Dear Reader:
If you enjoy mind-control fantasies about transgenderism, ruthless therapists, and broken men, then this story is for you.
If you don't enjoy such subject matter, then please move on. You won't enjoy this story.
Regards,
Adam Lily
****
"So, Thomas. At our last session, we had something of a breakthrough, didn't we?"
That was Veronica, my therapist. I was sitting on a large, firm couch. She was in a chair opposite me, slender and regal, legal pad in her perfectly manicured hands. Her office was dark, and warm, and cozy. Hint of perfume in the air; soft music at the edge of my hearing; cold glass of tea at my side, condensation beading on it. Just like always.
I'd started therapy two months earlier. I was 23. I'd just broken up with my girlfriend, but everything else was going well. I was a fine product of the public schools and a decent church and a university education and a career with a retirement plan and health benefits and 80 hours of paid vacation a year. My life, it was going great. Right as planned.
I felt awful. Trapped. I wanted out. I wanted to die, or at least I thought I wanted to die. And I didn't know why. And so, like all white people who can afford it, I started therapy.
I said, "I think we did have a breakthrough, yes."
Veronica smiled, slightly. Thin lips of fiery red. "Tell me what you think we learned."
'We talked about usefulness. How all people have one quality that defines, and that my quality is being useful. Useful to others."
"And do you still agree? That what defines you is being useful?"
"God, absolutely. That hit me like a truck. It explained so much. If I'm not being useful, it's like I'm nothing at all."
She nodded. "Good. So tell me, Thomas. Have you felt useful this week?"
"Sure," I lied. "You know. . . . at work, doing my job. That's useful."
Veronica waited. This is how we did the dance. I asserted, and she waited for more.
"Right? Work . . . well, I guess it's useful. I mean, I do things for other people at my job. They need me. If I'm not there. . . ." I shrugged.
The slightest arch in one of Veronica's dark eyebrows. I always closely attended to these cues. She was so hard to read. I gave so much, and she gave so little. That was normal for therapy, I guess. But it was fascinating.
"Finish that thought," Veronica said. "'If I'm not there. . . .'"
I chewed my lip, gazing at the lava lamp on Veronica's desk. White, oily, flowing blobs in a cone of ocean blue. Up and down. Soothing. Corny, but it worked.
I sighed. "If I'm not there, they'd just replace me. I know five people in the company who could do my job better."
I sipped the sweet, cold tea Veronica always provided. I'd never tasted anything like it. Veronica said she made it for special patients. Just like the music—that was special, too.
It felt good to be special. I was glad Veronica thought I was special.
She continued. "That doesn't sound like you feel useful."
"No. I don't feel useful."
"It sounds like you feel useless."
A flash of anger. The word "useless"—that stung. I took a deep breath, drawing the scent deep into my nostrils, into my head—and I relaxed. The scent was wonderful. Just like the tea, and the music, and the lava lamp, and Veronica's voice. So soothing.
"Yes," I agreed. "Useless. I feel useless." And despite the drowsy warmth of the room, I shivered.
Veronica noticed. "Did something just happen?"
I reflected. "I think so," I said. "Saying that word. It made me feel different."
"Different how?"
"I'm not sure—" I cast around for a word. "Lighter. Like something just left my body."
Another slight smile, which thrilled me. Veronica was stunning. Long, black hair falling around her slender, pale face. She rarely smiled. She was always so poised, so professional. Confident. I bet she didn't feel useless, like me.
"Did it feel good?"
"Yes. It felt really good."
"Why do you think it felt good?"
I watched the lava lamp. "I don't know."
"Try saying it again."
I paused. I was scared of how it might feel. Then I said, "Useless," and I shuddered again.
"How was that?"
"Even stronger. Like something awful is leaving me. Leaving me lighter."
She tapped her pen against her lips. "You're getting lighter."
"Yes," I said. "I'm getting lighter."
"Emptier?"
"Yes." I seized on the word. That was absolutely it. "I'm getting emptier."
She made a note. "If you're getting emptier, that suggests something bad is leaving you. And if something bad is leaving you, something better might take its place."
That made sense. Veronica made sense every time. So warm in here. I drained my tea.
Veronica pressed a button on an intercom on the table next to her. "Lena," she said, and my heart leapt. "Please bring in more tea for Mister Preston."
In moments a slim, pale brunette in a tight-fitting flowered sundress entered the office. Lena, Veronica's assistant. The scent in the room intensified. I'd noticed a while back that Lena wore it.
Lena smiled at me. Her smiles were so strange. They were genuine, but at the edge of a tremble. And her eyes were watery. Not sad watery, not crying watery. Expectant, waiting, attentive. Like a tamed animal's eyes.
I called eyes like that "sick eyes." Women with sick eyes were a little bit crazy. They were always insane in the sack. Sick eyes turned me on, and Lena turned me on.
Veronica already knew this. She'd noticed in our second session how I reacted to Lena. I'd admitted it then, and I'd shivered then, and something bad had left me then, too. Looking back, I now realized that every session with Veronica had left me lighter. Emptier.
And yet nothing had come along to replace what had left. I'd been hollowing out this whole time, but I didn't have a clue what might fill me up next.
Lena leaned down to set a fresh glass of tea on the end table next to me. Her cleavage strained against her tight sundress. Slender, but blessed with large breasts. Watery eyes smiled at me through her bangs and bob.
So of course an erection unfurled in my pants. I couldn't help it. Soon my penis would leak steadily. Even after Lena left, my erection and arousal would persist. And by the end of the session my underwear would be soaked in precum. So embarrassing. I was always grateful for the scent of Veronica's office to mask my scent.
After retrieving my empty glass, Lena turned and bowed her head lightly to Veronica—I'd always found that deference interesting—and moved to leave the office.
"Lena," said Veronica.
Lena gasped softly. "Yes, Miss Veronica?"
Miss Veronica. More deference.
"Please stay. And sit. Next to Thomas. You don't mind, do you Thomas?"
Of course I didn't mind. I was thrilled.
Lena took her place next to me on the couch, sitting attentively. So thin, so pale, breasts straining against the flowery fabric. Her perfume. Oh my god. My penis—no. No, only a dirty word would do. My cock. It was growing so large, I feared it would force itself out over my belt.
I needed to hide it. I uncrossed and recrossed my legs. Veronica noticed. "Thomas, are you okay?"
My heart had sped up. "Sure, I'm fine."
"You shifted. In your seat. And you look uncomfortable."
