Wicked Love

I'm Krew Beckett," he says, holding his hand out to shake my father's. "Dr. Talbert has ordered Carson's physical therapy to start today. There's a graduated plan, and yes, it's not going to be pain-free, but the most important thing is to start early with this, so there's no permanent damage to muscles or nerves. You don't want her to have chronic pain, I'm sure. Especially with the current opioid epidemic in this country, I'm sure you'll agree this is a much safer and healthier option, Sir."
Oh, brother!
"Carson," my father says calmly, but firmly, "You need to cooperate with this therapeutic strategy. Dr. Talbert is one of the best around. You didn't survive this without the strength and tenacity you already possess. Now I want you to put that strength and determination to use here. You can do this, and you will be that much stronger for having succeeded."
Yes, Daddy.
"Sure, I'll do my best," I reply, giving him a warm, loving smile.
"That's my girl," Daddy replies, giving me his fatherly look of approval.
I. Hate. You. Krew. Beckett.
To say Krew Beckett is the Master of Torture is an understatement. He is more like the King Nazi of Human Torture. This 'starting off slow' thing is clearly a figment of his imagination.
The words spewing from my mouth are not only filthy, but in some cases, can be considered viable threats. But Krew seems to enjoy my verbal abuse.
"Such a filthy mouth. If only you'd put as much energy in those leg presses," he teases, cracking another one of his dazzling smiles.
He moves the steel pin downward, adding another ten pounds of weight to the machine. "Give me ten more, and then we're done with this one for today. And don't lock your knees this time, Princess."
I groan and push against the leg press. With each repetition, I feel the burn, which Krew says, is a sure sign I'm working the correct muscles against the resistance. I manage to crank out another ten, bitching and groaning almost the entire time, but thankfully the last one is history for today anyway.
"Great job, now on to the elliptical machine. We'll start your upper body therapy once Dr. Talbert gives the green light your ribs are fully healed. Probably right after Thanksgiving," he says cheerily.
"Ugh," I moan. "Seriously, this whole therapy crap is gonna be that long term?"
"Come on, Princess," he says, with a hurt look on his handsome face, "I'm starting to think you don't enjoy my company."
The truth is, I didn't enjoy anything that was an offshoot of that horrible October night.

5 The Dream Sequence Always Rings Twice
There's a brass plate hanging over the double doors of the first studio Shelby and I come to after leaving the bar area.
"Holy Glory," I read aloud. "What's in here?" I turn and ask Shelby. She has a broad smile on her face.
"Oh, I truly think you need to see this," she replies, "And the good thing is, there'll be some other voyeurs in here so it won't look weird."
She opens the door, and I follow her inside. Soft jazz music is playing in surround sound, and from around the room, I see the bare backsides of about a half dozen men, all shapes, sizes, and races, and several women also, bent over facing front, with their asses pressed against the walls.
I'm totally confused at first, taking it all in, and then I realize the purpose. The dark crushed velvet walls have oblong, vertical holes in them, allowing unseen people behind those walls to provide members with handjobs, blowjobs, or in some cases, presenting their asses or pussies up for penetration by the members.
I creep around the spacious square room watching mostly men as they are being tended to by whoever is on the other side of the crushed velvet-covered walls being serviced. An older man is having his cock sucked and jacked by a petite, obviously female hand on the other side. His head is tilted back, eyes closed as he rocks back and forth on his heels, groaning and instructing her to jack him harder so he can squirt on her face when he's ready. Her hands and wrists are moving frantically to bring him to climax. I notice she has long, beautifully polished nails, and a small tattoo on the inside of her wrist of a heart, with the initials' J.W.' inside of it.
I don't stick around because frankly, it seems creepy to gawk at anyone who's facing the wall. Then I see someone who is facing the inside of the room. It's a thirty-something woman who looks a lot like a human version of the cartoon character Olive Oyl from the old Popeye cartoons I used to watch on Cartoon Network as a little kid.
She's skinny with pale alabaster skin, her dark hair pulled back in a severe bun, her eyes squeezed shut as she has her ass backed up to the hole, the fingers on one of her hands fiddling with her clit, while a big, thick black cock thrusts in and out of her pussy from behind the glory hole. She's got a high-pitched squeal going on as the owner of the dick pummels into her hard and fast. I notice he's not wearing a condom.
Interesting.
The low to high octave guttural sounds of moaning and groaning pleasure, sputtered words such as 'Oh God', 'Oh yeah,' 'Keep sucking me,' I'm ready to come,' and 'Fuck me harder,' permeate throughout the room. Various levels of urgency and ragged breathing are the refrains to these raspy songs of carnal pleasure, and immediately, I feel the pull from just watching it all in up close and personal action. Their moments vary from slow, undulated thrusts, to frantic pounding as they wait for imminent release.
Shelby and I quietly observe as we move to various spots inside this studio, and I notice some of the men are wearing condoms, while others are going pure bareback, wanting the skin-to-skin contact with the pussies they're