Regards,
Keegan York
They say to never make friends with your clients when you’re a therapist. In fact, that’s drilled in pretty hard at school. You need to be close enough to be able to help, but not so close that they consider you an actual friend. That way lies calls in the night, visits at home and unrealistic expectations. So I keep the tone formal.
My computer dings again.
Hi Keegan. Or Dr. York? Which do I call you? Wait, I didn’t mean to start asking questions again. I just realized that it’s past 10pm and I might be keeping you up with these emails, and if so, I’m sorry, because that’s not my intention. I was just really happy you replied so quickly. So thank you, and sorry. I guess I already apologized, but you know how it goes. Sorry. God, I’m just going to stop typing.
Miranda
I don’t think I’ve ever run into anyone who seems to literally type out what’s in her head like that. Must be a speedy typist. And she’s so keyed up, like she’s afraid that if she stops typing, she’ll bail out before daring to hit send. But she found my note at the club, so there’s probably a BDSM angle to it. Or it might be completely unrelated. I don’t know, but exchanging messages with her is fun.
Hi Miranda, and of course not. I just happen to be late in the office today. Don’t worry about me. If I don’t have time, I won’t reply. I’ll be here tomorrow. Have a good night.
Keegan
It’s only just when I hit send that I realize I’ve already gotten more casual. Shit.
Ding.
Oh, thank you. I’m glad to hear it. Really stopping with the emails now. Sorry. Thanks. Have a good night.
Miranda
Well, now I’m definitely curious about what tomorrow’s going to be like. Sounds interesting, to say the least.
3
Keegan
“So, why don’t we start by finding out what you’d like out of these sessions?”
In one of my leather chairs, bought specifically for comfort to put clients at ease, sits Miranda Larson, watching me big blue eyes. Thick, blonde hair hanging down past her shoulders hints as much at her Scandinavian background as her last name does. Taller than average, with curves for miles and a full-lipped smile, she’d be the epitome of a sexy Valkyrie if her expression didn’t look like the one of a mouse that just crawled into the food bowl of a hungry house cat.
Fuck, I’m not that scary, am I? From her emails, I expected more energy, but as soon as I came out to greet her, her eyes went wide and her face red. Suddenly getting words out of her is like pulling teeth. Doesn’t make her any less easy on the eyes, though. In my mind, I know that getting all worked up about a client is both unethical and unprofessional, but it’s not my mind that’s fighting my brain for blood.
She swallows thickly, briefly meets my eyes and then drops her gaze. I don’t think she’s weak. It takes a good bit of bravery to work up to seeking help through psychotherapy, even when I call it coaching to make it seem more approachable. I get that. This isn’t the first time I’ve had a nervous newcomer in my office.
“Take your time. We’re in no rush.” I set a cup down on the low coffee table in front of her. “Here you go. Cream? Sugar? Wait until you try it. This machine makes amazing coffee.”
She nods, still not looking up. Everything about her body language screams help me, sparking my protective instincts. But I can’t do that until she asks for it, or at least tells me what’s wrong.
“Cream and sugar, please.” She speaks into her lap, but it’s a start. Could be worse. Like that client last year whose only words were hello when he came in and a mumbled goodbye when he left. It took several sessions before I finally got the poor guy speaking complete sentences.
“Sure.” The coffee machine has a small refrigerator built into its side that perfectly fits a mug of cream. I appreciate little details. In my opinion, coffee is best black, but many clients prefer to soften theirs a bit. I bring it to the table along with a bowl of sugar.
She dumps two spoonfuls of sugar into her cup, making me wince, followed by enough cream to make her coffee run almost completely white. I’ll have to refill the mug after the session. She’s ruining a perfectly fine cuppa joe, if you ask me, but then again, she’s not paying me to judge her coffee.
“Thank you,” she mumbles, but doesn’t drink.
Picking up my own cup, I ease back in the chair across from hers and take a sip. It goes down, black and hot, burning my throat, just the way I like it. No pleasure without pain.
“Would you like to get to know each other a little before we start?” She starts at my voice. “It can be difficult to bring up something personal with a total stranger. We don’t have to jump out into the deep end right away—just test the waters a little.”
Finally, she looks up, chewing her full lip nervously. It reminds me of a kind of look I like to see in a completely different type of session, but if I’m going to help her, I really need to push down how that makes me feel.
“I… I saw your ad at the club.” She blushes and looks down again, as if it were disgraceful to even admit that she’d ever been there. Like a BDSM club is even a big deal these days. For some, I guess it still is. Not like I don’t know that. I don’t exactly advertise that I go there either, but she should know that she’s in safe company. Hell, I’m surprised we haven’t run into each other, given how many evenings I’ve spent there. Hasn’t happened, though.
Trust me, I’d remember that.
I nod. “I’m glad. You’re far from the first, and I think it’s a field where I’m especially qualified to help. And while I don’t know yet why you’ve come to me, I sincerely hope I can help you.”
Gathering her courage, she raises her head and gives me a hopeful look. “So you’ve helped people like me before?”
“Like you? I don’t know yet. I’ve helped many people. Sometimes the source of the issue doesn’t matter. Sometimes it does. Everyone is different, so I can definitely say I’ve never helped anyone just like you before. But maybe I’ve helped someone relatable. Or maybe we’re heading into an exciting new adventure together.” I smile cautiously. Half expecting her to startle and run off like a deer come into my yard, I avoid making any sudden moves.
I get a wan smile back, which is a little victory.
“I don’t know. This is stupid. I’m probably just wasting your time.” Cradling her cup, she lifts it to her lips and takes a cautious sip. Apparently it meets with approval, since the next sip is deeper.
“Not at all. Anyone is welcome here.” If nothing else, she could do with some help with her confidence.
“I feel guilty. And ashamed.”
I frown. “Not about my time, I hope. I mean—”
“It’s why I’m here.” As if actually getting the words out gives her strength, she meets my gaze for real for the first time today. And what a gaze it is, her deep blue eyes fixing on mine with a surprising intensity. For a moment, I forget myself, like there’s more to this moment than just a counselor and his client, but of course there isn’t. That’s not why she’s here, and I should know better.
Her jaw’s set in determination and her fingers grip the armrests of her chair, her knuckles whitening. That admission took a good bit of courage, as much as coming here in the first place.
“Of course.” I nod, quickly settling into professional mode “Would you like to tell me more?”
She pauses, nods, and then draws her breath and releases it.
“Anything said here is confidential. I promise. Just you and me, and I don’t judge. This is a safe space, no matter what.”
For the first time, her face takes on a wry expression, rather than one of despair. “What if I did something criminal?” I catch a glimpse of the person I imagined from the emails, and I like that.
Cocking my head, I raise a curious eyebrow at her. “Did you?”
“You first.”
“I said confidential and I meant it. If you did something criminal, I might ad
vise you to turn yourself in, but I wouldn’t report it.”
She examines me closely, then nods. “Okay.” Just the one word, but there’s a sense of acceptance in it. She leans back in her chair, then slouches, her shoulders sinking and her head lolling back against the high chair back. Relaxing for the first time since she came in.
It might be too early for me to call it progress, but it’s something.
“Would you like more coffee?” I ask, mostly to get her talking again.
“No. Thank you.” She draws another breath, and does that lip chewing thing again. Then she blurts out, “I’m not sure I can live without BDSM.”
I blink. “Okay. That makes sense.” I smile encouragingly. “How do you feel about that?”
“I don’t think I can live with it either. I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t. Does that make sense?”
“It’s not an uncommon thought, but everyone’s experience is different. Why can’t you live with it?”
She sighs, sits up, and takes a sip before answering. “It makes me feel so guilty. Like, who in their right mind enjoys being spanked, or flogged, or tied up, or…” She trails off, blushing.
After enough of a pause, I say softly, “Lots of people. I do. Sometimes.”
“But it’s not right,” she blurts out.
“Why do you think so?”
“It’s…” She stumbles over her words, searching for the right ones. “Usually, I’m a strong woman.”
With a smile, I ease back. “I believe you. You dared to ask for help. That requires strength.”
“But when I see someone trapped, made to do things…” Her breathtakingly blue eyes fix on mine. “Dirty things. Sinful things… I want them done to me too. And that’s not right.”
“If everything’s consensual, and the rules agreed on in advance, is it still wrong?” I’ve had this conversation many times, usually with skeptics, but never with someone who’s already a part of the scene. Or at least it seems she is.
She licks her lips before responding. “My mother raised me by herself. I… wasn’t exactly planned.”
“I see where you get your strength from. Raising a child on your own isn’t easy. Did you know your father?”
“He… I don’t want to talk about him right now.”
Interesting, but we don’t have to tackle everything at once. “All right. We’ll stick to your mother then.”
She nods and reaches for her cup, but finds it empty.
“I’ll get you another one.”
“No, thank you.” She gives me a hopeful look. “You don’t have hot chocolate, do you?”
Luckily, my fancy machine is just as good at hot chocolate as it is coffee. Too sweet for me, but I’ll happily serve it. When I set the cup on the table, she nods her thanks and takes a cautious sip. The way her face wrinkles when finding it too hot is adorable.
I keep a cold water pitcher next to the coffee machine for sessions, and pour her a glass. “Here, this’ll help. Are you okay?”
She nods while waving a hand at her mouth. “Too greedy,” she replies, sounding almost like she’s just been to the dentist. I’ll be okay. Thank you.” She breathes out heavily with a rounded mouth, trying to channel cool air over her tongue.
“Drink.” I hold the cup out to her.
She looks up, then nods and takes it. She closes her eyes when she drinks, and it looks like it helps. “Thank you,” she says again as she puts her cup down.
I nod, leaning back in my chair with my espresso. “You were telling me about your mother.”
“Right. God, this sounds just like visiting a shrink on TV, doesn’t it? ‘Tell me about your mother’,” she says in a deep voice while making air quotes. She even laughs, just barely.
I laugh with her, happy to see her come out of her shell a little. “We can talk about something else if you want. If you think that’s too stereotypical.”
Then she sobers again. “No, I think maybe Mom’s important. She’s… a little weird. Maybe she should come see you too.”
“How about we focus on you for now?” I smile, not wanting it to sound like criticism.
“Yeah. Sure. It’d be way too weird to share a counselor with her anyway. Anyway, she has some really specific ideas about what’s right and wrong, in general and specifically for her little girl.” She looks away, towards the window. “Life wasn’t easy for us when I was younger, and I think it had a large impact on her. And through her, me, I guess.”
“Would you like to tell me about these things?”
She shakes her head. “Not yet.”
Taking a chance, I lean forward to put my hand on her knee. It’s warm under my palm. Her head snaps up to look at me. “You’re safe here. I promise. It’s just the first session and we have all the time you want to take, but the more you can tell me, the better I can help.”
She nods. “I just need a little time to get used to this.”
“Of course.” I lean back, smiling encouragingly. “So, your mother, then. You’re an adult now. Do you live with her?”
“No.”
“But the guilt is still there.”
“You don’t know what it’s like. I love Mom, I really do. She’s put me ahead of everything, made me the center of her life, but I can’t help how I feel. And I don’t have anyone to talk to about it.”
“Did you try her?”
She snorts. “Yeah, right. Would you talk to your mom about wanting to have kinky sex? A documentary about it came up on the TV once, and she shut it right off. Apparently BDSM is only for dirty deviants and misogynists.”
Right. Figures. “Well, you have me.”
“Can you tell me why it isn’t wrong? I mean, I’ve read so much about it, about people in the lifestyle and casuals. Is it okay to submit to someone if it’s only temporary, or am I only validating a world where women are objectified and mistreated?” Her big eyes look up at me, eager for an answer.
“That’s a tough question. And the answer differs based on who’s asked. In my opinion, no, but then I’m speaking from a point of privilege, aren’t I? What about the other way around? Many men enjoy being dominated as well. How do you feel about that? Is it just as bad, or is it their just desserts?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. I’ve thought about that too, and I don’t have a good answer. But in my mind, I’m the submissive.” Now that’s a statement that gets my brain working hard. Briefly, she brings her hand up to her mouth. “Wow, I don’t know if I’ve ever said that out aloud before.”
“No judgment, remember? Everything’s confidential.”
She nods. “Yeah, that’s a little weird. Actually, can I say a few other things?”
“Of course.”
“I want to be spanked.” She clenches her fists and grins like she’s just gotten a free pass to be naughty. “I want to be tied up. I want to be whipped. I want someone to grab me by the throat and make me theirs.” She’s not even looking at me anymore, just glorying for a moment in the freedom of no judgment.
Meanwhile, I do my best to keep control, because fuck, those kinds of words are hard to ignore, especially when they come out of a girl like Miranda. I don’t even know what the deal is, since I’ve never had this problem before. Always distanced, always composed, but damn, if there isn’t something about her that makes that impossible.
I shift in my chair uncomfortably, my cock going rock hard in my slacks. That’d leave a good impression, right? I’m supposed to be a goddamn professional.
“I want candle drips and flogger whips and… hey, that rhymed.” She giggles, and then it’s like she suddenly remembers she’s not alone. Her face turns bright red as her eyes go wide in shock and both of her hands clasp over her mouth. “I’ve… I’ve never…” she mumbles through her fingers.
I smile awkwardly while thinking about bills to pay, hockey stats and that I have to take out the garbage today, trying to make my steel bar of a cock wilt under the power of my will alone. It’s not easy with the way
Miranda’s tits rise and fall under her shirt as she breathes hard. Luckily, she seems too embarrassed to notice.
Clearing my throat, I lean forward, both to seem supportive and to make the inappropriate bulge in my pants less obvious. “It’s okay. There’s nothing wrong with expressing your feelings. They’re you. I think we’re making some progress already. That’s pretty impressive for your first session.”
“Really? I don’t know. I just blurted out the most embarrassing things ever to someone I’ve barely met.” Distress fills her expression again. “God, I’m so ashamed.”
“Don’t be.” Something about her makes me want to put my arm around her to comfort her. Hell, there’s something about the way she carries herself that begs for it, but as much as my instincts scream at me to go for it, I’m the professional here. Build trust through competence, because if she starts to see me as a friend, we’re getting too close. I still want to, though.
She shakes her head, still in her hands.
“Listen, they’re just thoughts. Things you said. Ways to express how you feel. Putting words to them puts you in a position to deal with them. Trust me, this is progress.” It’s so important that she doesn’t close back up.
And hopefully comes back for more sessions. It’s dumb, since just by being my client, she’s already off limits, but I really want to see her again.
“Really?” Still shivering from excitement, she looks at me with big eyes that can only be described as hopeful.
“Definitely.”
This time I do take her hand and hold it in a way meant to comfort. Her shivering calms and she gives me a cautious smile. She grips me back, her skin so damn soft. If this woman isn’t a born submissive, I’ll eat my fucking shoes. If I can help her accept herself, whoever is lucky enough to be with her after is going to be a happy man.
I spend the rest of the session like that, holding her hand while she talks loosely about her mother and even mentions her father a couple of times, but she skirts around the issue without getting to the meat of it. We can only expect so much in the first session.
Trust Me: A BDSM Romance Page 2
