Diagnosing a Fetish Ch. 02

"Good morning Mallory, how are you?"

"Um, fine. I guess. It's been a weird week." Dr. Morse met me in the lobby this time rather than a nurse. She looked the same as our last session and, with the amount of time she had spent in my mind the past seven days, I was confident I would've noticed any changes. The only apparent differences were a new pair of pants and a different colored blouse. Even the way she held herself and the way she spoke matched my memory.

"That just gives us more to talk about today," she smiled, "Now, let's get going." Opening the door to the back, she led me down the hallway, stopping halfway to speak to a nurse. I could vaguely make out something about bringing someone into her office, but the rest was too quiet for me to hear. However, following a quick nod between the two of them, we were soon moving again, Dr. Morse uttering a short apology to me before opening the door to her office and motioning for me to enter.

A change had occurred in her attitude following the interaction. It was only slight, but I could tell that her normal confidence level was starting to falter. "What was that about?" I decided to speak up, "Is everything OK?"

Dr. Morse's body tensed briefly following my question before she allowed herself to regain composure. "Oh, with the nurse?" she asked while sorting through the papers on her desk, "It was nothing. Just uh... something about a patient we have coming in this afternoon."

"Oh, OK." I wasn't sure if I should believe her but didn't push further in fear of breaching some sort of confidentiality. So instead, I focused on unbuttoning my jacket, hanging it on the coat rack once I was finished. Before I could take a seat on the examination table, however, I was promptly stopped by Dr. Morse.

"Sorry dear, we're going to start in the other room today," she motioned to the bathroom door with her head. Unlike last time, it wasn't locked, and we went straight in; perhaps she had prepared for me in advance. "I know it's a big step from our previous session," she turned to face me, "but I think it's time for you to go to the bathroom in front of me."

"I'm... I don't know about this...." I trailed off as I looked past Dr. Morse, focusing on the toilet.

"Just try your best," she gently pushed me forward, leaving me in front of the porcelain seat while she took the chair.

I was hesitant for obvious reasons. Using any bathroom other than my own was something already not privy to me, but having a witness made it all the more uncomfortable. Moreover, Dr. Morse seemed non-plussed by the whole situation, writing in her notebook as she waited for me to make my decision. If her blasé nature was an attempt to put me at ease, then it wasn't working.

"Don't worry; it won't bite you."

Her effort at levity did not help much, but objection seemed pointless, and, as such, I began to remove my pants. In a last-ditch attempt to save any dignity, I turned my body to the side while pulling down my jeans. I couldn't understand how Dr. Morse could do this with such ease in our last session compared to the borderline panic attack I was currently experiencing -- and she wasn't even looking at me.

Unlike Dr. Morse, I decided to keep my underwear on until I was sitting on the toilet seat, at which point, I pulled them down just enough as to not wet them while still covering my pelvis ever so slightly. Thankfully, I had the forethought that something like this may happen and chose to wear a nicer, lacey pair of black panties. It was the first time since my divorce that I hadn't worn one of my old, faded pairs of cheap underwear. However, whether it was worth it or not remained to be seen, as Dr. Morse was still more focused on her notebook than me.

"Whenever you are ready, dear." She looked up, flashing a warm smile.

Taking a long breath, I relaxed my vaginal muscles, but nothing came out. I could feel that my bladder was full, having not gone to the bathroom since the previous morning. Still, no matter how hard I pushed, I couldn't force anything out. "I'm trying," I winced, noticing that Dr. Morse was now staring at me expectingly.

Setting her papers to the side, she stood up from her chair and approached me cautiously, "It's OK; sometimes it takes a bit to relax."

"I think I'm too nervous," my voice was shaky as I tried to shut out the world around me. The fact that Dr. Morse was now directly in front of me wasn't helping matters; my bladder was unable to perform under pressure. "It's difficult for me when other people are around; I usually can't go in public bathrooms," I explained.

"I understand. Here," Dr. Morse gripped the side of my head, gently pushing it back to the same resting position she was in seven days prior. My hands were also moved, taken from in front of my vagina, and left to rest at my sides. "Sometimes, it helps if we open ourselves up more."

I stayed in that position a few seconds longer, hoping that my bladder would eventually relax. However, when I suddenly felt my panties moving, I snapped my legs shut out of reflex and opened my eyes. Dr. Morse had moved from my side, now kneeling on the tile in front of me with her hands on the waistband of my panties. Prying apart my legs, she pulled the garment down to my feet, giving me positive affirmation in the form of short nods as she went.

For whatever reason, I let her do everything to me without complaint. Perhaps it was due to nerves or an internal fear of disappointing an authority figure. Still, I couldn't understand her thinking as everything she was doing was just making it worse. I was now on edge and even more afraid to pee. However, with more guidance from Dr. Morse, I moved my head back and closed my eyes.

She opened my legs more until they were completely splayed, my vagina now on full show. I could feel her breathing on my inner thigh, too. Her warm, short breaths caused me to squirm ever so slightly as I felt her gaze even through my closed eyes. "I really don't think I can go," I repeated, trying to push the urine out forcefully now.

"Just relax; I have an idea," Dr. Morse's voice was calm and quiet.

I was left waiting for mere seconds before I felt the first stroke of my thigh. A second came soon after, and it wasn't long before I identified the sensation as Dr. Morse's hands running up and down the sensitive flesh. The initial touches only made me tense my muscles more, but I soon found myself relaxing once again.

The fear of snapping out of it upon seeing the woman's face left my eyes closed tightly. I could've sworn that her hands were starting to go higher over time, moving ever closer to my vagina as she continued to stroke. Before she made it there, however, the massage on my left leg stopped before it began again on my right. The process continued from here, the strokes initially shallow before she worked up the courage to go higher on my leg. It felt good, but its success was questionable. I still could not go to the bathroom, and as a side effect, I could feel my slitting dampening as I became aroused. Making matters worse, my open legs and Dr. Morse's proximity to my body made it impossible for my arousal to remain a secret.

When I felt the tell-tale sensation of lips on my inner thigh, I knew it was over. While short, the woman's kiss would leave her nose only inches from my dripping slit. If she somehow hadn't noticed how turned on I was before, a nose full of the deep, dank smell that only came from an aroused vagina would leave no questions in her mind. In a strange way, this is what finally helped me to relax.

As embarrassed as I was, there was now nothing left to hide. I began to push one final time and was happy to feel the first few dribbles of pee escaping my body. It seemed Dr. Morse shared my sentiment as I heard a satisfied mewing coming from between legs. She returned to massaging me as my flow increased, showing no trepidation now as her hand immediately went to the flesh surrounding my vagina. I could feel my labia being squeezed and pulled by Dr. Morse; the sound of my stream hitting the toilet water occasionally interrupted as her hand blocked the flow.

Allowing a new sense of confidence to overtake me, I finally opened my eyes. Dr. Morse briefly made eye contact, giving me a reassuring nod before cupping her hands and putting them between my legs. With my flow now strong, they filled up quickly and began overflowing. She smiled while watching the golden liquid spill back into the toilet as more took its place in her hands. It was not something I could have ever imagined doing with another person, and yet, the cloudy wisps of white in the pool of urine was unmistakably the cream coming from my aroused pussy.

Unfortunately, a knock at the door to the bathroom pulled both of us out of the moment. "Shit," Dr. Morse swore under her breath as she parted her hands and let their contents fall into the bowl, "I'm sorry; just give me a minute." Then, standing, she walked to the sink and rinsed the urine from them before drying with a towel and slipping back into her office.

The door closed behind her, leaving me to finish as my bladder trickled empty. I wasn't sure if or when she was coming back, but I didn't want to stay sitting on the toilet -- especially if someone I didn't know was in her office. So I used a wad of toilet paper to wipe off whatever pee was left clinging to my labia, dropping the soiled ball into the toilet. A couple more squares left me feeling clean enough, so I stood to pull up my panties just as Dr. Morse came back in.

"Sorry, this isn't how I wanted to do this," she stood in the door, leaving it open just a crack but her body blocking my view of the other room, "I just want you to keep an open mind? OK?"

Despite the woman just being between my legs and playing with my pee, my hands quickly snapped to cover my vagina out of reflex, "What are you talking about?"

Dr. Morse sighed, "Just don't... Don't freak out." Stepping out of the way, the door slowly opened to reveal a man standing behind it. He took a step forward and, as his face came into the light of the bathroom, I recognized it immediately.

"Dave!?" My body was in shock as I took a step back, forgetting that panties were still around my ankles and subsequently stumbling backward. My head hit the floor first, landing in a pool of liquid. Initially, the deep red color made me think it was my blood before some got into my mouth, and I tasted its acidic, fruity flavor. I tried to move, but it wasn't until I looked up that I realized my legs were bound in blankets, still half resting on my bed. "Fuck," I winced, struggling more until my legs joined my torso on the hard vinyl of my bedroom. I let out a long grown before slowly sitting up and taking a second to evaluate my surroundings.

On top of my bedside table sat a wine glass, tipped over with contents running down the side of the wood and pooling around me. I must have knocked it over while dreaming; I knew I would regret drinking before bed. Thankfully, it didn't fall and break. I stood it back up before tackling the blankets still wrapped around my lower body, carefully wiggling out of them while ensuring they didn't enter the puddle of wine.

Upon escaping and throwing the wad of sheets back onto my bed, however, I was disheartened to learn that a large, dark spot was now covering the front of my grey sweatpants. I had wet the bed. The heavy sense of shame that spread through my body was a feeling I had grown quite accustomed to as of late, but it was still punishing all the same. What made it worse was that I now had full proof of what my unconscious mind desired when I wasn't there to control it. Knowing that I secretly enjoyed the feeling was what truly hurt.

I was so unbelievably sick of these dreams. Wine -- or whiskey on particularly bad nights -- helped me shut out the intrusive thoughts long enough to get to sleep. Unfortunately, they always seemed to wear off sometime through the night, leading to the increasingly annoying and disgusting dreams creeping in. A nasty side effect was the excruciating hangovers that, in some ways, did more damage than not getting any sleep at all. This, in combination with hitting it off the floor of my bedroom, my head was now pounding.

Trying not to think about it as I picked myself off the floor, I avoided the puddle of wine as I rose to my feet. The light-headedness that followed nearly sent me back down, but I was able to stabilize myself on the wall until it calmed. From here, I was only reminded of the state of disrepair that my room had fallen into. The piles of garbage and food wrappers that littered the floor were only just beat out by the mountain of tissues next to my bed, wadded and full of a month's worth of tears.

Next to this, I noticed my laptop resting on its side and partially opened. Picking it up, I noticed that the corner of the screen was chipped, although I couldn't remember how. However, seeing the USB stick inserted into the side, my memory gradually came back to me. After getting drunk last night, I worked up the nerve to see what Dr. Morse had given me. I couldn't recall how much I watched, but even just the few minutes of footage that remained in my brain were enough to make me shudder.

Not wanting to think about it any longer, I dropped the laptop back on my bed. The pee that soaked my pants had turned cold, although it was still damp. I tried to forget about everything for the moment to focus on getting out of the clinging, soiled clothing. Leaving the wine to continue soaking into the apartment's floor, I grabbed my workout clothes from a pile on my desk chair and walked to the bathroom.

Peeling off the wet sweatpants, I tossed them into my laundry basket along with my shirt. Or at least I tried to. Like everything else in my life, the thought of doing laundry had become exhausting, leaving weeks of dirty clothes to pile up in the basket. My depression and its impact on my life were more than apparent, but I didn't have the energy or the willpower to do anything about it. It was just added to the long list of problems I tried not to think about as I climbed into the tub and turned on the faucet.

Leaning back as I was enveloped in the warm bath water, I submerged my head. This was one of the few ways I could shut out the rest of the world and just relax. Being alone with my thoughts was sometimes troubling, but the silence was much needed. For once, I didn't have to see my filthy apartment or see the judgemental faces of the people that were once in my life. But, unfortunately, it couldn't last, and I had to come up for air.

Using my bar of soap, I mindlessly lathered my body, taking extra care on and between my legs to remove any remnants of pee. My pubic hair was cleaned too, the dirty-blonde curls now unruly as I hadn't shaved for well over a month. Although, unless my dreams were prophetic, no one would see me naked for some time, so I once again left them unshaven. I rinsed the suds from my skin with one last dip into the water before pulling the plug.

Choosing the cleanest from the pile, I wrapped my naked body and took a seat on the edge of the tub. It took all my effort to stay upright, but I knew that once I left the bathroom, I would have to face reality again. So, living in my blissful ignorance for just a few seconds longer, I let my brain shut off. The sounds of the gurgling water and bathroom fan faded, as too did my vision. I pictured the feeling of hands caressing my skin, lips leaving kisses against my skin just like my dream.

It wasn't Dr. Morse this time, though. Truthfully, I didn't know who it was that I was imagining, but their touch was soft and gentle. My hand drifted between my legs as the delusion continued, finding my clit. The flesh was erect and hard between my fingers. I squeezed it, gasping as the pleasure washed through me. In my mind, it wasn't me doing this. It was the mystery person I was with, showing that they cared about me, that they wanted to make me feel good.

Getting closer to completion, the picture became clearer. I could see her head between my legs, her tongue on my pussy. I wanted desperately to cum, but the realization that I had been imagining a woman made me stop in my tracks. Her long, brown hair, her red lips -- I couldn't get it out of my head. Why did I imagine a woman? I was straight! The dreams with Dr. Morse were one thing -- they were my subconscious and more or less out of my control. However, to actively create a scenario in which a woman was pleasuring me was not something I could dismiss.

I stood from the edge of the tub, letting my towel fall as I began a frantic search through the pile of dirty laundry -- I needed to get out of my apartment. The first panties I found were soon pulled up around my waist, quickly followed by a pair of yoga pants and a long-sleeve workout shirt. My hair was still dripping wet, but a quick blast from the hairdryer and a loose ponytail was all I could bother doing. Then, not wasting another second, I left the bathroom and grabbed my keys from my desk before rushing out of my apartment.

With it being late morning on a weekday, the halls were fortunately empty, allowing me to walk down the two flights of stairs in silence and out into the open air. It was colder than I expected, but I couldn't stomach going back inside the filth hole in which I lived. Plus, the coldness was helping to shock me out of my hangover, although not enough. As I began trying to jog down the street, I was reminded of my pounding headache, each step eliciting another painful ache. I was only one block over before the pain became too much, and I switched to walking.

Trying to get away from the pain-inducing sounds of cars driving past, I ducked down a side street and began walking towards a small park. It was little more than a smattering of trees with a swing set and monkey bars in the center, the former occupied by two children, but it was better than the busy street. I acknowledge who I assumed to be their mother with a short nod and smile before walking past; I wanted to be alone right now.

Further down the street, the number of houses began to dwindle. This part of the city was older and quieter, the few bungalows separated by generous lawns and gardens. When Dave and I first moved to the city, we considered living here. Rather, I wanted to live here -- he couldn't give up on his modern, cookie-cutter prefab that was closer to downtown. He said it was for work, of course, but even then, I knew he just wanted to be closer to the bars. But I didn't want to think about him now -- or ever again for that matter -- so I tried to clear my mind.

The road ended ahead, intersecting another. Choosing to turn to the left, I was led to the outskirts of Auburn's industrial district. The vegetation decreased here, replaced with monolithic factories made of concrete and metal. Many of these stood now abandoned, leaving the air with an eerie quietness. Although the chill was stronger now unprotected by trees, the silence made this a more desirable place than any other at the moment.

Taking a seat on a nearby bench, I let myself decompress. My head still hurt, I was now cold, and as much as I tried not to, I couldn't stop thinking about that stupid memory stick that was in my apartment. All in all, I was worse off than I was before. I wanted to blame Dr. Morse, but I couldn't in good conscience. Everything she had done so far was to help me, some of which was successful. Nevertheless, I knew that all the adversity and difficulty I had faced since her session was my own fault -- even my reaction to the memory stick.

I didn't want to admit it, but I knew deep down that my fear was due not to the videos themselves but how much they turned me on. Continuously I tried to resist the disgusting urges controlling my life despite knowing that I wanted to indulge all of them. The idea that I would be sexually attracted to another person's waste -- and especially women's -- seemed insane, but my interaction with Dr. Morse and the past five days had all but confirmed it. As much as I tried to run from my desires or pretend that they didn't exist, they still persisted.