A/N: The following chapter contains topics some may find triggering. Please remember there is a little bit of me in every character I write. 

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"Fuck," I whimper as I stroke the tip of my vibrator hard against my g-spot. My skin breaks into a light sweat as I force myself to stay on the edge of my climax. I curl my knee up more and spread my other leg wider, my mind focused on the perfect pace of my little friend. I want this. I need this.

The humming noise fades when my imagination pictures brown skin and narrow hips taking its place. The little smile on his face when he looks down at me. Yeah, fuck me hard. Just like that! My grip tightens on the flesh of my bent leg and I picture his long fingers doing the job instead.

"Yes," I say to no one. The pressure builds painfully in my core until it bursts. My legs spread wide as I fall over the edge with a scream, the pleasure exploding through every inch of my body as my pussy clenches and releases the toy. I push it harder into my g-spot over and over then pull it out as I continue to come, a stream of wetness following its retreat. I touch it to my clit and my legs snap together around it as another wave of pleasure consumes me.

My entire body shakes as the orgasm reverberates within me, overtaking me, blinding me to everything. No one fucks me like me.

As the intensity of my orgasm starts to lessen, I help myself come down slowly. I slide my little friend through my folds, twitching every time it touches my overly sensitive clit. The waves of pleasure roll in smaller and shallower until I'm left sated on the beach of my post-orgasmic, blissful haze. 

Still panting, I switch it off and let it flop with my arm to the bed. Fucking hell. I probably made one hell of a mess, but I deserved it. 

I relax for a few moments in the silence of my room as my breathing slows to normal. Glancing at my clock, I find it's 10:45. Shit, I'm late. I spring into action, running into my bathroom to clean up.

♡♡♡

It's the third weekend of the month which means two things; I'm about to get my period, and Remy is taking me to California. Both are beneficial for my life, but also really fucking annoying.

I run out of my building and find him waiting under the porte-cochere, leaning against his car while he talks on his phone. He crosses an arm over his chest as he stares at the ground with a concentrated expression, his bicep straining against the light-gray material of his suit jacket.  Looks like we're taking the convertible today. Behind him, the silver Z4 gleams with a new coat of wax, its top already down for the drive.

He spots me when I walk closer and ends his call. "Hey," he greets me.

"You do know that casual clothes exist, right?" I ask him.

He chuckles and says, "So I've heard." He opens the passenger side door for me and I climb in. As he walks around the front of the car, he shrugs off his jacket, folds it, and tosses it in the back. "Are you excited?" he asks as he hops into the driver's seat.

No. I don't want to fucking go. I never do. "You know I love LA."

"I do," he grins as he rolls up the sleeves of his standard, white dress shirt. He shifts the car into gear and we pull away from the curb.

My heart beats too quickly in my chest. It seems my previous battery-aided distraction didn't work well enough. I decide to quell my nerves by flipping through his CD folder. So many good options, different genres, mix CDs, but nothing new. A few minutes later when we make it onto the highway, I still haven't decided. "Do you have anything from this decade?"

He laughs, "Probably not."

"You are so fucking old," I grumble under my breath.

"Twenty-eight is not old, you baby."

"Then stop acting like it is, you geezer." 

The wind starts to ruffle my hair as we pick up speed, and I finally decide on Salt-N-Pepa. I could use some upbeat female empowerment, and if I can't have Missy Elliott ...

I put the CD in and stretch my arms, feeling the wind whip against my palms. The drive between Vegas and LA is scenic and fun. The speed limit is basically nonexistent, but Remy always drives slower when I'm in the car. I swear he thinks I'm actually a baby. Though I wish we could take this trip for fun sometime, just a little hint of escape makes me happy.

Remy turns down the music to lecture me. "I want you to be open and honest today. Remember that you only get out what you put in." I look at him sideways with a laugh. "That was not a sex joke, I'm being serious."

"You know I don't like talking about that shit. Plus I'm fine."

"You are getting better, yes. But it's still important that you communicate what you're doing now and how to make sure it is helpful rather than harmful. Mindfulness will --"

"Oh shit! This is my song!" I cut him off and crank up the volume. I bob my head with the beat as Remy shakes his. 

I really start to get into my car-dance as the chorus comes on. "If I want to take a guy home with me tonight," I sing.

"It's none of your business," he finishes. 

"And if she wanna be a freak and sell it on the weekend ..."

"It's none of your business!" we sing as louder. "Now you shouldn't even get into who I'm givin' skins to. It's none of your business! So don't try to change my mind, I'll tell you one more time. It's none of your business!" This is the theme song of my life now.

I let the music fade away my anxieties and remind myself that this will be over soon enough.

♡♡♡

"Maggie, welcome," Dr. Richards says as I walk in. Her office is so casual and bohemian in its aesthetic. There are layers of rugs and tapestries on the walls, and an assortment of woven blankets available and throw pillows on either of the couches. I sit in my normal spot on the sofa across from her lounge chair and cross my legs. "It's been a while."

"I know. I've been busy," I tell her. "And I hate coming here."

She smiles but doesn't acknowledge my obvious disdain for her and my situation. "So, how has the new job been going since the last time we met?"

"Good," I answer, but then decide it is probably best to elaborate. "Really good." Yeah, adding "really" makes it better, Mags.

"I'm glad to hear that. How have you been doing socially?"

"Fine." I shrug. "I still don't have ... like ... friends, but I've been getting along with people well enough."

"And your physical intimacy issues?"

That makes me hesitate. "They're ... fine."

She tilts her head a little to the side the way she does when she wants to keep talking. She knows if she can get me to fill the space, I'll end up spilling something that she'll get to tell me to fix. This is why I fucking hate her.

"I've been trying to be more mindful of my feelings -- like we talked about. I've been paying attention to more than just my physical attraction to people." All lies. White ones, but still lies.

She makes a few notes in her little book. As she scribbles, she asks, "And how many people have you had sex with since the last time we spoke?"

Fuck. Crossing my arms over my middle, I try to hide my contempt for her. The sun shines through the drapes beside me, warming my face, yet burning my eyes when I try to look through them. Remy may have been right about a few things, but I'd never admit that to him. This bitch does nothing but take his money and make me feel like shit. "Technically six," I answer.

"What do you mean by 'technically'?"

"I've had sexual intercourse of some variety with six people."

"But physical intimacy with how many?"

I roll my eyes, knowing exactly where this is about to go. "Nine."

"So nine intimate partners total." I fucking hate this bitch.

"No," I correct her. "Six plus nine. Fifteen."

She nods once then looks down to continue her scribbling. Goddammit. "Maggie," she starts the way she always does when I'm being reprimanded for behavior I find beneficial. "As we've discussed frequently, it is very important for you to release yourself from the trauma that grips you. However, you must also understand that your hypersexuality is a negative response to your abuse and should be controlled in a safe, productive manner."

"I am being safe."

"I know you pay attention to your physical wellbeing. I'm concerned about your mental and emotional wellbeing." I let out a huff, and the window becomes very interesting again. "What happened to you --"

"Nothing happened to me."

"-- continues to affect you, both sexually and with all forms of intimacy. If you want to heal properly, you must tend to the wound. You understand this, don't you?"

She thinks she understands what is going through my mind, but it's never that black and white. I have issues, sure. Some shit happened and it fucked me up a little bit, but me getting laid has nothing to do with that. It is one hundred percent me doing what the fuck I want to do while making as much money as possible. 

If she wants me to reclaim my body and achieve my independence, I don't understand how escorting isn't a two-birds-one-stone kind of situation.

"I have no wound. I wasn't abused."

"Abuse isn't always physical," she states the way she does every time. "The goal is to reshape your responses to past traumas through practiced, positive behaviors." I glare at the wrinkles in the curtains, fighting the anger that builds inside me. "Have you told Remy about what you've been using the money for?" She knows I haven't, so I don't answer. "We've discussed how communicating this with him and allowing yourself to receive his forgiveness would be beneficial to you."

"Sure. But remind me what I need forgiveness for?"

"Lying?" she suggests simply. "Hiding the truth from the person you say understands the source of your pain better than anyone else."

I roll my eyes. "Look, bitch," I tell her. "I'm not going to apologize to anyone for doing what I need to do to take care of myself. That includes Remy."

"Okay." She completely glazes over me calling her a bitch, probably because I call her that every time I'm here. "So you plan to keep going to school and making money to move away from him?"

"Yes," I answer.

"Are you still considering LA?"

"Yes."

"Remind me why again?"

I let out a heavy sigh. "Because I'm sick of everyone having an opinion on me and my life because of what my parents did. People look at Magdalena Abbatelli with judgment or pity in their eyes. I want a day to come when people look at me and all they see is a badass, independent bitch named 'Maggie'," I tell her. "LA would be a chance at that."

"But you are basically unknown where you currently live, no?" It's like she wants me to yell at her. "All LA would give you is additional distance from a few specific people."

"What is your fucking point?"

"My point," she starts in a placating tone, "is that maybe you are setting a goal to get away because it is simpler than facing up to what's right in front of you."

"Yeah, I'm done here." I stand, grabbing my purse angrily from the floor.

"Maggie, sit down. Please."

I cross my arms, glaring at the door I wish I could use. I flop back down but don't look her way.

"You were taught to think that money takes the place of the things that truly matter -- love especially. You cannot break a habit if you don't admit that it exists," she says. "Money is not the be-all and end-all for you. Trust is. Love is. And sex is not always an expression of either."

I purse my lips. "'Kay."

"You are more than your body. You are more than your abuse."

Too bad you're not more than an annoying cunt. "I. Wasn't. Abused," I repeat.

She leans forward and smiles. "What will we continue to work on, Maggie?"

I let out an annoyed sigh. "Assessing my emotional connections to people prior to sex. Allowing myself to feel."

"Very good. See you next month?"

"I fucking hope not." I get up, walk over to the door, and swing it open. Remy looks up from his magazine. "Let's go," I say to him. I try to hide the anger from my tone but fail to hide it from my body language as I storm out of the building. He stands quickly and follows.

We walk outside into the blinding sunshine. When we make it to the car, he pulls me to a stop. "Mags. What the hell happened in there?"

"I hate her!" I yell, letting myself feel the anger. "You know this and yet you still make me go!"

"It's meant to help you."

"Well, it isn't!" I cross my arms in defiance. "I'm not going back. There's no point."

"I know it sucks, but she's the best sex therapist in the area. She helps. Trust me."

I glare at him. Sure, she helped him a lot, telling him his kink was fine. But he still doesn't like to talk about his father, all the things he watched him do to his mother as a kid that twisted in his mind and made him get off on inflicting pain. 

He especially doesn't like to talk about the woman that introduced him to the lifestyle; how she changed him, how she consumed him, or how he loved her so deeply it completely ruined him when she left.

But then again, I don't like talking about my sister either.

"Can we just go?" I ask.

Remy's mouth twists, but he gives in. "Do we need to stop for ice cream first?"

"I'm not a fucking child."

"I know," he says as he opens the car door for me. "I thought I'd give you a chance to eat your feelings and get over it since you know we're coming back again next month."

I roll my eyes. There will come a day when I'm capable of getting my way with him. Hopefully.

I flop into the passenger seat and cross my arms. "Fine. But I'm getting the big cup and all of the additional-cost toppings, asshole."

Remy laughs. "Deal."

_____

A/N: Remy's fine, guys. Maggie's fine too. Everyone's fine. 

But seriously, therapy is hard, but it is very helpful. It may take a while to find the right therapist/therapy for you. While your personal experience may not have been ideal, never EVER tell someone it isn't worth it to talk to someone. No one should be discouraged to reach out for help when it is needed.

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