Twisted Therapy (1 of 3)
Justine Faux's therapy session with Dr. David Ross spirals into a dangerous game of desire and deceit, forcing him to confront his past and fight for his future.
also available as an audiobook
Content warning: The following story is for adult readers only.
Prologue
Ever had that gut feeling, that inner voice warning you against something? It's intuition. I've relied on this inner voice ever since I became a psychotherapist. It never failed me.
It was I who failed.
The moment Justine Faux stepped into my office, my professional composure evaporated and my inner voice shrieked. Why didn't I heed its frantic warning?
Am I being overly dramatic? Perhaps. I could label my reaction an acute case of countertransference. Yet, within the first sixty seconds of the session? Wasn't I past the age of reacting so strongly to an attractive woman? Too seasoned to be swayed by a client?
Why did I hush my inner voice, ignoring its desperate screams?
And there was… more. Something familiar about the woman, stirring up emotions I thought I'd forgotten.
Chapter 1
Justine Faux was my last patient this evening. My favorite time of the day, when the last glimmer of sunset streamed through the windows of my office, bathing everything in a golden hue, making me feel tranquil—irrespectively of the problems my patient could face.
Justine's red hair fit the view—glowing like a raging inferno. I could almost feel the heat. Unless it was because of her dress, which turned sheer above the waist.
Normally, I paid little attention to what a patient wore, unless it uncovered an essential detail about them. This time the detail was something else—she wore no bra.
Was it a new style—the transparency a modern substitute for exposing one's soul? Or was she trying to get my attention? But why? I needed more information.
“Doctor Ross?” Justine's voice snapped me back to reality. She shifted in her seat, a playful smirk appearing at the corner of her lips.
“Yes?”
"Have you finished?"
“Finished?”
Her eyebrows curved in a teasing arc. "Finished gawking at me?"
Was I that obvious? I swallowed my saliva before it had a chance to choke me—as if I were sitting in a dentist's chair, bracing for the inevitable drill. "You're saying I'm gawking at you." I kept a controlled, gentle voice, attempting to retain a bit of professionalism. “Is it important to you that I am?”
It might be a stereotype, but answering a question with another question was a therapeutic device, though sometimes used for my benefit.
Justine cocked her head. “Doctor Ross, I might be underdressed, but I'm not blind. I can see you're… checking me out.”
Underdressed? Did she mean how she was dressed under? Referring to her missing bra? Or had I misconstrued the meaning of a straightforward word? My mind raced, over-analyzing the concept. What was going on with me? Too much work? Too many life stories stuffed in my head?
I snorted—inwardly. I had an entire arsenal of snorts, chuckles, and sighs—all inside my head. I could even roll my eyes without my patient ever noticing. It's easy to believe every psychotherapist has this detached indifference, allowing them to objectively analyze each patient. What a load of crap. It looked that way on the outside only because we didn't show our reactions—unless they had therapeutic value, of course.
"Do you like my dress?" Was it a tease? She was well aware of the impact her dress had on me.
“You made an effort to look… presentable.” I cringed at the euphemistic word. “But maybe it’s not about the dress. Maybe you were concerned… with something else?”
Her mouth quivered, barely holding back a smirk. "Perhaps this outfit wasn't my best choice." She painted an innocent look on her face. "But I'm off to a party later, and I didn't want to rush home to change."
Plausible, but I didn’t buy it. She also sidestepped my question. “You're going to a party after our meeting?”
“I am. And I love this dress. It's comfortable. Unlike my heels.” She glanced down at her shoes and… kicked them off, revealing her crimson-polished toes.
"So…" I took a moment before looking up. “What brings you here?”
Her tongue traced her upper lip, the same color as her toenails. Exactly the same shade. Did they come in a set?
"It's Michael, my husband." Clenching her lips, her eyes grew cold, as if just the mention of his name caused her distress.
"He's... having an affair."
Chapter 2
It was rejection, after all—unless I misinterpreted the significance of her husband's affair.
I locked my gaze with hers, struggling to resist the temptation to inspect her body again, and asked one of my favorite questions: “How do you feel about it?”
“How do you think I feel?” She knew the questioning game.
“You tell me.” These gleaming eyes, full of emotions. Was it annoyance? Or something else?
I quivered. The emotions were all that mattered.
I used to fancy myself some kind of psychological detective, unraveling the tangled webs of my patients' minds. Now, their predictability bore me to tears. But their emotions? Those raw, messy, chaotic eruptions of feeling? Those were my lifeblood. My emotional sustenance. My fix.
“Do you think I'm beautiful?” Justine fluttered her eyelashes, and pressed her palms together, mimicking a prayer. “But please, no evasive answers this time.”
So, it was alright for her to dodge my questions, but I couldn't evade hers? I ignored her request.
She pursed her lips and glared at me. “All I'm asking for is a simple yes or no.”
“Did your husband's affair make you doubt your attractiveness?”
“Here we go again… Another question.”
This time I was determined to wait her out.
After a minute, she heaved a painful sigh. “I just can't fathom that Michael would do such a thing.”
“Denying it won't make it untrue.”
“You think I don't know that?” A storm of emotions raged in her eyes for a split second before she blinked it away, her features smoothing into a mask of calm.
“What did you feel when you discovered what he had done?”
She gave a noncommittal shrug. “Fury… Disappointment… Pain… Wouldn’t you feel the same?”
“Fury, you say… Let’s talk about that.”
Leaning down, she scrunched her toes, then relaxed them with an audible exhale. Was she aware that her dress had parted in the front, revealing her cleavage?
I admired her shapely breasts for a moment, the dark nipples no longer straining against the thin fabric. Was she teasing me? Or was it me—acting like a man? “Perhaps it’s not only your feet that hurt?”
Her head jerked up, a twisted expression flashing across her face. It vanished an instant later. She fixed her gaze back on her feet. “That's not helping.” She sat up, propped her right foot on her left knee, and began rubbing her sole with both hands. “Much better.” The motion caused her dress's hem to rise, giving me a clear view between her legs. Her bra wasn't the only thing she forgot to wear. Here, her neatly trimmed hair was also… red. A fitting color for her fury.
I looked away, conscious of the fact that I shouldn't be staring at her, especially not now when, I was certain, she wanted me to. How many times during this session would I have to tear my eyes away? I have to admit—I was… relishing the view. I accepted these guilty pleasures as a part of me.
Poor Justine, to be rejected like this. Her fury… was it at her husband, herself, or perhaps… me? She might have chosen me as her therapist, knowing her provocative behavior would force me to reject her advances, giving her an excuse to direct her fury at me. Not the first time I served as a transference object.
“What do you expect from our meeting?” I feigned ignorance of her body, keeping my gaze strictly on her face.
Her eyes narrowed into slits, before she schooled her features into a glacial calm. “I expect nothing.” She brought her foot back to the floor and tugged the hem of her dress over her legs. “I need to stretch my legs.” She pushed herself to her feet before I could respond.
She strolled through my office, examining the books on the shelves, checking my diplomas on the wall. The thick carpet muffled the sound of her bare feet. Her dress featured a low-cut back, exposing the top curves of her buttocks.
Admitting her today had been a mistake. I should've told her to come back, after I have introduced a dress code for my patients.
“How about you, Dr. Ross? Why don’t you join me here? I bet you get… stiff… from sitting in one spot the whole day?”
Stiff? Her wording wasn't a coincidence. I was getting stiff, though not in the area I'd want her to notice. Join her? I shifted in my chair. Uncomfortable, I could bear. Awkward was another matter. “Do you think your husband's rejection makes you feel lonely? Is that why you're asking me to join you?”
She leveled an enigmatic gaze at me, then drifted to the terrace window. Placing her palms against the glass, she peered outside. The amber sunlight shone through her sheer dress, delineating every curve of her figure. Her toned legs subtly spread, stretched the translucent fabric between her thighs, letting the sun's radiant glow to outline her swollen labia.
“Do you cheat on your wife?”
Caught off guard, I flinched, and she noticed my fixated gaze.
“I see,” she said. “Why am I not surprised?”
Damn it. She played me. Even if I did indulge in a few discreet flings, I was careful, so it was… inconsequential.
Justine floated past me, leaving a trail of intoxicating scent behind. At my wall of fame, she traced her fingers along the border of one specific certificate.
I envisioned her fingers over my chest.
“Men fall into two categories.” With a sly grin, she faced me. “Those who've strayed, and those who haven't done so yet.”
“Did you formulate this theory before or after you discovered your husband’s betrayal?”
“Oh, the idea isn't mine. But I’ve always believed that.”
“Then you should've seen it coming.”
She glanced at my diplomas once more. “You have so many. You must be fantastic. Lots of experience with cases like mine?”
She resumed her seat in the armchair, adopting a more modest stance: knees together, the hem of the dress smoothed down. “I may be young, but I'm experienced, too.” She batted her long eyelashes.
I had a pretty good idea of what she meant.
“The things I can… do.” She pierced me with her gaze. “You couldn't even begin to imagine.”
The problem was, I had a vivid imagination.
Chapter 3
Why did she have to be my patient? Why wasn't she just a woman I met?
"I'm attractive, intelligent, and my skills extend beyond that of a regular wife. But still… he fucks that bitch."
If that was where she was going, I could work with it. “If you think you did everything you could, why does it sound as if you doubt it?”
She hugged herself, avoiding eye contact, and took a deep breath, possibly striving to get a grip on her emotions. In just a moment, she appeared composed. Yet, her eyes gleamed when she turned to face me.
I must've hit a jackpot.
“He doesn’t love me anymore.” Her voice was barely audible. She looked so vulnerable. If I could just get up and hold her. But, being her therapist, I could only imagine that.
“Do you think he loves her?”
“I don’t know your husband. And I sure don’t know what he feels about other women.”
She flinched. “You think there’s more than one?”
“That was only my way of saying I don’t know your husband’s feelings,” I corrected myself.
“But you could tell, couldn’t you?”
“Tell what exactly?”
“You must be proficient in recognizing all those… non-verbal tells and signs.”
“Why are you asking that?”
“Would you recognize true love?”
“By looking at the people involved?”
“Yes.”
"It’s not that easy, I'm afraid."
She reached for her handbag and pulled out a bunch of photos. She passed one of them to me.
A man’s head filled the entire frame. The guy’s face looked like a model in a shaving cream ad. “Who's this?”
“My husband.”
That was her husband? Wow.
"Can you recognize… love on his face?"
I stifled a snort. "It doesn't work that way."
“Just… tell me what you see.”
I took my time studying the guy's face. "Who's he looking at?"
“That bitch. Do you think he loves her?”
"Perhaps he's the one who should answer this question."
Her nostrils flared. “You’re doing this again.”
“Doing what?”
“Turning everything around.”
“And you don’t like it?”
“You won’t give me a straight answer.”
“What if there aren’t straight answers?”
“See? Even now. You’re not helping me.”
“Perhaps I’m not giving you the help you want, but the one you need.”
“How do you know what I need?”
“Then what do you need?”
“Her.” Her eyes grew cold and hard. “Dead.”
That gave me pause. Was it a genuine threat? Was the other woman in danger? Or had Justine only vented her feelings about her competitor?
“Why do you want her dead?”
“Isn't it obvious? She stole my husband.”
"And she's the one to blame?"
She pursed her lips. "Michael, too."
“I see.”
Her features contorted, eyes narrowing. "You think it's my fault."
I chose not to comment, giving her time to think.
She fiddled with her dress, lifting it so high I could see everything below her waist. But this time, it didn't feel intentional. “You’re right,” she said after a pause. “I am mad at myself. I should’ve done something. I should’ve talked to her before it went too far.”
“Talked to her?”
“I meant my husband. I should’ve talked to him.”
"You said ‘her’."
"It was a slip."
"A slip?"
She gave a nervous laugh. "I know. You’ll call it a Freudian slip. Right?"
What wasn't she telling me?
“I have to do something before I lose my mind. I could leave him… Move on." Her gaze dropped, fingers toying with her dress, hiking it up again. "Or… I could show him I refuse to be one of his playthings. That I know this game.”
"What do you mean?"
“I want revenge.” She leaned back, her legs drifting apart in a blatant invitation. “You think I don't know how you feel about me? I can sense your gaze. Analyzing… Probing me… Caressing my body. You're struggling to keep from looking at me. You could… help me have my revenge.”
Could she be more explicit than that? Her choice of dress was obvious now. If only that happened outside my office… “I think we should discuss—.”
“I don’t want to talk. I want to do to him what he did to me. And you’re going to help me with that.”
“Really?”
"I'm not blind. Stop pretending you don’t know what I’m talking about."
“I’m confused. You could’ve picked any man if you believed that was the way to deal with your problem. Yet, you’re asking me? You should know it’s not allowed. I think you knew I would disagree. I think you wanted to be rejected again.”
"You're good. I mean it. But before you say no—"
"I am saying no."
She held out the rest of the photos. "Take a look at these."
"It won’t change anything."
“Humor me.”
I grabbed the photos and started flipping through them. The first one revealed a man engaged in oral sex with a woman. Their positions made it impossible to see their faces, but I assumed the man was Justine's husband. "Why are you showing me this?"
"You'll figure it out soon enough." She motioned for me to proceed.
A subsequent photo revealed the same woman, sitting astride a man lying on the bed, evidently having sex.
In the third snapshot, their roles were reversed: the woman orally pleasuring the man. I cocked my head, trying to see better. Did she take it all in?
I put the pictures away. How foolish of me to have given in. She wanted me aroused—that was clear. "Did you take these photos yourself?"
She shook her head. “My P.I. did.”
“You hired a private investigator to follow your husband?”
"Wouldn’t you, in my place?"
"I still see no reason you showed them to me."
“That's because you haven't finished with them yet.”
"There’s no point. If you think you'll change my mind about—"
"Just a few left. Please…"
"Fine." I grabbed the photos again. Still the same scenario of the woman straddling the man. Only now, she was facing the….
“Anyone you know?”
I love this. So very good.