Gloss
The first text came at 11:42 p.m. Right as I was brushing my teeth.
Brittany: “Hola, papi. Can I ask you something personal?”
I stared at the screen, toothbrush still in my mouth, foam spilling over my bottom lip like some half-drunk fool caught off guard.
Brittany. The receptionist. The one who made “hello” sound like foreplay and “goodbye” feel like a dare. The one who whispered Spanish in my ear two weeks ago and had my dick standing at attention like it was receiving foreign orders.
We hadn’t spoken since then. Since my last session with Dr. Malek.
I’d been too distracted. Angela had swallowed my nights. Liz had soaked into my sheets and my chest. And yet now, Brittany was back—like she’d been waiting in the wings for the exact right moment to fuck up my equilibrium.
Me: Depends. Am I going to need another shower after I answer?
She replied with a voice note. I hesitated. Then tapped play. Her voice came through soft, sultry, and way too knowing:
“I had a dream about you, James. You were teaching me how to breathe through my nose while you were fucking my throat. You kept saying... ‘Slower. Relax. Good girl.’ Then you came. And I swallowed. And I asked if I passed the lesson. You said ‘No.’ You said… class wasn’t over.”
The audio ended.
I swallowed my toothpaste and stared at my reflection. Steven, deep in my head, whispered:
“Class isn’t over, Jay. Are you gonna finish what you started?”
I didn’t answer her right away. Instead, I sat on the edge of my bed, towel around my waist, phone buzzing again.
Brittany: “I miss your eyes. The way they undress me when you think I’m not watching.”
Brittany: “Come see me tomorrow. After your session.”
Next day, I told Dr. Malek everything. I told her about Liz. About the mirror. About the voice in my head. I wanted to tell her, but I withheld information about Brittany. Afraid of the ramifications. She didn’t flinch. Just folded one leg over the other, pen steady.
“Jay,” she said, “you ever think about what draws these women to you?”
I laughed. “You mean besides the obvious?”
“No,” she said. “I mean what need in them answers the need in you.”
That landed harder than I wanted it to.
“Angela needs escape,” I admitted. “Liz needs someone who won’t lie to her. I don’t know yet. But I know what I give them.”
“And what’s that?”
“Control. Pleasure. Permission.”
“Permission for what?”
“To be... the version of themselves they don’t show anyone else.”
Dr. Malek nodded slowly. “And what version of you do you give them?”
I didn’t answer. Because I didn’t know.
Brittany buzzed me in before I knocked. Her place smelled like citrus and sex. Clean, sweet, sharp. She opened the door in nothing but a silk robe and bare feet. Her hair was curly, piled high, lips slick with fresh gloss. Her eyes drank me in the second I stepped inside.
“You wore black,” she whispered, tugging on my shirt.
“You asked for danger,” I replied.
She grinned. “Then let’s be dangerous.”
She kissed me before I could even close the door. It was hunger wrapped in satin. All tongue and teeth and breathless heat. Her fingers undid my belt like she’d trained for it. My pants hit the floor. Her knees hit next. She looked up at me with that perfect mix of innocence and wickedness. “May I?”
I didn’t answer with words. Just tilted my hips forward. She took me in slow. No hands. Just lips and submission. Her throat opened like a promise. Her rhythm was insane. Not porn-star aggressive. More like… practiced worship. Like she’d been dreaming of this moment since the day we met.
She gagged once, tears spilling, and pulled back with spit trailing from her lips. “I want to be yours,” she whispered. “I want to be your student.”
She turned around, crawled onto the couch, lifted her robe, and spread herself open. No panties. Just skin and wetness and invitation.
“Teach me, Jay,” she breathed. “Make me remember what your name tastes like.”
I slid in from behind with one smooth thrust. She gasped, hands clenching the couch cushions. I gripped her hips, slow strokes at first, then harder, deeper. She chanted my name like a mantra. I leaned over, grabbed her throat, and whispered into her ear.
“Class is in session.”
We didn’t stop. Kitchen. Wall. Bedroom floor. Her body became a map, and I followed every curve like it led to buried treasure. She begged. I denied. She teased. I punished. When she finally passed out from the last orgasm, I laid beside her, staring at the ceiling. Sweat. Silence. Questions.
And then…
My phone buzzed.
Angela: “Why haven’t you answered?”
Liz: “Be safe tonight. Call me if you need company.”
I looked at Brittany, asleep beside me, lips parted, thighs still trembling. Then back at the two texts waiting. And somewhere in my head, Steven laughed:
“This who you are."
Part 9 – Fractures
I woke up before Brittany. The room was steeped in darkness—soft navy shadows filtering through half-closed blinds, just a whisper of morning beginning to push against the night. My phone buzzed quietly on the nightstand: 5:28 a.m.
The air was humid with leftover heat. Not just warmth from bodies, but sex. Heavy. Tangible. Brittany’s perfume had mingled with the salt of our sweat, embedding itself in the fabric of the sheets, the skin on my chest, the folds of memory. She was curled into me like she was afraid I’d disappear. Her face was tucked into my chest, breath slow and even. One bare leg rested over mine, anchoring me there like I was something she meant to keep. I stared at the ceiling, unable to name what I felt. Numb? No. This was worse. It wasn’t the absence of feeling—it was the weight of too much. Too many names. Too many nights like this.
My body felt hollowed out. Fucked dry. Spent. But my heart? It was quiet. And Steven… he was gone. That scared me more than anything. I eased out from under her, careful not to wake her. My bare feet met the cold floor. I padded to the bathroom, flicked on the light, and leaned over the sink.
Cold water. Splash. Breathe.
I looked up at the mirror. No smirk. No swagger. No clever line loaded in the chamber.
Just me. Jay.
And for the first time in a long time, I realized: that wasn’t enough.
By the time I slipped out of Brittany’s apartment, dawn had broken across the skyline in soft pinks and golds. Birds stirred. Tires hissed on wet pavement. The world had started over without me.
“I’ll walk you out,” Brittany said, sleep-heavy but determined, her hair a tousled mess around her face, lips still swollen from what we’d done hours earlier.
“You don’t need to,” I told her, reaching for my jacket. She insisted. At the doorway, we stood there in the half-light. Her fingers grazed mine, then dropped.
“I had a dream about you again,” she whispered.
I half-smiled. “Was I nicer this time?”
She shook her head. “You never left.”
I kissed her cheek—soft, careful. Nothing more. Nothing less. Then I turned and walked away. The drive home was silent. No music. No podcasts. Just the rhythm of tires on asphalt and the static in my chest. But silence didn’t mean peace.
Steven came back, uninvited.
“You’re slipping, Jay. You’re making promises without words. That’s the most dangerous kind.”
His voice was amused. Smooth. Razor-thin.
“You’re letting them see the man behind the cock. And guess what? Some of them like him.”
“What happens when they all start wanting him instead?”
I didn’t answer. I just clenched the wheel and stared at the horizon.
My phone buzzed.
Liz: “I had a dream about you. Except this time… you left before I woke up. Miss you.”
No photo. No emoji. Just text. Clean. Undeniably her.
I didn’t respond. Not because I didn’t want to. Because I didn’t know what to say. I pulled into the garage. Engine off. Music still dead. I sat there in the stillness, her message burning a hole through my chest. She missed me. Not the sex. Not the performance. Me.
But what the hell did that even mean anymore? Angela called that afternoon. No text first—just a direct call. That alone told me she wasn’t okay. I let it ring twice, then picked up.
“James.” Her voice was taut. Controlled. But barely. “Where the fuck have you been?”
“Busy,” I said flatly.
“You didn’t answer last night.”
“I was out.”
“Out with who?”
I didn’t answer.
“Don’t do that,” she said. I could hear the edge cracking in her voice. “Don’t lie to me. I know. I just need you to say it.”
I sank down onto the couch, staring at my open palms.
“You don’t want me to say it,” I said quietly.
“You promised—”
“I promised to fuck you. To make you cum. To keep it secret. I never promised to love you more than you love your husband.”
The silence that followed was loud. Then, one word: “Wow.”
“Angela—”
“No. I get it. You’re just like the rest of them.”
The line went dead.
That night, I didn’t go anywhere. I didn’t call anyone. Didn’t fuck. Didn’t drink myself into oblivion. Just me. The bottle. My reflection. And that question. Who am I when no one’s watching?
For years, I thought Steven was the answer. The polished edge. The swagger. The sex. But now? Now I wasn’t so sure. Because Steven never felt this empty. Steven never stared into silence and wished it would break him open. I checked my phone. No new messages. Not from Liz. Not from Angela. Not even Brittany. And for the first time, I started to wonder if they’d all seen the truth. Not the seducer. Not the porn god. Not the mask. Just the man behind the performance.
And maybe, just maybe… that man wasn’t enough.
Part 10 – Tectonic Shifts
It had been three days.
Three days since I’d heard anything from Liz. No texts. No voice notes. Not even one of her impulsive selfies with that half-smile she sent when she wanted to remind me she was thinking about me. Nothing. Just silence. And not the kind of silence that happens by accident. No, this was intentional. Cold. Purposeful. Measured.
I told myself she was busy. Maybe she was tired. Maybe she needed space. I lied to myself with a dozen reasonable excuses, but the truth hit harder than any of them. Something had shifted. And deep down, I knew it wasn’t just her. It was me. Maybe she saw something. Maybe she finally saw the cracks I’d been painting over for months. I took the guilt to the gym. Threw it into a punching bag like I could knock it loose. Sweat poured down my back, music screamed through my headphones, and my fists connected with dull thuds that sounded like penance.
Every punch came with a name.
Liz. Angela. Brittany. Jay.
That last one stung the most. I can feel everything unraveling. Brittany, on the other hand, hadn’t missed a beat.
My phone lit up with her voice notes and breathy, late-night whispers like they were a part of my daily routine. Photos. Nudes. Messages with an edge of possessiveness that felt less cute and more claustrophobic by the day.
“When can I be your good girl again, papi?”
“I just want to sit in your lap. I’ll be quiet, promise.”
“You miss my throat? I miss your taste.”
A week ago, those messages would’ve had me halfway to her place, zipper down before I rang the bell. Now? They felt like invitations to a party I was too exhausted to keep crashing. She wanted Steven. And I was starting to question if I could even play the role anymore.
Angela didn’t bother with pretense. I was shirtless in the kitchen, eating pineapple straight from the container when she knocked like she was trying to wake the whole building. Three sharp raps. Pause. Two more. Her signature. I opened the door, and she blew past me without a word, trench coat swirling like storm clouds behind her.
“You didn’t answer your phone,” she said without turning around.
“I was working out.”
“You didn’t text back.”
“I didn’t have anything to say.”
She spun to face me. Her coat slipped off her shoulders. Lingerie. Black. Lace. Stockings. Heels. The full fantasy. But her face… it wasn’t seductive. It wasn’t confident. It was tired. Hollow. And hurting.
“I’m losing my mind, James,” she said. Her voice shook. “I can’t eat. I can’t fuck Richard. I think about you when he touches me, and I fucking hate it. I hate you for it.”
I didn’t say anything. She slapped me. Hard. Then grabbed my face and kissed me harder. And I let her. Because she was fire and I’d never stopped loving the burn. We didn’t make love. We didn’t even have sex. We fucked. Fast. Violent. Sloppy. No music. No rhythm. Just skin and sweat and anger. It was punishment for both of us. She cried after. Curled into my chest, her fingers digging into my ribs like she was trying to stay afloat.
“I don’t want to go home,” she whispered.
I stayed quiet. Because I didn’t want her to stay. That night, I sat in the shower. Water scalding. Skin red. Back against cold tile. And I whispered the one question I’d spent months avoiding:
Who are you without the sex?
Not the power. Not the performance. Not the heat. Not the praise. Just you.
And I didn’t have an answer.
The next day, I sat across from Dr. Malek. Same office. Same chair. Same heavy silence. She didn’t start. She never did when she knew I was close to breaking.
“I think I’m losing them,” I said finally.
“Why?”
“Because they’re starting to see the real me.”
She folded her hands in her lap. “And who is that?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Maybe just a good fuck with good taste in sneakers.”
I tried to laugh. She didn’t join me.
“Jay,” she said, “you’re not afraid of being alone. You’re afraid of being seen. And worse—you’re afraid of being seen and left anyway.”
I dropped my gaze to the carpet. She let the silence stretch. Then she leaned forward.
“You need to choose. Not between Angela or Liz. Between the man you’ve built—Steven’s ghost—or the man you actually are.”
“And if I don’t?” I asked.
She didn’t flinch. “Then eventually, none of them will choose you back.”