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Chapter Three
ASHER
T he therapist was giving me a glare of neutrality. Absolutely nothing to work with. Did I misread the signs? I could’ve sworn I saw him check me out. I stopped my zipper midway, noticing his eyes hadn’t drifted below my collarbones. My cheeks flushed. He’s probably straight. This isn’t gonna work. I feel my stomach drop the longer he stares at me. No spark. Nothing.
I sit up straighter. Fuck me.
I hated being around normal men. Men who didn’t spend their nights jerking off to pretty boys online. Men with full-time jobs, normal schedules, and stable relationships. Men who wore ties and never drove above the speed limit. Men like him. Because around those men, I felt less powerful. Less... me.
“Do you do this often?” he asked, his voice firm but not unkind.
The fluttering started in my stomach. A familiar sign I was nervous, usually got this when I needed to bail on a date with someone who makes me uncomfortable. But he was my therapist, so couldn't exactly leave, could I?
This is why I loved being online. Online, I was Ash. The sexy, hot twink you wanted to fuck but couldn’t, so you had to settle for a picture and your right hand.
In the real world? I was a loser who couldn’t read a room to save his life. Someone who relied so much on sex appeal that I forgot how to speak around real, straight men, and women, honestly.
God. I just had to get caught touching myself in public.
To be fair, it was super late at night. I didn’t think anyone would see.
Dr. Peterson started tapping the edge of his notebook with his pen. Tap. Tap. His eyes scanned me, thoughtful, assessing. Intelligent.
My throat tightened. Felt like it was stuffed with cotton. I forced myself to swallow. “Can I please have some water?”
He narrowed his eyes for just a moment, so fast I wondered if I imagined it. “No coffee?” he asked dryly, giving me the smallest smile before heading to a mini fridge in the corner.
My cheeks burned. I turned away. I hate when men make me feel stupid.
I hated how, in that moment, he had all the control. I should’ve taken the time to find a gay therapist, someone who could look at me and see something fuckable, not pitiful.
His office was massive. Not your typical therapy space. I glanced down at the wooden nameplate on the coffee table between us.
Dr. Peterson, PsyD Clinical Psychologist
There was a single couch: firm, but soft enough to mold around my weight. He had a large armchair by a corner desk, and even a kitchenette. A break room disguised as an office.
He returned, handing me a glass of water with a lemon slice.
“Fancy,” I muttered, taking a bigger sip than I meant to. The cold, citrusy water soothed my throat instantly.
“So, tell me, Asher.” He leaned forward slightly, voice lower now. “Why do you think you were sent to court-mandated therapy?”
I sucked the lemon slice dry and tossed it toward the coffee table. It bounced to the floor. His eyes followed it.
“I dunno. Sexual deviant, maybe?” I scoffed, rolling my eyes, completely forgetting I was supposed to be making him like me.
“Pick it up,” he said, scribbling something in his notebook.
“What?”
“Pick up the lemon. You’re not at home.”
His tone carried authority. I scoffed, but he looked up and met my eyes.
“Do you need an adult to do it for you?”
He leaned forward, but I snatched the lemon off the floor and slapped it onto the table. “I am an adult!” I snapped.
His eyebrows raised slightly.
“What are you fucking writing?” I snapped again. “I haven’t even said anything yet!”
Something about him pissed me off. Maybe it was knowing he was probably straight. Maybe it was that I’d actually have to go through with this therapy thing so he could sign my forms.
I breathed in, trying to calm myself. He finally stopped writing. Then he turned the notebook around.
Shy or manipulative.
The flush that followed was instant and red-hot. I covered my zipper without thinking.
“You’re supposed to be a therapist. Not forming biases.” I glared at him, my jaw tight. My heart thudding. “You know calling me manipulative is pretty insulting, right? Like... you don’t even know me yet.”
He gave a wry smile, setting the notebook on the table and leaning back. The lines at the corners of his mouth creased. He was older than me, but not by much.
His dull gray eyes locked on mine. His black hair was pushed back, but a few strands had escaped, framing sharp cheekbones and a chiseled jawline.
“I’m not trying to insult you, Asher,” he said, leaning forward again. His forearm flexed under the sleeve of a crisp white dress shirt. I tried not to notice how built he was.
“I’m simply observing.” He nudged the notebook toward me, a subtle challenge glinting in his eyes. “How about you describe yourself, and we go from there?”
He passed me the pen. I took it.
What the hell was I supposed to write? Camslut? Secret pervert? That I get off to men jerking off to me or sending me money? That I have a dead-end job and no friends, and most of my human interaction comes from people who want to fuck my throat?
That I hated him for not checking me out, so I could at least know I wasn’t imagining it the first time?
I bit my lip. He was still staring.
“You know how to write, don’t you?” he asked, expression blank.
“Yes! Jesus, yes, I know how to fucking write, asshole,” I snapped, grabbing the notebook.
He smiled, tight-lipped, smug bastard.
I started scribbling.
Asher’s List
I am nice.
I am friendly.
I am honest.
I am cute.
I am NOT manipulative.
I handed it back. He read it with clear disappointment.
“Asher, I can’t help you if you’re not willing to help yourself. Let’s try this: I'll say something, and you tell me if it’s accurate.”
I nodded.
He glanced at the page and jotted something else down.
“Sensitive?” he asked. A loose strand of hair fell over his forehead. His grip on the pen was firm.
I swallowed. Looked away.
“No,” I said.
“I don’t believe you,” he replied, not missing a beat. “I’ll put yes for both our sakes.”
I wanted to snap, but that would only prove his point.
“Likes older men?” he asked clinically.
A jolt went through me. Where the hell did he get that from? Now I felt like I was on a tightrope.
What had I done that said I liked men?
Shit. Was it the zipper thing? The eye-fucking?
I panicked.
“Erm... no.”
He chuckled softly. Wrote something else.
“Remember—honesty, Asher.”
“Sexually active?”
“Does that really matter to a therapist?” I said, leaning hard on the sarcasm.
He paused. Then:
“One, I’m a clinical psychologist. Two, it does when the client is sent to court-mandated therapy for fucking himself with a dildo in a public space,” he said flatly. “So,
sexually active, or do you usually keep yourself company?”
“I—how do you know it was a dildo? I never said—” I stared.
He sighed. “It’s in the court documents, Ash.”
My face flushed. Hard. Fuck.
They were that specific? God, trial was humiliating enough.
“...I just play with myself,” I mumbled, staring at my nail beds.
He hummed and jotted more down.
“What do you usually do when you play with yourself?”
“Is this necessary for therapy? I mean—”
“Asher.”
His voice wasn’t loud. Just sharp. Firm. It made me sit up straight.
“If you want me to sign off on this court-mandated therapy, you don’t question me. Got it?”
He leaned in, locking eyes. I immediately looked away. He was right. He was the therapist, or "clinical psychologist". It was his job to ask. My job to comply.
“Sorry, Doctor.”
“Sir.”
“Sir,” I corrected.
He went back to writing. Then tore a page from his notebook and handed it to me, folded.
“I’ll see you next week. Five p.m. sharp.”
I went to open it, but he grabbed my wrist.
“Not until you get home.”
I nodded and left.
I read it in the car.
The client has been instructed to refrain from achieving climax until our next session. This task is intended to evoke the client’s capacity to tolerate arousal, delay gratification, and become more aware of the emotional and psychological factors that fuel their compulsions.
What the fuck?
Then a text from Kaleb:
Kaleb : Can’t wait. Video call soon.
Therapy is going to blow, man.
I hate normal men.