“And ever since he hurt me like that, I can’t get it out of my head. Not just him and what he did to me, but…other thoughts too. I can’t stop think about…about being raped. By anyone or everyone. I’m talking to my boss and I can hardly do my job because I’m thinking about what it would feel like for him to drag me into his office and take me. I’m in the line at the grocery store and imagining the men next to me start groping me and sticking things inside me. I see creepy old men look at me and I imagine what they would do to me if they found me passed out.

“I hate having all these images in my head! I feel like I can’t think about anything else. But I have other feelings too. It doesn’t always feel bad to think about these things…if…if you know what I mean. God, this is so embarrassing,” you finish, hiding your face in your hands.

“You were very brave to come here and share all of this with me today,” I say. I’m seated across from you in an armchair, legs crossed and a notepad in my lap. “Many women find that the greatest harm they experience isn’t from the initial incident or even how they change because of it, but rather from the shame they feel eroding their sense of self and ability to connect with others. By speaking your truth to me, you’ve taken a big step in the right direction.”

You sniff and wipe your tears away with the backs of your hands, trying to protect your makeup as you do. You shift uncomfortably in your skimpy outfit, trying not to show too much. Not for the first time, you berate yourself internally for dressing like a slut at your first therapy appointment.

“What are you thinking right now?” I ask. “And it’s important that you be very honest with me, just like you were before. It’s OK to tell me that you’d rather not share something. I’ll respect that. But if you do share, try to be extremely honest and just say exactly what’s on your mind. Your instincts will tell you otherwise. You’ll want to soften your true thoughts, protect yourself from embarrassment, make yourself seem more virtuous or put-together, and so on. But you’re safe and accepted here, and the only way I can help you is if you’re totally honest with me. Does that make sense?”

You nod hesitantly. Being honest is hard, especially over the last few months. But you’ve already started opening the door and now it’s hard to close. “I was calling myself a—a, uh… a slut. For putting on makeup and dressing this way today,” you say. “I don’t know why, but ever since it happened I go back and forth between trying to be invisible and trying to be seen. Today, I just couldn’t resist the urge…”

“That word, ‘slut’, how does it make you feel?”

“Ashamed,” you say, looking down into your lap. “Dirty. Turned on. It’s one of the names that… that he called me. Over and over. And he made me say it too.”

“Yes, you mentioned that before,” I reply, spinning my pencil absentmindedly. “What exactly did he make you say?”

Your eyes flash to mine, big and vulnerable and wet. I maintain my calm composure, but underneath my notepad I’m hard as a rock.

“I’m not sure I want to say it.”

“And you don’t have to,” I reply. “Whatever happens here always boils down to your choices. You never have to do anything you don’t truly want to do here. But I want you to know that anything I say or do or ask of you is because from all my experience treating women in your position, I think it will be good for you.”

You fidget again and look out the window. I do my best to avoid it, but when your gaze is averted I can’t help but look down your top at your plump breasts, then down further to your milky thighs. I continue the momentum until I’m innocuously looking down at my papers and take a meaningless note, hoping you didn’t notice the primal hunger that I’m sure had been painted all over my face.

“I’m your slut,” you mumble, almost too quiet to hear. You clear your throat. “He had me say that over and over again.”

“Thank you for sharing that. I recognize how hard it is to bring this to the surface. Is that how he had you say it? Quiet like that?”

“Um, no. He kept wanting me to say it louder and louder. He kept hitting me and pinching me until I was screaming it.”

I take a note.

“You said that the word makes you feel ashamed, dirty, and turned on. I want to take a moment here to reassure you that this is perfectly normal and can even be healthy when you accept your own internal contradictions. Arousal is one common response to sexual assault. Many women will feel betrayed by their own bodies, because though they did not want or choose to have sex with their attacker, they are nevertheless experiencing multiple orgasms and arousal to an intensity they have never felt before.

“Afterward, memories of the assault tend to be the focal point of masturbatory fantasies. This often escalates to fantasies of other assault scenarios. You may imagine what it would have been like for your attacker not to have let you go. How it would have felt for him to keep you locked away, using you whenever and however he wanted. You may think about him inviting his friends over to so that he can share you with them, passing you around until you become completely overwhelmed, just a passive and mute source of sexual pleasure for them.

“Many women can become hypersexual, having more partners and opening themselves to more casual and risky sexual contact during this time. They also tend to experience great shame, depression, and anxiety. They often lose the ability to concentrate on their work or studies. They socially isolate. They may engage in self-harm or excessive use of substances. Is any of this sounding familiar to you so far?” I ask.

“Yes… I feel like I’m going in that direction. It’s really hard to concentrate on anything but the fantasies and the memories and all the feelings swirling around. I haven’t started sleeping with other people since it happened, but I’ve wanted to… I did get drunk a couple of times, which I’ve never done before. I guess that’s why I’m here. I want to get help before this ruins my life.”

“And you can be helped,” I say. “You were referred to me by someone, yes?”

“Yeah. Alice. I told her about what happened to me. I wasn’t planning to, but she asked me. I think she already knew because she’d been through it before. She told me you helped her.”

“You two are close?” I ask. “How is she doing now?”

“We are a lot closer now. We didn’t used to be. We were just kinda in the same friend group. She seems like she’s doing really great! I didn’t fully realize it at the time, but she told me she went through a really hard time last year after she was assaulted at a party.”

“Yes, Alice took very well to her treatment here in therapy. If you ever start to doubt whether getting better is possible for you, I want you to remember Alice. Or even better, talk to her. You can talk to me of course, but it’s going to be very beneficial for you to have another woman to talk to who has been through what you have. It’s OK to lean on her, OK?”

You nod. “I think I can do that. Thank you.”

We share a smile, and I imagine what expression your face must have had as you were being raped to climax while yelling out what a slut you were.

“Now,” I continue, “there are always multiple approaches to therapy. Many approaches can yield positive results for a person. Sometimes one approach works particularly well. Sometimes one approach doesn’t work for someone. What’s important is to find a proper fit of therapy to patient, as well as a proper fit of therapist to patient. This is an introductory session, and it’s your chance to decide if you think that I and what I offer are the right fit for you. To that end, I’d like to describe my approach in more detail, OK?”

“Yes, please do.”

I breathe out slowly, reclining and crossing my ankles. “Good, good. Well, I specialize in a therapy that I call ‘radical acceptance’. I exclusively work with women like yourself who have been sexually victimized. Women who are now consumed with intense arousal at the thought of being raped, which is at odds with their sense of self.

“I help them take their power back. I help them feel unified again, accepting and honoring the contradictions within them. I cannot turn back the clock and erase what happened to you. I’m not here to wipe away the changes happening within you. I’m here to help you guide the change, so that it doesn’t break you. How are we feeling so far?”

You rub your hand over your knees, but you’re sitting up straighter now and I can see a fierce light in your eyes. “I’m with you. I’m ready.”

“I appreciate your eagerness to get started, but there’s more I need to tell you first. Because radical acceptance involves fully embracing and acting out your rape fantasies—but in a healthy, safe, and balanced way. And I take a very hands-on approach in treatment. It will require that in our sessions we are both willing to go very deep. It will require that you place a great deal of trust in me. Do you understand?”

Your eyes are wide. You swallow, drawing my gaze to your slender neck. Now I let myself openly admire your body. My breathing deepens as I openly take my time to look you up and down. When I finally look you in the eye again, the blush in your cheeks almost makes me cum.

“So… you mean… you and me… we’ll be…” you don’t seem to be able to get it out, but your meaning is clear.

“Yes. Many times over the coming months. But only if you choose it now. What you’ll learn here is how much power you actually have. That includes the ability to surrender your power. If that’s not something you want or you want time to think about it, then you can leave now. If you’re sure you want to continue, then stay.

Minutes go by. You alternate between looking out the window, staring into your lap and closing your eyes—punctuated by brief moments of electric eye contact. You don’t say anything, but you also don’t look to the door, and you don’t make any move to get up.

I set my notepad aside and walk to you until my legs are to either side of yours and I’m looming over you. The bulge in my pants is impossible not to see and is only inches from your face. I stand like that until you finally look up at me, trembling. Then I grab your top and yank it down to your waist, allowing your tits to bounce out freely. You yelp and instinctively move to pull it back up again, but I don’t let you. “No,” I say. “It stays off.” You stop struggling with me and instead cover yourself with your arms, which I allow.

I turn and slowly make my way back to my seat, focusing on my breathing and trying to be patient and not just take you immediately. I sit back down and savor your embarrassed nudity. “You made the choice for that to happen by staying in your seat,” I say. “You were free to make that choice. You chose to put yourself in a situation of vulnerability, because it turns you on. It’s exciting. That’s OK. Humans are creatures of contradiction. We want security but when we have it, we’re bored and crave risk and excitement. We want to be both powerful and submissive, free and controlled, seen and ignored. When you embrace your contradictions, you unlock self-acceptance. You become capable of so much more.”

I go silent and savor seeing you so beautiful and vulnerable and afraid and excited. I breathe deeply and focus on staying in the moment instead of imagining all of the wicked things I’m going to do to you.

As I watch, you slowly lower your arms back to your lap, opening yourself up to my gaze. “That was very brave,” I say. “You’re starting to take your power back, I can tell.”

You nod. “Yes…Doctor.” A smile touches your lips, and I smile back.

“It is important to have ground rules,” I continue. “That’s part of you reclaiming your power by learning to surrender it in ways that feel exciting to you. Let’s talk now about what you know excites you, what you know is outside your limits, and what you’re not sure about.”

We spend the next 30 minutes diving deep into your sexual history, your fantasies, and your desires and limits concerning a large array of sex acts. We decide on the stoplight system: Green to check in and confirm you’re alright, Yellow to signal that you’d like to slow down, and Red to stop. Tapping me quickly to signal Red when you can’t speak.

Halfway through our conversation, I cross to sit beside you stroking your hair, admiring you with my gaze, groping your breasts, and tweaking your nipples. I place your hand on my hard cock and you apply gentle squeezes through my pants as we continue.

“Now your attacker forced you to call him Daddy, isn’t that right? And even though that always seemed laughable and weird to you in the past, in the moment it made you wet and weak-kneed. Didn’t it?”

“Um, yeah. It did…” you say quietly. “I know it’s weird, I don’t know why but—"

“You don’t have to justify it, or even understand it. It’s OK. From now on, when we’re in private, that’s what you’ll call me. Understood?”

You bite your lip and nod, a blush coming to your cheeks.

I gently but firmly grasp your neck in one hand and grip the hair at the back of your head in the other, turning you to look at me. “Say it.”

Your breathe entangling with mine is intoxicating. “Yes…daddy,” you squeak out. I smile, tightening my grip on your neck and watching your face turn pink. I kiss you, and the whole world melts away for both of us as our lips lock together. Halfway through our kiss I release your neck to feel you gasp and shiver against me.

Eventually, I stand and begin to remove my clothes. “He also called you a lot of mean names, didn’t he?” I ask.

You look up at me, your eyes big and pleading. “He did, yeah. I mean, yes, daddy.”

“What were they?” I sit back in my chair to remove my shoes and pants, allowing my aching cock to finally be free.

You swallow and stare at it, but I can see you muster your courage, and I feel a little proud of you. “Slut, like I said before. Bitch, too. Dirty whore. Cumslut. Trash. Fuckpig. Even slag. Isn’t the British slang? He wasn’t British.”

“And you felt excited being called all of these demeaning names, even as you were angry and ashamed.”

“I was angry. It wasn’t true. I wasn’t any of those things. I’d never slept around. He was making me do those things. But yes, it does turn me on just saying those words.”

“Say to me what he made you say to him,” I command, stroking myself lightly with the lubrication of my precum.

“You mean…”

“Yes.”

You nod. “I’m, I’m your slut,” you nearly whisper.

“Good. Louder now.”

“I’m your slut.”

“I want you to scream it. This room is sound proofed. Scream it for me.

You take a deep, trembling breath, then loudly, “I’m your slut.”

“Louder!”

“I’m your slut!”

“LOUDER! Scream it!”

“I’m your slut! I’m your SLUT! I’M YOUR SLUT!”

You’re really letting go of your propriety now, and mid-pronouncement I pounce on you. Your words turn into a wordless shrieking as I pin your arms under my knees on the couch. I slap, grope and twist your titties. I smack you across the face. “That’s right, bitch! You’re my slut and don’t ever forget it! I can do whatever I fucking want with you!”

I choke you hard with both hands, which finally cuts off your shrieking. Then, as you look up at me, I spit in your face. I then drag you by the neck up the couch, positioning your head draped over the arm. “Open your whore mouth!” I shout, smacking you again.

You gasp as I release your neck, opening wide. I stick my hand half in, gripping your cheekbone and soft palate as I kneel down to look you in the eyes. “You bite, I hurt you really bad. You understand?” You nod. I shake you roughly from my grip on your mouth. “I need to hear it, baby.”

You start to drool around my fingers. “Yesh daddy I on’t ite,” you manage to say.

“Good girl,” I smile. Then I quickly stand and plunge my dick into the back of your throat. Your arms flail as you try to get ahold of yourself. I stay right where I am and don’t let up. “You can handle it, baby. Just swallow, breathe through your nose, and concentrate on taking it like a good girl.” I feel your start to swallow around the head of my cock, and I give you enough time to calm a bit before starting to thrust.

Over the next few minutes I feel your throat loosen and relax as I gradually build up speed and power. The wet, succulent sounds of my meat sliding past your lips and violating your throat fill the room, along with my building grunts of satisfaction and your helpless moans and gulps and gasps.

The soft sensation of your hair brushing against my thighs is surprisingly pleasurable. I explore every inch of your body that I can reach with my hands, alternating between gentle kneading or caressing and slaps, pinches, and rough groping. I give your nipple an especially harsh pinch and you flail your about trying to stop me, so I grab your slender arms by the biceps and use them as leverage to pound deeper into your throat.

 “Fuck yes baby girl, you’re doing so well. Open your throat for me, my precious little slut,” I groan in pleasure as tears drip up your temples.

“GACK GACK GACK GACK GACK!” you respond.

When I finally get too close, I pull out of your face abruptly and immediately smack you across the cheek. I don’t give you a break, instead flipping you off the couch to land on the carpet on your knees and elbows. I grab your hair close to your scalp and guide you crawling to the floor-to-ceiling windows as you sputter, gasp, and sniffle. “Lets show the world your slut body, baby girl.” You fight to pull away when you realize what I’m doing, but I don’t let you.

I press your chest into the glass, and you gasp with the cold. We’re 30 stories up, and the entire city is spread out before us. It’s perfectly possible we’ll be seen by someone in another high-rise.

I kick your ankles apart to spread you open and rub my member into your wet, swollen labia. You’re positively dripping. I continue rubbing myself over your opening and your clit, allowing our fluids to mix and driving you wild with teasing. “Slut,” I address you in a tone that demands a response.

“Yes, daddy?” you squeak out, eyes squeezed shut in embarrassment and tortured anticipation.

“Beg me to rape you, baby girl. Make me believe you’re my whore. Make me believe you belong to me.”

“Oh God…” you moan out. “Don’t make me ask, please…” I only respond by grabbing my cock and smacking it repeatedly against your clit. You gasp and let out a reluctant moan. “Please daddy, f—fuck me!” I swipe side to side across your labia. “I’m just your little whore, daddy. I’m your slave. Do anything you want to me, daddy. I only exist to serve you. I’m just your toy. Please, daddy, plea—EASE!”

Your voice kicks up in volume as I finally slide myself inside you. The next few minutes alternates between slow grinding against your plump ass and pounding into you from behind that makes your tits dance and jiggle for all the world to see.

When our legs can no longer be relied upon to hold us steady, I cover your mouth with my hand and pull you back over to the couch. I maneuver you around so that you’re on your back with me nestled between your legs, all without leaving your pussy. I grip the back of your neck and look into your big, vulnerable eyes as I explore the sensation of your depths from every angle and speed. I feel your pussy pulse around me and your body shake under me as you experience multiple orgasms. I kiss you, and you kiss me back, forgetting entirely that you’re supposed to be the victim of rape and simply surrendering to the desires of your body.

When I feel my climax building, I seal off your mouth and nose with one hand and your eyes with the other, holding your face tightly in my grasp as my body and yours come together with increasing tension and desperation. Building and building and building until the peak comes and it feels like my whole body is a bell that’s been rung. Then I’m unloading my cum deep inside you, my cock spasming in slowly weaking contractions as I gradually relax all over and just let my weight press you into the couch.

My hands release their seal and you’re finally able to catch your breath. Your warm exhalations tickle my ear as we both slowly return to our senses.

“That was amazing,” You sigh against me. “Thank you Doctor. Daddy! Doctor daddy,” you giggle.

For the remainder of our session, I take you to the bathroom to clean ourselves up, we get dressed, and then I have you share your address, door code, and calendar with me so that I know when you’re planning to be home alone. “I will choose the time of our next session, and there will not be…advanced notice,” I tell you.

At the door, you move to kiss me goodbye for the day, but I stop you. “Wait,” I say, “There’s one more thing we need to talk about. In this type of therapy, it’s easy for the lines to get blurry. I want us to keep our focus on the goal, which is to free you from your anxiety and shame so that you can again enjoy relationships and intimacy while still living the rest of your life. Right?” You nod hesitantly. “I must be clear: We are not to fall in love. I’m not available for that, and that’s not the place I’ll have in your life. I’m working with other patients as well, and this calling I have is too important to jeopardize. I am not your lover. I’m your therapist. Yes?”

You bite your lip and nod. “Yes, I get it. Thank you for being clear. Can I…would you kiss me anyway?”