Revenge Is The Best Therapy

Angela Brown stood in her newly renovated office, barely able to contain her excitement.

She'd worked hard for this achievement.

There'd been a solid seven years of studying, which had seen off three solid relationships and a half-dozen more casual ones. She was pretty sure that it would have worked out with either Tyler or Teddy (she must have something for 'T's) if she hadn't been so focussed on her studies, and becoming a recognised and fully qualified psychotherapist.

She let out a long, satisfied breath as she looked over the collection of framed diplomas and degrees.

'Licensed Psychotherapist'

,

'Qualified life coach'

,

'Master Practitioner - Hypnosis as Therapy'

.

She smiled slyly at that last one, remembering how sceptical she'd been about the idea of hypnotherapy.

She'd seen too many TV and stage hypnotists whose only talent seemed to be making pretty girls cluck like chickens. But that had been before her own visits to Dr. Bradley to help her with her anxiety.

She'd been referred to Dr. Mary Bradley after a string of panic attacks. Angela confided that she'd become the target of a group of campus bullies, who'd taken exception to her good grades and teacher's pet status.

It had been a systematic campaign, instigated by Belle Mackenzie, the ring-leader of the group. Alongside Molly Parker and Grace Vance, they'd made Angela's college life a living hell, with everything from name calling and rumor spreading, to damaging property and full on, physical assaults.

Angela's anxiety got so bad that it threatened to derail her studies completely.

But with the help of her more understanding professors, and the care she received from Dr. Bradley, she came through it, all the stronger for the experience. Having felt first-hand the transformative impact of what therapy could do for a person, Angela found a new calling. She transferred from Golden Heights shortly after, leaving Belle, Molly and Grace as fading memories as she embarked on her new found quest to be a therapist; her only motivation now being to help others who had suffered the same way she had.

It had been quite a journey since then, leading her here to the newly opened offices of

'AB Health Care'

-

Strong minds create strong people.

Six months later

Dr. Angela Brown

Sipping on the last remnants of my coffee, I loaded up my appointments calendar. It had been a long day and I was tired. But I knew there was at least one more client due and I desperately hoped the appointment would turn out to be a routine check-in, one of those quick, basic requirements before medications could be re-prescribed.

"Better yet, a cancellation." I whispered to myself, rubbing at my left temple.

But there was no such luck. A 90-minute referral was due in a little under three minutes. 'Trent Carmichael - Yips' the diary entry said.

Referrals were always special. It was good to know that clients appreciated the work I did, enough to recommend my services to their friends. The downside being that an initial referral session was at least 30 minutes longer than a normal session to allow for a discovery conversation and to assess whether AB Health Care, and therapy in general, could help with whatever it was the client was exhibiting.

As the clock ticked over to 16:29, I dabbed the corners of my mouth with a tissue and smoothed out the front of my pressed white blouse. A moment later, the intercom sounded and Stacy, my assistant, announced: "Your four-thirty is here."

"Send him in please," I replied.

The office door opened to reveal the tallest man I'd ever seen. He entered, lowering his head to avoid a collision with the door jamb. Dressed in an immaculately tailored tan suit, he smiled nervously as I gestured him to a chair.

He took the indicated seat opposite me and crossed his legs in a futile attempt to get comfortable in the stiff-backed chair.

"Mr. Carmichael," I said in a practised tone that conveyed professionalism and warmth.

"Trent, please." he immediately replied with an anxious catch in his voice.

"OK, Trent," I continued, turning the notch up on the friendliness in my tone. "I understand you've been recommended to me by a friend because of some," I looked down to consult my notes. "Sporting performance anxiety."

"I wouldn't call it anxiety, exactly," said the tall man defensively.

"Well, how would you describe it?" I asked. I'd been careful with my use of the word 'it', avoiding labels such as 'issue' or 'problem'. It was much better for patients to find their own words to describe their needs.

He shifted uncomfortably while he tried to find the right way to explain why he was here.

"I'm not even sure there is an

it

." He said defiantly. "Truth be told, Henry said you'd helped him with his golf swing... turns out (according to him), that what he thought was technique was actually a mental block." He paused for breath before continuing.

"His handicap has improved no end over the last month or so, so I guess there must be something to it." He made brief eye contact before gazing at his shoes again.

"Would you like to improve an area of performance?" I asked.

He blushed immediately and I noticed the knuckles of his hand turn white as his grip on the armrest tightened. I'd wanted to hone in on the specifics of the sport he was looking to get better at but I'd obviously triggered something deeper.

"Do you also play golf?" I asked encouragingly.

He shook his head before contradicting the action. "Yes. Well, only for fun," he clarified.

"But I'm not interested in that. Hitting eight strokes on a par five just means it's never my turn to buy drinks in the clubhouse." Again, a brief flutter of eye contact as he examined my face for understanding.

"Winner pays," he said evenly.

I nodded.

As I looked at him, he seemed almost childlike. He was easily 6' 5" - maybe taller. But hunched nervously in the chair, he seemed to visibly shrink. I felt sorry for him in a way, but there was also a ridiculousness to his demeanour that made me want to push his buttons.

"So, not golf then?" I pressed. My heart pounded in my chest with the knowledge that my next comment was deliberately mischievous. "No problem swinging your wood?"

His head snapped to attention and I met his gaze coolly, desperate not to lose the veneer of professional detachment I was conveying.

After an interminable pause, he looked away again.

"No!" He said angrily. "Basketball. Not golf."

Of course it was basketball. I should have guessed.

"Right, basketball," I repeated. But before I could ask my next question, he volunteered the details.

"I can hit every shot in practice. Swish... swish," he gestured a throwing motion. "I'm the king of the 3-pointer," he said proudly.

"But...?" I interjected.

"But," he said, following my lead. "I can't seem to bring it from the practice court to game day anymore. Obviously, I'm capable because in practice I'm a machine." His shoulders slumped dejectedly.

He was clearly uncomfortable sharing his deficiencies with a stranger and I found myself feeling sorry for him again.

Watching him staring at the floor, I guessed he was about the same age as me, maybe a year or two older, but no older than 28 I speculated. The worry lines under his eyes probably aged him artificially and I wondered whether the light dusting of fair stubble across his cheeks and chin was a style choice, or another sign of his current depression.

I tended to picture basketball players as tall and skinny but Trent Carmichael had a solidness to his chest and shoulders. He was clearly no stranger to the gym and his dress shirt was pulled tight across his torso. In spite of the sadness to him, he was undoubtedly handsome and I felt a slight flush cross my cheeks as I studied him.

I inhaled quietly, regaining my composure.

"I really think I can help," I said. "It's just talking. But," I waited for him to look at me.

"I know that talking can be the most difficult thing sometimes." I whispered, knowingly. "So, you can dictate the pace."

He nodded his agreement, avoiding my gaze again now.

"We can go slow and steady," I said, seductively. Again, my heart leaped in my chest. "Or we can go hard and fast."

He looked at me now. Again, I was nothing but professional, with just a hint of a warm smile playing at the edges of my mouth.

As he shifted in his chair, I wondered if it was just his gangly frame that he was struggling with or if he was aroused. My words had been overtly provocative but within the bounds of plausible deniability. So while his brain had rationalised my meaning, had his body responded to the underlying intent?

"I just need you to fill out your details, and this simple waiver," I told him.

"Waiver?" He left the word hanging in the air between us.

"Oh, a simple legal disclaimer." I confirmed. "It just means that you won't hold me accountable if your performance doesn't improve. I can help you, Trent," I said. "But the end results will be up to you."

I pulled the standard forms from my desk drawer. Clearly feeling more comfortable now, Trent's eyes had made it up from shoe level and he was inspecting the framed certificates and pictures on the wall behind me.

I handed him a sheaf of papers as he said, matter of factly: "You went to Golden Heights?"

He was pointing at a picture of me and Dr. Bradley in front of the college entrance, its name emblazoned in familiar burgundy font.

"Only for a couple of terms," I confirmed. "I moved away from the area."

I was curious as to how he knew it. Golden Heights didn't have a basketball programme so I doubted he'd attended himself, and it was halfway across the country from here.

"Do you know it?" I asked with genuine interest.

"Nah, not really," he said. "My wife graduated from there. She still has the cheerleader uniform, so I recognised the logo."

He blushed furiously before trying to give his cheerleader comment some distance, completely oblivious to the color draining from my cheeks.

"You might have known her." he stuttered, urgently. "I know you said you weren't there long but she was queen bee by all accounts. In fact, she'd have you believe she ran the whole show."

I'd been completely thrown off by his words. My head swam sickeningly. I couldn't know which name was going to pass his lips, and yet I did. And my entire being throbbed with the dread of anticipation.

"Belle Carmichael," he said cheerily.

I shook my head as I swallowed. My mouth was dry and my throat had closed itself up. I couldn't have spoken if I'd wanted to.

"Of course," he corrected himself with a small laugh. "You'd have known her as Belle Mackenzie."

I knew the words were coming, but the name landed like a slap across my face. As irrational as it was, I blamed him for it just as if he'd dealt me a physical blow. If he was capable of loving that monster, he was no better than she was.

I was ashamed at how much her name had affected me. He looked at me again to see if I recognised the name and again, I shook my head.

Fighting with every nerve I had, I composed myself just enough to mutter something through gritted teeth. "Like I say, I left. It was a big place."

Seemingly satisfied, he took the papers from me and began a perfunctory examination of exactly what it was he was signing away. Opening the bottom of my three drawers, I fished out the hypnotherapy waiver. I hadn't intended using hypnosis for Trent's treatment, but I was altering my plan on the fly.

Handing him the final document, I explained it was a simple doctor - patient confidentiality agreement.

"Haven't I signed one of those already?" he asked, motioning toward the pages on the desk.

"Kind of," I said. "That related to the specifics of the therapy, meaning the details we discuss in our coaching sessions are privileged. This one is kind of an all-encompassing agreement, making everything confidential, whether it's part of a coaching conversation, a telephone call into the office..." I went on. "Or part of any alternative therapies you may undertake," I said nonchalantly.

His brow wrinkled with the obvious question, but I interjected.

"But, we can discuss any future needs as and when they arise."

Satisfied, he signed the bottom of the page without reviewing the details.

"Well," I said, still trying to hide the shock in my tone. "That's all taken care of and we still have plenty of time left."

He turned his head to look at the clock.

"We could start now," I suggested, watching him shift nervously in the chair.

"It'd be like getting a free session," I said. I could see him considering it.

"Besides," I purred; a newfound confidence in the plan I was hatching. "It's probably something and nothing. One quick conversation now and you might never need to come back."

His face brightened. "How can I refuse a free session?" He asked, his tone trying to hide the delight of potentially getting all of this therapy over and done in one hit.

"Please, make yourself comfy." I pointed to the leather recliner that was fixed in an almost horizontal position.

"I really don't think that's..." he began to protest.

"Trent," I said calmly. "You're certainly not comfortable in that little chair and if this is going to work quickly, you'll need to trust me."

He complied begrudgingly, taking his jacket off as he made his way to the recliner.

Watching him from behind, I could make out the full 'v' of his athletic torso, from his broad shoulder muscles, down his back to the pinched waist that led to firm glutes.

That's a mighty fine ass

I thought, a warmth creeping across my chest and threatening to head downwards. Until I remembered my purpose. He and I were not going to be friends.

He sat on the leather chair and swivelled his legs around. Aside from his head and shoulders being raised slightly, he was in a lying down pose.

"Tell me about when you first fell in love with basketball," I instructed him.

The question seemed to surprise him and his eyes darted up and to the left in a subconscious effort to unlock a distant memory. It was a deliberate ploy. As he focussed on trying to find the exact moment in his memory, his senses were fully occupied and he didn't hear the low hum of the audio I'd just started playing.

The sound invading his mind was no more than a series of rhythmic pulses, similar to a heart beat. It was designed to gradually decrease in pace, at which point the patient's breathing would slow down to match. This would help put the patient in an extreme state of relaxation.

It's a common misconception that hypnosis requires sleep. It just needs a trance state and this can be achieved equally potently whether awake or asleep, providing the subject is relaxed.

Trent had begun to answer my question, recalling childhood memories of pick-up games with his uncle, courtside seats alongside his dad and his brother. His breathing gently slowed and his eyes closed. As he continued with his recollections I switched on the strobe light directly above the recliner. It was operating at a low wattage; not bright enough to startle him back to alertness, but enough for his eyes to register.

Keeping the brightness low, I increased the frequency of the pulsing pattern. His eyes matched the new speed, darting around behind his closed eyelids, mimicking the REM sleep state. He'd stopped talking now and there wasn't a hint of tension in his body.

"Trent," I said in a whisper. "Focus on my voice and only my voice".

He didn't react.

"You are completely relaxed. All you know is the sound of my voice."

No movement.

"When I count to three, you will open your eyes but all you will know is the sound of my voice."

I'd completed this induction routine countless times. It was like second nature to me. But this was the first time my panties had ever become drenched; the first time I could feel my nipples chafing at my bra. God, I was turned on by my control over this man. By the knowledge of what I was about to do.

I was about to break every ethical guideline I'd sworn to uphold. But I didn't care. Right now, in this moment, I understood exactly why destiny had sent me down the road of psychotherapy. And I knew exactly why the universe had sent Trent Carmichael into my office.

"One, two, three." I counted off the numbers evenly. On 'three', Trent opened his eyes. The strobe light danced across his vision but he made no reaction to it.

"Just my voice," I repeated as I turned up the brightness on the lamp. The light bounced vividly off his face now but still he betrayed no reaction.

"My voice is all you know. It's all you need. It's all you desire." I said. "Whenever you hear me say the words, "Trent go bye-bye", you'll see this pattern of lights in your mind. You'll immediately return to this state and you'll recognise only my voice."

"Nod if you understand," I commanded. His head moved up and down fluidly a couple of times in response.

"If I ever finish a sentence with the exact phrase, 'isn't that right, Trent?', you'll instantly accept whatever I've said as the truth." I grinned wickedly as I felt a sensual heat rising in my body.

"In fact, you'll think that you've always held that opinion. Nod if you understand," I instructed again. He did.

I turned off the strobe light. He made no outward sign of noticing the change but his pupils dilated, searching for the light.

"When I count to three, you'll recover your senses, feeling fully refreshed. Whenever you think about basketball, you'll feel confident in your ability. Whenever you miss a shot, you'll shrug it off, telling yourself you'll make the next one." He was nodding after each instruction, his eyes open but glazed.

"When I ask you questions, you'll answer openly and honestly. You'll know that it's part of your therapy. Even if I ask you about other people or other areas of your life, you'll be happy to answer honestly, knowing that I'm helping you." Another nod.

I stood up and walked over to the reclined seat, slowly unbuttoning my blouse as I went. Standing next to Trent, my white, lace push-up bra accentuating my cleavage, I told him to look at me. His eyes shifted in my direction.

I pushed my elbows together, enhancing my breasts even further. With my ample tits virtually falling out I instructed him to look at my body.

"Remember this image Trent," I said. "Whenever you say the name 'Belle', this image of me and my luscious tits will fill your mind. You won't know why; as far as you're aware, you've never seen me in my underwear. But you'll think of me exactly as I am now, cleavage exposed, pouting lips. Whenever your wife's name leaves your mouth you'll think of me, and you'll want me, not her."

He nodded in agreement as his eyes cemented the image permanently.

I refastened my blouse and went back to my desk.

Satisfying myself that everything was in its place, I silenced the rhythmic pulsing that was still manipulating his breathing and slowly counted to three.

He blinked a couple of times and slowly sat up.

"Did I sleep?" He asked, confused.

"No." I said. "You were just telling me about the old basketball games you played with your uncle. You must really miss him."

He looked thoughtful. "Yes, I really do." He said.

As his mind went back to basketball, his chest expanded and he smiled triumphantly.

"I think all you needed," I said lightly. "Was to remember why you loved playing basketball in the first place."

He smiled widely at that. "You know what, doc," he said with unexpected familiarity. "I think you're right."

I gestured for him to come and sit at the desk again.

"I feel great," he told me once he was seated opposite me again. "Thank you, really."

I could tell he meant it and it was a sweet gesture on his part.