Page 13 of Taken Online

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.”

---