The Therapist Pt. 03

The room was baroque and elegant, accompanied by a gentle oaky scent. The late hour and the soft glow of candlelight enhanced the overall atmosphere. He’d always had a taste for the classical.

While he enjoyed the office in his clinic, his home office provided a much larger and more comfortable space for his most discreet work. The walls were lined with a collection of texts and case files, occasionally interrupted by strange objects and sculptures of intertwined figurines.

A solitary ray of artificial light pierced through the room as he settled into a leather armchair, a laptop open in front of him.

He's watching the video.

Her humiliation. Her forced obedience. Her primal forbidden pleasure. Her surrender.

"Thank you so much for my treatment."

Such a pretty little smile. So ruined. A beautiful moment of submission. She truly was made to serve, even if she doesn’t know it yet. She’s so beautifully damaged and desperate.

His own voice plays from the speakers.

"This is how it will be every week. In this environment, you will be my object."

Yes. That's it. The words ring in his mind.

"Every. Week."

He stirs with feral anticipation.

It had been a long time since he had had a true project. Not a client or a patient. No. He’d known since the very day she walked into his office. She was going to be different.

He wanted more. More control.

He'd seen her type so many times, always so eager to be owned, so desperate to be used, but never quite like this. He wouldn't let her slip away. Not this one.

She was a gift. One he intended to keep.

He'd already decided how he was going to do it. Every session she had revealed another vulnerability, another weakness. He would break her down and slowly, purposefully, reconstruct her as something new.

Deep down, she wants this. There is nothing that will convince him otherwise now.

The camera and the contract were just the start. The decision has been made.

He opens his email client, with some select individuals already pre-filled as recipients, and attaches the video. With a smile, he clicks send.

She’s going to be magnificent.

After your latest session, you feel as if you are living two lives now: one of the public and one that is shaped and sculpted by the therapist. The conspiracy you are now living threatens to tear your life and relationships apart in a tornado of taboo.

But it’s so deliciously exciting.

Despite being twice lured in and reduced to a brainless cocksleeve, in your daily life, your mannerisms and behaviours have been slowly blossoming into something new.

Your confidence is soaring. Family and colleagues compliment you on how well you seem to be doing. Male colleagues seem to approach you more now; they flirt with you, and their eyes drift over and linger on you. You catch yourself spending more time on your appearance and even flirting back. If only they knew the truth—how much of a slut you really are.

You're falling in love with the idea of it.

You were always known as the shy girl. Mild manners and always polite. Now there are more eyes on you than ever.

You’ve never felt so wanted. So desired. The attention you’re receiving gives you a high. And you’re starting to crave more. At any cost.

You catch yourself thinking a dangerous thought.

Maybe his 'treatment' is working after all. Maybe he's right. Maybe you really do crave being used by men.

The sessions with the therapist have had intense aftereffects. Despite the disgusting way he treats you, you can't sleep without waking up feeling him inside you. Without dreaming of his smooth voice and thick cock. Your skin is hot. You can't stop touching yourself.

You were raised to be better than this. You know that these thoughts are a sickness, but you can't bring yourself to cure it.

After all, you're not a victim here. You chose this. You’re choosing this.

Right?

Your slowly changing dress sense and the reactions of the men in your day-to-day life only serve to create a beautiful cycle of addiction, stoking the flames of your forbidden thoughts. Whenever you catch a man’s gaze, you think of the therapist’s cruel smile and dangerously melodic voice. You think of his words. His scent. About being his good girl.

It makes your clit throb every time.

He’s filled you with his seed twice now. All on film. Birth control has kept you from pregnancy so far, but even if you wanted to stop him breeding you, you're not sure you could. He’s a medical professional, after all. You know how influential he is. How powerful he is. You know what he can do to you.

The thought of your belly and tits swelling for his children makes you shiver with excitement. It’s deliciously tempting to throw away the pills and place yourself in his office, spreading yourself, ready for him to ruthlessly claim your fertile body and fill your eager womb.

As you fantasise about the therapist manipulating you into bearing his offspring, you have a terrifying realisation. If he did demand to breed you, you don’t think you would be able to resist.

The thought only makes you moan and rub harder.

What the hell is wrong with you?

The evening before the appointment, a package arrives. You didn't order anything. You check the label.

It's from him.

"I'm looking forward to our catch-up. I've noticed your progress. I believe in positive reinforcement; enjoy this as a reward. Do remember our rules on appearances. See you tomorrow."

Despite the condescending tone, you tear open the packaging like a giddy schoolgirl.

Inside is a smooth dark dress, still sealed, and a pair of dazzling silver high-heeled sandals.

How did he know your measurements?

The question is rinsed away by your excitement. You can't resist trying them on.

The dress fits perfectly. It's soft and thin in texture and leaves little to the imagination. You’ve never owned a piece like this before. By your standards, it’s daring but classy, crafted to tempt onlookers and envelop it's wearer in an aura of mystique. You run your hands over the silk. He'll be expecting you to wear it, of course.

The shoes are platformed and are higher than anything you’ve ever worn. They force you to stand tall, and demand that you take careful, measured steps. The light from your bedroom lamp reflects off the glistening surface, further advertising your vulnerability.

You can’t imagine how much all of this must have cost.

You ignore the fact that he’s dressing you like a doll for his own pleasure. You forget about the likelihood that you will be ruined on film in such a delicate outfit and that you are being configured for the male gaze. Instead, you beam at your reflection in the bedroom mirror, focusing on the flowering feelings of being special. Like a deluded princess under a spell.

The night is long and restless, filled with visions of your wonderfully twisted therapy, the camera, the dress, the scents, him.

Your alarm rings at an early hour. You diligently follow the process, religiously applying your makeup, nail polish, and setting your hair. You decide to add some items of your own choice. A delicate silver necklace, earrings, and a bracelet.

For underwear, you select matching black lacy lingerie. You’ve worn them once, trying them on a long time ago. Since then, they have lain dormant in your wardrobe, waiting for a date or a worthy suitor. You never had the confidence or opportunity to use them properly. That will change today.

You smile as you dress yourself in them. You can’t wait to see his face. His stunned silence. You wrap and layer yourself in the brand-new garments, like an expensive gift. You slip into the heels and gaze in awe at your reflection. The girl in the full-length mirror is unrecognisable. Slowly, but surely, you are being transformed into someone else.

The taxi driver tasked with conveying you to your damnation is the same as last week. He can hardly take his eyes off you. You don’t comment; you simply flash an understanding smile. You sit back slowly, folding one leg over another in the rear seat of the car. The dress glides up your figure, rewarding his audacity and appreciation of your efforts with the best view.

He slows down to better indulge his eyes during the journey.

And to avoid crashing.

You emerge from the taxi like a movie star. Approaching the clinic feels different this time. Your pulse races as you gaze at the building in reverence. His office has become so much more now. It’s a site of transformation. A temple to your weakness. A church of beautiful corruption.

The receptionist eyes your dress, but this time her gaze lingers. She can see how much care and effort went into preparing for today. Her judgement is clear, but she does not comment.

You smile at her politely and take your seat, straightening your hair. You want to be ready.

You gaze at the door longingly. You shake with anticipation; you catch yourself nervously smiling this time. You're hopeless.

The door swings open.

It's not him.

A stranger stands in the doorway. He is tall and middle-aged, with a dark, unkempt beard and a t-shirt that highlights his muscles and belly. Military tattoos adorn his broad arms. His mere physical presence causes you to shrink.

He grins slowly, eyeing you up and down like a piece of meat. He wordlessly steps aside, allowing you entry.

“Come in." A deep familiar voice calls to you from within the office.

It's him.

You hesitate. The heels he chose for you click slowly across the floor as you brush past the bearded man. His gaze never leaves your body.

The therapist sits behind the wide mahogany desk, wearing his signature wide smile and a dark suit. The camera is back, positioned as before. The recording light is already steadily blinking. You straighten up immediately, conscious of the gaze of the lens.

To your surprise, yet another man stands next to him. He's handsome, with an aristocratic face. Perhaps lower 30’s and slender with long, wavy brown hair. He wears a formal shirt tucked into grey tailored pants. He observes your entrance like a shark, his piercing blue eyes tracking your every motion.

The door clicks shut. "Are you ready for me, sweetheart?" The man with the beard grunts at you.

You have no idea what's going on.

"Answer him." The therapist mischievously adds.

"Who, m...me?" You tremble.

The bearded man scoffs.

"You're the little whore in the video, aren't ya?"

You blush intensely, averting your gaze. Your fears and fantasies are both confirmed. He's been showing people.

"Yeah, that’s what I thought.” He grins.

Your breathing quickens.

"What's going on?" You whisper to the therapist.

He rises and approaches you, the clipboard in his hand. He ignores your question.

"Good afternoon. It's good to see you. I must say, you look incredible my dear. The very picture of beauty. I’m sure you turned some heads on your way to my doorstep.” He smirks at you.

You smile nervously.

He beckons you closer, gesturing with a rotation of his hand for you to turn around.

You pause and then turn on the spot slowly, modelling the dress that he picked out for you, each movement punctuated by a soft click of your high heels on the floor.

Your display enraptures and inflames the thoughts of your viewers. For a moment, the room falls silent in awe.

And raw desire.

“As I said, incredible.” He breathes.

Heat rises through your body as he beams at you with approval.

His praise is honey.

“I hear that you have been doing extremely well this week. I’m glad you are making such excellent progress. How do you feel?”

Given the situation, the question feels surreal.

But you’ve always been a polite girl.

“Very well… thank you.” You breathe, still shaking.

“Before we begin, we must review the details of your treatment. Today's session will be slightly different. I will explain it in full detail. Please take a seat."

He gestures to the sofa.

You slowly sit. The bearded man moves behind the sofa. He’s intimidating.

"Now, as you are aware, part of your treatment includes dressing and presenting yourself appropriately. You have done extremely well in this area. I thank you."

He eyes you once again, appreciating your visage.

"However, part of our treatment allows for certain external influences. We will be having assistants with us today.”

"Assistants?"

"That's right. It is all part of your treatment. As per the paperwork."

You remember the document. Your signature.

You desperately look around the room. The silent man leans against the wall, observing you closely. The bearded man is pacing behind the sofa, leering at you. You look to the door. There's still time to get out.

As if reading your intention, the therapist continues. “You will recall that you signed these documents, allowing for whatever treatment I may deem necessary. Not to mention the footage we have to confirm that. And more”

There’s that wide smile.

“Before we begin, could you please confirm that you are consenting to this treatment?"

The question is rhetorical. You hesitate, trapped.

"Answer honestly." He locks eyes with you, his eyebrows raised, daring you to refuse. You know by now that the choice is an illusion. His expression makes you afraid.

And so turned on.

"Yes." you whisper.

Your mind races. What are you doing? What have you done? Is that really all it takes now? A firm voice and the unspoken threat of violence?

The therapist smiles and looks at the bearded man.

"Mr. Williams. Would you be so kind as to introduce yourself?"

"Gladly."

He steps forwards, grinning.

"Hello, sweetheart. Call me, Mr. Williams. Or just, sir, if you find that too tricky." He chastises. He's talking down to you, as if you were a child.

He towers over you; his presence is overwhelming. He could crush you.

"Now, Mr. Williams has agreed to provide some assistance with our therapy today. He has some unique skills that will be very beneficial. As will Mr. Beckett, a close acquaintance of ours."

He gestures to the other man standing against the wall. His piercing, analytical gaze is still firmly on you. He has the faintest trace of amusement on his lips.

"Now, we can begin." The therapist announces, sitting back down behind his desk. He produces a notepad and a pen, clicking it once before looking back at Williams.

"Mr. Williams, I’d like you to answer some questions about our client.”

"Sure doc.” His hungry gaze never leaves you.

"Mr. Williams. Could you please describe your first impression?"

The bearded man laughs. "Of course, Dr. Jameson." He remains uncomfortably close. He stares into your eyes as he begins to answer the therapist’s question.

"When I first saw her, I was impressed. She’s small and looks easy to handle, with a nice tight bod. She’s clearly taken great care in getting dolled up for you. I thought that she needed to be fucked. Hard."

You avert your gaze again while shifting awkwardly, trying to conceal your pang of arousal at the brutish mans words.

"Now, Mr. Williams. If you could please tell me your current impressions of our client?"

"I know her type. A nasty little slut who’s only good for fucking. I can tell from the way she's dressed and the way she's acting. Look at her. She might be a bit shy, but she's eager, doc. I can feel it. She wants this."

The therapist turns his attention to you.

"Now then, my dear, how does it make you feel hearing those words?”

“I… don’t know.” You stammer.

The therapist ignores you.

"Mr. Williams, do continue. She's waiting for you."

The man steps towards you. You're nervous.

"Stand up, slut." He grunts.

You look to the therapist, tears welling in your eyes. He returns your gaze wordlessly. Is he enjoying your discomfort? How could he do this to you? He knows what you’ve been through.

"Closer." He demands, gesturing.

You approach, trembling.

"Look at you, doll. Pretty little thing."

His broad, rough hands run over the dress.

"You got a fine dress."

"Thank you." You whisper, avoiding eye contact.

His hand moves to your neck, stroking the silver chain.

"That's a pretty little necklace, too."

He grips the necklace, tugging you closer. You gasp. He smells musky. The faint scent of smoke and sweat. It’s disturbingly familiar.

He begins to roughly feel you, groping your ass and breasts. “You’ve got a body built for this haven’t you sweetheart?” He growls.

“I…”

He doesn’t wait for your reply, disinterested in your words.

With shocking strength, he places his hands on your shoulders and violently pushes you back down onto the sofa.

"Mr. Williams." The therapist calls sternly. "Do not damage her too much. She still has value."

"Alright, alright, Doc."

They talk about you like you’re an object with no opinions of your own, a piece of property, a tool to be used.

It makes your cunt tingle.

The bearded man steps back, his eyes fixed on you. He reaches down, unzipping his jeans.

You gasp as his cock springs free; it’s thick and already hard as diamonds.

"Open your mouth, slut." He growls.

"Wait."

The therapist holds up a hand, stopping him.

"You are being asked to provide a service. I would like you to answer honestly. How does it make you feel when a man desires you?"

You're not sure how to answer.

"There's no wrong answer." The therapist soothes.

"I don't know. I'm not used to it…"

"Do you feel pleasant when a strange man desires you for your body? Aroused even?"

You pause.

"I don't know. I...don't really think about it."

Liar.

"And how does it make you feel when you're told what to do? When a man demands that you do things for his pleasure?"

Your breathing quickens. The large man stands tall over you. He begins to stroke his cock, eager to pounce on you. There are so many eyes watching, all transfixed with a single purpose: using your body for pleasure.

"It makes me feel..."

You try to find the words. You feel so small sat before the men. Dressed for their visual pleasure, you are powerless, any deception would be seen through immidiately, any escape made impossible. You chose to come here. You chose to wear this.

The words you settle on will only serve to damage you further.

But they are the truth.

"It makes me feel good." You admit with an exhale, defeated again.

The therapist smiles.

"Excellent.” He breathes. “Now, Mr. Williams. You may proceed."

The bearded man grins, now unchained and free to enjoy your flesh. He grabs hold of the back of your head.

"Open your mouth, slut."

Your heart races as he forces his thick cock between your lips, causing you to gag.

"That's it, darling. Time to be a big girl now."

There’s that feeling again. You just can't help yourself. Your cunt begins to tingle as you suck his musky cock. You glance at the therapist. He’s smiling at you approvingly. Fear is replaced by submission. You feel like such a good little slut.

He begins thrusting into your mouth, all while running his hands through your hair.

"That's it, sweetheart. You like that, don't ya? You like being used by real men."

Even as you tremble, you can't deny how wet it's making you.

"You're a good little cockwarmer. Suck it good now."

You work his cock obediently. His grip on your hair tightens.

"Yeah, that's it, slut. Suck it. Take it deep."

His cock begins to push deeper, probing and testing your throat. You cough, softly choking on his cock. Your pathetic attempt to hide your gag reflex produces an amused chuckle from the large man.

“Don’t worry darling. We’ll soon train that out of you.”