Overture

I don't recognise the face of the girl returning my gaze in the mirror of my office. I plunge deeper against the dildo suctioned to the pane. You'd know if I hadn't practiced.

In the few weeks I'd been your therapist, I hadn't written any notes on your progress, but you'd kept a firm track of my own. The mirror didn't reflect a therapist: it showed me a drool-stained slut, her modesty betrayed by a lace bodysuit, vinyl skirt, matching choker and fishnets. No self-respecting patient would engage this for therapy.

I wipe my saliva with my wrist, only to recoil at the glossy pink lipstick that coats my skin. Is it too late to reapply? I flinch at the sound of a laptop notification.

Your client is ready now, Ayiya.

Entr'acte

My laptop closed with a satisfying motion as I stood to return the beam of my supervisor.

"We just wanted to let you know that you've passed your probation with flying colours, Ayira, and that we look forward to forging a strong relationship with a therapist like you."

I reciprocated with something convivial and collegiate, matching her saccharine, plastic energy.

"I'm sure you're relieved to move past those silly, baseless "affirmative action, DEI girly" accusations that floated around the office, but management are conscious that in the months you've worked here, you've only the company of… simpler clients. So, we thought we might assign you a more… complex client going forwards… Do you think you could handle that, Ayiya?"

I paused. "Complex? How so?"

She avoided the question, her eyes scanning my office instead of returning my glance.

"Well, client confidentiality, as even you know. Psychoanalysis has been recommended to this particular client, but every therapist has relinquished sessions… So, are you prepared to prove yourself, Ayiya?"

Cadenza

Something about your gaze unsettles me, so I busy myself by pretending to review your client file. Educated, without trying. Formidable. Intimidating. Disconcerting. For our first session, I have to begin somewhere. I glance back at you, and feel penetrated by your laser-like focus.

"Perhaps we could begin by discussing why your previous therapists didn't work out?" I ask innocuously. You smirk. "Perhaps you could begin by justifying your credentials to me".

My breath quickens and my chest swells at your impudence.

"I graduated with honours from a prestigious university. My credentials are not under the spotlight, you are."

You grin at me, lean forward, and adjust the anglepoise lamp so that the beam illuminates me.

"The spotlight is on you, now, Ayiya."Your voice drips with disdain. "I see an uncertain, confused, lost mulatta, playing pretend as a therapist, dolled up pretty to accommodate for that imposter syndrome to mask your inadequacy, incompetence."

I flinch.

"Oh?" you probe. "Too close to the mark?"

Tutting while I squirm in my pencil skirt, you continue. "Stop sweating. Sit up straight. Look at me."

I wilt under the heft of your gaze.

Coda

I drool, splutter and gag as your cock penetrates in and out of my unyielding mouth forcefully. With one hand, you grip my braid, and with the other, you hold my framed degree certificate. Carelessly throwing it back onto my desk, you slap my cheek, before picking up my graduation photo.

"Don't you look pretty, in your gown and mortarboard?"

Any attempt at speech is muffled by your forceful violations of my throat.

"I think you look prettier on your knees though. All that student debt was worth it. This was the therapy I needed" you exhale as you drown my throat and splatter my face with your seed, before cramming a few banknotes in my drenched mouth.

Breathless and ruined, I pant on the floor as the fluid and soaked paper notes drips from my lips and onto my skirt.

"Same time next week, therapist?"

Thank you for reading my little disjointed story. If you're in need of therapy (any clients welcome), or simply wish to discuss, message me anything.