[F4A] You need therapy {toxic sadism, corruption, powerplay}
The prompt is written M/f because of expected reader demographics, but I'm very open to an F/f variant, or just other women who want to discuss M/f. <3
Maybe it's court-ordered, or mandated by your college or workplace, or just your girlfriend's condition for not ending the relationship after the latest time you cheated, hit her, ignored her "no, stop".
Whatever your path, you're here now. Past the waiting room, as pristine and sterile as a dentist's office. Past the receptionist, pretty enough that every client assumes she's working here part time until her modelling career really takes off. Pretty enough that her curt dismissiveness isn't the least bit surprising. My office is different. The lead-in is designed to prime you for medicine, to be dissected and put back together again, cured. Once you're in front of me, though, it's time to come down, into comfort and security. Wood panelling and plush carpets soften sound. Warm lighting and dark colours invite calm and sensitivity.
The pine green leather of your seat is worn and soft, letting you sink into the padding while still being firm enough not to become soporific. The latter aspect is particularly important given its form: halfway between an armchair and a sofa, low and sloping. On the surface it's a less intense take on the classic psychoanalyst's couch, but there's another effect I'm going for.
My own chair is raised behind my enormous desk, leaving me towering over whoever sits in the patients' chair like a queen on my throne. If I was pressed on it, I'd say I'm trying to evoke natural authority - memories of looking up at a parent. Somewhat of a clash with my usual egalitarian, humanist practice, but there has to be a limit to that branch of hippie absolutism - all my many years of studying and training should be listened to. If I'm really honest with myself, though, there's more to it. I like looking down on the patients, knowing they're gazing up at me like I'm a prophet in the pulpit. It's fine, a little indulgence, it's hardly mind control, just a psychological trick I use for their own good.
Just like the arrangement of my desk, its huge polished surface empty aside from my laptop, your fresh patient file filled with blank forms and pages, an extra notebook, and a neat row of pens. Creating an impression, just like everything else: she can make my mind tidy, organised. I like to think of it like a surgeon washing their hands. Instead, I'm sanitising the patient's mind, your mind, getting you ready to open its inner recesses without contamination or infection.
That's particularly important today, with you. Two therapists have already passed on you after one session: a young prodigy and a cynical veteran. I was reading their reports on my laptop as I waited for you to come in. They don't paint a pretty picture. According to them, therapy can do nothing for you because you have no interest in being helped. All our sessions can do is give you more tools with which to abuse and manipulate those around you. The only thing that will stop your toxic, narcissistic cruelty is jail time. Pessimists.
Therapy is for everyone. If you don't know you need help, the first step is showing you. If not for your sake, then for the people you're going to hurt, are already hurting. The challenge of this case is exactly why I accepted you. My diplomas, certificates and awards are splayed out on the wall behind me like angels' wings, a manifested aura of my competency. It's been a while since the collection grew. I've settled into a comfortable, boring pattern of the same traumas and disorders. If, when, I rehabilitate you, I'll have a foot in the door with both the doctors who failed, I'll have a story to dine out on at conventions, a case to guest-present on at Universities. Thinking of the future, I steady my nerves and look up at you.
You're confronted with the last piece of my perfectly curated lair of psychiatric medicine. Myself. Pretty, but less intensely stunning than Jane on reception, and older, blunting the effect by contrast. Going further, I've made myself up more plain and drab, dressed older. Studies have shown that heterosexual men feel the need to diminish their problems with attractive female doctors, and women can become competitive and standoffish. It's a key tool in my arsenal, the ability to go from turning heads at bars to looking unremarkably professional in my office.
Which is why a little chill runs down my spine when you don't look back like a client at his matronly therapist, but a predator sizing up his prey.
Six weeks later
Per our original engagement, I should be waiting for your sixth session. Instead, we've had a few dozen, often requiring me to cancel on other patients last minute when you text my personal number, telling me you'll be at my office in an hour. At the end of each, I pull $240 from my purse and hand it to you - you still need to pay on the books, but actually taking your money would be ridiculous. You've joked that I now fulfil the same function as an ATM. A few times you've returned a couple bills, stuffing them in my mouth - I can't tell if you think it's a legitimate reward, or you just like making me feel like a whore.
It's a feeling that matches the wardrobe I now keep in a new filing cabinet in the corner. Lingerie, in flavours of eye-wateringly expensive and sickeningly cheap. Stockings, bodysuits, chokers, fishnet in every conceivable form. Gimp hoods in three different colours. A plethora of gags with diverse functions I couldn't even have imagined two months ago. There's a second cabinet for the heels, ranging from elegant stilettos to towering stripper boots, all tall enough to make my ankles ache, not that I do much walking in them.
Most days, I can get away with doing myself up in makeup fit for a club dancefloor, not a therapists' office and putting on some lingerie, hidden under my usual clothing, in case you drop by really suddenly. There have been questioning looks from a few clients, the receptionist has made a couple of comments, but otherwise it's been okay. Except on the two days where I woke up to texts saying you were coming for a 'session' first thing. I had to skip breakfast, race to the office to beat all the building's other occupants, so that no one would see me tottering in on neon pink pleasers, one hand tugging up the hems of my fishnet stockings, the other tugging down the hem of my vinyl miniskirt so that my waxed-bald cunt, bared by my crotchless thong, wasn't exposed to every hungry eye.
Of course, there's more than just clothes in the filing cabinets. At the end of the day, I've learned that there's no better way to stop myself losing my lunch every time you fuck my throat than regular sessions pounding the gag reflex out of myself with an oversized dildo. There's no better way to stop myself clawing furrows into my desk when you fuck my ass than regular training in that department, too. It's not just my holes, either: maintaining my reading for my professional development has become a lot harder with the squat regimen you've got me on.
Naturally, the toys aren't just for prep. Of the horrifyingly little I really know about you, at least I'm confident that there's little you love more than jeering and mocking your therapist slut as she plants a suction cup on her desk and swallows the attached length of silicone over and over at great speed until the table top's left a bruise on her nose tip. And of course, when you have me take down one of my diplomas at the end of a session and beg you to splatter your load on the reverse of the frame before I hang it back on the wall, you're particularly delighted to hear the begging in between breathless panting as I bounce up and down on a mould of your unfairly huge dick. I've bought three reed diffusers to mask the scent of stale spunk that I can't tell if I'm imagining.
For some of our sessions, I'm under my own desk, mouth gargling and poping on your cock while you flick through other patients' files and laugh at their pathetic problems. Last week I forgot to clean the puddle of thick drool off my chair in my haste to get back into respectable clothes before my next client arrived, and spent an hour trying desperately not to move too much so she wouldn't hear the sickening squelching of the leather I'd coated in throatslime while you mocked her trauma.
Other days, you want 'therapy', perverting my profession, reclining in the patients' chair, sipping the whisky I keep in my desk for you, complaining about all the stuck-up rapebait cunts and useless cuck morons that you encounter in your day-to-day. Obviously my mouth needs to be unencumbered, to validate all your complaints and suggest ways to manipulate your victims and rivals, so I wrap my hands around my ankles and bounce my cunt up and down your cock till I'm a sweaty, breathless mess and my legs give out.
A few times, you've had me try to really therapize you. Try being the operative word, given the impossibility of making any kind of breakthrough with a client who repeats your suggestions with the warbling cadence of a schoolyard bully, and responds to any pushback on his toxic ranting with vicious verbal abuse. Of course, even a perfectly cooperative client would be challenging when I'm required to bounce my tits hard enough to make the chain connecting the clamps on my nipples hit me in the chin, or the shock collar round my neck sends me into screaming spasms whenever I use a 'PhD word'.
I've learned to participate in every depraved scheme you dream up with full enthusiasm, and not just because of the way my brain melts into a gooey, compliant mess between my thighs when you laugh at me. When I've disappointed you, you've broken out the other set of sex toys I've accumulated at your command. Canes, paddles, even a cattle prod that you've yet to pull the trigger on. It's hard to return to professionalism with a fuck-fogged brain, a sore pussy and a bruised uvula. It's the stuff of nightmares with searing welts across my ass, or the soles of my feet, or dark bruises blossoming on the undersides of my tits.
I can only pray you'll be done after our initial agreement of eight weeks, but I'm increasingly certain that you're going to want a whole lot more therapy.
Written in first person for effect, please do not confuse me or yourself for the characters depicted.
I'm not primarily looking to do a full RP, though the option is there after a good amount of sexy, sexy discussion. Great news if you're reading this: you might be the only one of my 3-5 responses to not just say "I'd love to RP this"! So what do I want to see?
Hopefully reading that second section gave you some twisted thoughts. If not, read it again with your thinking cap on. Then shoot me some of those ideas. I'm looking for someone who's the right mix of fucked up and imaginative that'll let us collaboratively dive into this scenario ('show don't tell' me this). I'm less interested in the exact details of the client, outside of the ways they feed into the further degradation and abuse of the therapist, so you don't need to write some big bio.
I really love the frisson of realistic stakes and consequences, so marching the therapist out into her waiting room and exposing her doesn't do much for me, but anything that flirts with the danger of ruining her reputation, or privately makes her violate her ethics and morals is intoxicating. Reversing the therapy dynamic is also core to the appeal for me, both in flipping the power dynamic, and in the 'client' making the 'therapist' worse in any number of ways.
Looking forward to hearing from you. <3
Kinks (optional additions to the obvious): age gaps (younger man), cheating, orientation play, raceplay, tattoos, blackmail.
Limits: vore, scat, hyper, underaged, bestiality, hypnosis.
Posted Apr 6, 2026, 1:15 PM UTC