Shameful Confessions

Brandi stood alone in the consultation room staring at her phone. "Your shift ends at five, I see," Richard said, his tone conversational. "I'll be at your home by seven." He paused, letting the domestic invasion sink in. "We'll keep it simple. Jon should be home to greet me, don't you think?"

The statement wasn't a question, but its casualness carried a strange, illicit intimacy. Brandi found herself picturing the quiet of her own home invaded, and a treacherous part of her wondered what his cock would actually feel like inside her. She said nothing, her silence the only acquiescence she could offer.

Brandi opened her mouth to protest, to say their home was off-limits. "You can't..." she began, but his voice cut her off, cool and final.

Richard's sigh was patient, cold. "I can fire your husband before we hang up. Your choice."

Brandi stood frozen, the hospital's ambient noise fading to a dull buzz. "Seven o'clock," she repeated flatly, the words tasting like surrender. "I'm sorry, it's just that this is all happening way too fast."

"I couldn't agree more," said Richard, his voice oily. The answer caught her off guard. "Which is why we should spend a few minutes getting to know each other."

Brandi immediately shook her head. "Richard, I need to get back to work. I have patients waiting."

"And they'll still be there in ten minutes."

The certainty in his voice made her jaw tighten. "You don't get to decide that."

The answer came immediately. "Yet here we are. You know absolutely nothing about me."

"I'd prefer to keep it that way," she quipped. The response slipped out before she could stop it. Brandi leaned against the counter and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Richard, I really need to get back to work."

Instead, Richard continued as though she had agreed. "I haven't spoken to my mother in twenty years." The statement arrived without warning. "She wasn't abusive. She wasn't an addict. Nothing dramatic happened. One day I realized every conversation felt like an obligation, so I stopped calling. That was twenty years ago."

The matter-of-fact way he said it unsettled her. There was no regret in his voice. It was just another fact. Richard let the silence linger for a moment before asking, "What's the most embarrassing thing you've ever done in public?"

Brandi frowned. She considered refusing. Instead she found herself answering.

"When I was eighteen, I licked a fire hydrant on a dare," Brandi said, her voice quiet. "I licked dog piss. The girl who dared me ended up with my boyfriend a week later." The memory felt small and sharp, a forgotten shard of a simpler betrayal. Richard's silence was thoughtful, absorbing this old wound to measure the depth of a new one.

"A child's game," he mused, the warmth in his tone a practiced lie. "Tonight won't be a game." He let the threat hang, a dark promise woven into the silence between them. Brandi's breath caught, the sterile hospital air suddenly too thin. Before she could respond, Richard continued.

"Three executives in this company are cheating on their wives," Richard said. The statement sounded so casual that it took a second to register. "One of them thinks nobody knows. One of them knows everybody knows and doesn't care. The third spends more time fucking it than he does working."

Brandi stared at the wall. Before she could think of a response, Richard asked, "What's the most embarrassing thing you've ever done while drunk?"

Brandi closed her eyes. The question hung in the static-filled silence. "I got roofied at a frat party," she whispered, the admission tearing free. "They took my anal virginity. My butthole hurt so bad. I still get hemorrhoids sometimes. It was never the same. I never let Jon do anal." Her voice broke on the last word, a raw confession of her own violation.

Richard spoke again. "You know, Jon thinks we've been competing for fifteen years." Brandi felt herself tense. "I knew exactly who he was within six months of meeting him. Jon is predictable. Most people are. If you pay attention long enough, they start telling you who they are."

Brandi didn't like where the conversation was heading. Richard continued.

"What's the most pathetic thing you've ever done because you loved someone?"

She immediately regretted not ending the call earlier. "I'm not answering that."

"Then it's probably a good one. The things people won't talk about are usually the most important things."

The confidence in his voice made her jaw tighten. After several uncomfortable seconds she sighed. Brandi's breath caught. The most pathetic thing? It was happening right now. "This," she said, her voice stripped bare. "Whoring myself out to you to keep Jon's job."

The stark admission hung between them, a raw transaction laid bare. A moment later, Richard continued. "The photograph on Jon's desk."

Her stomach tightened immediately. "What about it?"

"You were wearing a white shoulderless dress." Brandi felt a chill crawl up her spine. Richard continued. "Silver necklace. Hair down." The details landed one after another. Richard moved on before she could respond. "What's something you know about Jon that would embarrass him if everyone at work found out?"

The question felt disloyal. Brandi hesitated, the betrayal a tangible weight on her tongue. "He's smaller than most men," she finally breathed, the private shame now a currency. "In ways that matter to men like you. He's always been sensitive about it." She closed her eyes, picturing Jon's **** smile.

"Be specific, Brandi." Richard's voice was a soft command.

"Like a little cocktail sausage," she whispered, the comparison absurd and devastating, the words a delicate cruelty. The crude comparison hung in the air, an intimate measurement now shared with his enemy. She suddenly realized how much Richard enjoyed collecting information.

Richard continued. "Sometimes I drive through neighborhoods where people from work live. The office is where people perform. Home is where they tell the truth." Richard continued as though discussing the weather. "I find it interesting." Brandi found herself wondering whether he had ever driven past her house.

Then Richard asked his final question.

"What's something you've never told your husband because you were afraid it would hurt his feelings?"

The consultation room suddenly felt very small. For several seconds she couldn't think of an answer. Richard remained silent, waiting. Eventually Brandi looked down at the floor. Brandi felt the confession crawl up her throat, sour and shameful.

"At my bachelorette party," she began, her voice hollow. "There was a stripper. He was huge," she breathed into the phone, the words a ghost of that long-ago heat. "I got on my knees and took him all the way down my throat, in front of the bridal party. He finished on my face."

Richard's voice softened, a mockery of intimacy. "And what color are you wearing for me today, Brandi?" Richard's voice dropped to a conspiratorial murmur. "Tell me what you're wearing right now. Underneath those scrubs." Brandi's hand instinctively pressed against the crotch of her scrubs, feeling the damp spot beneath, a tiny detail that made her cunt ache.

The silence on the line was absolute, a void where her marriage's innocence had just dissolved. She took a sharp breath, the dread surfacing slowly, like a bruise. As the silence settled over the line once again, Brandi realized something deeply unsettling. Throughout the entire conversation Richard had told her things about himself.

But none of those things had actually cost him anything. They were stories, braggadocio, carefully selected details designed to create an impression. Meanwhile, every answer she had given him felt like ammunition, personal and embarrassing. And she had a horrible feeling that was exactly how he wanted it.