A Different Kind of Therapy

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(Have you ever imagined what might happen if you trusted someone enough to tell them your innermost secret sexual fantasies? You know the kind of dark fantasies that you hide even from yourself. What if that person suddenly became the ‘real life’ object of those fantasies? Or What if knowing what your sexual fantasies were, she surprised you by fulfilling them? This is a fictionalized account of an incident like that involving a man and his psychotherapist. The story is told from the point of view of the patient. The psychotherapist, an expert on human sexuality, is a mature woman The patient is a younger man. The course of psychotherapy has gone very well. The story begins with the last scheduled therapy ‘session’. The therapist and her patient get involved in a very different kind of therapy. Female Domination, B&D Fetish)

My name is Steve and this is my personal story. It’s also about a lady who changed my life. Her name is Dr. Barbara N. Dupree. She’s the psychotherapist that I’ve been seeing to help me solve some marital problems. She changed my life by subjecting me to a very different kind of therapy … her own special brand of therapy. I’m telling you my story because she told me that it would be helpful to my cure if I acknowledged and described what took place between us to other people. I’m writing this down a day later while the events are still fresh in my memory.

I’ve been coming to Dr. Dupree for nearly a year. Our last psychotherapy session was scheduled to take place yesterday. As you’ll soon see, that was the session that cured my problem and changed my life forever. I originally came to Dr. Dupree because my psychological problems were sexual in nature. My marriage was rocky. I wanted something more and different from the kind of sex that my wife was willing to give me. I wanted my wife to take total control in the bed room and to sexually dominate me. I told her that I was most comfortable and a much better lover when I was the submissive partner. My wife wanted nothing to do with that. When she asked me how I could be so sure of my assertion, I told her that I had been in a dominant-submissive relationship several years before I met her. That revelation didn’t sit well with my wife, in fact, she even called me a pervert. Our relationship has been in a downward spiral ever since that time. My wife suggested that I see a shrink in order to get rid of my obsession but she refused to go with me saying that this was my problem and not hers.

I needed to find a psychotherapist who specialized in human sexuality. Barbara N. Dupree Ph.D. had the reputation of being the best specialist on the psychology of human sexuality in this part of the country. Her references were sterling. She had written several books on this area of the human psyche, all of them highly respected. I was confident that she could help me to get beyond my problem.

It didn’t take me long to realize that I had found the right person to cure what was troubling me. In fact, that became clear within five minutes of meeting her. Dr. Dupree’s office in Santa Monica was impressive and expansive. She occupied the penthouse suite of a twenty-two story office building close to the beach. The view of the Pacific through the panoramic office window was magnificent. There is something curative and soothing about the sea. I’ve always felt more relaxed near the ocean and better able to lower my defenses. Dr. Dupree’s office was impressive and well appointed. It was filled with numerous paintings and sculptures – most of which had erotic themes. Volumes whose titles suggested they were about eroticism and sexuality filled the bookshelves. The furniture was expensive, tasteful and comfortable. I found myself wondering how any psychotherapist could afford an office as luxurious as this.

Dr. Dupree is a mature woman. Although I’ve never asked her, I would guess that she’s well past fifty. I always thought of her as an older sister or an aunt. She is an extremely good looking woman and very tall, but she doesn’t flaunt her looks she doesn’t need to. In every one of our weekly appointments, she’d always acted professionally and dressed appropriately. Usually she wore well tailored suits, long dresses or skirts, loosely fitting sweaters and very little make-up. If anything, her clothes concealed or understated her femininity. Even so it was not difficult to see that she had a well developed chest and that she maintained her body well. Her long strawberry blond hair was streaked with gray and graying at the temples. She usually wore it in a bun. It was obvious that she had seen a plastic surgeon because her alabaster skin was wrinkle free and flawless. Her steel rimmed glasses hid her compelling sky blue eyes.

After ten and a half months of psychotherapy together we had made remarkable progress. At the end of every appointment, it was customary for Dr. DuPree to give me a homework assignment. Some of the assignments required that I write out detailed information bahis siteleri about my sexual experiences, thoughts and fantasies. I would read what I had written during the following session or Dr Dupree would read it afterward and we would discuss anything that she thought was important the following week. I took these assignments seriously. I was very open about my sexual experiences and fantasies and wrote down everything that I could think of. Maybe I was too open. Because of my comfort level with her, I told Dr Dupree things I’d never told any other person, things that I had been afraid to admit even to myself. The technique had worked. It worked so well that Dr. Dupree suggested that we would probably be able to terminate therapy in another six weeks.

I remember her saying that on the day that I told her that my wife and I were beginning a six month trial separation. Though she was sympathetic, Dr. Dupree told me not to view the separation as an ‘end’ nor even as a ‘transition’ but as a time in which we my wife and I could each explore where we were and what we wanted. Then, a week before we were scheduled to complete therapy, Dr. Dupree said that there was one remaining item that needed some special attention. She said that we could probably resolve it in about four hours. Instead of booking three additional appointments, she asked whether I was available to reschedule our final session together to the following Sunday. That way, she explained, we could spend the four hours that we needed in a single bloc without interfering with other patients or disrupting her very busy schedule. She indicated that she would be willing to give up any fees except for her normal fee for a single hour of therapy if I could arrange this. According to Dr. Dupree we needed to that amount of time to deal with the issue of psychological ‘transference’. She explained that ‘transference’ is the psychological term for a patient projecting his or her emotional feelings or conveying certain psychological attributes to a neutral third party. Usually that person is the psychotherapist, and not the person or object that actually evoked the feelings. I accepted her offer.

I was actually looking forward to spending this time with Dr. Dupree because I had developed something more than a professional interest in her, though I’d never said anything about it. I knew that the psychotherapists code of ethics prohibited any kind of personal relationships with patients. After my wife and I separated, when I would come home from work on most days, I’d shut the blinds, strip naked, lay on my bed sipping a Scotch and I’d begin to masturbate. Most of the time I fantasized that Dr. Dupree was sitting across from me in the darkened room, watching. Thinking that she was actually there in the room watching me was my inspiration for masturbating. Before I knew it, I was in a hypnotic like state, and I was jacking-off on automatic pilot. After that, it usually didn’t take me very long to cum. I had fantasized about putting on this kind of exhibition in Dr. Dupree’s office. In fact I had developed a number of sexual fantasies involving Dr. Dupree and myself.

On Sunday I arrived for my appointment exactly on schedule. The office building was completely deserted. There wasn’t even the usual security guard in the lobby. Dr. Dupree had arranged for the rear entrance to remain unlocked as long I promised to lock it after entering the building. It was an eerie feeling. The elevator door was open and waiting for me to enter. I pushed the elevator button and was whisked up to the twenty first floor in less than thirty seconds. From there, I climbed the few steps that led to the separate entrance for the penthouse suite. As I entered the ante-room that serves as her waiting area, I saw that the door to Dr. Dupree’s office was open, Normally I had to wait to announce myself or be buzzed in. This time I walked right in. I was expecting her to greet me as she usually did but her office was empty. She must have heard me come in because I heard Dr. Dupree’s voice coming from behind the bathroom door. She told me to take a seat, make myself comfortable, and that she would be with me in a minute.

It should have been obvious to me right from the start of the session, that this would be different from anything previously experienced. All of the clues were there. They should have alerted me that something was going on, but I didn’t catch on.. Dr. Dupree was dressed very differently than I’d ever seen her. Her clothes were extremely flattering and very feminine. They might even be described as ‘seductive’. Instead of hiding her figure, her clothes called attention to it . She wore a long skirt, slit from the hem until just above her knee, that allowed me to easily make out the shapely curve of her calves and suggested the outline of her thighs. She was wearing a semi-shear blouse, with a scoop neck that accentuated her cleavage and drew my eyes to her chest. This was very different from the loose fitting canlı bahis siteleri sweaters or blouses she’d worn at previous appointments. It called attention to her full and well proportioned breasts. She also wore calf length zip-up boots with very long pointed high heels rather than the usual flats or sandals she’d worn at every previous session. The scent of her perfume, which she hadn’t worn previously during therapy, was unusual and very sensual.

Dr. Dupree is not a person who beats around the bush. She got right to the point. She said that during the course of therapy sessions she’d become aware of the fact that I seemed to be transferring a significant role in my sexual fantasies to her. In fact, she said that she thought it was likely that my sexual obsession was no longer fixated on my wife or on any of my former relationships. Instead she said, it was based on expectations and with ‘my’ projections of the future. She said that taking into account all of my statements from previous sessions and from attitudes that I’d demonstrated that she concluded that I was, in fact, looking for someone to be subservient to. When she asked whether that was an accurate assessment I nodded my head.

She informed me that, at the end of the current hour I would technically no longer be her patient. Therefore any ethical and legal obligations to not become personally involved with a patient were also ended. She suggested that we could use the time to explore the psychodynamics and substance of this transference. In her words this would be an ideal time to “wrap up this unfinished business.”

Since we had previously arranged to spend the rest of the afternoon together in what Dr. Dupree described as very hard work, she said that it would probably be the right time for both of us to take a short bathroom break before resuming our therapy. As I got up and started to leave the room, she rose to block my path. Then she threw her arms around my waist, pulled my body up against her own and hugged me very tightly. Though I know that some psychotherapists occasionally ‘hug’ their patients – signifying congratulations or empathy – this kind of physical gesture was unprecedented in the time that I’d been seeing Dr. Dupree. Our only previous physical contact had been a routine hand shake. Her hug wasn’t perfunctory either, it was the affectionate kind of extended embrace that I would expect from my wife or an intimate friend. As she drew my body against her own, she held me tight, making sure that I would feel her soft breasts squeezing against my chest and the inside of her thighs brushing against my pant legs. Feeling her body next to mine confirmed what I had believed, Dr. Dupree had a magnificent body – she was built like ‘a brick shithouse.’ This intimate physical contact went on for more than a minute before she finally let go of me. Once in the bathroom, I realized that the physical closeness to Dr. Dupree, and the contact with her body pressing against mine, had aroused me sexually. I discovered that I had sprung a hard-on and even that I was already oozing precum fluids. My cock was as stiff as a rod and a tell tale wet spot had stained the crotch of my pants. I realized that Dr. Dupree’s hug was meant to turn me on. It had — I wondered what was next.

After washing up and cooling down, I returned to her office and sat down on the couch. She was already back and seated in her chair. I hadn’t taken that long in the bathroom, so I wondered how she was able to get back so quickly. Once of the first things that I noticed was that her chair was much closer to the couch than before, I could almost touch her from where I was sitting. Before this, she had always been careful to keep some physical space between us. I assumed that physical distance was a method for maintaining emotional objectivity or neutrality or for self-protection. As soon as I was seated, she got up and locked the door to her inner office. She returned the key to her desk drawer saying that she wanted absolute privacy with no possibility that we might be disturbed. That should have been the final clue telling me that she had something more than psychotherapy planned for us this afternoon but, at the time, I either ignored the sign or was oblivious to it.

As we began our conversation, Dr Dupree’s body language changed dramatically. She became much more animated and provocative than before. Barbara, (early in our therapy relationship she had given me permission to use her first name instead of using the formal Dr. Dupree when we were talking) began to interrogate me. She asked me some very specific and intimate questions. As usual, she was direct and to the point. She wanted to know if she had ever been a character in my recurring sexual fantasies? Yes, I answered, without hesitation. Did I have any explicit sexual agenda in sharing my erotic writings with her? Yes, again. Did I find her sexually appealing? Did I ever imagine her as a Dominatrix in my fantasies? I answered ‘yes’ to canlı bahis all of her questions without any feeling of embarrassment. She seemed satisfied with my answers and began asking even more probing ‘what if?’ questions. Did I ever suspect or entertain the notion that she might really be a woman who achieved sexual gratification from dominating men? Would I want or consent to become her slave should that were the case? Had I manipulated the therapy so that an erotic ‘personal’ relationship between us would become a distinct possibility? Yes again to all. She didn’t seem to be surprised or flustered by any of my answers either. As she questioned me, I became aware that I had sprung another throbbing hard on and that I was wetting myself again. I don’t know for certain whether she noticed the bulge growing in my crotch or the wet spot, but I suspect that she did.

What happened next came a complete surprise to me. Without any warning at all, Barbara’s persona began to change. In a quiet but unmistakably firm tone of voice she ordered me to take off my pants, my shoes and socks and to unbutton my shirt. She instructed me not to touch my Jockey shorts. Her instructions were explicit. She told me to fold up my clothes, put the socks inside of the shoes, and to hand everything over to her. Since she were well aware of my tendency to be inattentive and tune things out, she made me repeat back her instructions word for word and said that I must follow them exactly, leaving the or else unspoken but, nevertheless, clear. She said that she was taking charge and that I had no choice but to obey her.

When I completed undressing, she took my clothes away and locked them in a closet. Then she ordered me to get down on my hands and knees. When I was down she told me to slowly crawl over to her chair – she emphasized the word ‘slowly’. I was suddenly overwhelmed by feelings of submission that I ‘d experienced many times before and by my need to acquiesce to her wishes. As I began to crawl toward her, she informed me in a casual, almost off-hand, way that she’d had a long day, very little sleep the previous night, and that her body was extremely tired. She specifically mentioned her feet, saying that they were sore and tired and that they needed a lot of attention and stimulation. She mentioned that her dog usually licked her feet when they were this tired. All the while her feet were dangling there seductively. I watched intently as she began slowly unzipping her boots. She stopped midway leaving them only half-way unzipped. By this time, I had reached her chair and assumed a familiar position on my hands and knees. My eyes were cast downward and fixed on her feet. I waited for further directions from her which I knew from past experiences with dominant women would be forthcoming.

She instructed me not to speak unless spoken to and keep my eyes lowered unless and until she ordered me to look up. In a seductive tone of voice I hadn’t previously heard from her, she asked me again whether I wanted to be her slave. She already knew what my answer would be. I said that it would be my privilege to serve as her slave, that it was something I had fantasized about many times. She asked if I was prepared to obey any orders or directions she might give me. I said that I was. She informed me that the penalty for failing to follow her instructions promptly, completely, and correctly would be swift punishment. Dr. Dupree said that punishment might include verbal chastisement and corporal punishment and that she might decide to physically restrain me. She asked whether I was prepared to accept any punishment she deemed fitting. I responded affirmatively. She told me that from that moment on whenever I was in this room — unless told differently — I must refer to her as “My Mistress” and that I was to address or respond to her only as ‘Mistress’ or ‘Mistress Barbara’. She ordered me to demonstrate my loyalty and the sincerity of my servitude to her symbolically by kissing her boots. I acknowledged , lowering my face to the surface of her foot, opening my lips and touching them and my tongue to the polished leather surface of each of her boots. When I finished this degrading act, she pulled her boots away from under my lips and my face fell to the floor.

I was, at that very moment, a picture of abject humiliation. My wet saliva clung to her shoes and I was groveling in front of her, with my nose pressed to the floor and my ass raised high in the air. I was undressed except for my unbuttoned shirt and a pair of jockey shorts – to make things worse my bulging hard-on was straining at the seams of my underwear trying to escape its imprisonment. I admit that although it was physically uncomfortable, this position was, paradoxically, a very enjoyable position for me. Being in this position allowed me to re-experience a kind of erotic pleasure that I hadn’t known in many years. I stayed frozen in that pose while she sarcastically reminded me, that she had read every word of my ‘dirty little’ essays. She said that she were aware of and familiar with all my perverted thoughts and submissive interests and informed me that she would determine which, if any, of these she might allow me to experience.

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