It started with brief touches. First, a tap to the shoulder, then a hand to my entire shoulder, sometimes a touch to the head as he paced behind me. He would praise my bravery, my openness, and the honesty I exhibited during our sessions. He genuinely admired how eagerly I listened to, and implemented his advice. He would tell me what we were going to try next, with my medicine, or new therapeutic techniques he wanted me to try. My response was always the same, ” I trust you. Whatever you think is best, I will do.” He seemed to like that. He started moving around the room more during our sessions. Standing behind me, immovabley pressing his hand to my shoulder as I relayed the details of my life. Periodically he would inconspicuously stroke or rub my shoulder with an oustreched finger. At one session he repeatedly praised the progress I had been making with him. He was very proud. He proceeded to tell me how invested he had become in my life.
“Like a father figure, ” he said.
This was strange to me. I wasn’t sure why, but it felt like a betrayal. In the next few sessions I was very withdrawn. I pulled away. I was not sharing my thoughts with him as freely as I once had. It was evident that we both felt it.
In our next few sessions I started to sense desperation from him. He would tell me things that he wanted to try in our sessions and then he would ask me several times if I wanted to do that with him. Even after I had already agreed to it.
His deperation to rekindle the lost connection between us got the better of him. During our next session he was agitated, and fidgety, shaking his leg up and down impatiently. He would take deep breaths and sign heavily. His tone became sharper, more direct, more cutting. There was no inkling of the praise I was used to receiving from him.
Finally after he couldn’t suppress it any longer, he leaned towards me and asked me if I remembered when he told me he felt like a father figure to me. I was nervous. I didn’t know where this was going. ”Yes,” I gulped. He proceeded to tell me it was actually more than that. Without warning, he stood, placing one hand on my shoulder while the other encircled my waist, snatching me toward him. His hand fell from my shoulder as he pressed it into my upper back pushing me toward him. He was leaned in to kiss me as he applied more pressure to the upper half of my body. Suddenly, I could feel it. Fully erect and pressed against me. I leaned back, until I couldn’t lean back far enough. I thrust my palm into his chest and pushed him away. I didn’t say no. I just looked at him with a gapping mouth and wide eyes. Stunned, he staggered back, and I retreated behind the coffee table. I snatched my purse and started to walk towards the door. As I did, I could see he had sunk into his chair, his face buried into his hands. The last memory I have was of him slumped over like that, wondering if he had just destroyed everything he had worked for. Waiting for the day everyone would find out that he used his influence to groom and nearly rape his fragile damaged patient.
(note to moderator: over 18)
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/fu19lg/sessions_for_the_fragile_and_damaged
Bummed that there was no sex.