Unorthodox Methods Pt. 02

I started composing the story in my head the moment I left Dr. Anna's office, a bit in a daze. Chloe, Dr. Anna's receptionist, smiled sweetly as she confirmed my next appointment, but I'm sure if I spoke to her at all my words must have been barely coherent.

Dr. Anna, my therapist, had advised me to write a story, with the suggestion I write just what happened in our first session, which is what I planned to do. For much of the bus ride home I was typing into my phone, eager to get the words down before they left my head. I didn't get to the part where Anna asked me about what I do when I masturbate; I was far from the point where she had me strip naked on her couch. But still I had to stop when my cock again stiffened in my jeans, pressing hard against the material.

I put the phone down, took deep breaths, looked out the window, tried to distract myself. When I reached my stop I realized a woman across the aisle was looking my way; whether because I was flushed and sweating or because she'd noticed something else, I didn't know. But as I shuffled past I did so with my back to her, my arousal only marginally under control.

When I got home I immediately stripped naked, opened my computer, feverishly typed my experience as a narrative, and when the version of me in the story was cumming in front of Dr. Anna, I was again cumming all over myself in my apartment, looking at the words, remembering that feeling of her watching.

Then I lay back on my couch, again wet with cum, thinking about how Anna had looked me over in this state before she'd fetched a towel for me to clean up.

I resolved that I would write the rest straight, as it happened: how she'd sat and watched me clean myself, how she'd spoken to me about what we'd done, the therapeutic benefit of it, how she'd watched me with a smirk as I struggled to squeeze my erection into my jeans before I left.

But I also wrote an alternate version, right then and there, cum slowly drying on my stomach. The idea was it would be a secret version, just for me, though even then I knew Anna would know, somehow. She'd press, and she'd get it out of me. And that thrilled me even as it embarrassed me, and I knew I'd tell her all of it.

I wrote that instead of handing me the towel she approached with it, sunk to her knees in front of the couch, and began to wipe me down. Touching me for the first time, laughing and blushing as she got cum on her hands, abandoning the towel and running her hands through the cum pooled on my stomach. When I was hard again, I wrote, Anna smiled at me, took my cock in her hand, squeezed it, ran her hand up its length, admiring it, pulling out the last drops of cum, then took me in her mouth.

I didn't last long, in the story or in the writing. I wrote that I nearly immediately came in Anna's mouth, that she gasped and gagged and worked my cock, taking a large mouthful of cum before releasing me and milking my cock with her hand as she watched more cum gush over my stomach. And as I wrote I came yet again, adding to the mess on my stomach, moaning, shuddering, then collapsing into my couch.

I was spent, I was embarrassed, I was excited. I knew I'd tell Anna about my fantasies - unlikely to end there - and feared I'd cross a line by bringing her so explicitly into them. How far would I take them? I wanted to write on, even in that moment, tapped out as I was. I was thrilled by the idea that I could write whatever I wanted. Whatever I could imagine. I could undress her, see those marvelous tits; I could touch her, taste her, fuck her. But could I face her, those images in mind? Could that possibly be of "therapeutic value" for me? Would she chastise me? Cut off our sessions?

For the moment, at least, I opted for a cold shower, and attempted to move on with my life.

It was two days later that I got a text message, from the same number I'd corresponded with to book my appointment with Dr. Anna.

Hi Sam! This is Chloe, from Dr. Anna's office. She asked me to check in with you on how your homework is going. Have you been working on what you two discussed?

My interactions with Chloe had been pleasant but brief: I'd spoken with her over the phone to book the first appointment; I'd checked in with her on arrival; confirmed my next appointment in my post-therapy daze on the way out. She was very pretty, Black with shoulder-length wavy hair, big brown eyes, smooth dark skin.

I wondered how much she knew. Did she know the nature of the "homework" Anna had given me - writing erotic stories? I found my heart was beating faster, just looking at this bland and innocent text.

I decided to keep my response vague:

Hi Chloe. I've been working on it when I've had time. I plan to do more before our next session, if I can.

She responded quickly: Great! I'm going to ask you to send over what you have when you have a chance, so she can read it before she sees you next week.

Okay, sure, I said.

Chloe sent me an email address, then followed up with, Remember, too, to take notes about your process, and how you feel as you're writing. She'll want lots of details in your next session. :)

My process, I thought. How I feel as I'm writing.

"And how much you cum," Anna had said.

I responded to Chloe with a simple thumbs up, then sat and stared blankly at my phone, at the short text chain, my heart pounding, my cock urgently hard in my sweatpants.

I felt vaguely creepy. Chloe seemed like a sweet girl. She'd said nothing to indicate she knew the details of my session with Anna, that she knew what she was obliquely referring to. I had no evidence to suggest her communications were anything but innocent.

Yet I stared at that last line: She'll want lots of details in your next session. :)

Something about the smile. I could see her, sitting behind her receptionist's desk, looking up at me. Her pretty brown eyes looking into mine. She knew. I didn't know how it was so clear to me, but it was. She knew the "homework" she asked about was writing out my sexual fantasies; she knew the "details" Anna wanted referred to when I got hard, when I touched my cock, how many times I came, how much.

Unconsciously, automatically, I pushed my pants down, kicked them off. Grabbed my cock.

I could cum immediately. But I didn't. Instead I pulled my computer over from where it sat on the coffee table. I opened a new document, started typing.

I didn't bother with the setup; not yet. If I chose I could go back and add that. Instead I started right from Chloe's real text messages, and continued a version of the conversation.

There was a quality to writing these things out. Making them happen, even in a fictional narrative. The events went from fantasy to reality, after a fashion. They felt far more real to me than they did if I just mused on them mentally.

The Chloe in my document was not the real Chloe, but she was a version of her. And that Chloe sent me another text:

Are you hard now?

Yes, I replied.

She said you might be. Are you touching it?

Yes

Good. Send me a picture?

Even as I wrote, my heart raced, as if the text had actually come through. I positioned myself on the couch, lying back naked, holding my cock. I held my phone at arm's length and took a picture.

I didn't send it. I very much wanted to. But I wrote that I did.

My version of Chloe responded almost immediately:

Mmm wow, she wrote. You have a lovely cock.

I had planned to write more. I thought maybe Chloe would call, maybe video call; she would listen, or watch, as I stroked my cock, as I came. I'd describe her face, her eyes wide, her skin flushed, staring, watching me cum.

But I didn't make it. The thought of Chloe looking at my cock was enough, and I couldn't hold it. I exploded, and I squeezed and pumped my cock as cum erupted all over myself, all over my couch. A moan pulled itself out of me and I thrust upward into my hand, sending shot after shot of cum into the air, onto my stomach.

When finally my orgasm subsided I collapsed backward, spent, covered. It took me several moments to catch my breath.

Embarrassment set in again. My certainty that Chloe had known what she was referring to evaporated like smoke. Whatever went on with Dr. Anna's "unorthodox methods," as she'd called them, Chloe was working; she was doing her job.

I thought about what I'd written. How Chloe had asked me to send along what I'd done. Would she see it? Would she read it?

The thought thrilled me, sent a tremor through me, a small aftershock of my orgasm; still more cum seeped over my hand, onto my stomach.

The thought also terrified me.

I resolved I wouldn't send this story. This fragment. It wasn't done, after all. I knew Anna would want to hear about this, and I wanted to be honest with her, wanted to share everything. She'd say it was all relevant, and I trusted her. But I resolved I would keep this part to myself, at least for now. Whatever lines I was crossing with Anna, I would leave Chloe out of it.

This therapy, I thought. It was driving me crazy.

In the end, I sent only the "straight" story: the one where I wrote what happened in my first session, and only what happened in the first session. I didn't send the variation where Anna cleaned me up, made me cum again. I didn't send what I'd written about Chloe. I sent one attachment, with a note saying it was all I was able to get down, and got a response shortly after saying only "Thank you!"

In the days leading up to my next session with Dr. Anna, I obsessed over her "methods." I wondered how they could possibly be helping. She'd told me my exhibitionism was a stand-in for my emotional unavailability: my desire to show vulnerability - emotional vulnerability included - was manifesting as a desire to be seen naked. She'd been very convincing about all that. And by exploring and acting on that physical desire, we were supposed to be getting closer to the root of those larger issues.

So far, it did not feel like we were approaching anything like emotional issues. It was all just making me obsessed with the sexual aspect of it. I felt like my cock was on a hair trigger, one stray thought from a full erection, one thought further from spontaneous orgasm. I woke in the middle of the night rock hard, sweating, images of Dr. Anna, or Chloe, or both, always looking, watching. The exhibitionism thing had been a curiosity to me before, a mild kink I looked for in stories. Now it colored nearly my every thought. This didn't feel healthy; it didn't feel therapeutic.

Still, it had been only one session. I thought of Dr. Anna's face: her eyes, her smile, the way she looked at me when she asked a question, waiting for an answer. I remembered the feeling of trust she'd instilled in me, how thoroughly I'd believed that she knew what she was doing, that she could help me. I leaned on that feeling. I decided to give her a chance, to let her process work. She never said it would be easy.

Nearing the end of the week I was almost - almost - able to distract myself, to think of other things, to just live my life as I had before.

Then Chloe sent me another text, two days before my appointment:

Hi Sam! Chloe again :). Dr. Anna asked me to request that you don't masturbate at all between now and your next session. She says that will be beneficial when you're working things out with her.

I stared at the text, rereading, not quite believing. Then she sent another, with a link:

This site has some mindfulness exercises you can do to resist temptation, if needed. I have found them helpful myself. ;)

I tried not to think too much about what she meant by that. It would make her request all the more difficult to fulfill. I tried not to think about the further implications, that Chloe had in fact known all along what she was texting about: the "process," those "details" Dr. Anna would want.

Instead I replied with another thumbs up, and closed out of the text chain, willfully looking away from the conversation.

The mindfulness exercises proved to be quite useful. They included sound clips of white noise, along with instructions for breathing, for letting my thoughts come and go, for clearing my mind. I sat back, I closed my eyes, I breathed, I relaxed. And with an effort I was able to put thoughts of Chloe and Anna and my own arousal away.

For all its sexual distraction, I really wanted to make an effort toward my therapy. I was tired of being alone, of pushing people away, wrapping myself up in my own thoughts to the detriment of any meaningful relationship I might have. I really wanted my work with Dr. Anna to help.

So, despite not understanding Anna's methods, or the purpose of this specific request, with an effort I followed her instructions.

I managed to keep myself relatively sane to wrap up the week. I went to work, I came home, I watched movies, I slept, I did mindfulness exercises when I - often - needed to.

On the bus ride back to Dr. Anna's office, a woman was seated across the center aisle from me and just off the right. She was about my age, wearing large over-ear headphones, looking at her phone. She had red hair pushed back from the headphones, her skin flecked with freckles. She looked familiar, and I kept feeling that she was looking at me, stealing glances at me over her phone. But when I looked her way, her attention was fixed on her phone. I thought I detected just the hint of a blush, a slight hidden smile.

I'd seen her before. I realized with a surge of embarrassment that she'd been seated across from me a week earlier, on the way back from my first appointment, as I'd been typing into my phone, as I'd had to stop to fight a very public arousal.

When I rose at my stop, she looked up; we made brief eye contact. Her eyes were very blue. She smiled; I blushed; she smiled deeper.

I got to the office, saw Chloe sitting behind the receptionist's desk, and immediately felt my skin grow hot, prickling with sweat. My heart raced.

She smiled sweetly at me as I approached. She was wearing a white button-down top with no sleeves, showing a bit of cleavage: just enough that I made a hard-fought and concerted effort to keep my eyes on her face as I approached to check in.

"Welcome back!" she said. "It's always good to see people coming back for more." Her smile was slightly mischievous, I thought.

"I guess I'm a glutton for punishment," I said, blushing furiously.

"Well you've come to the right place then." Her teeth were perfect white against her red lipstick. Her smile shone in her big brown eyes. "Have a seat," she said, waving to the empty row of chairs behind me. "Dr. Anna will be ready for you soon."

"Thanks," I said, and awkwardly shuffled to a seat.

I pulled my phone out, looked at it without really looking at it. Chloe kept her eyes on the computer screen in front of her, typing diligently.

"I'm sorry about the awkward text," she said after a few moments, not looking away from her monitor.

I looked up, unsure if she was talking to me, but then she looked my way just briefly, making eye contact, smiling, giggling a little.

"I hope I didn't make you uncomfortable," she said, her eyes back on her screen. "I wish I could say that was the strangest text Dr. Anna's had me send a patient, but..." she laughed again "... it's not."

"Oh," I said, blushing anew, an awkward laugh escaping my lips. "Yeah. No problem."

"Did the mindfulness exercises help?"

"Actually, yeah, they did. Thank you."

She gave me a longer look this time, smiling, with maybe just the slightest blush tinging her dark skin.

"Good," she said. "You're very welcome."

At that moment the door to the inner office opened, and Dr. Anna stepped out.

"Sam," she said, with a slight smirk. She looked from Chloe to me. "You can follow me."

"Good luck," Chloe said, smiling sweetly. I smiled back and followed Anna into her office.

"Have a seat," Anna said, gesturing to the couch. I did so, and Anna sat in her chair, facing me, watching me quietly for a moment. She wore a very similar outfit as last session: a trim blazer over a scoop-neck top, gray dress pants. Her hair was up in a loose bun, her dark eyes intent behind her thick-framed glasses.

"I'm glad you see you back," she said after a while.

I just nodded, unsure how to respond. Glad to be back?

For several moments we just sat, Anna watching me, me unsure how to proceed.

"Tell me about your week," Anna said finally.

"Okay," I said, taking a moment to get my thoughts in order. I'd known she would ask this, but still I was unprepared to answer. Anna waited patiently, her hands folded on her lap, her legs crossed, leaning back in her chair.

"To be honest," I said, "I've been a little... on edge."

"In what way?"

I took a deep breath. How much to say? I wanted to be up front with Anna - it had, overall, but kind of a rough week - but I didn't want to impugn her methods. And if I was being honest I didn't want her to change tacks now: the stress and anxiety aside, I'd been legitimately excited to return, to see what she might have planned for me.

"I've just been a little... distracted," I said.

"Please be specific," Anna said. From the way she was looking at me I got the sense she knew exactly what I was going to say.

I shifted in my seat. "Well," I said. "For one, I've been... aroused... a lot."

"I see. Moreso than before our last session?"

I nodded.

"That's not surprising," Anna said. "Let's talk about that."

"Okay," I said, slightly relieved.

"We talked about you writing when you found yourself aroused."

I nodded.

"Tell me about the process of writing the document you sent. When did you begin?"

I blushed deeper, hesitating, then finally said, "On the bus ride home."

Anna smiled. "I see. You were eager to get started."

I nodded.

"Did you become aroused on the bus?"

"Yes," I said, my face hot.

"How did that feel? Was that embarrassing? Exciting?"

I shrugged. "Both, I guess, but mostly embarrassing."

"Did anyone see you? See your arousal?"

"I don't know," I said. "There was a girl, giving me sort of a look, as I tried to... calm myself. But I couldn't tell..."

Anna just watched me, scrutinizing my tone, I thought, my demeanor.

"I actually saw her again," I said, "on the way in today."

Anna nodded, smiling slightly. "Did you speak to her?"

"No."

"Did you want to?"

I shrugged. She smiled again. I felt like she could see right into me: see my reaction to the girl's piercing blue eyes, her smile. I felt like Anna could somehow see the way my heart had leapt, just a bit, when we'd made eye contact.

For a long moment she just looked at me, reading me, I thought. Then she said, "Tell me what you did when you got home, after last session."

"Well, I sat down, and I wrote."

Anna gave me a half smile, unsatisfied, and waited for me to do better.

I blushed, hesitating, then sighed and tried again.

"I got home, undressed, lay on my couch, and... touched myself as I wrote."

She smiled, more sincerely this time. "That's better." She watched me, waiting.

I took another deep breath, and went on, providing the details I knew she was asking for.

"I was... very hard, right away," I said. "Even as I wrote the setup."

"The setup..."

"Yeah, just... you asking me questions."

"I see." She shot a glance to my lap. I shifted, trying and failing to get more comfortable as my cock stiffened in my jeans; she smiled. "Go on please."

"Okay. So I wrote what we talked about, what I sent you, and uh... when I... came, in the story, I came again, at home."

"Very good," she said. "When you were here, you had what appeared to be a very intense orgasm. There was quite a bit of cum." She smiled slightly as she said "cum," as if she enjoyed giving herself permission to use the word. "Was this second orgasm less intense?"