Page 9 of Lonely
Miss Clarkson was a chatty patient. Always talking. Never shutting up. Not even for a second to give me a break from her grating voice.
Some days, I imagined sewing her lips shut.
Some days, I pictured it in exquisite detail.
Needle piercing skin, thread sliding through, slick with fresh blood.
I shushed her pained cries in those vivid fantasies, watching her beautiful tears sliding down her cheeks.
The fear in her eyes.
I loved the fear.
The fear was my favorite part.
I was painfully hard as those carnal urges plagued my thoughts.
Thoughts of inflicting pain. Thoughts of doing bad, bad things.
Reaching down, I undid my belt and slipped a hand into my pants.
Miss Clarkson kept talking, but her words went in one ear and out the other, like always when she was in my office.
My cock throbbed in my hand, painfully hard and veiny. Stroking it out of sight beneath the table, I pictured her wrists strapped down to the armrests, leather biting into her skin.
I pictured her struggling. Wrists, raw and bleeding. Lips swollen and sewn shut with butterfly stitching.
Sweat beaded on my upper lip. My balls drew up tight as I stroked in long, slow pulls and circled my thumb over the weeping crown.
Miss Clarkson remained oblivious to my dark, dark thoughts.
Thoughts of cutting into her while she was awake, watching her thick blood rush to the surface.
I loved the first cut the most, especially if the patient was still alive and squirming. There was something so thrilling about the way their pupils blew wide as they screamed. The sound was always guttural. Raw.
A knock at the door stopped me cold.
Anna popped her head in, her blonde curls wrangled into a tight bun at the back of her head.
“Miss Clarkson.” She stepped inside before I could answer, heels clicking sharply across the floor. “Your session is over now.”
My cock twitched in my firm grip as my eyes dropped to the ankle bracelet. Anna had shapely calves. Toned. Pale.
She glanced back at me and smiled. “Can I get you anything, Doctor?”
There was that annoying twitch again.
Circling my thumb over the crown, through a pearl of semen, I shook my head.
Anna had a very creamy neck, and I knew from experience she smelled like vanilla and summer meadows.
Without a word, she escorted Miss Clarkson out, and the door clicked shut behind them.
“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to, young man,” came a voice I knew too well.
I hadn’t realized my eyes were shut until they snapped open, my grip still tight around my hard length.
Mother stepped farther into the room, her gray hair perfectly in place, moss-green blouse crisply pressed, that familiar stern expression settling over her face like a mask.
