Red Confession: Surrendered in the Blue Room Therapy

Heart pounding, I step into the elevator after a brutal workday. Mirror glance—hair tousled, nose powdered. 7 PM appointment. Stomach twists. I need to confess. The obsession. Her. In the waiting room, sweat beads my neck. Door taps. ‘Bonjour…’ Her voice silk. Braided chestnut hair, subtle makeup, fifties calm. We sit, table between us. One meter. Too close. Silence chokes. ‘How are you?’ ‘Fine… but I… I’m obsessed with you.’ Voice tiny, childish. Heat floods my cheeks. ‘Desire. Sensual. Can’t be a good partner.’ She nods. No shock. ‘Normal transfer. Projecting. Take this to relax.’ Pill and water. I swallow. Trust her. Heart races faster. Floating. Vision blurs. She calls Paul. ‘Prepare blue room.’ Hands slick. Belly churns. Curious. Scared. She leads me down hall. Blue walls. Gyno chair center. Armoire of vials. Sink. Stool with gown. ‘Undress. Gown. I’ll be back.’ Alone. World spins. Excitement throbs. Strip. Short gown snaps front. Sit on chair. Breathe. Knocks. Paul enters. Fifties, jovial. ‘Don’t mind me. Suppository for you.’ Gloves. Vaseline. ‘Bend over sink.’ Humiliation burns. Fists on porcelain. He presses shoulders. Ass up. Gown lifts. Finger lubes my rosebud. Pushes deep. Stays. ‘Hold still.’ Minutes stretch. Shame pulses hot. Knocks. Her. Unfazed. ‘Thanks, Paul.’ He withdraws. Squeezes cheeks. Pats. Guides me to chair. Legs in stirrups. Spread wide. Degrading. Exposed. She gloves. Gazes at my sex. ‘Paul, see? Dilated already.’ He nods. Cold vaseline on vulva. Fingers circle clit. Pierce vagina. Expert strokes. Paul at side. Opens gown. Kneads breasts. Nipples harden. Two bodies claim me. Clinical. Detached. Soaks me wetter. Urgency builds. Heart hammers. Skin flames.

No escape. Metal speculum gleams. He hands it. She slides in. Five cm wide. Stretches me obscene. ‘Imagine your lover… or other.’ Her wink. No need. This is fantasy alive. But tension creeps. Pill fades. She sees. ‘Need more. Relaxant enema.’ Paul holds speculum. She lubes anus. One finger. Two. Three. Stretches. Withdraws. Tube between breasts. Cold nozzle presses rosebud. ‘Relax.’ Fluid floods. Cold shock. I buck. Paul pins shoulders. ‘Stay. It’s good.’ Fills me. Belly swells. Reins caressed. Thighs stroked. Belly massaged. Opens me. Anus blooms. Vagina swells. Nipples ache. Breath quickens. Shame melts. Pleasure coils low. ‘Let go. Your femininity.’ Wave crashes. Body convulses. Scream rips. Orgasm devours. Juices flood. Submitted. Hers.

The Fever Builds in Her Office

Ashes settle. She removes cannula. Gloves off. Neutral eyes. ‘Bravo. Trusted. Felt. Controlled. Then lost—for your pleasure.’ Stunned. Feet from stirrups. Stand shaky. Handshake. Formal. ‘Next week. Discuss. Use toilet if needed. Paul will schedule.’ Dress. Belly full. Heat lingers on skin. Pulse echoes. Unique. Transformed. Obsession? Liberated.