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Chapter Two

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“I t’s just sometimes I feel like I can’t fuck her. Like, I respect her too much…” the man bumbles on. “And I don’t mean to upset her with all the porn.”

I sigh. Classic case of the Madonna-Whore Complex. Likely tied to societal conditioning around being a heteronormative male. But you can’t just spell it out for men like this. They have to arrive at the realization themselves, find it in the light themselves, that’s what makes it stick. Otherwise, they get defensive, stop coming, and end up even more addicted to porn.

“So, do you wish to date the women in the pornographic content you consume?” I ask, writing in my little black notebook.

Sweet chocolate turtles

More of my old T-shirts

Another necklace, maybe a choker.

I glance at the list of things I can’t wait to buy my little minx, pretending I’m actually taking notes on this man’s very evident issue.

“Hell no!” he chuckles.

I keep my face neutral.

“I mean, it’s just—ya know? Not the type of woman you bring back to your mother.”

I study his features. “But the type you’d risk your marriage over, right?”

He bristles at the suggestion. Immediately indignant at the idea that this might be his fault. That the blame could lie solely in his hands, not on the faceless women he watches.

Like my little Asher.

I decide to throw him a lifeline.

“Desire and love are different. I understand.”

He exhales sharply, grateful that I appear to be on his side.

“Yes! I love my wife, but sometimes I wanna see some… some—”

“Some hot online crush?” I interject.

I know the feeling. Nothing quite makes my day like watching Ash lick his own release off his fingers. Dirty boy. My Dirty Boy.

“Yes! I don’t love them, just think it’s hot,” he says, relieved, like he’s finally found a way to justify it to himself. A loophole that absolves him of consequences.

“Why not ask your wife to do some of the things you love to see?” I return to my notebook.

A jar of my cum?

Is that too far? Would he block me?

Yes, he would.

I cross it out.

“I don’t know. I don’t want my wife to…”

He rambles, but the answer’s obvious. He doesn’t respect a woman’s sexuality, at least not really. He sees sex as something inherently degrading from a woman’s perspective, so if his wife were to take part in his fantasies, he’d subconsciously view her as less for it.

Sad, but boring. It’s a pattern I’ve seen in a lot of men. A real shame. They deprive themselves of the pleasure of watching someone they love do filthy things for them.

I can’t relate. Nor do I care to understand.

My watch vibrates. I set the notebook down.

“I see. I think our next session should focus on breaking the barrier between what you consider a sexual versus a respectable woman.” He nods. “In the meantime, try imagining your wife in the positions you assign to other women. Or try humanizing the women you watch. Understand?”

He sighs but nods.

“Thank you, Doctor.”

“Of course.”

He leaves. I open the picture Ash sent me.

He’s wearing my old university T-shirt.

He looks good in it. Too good. It’s too big for him, which sends a wave of desire right through me. Shows just how significant the size difference would be. I bet I could wrap my hands around his waist.

A call comes through.

“Dr. Peterson.”

“Speaking.”

“A new walk-in client. He says it’s court-mandated therapy.”

My brows knit together. I check the time.

I suppose I can squeeze in one more. What’s the harm?

“Send me the court documents and let him in.”

I hear the door open. Swift steps approach the couch. I don’t look up, focused on my tablet, reviewing the documents I need to sign.

“Sit down, and I’ll be with you in a moment.”

I see, from the corner of my eye, that he sits.

I finally set the tablet down and look up.

Dark chocolate eyes meet mine.

Bambi.

This can’t be happening.

I’m not ready. I don’t even register what he says at first, his mouth moves, tongue flicking out briefly, and I have to force myself not to check out what he’s wearing.

Focus. You can’t freeze again.

“Um, did you hear me?”

Gone is the snarky man I met at the club a few years ago. This version is quiet, reserved. His body language screams discomfort. Shy.

I need to get it together. I stare at him. He quickly looks away.

Perfect. I glance down.

He’s wearing a hoodie.

My hoodie.

The one I sent him.

It swallows him. He’s also in sweats. And the necklace. The one I bought him.

Fuck.

“So, erm—”

I cough, letting the nerves out. He doesn’t seem to recognize me from the club. Guess I wasn’t all that memorable. A bittersweet feeling.

“Nice to meet you…”

“Asher! Asher Greene.” He smiles, fiddling with the hem of his sweater. Nothing like the slutty little persona he projects online. You’d never guess by looking at him that he likes cockteasing men for fun.

“Okay, Asher, I’m Dr. Peterson. Pleasure to meet you.”

I sit straighter.

Why are you here?

You shouldn’t be here. Not yet.

“So, tell me, Asher, what brings you in today?” I ask, my notebook burning in my hands. Just a few pages back and he’d see the list of things I’ve wanted to send him.

“It’s court-mandated.” He smiles shyly. “And you were close, so I figured... yeah.”

I nod. I need to pull it together.

Deep breath.

He’s in my office. My world.

He’s under my control.

I am not the man from the club who couldn’t speak in his presence.

Still, I’m a little pissed off at how he acted.

I school my face into neutrality.

“What was the crime, Asher?”

I watch him bite his lip.

“I don’t wanna say. It’s kinda embarrassing.” He smiles, all shy charm.

The more I stare him down, the more I start to think it’s all a performance.

Look at me, I’m cute and helpless. Be gentle.

Nothing irritates me more than being manipulated, especially by someone who leans on their looks the way Asher does. You're more than that, bambi.

Of course he thinks I’ll fall for it.

I scan his posture again. He’s not uncomfortable. He’s feigning prey. He doesn’t want me to pry.

So I pry.

“If you want me to sign off on your court order, Asher, you’ll need to tell me. Otherwise, I suggest another psychologist.”

His eye twitches. He didn’t like that. But he won’t leave. Not after I called his bluff.

He’ll push back.

“Okay, it’s just… I was in my car and got this overwhelming feeling, you know?” He looks away, all shy again. Manufactured innocence.

“Horny?” I ask, voice flat.

His expression shifts. Annoyed by my lack of warmth.

Knowing what he shares online, I’m not surprised. He’s used to getting his way. Probably uses seduction like a scalpel.

I write it down.

“What the hell are you writing?” he snaps, before quickly softening. “I mean... I haven’t said anything.”

“Of course not.” I smile. He relaxes.

He moves, unzipping his hoodie slightly. Tank top underneath. The necklace on full display. His collarbone.

He catches me looking.

That gives him confidence. He spreads his legs a little. Sinks into the couch.

“Mind if I lie down?” he asks, voice soft. “Mr—Dr. Peterson, sir?”

“Go for it. Peterson is fine.”

He does. Opens his legs a little wider. Hoodie slips open further. His body— tight, lithe —is on full display.

He’s doing this on purpose.

Clinical Notes: Subject attempts covert seduction to deflect from therapy.

“You may continue, Asher.”

He sighs. “It’s kinda hot in here. Could I get a drink?”

I smile, cold. “We have tea and water.”

He bites his lip. “Do you have coffee?”

Clinical Note: Control Issues.

“No,” I say, still smiling. “Please continue.”

He notices I don’t offer the tea or water again. Starts fidgeting with his sweater.

“Well, I got caught doing something inappropriate in my car. Totally not on purpose. And unfortunately, a cop saw. Boom. Court-mandated.”

I remember that video. Fuck.

One of the old ones. Phone camera. Grainy quality. But that orgasm? Real. I played it every night for a month, I probably still have it somewhere buried in my gallery with the rest of my videos of him.

Though, I had video footage of a different angle from the event since I followed him in my car and filmed him from afar. He didn't even notice, which was concerning. I hated no self awareness.

He toys with his necklace. I watch his hands.

“Do you often masturbate in public?” I ask, gripping the notebook.

He flashes a smile— dirty as sin —then flips back to shy.

He can’t decide: does he play innocent and pull compassion out of me, or seduce and have me eating out of his hand?

Or maybe he really is shy.

I jot a note.

Clinical Note: Possibly shy or manipulative. Unlikely both.

“Yes, sir… I’m usually very horny.” He slides his hand from his necklace to his zipper. Lowers it slightly.

Seduction, then.

Interesting choice. Why?

Did he peg me as the type who fucks clients? What about me gave him the impression that being sexually appealing gets him in better graces with me than being shy and pitiful?

Tell me, Asher.

I wish I could tie him up, shake him a bit, reveal everything his mind is thinking of me. Want every single little nugget of information even if it's negative.

“Can you heal me?” he says, lips parted. “Make me stop being such a… slut? Please, Doctor?”

Jesus Christ.

He was going to be a handful.

And not in the way I’d fantasized.