Therapee [Original]
Title: Therapee
Disclaimer: I own this
Rating: 18+
Warnings: language and graphic sex... in the worst way
Awards: 1st in Creep me out
Notes: This is... horrid. This still disturbs me to this day, that I actually wrote it. And no, you cannot sue me for the therapy you may need after reading it.
Her therapist wants to know if she’s ever harmed anyone.
Cori gnaws on her thumbnail, sucking idly on the metallic flavor seeping from a minor tear in the flesh. She turns a dead cedar-brown stare on him, wondering how often he sits through sessions with his cock straining against his jeans, if it was just her or all his patients. Denim only seems inappropriate when you don’t realize how terribly easy slacks can give away a boner.
Besides me? she asks.
No matter, he assures her. If it’s just herself, he won’t judge her any more than he would otherwise. Which, of course, means there are other areas he would judge her less.
He is either new to this or too preoccupied trying to climb into his patients’ pants.
The office is bare. Smooth white walls, no pictures, no hanging diplomas or certificates, one desk, no computer, a couple black pens, the faux-leather chair he’s seated in, thin brown carpeting, and one long gray couch which Cori sits. On the desk there is a thin pile of papers. They look like diplomas. No frames. No intent to display. There is one clipboard, and the therapist is holding it in his lap, laid flat, so she can see his enflamed crotch.
One time, Cori says, I took my little sister’s puppy and stuffed it in my pants. A Beanie Baby. You can’t imagine how good that bitty plastic nose feels rubbing against my clit.
Except she doesn’t have a little sister. And the puppy was actually a rabbit. James, her younger brother, always calls it FooFoo. Cori calls it Cunt-Rag IV.
Why her sister’s toy? her therapist inquires.
Because, Cori replies mildly, her sister’s cock didn’t like being called Cunt-Rag II.
The scratching of his pen grows hesitant. Is he unsettled by the idea of her ‘sister’ having a dick? Or that a 15 year-old girl is using the word cunt?
The implications of incest never occur to her.
When was the last time she showered, her therapist wonders.
No time.
But her appointment didn’t start until 3--
No time.
Cori knows she reeks of filth, sweat, and her brother’s shame. Poor James. It wasn’t his fault he was too good a boy, too naïve to resist destroying. Over time Cori has watched his pretty sugar-brown eyes dull to rain-sluiced cedar. Just like hers.
The blood under her thumbnail has clotted. She starts tearing at her index finger.
Her therapist clears his throat. Her pale, dull therapist with his thinning brown hair and eyes as dead as a floating salmon.
Usually he specializes in younger children. Cori wonders how many he’s fucked, and if he has to do it because his penis is so small that full-grown women laugh.
Kids won’t laugh. They’ll sob in pain and make him feel like a man.
Cori rests her free hand on her lower abdomen, fixating her gaze on his crotch again.
He looks down, either following her gaze or staring at his clipboard. Clears his throat again.
What is her relationship like with her sister?
Sometimes fun, Cori ponders aloud. Mostly disappointing.
Does she have sexual feelings for her sister?
Of course not, she admonishes. What she fails to add, naturally, is that she doesn’t have a sister. James is just very, very pretty.
This one time, she tells her therapist, she climbed atop her bed, placing one foot on the end board, her other knee on the mattress and, with the same skirt she has on now, rode her bedpost until she was cumming blood. Her pretty white bedpost was old; splintering. The delicate sheets the color of eggnog were gooey with mucus and red October sky.
He pauses in his writing, one eyebrow arched. Red October sky?
She likes the movie, Cori explains.
My mommy’s in jail, she informs him.
Her therapist already knows the answer, but it’s his job to pose questions. What for?
Spanking my ass with a pan. Still hot, still dripping with bubbling bacon grease. Cori still enjoys bacon with her eggs.
She knows how to keep quiet, no matter how fierce the pain. Even now she’s passing on this lucrative skill to the owner of Cunt-Rag II.
Who is Cunt-Rag I? her therapist asks.
I am, she replies. Of course. Mommy’s most endearing term.
When she climbs onto his lap he doesn’t move; doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even set aside his clipboard. She does it for him.
Call me James, she whispers, touching his hard-on through his jeans. Tell me if I’m not a good little boy you’ll tattle to Daddy, tell him I raped you.
He’s very rigid when she unzips his jeans.
Cori lifts her skirt, matted with old bloodstains, plunges down on his dick. It’s okay, she says. I’m all scar tissue.
No children to be made here.
Do I feel like a little boy? she demands. The skin all hard and wet--does my pussy feel like a little boy’s ass? How about now? she exclaims, clenching her muscles. Do I feel like a little boy now?
She places her bony hands over his face, rubbing his mouth. I want to bite off your lips, she informs him solemnly. So while I chew all you can do is give me that red-stained smile.
The chair squeals in protest as she bounces on his lap, hop-hoppity-hop, like a bunny rabbit. Her therapist doesn’t call her James. He doesn’t say anything. Just gives her that limp-fish stare, his jaw partially opened like a startled trout, his eyes bugged and filmy. Gripping the seat of the chair because it has no armrests.
Cheap bastard, she tells him in disgust. Her thighs wet and smacking against his jeans. Fucking Cunt-Rag III.
Not V? he asks.
Cunt-Rag IV happened first, she explains. But she’d named her therapist the day she met him. Two weeks ago.
Call me James, she orders.
He says nothing. Cums inside of her.
Cori climbs off him, lets her skirt fall back to her ankles.
You’re worthless, she tells her therapist. His limp cock protrudes sadly from his open fly.
See you next week, he says as she flounces out the door.
Disclaimer: I own this
Rating: 18+
Warnings: language and graphic sex... in the worst way
Awards: 1st in Creep me out
Notes: This is... horrid. This still disturbs me to this day, that I actually wrote it. And no, you cannot sue me for the therapy you may need after reading it.
Her therapist wants to know if she’s ever harmed anyone.
Cori gnaws on her thumbnail, sucking idly on the metallic flavor seeping from a minor tear in the flesh. She turns a dead cedar-brown stare on him, wondering how often he sits through sessions with his cock straining against his jeans, if it was just her or all his patients. Denim only seems inappropriate when you don’t realize how terribly easy slacks can give away a boner.
Besides me? she asks.
No matter, he assures her. If it’s just herself, he won’t judge her any more than he would otherwise. Which, of course, means there are other areas he would judge her less.
He is either new to this or too preoccupied trying to climb into his patients’ pants.
The office is bare. Smooth white walls, no pictures, no hanging diplomas or certificates, one desk, no computer, a couple black pens, the faux-leather chair he’s seated in, thin brown carpeting, and one long gray couch which Cori sits. On the desk there is a thin pile of papers. They look like diplomas. No frames. No intent to display. There is one clipboard, and the therapist is holding it in his lap, laid flat, so she can see his enflamed crotch.
One time, Cori says, I took my little sister’s puppy and stuffed it in my pants. A Beanie Baby. You can’t imagine how good that bitty plastic nose feels rubbing against my clit.
Except she doesn’t have a little sister. And the puppy was actually a rabbit. James, her younger brother, always calls it FooFoo. Cori calls it Cunt-Rag IV.
Why her sister’s toy? her therapist inquires.
Because, Cori replies mildly, her sister’s cock didn’t like being called Cunt-Rag II.
The scratching of his pen grows hesitant. Is he unsettled by the idea of her ‘sister’ having a dick? Or that a 15 year-old girl is using the word cunt?
The implications of incest never occur to her.
When was the last time she showered, her therapist wonders.
No time.
But her appointment didn’t start until 3--
No time.
Cori knows she reeks of filth, sweat, and her brother’s shame. Poor James. It wasn’t his fault he was too good a boy, too naïve to resist destroying. Over time Cori has watched his pretty sugar-brown eyes dull to rain-sluiced cedar. Just like hers.
The blood under her thumbnail has clotted. She starts tearing at her index finger.
Her therapist clears his throat. Her pale, dull therapist with his thinning brown hair and eyes as dead as a floating salmon.
Usually he specializes in younger children. Cori wonders how many he’s fucked, and if he has to do it because his penis is so small that full-grown women laugh.
Kids won’t laugh. They’ll sob in pain and make him feel like a man.
Cori rests her free hand on her lower abdomen, fixating her gaze on his crotch again.
He looks down, either following her gaze or staring at his clipboard. Clears his throat again.
What is her relationship like with her sister?
Sometimes fun, Cori ponders aloud. Mostly disappointing.
Does she have sexual feelings for her sister?
Of course not, she admonishes. What she fails to add, naturally, is that she doesn’t have a sister. James is just very, very pretty.
This one time, she tells her therapist, she climbed atop her bed, placing one foot on the end board, her other knee on the mattress and, with the same skirt she has on now, rode her bedpost until she was cumming blood. Her pretty white bedpost was old; splintering. The delicate sheets the color of eggnog were gooey with mucus and red October sky.
He pauses in his writing, one eyebrow arched. Red October sky?
She likes the movie, Cori explains.
My mommy’s in jail, she informs him.
Her therapist already knows the answer, but it’s his job to pose questions. What for?
Spanking my ass with a pan. Still hot, still dripping with bubbling bacon grease. Cori still enjoys bacon with her eggs.
She knows how to keep quiet, no matter how fierce the pain. Even now she’s passing on this lucrative skill to the owner of Cunt-Rag II.
Who is Cunt-Rag I? her therapist asks.
I am, she replies. Of course. Mommy’s most endearing term.
When she climbs onto his lap he doesn’t move; doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even set aside his clipboard. She does it for him.
Call me James, she whispers, touching his hard-on through his jeans. Tell me if I’m not a good little boy you’ll tattle to Daddy, tell him I raped you.
He’s very rigid when she unzips his jeans.
Cori lifts her skirt, matted with old bloodstains, plunges down on his dick. It’s okay, she says. I’m all scar tissue.
No children to be made here.
Do I feel like a little boy? she demands. The skin all hard and wet--does my pussy feel like a little boy’s ass? How about now? she exclaims, clenching her muscles. Do I feel like a little boy now?
She places her bony hands over his face, rubbing his mouth. I want to bite off your lips, she informs him solemnly. So while I chew all you can do is give me that red-stained smile.
The chair squeals in protest as she bounces on his lap, hop-hoppity-hop, like a bunny rabbit. Her therapist doesn’t call her James. He doesn’t say anything. Just gives her that limp-fish stare, his jaw partially opened like a startled trout, his eyes bugged and filmy. Gripping the seat of the chair because it has no armrests.
Cheap bastard, she tells him in disgust. Her thighs wet and smacking against his jeans. Fucking Cunt-Rag III.
Not V? he asks.
Cunt-Rag IV happened first, she explains. But she’d named her therapist the day she met him. Two weeks ago.
Call me James, she orders.
He says nothing. Cums inside of her.
Cori climbs off him, lets her skirt fall back to her ankles.
You’re worthless, she tells her therapist. His limp cock protrudes sadly from his open fly.
See you next week, he says as she flounces out the door.