The Therapist Pt. 02

The week has been a blur.

Your thoughts are always pulled back to the appointment. To him.

As promised, he informed everyone you know that you were receiving therapy, sparing the details.

The flood of concerned messages and emails produces a cocktail of emotions.

It's reassuring to have so many people reach out to you.

Exhilarating even.

They all want the truth. But what can you say?

You simply give a pretty little smile and lie all over again.

"I'm doing fine."

"I just needed someone to talk to."

"The bruising? Oh, I had a fall. Silly me."

His final words still echo in your head.

"Good girl."

You can't stop thinking about the next appointment.

You feel filthy, but why?

You were so wet in his office, even as he choked you.

When his warm load dripped from your holes, and his demeaning words made you shiver.

Even as he dismissed you like trash, leaving you stripped, soiled, and used.

Why did you leave that office feeling so good?

You don't know what's going on anymore.

Tomorrow is the next appointment.

Your phone buzzes. A message.

Your pulse races.

It's him.

"Hello, I'm looking forward to our catch-up tomorrow. I hear you are doing well. It's good to keep up appearances. You should continue to do so. You are doing so well. Ensure you dress well tomorrow. Take care."

There's an attachment. A photo.

He sent you a picture of... a pair of shoes?

Black strappy stilettos with sky-high heels.

They look so familiar.

But how could he...?

Another text.

"And do remember to bring the dress."

It's the same outfit from that night. When you were taken.

He's blackmailing you.

You've got no choice.

A restless night. The following day comes quickly.

You follow his instructions. Dressing as he commands. Applying your make-up with precision. Recreating your appearance perfectly.

The short journey to the therapist's office feels like an eternity. Your outfit draws many eyes. But, of course, it does. You knew it would.

He knew it would.

Your neighbours, the taxi driver, even his receptionist. Eyes dart over your figure. Judging. Wondering. Fantasising. You feel exposed.

You're getting so much attention.

By the time you make it to his waiting area, you feel almost relieved. A moment of solace. The feeling is temporary.

The door swings open.

The relief washes away.

It's time.

As always, he's incredibly well dressed. Wearing his signature wide smile.

He wordlessly gestures for you to enter.

You enter slowly, your every step is observed. The sound of your stilettos clicking on the immaculate oak flooring echos into the dangerously inviting room.

Everything is exactly as it was before. The gilded furnishings and rich decor. Even the exquisite smell is the same.

Hints of sandalwood and fresh lavender, a scent that hints at meticulous attention to detail, carefully concocted to relax its audience, while whispering of luxury and sophistication.

He breaks your trance.

"Hello again. How has your week been?"

He gestures towards the leather sofa. You take a seat. In the precise position identical to last time.

Like a good girl.

He takes his place behind the wide mahogany desk. The scene is set.

Then you see it.

Lurking in the corner. Gazing at the sofa.

A tripod with a video camera on top. The recording light slowly blinking.

You begin to shake.

You don't have to do this.

You can leave right now; leave this perverse lair behind.

You can just take your things and go.

So why aren't you doing it?

Why can't you bring yourself to leave?

Why is that camera making your cunt tingle?

The therapist's low voice once again forces you back into reality.

"So, we're here again. I'm so glad that you came. I've been told that you've done exceptionally well this week."

His eyes drift over you.

"And it seems that you've followed my instructions."

"That's very, very good."

The tingling intensifies.

He smiles again.

Does he know?

"Now... shall we begin?"

He does not wait for your answer.

"Let's take a look at you."

He gestures for you to rise.

Slowly, shakily, you stand. You take a cautious step forward into the centre of his office. 

The camera silently observes. Tracking your every movement.

You're the star of the show.

"Very good." He breathes.

"Now then, can you understand why men might seek to make advances on you while you appear this way?"

He looks at you expectantly.

"Answer me."

You fumble your words.

"Well, it's... It's a short dress."

"And the shoes?"

"They're high heels. And um. Sexy."

"That's right."

He continues to examine you. Closely.

"Do you have any more dresses like this one?"

You hesitate.

"Yes."

"And do they also get lots of attention?"

"...Yes."

"As I thought."

He slowly rises from his desk to get a better look at you.

"There are certain words that are used to describe women like you and the choices that they make. I believe we discussed it last week."

His eyes lock onto yours.

"Can you remember what one of those words might be?"

"Answer."

"... Slut."

"That's right. Slut."

You're so ashamed.

Why is he doing this to you?

"Do you know what happens to sluts?"

He approaches. And begins to circle you. Slowly.

"Answer."

"No..."

He leans in close. Breathing into your ear.

"They get what they deserve."

You feel something against your hand.

A pen.

"Now, please sign these documents. You will consent to all of the treatment I deem necessary."

You hesitate. The camera blinks steadily, daring you to move.

"Sign."

He holds out a clipboard.

Shaking, you take the pen and scrawl your name on the dotted line.

He takes the forms.

"Good girl."

The words hit you like a train. Your lips part. You've already fallen so far.

"Now. Approach and face the desk."

Your breathing is frantic.

"Hands behind your back. Now."

Slowly, you obey.

"Good. Very good. That's it. Now. You are to follow my instructions. Is that understood?"

You nod slowly. Tears well in your eyes.

Your face is in perfect view of the camera.

"Now then... bend."

His tone is firm and unwavering. What little mercy he showed last week has gone. You should have known.

You can feel the blood rushing to your face.

"Do as you are told, whore."

Slowly and shamefully, you bend, presenting your rear for him.

"No underwear either. You really have dressed the part, haven't you slut?"

You're so wet.

He prowls around the desk. Examining you further, savouring your vulnerability.

"Seeing as you love being... lusted over so much. We're going to do it in a controlled environment." He adds mechanically.

He sits down on the other side of the desk facing you, his cool, predatory eyes gazing into yours.

"Now you're going to show me those holes."

You shake with humiliation as you spread your legs. Your short dress glides further over your ass, fully exposing your eager pussy.

He rises again and moves behind you.

You can't see him. You hear the sound of his belt being loosened.

The camera continues to face you. Immortalising every moment of your obedience.

You feel the warmth of his hand as he caresses the soft skin of your ass.

You gasp as you feel him slide a finger inside your pussy.

"Soaking already. Typical."

He slips his finger out of you.

His hands begin to run over your hips.

You feel the tip of his cock pressing against your needy cunt.

"Now, then answer me this. Do you deserve to be treated like this? Like the vile little whore that you are?"

You can't answer him.

"I'll ask again. Do. You. Deserve. This."

Pain. He spanks your ass; the sharp sound echoes around the room.

You squeal and whimper in pain.

"Answer."

"Y..yes."

"Yes... What?"

"I deserve this."

"Good. You do. Very much so." He growls

His fingers dig deep into your hips.

With a single brutal motion, he enters you.

Your breath is knocked from you.

Your toes curl in your whore-heels.

Your cunt tightens and contracts around him, desperate for his cruel cock.

He begins to rut you mercilessly. His hands move to your ass, squeezing and groping it painfully.

He takes you like an animal.

The desk creaks and shudders.

You can't escape.

Your mind is blank.

All you can do is moan and whimper under his abuse.

The camera silently observes, immortalising your violation.

His words are laced with contempt.

"Don't lie to me. You've been dreaming of this all week. Slut."

"Oh, this is what you wanted, wasn't it? You knew this was going to happen, and yet you came in here dressed like a disgusting whore. Isn't that right, you vile fucking slut?"

"I bet even after what happened, you still fantasise about being used like this all the time. Disgusting."

"That's it. Smile for the camera while you get ruined again. Stupid slut."

"You love this. I bet you wish you could just get passed around a room full of men and ruined like the cocksleeve that you are."

"Tell me whore. How many cocks have been inside this hole? Hmm?"

"Don't pretend you're not enjoying this. This is what you're made for. A brainless fucktoy for men."

"Say it."

"I'm a... Fucktoy."

"Again."

"I'm a brainless fucktoy."

"Good girl." He purrs

Oh yes.

The camera continues to stare at you as he ruins you from behind. Capturing every moment.

Every humiliating word.

Every pathetic moan.

Every slap, pull, and grope.

Every time you helplessly cum on his cock as you are forced.

So many could see what a whore you are. How vulnerable to manipulation and abuse you truly are.

Why is that making you cum so hard?

He violently grips your hair and pulls your head back, forcing you to match the gaze of the camera as he pounds your useless body.

"Look into the lens." He growls

The camera is ready for you. Ready to capture this delicious moment.

He plunges his cock hard and deep, stretching and abusing your cunt, filling you deeper than anyone ever has.

You feel him begin to fill you as he moans with perverse pleasure.

He leans close, panting.

"This is all you're good for. This is how it will be every week. In this environment, you will be my object. Do you understand, slut?" He growls into your ear.

You nod weakly.

"Say it." He spits.

"Yes sir."

He withdraws slowly, leaving you a shaking wreck atop his desk.

He slowly sits down, facing you again.

"We will keep this confidential. We wouldn't want your friends, family, and colleagues to find out about this now, would we?"

His finger drifts to the camera, and he points.

"It could... make certain aspects of your life very uncomfortable."

He smiles at you with a wide, predatory smile.

You can't reply. He's got you exactly where he wants you again.

Maybe you really are just a stupid slut.

"Now then... You feel better, don't you?" he says expectedly, looking into your tear-stricken eyes while continuing to point at the camera.

You can barely form words.

"...Yes."

"And this method of treatment is working for you, isn't it?"

"...Yes."

You're so powerless.

You hate this.

"There's a good girl."

You love this.

He casually checks his watch and smiles slightly.

"Looks like we still have a small amount of time left."

You slowly try to withdraw from the desk, but your legs are so weak. You softly slide onto the floor, defeated. Used.

His seed slowly trickles out of your cunt and down your thighs.

"Onto your knees."

You look up. He's towering above you.

He's not finished with you yet.

Slowly, quivering, you rise to your knees.

He begins to stroke his cock, still slick from your juices.

"Now, clean it."

You look up into his eyes. They're cold, unwavering, and full of disdain.

Your lips tremble.

Slowly, you lean in.

You can smell his scent.

Oh, that scent.

Tentatively, you lick.

He grunts, and you feel his cock twitch.

You take him into your mouth and begin to suck.

Like a good girl.

Soft moans escape from the back of his throat.

Your saliva drips down his length and coats his balls.

You suck him with desperation, torn between the desire to escape and put this behind you and the desire to please him.

To serve him.

"Look up."

You obey.

The camera watches.

"Now. Show me how grateful you are. For all of this."

You know what he wants. Your lips slide down his length, cleaning up every last drop.

As you shake with weakness and pleasure, makeup and tears streaming down your face, you slowly turn to meet the camera's gaze.

"...Thank you."

"With a smile. Like you mean it."

You force a pretty little smile on your ruined face. Speaking to the soulless lens of the camera.

"Thank you so much for my treatment."

He takes your hands and pulls you upright, helping you to rise, before returning to his desk. He clicks off the camera as he passes, seemingly satisfied with the material he has on you.

At least for now.

You don't know what he plans to do with it.

You shamefully correct your clothing and hair.

His matter-of-fact tone returns.

"Another excellent session. You're making great progress. You'll soon learn how to better control your behaviour and impulses."

"I will be expecting you here again next week. Understand?"

You nod shakily and approach the door.

"Wait."

You turn.

"Your paperwork."

He's holding the clipboard. The document you signed.

"It's standard procedure."

You take it.

He holds your wrist tightly and pulls you closer, whispering into your ear.

"If I were you, I would keep it. Just in case."

He releases you, his eyes glide over your body once more.

"You may go."

You open the door and leave the office.

Your heels unsteadily click along the oak floors as you exit, leaving him to his work.

The receptionist glances at you as you pass; you can't meet her gaze.

Even as you head home, you still feel his heat between your legs.

Even as you sleep, the memory of his treatment is with you.

As are the dreams.

They make you feel vile. Humiliated. Filthy.

But there are other feelings too, growing and creeping into your head like a beautiful poison.

You can't fight getting disturbingly excited about the next session.

The next chance to be his good girl.