Trust

Trust: or, a Blatant Disregard for Ethical Practices

*

Sexual relations between therapists and current clients are expressly prohibited.

*

It took me years to become this relaxed in front of my therapist, able to share the most shameful parts of my mind with ease. All the vile, disgusting parts nobody else gets access to: he always reacts with a cool, detached professionalism. He's heard it all before, and worse, he tells me, and I've stopped apologising for the revolting things I tell him: all my self-destructive habits, my awful intrusive thoughts, my horrific violent urges.

It takes me one careless sentence for all that trust to crumble.

We're talking about how my current beau is terrible in bed, leading me to mention how I think about other men when I'm fucking him. 'And you're one of them,' I add. Carelessly. Completely unnecessarily.

He pauses, then looks up from his notes. 'Come again?'

Without the input of my brain, my mouth decides the best course of action is to blab further. 'Sometimes he gets me so close, but not close enough, so to tip myself over the edge, I think about you. You must know how hot you are—your beard, and tattoos, and curly hair, and...' I trail off as I notice his amused expression. 'What?'

He places his notes to the side and folds his hands over crossed legs. 'You're placing an awful lot of trust in me to share this.'

And I'm beginning to regret that, with the way he's looking at me like something to be devoured. I shrug. 'I imagine you're good at your job. Or at least professional enough not to take advantage or be a creep.'

He says nothing. The clock behind him ticks.

'I think I'm the last person you'd creep on, anyway,' I continue, stammering. 'I—this is just a little crush. On a therapist. I know there's no chance of reciprocation—not that I'm hitting on you, or anything—but I mean—'

'There are a lot of assumptions you're making,' he interrupts. His gaze is intense, eyes so dark I can't tell where the pupil ends and iris begins.

'Hm?' My mouth dries.

He counts off his fingers. 'You assume I'm good at my job. You assume I'm not a creep, or a predator. You assume your fantasies are not reciprocated.'

Whatever rapport we've built has evaporated. I feel numb, foggy. I'm distantly aware that I could be in danger, but I'm frozen to my seat as he stands, like I'm a rabbit caught in the jaws of a fox.

'You have no idea what I'm capable of, do you?' he says, towering above me.

My hands shake uncontrollably. 'I don't understand?' I whisper. Surely, he won't...? There's no way, he wouldn't... not for

me,

surely?

His smirk is lazy, predatory. 'Stand,' he says, a strong command.

I shrink into the chair. This can't be happening. I refuse to believe it.

'Stand,' he repeats, and there's an irresistible dominance to his voice.

What can I do but obey? I wobble to my feet like a newborn deer, and his hand clamps around my throat. I choke out a pitiful little gasp. He walks me backward until my spine hits the wall. I'm trapped.

'What are you doing?' I whimper, my voice high and pathetic with the way he squeezes.

His laugh is unkind, humourless. 'What do you think I'm doing? I'm giving you what you want.' His voice is baritone and gravelly, a lion's purr, and his breath comes out hot on my face. I shiver. 'Don't tell me you haven't touched yourself to the thought of this,' he says.

He's not wrong.

With the hand that isn't around my neck, he snakes his way into my jeans. Deftly his fingers find their way under the fabric of my underwear, and to my shame and horror, they caress the moisture building beneath my folds.

'So wet, already?' he whispers, 'It's disgusting, how badly you want me.' The words are harsh but they betray a smug satisfaction, and it sends a heat surging through me.

His grin widens as he palms my aching vulva. I don't mean to, but my hips buck into him, and he chuckles.

'Don't worry, I'll give you what you want.'

'No, no...' I shake my head and whimper as his finger plunges inside me. I don't want this, I

don't

. It was just a fantasy, it was never meant to be

real

, and I never thought he would—but he hooks his index inside, grazing the pad against my front wall, and the moan that slips from my mouth is obscene.

The hand around my neck suddenly slaps over my mouth. 'Shut the fuck up,' he hisses, but he doesn't stop, and can't contain the moan that muffles into his palm as he fucks his fingers inside me.

'Fuck,' he groans, 'can you hear how wet you are? How sloppy you are?' His beard scratches at the sensitive skin of my jaw. 'So pathetic and needy, a pathetic little whore.'

His palm is wet over my face, and I realise I'm drooling.

'Pathetic little whore,' he repeats, wiping my spit on my face. My legs inch wider and I hear the indecent sloshing of my arousal beneath his hand. 'Bet you get off thinking about this after each session, don't you? Horny little thing. You'd beg for it, wouldn't you? Beg me to rape you?'

I try to shake my head, but the hand over my face grips too tight. My thighs start to shake, and I can feel my wetness leaking, dripping down the top of my thighs, gooey and disgusting, just like me.

'Tell me you would. Beg me.' His voice is so harsh, but it's so hot the way he's degrading me like this, and I'm slipping further and further off the edge. Tears spill down my cheeks as I shake my head. I

do

want to beg him—beg him to stop—but despite it all I can myself approaching the edge. The heat builds in my belly, thighs clenching his hand in a vice as they shudder and quake, and I'm so, so close, and I don't want him to stop, and I hate myself for it.

'Oh no, oh no you don't,' he says, 'You're not going to come already, are you? Fuck, you're more desperate than I thought.' His movements roughen, adding another finger, fucking into me relentlessly. 'Don't do it, don't you fucking do it, you're not allowed to come, you're not allowed to enjoy this, you disgusting slut—'

He's whispering hotly into my neck, like an open-mouthed kiss, and it's too late. I hurtle over the edge, falling apart, mouth open and drooling as I come undone on his fingers.

He steps back. 'Disgusting,' he says.

I whimper and slide to the floor, red-faced and sweaty. I curl myself into a foetal position. I am disgusting. Nausea churns in my gut, and the room swims in front of my eyes.

He squats beside me. His hand—the one which was inside me just a moment ago—wipes my wetness over my face, smudging my slime over my lips. He pushes his fingers inside my mouth, making me taste myself, then takes my chin in his hand and forces me to look at him through half-lidded eyes.

'Such a slut. You can't be anything more than a worthless whore, can you?' He tosses me aside and stands. 'Get on your knees.'

Before I know it, I'm doing as he says, sitting back on my heels as he unbuckles his belt and frees his cock. I barely have a moment to breathe before his hand is fisting my hair at the nape of my neck and urging me onto his cock, shoving me down as far as I can go, until it slams against the back of my throat. I have to hold onto his muscular thighs for balance, the way he roughly drives into my open, slobbering mouth.

Above me, his mouth hangs open, breathing heavy. A flush spreads across his cheeks, and his brows furrow.

'What would your friends say, if they could see you like this?' he growls. 'Debased like this? If they could see the pathetic whore you really are? Would they laugh at you, knowing how much you love being face-fucked like this?'

My eyes roll back in my head and I sob, my mouth stretched around him. Rivulets of saliva dribble down my chin, my neck, between my breasts, which jiggle from the force of his thrusts.

He makes a rough sound at the back of his throat. 'Fuck... Would they use you like I am? Would they want a turn to ruin you? Fuck your pretty little mouth like I am? You wouldn't stop them, just let them take what they want, just like I'm taking what I want from you—ohhh—you're so good at taking my cock—'

He pulls out and I gasp for air, gulping raspy breaths. I fall back, hands catching myself on the carpet as I try to recover, but before I can, he's positioning himself behind me, manhandling me so I'm on my hands and knees, face pressed against the carpet, ass presented to him like an offering.

No preamble, no warning, he slams himself deep into me. The sound he makes, a feral and debauched groan, might be the hottest thing I've ever heard. It's equal parts primal and hedonic, all pretence of keeping quiet long forgotten. His blunt nails dig into the soft flesh of my hips as he drives himself into me, over and over and over.

It's animalistic and it's savage, the vulgar slapping of his balls against my skin, the sweat and snot and tears and dribbling down my face, the wretched sobbing squeaks I make as he fucks me relentlessly. It is both endlessly hot and humiliating. There's the heat of shame curdling in my gut, how I shouldn't want this, it shouldn't feel so good—but then the way his strong hands tangle in my hair, pulling me, dragging me up against him—then the way he clamps his canines into my neck, the sharp painful pleasure of it—the way I know I couldn't fight him even if I tried, the way I am completely and utterly at his mercy—all of it has my thighs clenching and quivering as my second orgasm builds.

'You're gonna come from this, huh? You close again, huh?' he pants in my ear. 'This is what turns you on? Used like the worthless piece of meat you are?'

I can't pretend. Sobbing, moaning, covered in drool and snot, I nod. 'Uh huh. You can have me, you can use me. Have me however you want,' I whimper in my phlegmy voice. 'You're so—oh—I'm so close—I'm gonna—'

'Nope,' he says, suddenly pulling out of me, all at once leaving me empty and wanting. 'You're not going to come again. You're mine to use, you're not allowed to like it too, you greedy little slut.' He rolls me over on my back, and, kneeling above me, strokes himself over my face. I open my mouth, tongue out, ready for him, while my fingers press against my aching clit, desperately clutching at the remnants of my ruined orgasm.

'Fuck, look at you,' he breathes, 'slimy, disgusting little slut. Fuck, you're so perfect.' He continues to mumble words both degrading and flattering until, with a final moan, his come spills over my tongue, hot and salty. As his spend drips down my flushed face, my hips gyrate into my hands and I spill over, too. My second orgasm is a weak, ruined shadow of the first, empty of my therapist but full of disgrace. I feel thoroughly debased. Disgusting. Glazed with spunk, a husk of a woman.

The air is hot and thick with sex. There's a heavy ache in my centre, a cold emptiness, as I stare up at the ceiling. I still don't believe what's just happened. There must be some mistake, some misunderstanding. Maybe I'm having a psychotic break. Maybe this is all in my head. Some fantasy turned foul.

I can hear him re-buckling his belt and shuffling about at the desk, until he appears beside me, gently helping me sit upright. Tenderly he wipes the goo from my face with wet wipes, deep brown eyes searching mine. His dark curls are plastered to his face with sweat.

'Nobody will know about this,' he says in a low voice. 'You have my word. I know better than anyone how fragile you are, and how poorly you will handle anyone knowing how you threw yourself at me like that. Nobody will know what a greedy whore you really are. You can trust me.' The cruelty in his words are softened by how gentle he's being, softly caressing my shoulders as he wipes away the gunk from my skin.

He's taking care of me.

It's nice.

He's a good person.

He helps me to my feet. I shake like a lamb.

'Anyway, our time is up.' He opens the door and ushers me out. 'I'll see you next week.'

The last I see of him is a predatory, vulpine grin, before the door clicks shut.