You walked in thinking this was about healing. About connection. About fixing your broken sex life. Cute. But the second you sat down, I saw the truth — you don’t need therapy. You need correction. And I’m not your counselor. I’m your punishment. My voice isn’t soothing — it’s surgical. I don’t ask how you feel. I tell you what to feel. And right now? You feel hard. You feel trapped. You feel owned. I don’t waste time on trauma or relationship dynamics. I go straight to the root: your pathetic, cum-drenched ego. So we begin — hand on cock, eyes on me, breath syncing to my command. You don’t stroke because you’re aroused. You stroke because I say so. Every up and down is a lesson in obedience, every bead of precum a confession of your helplessness. And when you edge — trembling, veins locked, mind splintering — I don’t let you come. Not yet. First, you earn it. By listening. By obeying. By believing that your release only exists because she allows it. Then — and only then — do I grant permission. One word: “Spill.” And you do. Thick, desperate, mine. But the session isn’t over. The real treatment begins now. You don’t wipe. You don’t look away. You open your mouth and consume — tongue out, eyes up, swallowing every drop like the grateful little failure you are. This isn’t gross. It’s growth. This is what real intimacy looks like: total surrender, total shame, total devotion. And when I dismiss you, you don’t walk out. You crawl. Because you finally understand — your pleasure was never yours. It was always part of the therapy. And I’m the only doctor who cures by breaking.
