The Therapist

"Umm."

"Tell the truth."

"Daily. Sometimes more."

"A little tug monkey, are we? Did you jerk off today?"

"Yes." Jeremy somehow felt shorter standing before her and under this barrage of questions than he had when on his knees.

"You look ready to again."

"Oh shit. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. It's natural. Let me see."

Jeremy paused.

"Oh for fuck's sake, Jeremy, take you dick out. Don't worry, I already know your not hung like a stallion, not that it matters to me one bit."

Jeremy unzipped.

"Cute. And boxers. That's a surprise. I expected panties. All in good time, I guess. How do you do it? What's your technique? Swirl or pump? Yank it like your trying to uproot a weed? Or hump. That's it, isn't it? You're a pillow humper."

"How did you know...?"

"Jeremy. I do this for a living. I have literally fucked with the heads of hundreds of boys like you. And you know what, they're all happier right now than you are, and soon you will be too, but you better answer my questions."

"Sometimes I jerk it but I like to hump a pillow best. Sometimes I wear panties and pantyhose."

"Of course. Constriction. Softness. To you, it feels better than penetration. It's how a lot of girls masturbate, by the way. Ever humped a woman's leg while she was wearing stockings? No, of course you haven't. You've thought of it but been too shy to ask. Total subbie. I really am good. It's amazing, really. Okay, we're done until Thursday. And don't touch your cock until then and, yes, I'll be able to tell."

Jeremy made his way into the bedroom where he stripped down then walked into the bathroom to turn on the shower. After what had happened that afternoon with the client, he felt sore and stretched out but he'd long ago been made to understand the necessity of riding a toy in the morning and at night regardless of what else had happened that day. A massive dildo, suction-cupped to the inside of the shower stall, waited for him. He slipped under the showerhead, soaped up, took some lube from the dispenser and stroked it over the shaft. In his second session with Dr. Artemis, for which she was fully dressed, she'd had him hump a pillow to completion before her with one finger in his ass. Afterwards, he'd felt embarrassed and she said that was because the behavior was in conflict with his nature. It had taken awhile for him to understand, but what it had meant was that Jeremy hadn't had a "normal" orgasm since. Instead, she'd taught him to milk his prostate which had the benefits of being healthy, and making it nearly impossible for him to ejaculate, while relieving some pressure but also keeping him in a more compliant head space. Plus, there was the fact that he'd learned to love it. A fact predicted by the doctor and one that made him quiver with anticipation as he turned to press against the dildo. Twelve inches slid into him in one smooth stroke and he rode it until the water turned cold.

Patting himself dry, he applied the lotion Dr. Artemis had selected for him. Since she'd hired him, she'd had him wax himself from the neck down and, in the mirror, he was smooth and pale and slightly androgynous aside from the one dead giveaway. Alpha males, she'd assured him, were never fully hairless. By staying this way, he'd not get confused and should he make the mistake of trying to mislead a woman into thinking he was anything other than a beta boy, once she saw him undressed she'd sense the truth. Even without her reasons, Jeremy had learned to love being smooth, it felt nice against the slipped on a chemise and panties he slipped on before making his way to the kitchen for a glass of wine.

Jeremy wasn't entirely sure when his relationship to Dr. Artemis changed. Based on the waiting room, she had no shortage of men like him, all unfailingly polite with averted eyes and expert ability to feign ignorance at the noises that came from behind her door. There was no receptionist, in fact no one associated with the practice. Were anyone to poke their head in, they would have seen a version of every therapist's office with the old magazines and unremarkable artwork on the walls. Only if they stayed would they hear the odd slap, moan or sniffle. And if they'd still been there when she opened the door then, well, they became a client. Dr. Artemis, Jeremy had decided, didn't just teach and support and encourage submissives, she also made them. There wasn't a single person he'd ever seen in her presence who didn't eventually come under her spell. It was, for that reason, that he couldn't quite fathom why she'd chosen him. All he knew was that one night she'd called him up and told him to meet her for a movie. After the lights dimmed, she'd placed her hand on his thigh. When he tried to take her hand, she pushed his away, then went back to gripping his thigh, tighter this time. Halfway through, she'd wrapped her long fingers around his erection and whispered in his ear that it belonged to her. Needless to say, he had no idea what had happened in the movie. Afterwards, she'd taken him to her apartment, stripped him down and instructed him to spoon her from behind and kiss her neck while she used a vibrator. Somewhere after midnight, she'd told him to dress, given him money for a cab, allowed him to kiss her feet, and sent him on his way.

Two days later, she called him to tell him to quit his job, and that she was hiring him as her receptionist and assistant. He forgot to ask about the salary, but it turned out to be more than he was making, which ended up being useful when she introduced him to Samantha.

4

"Why doesn't she have to pay?"

The whiner taking umbrage at her free coffee and bagel, a frumpy-looking businessman, had been in line behind Diana. He was one of those types determined to set the world straight. She'd bent more men like him over her desk than she could remember, but she didn't have time this morning, nor did she have the appropriate equipment on hand, so she did the next best thing, which was to stare him down until he muttered an apology, then whisper in his ear that he was going to get out of line, and run to the men's room to masturbate, but he would cum before he made it. As she said it, she stepped aside as he bolted for the men's room to halt on shaking knees and fall against the wall.

She shrugged at the cashier, who laughed. A slightly built and adorable man barely out of his teenage years, he'd given her no trouble and brought flowers to his every session. He could also only barely pay his rent, she'd identified him when he was waiting tables one night and taken him on pro-bono. His problems were relatively pedestrian ones regarding gender expression and it had taken her less than a month to help him go from pretending to like fantasy football to performing as a drag queen under the name Delilah Hotpants and another income stream allowing him to pay a small fee for his sessions, although what he really wanted was to learn her trick to make men cum on command. It wasn't happening. "With great power," she'd said, quoting Spiderman, "comes great responsibility. And you cannot be trusted with that power."

"That is so true. I'd turn every man I know into one of those fountains outside the Bellagio. But still..."

His pestering was more amusing and annoying so she put up with it; he'd been instrumental in helping her with Samantha and the other girls plus, she got free bagels out of the deal.

At precisely 9 a.m., Diana opened the door to her office. Samantha stood next to her office door holding her coffee, which was better than anything available in the neighborhood.

"Shoulders farther back."

Samantha adjusted her posture. In doing so, making her chest balloon out even more noticeably, and handed Diana her coffee.

"Lift," she said, bending over slightly to inspect Samantha's legs and thighs. They were smooth and flawless. The light spray tan helped a lot. As did the baby oil and lotion. Her cock was tucked out of sight as expected, the front of her panties smooth and feminine. Platform heels, of course. Diana pulled the pale pink skirt down and back into place, grazing a finger over her white satin blouse, feeling the armature of a corset pulling her waist into a commendable thirty inches. She undid a top button on the blouse to let even more cleavage spill out. The boobs were a clever silicone vest that only under the closest inspection could be seen as fake; the client they would be used on today wouldn't get close enough to notice. All he'd see was cleavage and blonde hair and long fake nails and lashes. Huge hoop earrings. Heavy bangle jewelry Delilah had recommended to shrink the appearance of masculine hands. Colored contact lenses gave her eyes an almost doll-like appearance.

"Get any better and we might need to make this permanent. Do I want you to pour a glass of water from the special pitcher in the fridge and make sure my 9:30 drinks it. Got it?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good girl. Now bend over."

Samantha gripped her desk, wincing in anticipation as Dr. Diana Artemis lifted her skirt and gave both cheeks several hard slaps. She knew the reason; it would make her walk and sit gingerly and even more feminine, but it still hurt.

"Your clit is leaking. Don't stain your skirt. Did you not milk this morning?"

"I did, ma'am."

"Hmm. Slut." She pulled Samantha upright and kissed her lightly on the cheek. Only when dressed as Samantha did Diana kiss Jeremy and somewhere inside of Samantha he melted. "Now get to work."

"Yes, ma'am. Ma'am?"

"Yes?"'

"You look especially beautiful this morning."

"Thank you sweetie. You look good enough to eat with a spoon. Now go to work."

Samantha/Jeremy dipped her head a bit and tottered off to the refrigerator.

A half hour late, Roland T. Klamson banged into the office as a vision of chest hair and gold necklaces in a tracksuit to loom over Samantha's desk and stare down her cleavage.

'God-fucking-damnit. If I'd known this place was a fucking Hooters I'd-a been on time. Do you charge by the minute or the hour? Can I get fries with that milkshake. Baby like, mommy, sucky-sucky."

Samantha smiled wanly. She'd done this routine before but even knowing what would happen she wanted to throw the glass of water in Klamson's face. Instead, she offered it with the promise that the doctor would see him shortly.

Roland took the glass without removing his gaze from her chest.

Nervously, Samantha pushed a strand of hair out of the way, then made a modest adjustment to her bra.

"Touch 'em. C'mon, doll. Nobody's watching. I won't tell your boss."

Samantha slid her hands over her breasts and lifted them slightly.

"Yeah. Goddamn." He moved the glass closer to his lips. "What do you say I skip this appointment and we go find us a room?"

By way of answer, Samantha undid another button on her blouse. That did the trick. Roland took a deep sip from the glass, and paused.

"Goddamn, that is some good goddamn water. Is this that smart water shit?" He drank again, then drained it. "I got it. Let's slip down to the men's room. I'll give you something to drink." In case she was unclear of his intentions, Roland grabbed his crotch, keeping his hand in place when Dr. Artemis's door opened.

"Mr. Klamson," she said, eyeing the empty glass, "so glad you could join us."

"If it's all the same to you, I'm gonna skip out on this whole chit-chat. I may have found someone right here who'll be fun to talk to though so I'll take her to breakfast and we can call it a compromise. Nobody the wiser." With the hand that wasn't grabbing his crotch, he touched a finger to his nose, then slowly eyed Dr. Artemis from head to toe. "Or maybe you could join in the fun?"

"Ten thousand dollars, Mr. Klamson, that's what you're costing yourself if you walk out that door."

"Right, right." To Samantha: "Listen, doll, in a few minutes I'm gonna be a rich man and then I'll take you out for waffles."

Waffles, thought Samantha, watching the door close. She'd done all this work and all she could get was an offer to give a blowjob followed up by some waffles? She took out her compact to check her lipstick. Through the door, she heard Roland say he felt dizzy.

Roland T. Klamson, she thought, checking her eye makeup. She recognized him from TV where some show had crowned the biggest misogynist in America. Samantha was pretty sure there were worse ones, though he'd been a major ass from the tape she'd seen. To answer his claim that his way was natural and right and no woman could change him, the show had offered him ten thousand dollars to spend an hour in therapy with an unspecified therapist who, of course, turned out to be Dr. Artemis, who had treated the show's host for five years.

By now, the drink, laced with muscle relaxants and a mild psychotropic would be working him into a state of extreme receptivity.

Dr. Artemis opened the door.

"He's out."

Samantha peeked inside. Roland lay sprawled across the couch. A virtual reality headset strapped over his head. His mind in an utterly receptive state, it was being slowly reprogrammed to find disgust at his masculine habits and attitudes. The theory, as best she understood it, was that such behaviors existed to cover up insecurities. It was all a big act. And this would help him stop it. Samantha had only seen Dr. Artemis use it once before, on a similarly extreme case. It was, technically, maybe unethical, but also for the best. He'd be so much easier to deal with rather soon.

"How long?"

"An hour should do it. The longer the better, though. I bet there's a submissive little boy in there just aching to be set free."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Are you wearing that perfume I bought you?'

"Yes, ma'am."

Dr. Artemis looked at Samantha-Jeremy. "Let's get out of here."

"What about him?"

"Like I said, the longer the better."

"Yes, ma'am. Ma'am?"

"Yes?"

"Where are we going?"

"Wherever I lead."

Jeremy flushed at the words. He knew he shouldn't but he took her hand without requesting permission and gave it a kiss.

"Bad girl," said Dr. Artemis, without malice and guiding her to the door. "Looks like you have more to learn."