Page 11 of Doctor Stuff

“What?” Even if he did say it, there’s no way he would say it again. Right?

“Do it, Traci. Pull up your shirt and show me your tits.” As vulgar as the word sounded when I said it, it’s so much worse when he does. Maybe because he doesn’t look like the kind of guy who would normally say ‘tits.’ I’m pretty sure therapists aren’t supposed to say ‘tits.’

“I…” My voice trails off, because I know he’s calling my bluff and I hate that. I really freaking hate that. There’s gotta be ethical rules that say he’s not supposed to tell me to show him my tits. But he did it anyway. Probably because he doesn’t think I’ll do it. He thinks he’s got one over on me.

My face flames hot, because I’m that pissed off.

Fine. He thinks he can out-bluff me?

I grab my shirt by the hem and yank it up, flashing him for a brief moment.

The expression on his face is disapproving. Ha!

“I told you to show me your tits, Traci, not your bra.” The completely calm way he says it freezes me up. “Pull up your shirt and pull the cups of your bra under your tits.”

I stare at Dr. John for a long moment. He stares back at me. He’s not kidding.

Something stirs inside me.

“Now, Traci.”

His voice is firm. Commanding.

I feel almost like I’ve been hypnotized as I pull my shirt up. Heat flushes through my cheeks as the cool air touches my skin when I pull the cups of my bra down. My nipples pucker immediately and I tell myself it’s because of the air conditioning, even though I know that’s only part of the reason.

“Good girl.” He nods approvingly and I feel another wave of heat flash through me. I squeeze my thighs together as the heat settles between them, pressing my palms together on my lap. “You can do the rest of today’s session like that.”

“I…” My voice trails off as my cheeks pale.

My tits are hanging out, framed by my shirt and bra, and he wants me to complete today’s therapy session like this? How is this supposed to help my mental state?

Except it kind of does.

When he asks questions, I answer them. Somehow, it’s easier now. I don’t feel as embarrassed about being in therapy as I did before. How can I? It’s way more embarrassing to have my tits out than to talk about how I ended up in his office today.

I squirm in my seat, constantly wondering what else he might ask me to do. If he might ask me to do anything.

Is he as aroused as I am?

He glances at my tits occasionally as we talk, but he doesn’t stare at them.

I kind of wish he would.

It’s both humiliating and hot to be sitting here like this while he conducts a regular therapy session with me, as if I’m fully clothed.

“That was a good session, Traci,” he finally says, glancing at the clock. “You can cover your tits up again now. I’ll see you next week.”

It feels like my face is on fire as I pull up my bra and yank down my shirt. He’s not even looking at me; he’s already getting up from his chair to move back to his desk. Like it means nothing at all that he saw my tits.

I grab my purse from where it’s sitting next to my feet and practically sprint from the room.

He’ll see me next week?

Fuck that.

Except… I don’t exactly get a choice.

Rushing through the waiting room, which only has a hunched-over guy sitting in one of the chairs and the receptionist who doesn’t even blink as I scurry past her, I finally make it to the hallway. Only then do I feel like I can breathe.