The Evaluation
"His marriage counselor is his mother-in-law's best friend. After sessions, she reports everything. Then she starts making demands. 'If you want to save your marriage, you'll do exactly what I say.'"
Dr. Victoria Chen is not what I expected from a marriage counselor.
She's in her late fifties, silver-streaked hair pulled back in a severe bun, reading glasses perched on her nose. Professional. Clinical.
And massive.
She has to weigh two-eighty, maybe three hundred. Her body fills the leather therapy chair like it was built for her—and maybe it was. Her breasts strain against her silk blouse. Her thick thighs press together beneath her pencil skirt. When she crosses her legs, the fabric rides up, revealing stockings stretched tight.
"Mr. Parker." She looks up from her notes. "Please, sit."
I sit across from her. The couch is soft, designed to make patients comfortable. I am not comfortable.
"Your wife tells me you have... wandering eyes."
"That's not—"
"Don't lie to me, Mr. Parker. I've been doing this for thirty years." She removes her glasses, studies me with sharp brown eyes. "I also know your mother-in-law. Very well."
Something cold slides down my spine.
"Carol," Dr. Chen continues, "and I have been friends since college. She asked me to take your case personally. A favor."
"I see."
"Do you?" She leans forward. Her blouse gapes, revealing cleavage deep enough to get lost in. "Because I don't think you do. Not yet."
The first session is normal.
We talk about my marriage. About Jennifer, my wife. About the problems—her long hours, my loneliness, the distance that's grown between us. Dr. Chen listens, takes notes, offers suggestions.
At the end, she says: "Same time next week, Mr. Parker."
I agree.
I don't know what I'm agreeing to.
Session two.
Dr. Chen is waiting when I arrive. Same professional demeanor, same clinical setting.
But something is different.
"I spoke with Carol last night," she says. "About our session."
"You—" I sit up straight. "You can't do that. There's confidentiality—"
"There's nothing." Her voice is ice. "Read your intake forms, Mr. Parker. You signed a release for family consultation. Carol is family. And she was very interested in what you had to say."
"What I—"
"About your loneliness. Your... urges. The way you admitted to fantasizing about other women." She consults her notes. "Older women, specifically. Women with more... presence than your wife."
I remember saying that. In the safety of therapy, where nothing was supposed to leave the room.
"Carol thinks you're a threat to her daughter's happiness," Dr. Chen continues. "She wants me to fix you. And I agreed."
"Fix me how?"
She smiles. It doesn't reach her eyes.
"That depends on you."
Session three.
Dr. Chen stands when I enter. Walks to the door. Locks it.
"Today we try something different," she says. "Aversion therapy."
"I don't—"
"You fantasize about older, larger women." She turns to face me. Reaches for the top button of her blouse. "So I'm going to give you one. In controlled conditions. We'll see if the reality matches the fantasy."
"Dr. Chen, this is highly—"
"Inappropriate? Yes." The blouse falls open. She's not wearing a bra. Her breasts are enormous—heavy, veined, nipples dark and thick. "But Carol was very clear. Either I cure you, or she tells Jennifer everything. About the therapy. About your fantasies. About the porn on your laptop."
I freeze. "How do you—"
"Carol has access to your home network. She's been monitoring you for months." Dr. Chen unzips her skirt. Steps out of it. She's wearing stockings, garters, nothing else. Her belly is round, soft. Her thighs are thick. Her pussy is bare.
"So here's what's going to happen," she says, walking toward me. "You're going to do exactly what I say. Every session. And in exchange, I'll tell Carol you're making progress. That you're being cured."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then I tell her you're a lost cause." She stops in front of me. Her belly is at my eye level. "And she tells Jennifer. And your marriage ends. Not neatly, in therapy, but messily, in divorce court."
She places her hands on my shoulders.
"Choose, Mr. Parker."
I choose to survive.
She makes me kneel. Makes me worship her—starting with her feet, working up her thick calves, her massive thighs. She makes me use my mouth on her while she sits in her therapy chair, legs spread, professional demeanor replaced by raw command.
"That's it," she hisses. "That's what you fantasized about. Older women. Bigger women. Women who can tell you what to do."
I hate that she's right.
I hate more that my cock is hard.
She comes on my face. Then she makes me clean her up.
"Same time next week," she says, buttoning her blouse. "And every week, until Carol is satisfied."
Session four.
She makes me fuck her.
Bent over her desk, face pressed into her leather blotter, while I take her from behind. Her ass is massive—each cheek bigger than my head—and it ripples with every thrust.
"Harder," she demands. "Show me what you think about when you touch yourself."
I fuck my therapist in her office while my mother-in-law's spy cameras probably record everything.
When I come inside her, she makes me thank her.
"Good progress," she says. "I'll let Carol know."
Session five. Six. Seven.
The pattern continues.
Each week, she has new demands. New positions. New ways to use me. I eat her out for a full hour while she reads patient files. She rides my face until I can't breathe. She makes me worship every inch of her body while she details exactly what she'll tell Carol if I displease her.
The blackmail is constant. The pleasure is unwilling.
And yet.
I come back every week.
I do everything she asks.
And when she tells me I'm making progress, I feel something that might be pride.
Session twelve.
"I spoke with Carol this morning," Dr. Chen says.
I'm on my knees again. Her default position for me.
"She's... impressed. She says Jennifer seems happier. More secure."
"Because I'm not looking at other women."
"Because you're too exhausted to look at other women." She laughs. It's not cruel—not exactly. "But the result is the same. Your marriage is improving."
"So we're done?"
She looks at me. Something flickers in her eyes.
"Do you want to be done?"
The question sits between us.
I should say yes. I should reclaim my dignity, my autonomy, my right to therapy that isn't sexual extortion.
But if I'm being honest with myself—truly honest, the way therapy is supposed to make you—
"No," I admit.
She smiles. It's the first real smile I've seen from her.
"Good," she says. "Because I wasn't ready to stop either."
She unbuttons her blouse.
"Same time next week, Mr. Parker."
"Same time next week."
Six Months Later
My marriage is stronger than ever.
Jennifer thinks therapy saved us. Carol thinks Dr. Chen cured me. Everyone is happy.
Except that now I look forward to Thursdays more than any other day of the week.
Now I drive to Dr. Chen's office not because I'm forced to, but because I want to.
Now, when she locks the door and removes her clothes and commands me to worship her—
I do it eagerly.
She stopped recording months ago. The blackmail is technically over.
But the sessions continue.
Because some treatments take longer than others.
And some conditions can never truly be cured.