I very rarely write anything that could be described as total fiction- most of my writing is at least partly based on sexual experiences I have actually had, even if that’s just a conversation with someone about a fantasy. This story is a very new frontier for me, as it’s written from a male POV and he’s not the dominant one in the situation. I still had to imagine the situation from David’s therapist’s perspective though, and as someone who has maintained for a long time that I am as close to entirely submissive as a person can be, this was a very interesting experiment. I’m very grateful to the person who commissioned my first ever Femdom short story for giving me the opportunity to investigate the possibility that I might, somewhere very deep inside, have an Inner Domme waiting patiently to be allowed out to play. p.s It’s also quite long!
The room was overlit, as usual, the magnolia walls aggressively bright compared to the darkness in his head. He sat in the Ikea Poang chair, juggling his keys in a bunch over his knuckles, watching her scribble notes in his file. As she punched a full stop onto the page she looked up, darting a look in the direction of the jangling steel before making an obvious effort to smooth any evidence of irritation from her face, leaving a bland, businesslike smile.
‘So sorry about that, Mr Wyatt. I’ll add two minutes to the end of the session. How are you?’
She sat back in her matching chair and he felt a pang of disappointment as the unbuttoned collar of her blouse shifted to hide an inch of cleavage that had been on show while she leant forward. When he sat down his brain had been packed to capacity with the happenings of the last week, and now here he was, struck dumb by a fleeting suggestion of a potential glimpse at the shadowy space between his therapist’s tits. He knew it was a bad idea to choose a woman therapist… fucking idiot.
She sat still and serene, the corners of her mouth turned up expectantly. He coughed and shifted in his seat, ran a hand over his beard.
‘You know. The same’. He paused. ‘Worse, maybe. Yeah, worse’.
She pulled at the sleeves of her blouse, adjusting the cuffs so as to hide the bony little bumps on each wrist.
‘I’m sorry to hear that. Anything in particular?’
He took a deep breath in and opened his mouth, and then he was talking about work, and his ban
k balance, the Inland revenue, that wanker in the Audi TT on the way here, and she listened and made soft, conciliatory, empathic noises. Every now and again she would brush a rogue curl from her eye, always at the point when he paused for breath, as if to punctuate his monologue. He talked and talked, his gaze focussed on his knees, and then he looked up at the square plastic alarm clock on the table next to him and it was quarter past- he’d been bollocking on for all that time and said nothing of consequence, again; nothing real, absolutely fucking nothing.
‘Anyway,’ he paused. ‘That was my week. All my petty pointless bullshit’.
‘It doesn’t sound like you feel it was petty bullshit. You sounded quite angry about it.’ she smiled and waited for his response. ‘And afraid. Money is frightening- the lack of it, I mean. Financial insecurity. Not petty at all.’
He examined his knuckles for a second and then sighed. ‘It’s pathetic though, isn’t it? This degree of financial insecurity, at my age?’
‘These are difficult times. for lots of people.’
She raised her eyebrows in wry amusement. ‘No, perhaps not. But the world’s been turned upside down. Lots of people are struggling.’
‘Yeah, loads of people have been screwed over way worse than I have. I should be ashamed of myself, whining like this, like a fucking child.’
She smiled with her mouth but he saw a flash of something in her eyes, something like frustration. ‘Mr Wyatt. Can you remember, what we talked about, two weeks ago? Compassion. Changing your self- talk, injecting kindness.’
He looked up at her and then around the room- the poster on the wall, the sad bunch of flowers in the glass vase.
‘Kind of. Remind me.’
Her smile took on a fixed quality, and she opened and closed the folder on her lap without looking at it, pressed her glasses back onto the bridge of her nose, and crossed her legs, with an almost inaudible swish of nylon brushing against itself. Stockings? Tights? He wondered. Tights, surely. She wasn’t what he’d pictured when he’d sent the email about the introductory session, imagining a mumsy woman in long cardies and the kind of rubber-soled shoes you saw advertised in the back pages of the Sunday supplements. No, instead he spent 50 minutes a week sitting opposite a woman his own age, or near enough, the kind of woman who wore a different pair of immaculate black high heels every session: stilletos, sometimes, occasionally with slim ankle straps, usually matt leather but sometimes patent, polished to such a degree that it put him in mind of the old warnings to young girls about boys being able to see their knickers in their shoe leather. Maybe that’s how he’d check if she wore stockings; check her shoes when she stood up, see if there was a reflection, that glimpse of soft flesh bulging softly over stocking top… he gulped, and turned his attention back to her.
‘You were going to do some exercises about it. I gave you some exercises, last week, and the week before’.
There was a cajoling tone to her voice, an almost plastic optimism. But he hadn’t done the homework. He hated the homework. He tried, but it was painful. The first week she had asked him to write affirmations- good things he believed about himself, and then things that he didn’t believe about himself but would like to. The first list had two things on it- he had a nice voice and a good beard. The second brought up all kinds of ideas that made his brain hurt a bit: that he was inherently worthy of love, that he was attractive, that he was a good person. He looked at the paper printout with these intangible statements printed in black and white, picked up his pen to write them in the notebook he’d bought in the cornershop especially. and shook his head. The notebook sat ignored on the kitchen table until the next session.
When she asked how he’d done with his assignments, in that low, calm voice- not homework, that was infantilising- he just sat there, looking her straight in the eye, hoping that he looked straightforward and in charge of himself, rather than like a shamefaced schoolboy, but suspecting he just came across as pointlessly defiant.
‘Mr Wyatt’, she said, in a voice like goosedown pillows, soft but with a firmness to it, ’part of our agreement when we started working together was that you would do your assignments as discussed.’ she paused, and her eyes darted to the right, fleetingly.
‘It’s hard for me…’ she swallowed and came to a stop. He bit his lip and looked down at the tissue he’d been rolling into a thin tube and the white fleck of paper that speckled his thighs. He hated making womens’ lives difficult. He was a burden, a pain.
‘It feels… it feels like you’re defying me, Mr Wyatt. I’m going to be honest with you now-’ she gave an incongruent chuckle, and when he looked at her hands she was running the tip of her left forefinger over the knuckles of her right in a slow, sensual gesture. As he followed the fingertip back and forth he felt his mouth dry and all of a sudden the red of her nail varnish was brighter, more urgent, like an emergency.
‘A lot of the time, we therapists… we talk about authenticity and healing and bringing your entire self to the therapeutic space, but what we actually do is hide ourselves. Hide what we’re thinking. Hide behind subtext.’ she looked at him, her eyes bright and welcoming again. ‘We don’t say what we’re really thinking, or feeling, because it’s not actually productive. With some clients. It’s not what they need’.
He nodded as if he knew what she was saying, where this was going.
‘I’m beginning to see that’s not what you need, Mr Wyatt.’ she pulled at two of the clips holding back her curls so that they bounced and then settled against her collar bone. She sat with her elbow propped against the armrest of her chair, holding the hairclips between her fingers like a cigarette.
‘If this relationship is going to work I need you to show respect for my working method, Mr Wyatt.’
She shifted forward onto the edge of her seat like an interrogator who has caught a glimpse of their subject’s weak spot, dropped the hairclips onto the side table forgotten and started to play with the tortoisehell button that sat at the notch of her collarbone.
‘It doesn’t feel like… it doesn’t feel like you respect me’. There was a note of vulnerability in her voice and as she teased at the button he felt his pulse in his throat. And then she crossed her legs, and suddenly the room was airless and overwarm.
‘It doesn’t feel like you respect me, Mr Wyatt’.
‘Oh no… I mean…Fuck. Yes. I do. Of course I do’.
He stuttered, unable to stop looking at her fingers twisting above the swell of her breasts, lifting and falling as she breathed. As hard as he tried to lift his gaze to meet her probing blue eyes, the more impossible it became to look away. They were so big and so round, and it was almost as if he just looked harder, really focussed, he’d be able to see the impudent poke of her nipples, fat and hard behind-
‘Mr Wyatt. Stop looking at my breasts’.
‘Fuck.’ he snapped his head up and looked at her. ‘I’m sorry… that was… I don’t…’
‘You don’t respect me, Mr Wyatt. You wouldn’t have stared at my tits like that if you respected me. I need you to prove that you have respect for me or-’ she gripped her chair beneath the armrests and with a quick businesslike movement grounded her feet in the carpet, hefting her seat forward, closing the gap between them.
‘Come closer, Mr Wyatt. Being your chair forward’.
He shuffled forward in his seat and shifted the chair closer to her and they sat in an awkward silence interrupted only by the sound of a door closing down the corridor. She lowered her voice, deliberately smoothing out all of the jagged anger of a minute before.
‘Everything we do here is on the basis of your consent, Mr Wyatt. You have consented to try my therapeutic method. So far results have been… limited. So I’d like to try something else. If it doesn’t work for you, you’re free to say so, and we’ll end treatment immediately. I can refer you to a colleague who I have used for supervision. He might be more able to…’
She leant forward.
‘With your consent, then, Mr Wyatt?’
He could get up and walk away now, and this whole painful shitshow would be over, he could write the whole thing off as a pathetic failed experiment… but instead he exhaled loudly and then nodded. She smiled and reached down to fiddle with the ankle strap on her shoe.
‘Let’s try this.’
She looked up, and it took all the energy he had not to even glance at her neckline. So busy was he fixedly maintaining eye contact that he missed her removing her foot from her shoe and swinging her leg up so that the sole of her foot came to rest on his crotch. His cock beat once, twitching against the pads of her foot, and in response her toes curled possessively against his shaft.
‘Do you respect me, Mr Wyatt?’
He gave a nervous laugh.
‘I…yes. Yes, of course. You’re a very good therapist’.
She nodded, her toes continuing to curl and uncurl along his length. He looked at her, his brow furrowed, his chest busy with confusion and euphoria.
‘I am. I’m a very good therapist. So why aren’t you making more progress? Why aren’t you changing?’
Still her foot arched, tautened and released, and the sly dirty tickle of her toes against his dick, separated by the fabric of his trousers and her hosiery (stockings? Oh, fuck, God, stockings…) left him feeling trapped behind the confines of his zip; fat, rigid, aching. What was this? What did she want him to say?
‘I’m scared’, he spat, without thinking, his hips jerking against her foot, his arse lifting out of his seat.
‘You’re scared,’ she echoed approvingly, pressing down onto his cock with gentle pressure to stop the movement of his hips. ‘What of?’
He closed his eyes tight, breathed in a determined lungful of air to clear his head.
‘I’m scared of succeeding. I’m scared of changing’.
He gasped as she lifted her heel and traced the ridge of his crown with the tip of her big toe.
‘Very good.’ She placed her sole flat against him again. ‘Why are you scared?’
‘Because…’ he grabbed at words, ideas, swirling around his brain as his blood pumped furiously.’ If I stop hating myself then I might get the things I want… and then… I might lose them.’
‘So good’, she cooed. ‘Well done, David. Such hard work. So hard.’ She smiled, almost impishly, and his heart leapt as his cock beat twice against her sole. ‘Let’s try those affirmations once more’. He could hear the excitement in her voice as she reached for the button on her blouse again.
‘What was the first one? The ones you found easy to say, to believe’.
Unbidden it popped into his head. ‘I have a nice voice. It’s deep and musical’.
‘Well done, she said, a note of happy surprise in her voice. ‘Say it again.’
He repeated it, and on the last word she popped open the button, revealing her collarbones, which she traced with her fingertips.
He looked down at her foot and then up at her shining eyes. He shifted in his seat, trying and failing to repress and sharp whimper of protest as her foot pressed on his cock.
‘And another. Tell me another thing you like about yourself, David,’ she said, rolling his name around her mouth like a boiled sweet.
‘I… I like my beard.’
‘Good. Now say it like you mean it.’ Her toes curled back and forth, cajoling him.
‘I like my beard’ he replied, immediately, obediently, his hips beginning to roll again with the rhythm of her toes.
‘Why do you like it?’
‘I…’ he rummaged for words. ‘Because it makes me look authoritative.’
‘It does’, she agreed, smiling broadly. ‘You like that, looking authoritative?’ he nodded. ‘And they like it too, don’t they, the girls that you talk to, on the internet?’
He paused. ‘I guess so.’
‘You look authoritative and they want that. Lots of them. They want you.’
‘I don’t…’ he wanted to argue, but the words wouldn’t come. They were always there, those practised expressions of self- deprecation, self- loathing, and suddenly he couldn’t find them. All he could think about was the feeling of her foot, pressed against his hard- on, which felt fatter and angrier than he could remember it doing in years.
‘What else, David? What else?’
He sat in silence, his breathing loud and laboured against the sound of the clock. When she spoke, after thirty seconds of him reaching for a satisfactory response, her voice was soft and encouraging.
‘I can give you a hint?’ he nodded gratefully. ‘You have lovely eyes. Thoughtful. Expressive’. She didn’t sound as if she was lying and his cock pulsed a thank you.
‘Do they mention your eyes? The girls you meet?’
He thought about that thing, that more than one of them had said, about how he changed when he went into that space, when he was dominating them, when he was Daddy- how his eyes changed. He bit his lip and felt a momentary flare of that… that feeling. The feeling of looking down at a girl, a girl kneeling at his feet, looking back at him with that expression that he loved so much; of curiosity and something like fear.
He sat up straight and looked her in the eyes, and said in a stronger, more measured tone. ‘Yes. Yes, they do.’
She smiled and nodded slowly as if acknowledging something. Her foot stilled, and she looked away for a second, as if flustered, before looking back. ‘Say it for me, David.’ She lifted one hand to the next button on her blouse. ‘Say it.’
‘I have thoughtful, expressive eyes.’
As the words left his mouth she popped the button open, letting her blouse fall open to reveal a glimpse of the lace on her bra, black and intricate.
‘You see. It works. What I do, how I work. We just needed to find the right way, the right context. You believed those things when you said them, didn’t you?’
He watched as her fingers moved down to the next button, eased it free of its buttonhole, revealing more of the black lace border and what lay beneath. He sat with his mouth open a little as she undid another, and then the next, pulling her blouse open until he could see all of it- her tits sitting pale and fat, complacent in their lacy cups, the sweet brown mole just above the small black satin bow where the underwires met, and then, flattened against the delicate mesh, the peach pink shadow of her nipples, large and obstinate looking, challenging him to reach out and touch.
He signed and closed his eyes. ‘You can look’, she said, and when he opened them she slid her foot back off his crotch and down onto the floor.
‘You’ve done so well today,’ she almost crooned, but he barely heard her, such was his panic at the loss of the pressure of her foot. ‘I said I’d add on a couple of minutes though, didn’t I?’
‘Come here,’ she said and gestured to the carpet in front of her. Without thinking he slid off his seat and knelt, wincing at the unfamiliar sensation of her toes curling into the carpet, the heels of his shoes pressing into the flesh of his arse. What the fuck, he said to himself. Again and again- what the fuck what the fuck what the… he could smell her, the spicy sweetness of her perfume, the domestic tang of washing powder, the slightest hints of mint and garlic. She swing her legs open and he gasped quietly.
‘Undo your trousers’, she murmured, and he knelt up, fumbling his zip open and yanking at the button, laughing and moaning with relief as his dick sprung from its confines. He looked up at her, still laughing, knowing without her needing to say a word that he musn’t touch it, his hands snapping to his sides. She smiled her approval, and they looked at each other in silence for a second. And then he was laughing again, and she was giggling, her curls bobbing and her tits bouncing as she leant forward and ran her fingers over his scalp, and down, tracing the shape of his ear and then along his jawline.
‘You’re doing so well. You’re going to do so well, David’.
She reached round and slid her palm to the nape of his neck and with a swift movement pulled him towards her, pressing his face into her cunt, tugging urgently at her skirt with the other hand. His eyes were shut and his nose full of the smell of her, and he breathed shallow, ragged breaths, gasping and trying to fill his lungs, not with fresh air but with more, more of her. And then she hooked her thumb into the waistband and suddenly the lacy barrier between his face and the waxed smooth silk of her mons was gone. He could smell tang and salt and… wet, she was wet, and all he needed to do, with his mouth notched against her slit like this, all he’d have to do was open his mouth and he’d know how she tasted…
‘Not this time, David’, she said quietly, as if reading his mind. ‘Next session. If you do your assignments’. She released the pressure on the back of his head slightly and as he rested there, his breath slowing even as his heart thumped. She stroked at his neck with the pad of his thumb.
‘One more minute and then we need to finish for today.’ She whispered. ‘You can touch yourself’.
He slid his hand down and gripped his cock, pulling at it with slow determination, his cheek still resting against the bare authority of her mound. As he stroked himself he listened as her breathing slowed, hitching on the inbreath with something like a gasp. He wasn’t going to cum, he knew that. Not this time. In a few weeks, maybe, he thought, and maybe when that happened he wouldn’t be the one kneeling. An image flashed into his mind, of her face, her head thrown back, her hair loose and wild, mouth wide like a baby bird’s, hungry and waiting. He moaned and pushed his face harder against her, his mouth opening and his lower lip pressing wetly against the plump warmth of her bare cunt.
‘That’s enough, Mr Wyatt’, she said quietly and released her hold on his neck. He knelt in place with his eyes closed as he felt the fabric of her knickers brush past his face and heard the swish of her skirt being adjusted. Loosening his grip on his shaft he opened his eyes, looking down at the carpet as he fumbled himself back to decency, stuffing his protesting dick back into his underwear, leaning back on his aching calves and zipping himself up before pulling himself back to standing.
The clock ticked in the silent room, 8 minutes to, and they stood with chests inches apart, until she gave a brief, therapeutic smile and brushed that stray curl back behind her ear where it belonged.
‘So’, she said, the efficiency of her tone belied by her blouse, still undone, untucked and rumpled, the pinkish red glow of her chest, the cup of her bra, pulled down as if by a desperate hand so that her breast spilt out, the pink of her nipple on accidental display.
‘So’, he answered.
She sat down in her chair and started buttoning her blouse with busy fingers, looking out of the window as she did so. He stood and watched, and then, as she continued to rearrange herself he nodded and turned towards the door.
‘Next week then.’
And at that, she looked up at him. ‘See you next week.’
‘Do you have an assignment for me?’ he asked nervously.
‘No’, she grinned and looked at him sideways. ‘Same one. Different answers next week please’.
‘Okeydoke’, he laughed, and reached for the doorknob, wondering what he’d done with his exercise book.