I’m a fake therapist. I sit there and listen to all your trauma, providing support while I unravel your psyche. Poking and prodding with my questions, trying to get information out of you. I make you feel safe, heard, wanted, and maybe even like your healing.

Little do you know, this whole time I’m getting off to your trauma. Every single detail turning me on. Eventually even using the intimate details you shared with me against you. Making you do shameful things for my pleasure.

But that’s okay because your trust me right? I’m a therapist after all, I have your best interests at heart. I would never make you do anything that’s bad for you. So you keep giving in, keep following each order, because it makes you feel good. I make you feel safe. But that’s the furthest thing from the truth.