Dr. Allen's New Patient Ch. 19

Throughout his adolescence, he found it difficult to tell his friends and girlfriends that his mom had left his old man (and Colin himself when he was only eight years old). She split in order to take up with a rich old bastard who bought her all the shit she felt entitled to as a beautiful young woman. In fact, in very little time, she had started a whole new family without them.

Since then, not surprisingly, Colin could never bring himself to be civil with his mother, nor with his younger half-siblings, for that matter.

In fact, he would curse under his breath every time he thought of her, "That fucking selfish gold digger..."

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Vincent had been saving up his beer and food money. He'd also gone without a haircut for more than a few months, and his hair was fast approaching shoulder length. The young man was determined to stash away as much money as he could, to indulge in what many would consider "kinky" practices. Vincent reasoned, however, that at least he was guaranteed to get off, albeit without the benefit of a female by his side.

For instance, instead of enduring public humiliation at the hands of a pretty girl, he would peruse websites selling "Love Dolls". These dolls were supposedly crafted to cater to would-be "suitors" like him, although Vincent would later discover that the quality silicone, anatomically correct, life-sized sex dolls would cost him upwards of five thousand bucks. He even learned of a "House of Love Dolls" that offered clients rooms to rent by the hour, with their chosen "Love Doll" by their side of course. Alas, Vincent accepted that he didn't yet have the financial resources to become an iDollator, at the moment, that is. But at least he could look. "One day I'll get me one of those dolls, and I'll rest assured she won't reject me, or humiliate me, or challenge me, or cheat on me, or bleed me dry..."

After the Love Dolls, he would explore an amusing phenomenon he'd heard about recently. He would pull up a list of cafés featuring "Bikini Baristas". Vincent would eventually learn of naughty places like, "Bottoms Up", and "Pink Pantherz". Instead of forking up money to chat with a "virtual" sex partner (who he never knew was an actual woman or not), he would at least enjoy real-life interactions with hot "organic" females. These attractive, scantily clad, sometimes topless girls would be unfailingly nice to him while they served up some piping hot coffee. To Vincent's chagrin, however, he would later find out that the nearest café kiosks were well out of his vicinity, and he lamented the predicament of being without transportation. If he wanted to see Bikini Baristas up close and personal, he'd have to borrow a friend's car to drive quite a ways to visit these girls, since they were neighborhoods away from the little suburb he lived in.

Next, he visited SofiaGrey.com. Hallelujah! Finally! He could afford this shit!

As Vincent got ready to shell out precious money on a pair of copulin-saturated panties, he felt an unmistakable surge of blood rush to his dick and balls. "Here we go....", he thought blissfully.

Vincent had been made aware of the Love Dolls, Bikini Baristas, and Sofia Grey website from taking part in "Incel" online forums. To his way of thinking, these websites were a Godsend, as they got him through the torturous lonely nights that had been plaguing him mercilessly as a penniless full time student. He tended to avoid the web discussions centered around violence and misogyny, instead gravitating towards those providing constructive suggestions on getting sexually and emotionally gratified, that is, in the absence of "real-life" company.

It was at a rare moment of reflection that Vincent decided that the "Sexual Revolution" his female forbearers heralded into existence years ago had actually left young men like him lost, drifting in a sea of despair, confusion, and frustration. The revolution was supposed to make noncommittal sex forthcoming to unmarried men. But it quite neglectfully left out of its equation the awkward, socially inept dudes of the world, like him, for instance.

He concluded that the revolution had either been incomplete or simply unsuccessful.

It was when he was lying in bed one night in particular, that Vincent became wistfully philosophical. He began questioning his existence as a young man. Weren't guys like him supposed to be the "privileged demographic group of America"? An educated, healthy, young white guy amongst a sea of people of color, he was, as he earnestly tried to grasp a piece of the "good life" for himself. Pondering his plight, Vincent concluded that the good Lord had given males like him a raw deal, meaning way too many hormones needing release but with few socially acceptable outlets. In fact, at that very moment, Vincent started envying females, who, by his reckoning, were the lucky ones. Girls didn't have to contend with relentless testosterone surging through their bodies, making them horny every minute of the day. What's more, girls didn't bear the brunt of pursuing game in order to get laid, and they weren't expected to pony up money for dates, either. No, God had put the onus on males, and it wasn't fair.

Vincent was forced to accept the sad truth: if a guy didn't talk a good game, and if he hadn't the balls to approach sexy girls for fear of rejection, and if he hadn't loads money, then he was, simply put, SOL. He felt completely "invisible" to the world. Social impairment in the company of females had been causing him distress, disorder and dysfunction, and his love life had officially gone into full remission. He felt like a freak, a social pariah, a nobody. But he was determined not to spend too much time wallowing in self-pity, despite the constant temptation to do so. And he refused to label himself a victim; nor would he blame women for his situation. He would simply forge ahead to find ways to satisfy his overactive libido.

For a good start, no more would he subject himself to being chased out of a pick-up joint with his tail between his legs, all because he had been shot down by skirt sporting prey. No. He would instead retreat into his own world, the world of "sublime substitution and surrogacy".

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Twilight at last approached, slowly bringing the day's light to an end. The evening would pave the way for a lonely young man to enjoy himself, to fulfill his deep yearnings.

Vincent hadn't even bothered taking his laptop, books, and folders out of his backpack, as he usually did after getting back from the university. "Not quite the moment for studying," he mused.

He grabbed the bottle of Jack Daniels he had stashed under his bed. Tearing the wrapping off the new bottle, he would rear himself into a dreamy mood that would allow him to succumb to a special perversion. Tonight, his urges would be met with complete release.

After half an hour and a few swigs, he felt considerably subdued, as it was now easy to lull his mind into deep fantasy mode, one in which he would no longer feel like a fucking weirdo or a pathetic loser.

Vincent's sniffing fetish was quickly becoming his unique way of coping with a non-existent love life.

As before, he closed his window blinds, locked his door, and left his nightstand light on. This time, however, the hard liquor in his blood would permit slightly more daring thoughts. He started fantasizing about stepping into Sally's bedroom while she was in the shower, and seizing yet another pair of her freshly worn, intense-smelling underwear. Instead of running out of her room, though, he would lie right down on her bed. Then he would take in a lungful of her panties' crotch, reveling in the intoxicating odors of her pussy and ass. Then he would lick the crusty gusset of her panties, and lick them clean, only to then rub them all over his rock hard cock. Then finally, he would vigorously beat off, in order to deposit a fresh pound of cum inside the panties. Afterwards, he would GTFO.

In his dimly lit room, Vincent lay in bed, his phone nearby playing an Ed Sheeran song. It was on repeat mode.

He wondered, "What would happen if I actually dumped the biggest load of cum imaginable into Sally's panties, right there in her room? Shit, would my heart be racing, and butterflies fluttering about furiously in my stomach, and hands shaking nervously? Even with the help of the booze, would I chicken out?"

"No fucking way. This time, there'd be no regret afterwards. I'd grab hold of my goddamned balls, march into that room, and pull off the most incredible panty heist ever..."

The rush of excitement of being privy to Sally's secret scents and smells, Holy Fuck, the thought was such an incredible turn-on for Vincent. Oh God, Sally's pheromones were fast becoming his very own heroin.

Now vibe-ing to the song, "Bad Habits", Vincent posed himself more serious questions, "Was he now becoming a junkie, hooked on Sally's crack? Was he indeed acquiring a "bad habit"? Did he now have the proclivity to practice what shrinks liked to call, 'Deviant Masturbation'?"

Behaviors usually considered highly inappropriate and stigmatizing would eventually be met with Vincent's acceptance, because he had been turned on as hell from taking whiffs of Sally's sweat, piss, pussy, and ass. Last time, after licking the hell out of her underwear, and licking it clean, he came like the fucking Hoover Dam busting open. He reckoned he had never cum so much in his life.

Vincent had even begun considering what he swiped as "loot", especially after having blown his load in them. Going forward, he would "collect" them as his personal "trophies", stashing them away, deep in his closet. Jesus Christ, Sally's underthings were fucking diamonds, and the funny thing was, she didn't even know their true value.

Afterwards, Vincent promised himself that, "The next time I run into Sally in the house, I'll look her straight in the eye, and I'll know exactly what I've been doing to her filthy panties."