A Therapeutic Breakthrough

“So, Mr. Traxell. Tell me why you’re here.”

I gulp. “Umm. Well, you know why I’m here. I need therapy and I was told you specialize in my kind of problem.”

Dr. McKyer adjusts her glasses. “Yes, of course I do. But by asking you to state your problem in your own words, I’m hoping to help you more clearly grasp the nature of your problem.”

I take a deep breath. The question’s caught me off guard, but that’s not the only reason I’m nervous.

Roxanne McKyer doesn’t look like any therapist I’ve ever seen before. She’s hot. Really hot. More importantly, she’s dressed hot, too. She’s wearing a black spandex miniskirt with matching black high-heeled pumps. Her short-sleeved blouse is hot pink and it clings tightly to her body. It’s got a plunging neckline and she must be wearing one of the finest push-up bras ever made by man. Her breasts look firm and smooth and the sight of her cleavage could make a priest pound a ten-penny nail into a two-by four with his penis. Her long, dark hair isn’t tied up in a conservative bun or ponytail, but instead it cascades around her shoulders. She speaks in a low voice; not a whisper, but more like the growl of a lioness. I find I’m staring at her bright red lips, fantasizing about her open mouth and her nimble tongue…

“Mr. Traxell?”

I blush. “Sorry. I’m a little nervous.”

“Tell me why you’re here, Mr. Traxell.”

I take a deep breath. “Well, I’m addicted to sex.” I say it slowly, quietly.

Dr. McKyer says, “First of all, John…may I call you John?”

I nod. Call me anytime, baby. If this weren’t a professional relationship you’d be calling me “Stallion.”

She says, “John, let me begin by making one thing clear. I don’t beat around the bush with my patients and I expect the same from them. We’re open and honest and truthful with each other. Now, having said that, I wish to tell you truthfully that you are not addicted to sex.”

“I’m not?”

“No, of course not. An addiction is a reaction to a biochemical imbalance. It’s an uncontrollable craving for a substance which the body doesn’t produce. When you smoke a cigarette, the nicotine triggers a chemical reaction which creates the need for more nicotine. Since your body doesn’t produce nicotine naturally, it has to ingest it by smoking more cigarettes. You can be addicted to nicotine or alcohol or caffeine. Sex is a natural bodily function. You can’t be addicted to sex any more than you can be addicted to food or water. So whatever you think your problem is, you’re not addicted to sex.”

I’m puzzled. This is something I’ve never heard before.

Dr. McKyer continues. “So, why are you here? In your own words. Be as direct as possible.”

“Okay,” I say. You asked for it. “I love to fuck. Women. I love to fuck women. All kinds, shapes, sizes, colors, whatever. I love everything about them and I want to do everything to them, from A to Z. I want to aardvark them, I want to xylophone them, I want to zygote them. Mostly, I want to fuck them.”

To my surprise, Dr. McKyer isn’t shocked or horrified. She says, “Continue.” It sounds like a purr.

I say, “I crave as much sex as possible with as many women as possible. All the time. I obsess about it. I see a woman walking down the street I want to strike up a conversation with her, fuck her brains out, and then ask if she’s got a friend. I love following a woman as she walks, watching her butt wiggling back and forth and wanting to hike up her skirt and do her doggie-style. I love staring at a woman as she sits and reads or works or talks, watching the way her throat moves and picturing her throat moving as she’s sucking my cock. I love the curve of a woman’s back and the shape of her hips. I love looking at her soft, smooth belly and her cleavage and the way her nipples poke through her blouse. I love staring at her legs when they’re crossed, one over the other, and I angle to look down her shirt at her tits or up her skirt for a glimpse of her panties or even better, her pubic hair.

“I love a woman’s pussy. The way she moans when I suck on her nipples or run my hand along the curve of her ass. I love pressing the palm of my hand against her clit and feeling the warm wetness of her pink flesh. I love to taste her on my tongue and listen to her sigh when I stick my finger or my tongue or my cock inside her. I love to fuck a woman every way possible; me on top, her on top, her legs on my shoulders, doggie style, sitting up, lying side by side. I love doing it in the shower, in the pool, in a changing room in a department store, in my car, in an elevator, on a balcony. I love making love, slowly lying on top of her and gently thrusting, and I like fucking her up the ass with my hand in her hair and making her scream.”

“And how often do you get a chance to fuck this woman,” Dr. McKyer asks.

“Women. Plural. As often as I can. Every one I can get naked. Yesterday was a slow day for me. I fucked my girlfriend in the morning, her best friend an hour later, my secretary at lunch, my ex-wife on my way home, and my girlfriend twice more before I called it a night. That wasn’t enough for me. I did my neighbor this morning, got a blowjob from my girlfriend on the way over here, and I hit on your secretary twenty minutes ago.”

“And how is this a problem?”

“Hello! I’ve gone through three marriages. I’ve never had affairs on any of my wives but they just can’t deal with my having a few fuckbuddies here and there. Sex and fucking are all I think about twenty-four hours a day. I’m sick! I’m a pervert! I can’t go on like this!”

“I see, Mr. Traxell! Your problem is perfectly clear!” Dr. McKyer stands up and she throws her pad and pen on her desk.

“It is?” I’m a little startled. Dr. McKyer seems….excited.

She kicks off her shoes. “Yes, Mr. Traxell. You’re suffering from repressed feelings of guilt from your enthusiastic sex drive. You think that just because you like sex and you like to verbalize and actualize your passion, there’s something wrong with you.” She unbuttons her blouse, showing off a bright red half-bra right out of the Frederick’s of Hollywood catalog. Her nipples are peeking out from behind the lacy fabric, as round and as hard as two flesh-colored quarters.

I say, “Uh….Doctor…” It’s all I can get out. I’m staring at Dr. McKyer’s breasts.

She says, “Mr. Traxell, I used to suffer under the same delusion as you, constantly craving sex and feeling shame for my craving, until I created my own therapeutic treatment plan, designed to release me of my preconceived, repressive notions about sex. I call it the ‘Fuck’em All’ regimen.” She wriggles her hips and removes her skirt. She’s wearing crotchless panties that match the bra. There’s a tiny tuft of well-trimmed, dark pubic hair just above the pink flesh of her pussy. “What you need, Mr. Traxell, is an aggressive program of enthusiastic sexual experiences, which will re-program your brain into accepting the notion that it’s okay to want to fuck your brains out at every opportunity.”

I can’t say anything.

In a flash, Dr. McKyer is on her knees in front of me, unbuckling my pants and then pulling them down around my ankles. My erection is pointing straight up.

Dr. McKyer eyes my cock with enthusiasm in her eyes. “I say we begin your therapy right now.” She runs her tongue softly along the shaft.

I manage to get out the words, “You’re the doctor.”

“Excellent! Just a moment!” Dr. McKyer reaches behind her and picks up the telephone. She presses a button and speaks into it, while she strokes my cock with her hand. She says, “Rachel? Has Miss Burke arrived for her appointment yet? Excellent. Why don’t you send her right in?” Dr. McKyer holds the earpiece against her shoulder. She says, “Miss Burke is a lesbian with repressed heterosexual tendencies. We’re working to let her inner straight out to play. I think this is the perfect opportunity to kill two birds with one stone, don’t you?” Dr. McKyer stands up and speaks into the telephone again. “And while you’re at it, Rachel, sign Mr. Traxell up for our Tuesday night session. Seven P.M.” Dr. McKyer hangs up and quickly puts a condom on my penis. She spreads her legs and straddles the chair, and then lowers herself into my lap, with my cock going deeply into her.

I groan. “What’s Tuesday at seven P.M.?”

Dr. McKyer begins thrusting her hips back and forth. “That’s our group night.”

© 2003 J.T. Benjamin. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

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