Unorthodox Methods

"I'd like you to know up front," she said, "my methods are unorthodox."

"Okay," I said, though I had no idea what she meant by that.

She fixed me with a long look.

"I don't want there to be any unpleasantness, later," she said. "If at any point you're uncomfortable with what I ask of you, you may tell me, and we will stop. But this is your warning: I will ask things of you that many of my colleagues would not."

Her gaze was unblinking, intense, watching me for any sign that I wasn't understanding, that I wasn't keeping up.

Dr. Anna was not the first therapist I'd met with. The others had been fine, well-meaning, they'd done all the things I'd expected therapists to do: they'd listened, asked questions, exhorted me to reflect on the root causes of my feelings, to look probingly into my past, etc. I had not found it helpful. They'd urged me to be patient. I wasn't. Finally I'd been referred to Anna.

In truth I was excited by her warning. I wanted unorthodox. Orthodoxy hadn't served me. But she also made me very nervous. For one, she was beautiful: in her mid-40s by my guess, with silky dark hair done up into a messy bun; an elegant face with dark probing eyes behind her thick-framed glasses, full red lips pursed imperiously. She wore a trim black blazer over a scoop-neck top which drew my eye to her large breasts, and tight gray dress pants hugged her shapely hips.

"Do you have any questions for me?" she said.

"What sort of... unorthodox methods do you mean?" I said.

She smiled faintly, as if to say nice try.

"That remains to be seen," she said. "I believe in employing a wide variety of methods, depending on what I deem to be of therapeutic benefit. I only want you to be forewarned that, once I understand your situation and your needs, we may try things that you'd be unlikely to encounter in other practices. Do you understand?"

I nodded, though I didn't, quite.

"Would you like to proceed?"

I nodded again, this time truthfully. I did want to proceed, though I remained nervous.

"Good," she said, with another smile, this one almost sweet. "Please, relax." She leaned back in her chair, as if to demonstrate.

I took a deep breath, sat back in the couch. I'd been leaning forward, my sweating hands clasped tightly in my lap. I peeled them apart and wiped them on my jeans.

Anna smiled again. "Good. Now. Tell me why we're here."

I took another deep breath, and commenced with the same spiel I'd given my other therapists. About how I'd struggled in relationships, failed to get close to anyone at work, ruined old friendships. About how I felt I put up walls against people, stopped myself from feeling anything for them, or when I did feel something I grew cold, refusing to acknowledge or express my feelings. Until invariably people gave up on me, and I was left alone.

Anna nodded as I spoke, watching me intently; when I looked toward her eyes they met mine, maintaining eye contact. I couldn't make myself hold it for long, and my eyes wandered, roving around the wood-paneled office, the bland art on the walls, the shaded window. Each time my eyes returned to Anna - trying not to stare at her chest - her eyes were there waiting for mine. She occasionally gave me a reassuring smile, urging me to go on.

I did go on, longer than I had with other therapists; something about Anna's kind smile, her unwavering eyes, teased more out of me. I told her how on one hand it was as if I was afraid of being emotional, showing weakness, and as a result a new, antithetical fear arose that I might be incapable of feeling, some kind of robot or sociopath.

She smiled gently at this.

"I can assure you," she said. "You are not a robot, or a sociopath. The mere fact that you're able to identify these feelings in yourself is, I believe, evidence that you're further along than you think."

I nodded, somewhat reassured, but thus far this was nothing new. A long silence stretched out. Anna just looked at me with that unblinking gaze, waiting, I thought, for me to go on. But I didn't; I just sat back, my sweaty palms resting on my thighs.

Finally she spoke. "Tell me about your last relationship."

"Melissa," I said, with a rueful sigh. Anna smiled. I went on. "There isn't much to tell, beyond what I've already said. It went the same way. Things were good, I liked her, she liked me. She started to talk more about her own feelings, asking me to tell her about mine. I just... didn't."

"And so she broke up with you."

"Yes."

"Were you having sex?"

I nodded.

"Tell me about it."

I laughed nervously. She didn't smile.

"What would you like to know?" I said.

"How was the sex?"

"It was good. It was... it was great."

"It was great..." she smirked. "Up until the end?"

"Well, no," I admitted. She nodded, already knowing. "It was great... for a while," I said.

"What happened?"

"Well." I paused. She waited. "I guess it's the same as the other stuff. When she got close, I just... I just..."

"You couldn't?"

I looked up at her. She was watching me intently. I felt myself blush, recoiling.

"Not like that," I said. "It's not that I couldn't..."

"Please," Anna said. "Let's not be too coy with language here. We're adults, and we're going to be discussing adult topics."

"Okay," I said, nodding.

"Have you had issues getting erections?"

"No," I said, emphatically, shaking my head. "If anything... no."

She smiled. "Okay. So tell me what the issue was."

"I don't know. It's like, the closer we got, the more I felt, the less I... wanted to. It wasn't physical, I don't think. I'd still get..." I shrugged, bushing.

Anna gave me a look, and I amended.

"I'd still get... hard," I said, blushing further at the word, but she smiled and nodded approval. "I would just... make excuses, say I didn't feel well, or had to get up early."

"And then what would you do?"

"What do you mean?"

"Would you masturbate?"

"Um... yes," I said, blushing, looking down at my lap, my feet.

"Tell me about that."

I looked at her. Her gaze didn't waver.

"Tell you about... my masturbating?" I said.

"Yes."

This was something new. My other therapists had asked about my sex life, of course, but no one had asked about this.

"I don't..." I started, unsure. "What do you want to know about it?"

"Walk me through it. Are you in bed, or somewhere else? Are you fully nude? Are you watching something? What are you thinking about?"

I hesitated, my face burning. This wasn't something I'd ever talked about with anyone before. It was private; that was the point.

"I assure you," Anna said, "this isn't some prurient curiosity on my part. This is very relevant to your therapy. You have intimacy issues, which extend to your sexual desires. If we're going to get to the root of these issues we need to discuss these things. When you're alone, and uninhibited, what you choose to do to pleasure yourself may say a lot about where some of these issues are coming from."

"Okay," I said. She had a point, but I was still uncomfortable.

"So let's just take it slow, and set the scene. Maybe it will help if you lie back, and close your eyes."

"Okay," I said again. For a moment I didn't move, just looked at her. She returned my look placidly, patiently.

Finally I shifted on the couch, stretching out on my back, my head opposite her so I was facing her. Clasping my sweaty hands over my stomach. I closed my eyes, took a breath.

"Good," she said. "Now. Think back to the last time you masturbated."

"Okay," I said. That wasn't difficult, it was just the previous evening.

"You were at home?"

I nodded, laughing.

"You never know," she said, and I could hear a faint smile in her voice. "Were you in your bedroom?"

"Um... in the living room, on the couch."

"I see. Do you often do it there?"

"Yeah."

"You live by yourself?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. Was this particular occasion planned, or spontaneous?"

"Uh... planned, I guess."

"What were you wearing, when you began?"

"Just some sweatpants, I guess, and a t shirt. At first."

"At first. So you took them off?"

"Yes."

"Right away?"

"No, not quite right away."

"Tell me about what you're doing. Are you watching something? Looking at pictures?"

I found my body was starting to respond to this, to my chagrin, my cock stirring in my pants. I took a breath, wanted to distract myself from this subject, but with Anna asking for details that would be difficult.

"Uh, no," I said. "I like to... read stories."

"Erotic stories?"

"Yeah."

"On any subject in particular?"

"Um, yeah, stories about... exhibitionism."

"Exhibitionism. So, public nudity."

"Yes. Or at least, with an audience of some kind."

"I see. These stories involve women being naked in public? Or men? Or both?"

"Uh, both, I guess, but..."

"Let me rephrase the question. What arouses you about exhibitionism stories: is it being the exhibitionist, or the voyeur? In other words, when you read these stories, are you fantasizing about seeing other people naked in public, or are you fantasizing about being seen?"

I thought about this, while also aware of the fact I was growing decidedly hard in my jeans. I could feel myself blushing, and automatically tried to cover myself, propping my outer leg up, awkwardly moving a hand down to shield my crotch.

"Please relax," Anna said. "I understand these thoughts can cause your body to respond. That's quite alright; this is a safe space."

"Okay," I said, not convinced.

"Please lower your leg, let your body respond how it will."

I obeyed, slowly, lowering my leg and returning my hands to my stomach, my eyes still closed but aware of how my cock strained against my jeans.

"Good," she said. I thought I detected the hint of a smile in her voice again, but I didn't dare open my eyes and look at her. "Would you like me to repeat the question?" she said.

"Um, no," I said. "I think I got it. I guess I'm... fantasizing about being seen."

"I see. Go on. Describe the process, please."

"Okay," I said, hesitating, unsure how to go on. She just waited, until finally I continued. "So I guess I spend some time browsing stories online, looking for one that looks good. I like stories with a decent setup, so I get to know the characters a little, before they... Anyway. When I find one, I settle in, I guess."

"Be specific. You lie back? Like you are now?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Please go on. I would like you to describe for me at what point you become aroused, and at what point you begin to touch yourself. Are there elements in the stories that inspire this, or do you begin on your own?"

"I guess, I get... aroused..." I stumbled a bit at the word, "sort of right away, I guess kind of in anticipation?"

"Please use whatever words you're most comfortable with. I used 'aroused' before, but I believe you used 'hard.' You get hard?"

"Yes," I said, blushing furiously, my cock painfully hard in my jeans. "I get hard."

"I see. Please go on. When do you touch yourself?"

"I guess I sort of do that all along too, but only a little bit."

"Please be specific. Describe what you're doing at this point."

"Okay." I took a deep breath. "So I'm reading the story, often there's not much sex going on right away, but the good ones - or the ones I like, anyway - start to set up some of that sexual tension right from the beginning. So as I'm reading, I'm... I'm hard, and I might put my hands in my pants and just kind of... squeeze... my..."

"Again, please don't be coy with your words. This is a safe space. Say what you mean."

"I squeeze my... my cock." I had to resist the urge to move my hand down to my crotch now.

"Very good," Anna said. "Go on. So you're still clothed at this point."

"Yes. I usually keep my clothes on, as long as the character in the story does."

"Interesting. So you sort of act out the story, taking the role of the main male character."

"I guess, yeah."

"And when, in the story, he becomes naked, usually in public, that's when you undress."

"Yes."

"And do you imagine people looking at you?"

"Yes."

"Seeing you naked."

"Right."

"Okay. So your character is naked, and now so are you. What then?"

"Then, I guess, I keep reading, uh... touching myself, until..."

"Until what?"

"Until I cum." My voice broke a little on the word, to my embarrassment.

"And when do you cum?"

"Usually when the character does."

"And when you cum, are you still fantasizing about being watched?"

"Yes."

"Good. Please open your eyes."

I did, blinking at the light. Anna had unbuttoned her blazer and was leaning forward. Her breasts were larger than I'd first realized. They were pressed together by her arms, two perfect globes stretching the material of her shirt. I realized I was staring and forced myself to look at her face. She was watching me intently, a slight flush to her skin.

"You are aroused now," Anna said. It wasn't a question, but I nodded. I could see now how obviously my hard-on bulged in my jeans; she couldn't fail to notice.

"Tell me," she said, "and remember, this is a safe space. Are you more aroused by the subject of your masturbation, or the fact that you're describing it to me?"

"I guess, the fact that I'm describing it to you." My skin burned hot, prickling with sweat.

"Do you find it arousing," she said, speaking slowly, "that I can see your erection in your pants?"

I just nodded, not trusting my voice to come out clearly. My mouth was dry, my heart was racing.

Anna nodded too, as if to say I thought so.

"Would you like to know what I think of this?" she said.

I nodded again.

"I think vulnerability frightens you. That's why you push people away rather than risk showing your vulnerability. I think it also excites you, almost as if it's a taboo. I think physical and sexual vulnerability in this sense is a proxy for your emotional vulnerability. When you started to get close to Melissa you distanced yourself sexually, yet you're aroused by the idea of being exposed, being watched. Being vulnerable."

I nodded along. She was making sense to me. I hadn't thought about it quite like that, but I thought she was onto something.

Then she said, "If I asked you to take your clothes off, here, in front of me, how would you feel?"

My heart raced all the faster. "I don't know," I said, my voice quavering.

"Would you be frightened by that?"

"I think so."

"Would you also be excited?"

I nodded.

"Frightened," she said, "because you'd be vulnerable. Because I know you, even though I haven't known you long. I know your fears, your feelings. My seeing you naked would be a physical manifestation of that vulnerability."

I nodded, again not trusting myself to speak.

"That's also why it would excite you," she said. "Because secretly you crave that vulnerability. The thought of it thrills you. It..." her eyes flicked down my body, toward my crotch, then back to my face, "makes you hard."

I nearly came then, in my pants, without even touching myself. I gasped, my body shuddering. She smiled, knowing.

"I want you to do it," she said.

"What?" She couldn't mean...

She held my eyes in hers, her expression serious.

"I want you to take your clothes off," she said.

I didn't say anything, didn't move, just stared at her, breathing hard through my mouth.

Her expression softened some.

"Remember," she said. "If at any time you're uncomfortable, just say the word, and we will be done. But if we're going to be working together, you'll need to take my instruction. This, I think, is necessary for your therapy."

"Okay," I said.

"Good. Now. Start by sitting up and taking off your shirt." She folded her hands in her lap, watching, waiting.

I took a deep breath and did as she instructed, slowly rising to a sitting position, pull my shirt up and off, and tossing it aside.

"Good," she said. "Now your shoes and your socks."

I did so. She nodded approvingly.

"Okay," she said. "Lie on your back again, unclasp your belt, and unfasten your jeans."

I lay back. The material of the couch was cold against my bare back. I shivered, from both cold and nerves, I thought. Anna looked on patiently while I pulled my belt undone, then unbuttoned my jeans. Slowly I unzipped my fly. It was a small relief, giving my cock a little more room to breathe, though it still throbbed against my jeans and boxers.

"Good," she said. "Are you ready?"

I nodded, though I wasn't sure I was.

"Good. Take your pants off, please. Your underwear, too."

I took another deep, shuddering breath. I couldn't quite believe this was happening. I looked at Anna and she nodded, giving me a reassuring smile. I lifted my butt off the couch, grabbed the waistband of both my jeans and my boxers and, in one swift motion like taking off a band-aid, slid them down. My cock sprung free, slapping against my stomach before standing upright. I lowered my jeans and boxers over my feet and set them aside.

"Lie back please," Anna said. I did.

I had never felt more naked in my life. My cock was engorged, throbbing, pointing at the ceiling. Anna let out a breath, her eyes trailing over my body, a flush creeping into her skin.

She smiled at me. "You look good naked," she said.

I smiled too, blushing hard. "Thanks."

She stared at my cock, her face growing serious again.

"I want you to touch yourself," she said.

I didn't question this time. I looked at her face, she nodded, and I took my cock in my hand, squeezing it. Precum already gathered the tip; I felt I could cum immediately.

She seemed to intuit this. "Take it slow," she said. "Stroke your cock for me."

I let out a moan. She smiled at me, then returned her gaze to my cock, and she watched as I slowly ran my hand up and down my length.

"No wonder you like to show off," she said. "You have a nice big cock." She blushed a little, as if surprised by herself. I moaned. She laughed softly.

She leaned forward, watching intently. I wanted to make it last, but I wasn't sure how long I could hold out. I squeezed as I stroked, trying not to cum too quickly. My cock stood red and throbbing in my hand. Anna breathed a little harder as she watched. Leaning forward, her cleavage was on full display, her large breasts squeezed between her arms, spilling over the deep neck of her top.

"That's good," she said. "I want you to enjoy this. Enjoy that I'm watching you, that I can see all of you."

I moaned, breathing hard. She smiled.

"You want to cum, don't you?" she said.

I nodded, moaning again.

She licked her lips, leaning closer.

"Good," she said. "I want you to cum. I want to watch you stroke your big cock and cum for me."

I moaned, sped up my motions. I watched her watching; she smiled, her eyes wide, intent. I squeezed and pumped my cock, and then I erupted, spewing a geyser of cum straight into the air. Anna gasped, flushed, and watched as I kept stroking and kept cumming. Cum leapt from my cock, shooting into the air and falling on my chest, my stomach, load after load as I went on pumping, my hand squelching against my cock as cum oozed out over it.

"Oh my," Anna said, laughing softly, her eyes not moving from my cock as the torrent slowed, though it didn't stop. I moved my hand slower on my cock, squeezing, and cum steadily seeped out with each motion, coating my hand and my stomach.

Finally it abated, and I slumped into the couch, still holding my cock.

Anna smiled at me.

"That," she said, laughing, "was a lot of cum."

She was quiet a while, giving me a chance to recover. I lay back, breathing hard, reeling. She just sat, a flush lingering on her skin, her eyes moving up and down my body. I looked down at myself, pulling my hand away, letting my deflating cock rest on my stomach. I was covered in cum. It ran in rivulets down my sides, toward the couch.