THERAPIST (one-off) (M/M NC)
Posted: Fri Jan 06, 2023 10:30 am
I couldn't get this idea out of my head, so here it is for all to enjoy.
THERAPIST
Student-Athlete housing is so easy to get into.
I aim the blow gun and fire, scoring a direct hit into the carotid. The stuff on the dart will knock my victim out cold for a few minutes, and that's all I need. It helps that he's sleeping in just his boxers, but he's my fourth, so I have the procedure down pat.
Men not experienced with bondage are usually too inflexible to help themselves if a knot is even remotely competently tied, and I've been doing this for a long time. I dump him on a chair and start my handiwork, roping him to it at the neuralgic spots: elbows, crossed hands, legs opened, feet pulled back and tied off to the rear legs to minimize the amount of "jumping" with the chair. I shove the cloth in his mouth and tape it in; right now, I'm taping tightly between his lips, stretching the corners of his mouth. A few turns under the chin and over the top of the head, and two or three to blindfold him, and I'm ready for him to wake up.
I take the time to position the cameras and start recording. I'm tying a simple harness around his chest and neck to further immobilize him when he starts to wake up. He's testing his restraints and shouting into his gag. It'll do him no good.
Time for the fun to begin. I step behind him and, with one swift move, pull a rubber swim cap over his face, cutting off his air.
As he starts to panic and thrash in his bonds, I calmly add a rope here, move one there, strengthen a knot in a third place. His grunting is acquiring a desperate keen as he runs out of air; finally, just before it's too late, I hook one finger behind the cap and pull it to the side, allowing him access to precious oxygen for a few breaths before letting it snap back into place and continuing to immobilize him.
This goes on for a while. I take my time, and rescue him from the edge when needs must. Sometimes I give him a slightly longer rest, sometimes shorter, always unpredictable. His squeals of despair when I repeatedly only give him a single breath, then catch him on the exhale, are music to my ears.
Eventually, he's bound so tightly his head is the only thing he can move. I pull the cap off, wait until his breathing has normalized, then slip it back on. He's howling now, but I soon refocus his attention by squeezing his nipples between my gloved fingers while he fights for air. The noises he makes when he's about to pass out could be called comedic if his situation weren't so serious, but I always bring him back from the edge just in time.
After a while, I get bored and move on to the second stage. The cap comes off for good, and I give him some minutes to recover. When I see he's confident enough to start testing his bonds, I surprise him again by viciously taping over his lower face, sealing it airtight.
I adjust the scuba mask's straps to his head and put it on his face. Watching him struggle at full force, screaming and raging all but inaudibly as he is cut off from air again is delicious, and again, it doesn't take long before he's begging and whining for air. I oblige, and as before, play with his breath at random intervals, caressing his almost-naked body while he's struggling.
I'm running out of time, so I move on to the coup de grace. The mask comes off, and after a brief recovery period, I free my victim's dick from the confines of the boxers. Now he's really jerking around and cursing, but he might as well be quadriplegic for all the good it does him.
I slip a large, transparent plastic bag over his head and tie it off, then get to work milking him. Through my expert ministrations, his body betrays him as he quickly gets hard - my favorite part - but he's still almost out of air when he finally comes into my waiting hand. I pull the bag off with the other, then smear his come all over his face. I pack up while it dries, take one last photo with him, and leave.
* * *
It's two weeks later when he walks into my office with the same attitude the others did: resentful of himself, unbelieving that something like this could have happened to him, his identity as the strong male athlete shattered.
I smile at him and bid him take a seat. He does so, reluctantly. He's been referred to me by the other three student-athletes I have in my care.
"I'm sure your companions have told you what I do here. I realize it sounds strange at first, but I assume they've also told you how it has helped them." He nods. "What I do here is called reconstructive therapy. I begin by having you tell me what, exactly, happened to you, in as much detail as you can remember. It's important that you leave nothing out - I know you're probably ashamed and nervous, but remember: none of this was your fault. When we have all the details, I will reconstruct what happened that night with you, but recontextualized into a safe scene for you. We can start as small or as big as you are comfortable with. For example: if you were tied to a chair like the others, we can just have you sit on the chair with your hands behind your back, but entirely unrestrained, until you're ready to continue, or, if you feel confident, we can jump in at any other point. We'll work up to the full ordeal - again, reframed so the trauma is replaced with safety and comfort for you. The speed is up to you, we have as long as you need, and you'll always be able to abort or tone down any situation."
He nods again.
"Any questions?"
He shakes his head no. I smile inwardly; mentioning his compatriots will have fuelled his competitive instincts, and soon enough he'll be begging me to repeat the scene he suffered, unbeknownst to him, at my hands.
"Then, in your own time, please tell me what happened in as much detail as you can remember."
He hesitates for a moment, then opens his mouth and starts to speak.
THE END
THERAPIST
Student-Athlete housing is so easy to get into.
I aim the blow gun and fire, scoring a direct hit into the carotid. The stuff on the dart will knock my victim out cold for a few minutes, and that's all I need. It helps that he's sleeping in just his boxers, but he's my fourth, so I have the procedure down pat.
Men not experienced with bondage are usually too inflexible to help themselves if a knot is even remotely competently tied, and I've been doing this for a long time. I dump him on a chair and start my handiwork, roping him to it at the neuralgic spots: elbows, crossed hands, legs opened, feet pulled back and tied off to the rear legs to minimize the amount of "jumping" with the chair. I shove the cloth in his mouth and tape it in; right now, I'm taping tightly between his lips, stretching the corners of his mouth. A few turns under the chin and over the top of the head, and two or three to blindfold him, and I'm ready for him to wake up.
I take the time to position the cameras and start recording. I'm tying a simple harness around his chest and neck to further immobilize him when he starts to wake up. He's testing his restraints and shouting into his gag. It'll do him no good.
Time for the fun to begin. I step behind him and, with one swift move, pull a rubber swim cap over his face, cutting off his air.
As he starts to panic and thrash in his bonds, I calmly add a rope here, move one there, strengthen a knot in a third place. His grunting is acquiring a desperate keen as he runs out of air; finally, just before it's too late, I hook one finger behind the cap and pull it to the side, allowing him access to precious oxygen for a few breaths before letting it snap back into place and continuing to immobilize him.
This goes on for a while. I take my time, and rescue him from the edge when needs must. Sometimes I give him a slightly longer rest, sometimes shorter, always unpredictable. His squeals of despair when I repeatedly only give him a single breath, then catch him on the exhale, are music to my ears.
Eventually, he's bound so tightly his head is the only thing he can move. I pull the cap off, wait until his breathing has normalized, then slip it back on. He's howling now, but I soon refocus his attention by squeezing his nipples between my gloved fingers while he fights for air. The noises he makes when he's about to pass out could be called comedic if his situation weren't so serious, but I always bring him back from the edge just in time.
After a while, I get bored and move on to the second stage. The cap comes off for good, and I give him some minutes to recover. When I see he's confident enough to start testing his bonds, I surprise him again by viciously taping over his lower face, sealing it airtight.
I adjust the scuba mask's straps to his head and put it on his face. Watching him struggle at full force, screaming and raging all but inaudibly as he is cut off from air again is delicious, and again, it doesn't take long before he's begging and whining for air. I oblige, and as before, play with his breath at random intervals, caressing his almost-naked body while he's struggling.
I'm running out of time, so I move on to the coup de grace. The mask comes off, and after a brief recovery period, I free my victim's dick from the confines of the boxers. Now he's really jerking around and cursing, but he might as well be quadriplegic for all the good it does him.
I slip a large, transparent plastic bag over his head and tie it off, then get to work milking him. Through my expert ministrations, his body betrays him as he quickly gets hard - my favorite part - but he's still almost out of air when he finally comes into my waiting hand. I pull the bag off with the other, then smear his come all over his face. I pack up while it dries, take one last photo with him, and leave.
* * *
It's two weeks later when he walks into my office with the same attitude the others did: resentful of himself, unbelieving that something like this could have happened to him, his identity as the strong male athlete shattered.
I smile at him and bid him take a seat. He does so, reluctantly. He's been referred to me by the other three student-athletes I have in my care.
"I'm sure your companions have told you what I do here. I realize it sounds strange at first, but I assume they've also told you how it has helped them." He nods. "What I do here is called reconstructive therapy. I begin by having you tell me what, exactly, happened to you, in as much detail as you can remember. It's important that you leave nothing out - I know you're probably ashamed and nervous, but remember: none of this was your fault. When we have all the details, I will reconstruct what happened that night with you, but recontextualized into a safe scene for you. We can start as small or as big as you are comfortable with. For example: if you were tied to a chair like the others, we can just have you sit on the chair with your hands behind your back, but entirely unrestrained, until you're ready to continue, or, if you feel confident, we can jump in at any other point. We'll work up to the full ordeal - again, reframed so the trauma is replaced with safety and comfort for you. The speed is up to you, we have as long as you need, and you'll always be able to abort or tone down any situation."
He nods again.
"Any questions?"
He shakes his head no. I smile inwardly; mentioning his compatriots will have fuelled his competitive instincts, and soon enough he'll be begging me to repeat the scene he suffered, unbeknownst to him, at my hands.
"Then, in your own time, please tell me what happened in as much detail as you can remember."
He hesitates for a moment, then opens his mouth and starts to speak.
THE END