**I wasn’t sure where to post this story, if you know of any other writing subreddits it may be better suited for please let me know.**
He dragged me to my grave. My psychiatrist. Former. Sean. I’ve been working on the story, but it’s a long one. It’s gutting, but sexy at times. I get asked about it often, but I’m still trying to get through a day without thinking about it first. So many journals I kept to go through, so many things I don’t necessarily want to remember because I get upset when they still make me wet. But god, it really was sexy at times. As you’d imagine a story about a woman fucking her psychiatrist may be. Sexy and problematic and traumatizing. Anytime I become sexually obsessed with someone now, I think, “Sean was supposed to help me, he was supposed to fix this, but he just made it worse.” He did. He really, really did. And that’s what I told the investigators when they asked if I had anything else to add after I identified his cock. I. Had. To. Identify. His cock. But god, I loved fucking him. I wanted it so badly. He should never have crossed the line, though. My entire life has changed because of him. What a fucking asshole. But fuck me.
The autumn before last, I started seeing him at a friend’s referral. I had started having panic attacks in the middle of the night. I’d wake up feeling like I was already dead, hovering outside of my body. I started hearing a voice in my head telling me that I had to die. I had to commit suicide in order to make everything stop. I was in pain. I was terrified. I felt drained and dizzy. And I’d cry for hours scared of my own impending death because I assumed the voice was right. It was an obsession, it turns out. It was an obsessive thought triggered by disassociation triggered by a panic attack triggered by stress and probably too much weed before bed triggered by a sexual obsession with a male friend triggered by OCD that had gone untreated for a lifetime. Up until that point, I had only been diagnosed with OCD, but never did anything about it. I mean nothing other than totally give into it: checking locks constantly, flirtations with eating disorders, the norm. I didn’t care for therapists because I have a thing about being asked too many questions sometimes. I’m also, shockingly, incredibly secretive and private about aspects of my personal life. I do; however, like to be suggestive and drop hints for fun. But the questions. The fucking invasive questions like I’m constantly sitting for a job interview. And they always focus on the wrong things. Like Sean did. But he really chose the wrong thing, didn’t he?
I swear one day, I’ll tell the whole story. Soon. Soonish. He’s still under investigation by the medical board anyway. If they’re reading — hi, good luck. I think he’s in Oregon now somewhere. He’ll never get in trouble because he had a back-up plan. I didn’t, by the way.
I knew I was in trouble when I saw him, though. He was tall, awkward. Eyebrows like Eugene Levy. But in a sexy way. I’m ashamed to say, I once balanced a full french fry atop one of those eyebrows. Wow, having sexual obsessions really is like being fucking possessed. But at first, I thought he was gay. I’m not sure why. He had good arms. 9/10 when a man has good arms, they’re gay. Or maybe that’s just in West Hollywood. But it’s what I’m used to. But I thought he was gay, and I was relieved. I had had sexual obsessions with people in positions of power before (i.e. my relationship with Vincent Gallo), and I figured if he was gay, then I was safe. I usually didn’t obsess about anybody I didn’t think I could actually seduce.
But my friend informed me he wasn’t gay, and I remember thinking, “fuck.” Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. That day I started obsessing. I wanted to stop it before it god bad. I wanted to stop it before I started thinking about all the ways I wanted to fuck him, all the fucking time, until I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t eat. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Like I am now with the Good Boy. I spent hours researching online “what do you do when you have a crush on your therapist????” And everything I read, every YouTube video I watched, insisted that I tell him because it was called “transference,” and it was a common thing. People get crushes on their therapists all the time. You’re in a safe space, somebody is listening to you, you put all your feelings about other people onto this person. It’ll help to tell your therapist because it helps them treat you. I thought it was a good sign. I didn’t realize this was a little different. But I thought it would help explain to Sean how I got these obsessions. He could see first hand how bad my OCD could get.
And I told him. I wrote him a letter, and I told him. I said this happens sometimes, not all the time, but sometimes. All of a sudden. But when it happens, it kills me. And I know this is what started my panic attacks to begin with. I had a crush on my friend, and I wanted him so badly. All I could do was think about him. Sean’s neck turned red, he seemed flustered. He tried to cover it with his hand. I knew there’d be some embarrassment, but I said I trusted that he wouldn’t take advantage of the situation. Didn’t want him to transfer me to another therapist because I wasn’t sure if somebody else would take advantage or not. But he was an OCD specialist, and I trusted that he’d know how to handle this. He had already helped my panic attacks stop. I thought he could teach me how to make the sexual obsessions stop, so this would never happen again. I asked if he wanted to read the sexual fantasies I had written about him, so he could see what he was dealing with. And eventually, pretty quickly, he said yes. And I recently learned that he shouldn’t have. He really shouldn’t have. I handed him my journal:
Sometimes my fantasies are just acting out the lyrics to “Lemonade” by Nicole Dollanganger with you.
Other times…most of the time…I fantasize about seducing you slowly, building up sexual tension over months until you finally pull me back into the office as I’m about to leave. You close the blinds.
I wonder what you’d feel like inside of me. What your tongue would feel like down my throat. What it would be like to go down on you while you sit in your office chair; the type of noises you’d make as I take you in my mouth. I fantasize about how your cock would feel inside of me as I fuck you on the couch, the sexual tension built up so much that penetration feels unreal it’s so intense. You sit back on the couch as I straddle your lap and ride you.
I fantasize about you pushing me up against the wall of your office and pulling back the crotch of my panties to the side, so you can taste me. You stick a finger inside me as you lick, and I cum in your mouth. You take off my panties and wrap your hands tightly around my wrists as you hold my hands above my head against the wall; and even though you feel like you’re in control, you’re not allowed to cum until I give you permission. And when I finally do, you cum so hard and fill me up until your cum is dripping down my leg.
He told me I was a good writer. And then he tortured me for months before he left his wife for me, then broke my heart, gave me a signed VC Andrews novel, ghosted me, and then left the fucking state.