Countertransference

by Alex Eros

COVID-19 really swept in and fucked everything up. I’m a senior in college, and prior to being evacuated from my dorm, I was beginning an exciting research project with my professor on faking orgasms.

This teacher was the first person I disclosed to about my interest in a career of sex research. The investigation into faking orgasms was my idea, simply because the amount of research on many of these sexual topics are scarce. He raved about my idea, and has been supportive since the beginning. We began meeting in his office on a weekly basis. Our discussions were professional, yet passionate, as we discussed all kinds of variables that could influence one faking an orgasm. I maintained appropriate boundaries because the thought to do anything else never crossed my mind. But, after I was sent home from school due to the coronavirus outbreak, my professor and I began to have video conferences. Since this started, the nastiest thoughts have invaded my mind.

One thing you have to know about Dr. T is that he comes off as a real hard-ass if you never talk to him one-on-one. He slicks his hair back and wears a variation of the same outfit every day. He is always drinking black coffee. He’s the kind of teacher that talks to the entire class, and never really takes the time to look his students in the eye. It is that kind of objectivity that made me wet for his attention.

During our first video conference, the first thing I noticed was that Dr. T hadn’t shaved his face. He had brown scruff around his cheeks and chin that I had never seen before. It was the kind of scruff that made me think about how it would feel scratching against my thigh while he laps at my pussy. For each conference, he sits in a black leather chair in an isolated room and sips at his coffee. After each call ends, I am left wet and tingly, in a fetal position, fantasizing about so many different things. 

I like to think about kneeling down before Dr. T sitting in his chair. I’d look at him with the biggest eyes just so he knows how soaked my pussy is. My professor is tall, and I can picture the way his cock would fall between his legs, with no place to go but inside me. I would take his cock out of his pants and lick from base to tip, base to tip. I would suck on the head of his penis, and then slowly move it into the back of my throat, lips puckering around his thick and veiny member. I would look up at him and giggle at the idea of our conversations ever being innocent. We spent hours discussing the female orgasm. Insertion, clitoral, anal, and nipple stimulation. Proper lubrication, different positions. How did these words ever come out of my mouth innocently? Did they ever come out innocently, or was that just an illusion we created? 

When I talk about hard nipples, I want to know if he thinks about my nipples getting hard beneath my shirt, and what his tongue and teeth would feel like, nagging at them. 

When I say things like “people underestimate how essential lubrication is during sex,” what I’m really saying is “I’ve never had to use lube during sex, because my pussy always feels like fucking Niagara Falls.”

When I go on long tangents about the failure of American sex education, I wonder if he thinks about putting his fingers in my mouth to shut me up.

When he goes on tangents about the stereotypes of being a clinical psychologist, I sometimes think about sitting on his face to keep him quiet for a little. 

If these fantasies about my professor sound bad, just wait until you hear the ones I have about his wife. I remember first seeing a picture of her and their young son on Dr. T’s desk during our initial meetings. Coming from someone who doesn’t know the first thing about monogamy or children, I found the photo to be absolutely charming. She has blonde hair that barely goes past her shoulders, wears thick, black-rimmed glasses, and was dressed in a vibrantly patterned shirt. She is beautiful, and my fantasies usually go one of two ways.

The first way I like to imagine Dr. T’s wife is as being painfully innocent. I like to think about Dr. T bending me over the desk he sits in front of, while his wife is being a mother to their child in the room next door. Dr. T would spread my cheeks, spit on my ass and watch it drip down to my pussy. Then he’d force himself all the way inside of me. Maybe she walks in, but he keeps fucking me, no matter what. Maybe she needs a deep throat training class, or to hit some kind of sexual breaking point. Dr. T and I want to bring her there. So he asks her to lick my juices while he fucks me in my ass, or I tighten my hands around her throat while he fucks her in her ass. Maybe she squirts for the first time. Maybe Dr. T thanks me for showing her the way his cock deserves to be treated. 

The other way I imagine Dr. T’s wife is as a total dominant. Maybe she catches on to the way I have to cross my legs around her husband, or the redness that blushes my cheeks when he’s around. I imagine her dragging me to Dr. T by my hair. How can they use me to their advantage? How can they teach a lesson to the student slut that won’t stop coming around? And then they both would fuck me. I want his wife to hold my mouth open while he puts his dick in the back of my throat. I want his wife to hold my legs open, even after I come, so I can come again. I want the wife to fuck me with a strap on and slap me across the face for ever thinking I could get to her husband without dealing with her first. Maybe Dr. T is putting his penis in my mouth, while she plays with the rest of my body. I’d leave them happier, and hope nothing but the best for their marriage. I would know my place, and never bother them again, unless summoned.

Oh, coronavirus. I am so thankful now, that Dr. T and I are separated. He’s a clinical psychologist. The issue of countertransference already came up once between us. I can’t hide my fantasies, and I feel as though he would see right through me.