Mandatory Sessions
"Court-ordered therapy. She's supposed to help him with his anger. Instead, she finds every vulnerability—and uses each one to make him hers."
The judge gives me two choices: jail or therapy.
Twelve sessions with a court-appointed counselor. Complete them, and the assault charge goes away. Fail, and I do six months.
I choose therapy.
Dr. Margaret Chen's office is in a converted Victorian.
Leather couch, soft lighting, diplomas on the wall. She's sitting in an armchair when I walk in, notepad in lap, watching me like a specimen.
She's not what I expected.
Mid-fifties. Heavy. Maybe five-four and two-forty, with salt-and-pepper hair in a neat bun and glasses that make her eyes look huge. Her blouse is professional but tight, her slacks straining at the thighs.
"Mr. Drake." She gestures to the couch. "Please, sit."
I sit.
"Let's begin."
Session One
She asks about my childhood.
I give her nothing. Monosyllables. Shrugs. I'm here because I have to be, not because I want to spill my guts.
"You're resistant," she observes.
"I'm here."
"Physically, yes. Mentally, you're miles away." She sets down her notepad. "Tell me about the fight."
"What's to tell? Guy said something. I hit him."
"What did he say?"
"Does it matter?"
"Everything matters, Mr. Drake." She leans forward. Her blouse gaps. I look away. "Especially the things we don't want to talk about."
Session Three
She's breaking me down.
Every question peels back another layer. My father's drinking. My mother's silence. The way I learned that fists solve problems because words never did.
"You're angry," she says. "But not at the man you hit. You're angry at yourself."
"That's bullshit."
"Is it?" She tilts her head. "You punched him because he said something about your girlfriend. Called her fat. That's what the report says."
I don't respond.
"You have a type, don't you? Larger women. Women who remind you of..."
"Don't."
"Of someone you couldn't protect."
I stand up. "We're done."
"We're done when I say we're done." Her voice is iron. "Sit. Down."
I sit.
Session Five
"Have you ever been attracted to a therapist before?"
The question catches me off guard. "What?"
"It's common. Transference, we call it. Patients develop feelings for their counselors. It's nothing to be ashamed of."
"I'm not—"
"Your pupils dilate when I lean forward. Your breathing changes when I cross my legs." She smiles, slight and knowing. "Your body tells me things your words won't."
"This is inappropriate."
"Is it?" She stands. Walks toward me. "Or is it the most honest thing that's happened in this room?"
She stops in front of the couch. Looming over me.
"Tell me what you see, Mr. Drake."
I see everything.
The swell of her breasts beneath the blouse. The curve of her belly. The thickness of her thighs in those tight slacks. She's everything I've ever wanted and been ashamed of wanting.
"I see a woman who knows exactly what she's doing."
"Good." She sits beside me. Close. Her thigh presses against mine. "And what am I doing?"
"Playing games."
"Wrong." Her hand lands on my knee. "I'm helping you. In ways the court never sanctioned."
"Dr. Chen—"
"Margaret." Her hand slides higher. "And this is your real therapy, Marcus. Learning to take what you want without violence. Learning to ask. Learning to need."
Her hand finds my cock through my jeans. I'm hard. Of course I'm hard.
"Tell me what you need."
"I need you."
The words come out before I can stop them. She smiles—victorious, predatory.
"Good boy."
She unzips me. Frees my cock. Strokes it with soft, professional hands.
"This is our secret," she says. "Part of your treatment. Unconventional, but effective."
"This is—fuck—this is unethical—"
"Many effective treatments are." She strokes faster. "Now stop talking and let me work."
I come in under a minute. She catches it in a tissue, disposes of it calmly, then returns to her armchair like nothing happened.
"Same time next week, Mr. Drake. We're making excellent progress."
Session Seven
She doesn't touch me.
I spend the whole hour aching, waiting, desperate. She just talks. Asks questions. Takes notes.
"You're frustrated," she observes at the end.
"Yes."
"You expected something else."
"Yes."
"Good." She stands. Walks me to the door. "That's called conditioning. You're learning to associate this space—this person—with release. By the time we're done, you'll need me more than you need anything else."
"That sounds like manipulation."
"It sounds like therapy." She opens the door. "Same time next week."
Session Nine
She makes me beg.
Not explicitly. Not in words. But she strips in front of me—slow, deliberate—and doesn't let me touch until I'm almost crying with need.
"Please," I hear myself say. "Please, Dr. Chen—"
"Margaret."
"Margaret. Please."
She drops her panties. Her body is magnificent—soft and heavy and real. She straddles me on the therapy couch, her thick thighs clamping around my hips.
"You've earned this."
She sinks onto me.
She rides me while asking questions.
"Tell me about your mother." Grind. "Tell me about your first girlfriend." Bounce. "Tell me what you're feeling right now." Clench.
I can barely speak. She's using my cock to extract confessions I've never given anyone.
"I'm afraid," I gasp. "Afraid of being alone. Afraid of being like him."
"Your father."
"Yes—fuck—yes—"
"But you're not like him." She moves faster. "You came to therapy. You're doing the work. You're—oh God—you're learning."
She comes around me. Milks me with her cunt. I empty into her while she moans.
"Excellent session," she breathes. "Same time next week."
Session Twelve
The last session.
She presents my evaluation to the court: Completed. Significant progress. No further treatment required.
But afterward, in her office, she locks the door.
"You're cured," she says. "Officially."
"And unofficially?"
"Unofficially..." She walks toward me. Unbuttons her blouse. "I've developed a condition of my own."
"What condition?"
"Attachment." She kisses me. "To you."
The sessions become weekly.
Then twice weekly. Then whenever we can manage.
She's my therapist. My lover. My addiction.
"Is this healthy?" I ask her once.
"Define healthy." She's riding me in her office chair, her massive breasts in my face. "You haven't hit anyone in a year. You sleep through the night. You're happy."
"Because of you."
"Because of us." She clenches around me. "This is what therapy looks like when it works. Messy. Inappropriate. Real."
One Year Later
I'm at a party. A guy makes a comment about a woman's weight.
I don't hit him.
I think about Margaret. About her body, her voice, her touch. About all the ways she taught me to handle anger—to redirect it, to channel it, to use it.
I walk away.
Later, I tell her about it in her office. While she's on her knees. While she's worshipping my cock.
"I'm proud of you," she says.
"I couldn't have done it without you."
"I know." She takes me deep. "That's the point."
I come down her throat.
Best therapy I ever had.