Ironic/Paradoxical Disclaimer: if you're seeking to learn anything real about medicine, mental health, or morality from smut, you need professional help. Unfortunately, you'll probably go see a quack or a priest instead. Hey, I tried.
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Special thanks to trappedinthecl0set, a generous volunteer in Literotica.com's Volunteer Editor program, for editing this piece. All remaining errors and questionable stylistic decisions are the sole responsibility of the author.
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Six months ago, I was a very bad man.
I still am, but now I'm a very bad man who's in love.
I've fallen in love several times in my life; to be clear, I only count those rare women -- and, yes, that one impossibly feminine man - with whom I decided to share my home for an extended period of time. Work is work. It's good to be the boss, and I enjoy my employees thoroughly, but I don't pine for them in the evenings. I don't dream about them. They serve me until their owners' debts are cleared. For thirty to forty hours a week, within reason, they do anything I want.
Their owners don't mind -- or at least they don't complain. Such is the nature of my business. I am a criminal, and therefore all of my clients are criminals. Even the rare bird who's not a joint venturer in a drugging and a kidnapping is still tangled up with an outrageously, absurdly illegal enterprise.
What's a few years of sharing a plaything between 'friends' like that? Some of my clients find it hilarious that their brainwashed pets spend time every week doing actual work. Many of them are skeptical it's even possible when they first sign the papers. They expect a warm, wet, lobotomized set of holes -- a zombie that craves sex and cum instead of brains. Instead, they get exactly as much intelligence, education, charm, wit, and sensitivity as they desire -- or, more precisely, as they desire to keep.
We can help with the charm and the sensitivity, and perhaps even offer some sex education, but I don't think I'll live to see the day when science can make a sex slave smarter than they were to begin with. Would it surprise you to learn that that request, while uncommon, is not entirely unheard of?
Samantha Matheson was always special. It's no coincidence I mentioned all those virtues just now. She was always a shining light. In any given room of ostensible peers, she was the smartest. In any subject she'd cared to study, she was the most knowledgeable, and she could ask all the right questions even from a place of ignorance. She was the wittiest, too, though her natural inclination towards silence and introspection largely hid it from the world.
She was also the most sensitive. It's a beautiful and painful thing to be. So it goes; so it went.
I first met her when she was on the cusp of nineteen; believe it or not, the encounter was brief and unplanned. Today, as she's about to happily bound down the stairs and take her breakfast from my cock, she's a few months past twenty. I always wanted her. I knew I would have her. The details of the journey surprised me, but then, what's life without a few surprises here and there?
I'd assumed that the anxiety, depression, and anorexia would drive her mother to seek me out. Instead, Samantha pushed through. What finally broke her was a fresh anxiety, unique from the first kind to beset her. Those pills, don't you know: there are tradeoffs. 'Not-depressed' isn't the same as 'happy.' Far too often, 'properly medicated' is the exact opposite of 'sexually fulfilled.'
She'd worked so hard in therapy and recovery. She'd taken a few classes at a local community college. In the summer, before heading off to the four-year university that had accepted her a year prior, she'd even held down a job. With a proper diet and an excess of exercise, she'd also transformed herself from a skeleton into a supermodel -- and yes, I recognize the setup. If you could see her ass, you'd never dare to deliver the punchline. You'd be too busy killing and dying for the chance to put your face near that alabaster crown jewel, let alone touch it, let alone taste it, let alone fuck it.
All of that progress was in peril, and all due to that fresh anxiety. She couldn't sleep. She lost her appetite. She couldn't focus on her schoolwork. For Samantha, the cure was as bad as the disease. She was, and remains, her mother's daughter after all. Holly Matheson -- Holly Connelly, when her fiancé delivered her to me almost twenty-three years ago -- had been one of my first unmitigated successes. Part of the reason for that success, I've always suspected, was her naturally high sex drive.
Holly did bring her daughter to my office for the initial consultation about six months ago, but ultimately it had been Samantha's choice to continue. She'd submitted to my treatments for that singular, primal reason: she couldn't cum. At just over nineteen-and-a-half years old, Samantha Matheson, beneficiary and victim of legal, responsible medicine, had been so horny, so sexually frustrated, and so desperate to have her very first orgasm that she thought she was going to die.
I'm naked on a chair in the kitchen, finishing up my own breakfast: an egg white omelet with cheese and chives. Samantha's a slim girl, but her footsteps are loud on the stairs. I smile, put down my fork, and turn the chair away from the table.
She makes the usual detour to fetch a pillow from the living room. She enters the kitchen, sets the cushion down near my legs, and then slides her panties down to her knees from below her plaid skirt.
"Good morning, Tom," she says happily. She leans down for a quick kiss on the lips, and I gladly grant it. Indeed, it's all I can do not to pull her onto my lap and make her late to campus.
"And good morning to you, my love," I reply. "You look amazing, as always. Plans for today?"
Her eyebrows curl up. She fidgets. She bites her lip. God, she is perfect. She's even wearing the glasses for me.
"Turn around and bend over," I say. Her face lights up. She knows the routine. Breakfast is getting warmed up.
She does a half turn and touches her toes. I lean forward and flip the skirt up. She reaches back and spreads her perfect cheeks, though she hardly needs to. They're the perfect combination of taut, fleshy, muscular, and flared. When she presents herself, her asshole and pussy become immediately, fully available for inspection, or more.
I see the base of the anal plug. I kiss each of her ass cheeks once, and tap the round bit of pink silicone three times. She releases a feminine huff that communicates both satisfaction and arousal. She loves what I do to her, and always wants more.
The brief inspection is enough to get me to half-mast. Her ass really is that beautiful.
"Very nice," I say. "Go ahead and have your breakfast."
Samantha rights herself, turns again, then sinks down to her knees on the pillow. Her eyes cloud with lust. I lean back, pushing my cock and balls towards her. I give her easier access, like she just did for me. She moves in close and begins her ravenous worship. After three months living in my house -- and six months of 'special treatments' before that -- I can say for certain that Samantha is the best cocksucker I've ever created.
