conversion therapy

Eva blinked, her large eyes widening as the words left his lips. She had expected talk of subconscious desires, perhaps some analysis of her childhood or a discussion about her dreams. She had prepared herself for a gentle, clinical conversation about her lack of interest in men.

But this... this was not what the pamphlets had promised.

"Fed...?" she whispered, the word catching in her throat. Her face began to flush a deep, burning crimson that spread from her cheeks down to the collar of her modest floral dress. "Semen? And... smegma?"

She didn't quite know what the last word meant, but the way he said it, combined with the heavy, musky scent that seemed to radiate from him, made her stomach do a strange, fluttering flip. It wasn't the flutter of excitement not yet but a dizzying sensation of sheer overwhelm.

Her hands tightened so hard on her purse that her knuckles turned white. She felt a sudden, intense urge to look down at her sensible shoes, to hide her face from his gaze. The mention of "slut clothes" made her heart hammer against her ribs like a trapped bird. She thought of her neat skirts and her pressed blouses, and the idea of wearing something... scandalous... felt like a physical weight on her chest.

"But... Doctor," she stammered, her voice trembling. She took a tiny, instinctive step backward, her heels clicking softly on the rug. "I thought... the therapy was to help me feel... to help me want a husband. To make me normal."

She looked up at him, her eyes swimming with a mixture of confusion and a burgeoning, terrifying curiosity. The sheer masculinity of him the unwashed, primal aura he carried was intimidating in a way she had never experienced with the soft, perfumed girls she usually sought out.

"Is that truly how it works?" she asked, her voice dropping to a shy, **** hush. "By... by being **** to watch those films? And... and being fed... that?"

She swallowed hard, her gaze involuntarily flickering down toward his lap, before she quickly snapped her eyes back up to his, looking mortified that she had even dared to look.

The transformation was so absolute that the shy, trembling girl who had first entered this office had effectively ceased to exist. The Eva who once clutched a purse to her chest and worried about the propriety of her hemlines was buried deep beneath layers of sweat, musk, and a voracious, unquenchable hunger.

The "therapy" had worked with a terrifying, surgical precision.

Eva sat on the edge of the heavy leather chair, though she barely resembled the modest lady of the 1950s. Her floral dresses were long gone, replaced by scraps of shimmering, scandalous fabric that left almost nothing to the imagination. She wore a micro mini skirt that rode up her thighs with every twitch, and a sheer, plunging bodice that showcased her breasts, which now seemed perpetually swollen and sensitive. Her blond hair, once neatly pinned, was now a wild, tousled mane that fell over her shoulders.

But it was her eyes that told the truest story. The shyness had been burned away by the nonstop flickering of the pornographic films, replaced by a glazed, predatory heat. She no longer looked at a man with intimidation; she looked at him with a ****, vulgar craving.

"Doctor..." she moaned, her voice no longer a soft whisper, but a throaty, uninhibited rasp. She didn't wait for him to speak. She leaned forward, her movements feline and practiced, her hips swaying with a natural, rhythmic filthiness.

She reached out, her fingers now unaccustomed to anything but the touch of skin and the slickness of his essence tracing the edge of his desk before moving toward him.

"Is it time for my... my nourishment?" she asked, her tongue darting out to lick her lips. There was no embarrassment in her tone, only a proud, shameless expectation. She looked down at his lap, her gaze fixed on the massive, unwashed presence there with a hunger that was almost frightening. "I've been thinking about the taste of you all morning. It's the only thing that makes the hunger stop... and the only thing that makes it grow."

She let out a low, guttural giggle, a sound that was entirely unladylike. "I feel so... full of you. Even when you aren't touching me, I can still taste the salt and the musk on my tongue."

She shifted, spreading her legs wide in her skimpy attire, presenting herself to him with the confidence of a woman who knew exactly what her purpose was. The "normalcy" she had once craved the quiet life of a housewife had been replaced by a singular, driving obsession: to be his vessel, to be consumed by him, and to live in a perpetual state of hypersexual madness.

"Don't keep me waiting, Doctor," she purred, her eyes darkening with a nympho's greed. "I'm a very... hungry girl today."