Therapy Session – Onania Masturbator Forum

by Pixie MuleDonkey »

From walking into the office, checking in with the nurse, wondering if everyone on the staff knows the reason why you’ve scheduled an appointment with this therapist; to actually walking in and seeing an attractive therapist waiting for you, feeling your hands beginning to tremble, your forehead getting clammy, and your cheeks flushing as you know you’re about to confess every pathetic, ridiculous detail about your shameful secret habit to her. Knowing that this professional, scholarly expert is going to ask you probing personal questions, and if you want any chance at ever being freed from the grip of your humiliating addiction, you’re going to have to be completely honest with her. Debasing yourself in front of a woman – and while you understand intellectually that she was never going to be open to a date due to the nature of your meeting, you can’t escape the feeling that you’ll be demonstrating to her all the reasons why she should reject you as a potential sexual partner, if not as a real man altogether.

So when she tells you about her intentions, and the unorthodox way in which she’s going to conduct these sessions, it fills you with dread, but also is such a compelling invitation that there’s simply no way you can refuse. You could save your own dignity, turn around, and walk out of the office and never come back – but even when you consider this course of action, you know that by the time you returned home you would begin masturbating, fetishizing this moment and bringing yourself to another pathetic orgasm while remembering the sense of shame and erotic exposure you felt.

So you stay, and when she tells you to feel free to take down your pants and underwear – probably laying down a towel on the chair first, perhaps making sure that a bottle of lubricant and a box of tissues are within reach – you do so. Unbuckling your belt, unzipping your jeans, hooking your thumbs into the elastic waistband of your underwear and sliding them down your legs, exposing your nudity from the waist down to an attractive, professional stranger. Though the urge to take your already-stiffening penis in hand is almost automatic, a Pavlovian reflex after all these years of habitual self-abuse, you still feel a wave of deep embarrassment as your fingers tighten around your shaft. Your heartbeat quickens as you slowly, inevitably, begin to pump. The humiliation you feel at openly indulging your immature, emasculating masturbating – jerking off, like the loser you are – is intense, as is the pleasure it feeds you, threatening to overwhelm your mind.

She urges you to relax and take your time, her voice soothing and comforting, almost motherly, but still professional and analytical. She asks you open-ended questions, prompting you to explain your answers in full and at length. They are deeply embarrassing questions, though when you express your reluctance to reveal your most closely-held secrets, she reminds you that she is here to help you, to listen and not to judge. Yet the longer the session goes, and the more deeply you succumb to your masturbatory urges, the more willingly you recount some of your most spectacularly humiliating experiences in which masturbation cost you everything: the affection of girls you crushed on, the respect of your classmates, jobs with prospects for the future. And every tale of emasculation and ridicule sends surges of pleasure through your eager, oblivious little penis, further perpetuating your shame-spiral.

All the while, the intense erotic excitement of openly masturbating in front of her sends involuntary trembling through you. Feeling her watching you engaging in your most secret, depraved activity; being attracted and aroused by her nylon-clad legs and pencil skirt, her button-down blouse and glasses giving her an air of erudition – but also further convincing you that she’s way out of your league, and by now she must think you’re completely lowly and perverse. And, through her soft encouragement, you explain these things to her, further reinforcing your feelings of inadequacy.

Soon you’re getting to the core of it: masturbation is a refuge, a retreat from the pressures of a world which has placed expectations on you that you feel unprepared to meet. Your failure to resist masturbating every day reinforces your self-image as a weak-willed pervert, so afraid of failure that you self-sabotage: chickening out instead of asking girls out, remaining at entry-level positions so you don’t get promoted, freeing you to masturbate in the restroom and when you get home. Even now, when your therapist asks you about how you feel masturbating in front of her, you tell her your conviction that even though you find her extremely attractive and will probably fantasize about her, you fear that even if she were to take you to her bed you wouldn’t be able to satisfy her, either because frequent masturbation has prevented you from learning skill in the bedroom, because your penis is too small, or because your inexperience will mean that you’ll prematurely ejaculate before ever getting inside her.

She tells you the session is nearly at an end for the day, but she would like to continue this line of questioning and dig deeper next time. In the meantime, she gives you permission to bring yourself to orgasm while she watches, and reminds you that you’re free to express yourself verbally in any way you like as you do; there’s no judgment here.

She listens as you zero in on the intense, intimate pleasure, your libido worked up to a fever pitch from your hour-long masturbation session. By now your mind feels a little bit broken by the depths to which you’ve exposed yourself as a laughable, pathetic wank-addict, and you surrender to gooning and moaning in a high-pitched, effeminate voice. You’re only vaguely aware of the specific words that you say in your masturbatory reverie, but after you messily spurt your cum into the towel beneath your bare bottom (and across the office floor), she smiles pleasantly and suggests, “Next time we meet, we should start with the things you said just now while you were ejaculating, and why you said them in such an effeminate tone.” You sheepishly wipe yourself clean with the Kleenex and pull up your underwear and pants while your therapist walks over to her office door and opens it. “Be sure to meet with the receptionist to schedule your next appointment, all right? Thank you so much for coming in today; I think this was very productive.” She says that last word with a meaningful glance at the creamy dollops of semen you squirted across her floor, and you feel another wave of mingled embarrassment and arousal.

You leave her office, walk to the receptionist’s desk and endure the humiliation of talking to the cute freckled girl behind the desk, wondering if she heard you moaning when you came. There’s no way she couldn’t have heard it, right? She smiles as she types your next appointment into the computer, writing it down on a card for you. You leave the building, feeling drained and disheveled, yet strangely elated. You don’t know if this was helpful to you at all, but as you walk through the parking lot you already know that you’re going to come back. Despite the intense shame, you’re going to be counting the days until your next appointment.

Source: (170) Therapy Session – Page 12 – Onania Masturbator Forum

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