Abused Counselors Ch 01

Phyllis Barbarosa dawdled over her lunchtime Peach yogurt. Dark haired at 45, her strong face with high cheekbones, porcelain skin and long, lean frame were any man's delight. She wore a white, silk blouse, dark hose and dark flat shoes. Her hands were delicate and strong, her nails painted red. Her blue eyes were her best feature. Only small wrinkles around her eyes betrayed her age.

Her friend Ginger Bain, a plump, grandmotherly woman of 55 with shocking red hair bustled in with files under her arm and a fast food bag in her hand. She wore a brown business suit, a tie with a pearl pin, and her brown eyes were under furrowed brows. "Coming down already," she sighed, "It's going to be shit getting home tonight. You'll have to be careful."

"Yeah. How was your morning?"

"Long and drawn out. Three sessions, slow going. Being a counselor is harder work that I ever thought. You?"

"About the same. It's tough to give people good advice and have them ignore it."

Ginger sighed and shrugged her shoulders. "The only good part is we get paid really well for it.

Phyllis shook her head and spooned another mouthful in. "Yeah. And the fringe benefits. Got any appointments this afternoon?"

"One, " she said, unwrapping her burger and fries. "Excessive guilt complex. Think I'll have to take it past his limits to get him out of his funk." Her brow furrowed as the catsup frustrated her attempts to open it with short nails.

Phyllis reached over and tore it open for her. "Another bank clerk?"

"Yeah. Already flogged him twice and he thinks he deserves more."

"Well, Ginger, you're the one to give it to him. It should break the monotony."

"Thanks, love. Though I'd rather be on the receiving end."

"Think I'll get there today," she said, licking a spoonful of whiteness with unnecessary wantonness.

"Oooh, lucky you. I'm envious; it's going to be another week before I can take it after my last aggressive patient."

"You never listen to me, Ginger. I told you never let that old German Stasi woman handcuff you."

Ginger shook off the reprimand and continued. "Read his file yet? What's he like?" She started on her lunch with gusto, devouring her food as if she were ending a three day fast.

Phyllis picked up a file and flicked it open. "Bank clerk, middle aged, single all his life. Somebody mad at the world, what life has dealt him, etc., etc. Has a boss who enjoys pushing his buttons. Raised by a smothering mother. Repressed sexuality, repressed ego, repressed damn near everything."

"Sounds like a challenge. Think he's ready to crack?"

"Oh yes. Just a matter of when."

"Can I watch through the 2 way?"

"Of course, Ginger. He's not coming in until 4:30. I'll return the favor and keep an eye on your session. How far are you going to push your dweeb?"

"What a dear you are. Oh, I'm going to push him a very long way indeed. Probably have to bust his balls." She took a glance at her watch. "Oops, gotta run. He's probably in the waiting room already."

"See you, soon, Ginger."

Ginger looked at her watch, gave Phyllis a smirk and bustled out. Ginger left in such a hurry her chubby body jiggled in three different directions as she exited. Phyllis glared at the storm and fished the last of her yogurt from the container before leaving to the observation room.

Later that afternoon, Mike Shealy sat timidly on his chair and looked across as his therapist. He was tall, heavy, his scalp half covered by greying hair, blue eyes distorted behind thick glasses. His faint blue shirt was damp with sweat under his suit, and his black tie reached only three quarters of the way to his belt. Shaking, he rubbed his hands in his lap as if still cold from the five block walk from his bank office.

Phyllis took down her reading glasses and put the file on her desk. "Mr. Shealy, how long were you in therapy with Dr. Jones?"

"Five years," his voice quavered, "once a week except vacations."

"And have you made progress with your inferiority complex?"

"Well, a little, but I'm a nobody. I don't matter in the grand scheme of life. I'm coping better, though, I can tell. Last night I slept pretty well, and only got up to pee."

"Married?"

"No. Never close. I did the bars when I was in my 20s, but it was humiliating." "Oh? How come?"

"I'm shy, not an initiator, can't get conversations started."

"And now you're around 50?"

"Yes, Dr. Barbarosa."

"Tell me about your work, Mr. Shealy."

"Well, I work down the street, been there for 25 years. Started as a teller and now I'm a private banker. Nothing but numbers from morning till night."

"Any chance of a promotion?"

"No," he said, twisting his hands in his lap. "Hit the ceiling there, I'm afraid."

"How's your relationship with your boss? Your coworkers?"

"I get along all right with everybody." His lip began to quiver.

"You sure about that?"

"Pretty much everybody."

"Let's try again. I don't even have to look at your file. You're not comfortable with somebody."

He looked at the ceiling and then back down in her direction. "Well, my boss pushes me. She has to, I'm a bit of a plodder. She says I goof off too much at work." His hands still rubbed each other, trembling, and his eyes flitted from one corner of the ceiling to another: he didn't look her straight in the eye.

"Do you goof off at work?"

"No, not much, really. Only when everything's caught up and nothing's happening."

"Does your boss abuse you?"

"I bet your pardon?" His eyes came to meet her in shock.

"Does she call you names? Make fun at your expense? Berate you in front of others?"

He looked down, his body still shaking and his hands still working in his lap. Phyllis kept her silence, waiting for him to speak, never taking her eyes off him. "Yes," he whispered.

"What does she call you?"

"Dumbass. Shithead. Idiot. Shit for brains. Jackoff."

"Do you deserve it?"

Another long pause. "No," came the faint reply.

"What do your coworkers do when she calls you those names?"

"Usually nothing." He began to lick his lips. "They look away, except Jeff, the owner's son. He joins in." He looked out the window and said almost inaudibly. "The little twerp."

Phyllis shifted in her chair, her panties starting to dampen in anticipation. She knew where he could go with his anger, which buttons to push, and how she wanted to use it.

"Tell me about your sex life."

"What sex life?"

She shook her head and pushed onward. "Do you have a girlfriend? Boyfriend?"

He looked at her strangely again. "Boyfriend?" he said with a high, indignant voice. "I am a God fearing Christian, Doctor, and I've never had improper feelings for any man. Ever."

"My apologies, I didn't know. Have to ask these days, nothing personal. Do you have a girlfriend?"

"No. Not ever."

"Your boss calls you gay?" He looked away and gave a quick nod of his head.

She made some notes on a pad in front of her. "It's not like I don't want a woman. . ." he blurted out.

"I know, Mr. Shealy, I know. Do you fantasize?" A nod. "Masturbate?" Another indignant look, which she met calmly. "I'm a counselor, Mr. Shealy, this is in strictest confidence."

"Yes."

"How often?"

"Twice a week."

"Do you use pornography to get aroused?" "Yes. And I imagine my coworkers, you know, going out with. . ."

"Your boss included?"

He sniffed and shook his head, however his foot started tapping on the floor rapidly. "That bitch turns off my libido. I don't care how good looking she is, or how much Jeff lusts after her, I'd never. . ."

"Even if she asked?" Another sniff. "Maybe you'd like to punish her?"

"Yeah. I'd love to spank the shit out of her."

Phyllis stirred in her seat and thought quickly. Now she had to control herself; inwardly, she congratulated herself on her assessment, and shifted her weight as she contemplated her next move. "How about your childhood? Are your parents still alive?"

"No, Doctor. I lost them in an auto accident three years ago."

"Tell me about them," asked gently, taking the reading glasses off her head.

"Well, Dad was a street sweeper, and Mom worked at a laundry."

"Were they good parents?"

"They were my parents, ya know. Everybody thinks their Mom and Dad are normal. They raised me and my older sisters very strictly, kept us in line, and yes, we got swatted if we misbehaved. That was the way it was."

"Did you feel closer to one parent than the other?"

"Mom. Dad usually worked two jobs. Mom took care of me, I talked to her. Dad almost never said anything."

"You were the youngest?"

"Yeah."

"How did you lose your virginity?"

He began tapping his foot and looked out the window at the sleet. "My sister Joan. I was thirteen, the folks were both at work. She was nearest me in age. My older sisters were already gone, working. It was two days before Christmas. It was wonderful, we did it all day and every chance we could for the next two weeks. Until we got caught."

"What happened then?"

"Dad whipped our asses until they almost fell off. Mom was so ashamed, she didn't talk to us until Easter, after we went to Confession."

"I'm sorry. Is Joan still alive?"

"No. Cancer took her, ten years ago."

Phyllis got up behind her desk, and opened a drawer, taking something out while Mike looked down, lost in his memories. He was still twisting his hands, and his foot was tapping rapidly. She came around the desk to stand directly in front of him. "Mr. Shealy, I'd like do to some role play with you."

He looked up perplexed. "I've done that before. It's never worked."

"I think I have something new for you."

His worried gestures ceased and he looked up at her with an open mouth. "Okay, I guess. What do you have in mind?"

"You have a lot of anger built up, Mr. Shealy--may I call you Mike?" He nodded uncertainly. "Good, and call me Phyllis from now on. I want you to imagine I'm your boss."

He waved his hand and turned away dismissively. "Been there, done that."

"Only this time in addition to telling her what you think of her, Mike, I want you to act on your feelings."

"How?"

"I will provide the opportunity."

"Are you sure this is a good idea, Phyllis? Lots of anger there."

She came a quick, nervous shake of her head. "Oh yes, Mike, I'm pretty tough. I'll let you know if you're going too far. I'll say yellow if I want you to slow down and red if I want you to quit what you're doing."

He thought for a moment and said uncertainly: "Okay."

"You said you'd like to spank your boss, didn't you?" He nodded his head. She turned around and lifted her black skirt, exposing two large, well rounded mounds in a light green thong. "Well, Mike, here's the butt cheeks of the woman who makes your life a living hell. Let her have it."

"This is a little weird, Phyllis."

"Give it try, Mike. Trust me, it works." She wiggled her ass at him invitingly. "This is your boss's ass. Give it a spank."

He looked away and his hands shook. "This is more than a little weird."

"Does this look like her ass?"

"Yes. Hers is just about like this, nicely rounded. She always wears knee length dresses at the office."

"You've noticed her ass as she walked away from you?"

"Yes. I'm not blind."

"Teasing you. Playing with you. Making you look but not letting you near."

"You could say that." Phyllis' voice changed to a harsh, mocking tone. "You dipshit. How could you screw up that badly? You're so damn dumb." Tentatively, he gave her beautifully rounded white ass a tap. "Oh, come on, you can do better than that," she ordered. A slightly louder twack rang out. "I barely felt that." Another. The tone of her voice switched back to demanding, abusive tone. "Come on, Dumbass. Shithead. Idiot. Shit for brains. Jackoff. You can do better." She worked her cheeks as she taunted him, switching them back and forth.

Mike gritted his teeth and began spanking Phyllis harder. She leaned over her desk and closed her eyes as he took out his frustrations, still working her ass. After a couple of minutes he stopped suddenly. "Done already?" she asked.

"My hand hurts. My hands are very sensitive."

"There's a strap on my desk. Give that a try."

He stood up and saw the leather lying on her otherwise immaculate desk. "I don't know."

"C'mon you little faggot. Queer. Fudgepacker. Fairy. C'mon, you fag. Hit my ass."

Mike stood up, took the strap and started spanking her hard with the foot long implement, gradually turning her ass light red. The aroma of her crotch soon filled the room, and she moaned as her skin grew hotter and hotter. She kept goading him: "You gotta work Saturday, stupid, make those numbers right. It's a miracle I don't fire your ass, you damned moron. You only make my job harder, you dumbass." He moved back and forth methodically, compulsively turning her lily white skin redder and redder. It was beet red when he stopped. She turned and looked at him, smiling. "Feel better?"

"Yes, yes." His foot was tapping as he put the ruler back on the desk. His eyes were fixed on her, and darted away. She craned her head sideways, looking at him with searching eyes. "I'm not sure. You're still anxious."

"Yes," he whispered, looking at the floor.

"How come?"

"Dunno. Still mad at her. Still mad at the slut." He turned around and looked at the back wall.

"You still have some issues to work out. She dresses well?"

"Oh, yes. Fancy suits, lacy blouses every day."

"Nice hair, makeup?"

"Lovely."

"What's her name?"

"Elizabeth, Elizabeth Bloom, but her friends call her Betty."

"Betty Bloom, Betty Bloom, Betty Boobs! All right, Betty Boobs. Does that work for you?"

"Yeah." He sat and thought for a moment and chuckled. "Right, sounds good to me. Betty Boobs. Some of the kids around the office call her that."

Letting him stew for a moment, she started to unbutton her white silk blouse. "Does your boss have nice tits?" she asked.

"Yes, they're huge," he said to the back wall. "She wears low cut blouses all the time, especially when Jeff's around. Probably got a boob job."

She unbuttoned her blouse and pulled it back, revealing a generously filled lacy green bra. "Like this?"

He turned to look at her, astonished. "Yeah, but hers aren't as big at that. What are you doing, Dr. Barbarosa--I mean, Phyllis?"

The front clasp came undone and two full breasts fell out. There was a little sag, the skin was porcelain and her nipples were generous. "These aren't fake like hers probably are, but given a little imagination, they'll do. Are the nipples as big as Betty Boobs'?"

His eye almost bugged out of his head and his mouth opened. After a few moments he blurted out: "Hell, yes. I've seen them through her blouse almost everyday. Two inches wide, just like yours."

"Mocking you. Turning you on when she's yelling at you."

"Yes. Can't stand up with the hardon. Embarrassing."

"Look at then. Yell at them. Yell at Betty Boobs."

Shanking his head, he was transfixed for a short time before he surfaced from his surprise. His face came forward a little and he yelled at her breasts. "You slut. You damned slut. Wiggling your ass at the owner. Wiggling your ass at Jeff."

Her voice grew rough. "I ought to fire your stupid ass, Michael, you're such an idiot. You're a waste of space. And you're a fucking wimp, with an empty nutsack. You've got no balls, Mike, no balls at all."

"Damn you, bitch, damn you. You turn me on and I hate you, Betty Boobs."

"Come over here behind me." Mechanically, he walked around behind her as ordered. "Now reach around and touch them. It's all right, don't worry." He tentatively did as she asked and gingerly placed his hands on her breasts. "Don't be afraid. How long's it been since you've touched a woman's boobs, Mike?"

"Ah, don't remember."

"Well, reacquaint yourself with the memory. Just rub them and knead them." He complied tentatively at first, then with more and more relish. His breath on her neck was moist and heavy and she smiled as she drank in the sensations. "Now, imagine these are Betty Boobs. Hidden from you every day, toying with you every day. The inaccessible boobs, the boobs that flirt at others but not at you. They make you hard and embarrass you. Squeeze them, savor the feel." He gave them a squeeze, making her breath short and her eyes close. "Yes, yes, yes, again harder, ohohoh, yes, play with the nipples, make Betty Boobs know you're there." Her nipples were fully erect and he milked them. "Harder, harder, remember these aren't the tits that want you. Betty Boobs wants the Jeff's soft little pansy hands." His started grabbing more and more flesh; taking a chance and twisting her nipples, making her cry out. "Yes, big man, yes, do it again. Take charge of Betty Boobs."

He started to knead them harder, pinching and tweaking; her face was lost in sensation. After fifteen minutes' play he stopped and moved around in front of her. "How do you feel now, Mike?"

His foot was tapping and his eyes a little frantic. "Better--better. It's been so long. You have nice breasts, Phyllis."

"No, Mike, they're not mine. These are Betty Boobs, who hates you, who likes to make fun of you, the woman who makes your work day hell."

He looked away and looked back, his foot tapping. "Oh, I don't know."

"You don't know what?"

"I don't know what I'd do with those--those--those. . ."

"Betty Boobs, if you ever had the chance." He nodded, looking down. "Would you like to do something?" He nodded again. "Something nasty, something that will make her hurt?" Another nod. "Smack them." A confused look crossed his face, his hand rising up and going down a couple of times. "Smack Betty Boobs, make her hurt. It's worse than an ass paddling, trust me. Smack her." A slap and a red mark appeared on her left breast. "That's all you can do, you pansy? Queer. Fag. Worthless sun of a bitch." A louder slap, and a couple more. "Stupid dipshit. Moron. Cocksucker. That's it, keep it up. Dimwit."

"My hands hurt."

"Remember the strap you used on Betty's ass. Nice, soft leather. Use it again." She put her hands behind her head, making her breasts stand up with her saucer sized nipples perking in the chill.

"Are you sure I should do that to you?"

"Never mind about me. Let Betty Boobs have it." A couple of taps touched her skin, and she began goading him with the harsh voice, changing to a softer voice to direct him: "Dumbass. Idiot. You screwed up again. You'll have to stay late, overtime. Ouch. Mandatory overtime, till you get it right. Don't know why I don't fire your sorry ass right now, ow, ow, ow. That's good, Mike, let it out. You screwed up the figures, the auditors will roast you. Ouch. Stupid. Ow. Shit for--owoo!--brains. You can't take a personal day--ouch--you have to work Saturday. Ow-woo!" He paused for a moment and she changed to the softer voice: "Good, Mike, you're doing well. Keep it up, get that frustration out of your system. Take it out on Betty Boobs." Her voice went back into hard mode: "C'mon shitbrain, stupid, dumbass." Several more blows started turning the delicate white flesh pink. "Hit the nipples, they're big enough. You can't miss them. Ow, yes! Dumbfuck, pansy ass, idiot, Owoowoowoowoowoo!

He landed the strap across both her nipples, making the breasts swing, then swatting them back and forth methodically. "You damn bitch," he yelled. "You push me around and expect me to be nice to you. Fuck you, fuck your ass. Fuck your goddamn tits that make me so hard and cream my pants. I'll show you, you bitch. I'll make you pay for your arrogant shit." She started sweating and chewing her lip, letting out little mews of pain but standing perfectly still, holding her tits high. Both her nipples were caught again with a single blow, then he gave each one three hard smacks quickly.

"That's it, let her have it, let Betty Boobs have it. Ow!" Her knees buckled at an especially sharp blow. "At last," she whispered, then changed to her agitator voice. "Mike, you're so damn stupid. You've been here 25 years and you've learned nothing. Ouch, ouch, yes." After a few last frantic swats, he sat down breathing heavily. She put her arms down and stood there, her tits burning, using all her self-discipline to keep from touching them. "How do you feel now, Mike?"