The Therapist

After all, a problem shared is a problem halved.

Right?

It took courage to book this appointment. You couldn't bring yourself to tell your family or friends what happened that night. You should do this properly.

The therapist is older. Well-dressed and professional. He welcomes you in with a wide smile and invites you to sit on the wide leather sofa.

The atmosphere is warm and comforting. Classical furniture. There was a pleasant smell in the air.

The small talk begins. He takes his time and is polite. He can see that you are nervous, and he's gentle with you. It's relaxing to have someone treat you to some normalcy for a change.

He learns more about you and your background.

Finally someone who cares.

It's not long before he asks more about your trauma. About that night. The night you got drunk and took a shortcut. When you were followed, taken and forced in that alley.

He takes his time. Between questions, he studies you closely, carefully examining your reactions. Encouraging you to divulge more.

He probes for more details. Your comfort begins to slip away.

"This is all part of the process." he assures with that wide smile. "You can trust me."

Despite your growing discomfort, and hesitation in answering, his questions become more direct.

He soothes you in between your answers, luring you into reliving the most distressing details.

"I know this must be difficult. You're doing so well."

"And have you talked to anyone else about this? No?"

"You're being very brave coming here. Please continue."

"So you chose to take that route despite having advice about the dangers?"

With every question, his pity seems to evaporate a little more.

His tone is changing too. He's more authoritarian. Sharper.

Especially now he's learning what really happened that night.

He continues to interrogate you, getting every last detail. There's less soothing. And more silence.

His eyes are drifting over you now. Judging you. Examining you like a piece of meat.

Why do you like this so much?

"Did you ever think that what you did was a bad idea?"

"And what were you wearing? Heels and a dress? Right... Show me please."

"Don't you think that choice may have attracted unwanted attention?"

There's a sudden pause in his speech.

He rises. And drifts over to the couch where you are sat, slowly placing himself next to you.

When he places his hands on your thighs, you freeze. He glides his hands up and around the inside of your legs.

He can see your fear.

He doesn't care.

He knows exactly what you are, and he's taking advantage of you.

Just like he did.

The questions continue even when he begins to openly grope you through your clothes. He's exploiting your vulnerability.

"Were you looking for attention from men perhaps?"

"And did he finish inside of you? Did you ever protest or try to stop him?"

"Did you enjoy the part where he hurt you?"

"And what did he call you? Did those words excite you? Be honest."

"How did that make you feel? Vulnerable? Weak? Do you enjoy those feelings? Don't lie now."

He roughly parts your legs with his hands as he feels you like a piece of meat.

The word 'No' just can't seem to come out. He sees that you're too pathetic to resist. You're shaking.

How did it get this far?

Are you really this weak?

Is this just who you are now?

Why are you getting so wet?

Your resistance is pitiful when he pushes you on your back and starts to tear away your clothing. You can't stop him now.

Your mind is numb with fear. Your body limp. Your holes are soaking, betraying you again. They want... No. They need to be used.

Even as he roughly rams his cock inside and begins to use you, he demands more.

He wraps your hands around your throat while slamming into you, forcing your trauma out. His pace is primal. Almost hateful.

The rhythmic, perverse, wet sound of your violation softly echoes around the room.

As you are taken advantage of and used like a toy, he demands that you recite the details of the night you were raped.

"Yes, tell me about how much of a whore you were... good girl..."

"Oh but you loved it didn't you?"

"I knew you were a daddies girl... That's ok little slut, he's gone. I'm daddy now."

"How many times did he fill you? I bet you love being claimed by a stranger didn't you? What a useful little cumdump you are."

"That is what you wanted really isn't it? To be used like a common whore?"

"You really are just a stupid little slut aren't you?"

"That's it... You're enjoying this aren't you my little trauma princess? Shhh don't answer. We both know you are."

As you moan desperately and mumble the answers to his twisted questions, you can't stop yourself cumming on his cock over and over again while being rutted like a mindless fuckdoll.

Maybe he's right. Maybe this is your purpose now.

Maybe you are just a filthy cocksleeve for men to use.

He suddenly thrusts hard, clasping his hands around your fragile abused throat while holding himself deep inside.

He growls and moans deeply as he releases deep inside of you, breeding your eager, abused cunt.

He withdraws slowly while insidiously stroking your hair. You're soaked. He's filled you so deeply.

Wordlessly, he returns to his desk and resumes his professional posture, callously instructing you to sit up and get dressed. He's done using you now.

You shakingly obey his instructions, his warm seed leaking down your reddened legs.

As he addresses you again, you try to hide your shame, adjusting your clothes, wiping away the mixture of running makeup and tears, setting your hair straight.

You feel so...

Good.

He clears his throat.

"Yes... Definitely, lots more work is needed, I think."

"In fact, I'm going to insist that you see me... weekly. I'll notify your friends and colleagues."

"Don't worry. This will be completely confidential between us. It's the best way to treat your case."

He looks up casually.

"Now then... Same time next week?"

He doesn't wait for your answer. You know this is not a request.

"Good girl."