Dec 21, 2006

A Different Type of Therapy

I had been referred to Doctor Golden by my therapist, Doctor Wagner. I had been seeing Dr. Wagner for six or seven years and she recommended that I see Dr. Golden for a few sessions. Dr. Wagner and I had finally broached the subject of sex and some of my more, um, unusual proclivities. Dr. Golden, a specialist, required that I book two sessions and that I pay for them up front. I found this a little odd but was assured that this was normal practice.

When I met her at her office, Dr. Golden welcomed me with a curt hello and quick handshake. She wore white stockings, thick ones, with black platform Mary Janes. She also wore a very low cut blouses and a white jacket, black short mini skirt. When she sat down, I could see that garters held up her stockings. I had never been to a therapist with an actual couch (a la Freud). I almost expected her to show me ink blots or do word association. I was a little surprised, however, when she told me that she was a practitioner of “sensory deprivation.” At this point she produced a black eye mask which she handed to me and instructed me to put on.

“I’m going to take some notes on your history,” she said and began by asking me simple questions such as my name and age. Almost immediately it felt as if she was not a person but, moreover, a voice; an entity that had entered me was probing my mind. It didn’t take long for me to begin to feel uncomfortable with her line of questions. Uncomfortable but powerless to do anything but give her the answers she desired.

Oddly, her tone of voice was completely neutral. I had no idea if, like other therapists, she was frowning when she asked me these things or if they truly didn’t bother her. I found myself becoming one with my thoughts. I was dying to know what she thought. The questions were strange but my answers were probably stranger. Her voice drilled into my mind.

Only on occasion would her voice change tone, ever so slightly. I yearned to know what made the change. Was I losing her? Was I turning her stomach? I wasn’t sure but did I feel a brush of her hand on my shoulder? My forehead?

I felt so isolated in the blindfold, so vulnerable. Was it proper for her to touch me? Was I just imagining it? I found myself telling her the most personal things. I admitted to her my problems with ejaculation and occasional lapses in the ability to maintain an erection. I felt completely emasculated by these questions.

“The most you tell the truth, the more I’ll be able to help,” she says. But does she really want the truth? I find myself scared silly to admit these things to another person. These are things I barely admit to myself.

I felt like a fly caught in her web of words. I cringe inside by I’m compelled to listen to her. Her demeanor is more of a schoolgirl than a doctor. She doesn’t come across as being completely professional as she’s a blend of sexy and innocent. I can’t stop thinking about it. I can’t stop thinking about the scent of her skin, the aroma as she shook my hand. I keep picturing her, even in this darkness.

When she doesn’t speak I trail off. Then she waits to prompt me. Am I rambling? Am I telling her too much? Is she frowning? Should I shut up? She just keeps asking questions and taking notes. I can hear the pencil scratching and occasionally erasing.

Inexplicably, I felt myself beginning to get aroused.

What is in my file? What did Dr. Wagner tell her? She’s a specialist, but in what? Is she scoring me? Rating me? Do I fit some kind of “classic deviant pattern”? Will she be able to cure me of these awful feelings I have? She seems to be fascinated, but is she really?

The darkness makes me feel so powerless, is that what she wants? Is this to admit how much I enjoy being in another person’s power? Is she making fun of me?

How are we doing on time? Can I stall her until the end of the session? Not telling her anything she doesn’t want to know? I’ll duck out on that next appointment, but she was so expensive. Will I really lose that? Damn her for making me pay up front. Why did I agree to this? She’s got me squirming in my skin. Can she see how hard she’s gotten me? Is that proper?

She’s so demanding. At times I have no idea how to respond to her questions. I simply say things that I can imagine saying these things to anyone ever. And yet, those things, those horribly embarrassing things, keep coming out of my mouth. I can’t take them back. She’s still taking notes and, hell, she might even be recording me. The times I’ve skirted the truth she seems to know. She regroups and attacks again. She seems to know me better than I know myself. She demands that I go back and answer honestly.

She knows more than I ever thought possible and guesses even more. She makes me feel cheap. Simple, as if she’s come across my type a thousand times before. I didn’t know I was a “type,” I thought I was a person. Am I just a collection of deviant behaviors? She prompts me, even when I think I’ve satisfied her curiosity. My cock is now so hard that I feel like I’m going to burst. I’m so embarrassed. She has to see how aroused I am. I find myself touching myself and, then realizing what I’m doing, I blush and stammer. I’m half tempted to take my cock out. Would she object? Does she know what she’s doing to me?

Like a child’s peek-a-boo game, it’s as if since I can’t see her, she can’t see me. I think she knows. She doesn’t say a word. I start rubbing my cock over my clothes and she continues to dispassionately question me. Boldly, I slowly undo my pants button and slide my zipper down. Still, she keeps talking as if she doesn’t notice. She has to, though, doesn’t she? I wonder, can I cum if I do this, in front of her this way?

I lower the zipper and take my underwear down, tucking it under my balls, releasing my cock. Can’t she hear the catch in my voice? How difficult it’s become for me to speak!

If she ever was touching me, she’s not doing it now. I’m all alone except for her voice. It’s a constant in the background. I’m not even sure if she’s sitting next to me anymore. She seems to be moving about the room, watching me from every angle. Each time I think I’ve pinpointed her; she’s in a different spot. I know I must be breaking so many “rules” of therapy, maybe even a few laws. But I need this. I need it. She just keeps pressing and the embarrassment is too much. It’s too exciting. Why does being humiliated turn me on so much?

Finally, I hear it in her voice; a satisfaction that I’ve broken the rules and that I’ve crossed the line. Is this what she wants? I want to make her happy. I want to do right. She knows so much about me. I want to please. The arousal and constant build-up of humiliation are all meshed together into one wonderful feeling. I feel so weak, so helpless, a slave to my passions and her will.

Will this help me in my daily life? I have no idea. Frankly, I don’t care. I have no other thoughts than pleasing her. Other than this moment, this very moment in time, the rest of the world fades to black. My hips involuntarily move as I stroke myself. There is just her voice and my cock. The one feeds the other. Will she let me continue? I worry about this as I get closer and closer to the edge.

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