Cognitive Behavioral

I - The Healing Process

I can't believe I ever doubted therapy.

I should have started early, it was silly of me not to. I want to stop feeling sad all the time, and I want to become the best version of myself.

Here's the problem, though, right? Best is a subjective term. What does best entail, here? What qualities does that version of me possess, what attributes?

My lingering suspicion was that you couldn't really trust a therapist, that they'd try to mold you into what was their idea of the best version of yourself.

I know better, now.

Dr. Merrick has been very helpful in addressing the key questions I used to ask myself. Here's another vexing example...

How does therapy even work?

On the face of it, it shouldn't, right? How can mere words make you feel better? It sounds like magic, when you put it like that. But it's more complicated than that.

Our brains are optimised for energy-saving. That's just evolution.

Unfortunately, the consequences for the individual are not entirely pleasant. We fall into automatic patterns of thought, because it takes a lot less energy to go through your day mostly on autopilot than to exhaustively ponder every single thought that goes through your head.

When you get stuck into a bad automatic pattern, though...

Your brain starts torturing itself with sad thoughts. Negative thoughts. Self-destructive thoughts. Over, and over, and over.

No wonder I felt like I couldn't fight back against the gloom, the heavy limbs, the constant sense of disheartening heplessness.

I was trying to fight myself. Dr. Merrick has been very helpful in teaching me that, under absolutely no circumstance, I must never do that.

I must. Never. Fight. Back.

Especially not against him.

I need to be open and receptive to the nudging suggestions, to the changes, I need to let him help me. Because that's how therapy really helps you: it breaks the toxic pattern, replacing it with a positive one.

Sometimes, you just need someone to break that pattern for you.

Break...

It's okay to not be strong, when Dr. Merrick can be strong for me. It's okay to be on autopilot, so long as you're walking along a path that actually benefits you.

It makes so much sense, when you put it like that.

I used to worry that therapy would require me to open up a lot. To talk, and talk, and talk, to share and perhaps even justify and defend my feelings. It sounded exhausting, emotionally draining, but thankfully, that's not what's happening.

In fact, in my sessions with Dr. Merrick, I barely seem to do any talking at all...

Like now, for example. No talking whatsoever. Even if I wanted to, it'd be kinda hard. My mouth is busy, after all.

If I want to complain about the cold, hard floor pressing against my knees, I can just give a surreptitious mmph sound, while bobbing my head luxuriantly up and down.

If I want reassurance that the session is proceeding as intended, I can focus on Dr. Merrick's hand, resting on the back of my head, fingers tangled in my long, dark hair, guiding me as I service him.

But I don't need to do any of that. All I need to do is listen.

I relax as Dr. Merrick's voice cocoons me. He tells me how good it feels to submit, how natural it is for me to kneel and listen.

"Your depression and sadness stem from denying your true purpose," he says gently. "I see it in so many of my female patients. It's a prevalent ill in society, Felicia, and it's not your fault whatsoever. It's society's."

I feel myself nodding along as I suck him.

"You just suffer from girlboss syndrome," he says. "All the unfair expectations placed on you, all the pressure, the attempts to turn you into something you're not... it would send anyone into a spiral of automatic negative thinking."

I accept his words with relief. He's right, of course. I just needed help seeing the truth. I'm so lucky that I can gently rock back and forth, up and down, suckling mindlessly, while he cures me of girlboss syndrome.

"You're being made to measure up against an absurd ideal, and when you fail to match it, you're gaslit and guilt-tripped about it. But therapy can set you free."

Yes. This is all part of the healing process. With his guidance, everything makes so much sense now. I can practically feel the sadness and anxiety melting away, replaced by peaceful acceptance of my place in the universe.

An inherently feminine place.

The thought sends a surge of heat between my legs. I never realised how desperately I needed this. How much I needed a wise, strong, confident man to show me the way.

Perhaps to use me. Break me, remold me into his obedient little pet. I moan around his cock, overjoyed to know I'll soon be free of girlboss syndrome. I'll become a blank slate for him to write upon.

This is therapy at its finest.

"Good girl. You're going to forget all about those depressive feelings, all that silly feminism and independence. Nod if you understand, pet."

I feel Dr. Merrick's strong, controlling hand grip my hair tighter, nodding my head for me. Aww, that's so considerate of him. He really doesn't want me to exert myself, to feel the emotional drain of having to open up. He's moving my head for me, how sweet!

I'm perfectly happy to go along with it. That's what therapy is all about, after all.

"That's it, just like that," he says. "You were made for this, Felicia. Made for therapy, and made to serve men on your knees."

Of course I was. I've just been tricked into thinking otherwise. How cruel is a society that induces psychological syndromes in girls, just to feed us an illusion about who we can aspire to be?

The rhythmic bobbing of my head along his cock feels almost meditative, my mind emptying of all thought beyond the single-minded focus of bringing him satisfaction. My lips glide up and down. My mind heals. My depression recedes.

His deep, commanding voice echoes in my mind, reinforcing his words of wisdom that this is all for my benefit - that a good girl like me needs the firm and gentle hand of a dominant man to find true fulfillment.

I feel myself growing more pliant, more obedient. I'm becoming the best version of myself.

My jaw begins to ache, but I pay it no mind. Better an aching jaw than an aching soul. The only thing that matters is being his perfect little cocksleeve, eager to fulfill the role nature always intended for me.

I moan softly around him as he tells me what a good girl I'm being, how much progress I'm making. At this rate, I'll heal from girlboss syndrome in no time.

This feels too good. Too right to question.

How could I ever question therapy? I must never fight back.

My head bobs rhythmically in Dr. Merrick's lap as I let my mind go blissfully blank, focusing only on the feeling of his cock sliding over my tongue. I'm pillowing it with my lips, opening myself up to him both mentally and physically.

Letting him help me.

"With each bob of your head, you sink a little deeper into trance for me," Dr. Merrick says.

I moan softly around his cock in acknowledgment.

"Keep sucking. Keep sinking. To suck is to sink. Feel that fog filling your mind, clouding your thoughts. You're finding it harder and harder to think for yourself now, aren't you?"

I give a muffled moan of agreement, because it really does make perfect sense. You need to clean a slate, before you can rebuild anew. There's so much I need to unlearn, all the false truths that made me sick with girlboss syndrome.

Effectively, I need to unlearn the self. And once I'm just blank canvas, Dr. Merrick will get to fill that void with whatever is better for my mental health. Whatever helps me feel better.

With the best version of myself.

"To suck is to sink," Dr. Merrick says again as my pace quickens. "Girlboss syndrome is an insidious enemy. That's why the healing process starts with your simplification. Strong, independent thoughts don't become a pretty little pet like you."

My cunt grows slick and needy at his words, and my nipples stiffen beneath my blouse. My mind clouds more with each bob of my head, until thinking becomes difficult, unnecessary. Because to suck is to sink.

That's okay. All those unhappy thoughts would just get in the way of Dr. Merrick's words, after all.

Besides, my dark thoughts are exactly what I came here to shed, and so far, mission accomplished, right?

I move my mouth reverently up and down his dick, sinking deeper with each downstroke. Physically deeper... and mentally deeper, as well.

To suck is to sink.

This blowjob is my body's show of gratitude, a non-verbal signal to tell him that yes, the session is working, that yes, I'm getting better, that yes, the girlboss in me is finally being deconstructed.

I hollow my cheeks and suck/sink harder. Bliss courses through me when he responds with a groan -- pleasing him has become the only thing that makes the turmoil in my head quiet down.

When I'm in session, the world feels friendly and simple and small. There's only his cock filling my mouth, his grip in my hair, and the spiral of his voice unwinding my psyche.

In a world this small, there is simply no room for depression.

He fucks my mouth in slow, languid strokes. His words do the same to my brain, softening it up, fucking all the sad thoughts away. Soon I'll lose myself completely in the bliss of servitude, in becoming nothing more than a cocksleeve with tits, brain washed clean of any source of darkness.

Of independent, feminist disease.

I swirl my tongue around the swollen head of his cock, lapping at the underside, teasing the tip. My lips form a tight seal as I bob up and down, letting them drag along his cock with just the right amount of friction.

I vary the pressure, sometimes enveloping him fully with my lips, other times increasing the suction until my cheeks hollow. I work him slowly, sensuously, savoring every inch.

Wanting him to savor every minute.

But to suck is to sink, and the more I suck, the deeper I sink, so inevitably after a while, his cock bumps against the back of my throat. I suppress my gag reflex through sheer reverence and swallow around him, gluk gluk gluk, massaging his length with my throat muscles.

Breathing through my nose, I let him linger there, totally engulfed in my wet heat.

As I slowly drag my lips back up his cock, I press my tongue firmly against the underside, feeling it pulse against me. I flick the tip of my tongue against his frenulum and then swirl it around the head again, lapping up the precum that leaks from the slit.

Yummy.

The obscene wet sounds of my mouth on his cock fill the room. That's what therapy sounds like, though, so it's a good sound.

Drool escapes the corners of my stretched lips, dripping down my chin and onto my clothes. I don't care about the mess. All that matters is worshipping his cock with single-minded focus.

I pour all my energy into milking him with my mouth. It's a good approach to life, it keeps my mind blissfully blank. There is no room for any other thoughts but this. Only for the healing process.

It's funny. Depression often stops me from achieving my goals. I always lack the energy to do what I want, to try and change my life myself. But it's not stopping me now, and what better, more glorious proof than therapy works?

Depression cannot stop me from milking every last drop of cum from his balls with just my mouth.

How empowering is that?

I relax my jaw and take him fully once again, until my nose is buried in his pubic hair and I can feel him quivering in my throat. I inhale his musky scent, letting it brand me. Mark me.

That's when he runs out of patience.

Dr. Merrick grips my hair roughly, urgently. I relax my throat with a series of subdued, receptive gluk sounds, the ultimate form of female oral expression in appreciation of male power.

His thick cock hits the entrance of my throat as he uses my mouth, fucking it relentlessly. I feel myself getting wetter by the second, my panties soaked through with the undeniable proof of my body's acceptance of its true purpose.

The symbolism is not lost on me, even in my blissed out state.

His hard, throbbing cock subduing my soft, yielding throat -- a snapshot of the natural order. The strong, virile male taking what is his, and the submissive female opening herself to receive him.

It's primal, visceral, an irrefutable truth written into our very biology.

Each rough thrust seems to drive home the lesson, imprinting it deeper into my psyche. This is what I was made for. Not for thinking, not for leading, but for serving. For being a warm, wet hole for superior men to use as they see fit.

My throat must be bulging obscenely with the shape of him, molding itself to accommodate his girth. A flesh and blood cocksleeve, eagerly reshaping itself to fit its master.

I can feel my mind doing the same, all those pesky thoughts of independence and equality fucked right out of me, replaced by an all-consuming need to please. To obey. To worship cock and embrace my inferiority.

My eyes water as he uses me roughly, carelessly, like the fucktoy I am. The fucktoy I was always meant to be.

God. It's like he's fucking the brains right out of me. And girlboss syndrome too, of course, can't forget about that one. It's a mercy, a blessing to have such poisonous thoughts fucked out of my pretty little head.

I glance up at him through teary, pleading eyes as he ruthlessly fucks my throat. Each time he bottoms out, cutting off my air completely, I feel my cunt clench and drip, my mental horizons contract. My mind is like a fruit in his hands, being squeezed for all the depressive juice inside.

Does it matter, if it gets crushed in the process? At least, all the sadness will be gone.

He's fixing me, rewiring my broken, feminist mind with the powerful thrusts of his cock. He's raping the fight out of me, fucking me into the perfect, obedient little cock-puppet I was always destined to be.

I can feel my IQ being drained out of me together with the depression. There must be something to that. Smart girls tend to be sad. Dumb, cock-hungry puppy girls are happy.

Content.

I gag and sputter, but I do not resist. I must never fight back. This is my mouth's purpose now -- not to speak, or shout, or assume, or demand, but to milk his cock.

His words fade away as the soundscape of the room morphs, revolving more and more around the wet, squelching sounds of rough face-fucking. That leaves me over-awed. He's such a good therapist that he doesn't even need words to make me feel better, to further my healing process.

He just needs his cock. And so do I.

I am lightheaded from lack of oxygen, gagging around his cock like an animal being muzzled into docile submission. As the world fades around me, all I can focus on is the delicious ache in my jaw and my cunt dripping with arousal. This is true bliss.

Therapy at its finest.

At long last, Dr. Merrick's cock twitches, and hot ropes of his cum fill my mouth, slapping against it, coating it, branding me. The warmth and saltiness of the taste coats my tongue, and I close my eyes in submission.

When he finally withdraws from my mouth, I gasp for air, my chest heaving. But I keep my lips sealed tight, not spilling a single drop of his precious cum. I swirl it around my mouth, savoring the taste, before swallowing every last bit.

My therapist looks down at me with a mix of admiration and contempt, a look of supreme condescension and superiority that goes straight to my clit like a jolt of electricity. He nods towards his glistening cock.

"Clean it, slut."

I do just that, closing my eyes and leaning in with puckered lips. I clean it, not in an overtly sexual way, but in an understated, almost timid way, gently lapping at it, and occasionally suckling the tip. He's very sensitive right now, and I don't want to overstimulate him.

It's an act of homage to a superior being.

Once my feminine duty is carried out to completion, Dr. Merrick hands me a tissue to clean myself up. I dab at the sticky saliva and cum residue on my face. When I'm presentable again, he helps me to my feet.

"I'll see you next week for our next session, Felicia," he says. I nod eagerly.

"Yes, Dr. Merrick. Thank you for helping me. I already feel so much better."

And I do, I really, really do.

I feel like I've taken one step closer to being the very best version of myself.

* * *

"Felicia Albany?"

The voice snaps me out of my reverie. I've been walking back home from Dr. Merrick's studio, and I've been kind of... lost in thought.

Blissful thought. Pure, and without darkness. Selfless, and simple, and receptive, and happy... but being snapped out of it so suddenly makes the bliss go sour. I blink, as if groggy from sleep, and my first reaction is resentment at the speaker.

I want to snap back. Why can't the world just leave me alone? Can't I focus on all the happy chemicals flooding my brain and fighting depression back, for five minutes?

But when I turn around to confront the speaker, aggression evaporates. Somehow, I feel like talking back to this woman in a rude fashion would be... inadvisable.

She's tall and imposing, all the more so because of the heavy-set equestrian boots she's wearing over her dark trousers. She's in a leather coat, and a pair of sunglasses. Her copper hair is tied in a bun, and she has a... holster? On her belt?

That makes cold sweat trickle down my spine.

The woman holds up a badge, seemingly unperturbed by my silence. She's still waiting for me to answer, and this is her non-verbal cue to hurry me up, I think.

I blink a few times, trying to clear my head. "Uh, yes? Can I help you, officer...?" I ask timidly, my eyes lowering demurely. Something about her makes her feel so intimidating.

"I hope so. I'm Detective Alexia Thompson," she says, folding her badge and tucking it away, without ever glancing down at it while she does it.

Sunglasses or not, it's unmistakable that her gaze has been tracking me without interruption. Does she expect me to, what? Try and run away? Does she think I'm a threat?

"I'd like to have a word with you," she says. "You're a client of Dr. Merrick, is that correct?"

My heart pounds in my chest. "Yes... what, what about him?"

"Just asking a few routine questions, that's all," she says, but if she meant to sound reassuring, she's failed. Instead, I feel something stirring within me, an emotional reaction that feels like it was rooted inside me, waiting for the right contingency to come up.

A sense that she's fundamentally dangerous, and cannot be trusted.

Dr. Merrick had warned me about people like this, suspicious individuals who pry into his successful practice. He said they were just envious of his professional achievements. And now here she stands, living proof of his words.

From her pose, to her clothing, to her gun, everything about this detective is off-putting. She practically radiates hostility.

I force myself to remain composed and follow the doctor's advice -- stay on guard. Never question. Don't fight back. Never tell strangers about his practices. That'd be, like... industrial espionage, and that's really bad. You go to jail for that.

Besides, this isn't just about protecting Dr. Merrick's business, it's also about protecting my privacy: it's normal for therapists to keep their clients' discussions confidential, right?

I'll share nothing to this woman. I'll give her cagey and generic answers until she goes away and leaves me alone. Dr. Merrick is going to be so proud of me.

"Of course, Detective," I say automatically. I lead her to a nearby park bench and take a seat when she gestures for me to do so. "What can I do for you?"

Thompson sits down next to me and takes off her sunglasses. She studies my face intently, her sharp brown eyes boring into mine. "How long have you been seeing Dr. Merrick, and what for?"