“Drink this. The chloroform has left your throat dry.”
The voice echoes horribly and hurts my ears. My eyes won’t focus in the too bright light. Thirst is tearing at my throat like a rabid dog.
I bend my head and sip water from the cup being held to my lips. When it is withdrawn I reach for more and discover that my hands are restrained. Not just my hands. I am naked and being held upright and spread-eagled in an enormous frame. This makes no sense to me.
“Mr K, I’d strongly advise against any sudden movement of your head. Of course your head is all you can move.”
The voice is female and familiar to me, although the mocking tone is not.
“Dr. Schwer?”
I squeeze my eyes open and shut a few times and she comes into focus. It is Dr. Schwer, but not as I am used to seeing her in her bland but expensive office. There she wears softly tailored suits in earth tones and her auburn hair falls freely around her shoulders. She is the epitome of non-confrontational approachability. I see her now in a different light. The woman in front of me is a Domme incarnate.
Even as I stare at her in shock, I compulsively catalogue the changes in her. Her hair is scraped back from her face and bound into a thick glossy ponytail high on the back of her head. She wears a blood-red leather corset that pushes up her breasts without revealing her nipples. The leather looks soft and strong at the same time. A huge leather phallus curves upwards from her pubis. The detail is precise. The scale is daunting. Her boots reach to her mid thigh. The heels are steel and clearly razor sharp. She is perfect. I watch her with the same fascination and fear as if I had just found a scorpion walking up my arm.
“Why are you dressed like that Dr. Schwer?” I ask.
She slaps me with the flat of her hand.
“Wrong question Mr. K. The correct question is: why am I here Dr. Schwer?”
Her fingernails scrape down my chest. In their wake I feel lines of warm sticky pain. I am bleeding.
“Why am I here Dr.Schwer?” I ask, needing to know yet knowing I am being led.
Her heels are loud on the concrete as she circles me. Somehow I have failed to see the riding crop she carries until it slices through the air and hits me just below the buttocks.
She waits for my scream to stop echoing before she speaks again.
“Asking questions that you already know the answer to makes me angry Mr. K. I would advise against it.” Her words are spoken softly from behind me. I feel her breath upon my neck.
I want to say that she is being unfair, that she told me to ask the question, that I don’t know the answer. I want to curl up in a ball and cry.
In front of me again, she lifts my chin in her hand and places her face close to mine.
“Tell me who I am Mr. K,” she says.
“You are my therapist.”
“But that’s not how you think of me is it Mr. K? Tell me how your facile mind transforms my function.” She lets go of my chin. I hang my head. How can she know this? No one knows this.
“Tell me,” she says.
“I change ‘therapist’ to ‘the rapist’,” I say quietly.
“Very clever Mr. K. Too clever for your own good. Isn’t that what mummy always used to say?”
“Yes.”
“So why are you here Mr. K?”
The cruel smile in her eyes tells me the answer.
“Because I deserve it.”
“Very good Mr. K,” she kisses me softly on the mouth, “and I am here to give you what you deserve.”
I am afraid now, but also very calm. I have always known that this would happen one day.
“I’ve read all your stories Mr K. I know about the obsessively detailed BDSM scenes you send in to titillate the people on the list – making sure of course that their literary merit is clear. I also know about the ones you don’t submit; the ones that break the rules on age or consent or even, tut tut, species. Yet you write them anyway don’t you?”
I am shivering. I can’t tell, won’t let myself tell, whether it is with fear or excitement.
“I have all your URLs Mr. K. All those twisted images from the Internet that you devour with your eyes without ever sating your hunger.”
She lifts my limp dick with riding crop.
“But there is a problem isn’t there Mr. K?” she lets my dick drop. It swings my balls like an obscene executive desk toy, but it remains soft and useless.
She is behind me now. She rubs her corseted breasts against my back, puts her head on my shoulders, and lets her hands smear the blood from my cuts across my torso.
In a little-girl voice she says, “Daddy sometimes can’t get it up. Then Daddy gets it up but can’t get it down. Poor daddy. Never mind, nice Dr. Schwer has brought all Daddy’s friends to help.”
Then I see them, all the characters from my stories. All those wet cunts and hard cocks and carefully crafted metaphors. They are fucking in front of me. Moving slowly toward me in a rut-frenzy. They will swallow me whole.
“We are in your subconscious Mr. K and we’ve let all of the demons out of the cellar.”
Dr. Schwer holds my limp dick in one hand; with the other she spreads my arse cheeks.
“Maybe this is what you’ve been looking for,” she says.
I scream and scream as the phallus forces its way up into my guts. Just before I pass out from the pain I feel my cock swell and swell until it disgorges wave after wave of semen over the mass of bodies in front of me.
* * * * *
“Drink this. Your throat will be dry after that session.”
The voice echoes horribly and hurts my ears. My eyes won’t focus in the too bright light. My body feels stiff and abused.
Dr. Schwer is smiling at me. I focus on her smile while I wait for the fog to clear from my brain.
“Did it work Dr. Schwer?”
“We made some progress. You are very susceptible to hypnosis, but we will need more than one session before we can be certain that you are free of your addiction to pornography.”
I am secretly pleased at this. Despite the ruling by the High Court under the new “Preservation of Decency Act” requiring my rehabilitation into Responsible Citizenship, I am reluctant to give up what I think of as erotica.
“On your way out, please let my assistant know that we will need another session next week,” Dr. Schwer says.
I leave the room, happy to still have my mind intact.
I do wish Dr. Schwer would use a more comfortable chair, my arse is feeling decidedly numb.
I’m not surprised that I can’t remember the session; I expected everything to be a blank from the moment I was hypnotised to when I woke up, but something is nagging at me, some discontinuity my obsessive mind has spotted but not yet tagged. I get to my car before I realise what it is; at the start of the session Dr. Schwer’s hair was loose, at the end it was in a ponytail. How strange, why would she change her hair during a session?
Arriving home I find that, for once, I have no desire to log on to the net. I am however, looking forward to my next session with Dr. Schwer.
Copyright (c) 2001 Mike Kimera All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission.