The following is an experiment. I haven't been writing a lot and my therapist has encouraged that I get back at it. For anyone wondering where I've gone, after the hospital I have only really been on Discord.
Anyway, there is not going to be any rhyme or reason to this. No editing, no second draft: going commando here! Expect there to be lots of BE, FMG, GTS, Futa and other sexual growth going on, but there might be whole chapters where I complain about how badly they are adapting a favorite book series.
Your guess is as good as mine as to what happens next.
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Ai never wanted to go to therapy.
"I'm sure this is a perfectly reputable procedure," Irene said, her Scottish accent making what she said sound both like an optimistic encouragement and thickly veiled sarcasm. "I mean, they wouldn't advertise it unless it was reputable, right?"
Ai tried not to let the grimace on her inside show on her outside. Irene, still dressed in her judo outfit from her class earlier and towering over Ai by about eight inches, looked like she would break a man's arm in three places and then bake him cookies as an apology. Brown curly hair to her shoulders that was getting frizzy in the early morning mist, she pushed up her glasses before pushing Ai towards the large concrete building before them.
"Get in there! I'll pick you up in a few hours."
Ai didn't say anything, but Ai rarely did and Irene knew that. Fixing her neon green scrunchie and her peach skirt, the small woman psyched herself up.
You can do this!,
she thought, flexing her hands to feel the veins along her arms pump up under the sweater. The frumpy red Christmas sweater that didn't match her skirt was a smoke screen: Ai loved to work out. Even over forty years old, Ai was more likely to bench press a stranger as talk to them, which is to say she was capable of both but unlikely to do either. Not that she liked to talk, or make eye contact, or...
Ai huffed, ignoring her stupid thoughts. She was delaying. Biting her lip, Ai stepped forward and walked into the building that looked more like a military ammo depot and less like a place of cutting edge techno-therapy.
"Hello, and welcome to Mental Conception!" The only part of the receptionist Ai could make out behind the tall metal and stone desk were her green eyes, wildly curly red hair and a bubbly personality.
Ai choked back a growl, hating being short, and went over as quickly as she could, the lip of the desk level with her nose. "Ai Love, I have an appointment."
The receptionist must have had great hearing, because even with the muttered monotone Ai gave, she quickly clack-clack-clacked on her keyboard and replied with more cheerful than a person should reasonably have. "Ai, you are just in time! Dr. Galore has the Machine all warmed up and ready for you right now!"
It took a few minutes, but Ai eventually got out of the girl - who's name was Britney! (of course it was) and she was loving Ai's hair (who loves messy ponytail scrunchy?) - directions to some elevators, went down to level B12, walked through what felt like a mile of creepy empty hallway and ended up in front of a massive steel door that would make bank vaults feel insecure.
Standing there, hearing something that sounded like the
Its Alive!
scene from Frankenstein crackling behind the doors despite their thickness, Ai paused and regretted every decision she had ever made, ever.
"This is a mistake," Ai mumbled, pulling out her phone and playing a few rounds of Solitaire to calm her nerves. She might have felt silly, standing there for ten minutes in front of a vault door while mad science happened behind it, but no one was there to see here so her anxieties were much smaller. Eventually, though, she put her phone away and pushed the little call button on the side underneath the nametag reading Dr. Deloris Galore.
"Yes?" came the staticky reply, though it had an unidentifiable European accent that made it sound more like a
Ves
than an affirmative.
Ai pushed the button again and held it down. "Ai Love, here for my appointment."