Page 182 of Unconditionally Yours

Monitor for sustained behavioral consistency in high-emotion scenarios.

Clinical Shitshow

Private Notes – Session 3: Delilah P. Darling

For destruction. Probably via fire. Or a vat of bleach.

Location:My office, which now smells like her. Again.

Duration:Too short.

Mood:Skinless. Rabid. Hers.

She walked in like a sin I haven’t earned. Short dress, thigh-highs, the perfume I picked clinging to her. She knew I’d breathe it in and picture my mouth between her thighs instead of telling her to sit down like a goddamn professional.

And then she spoke. “Do you want me on my knees or the desk?”

Do I want? Fucking hell, I need. But I’m a therapist. I am her therapist. At least until I burn the whole board and write a new code of ethics in cum and regret.

She brought me a bag. Gags. More than one. I didn’t even ask if they were used. I didn’t care. She offered submission like it was a trapdoor I could fall through. And I fell.

I asked if she’d be my pet and she said, “Yes, sir.” So I collared her. Buckled it around her throat and she was melting into my palm like she was made to be held there.

Touching her is like pressing a detonator. Instant obliteration.

And then, Susan fucking buzzed in with a call from Walter. Who told us Benji had cleaned up every single charge. The HOA president dropped everything. Even dragged Hansen and Petergrind down with her.

It’s over. The legal stuff. The stalking. Vandalism charges. The gym incident. Chad. Hank. Margo.

It’s all going away.

Which means we’re free.

And I can’t stop thinking: If we’re no longer court-mandated, then I’m no longer bound by the board. There’s nothing to stop me from spending every waking second devouring her until she forgets her own name and only answers to mine.

She asked if she still had to see me for the remaining weeks.

I think I laughed. I don’t remember. I was dizzy with her in my lap, her thighs under my hand, her voice saying shit like “keep your cock warm under your desk.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

I gave her my address.

That was the final nail. No boundary left. No pretense. Just inevitability with thigh-highs and bite marks.

Journal Entry #13

Tuesday August 10th

Therapy Journal

Subject: Rhys’s House, Now Co-Owned by Sparkle and Spite

Dear Rhys, (or should I say Sir? Daddy? Property Owner of a Very Different Home Now?)

Let’s talk about your house. No, let’s talk about my experience of your house, because I am, at heart, an immersive performance artist and your antique shop mausoleum was my blank canvas.

First of all: Best. Session. Ever. Ten out of ten. Would fuck my therapist again.