The Diversion of Janice Hutchings

Published by: eXtasy Books

ISBN :978-1-4874-4225-5

Page :141

Word Count :41229

Publication Date :2024-11-01

Series : #

Heat Level :

Available Formats : The Diversion of Janice Hutchings (prc) , The Diversion of Janice Hutchings (pdf) , The Diversion of Janice Hutchings (mobi) , The Diversion of Janice Hutchings (epub)

Category : Mainstream Fiction , Contemporary , BDSM , What's New

Product Code: 978-1-4874-4225-5

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An emotionally repressed, successful Melbourne businesswoman submits herself to a radical psychological program that will forever change her life.

To avoid a prison sentence and subsequent criminal record, Janice Hutchings agrees to undertake an educational diversion plan, initially suggested by her mother, a renowned psychologist.

The program is supervised by Officer Manning, the arresting officer. She is a large, intimidating woman who, along with the presiding magistrate, firmly believes that the plan should also include suitable punishment.

Administered at the home of a brilliant psychologist and former student of her mother’s, Gordon McGuire—a passionate penal reformist—the program is based on his revolutionary, intense methods. The lack of security, however, in his private residence means that permanent restraints are deemed necessary by both the officer and magistrate.

And so begins Janice’s strange, eccentric journey, where her restrictive confinement and psychological experiments lead to the revelation of dark family secrets, repressed traumas and emotional upheaval.

Janice

As I lie there with my eyes open, looking at the ceiling, my head moves in sync with Rob’s rhythmic thrusts. My brain, however, resides in another place.

As I’ve never been one for sex, my energies are better served elsewhere. Like making money, which my profession as an insurance agent seriously facilitates. My latest project is a client I’d picked up from diligently calling some of my national company’s dormant clients. That is, still on the books but no longer with an agent and having not done business with us for at least five years.

Actually, it was his wife I’d spoken to. Her husband had recently passed, and she’d told me she was thinking of calling my people right then. How opportune.

“Thinking of calling?” I should bloody-well think so. Her husband’s life policy was worth two million dollars—money she’s agreed that I should invest on her behalf.

My business thoughts are interrupted by restrained grunts as Rob’s thrusts feverishly quicken. Instantly, instinctively, I concentrate on my beautiful husband as his warm, bodily fluid explodes from within and invades my body. I love it when this happens. When his passionate, utter desire is aimed entirely at me, continuing to thrill in a way I could never have imagined. Hardly, not with my bland, unemotional upbringing.

With a gentle kiss on my cheek, he leans over, whispering in my ear, “Thank you, darling. If only I could do the same for you.”

And that’s when the guilt hits me.

I know how much his desire for me inspires him. A desire, unfortunately, I’m incapable of reciprocating, and I’m often left wondering what the devil is wrong with me. Unable not only to respond in kind, but to feel, identify, sexually. As a teenager, I mimicked my friends, lying there in bed thinking about all things supposedly passionate as I played with myself, but with no result. In the end, I dismissed it, concluding all will come to pass when I fall in love.

And I do truly love Rob—fuck, we’ve been together for ten years now—his tall, athletic frame as he walks off to the bathroom generating all sorts of admiration. But not in a sexual way. My turn-ons, if you like, are more the results of my hard-earned success. The refurbished Californian bungalow Rob and I own in Camberwell. The stylish car I drive, along with my tailored dresses, suits, and business blouses—a successful appearance in my industry is paramount.

But it’s more than just my appearance. I genuinely enjoy the feel of my expertly fitted garments and their relationship with my body, which is tactile to the extreme. My perfectly arranged, buttoned-up garb provides both security and elegance while fitting in perfectly with my so-called neat complex as Rob describes it. Plus, it’s compatible with my habitual nature. I do everything in a routine manner. Visit the same cafes and shops when I’m at the head office, travel the same route to get there, and park in the same parking lot. You name it, I do it ever so habitually. Yet another reason why my itinerant occupation is so good for me. taking me to all parts of the city, hurtling me from my otherwise routine existence, be it ever so stylish and opulent.

As Rob had been urgently in need of his latest executive stress relief, I discard both my panties and dress and toss them into the laundry basket for our housekeeper, Cathy, to take care of. A task she completes three days a week, along with the cleaning and food shopping. Then I turn on the shower and wait a few seconds until I’ve adjusted it to my taste before hopping in and luxuriating under its warmth, looking forward to tomorrow’s appointment with my latest client. Thirty-five thousand dollars commission, who would believe? And all from a cold call.

My eyes close as the stream of hot water bounces off my face—could life be any better than this?

The next morning, Rob and I bundle into my car. Since it’s a Tuesday, it’s my regular weekly visit to the head office, and with Rob’s car being repaired overnight and his mechanic’s garage on the way, he’s joining me.

With Rob sitting in the passenger seat, where I would normally place my banana, I hand it to him.

“And what do you want me to do with this?” he asks.

“It’s my breakfast. Just hold it for now. I’ll eat it once I’m on the main road.”

“You and your bloody habits,” he says, though good-spiritedly, before applying his seatbelt.

About a kilometre down the road, I put out my hand for my breakfast before checking myself. “Seeing as you’re there, you can peel it for me.”

“Yes, mistress. Anything else I can do for you?” he asks.

“Yes. You can toss the skin out the window when you’re done.”

“I’m not doing that. It’s littering,” he says.

“No, it’s not, it’s biodegradable.”

Passing me the banana, which I start to eat, enjoying its unique flavour, he stares at me as if in disbelief. “Are you for real? Little miss goody-two-shoes breaking the law? I can’t believe it.”

“I don’t consider it breaking the law. Eventually, it’ll disappear.”

“Well, I’m the solicitor here, and I’m telling you it’s littering.”

I glance across to see if he’s being funny—clearly, he’s not.

“I do it every morning,” I say as I finish off the banana. Then I lean across and snatch the peel from him before winding my window down and tossing it out.

“What the fuck.” Again, he stares at me in wonder. “I can’t believe you just did that.”

“You keep telling me I’ve got a neat complex, so no way it’s sitting in my car.”

He’s about to reply when suddenly we’re interrupted by the sound of a siren and flashing lights behind us.

“Told you.” He chuckles.