She Told Me I Had A Dirty Mouth

Authors Note: The plot device of one therapist exerting control over another is attributed to StryWrter7's story "Mind Control of the Master". My story is from a first-person perspective.

It includes mind control, M-M and F-M intercourse, male and female dominance and control, smoking and romance.

SHE TOLD ME I HAD A DIRTY MOUTH

It's approaching 10 pm. I take a seat out on the patio of the bar across from the Hilton and order an Old Fashioned.

I place my phone and cigarettes on the table, then settle back and survey the scene. It's Thursday night but there is a trade show at the hotel and so the bar is pretty active. The waiter brings the drink and advises the gentleman two tables over would like to pay for it. I look around her, catch the fellow's eye and nod.

Interesting, I think. Don't usually get hit on so quickly. I'm not advertising or trolling -- loafers, black slacks, white linen shirt with all buttons engaged. I did not take a lap around the place to survey the crowd and make eye contact with anyone.

Anyway, he comes over.

Putting his hand on the back of the chair he asks, "May I join you?"

I hold up a hand, and he pauses.

"Do you know the password?" I ask.

"Password?"

"Yes, a phrase that identifies you as the person I am meeting," I reply.

"Uhhhhhhh," he replies.

"Thought so," I say. "Although you're quite attractive, you do not quite fit the description."

He takes his hand off the chair.

"Sorry," he says as he starts to leave.

"No need to apologize," I say as I reach in my back pocket for my card case. "You can make an appointment here if you are interested."

He takes it, stammers his thanks and goes back to his table. At the same time, I see someone coming out of the Hilton who fits the description. I take a large sip, pull the tube of gloss out of my pocket and apply a light coat of Soft Pink. I then light a cigarette, making sure to leave a nice imprint on the white filter.

A few moments later, the fellow is surveying the patio. We make eye contact; I raise my eyebrows; he nods and heads my way.

I take a long inhale and then exhale slowly skyward.

He stands behind the chair across from me, his knuckles white as he grips the back.

"Excuse me," he says with a nervous tremor. "But smoking can give you a dirty mouth."

Smiling slightly, I reply, "That's true, but it is not as dirty as some things people do with the mouths. "

The recognition signal given; I gesture for him to sit. He does a little bit too quickly. A slight case of nerves it seems.

He is actually seriously nervous: leg bouncing, looking left and right, slight sheen of perspiration. I hold his eye as I give another long exhale upwards and a long sip of my drink.

I hold him by eye for a few seconds, then with a relaxed, reassuring tone, I ask him a couple of questions to calm his nerves, steering the conversation around to what he wants. I already know because it was part of the service request----think of it as an HR help desk ticket. But it's good for them to confirm it. And we never talk price. It's just a date.

Eventually he confirms he wants me to go down on him. So I tease him just bit with some erotic innuendo, giving a long exhale followed by another long sip of my drink, catching the cherry in the process, holding it on my tongue for a second or two so he can see.

I then ask, "Are you sure you want to expose yourself to this dirty, dirty mouth?"

He quivers in anticipation. He stammers, "Yes, please."

I nod and stand, picking up my things and holding out my hand to help him up. Placing my hand on his lower back, steering him towards the elevator.

**********

I may be a whore on the weekends, but the rest of the time, I'm a counselor -- a Licensed Professional Counselor to be more precise, and a pretty good one all things be told.

I was on a Ph.D. psychology track, but after a year I decided I would rather work with people who had problems I could address as opposed to those with serious pathologies that required multiple therapies, drugs and specialties.

The practice built slowly, but steadily. Results led to referrals which led to more referrals. I developed a reputation among the Family Practice and Pediatric docs for helping patients who had issues with coping skills -- grief, fear, anxiety, etc. Along the way, I also developed the ability to place folks in a light trance without their being aware. It helped peel back the surface barriers and get more honest, unfiltered thoughts. And you don't need a prescription.

There I am, cruising along. Life is good and of course there was no way to foresee that a routine referral would ultimately end up with me in a place that was not on my career plan.

Women are generally more comfortable with discussing issues with their Ob-Gyn, and so I got a request to see a lady who was having some confusion / emotional discomfort following a couple of sessions with another counselor. She had to undergo a series of lengthy dental treatments, but developed significant anxiety and could not continue. She really needed the treatments and for some reason sedation was not an option. She had seen a counselor who had worked with her to the extent she could continue, but there were after effects it seemed. The Ob-Gyn danced around it a bit but it seems the lady was having residual images-flashbacks of fellatio, even after a couple of follow-up visits with the counselor.

Fairly straightforward at first blush. Modified PTSD or deeper-rooted oral fixation issues. So I agreed to see her. Then I asked who her current therapist was -- turns out it was Dennis Kimbrough.

I should have declined at that point. Really---I should have.

But I didn't. I set the appointment, trying to help and thereby affirming that the road to hell is paved with good intentions.

Dennis was well known in the counseling community as, well, to put it politely, a supremely confident individual. At the CE's and annual meetings, he was always holding court, dominating the conversation and so forth. Rumor had it he had been bounced out of a Ph.D. program for questionable conduct with a patient but avoided an inquiry and a negative mark on his record when the patient recanted. In any event, we had never interacted, socially or professionally.

Her name was Gretchen, mid-30s female, no apparent distress, well groomed, good affect, nervous and hesitant to address the presenting issue.

So much for the medical record jargon. From a dentist's point of view, Gretchen was dealt a bad hand. She underwent a lot of work as a teenager and then even more as an adult. Somewhere along the way, she developed a phobia that grew progressively worse. Sedation was not effective and insurance would not cover anesthesia. So she went to see a counselor -- Dennis. It took my putting her in a light trance but it was pretty clear he steered her to substitute dental work for fellatio. What was not clear, and I did not drill down hard on it, was that perhaps she had experienced fellatio in his office as part of conditioning her.

So I'm on thin ice. To be sure, I'm not going to call him up and accuse him with what I suspect was happening. I had no clear proof, and I doubted that Gretchen could cope with my suspicions. There was nothing to support a Board or Police investigation. So it took two more sessions to reassure her that people respond to repetitive trauma differently, and she was unconsciously complicating her situation. I encouraged her to address her concerns with Dennis.

I have a paper chart with general information and then session notes kept on the server. Not sure why, but I also encrypted my notes and then transferred them to an encrypted thumb drive reserved for special patients.

I should have left it alone, I now know. But I called Dennis and advised him of her concerns, but not what I suspected. Didn't matter. He went off on me like a bull in a china shop, castigating me professionally and personally to include sexual preferences and submissive nature.

Like I said - - bully. The situation not helped by the fact he is 6-3 and over 200. I'm 5-9 and run marathons.

A couple of weeks later, the office was broken into, files ransacked, a computer taken. But I work on a laptop I take home every night. I back-up off site. All they got were office management stuff.

Be that as it may, I don't believe in coincidences.

**********

A month later there is a Friday CE with a reception afterwards. I have to go; I need the hours.

Sure enough, he's there. I take care not to be in his vicinity on the breaks, and I leave for lunch. But during the post course reception, I lose sight of him and then get distracted in a four-way conversation.

The group breaks up and I'm walking to the exit, navigating through the crowd, when my upper arm is grabbed, and I am steered towards a tall cocktail table next to a curtain.

It's Dennis.

I try to wriggle free, but his hand is closed around my bicep.

"Hey!!" I exclaim, still trying to wrench my arm free.

"Shut up, Sissy," he grunts. "Just submit and I won't pull your arm out of the socket."

I'm now backed into the wall, partially obscured by the drapes. I can't look over or around him to see if anyone notices.

He's in my face, reeking of beer, voice low.

"You pathetic sissy fag. I told you to leave my patient alone. You almost fucked everything up; just like I'd like to do to that pathetic sissy ass of yours. Shove my cock so far up it you weep with pleasure and submission. Beg me to go deeper, deeper, and deeper. Look at me, look hard at me. I always had you pegged for a sissy. No one was surprised when last year your fiancé dumped you for a real man. Some were even happy that your sissy ass was back on the market. To be fucked and used by real men like me. So where are her records? Look at me, listen to me, look only at my eyes and beg me to fuck you. Tell me you submit. I'll give you pleasure you've never known, just give me the records, beg me to fuck and give me the records."

I was stunned and as he demanded, looking right at his eyes. They were all I saw. But I knew he was trying to run an NLP script on me. And yet my cock was starting to stir, and my ass flinched.

The memory of Barbara humiliating me and then breaking our engagement in public over what I thought was a trivial matter but later learning it was just an exit strategy to cover her desire to continue to sleep around, made me flush with embarrassment. She too had called me a sissy fag, not man enough for her, too interested in gay porn, etc. Later I realized she had tried to manipulate me into breaking the engagement and when I didn't take the bait, she threw every insult and lie she could.

He must have sensed my distraction. "Yeah fag, remember when she said you only got it up for sissy gay porn. That she had to use a dildo to satisfy herself since you were always so soft and squishy, like any sissy is in the presence of a dominant force like me. Bring me the records, and I'll grant your obvious rising desire to be fucked by me. Fucked hard by me!"

With his other hand, he rubbed my cock which now was getting aroused. I knew it was just an adrenaline response to the imagery, but there was no stopping it.

He came closer. "Tell me you're a sissy. Admit it. Tell me you'll obey me. Give me the records."

"Uhhhhhh," was all I could say.

At that point we both sensed people nearby. He removed his hand from my crotch and gripped my neck, pulling me in. He then kissed me hard, forcing his tongue in once, then twice and then holding it in my mouth on the third thrust. Oh god, I was buzzing from the shock and by reflex I caressed his tongue with mine. Seconds later he pulled back and whispered, "Got you my little sissy bitch. Call me when you are in your office so I can come get the records and then fuck your dirty mouth until you pass out."

Background voices were getting a little louder.

As he backed up somewhat, a couple of quick breaths cleared my head---NLP with forced domination---nice try ass-hole.

I wriggled out off the corner and with my back to the room glared as I said in a low voice, "Nice try Dennis, thanks for the personal chat, but not going to happen. I did not turn it over to the Board because the proof is not solid, but I know what you did. One day you're going to slip up. So up yours; I need a drink." I did not look back.

There were a couple of seats at the bar. I ordered a double Old Fashioned--Woodford. I needed his taste out of my mouth. I also needed my cock to subside. Not that I would expect any less from him but he had a strong dominant rhythm to his NLP script.

I had not had sex since Barbara walked away. I suppose she had to humiliate me to justify tossing the ring on the table. Make it easier to explain if she could construct a milieu where it was my fault. If I had caught her with the guy it would have been easier--I'm the wronged party. But the way she set it up, my sissiness had worn on her to the point where she had to leave. Thus------my fault.

Problem is, I'm actually not gay. Don't look at gay porn either. I treat folks with adjustment or confusion issues, and so I understand it. Like most distance runners, I'm not real masculine. But why did I start to stir and respond when he kissed me? The NLP shtick was graphic and erotic no doubt. But I will permit it to pass over me and through me and watch it disappear, I thought, realizing I was stealing a line from Dune.

Swirling my drink as I swirl my thoughts, the chair besides me slides back, and a lady sits down.

"May I?" she asks.

"Of course," I reply. She was Oriental--Chinese probably. She looked a lot like the actress on Agents of S.H.I.E.LD.---Melinda May, attractive but serious, no nonsense. Dark eyes, dark lips, black nails, black dress with slight cleavage, about six inches above the knee.

'Escort', I think. But a mandatory CE for LPC's is not a fertile escort hunting ground---no corporate credit cards, no expense accounts.

I try a safe opening.

"Enjoy the CE?" I ask.

"As much as anyone enjoys forced learning," she said. "You?"

"The same." I replied.

"So now that you know I'm not a hooker working the room, tell me about yourself." She offered her hand and said, "Mai."

"Charles," I replied. "Was it that obvious?"

"Well, you gave me a three second once over. Like what you see?"

Wow, right to the point. "Certainly, you're rather attractive."

"Yeah, the packaging helps," she replied. "Old Fashioned? Order me one." Again very direct.

And we settled into conversation.

She sort of took charge, and I found myself following and agreeing more than not. There was some minor flirtatious touching on her part and leaning in closer to make her point. The perfume was nice and subtle, the manicure was shiny and caught my attention as she gestured.

And then as I finished my drink, she offered to get another. I declined noting mine was a double and I had a 30 minute drive home.

She replied, "Have another and spend the night here."

"Of course", I stammered.

She swung off her chair, grabbing her purse, and telling the bartender to bring another round and hold our seats as we stepped outside. I followed her as directed.

On the patio, she opened her purse and took out a pack of 120 cigarettes. She freshened her burgundy lip gloss, took one out, lit it and gave a long exhale to include her nose.

I froze. No one except me knows that ever since my first wet dream I have had a smoking fetish. Being a runner and a good boy, I have never tried one, but my masturbation fantasies are enhanced by the numerous YouTube collections from movies and TV.

She offered it to me. Again, I stammered.

"You don't smoke?" she purred. "Of course you don't, running marathons and so forth. It's OK, I won't tell."

Again I'm stammering.

"Don't move," she directed as she reached in her purse pulling out the gloss. "Here, let's feminize you a bit because as you know, only naughty girls smoke. Don't move; pucker a little; then press your lips together."

I obeyed.

She handed me her cigarette.

"Don't think; just obey me; I don't want to be the only one with a dirty mouth. Take a little sip like through a straw and then hold it for second and exhale."

I did.

"Again."

I did.

"Now take a little breath, you'll cough once, but then go ahead and exhale."

I did, and I did cough but not too much.

"Now, do as I do," as she lit another one. "Do exactly as I say and as I do. Don't think; just follow."

I did as instructed. But after a couple more inhales, I started getting woozy. She steered me to a chair. She pulled another one close to me.

Again purring,, "Very good, very, very good. You did exactly as instructed. Now the nicotine is going to make you a little dazed but just listen to me and I'll keep you safe. So let's go back inside and put some bourbon in that dirty mouth of yours, and then we'll come back out for another round before going upstairs."

Somehow, I got to the bar. I vaguely remember the second drink. I was aware she had put my hand on her thigh and was talking about how she liked to relax after work--watching and listening to relaxing videos, just floating and letting the week drift away. She talked about other ways to relax. The bar noise made me concentrate harder on her lips and words.

After a while she paid the tab and we went back outside again. Again, some lip gloss and this time I took the cigarette without hesitation. She told me to do as she did, to mirror her movements. I did. At some point, I had to adjust my cock as it had gradually expanded to where it was trapped.

We finished the cigarettes together with her taking a long inhale and then exhaling in my face, telling me to kiss her with my dirty mouth.

I did, with tongue.

She put my hand in hers and led me through the lobby. We made out in the elevator until it got to her floor. She then led me to the room and once inside as the door closed, she hauled off and slapped me full force across the face, and then shoved me down on the bed.

Her demeanor turned intense. She pointed a finger in my face and harshly said, "Don't speak, don't talk, don't think, don't resist, answer when I tell you to."

Another slap on the other cheek.

Slightly drunk, fully erect, and completely stunned, I just sat there, rubbing my cheeks to take the sting away. She was stepping out of her dress and undoing the bra, leaving on the heels and thigh-highs.

Softly, she lifted my chin up. "Look at me; look hard at me, listen carefully.

I nodded.

"So what was it Dennis said to you? I was close enough to hear most of it. That you are a sissy; your fiancé broke up with you because you weren't man enough to keep her; that you let him kiss you; that you returned the kiss; that you got aroused at the thought of him?

I mumbled, "I'm not a sissy, really, I don't think I am, I don't know, he surprised me, I-I-I don't know."

I was spinning. Somehow I had to break out of the spiral.

"Not thinking is not the same as not knowing. Prove him wrong; fuck me and then we'll see," she demanded.

She lifted me to a stand and then pulled my pants and briefs down. Pushing me back on the bed she pulled them and my shoes off.

"Fuck, you're about to cum even before I mount you," she said as she wiped the pre-cum off the tip and smeared it on my lips.

"Lick," she hissed.

She plunged three fingers inside her cunt, massaged herself and then put them in my mouth as she climbed on me and pushed me down. Taking her fingers back, she pulled me inside her. I was trembling and vibrating all over from the adrenaline of her assault -- physical and verbal.

She rose up and down seven or eight times telling me to cum, to fill her. She slapped me again and that's all it took. The distraction of the pain broke my concentration, and I released. As I did, she fingered herself and likewise came hard. We both gasped for a few seconds, and then she slapped me again several times, breaking my focus on my cock.