The Psychiatrist

6.54 a.m.

I elicit a muffled whimper as Miriam stuffs the ball gag between my lips. It's entirely theatrical on my part, though I do adore the clinch of the leather strap as the bubblegum pink orb fills my mouth and the buckle is pulled tight. But this is for the crowd, for the multitude of eyes blinking back at me from the waters edge.

I hadn't noticed the coterie arriving at first. There's perhaps fifteen or so. My ears burn with the anticipatory hum of their voices, my stomach churns with every occasional stifled giggle that's entirely at my expense, all of which adds its elicit cocktail to the hedonistic tranquility.

Miriam picked the cove, it's the one we found during a ramble the previous day, with the craggy rock sticking out of the ocean and the little sandy beach.

I made up a picnic basket - cucumber sandwiches, some nibbles, a bottle of Miriam's favourite Chardonnay and a cheese assortment. But I never even got to lay out the patchwork rug. At least there's refreshments for the madding crowd.

The tide's coming in. Waves start to crash against the sloping boulder that Miriam's tied me to, sending frothy white foam fizzing excitedly into the air, only for it to crash back down across my prone body. It ought to be refreshing, what with the searing tropical sun beating down from above, but every droplet to kiss my bare skin has me shuddering just a little more than the last.

I lift my head and stare back towards the beach. Miriam's wandered back to shore and is talking with the other women who've gathered on the sand. She's laughing, maybe even flirting with a particularly attractive butch woman.

I lurch down a rabbit hole of frenetic, lurid thinking. My mind tends to be a constant whir of incessant thoughts, unwanted and otherwise, but stimulated it goes completely haywire. Does Butch like what she sees? Is my exposure arousing to her? Can she see how wet I am? Of course she can. They all can. They can see everything.

That was Miriam's plan all along. It's why she'd had me sunbathe all summer in the same tie sided bikini, so my bushy cunt and big tits glimmer starkly from a triumvirate of pristine milk white tan lines on my otherwise bronzed body.

It's why she's bound my wrists and ankles to a rock protruding so prominently from the deep blue sea. It's why she slid the clover clamps across the fleshy pink hue of my areola and let them bite down on my nipples.

It's why she pulled on the clover's chain, stretching my teats whilst slapping my pussy, over and over again, edging me relentlessly, only to step back and away, with an order that I mustn't cum.

I want to make Miriam proud. I'll do anything, absolutely anything she wants, and she wants to show me off to her new friends. She's proud of what she owns and wants it to be seen and enjoyed by others, like a prized collection of heels gleaming from inside a luxurious walk-in wardrobe, or a new painting beaming from under the soft glow of an overhanging lamp.

I'm on display. For her pleasure. It's not enough to have me cavort about on the nudist beach. That's far too gauche. Instead I have been arranged, just so, my calves trussed to my thighs in two impeccable rope ties that spread my legs with sophisticated elegance, my wrists bound above my head, on a singular rock poking provocatively from an expanse of ocean overlooked by a delightfully quaint cove.

I can't help but wonder what they're talking about whilst they drink wine and eat the sandwiches I prepared. It's probably something embarrassing. Do I want it to be? Maybe.

I want Miriam to be sharing anecdotes of how I kneel at the foot of the bed and beg to lick her asshole. I want that to be why the butch is staring out towards me with such a hungry look in her eyes. Tell her more Miriam, like how you spank me when I'm naughty, or how you pissed on me in the forest yesterday, before I went down on you as you sat across the collapsed tree trunk and watched the sunset...

Sunlight abruptly pierces the dark recesses of my slumber. I groan demonstrably and recoil under my duvet like a stricken vampire. There's no escaping the inevitable, and I won't make it back to the nudist retreat of my comatose fantasies, not this morning, anyway.

Instead, Miriam's shrill, perversely joyous tone begins coaxing me out from asunder - 'Good morning Molly! Time to wake up!'

About the only thing she doesn't do is ring a bell.

I peek out through a crack in the bedsheet and watch her turn away from the freshly drawn curtains. She's asking how I slept, like she does every morning.

'I think I slept well...d'you think I slept well?' I mumble, gazing adoringly up at her as she tugs methodically at the tie of her robe and lets it fall open. She looks back at me with faux disapproval as I defiantly clutch the duvet in my fingers.

'It's cold.' I offer grouchily.

I've probably bemoaned that truism every morning since the beginning of winter, whilst gleefully knowing the antidote to every ghastly early wake up is but moments away.

Cold air briefly whooshes into my cocoon hideaway with uninvited gusto as the duvet is wrenched from my grasp. Miriam clambers into bed beside me. Her scent immediately cavorts about me - that intoxicatingly reassuring, uniquely heady morning mixture of yesterday's perfume, today's first cup of coffee, and bed head from last night's sleep.

'I do think you slept well.' Miriam belatedly answers, wrapping an arm around me as the other cups her sagging bosom expectantly. I latch on, whinnying like the needy, desperate woman I am, and the most wondrous sense of calm washes over me.

We lie like that for ten minutes or so, conjoined, with Miriam intermittently switching me from one breast to the other. I could lie like this for hours, as she runs her fingers through my hair and tells me the breaking news stories she's read that morning. It's always politics and global issues, Miriam isn't one for celebrity gossip or pop culture. And it's edited for innocent ears. She precluded me from reading the news almost as swiftly as she took me under her wing.

'You don't need to be worrying yourself over such things. I'll tell you what you need to be made aware of.' She explained, six months back, shortly after we first met. That was when I still only knew Miriam as Doctor Miriam Chapplehouse.

I was calling her Miriam by our fourth session together, though she's sworn me to secrecy over the swiftness of it all. She worries about what people will think, what with me having been a patient of hers. But the heart knows what the heart wants, and besides, Jung had an affair with a client, and he's still revered as some kind of psychiatric guru. Miriam says that's irrelevant, that men are prone to sexual impropriety and should never be deemed a measuring stick for anything.

'It was male impropriety that played a large part in why you came to see me in the first place.' She offered in riposte to my laissez-faire attitude to our secret tryst.

'Well there you have it, sometimes male impropriety can lead to good things.' I retorted cheekily, whilst grinning churlishly.

I took twenty five from her favourite paddle, to my ass, over her desk, for that. Those are the sort of memories a girl dreams of.

Anyway, long story short, Miriam has made it all better. Even the nightmares have dissipated. They'd gotten so bad that I was scared to go to sleep, and when I woke at three a.m. I'd lie staring up at the ceiling, panting like I'd just smashed the back end of a triathlon.

'You're not broken beyond repair, but there's been some damage done.' Dr Chapplehouse explained, part way through session two.

I'd spilt my guts, told her everything. We were making progress, she said, and I needn't be frightened anymore. And as she uttered those words of reassurance I looked up from where I lay, eyes wide as cutesy saucers and blurted it out.

'I don't know if this is some Florence Nightingale shit, but I'm like absolutely desperate to go to bed with you.'

The good doctor looked aghast. I was discharged from her care with immediate effect, and told to leave, though not before she'd scribbled furiously onto some notepaper and thrust it into my jeans pocket.

8pm sharp. My place. One minute late and it's already over.

She put rules in place, and structure, even simple things like avoiding the news had reason and purpose. I never questioned it, because it worked, and everyday I gleaned reassurance in her words, 'Miriam will look after you. All you need to do is follow the rules. That's all Miriam asks for and wants.'

I guess that's how we came to have our morning routine. It feels like it's always been this way, where Miriam elopes from our bed at five a.m. and then returns to get me up at an hour she feels is better suited to my more sensitive disposition.

I'm her submissive, if you haven't already deduced as much. We're kinky. You've probably worked that out, too. More than some. Less than others. Different kink to yours? Possibly. Not that I give a fuck.

What I do give a fuck about is that I met a woman, a much older woman, and from the first moment she took my hand it was as if she had the key to calming my soul.

I always feel so safe in her arms, and she reminds me of that each morning - holding me tight as I suckle furiously on her bosom with my pussy rubbing up against her thigh. On the weekends she'll have me go down on her, too, but today isn't the weekend, so that'll have to wait.

7.15 am

I make the bed, do my ablutions and pull on my new Minnie Mouse dressing gown. It's pink, and furry, and has ears and a bow on the hood. I love it! Miriam brought it home with her last night and I've been wearing it ever since. She does stuff like that, like little surprises to remind me that she's always thinking about me. It even matches my booties.

My hair's finally gotten long enough to do stuff with. I shaved it all off during my great depression. Self destruction is a dark beast. But that was before.

'You're such a pretty little thing. There's no need to hide that anymore, nobody can hurt you now. That's why you shaved off those pretty locks in the first place, isn't it?'

It was as if she had a window into my soul. But I suppose that made sense, what with it being her job n'all. I first found her business card snuggled into the booze stained broadloom of a downtown hotel room - the sort that charges by the hour.

I was getting fucked in the ass by a sweaty guy with a fat gut and a snub nosed cock. The shame of it is that he actually made me cum, twice. He was my first and only professional client. I admit it, I was a one time hooker.

My one and only kerb crawler insisted on calling me Darlene, on account of it being his daughter's name. It was uncanny how alike we looked, apparently, it's why he'd picked me and it's why I had to get it in the ass, 'cause Darlene needed to take it in the ass, so he said, with spittle frothing at the edges of his mouth. I should've charged him more for the bespoke nature of it, but being a cheap whore felt so much more degrading, and that was the whole fucking point.

It was as his grubby palm pressed my head into the mattress that I noticed Miriam's little ivory card out of the corner of my eye, with its embossed mantra calling out to me in dark italics.

Expert help for the lost. Call Dr Miriam Chapplehouse on 0800 121 7676

There were more of her cards in the drawer of the side table beside the bed. I guess she had an inkling on where to find fucked up, suicidal women on the verge of their first nervous breakdown.

Who knew that embarking on a life of whoring would lead to meeting the woman of my dreams? The fates can be darkly comedic like that, or at least they have been with me.

I'm easily distracted, so I get to playing in the bathroom mirror - pink scrunchies, high or low pig tails, perhaps even Dutch braids...hmmm. These are the biggest decisions I have to make these days, thanks to Miriam. My name's Molly, by the way, if that's important to you. I identify as fucked up and my pronouns are kiss my ass. Age is just a number, too.

Miriam calls up from the kitchen - 'C'mon sweetheart, chop-chop, breakfast's on the table and I need to get ready for work.'

I scamper downstairs and plonk myself at the table. Miriam's waiting with a bowl of yoghurt and blueberries.

'I love you Miriam.' I offer, plunging my spoon into the cultured probiotic.

'I love you more.' Miriam replies, leaning over me and kissing the top of my head, 'Miriam will always love you the most. That's just how it is.'

I want her to fuck me, right there and then, so I give her the doe eyes, but she drops an f-bomb, gasps over the time and declares rhetorically that she'd better hurry up and get her ass dressed for the office.

I don't know how Miriam does it - the whole high profile rat race thing, I mean. But I suppose that's the point. She's the Domme, the alpha who takes it all in her stride. Whereas I'm a hyper-sexual fruitcake with concentration issues and acute anxiety.

I think I read somewhere that beta girls should always be wet and horny. It's the kind of insane shit I use to normalise my less than normal proclivities. But no one's normal, are they? Isn't that just a kinder term for being boring as fuck?

I enjoy being entirely beholden to Miriam in every way. I glean something desperately beautiful from my absolute submission. It's hard to pinpoint when that submission became complete and utter dependence, I guess you could say it happened organically, somewhere between our first fifty minute therapy session and the moment I rang the door bell of her palatial townhouse and gingerly stepped inside, thirty two seconds before the clock struck eight.

'It's open!'

Dr Chapplehouse was waiting at the top of the stairs in nothing but an unfastened charmeuse nightgown, with a glass of wine in her hand and a phat strap-on twitching expectantly from a bejewelled lilac harness that had the privilege of being wrapped around her waist.

I remember thinking how wonderfully lithe she was, like an elegant willow, mature, statuesque and impeccably at ease.

She fucked me over the pedestal desk in her office. It might have been her home office, but we both knew the reasoning behind her choice. She got to do what she'd somehow restrained herself from doing earlier that afternoon in her professional domain. I begged for it in a cacophony of riotous groans and triumphant yelps. We've been together ever since.

8.05 am

'Be a good girl and do all your chores, or there will be a sore bottom when I get home.' Miriam declares, whilst checking her watch, shrieking at what she sees, and then planting a lingering kiss on my forehead.

I grin cheekily as she steps out the front door clutching the leather briefcase I bought her as a thank you gift. She looks so stylish in her patent heels and pin stripe trouser suit.

She tosses the case onto the passenger seat of her Evoque and shouts something about how she's giving a presentation at eleven, that she'll be home before I know it, and that I'm 'just the absolute cutest thing in the whole world'.

I cringe and wonder how many of the neighbours heard her, but I'm secretly gushing inside.

8.07 am

There's always a brief moment of mourning when I shut the front door and it's just little ole me left in the house. I miss Miriam lots and lots when she's out doing work things.

She does a lot of corporate stuff these days, like going into huge companies and telling them how to best minimise the amount of staff they have throwing themselves off tall buildings or out of windows. Apparently it pays 'disgracefully well'.

I don't have anything to do with money at all. My job is to look after the house, and to be Miriam's fucktoy, little bitch, holes for use, slut, and whipped/smacked/slapped brat, whenever she requires it of me.

I load the dishwasher and peer out the kitchen window as an elderly lady ambles passed with three pugs pulling excitedly on a web of leads extending from somewhere inside a crusty fur coat. It distracts me from wondering how on earth Miriam managed to use nearly every pot we own to make the chicken kebabs we had for dinner last night.

8.13 am

Onto the laundry. I delve into the wicker basket atop the stairs and discover a plethora of sweaty t-shirts, some leggings, numerous socks, and several pairs of knickers, including a pair of Miriam's black lace panties. It feels oddly inappropriate, but I can't help myself and press them up to my nose adoringly. Her scent acts like a tonic to any malaise I might have been feeling, and I trudge contentedly back downstairs and stuff the coloured wash into the machine.

I've come a long way in six months. I was a nervous wreck when I walked through the door of Doctor Miriam Chapplehouse's psychiatric practise, literally a shuddering, whimpering, weeping wallflower, wantonly hoping to be institutionalised - for my own good. It was pretty much the first thing I said.

'I like your glasses and I think I need to be put in an asylum, maybe forever.'

Silence. Like literally no response whatsoever.

I considered dashing back out and off down the street. I was way out of my depth up in Snootyville anyways. My bad, sorry for wasting your time, I'll be off now...

But then the psychiatrist of all my fantasies peered over her glasses at me and made the vaguest gesture towards a delightful Selini chaise longue.

It was perfectly in keeping with the office, which was the typical uptown type - the sort that has a gold plaque beside a pristine mahogany front door. Even an incontinent tramp would have left the doorway unsoiled, out of respect, such was its immaculate lustre.

Miriam was seated in a an authoritative black swivel chair out front of a Mascagni desk. She offered a sterilised smile as I fidgeted on her luxury sofa. I'd gotten the whole patient lusting for Psychiatrist thing going on before she'd even uttered a word.

For some unfathomable reason I then doubled down on needing to be put in a nuthouse and reiterated how I digged her glasses. They were oversized and bright red, which seemed to play perfectly against the more traditional white blouse and grey check culottes she'd paired with some extremely elegant heels. I felt like a right bag of crap in my blim-burnt leggings, hoodie and scuffed Adidas. I don't know how she ever got passed it, to be honest.

8.35 am

I check my phone and take a slurp of cold coffee. Miriam's texted from the office.

...I love you sooooooooo much. I'm so proud to own you xxxx...

I run my fingers over the slim silver collar affixed around my neck, suddenly feeling all tingly from reading her message. And aroused. There's something about reading that statement - that I'm owned, that I'm her property. It gets my juices flowing.

...I love you sooooooo much too, Miriam. All I want is to serve you and be the best I can be. I'm so grateful that you felt I was worth taking ownership of xxxx...

We had a collar ceremony. It was two months in. I don't know why I was surprised by the quality of the jewellery Miriam affixed around my neck. I guess I'd just assumed it would be something from an online sex retailer, rather than a hand made bespoke piece with the date inscribed beside mine and Miriam's names. It even came in a beautiful velvet covered box, which I keep in the top of my wardrobe in the spare room.

8.55 am

I do battle with the vacuum cleaner as a little bit of rain dances off the windows. The carpets are immaculate afterwards, and I've enjoyed Karen Dalton serenading me via the giant all-encompassing headphones Miriam bought me after she accidentally sat on my old pair.

10.18 am

The little bit of rain dissipates, so I smoke my first joint of the day whilst idling on the swing Miriam hung from the apple tree at the bottom of the garden. Thoughts include, how come Karen Dalton wasn't better known? And, why does the steroid abusing meathead next door keep peering out of his window at me? Is it because he can see the spliff I'm smoking, or because my Minnie Mouse dressing gown is hanging languidly about my person in such a manner as to elude to my bare cunt and braless tits? It marginally fucks with my chi, but not enough to ruin the moment.