Therapist

What would happen, I wondered, if I told my therapist everything? Would he even believe it? Believe that my mother was a prostitute? My father regularly belting my bared breasts – and worse? Believe my compulsive need to be bound and used by hard women just so I can have some sexual relief?

The belts hold my arms wrenched behind the heavy chair, and my ankles are similarly strapped. I'm not naked, but might as well be, the position thrusting into lewd prominence all my female assets. The therapist circles me, the black leather crop hanging loose. I cringe, squealing as it slaps against the chair, inches from my thigh. The therapist’s voice has a chillingly Nazi quality to it.

“Vee start furst, I think, viz the thighs.”