“What does it feel like when you get these urges?” Dr. Kramer asked.

I sighed.  Between all of the therapy sessions I’ve been going through on the day to day basis, I’m about over all these damn questions.

“I don’t understand the question,” I responded flippantly. 

With three therapy sessions a day, including group sessions, one on ones, and confronting the outside world with their issues regarding me, I’m about “answered” out.  Everyone wants a fucking answer from me, but I just don’t have them anymore. Maybe I never did.

“Mr. Timberlake, I understand that this is a difficult process.  We’ve been patient with you over the past few weeks as you’ve become acclimated to this new environment, but I’m afraid that if you don’t start cooperating and allowing us to treat your problem, you’re going to have to be here longer than you would like.  That choice is entirely up to you.”

They always throw that out, and trust me, it’s not like I want to be here.  I certainly don’t want to extend my stay, but sometimes I honestly do not have the answers to their questions.  I just don't understand what they're hoping to get out of me. 

Feeling anxious and bored, I pick at my jeans again, pulling the lint from the lined fabric.  I hear Dr. Kramer clear his throat, and I shift my gaze up to his.  All I can do is just stare at the fat fuck blankly, hoping he understands that I’m not going to answer his fucking question.

“Fine, I see that’s how you’d like today’s therapy session to go,” he uttered, scribbling on his stupid piece of paper with his stupid pen.  Whenever I didn't give him what he wanted, he would make that annoying scribbling sound.  Nothing like a pen making that vacant sound against a clip board.  How ironically clinical of him.

I meet him with another blank stare as the silence starts to suffocate us both.  Finally, with another clearing of the throat, he approaches his next series of questions.

“Okay, so moving on to the next question.  Why don’t we start discussing your first sexual experience...” he stated as he peered over his bifocals.

Have I mentioned how fat Dr. Kramer is?  I mean, seriously.  He has to be at least 320 lbs., which by the way, should be illegal for any person in the medical profession.  I know that he's a psychologist, but I'm supposed to take you seriously when you look like that?  On top of it, he wreaks of cheetos and junk food, and he has this chronic habit of sweating profusely just from sitting there.  I'm really not trying to be an asshole, but looking at him literally makes me want to vomit.  

“What about it?” I sigh.

“Why don’t you tell me about your first blow job?” he stated, a hint of curiosity in his voice.

I nearly cough at hearing him say the word ‘blow job.’  It’s kind of funny to picture Dr. Kramer saying anything remotely sexual.  In fact, I wonder if he's ever had a blow job?  Or maybe he's gay.  I shudder a little at the thought of his chubby little twinkie fingers trying to wrap around a little pencil dick of a 20 year old med student.

“Um, what would you like to know about it?” I asked, shaking myself from my reverie.

“How old were you?” he asked.

I sigh again, not really wanting to answer this question either, mostly because I much preferred thinking about the ways in which he might have become a psycholigist in a sex rehab clinic.

“Oh, I don’t know.  Maybe 13, 14?” I finished, my mind taking me back to the MMC days when I was living in Florida. 

I frequently remember the times Britney, Ryan, and I would lock the doors to our room and play truth or dare. Yes, those were definitely good times.  Anyone who says Britney Spears was a virgin when we were dating in our teens obviously wasn't aware of her dark and dirty days.  She's been a slut for a while, and I might have had something to do with it.

“I see.  Where were you at the time?” he asked.

“Well, um.  I was living in Florida at the time.  I was working on this kids show, called the Mickey Mouse Club.” I responded.

“So it was while you were working?” he interjected, as if he was making some valid point.  I assure you, he wasn't.

“No, not really.  I mean, I guess technically.  The reason I was in Florida was because I was working, but that wasn’t the reason I got the blow job,” I laughed.

“So why did you get the blow job?” he probed a bit further.

I scoffed.  “Why not?”  Seriously, who needs to ask that kind of question?

“Well, you certainly had to be a bit intrigued.  Your penis starts to get hard, you start to touch it because it’s foreign, and well...you can’t help the feeling, right?  Do you remember first touching yourself?  Do you remember who first touched you?”

Okay, this is just weird.  I don’t feel like looking back on my pubescent years by a disgusting doctor who sounds like he’s getting off to his own pedophila-like fantasy of me.  

“I mean, I don’t know.  I guess.” I sigh, uncomfortably, shifting slightly in the chair and crossing my legs to keep him from being able to see my lap, more for comfort than anything else.  He kind of creeps me out, even more so when he starts scribbling furiously.  The sound his pen makes as it furiously writes against the clip board makes me nervous. I often wonder what he writes about.

“What did it feel like when someone first touched your penis?  How did your body react?” he asked.

I groan.  “Fuck!  I don’t know...I was a kid.  I probably thought it felt good.  Why the fuck are you asking me these questions?” I sigh, running an abrupt finger through my disheveled curls.  I’m beyond uncomfortable and pissed at this point.

“Sir, please watch your language.  I have to ask you these questions because we have to explore your sexuality, in hopes that we can understand what turned sex from a healthy activity, into an obsessive disorder,” he replied, very clinically.  His head moved back to the clipboard, and the scribling sound began again.

“First of all, it’s not an obsessive disorder.  I don’t have a problem.” I reply, in obvious defiance.

“Your friends, your employer, and your family all seem to think that it’s a problem,” he responded.  “You don’t?”

“No, I don’t.  I don’t hurt anyone, I don’t have any diseases, and I do my job just fine.  I don’t see what the problem is.”  I crossed my arms to accentuate my distaste for this conversation.

He started flipping through some papers.  “Well, I have a schedule from your last three months of engagements for your employer.  It appears as if you’ve missed 66.8% of your appearances.”  He paused, and began flipping through some more papers.  He paused to connect eyes with me.  “I also see here, that you stated upon admission that you have never been tested for an STD, so how can you be sure that you’ve never affected any of your partners, or yourself, in a negative behavior?” he asked, simply.

His shit brown eyes were bearing into my soul.

I sighed, letting my eyes shift to anything that they could in the room that wasn't near him.  As I took in the information, I was a bit surprised.  I really didn't remember missing any appearances, and no one said anything to me otherwise.  It couldn't have really been that big of a problem, could it have?  Then again, when the urge strikes, the urge strikes.

“Look, I don’t have an STD, and I’ve never had any complaints.  As for my missing appearances, I don’t know what to tell you.  I’ve never received any notices or complaints from the label about me missing gigs, so perhaps you should lecture them on better notifying me of their problems with my "employment.”

Dr. Kramer sighed, obviously realizing he was heading down a dead end road with me.  It's about time he figured it out.

“Look, let’s just get back to your first sexual experience, okay?  This is part of the process, and you can either answer the question now, or be here for as long as you decide until you answer the question.  We’ve been doing therapy for nearly two weeks now, and you’ve hardly answered any question.  At this rate, you won’t be out of here within the 30 days promised.  We can’t help you if you don’t cooperate.”

“That’s just it, I don’t need any fucking help!!” I yelled.  Was he fucking really that dumb?

Dr. Kramer just groaned.  “Is there anything that you actually do want to talk about?”

“Not a chance,” I finished pointedly, recrossing my legs uncomfortably.

“Well, then, I guess there's not much else for us to do here today.  We will try again tomorrow.  But Justin, please know...you’re only making this worse on yourself.”

I laughed, completely fed up with his irony.  “I’ve had enough of your self-help psycho-babble bullshit.  As soon as you recognize that I’m cognisant enough to be aware of my surroundings, that I actively choose to do this because I enjoy it, and that I’m not hurting anyone, the better off you and everyone else around me will be.  I do NOT have a problem.  Maybe you people do because you’ve never had a good lay...” I finished.

“For that, Mr. Timberlake, you’re going to have to spend the rest of the day in solitary confinement.  Nurse Jackie will be in this evening to administer your pharmeceuticals,” the Dr. responded with a shake of his head.  I could see the hint of disappointment and frustration written all over his wrinkly face.  I've become way too familiar with that look.  But what do I care?

“What else is new,” I mumble as I got up.  “Thanks for nothing, Doctor.  As usual.”  I let the door slam behind me before the guards showed up to escort me to my next destination.

It didn’t take me long to make my way to solitary confinement, which was quickly becoming the “Justin Timberlake Room.”  It’s no secret to anyone at the facility that I’ve had my fair share of discord with the staff.  Part of that has been intentional, mostly because of my most recent deal with Nurse Jackie.  If she comes to deliver my “drugs” in solitary confinement, I’ll give her a nice fuck, she’ll get me off, and I’ll at least be able to keep some form of sanity in this godforsaken place, even if it does break my cardinal rule of never fucking the same girl more than once.

The only hard part is waiting for her to arrive.

I pass the time by staring at the wall, but am relieved when I hear the door open with a slight creak.  My eyes drift up to see Nurse Jackie walking in with her tray of pharmaceuticals and a smirk on her face.

“Well, well.  If it isn’t my favorite person,” I smile.

“See you got locked away again today,” she smirked.  “You’re in luck...I swapped out your Xanax for Viagra.  Thought you’d enjoy that...” she smiled devishly.

“Looks like one of us will enjoy it even more,” I smiled, letting her walk over to untie me arms from their constraints.  With her help, I down the pill concoction and enjoy the water sliding down my throat.  “I hope you’re going to come back every few hours so I don’t have to suffer with a hard on for hours.  I suffer enough here already,” I mumbled as she straddled me.

“Oh, poor baby.  We don’t want you to suffer,” she grinned.  I felt her tiny hands grab my wrists again and push them over my head.  The way she was bending over me, her tits were right in my face, and I couldn’t help but bury my nose in her cleavage, nipping adamantly at her skin so that I could get a taste.

“No, no suffering needed here, baby,” I whimper, trying to unbutton the top button of her shirt with my teeth.  “Don’t make me suffer.”

I felt her hands clamp the restraints around me and I groan.  I certainly hadn’t planned on her restraining me, but I’m not opposed to trying new things.  When she pulled a little too tight on the ties, I bit into her breast, prompting her to only tie my hand constraints tighter.

“Owww,” I yelped.  But something about this was definitely turning me on.  I instantly felt the blood rush down my arms and torso, straight to my dick.  I don’t even think the viagra hit me yet.

“Too rough, Jay?” she asked, feigning innocence.

My voice squeaked a little as she moved one hand down to grab my dick hard, prompting any blood that hadn’t made its way to the brain below the belt to make a prompt exit.  

“Holy fuck,” I uttered. 

In all my experiences, there were very few where I was the one that was left vulnerable.  I almost always had control, and I always set the pace the way that made me happy.  While I like some kinky shit, I rarely let any woman have control over me.  It didn’t look like I was going to get much of a say in this one.

“W-what are you doing?” I asked, barely getting the breath out as she started roughly pulling my scrub bottoms down, leaving my hard dick exposed to the cool, surrounding air.

“I’m fucking you for a change, instead of you fucking me” she whispers.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

She laughed, a hearty laugh that had her head falling back and her nails sliding their way up my thighs.

“Shit,” I hissed.  “Seriously, what the fuck?”

She smiled again, lowering her face over mine as she smirked.  “Listen, I’ve been reading your files.  I’ve read the stories that your friends and family have submitted, and I’ve been letting you fuck me for the past two weeks, which I know is completely against your code,” she uttered, barely taking a breath.   

“So...” she finished, pushing up my scrub top, so that it was bunched at my arm pits, exposing my hairy chest.  “Since you seem to only like to have sex your way and to talk about it on your terms...I’m going to give you a little therapy of my own.”

I was harder at this point than I had been in years.  I couldn’t help my hips buck up, despite all of her weight being on me.

“W-what kind of therapy?”  I hated feeling vulnerable, and I felt my arms pulling tighter at the ties.  This feeling was new, and even though my body was crying out in a panicked pleasured, my conscious mind was not liking it.

“I guess you’ll just have to find out,” she smirked.

I let out another shaky breath as she slid off me and the table.  Lying half naked with my tops and bottoms bunched around my skin made me feel more exposed than I have in a very long time.  I watched her shimmy her way over to a bag she had left at the foot of my “bed,” and I couldn’t help but peer at her ass as she bent over to grab some of its contents.  Asses were my weakness, in case you hadn’t noticed.

“What’s in the bag?” I asked, meekly.  I was trying to muster up some strength so I didn’t let on how much this was affecting me, but it was hard.

She shook her ass a little for me before standing back up.  “Anyone ever tell you that you ask too many questions?”

I watched her turn around, feather and whipped cream in hand.

“No, no.  Please don’t.  I’m ticklish, you can’t...not like this,” I responded, a bit petrified.

She smiled, letting the edge of the feather start at my big toe and work its way inside my left calf.  “No?”

My left leg started to twitch, fighting the restraints it was in already, making even more cold air rush around my dick.  The head started to turn a blushing red color, the more blood it accumulated.

“Please, don’t.”

“You don’t like not being in control, do you Timberlake?” she whispered, letting the feather work its way up my inner thigh, lightly letting it tickle my balls.  I felt these electric pulses start to slide through my veins, and I was left powerless as my muscles reacted, causing my hips to buck and my legs to quiver. 

“Ah...God, god no,” I whispered in a hurried hush.

“And by no, you mean yes, don’t you?” she smirked.  She continued to tickle around my penis, to the point that the veins were starting to protrude out, and began pulsing with my quickened heart beat.

“Fuck yes,” I mumbled, closing my eyes and letting my head roll back and forth as I desperately tried to gain any semblance of control over my body.

All of a sudden, I heard a slap against my face, followed quickly be a sharp pain.

“What the fuck?”

“Keep your eyes open.  You close them, you get hurt.  Capiche?” she smiled again, picking up the can of whipped cream she had apparently set down to slap me, and she slowly started pushing the little button to release some of it into her mouth.

I watched the way the cool white foamy liquid melted on her tongue.  I watched the way her lips sucked on the tip, teasing me even more as the feather continued to tickle my skin.  I watched her tongue reach out to lick any remnants of the white liquid from her lips, and I was dying inside.  God, how I wished that was my cum.  I wished that was my dick in her mouth and it just made everything ache that much more.

I peered down my quivering body, seeing my dick standing at attention.  There was a bit of pre-cum starting to seep out of the hole, showing everyone that noticed that it was in desperate need of attention.

“Please...” I whispered again, the pain evident in my voice.

She smiled, putting the feather and the whipped cream down.  Thank God.

“Please, what?” she asked, her tone a bit harsh as she climbed the table and mounted me.  I could feel her heat so close to my penis that it ached.

“Fuck me, please...” I nodded, bucking my hips in hopes that it would just slide in.

She pursed her lips and moved her hands from her breasts, down to her thighs. I was powerless to stop my eyes from following her motions.  I watched her hands teasingly work back up her abdomen and stop at her breasts, pushing them up so they were nearly spilling out of her little nurses outfit.

My hips bucked again, nearly getting a taste of her wetness, and I bit my lip in response.   “Come on, baby...”

“Is this what you want?” she smiled, pulling her nurses outfit down and exposing her pink, taught breasts.

I nodded, knowing it wasn’t what I really wanted, but didn’t know if I had much of a choice in the matter.  “Please...”

She smirked, bending over and sliding further down my legs.  She picked up the can of whipped cream and sprayed them all over her ginormous fake tits, letting them spread the solid white cream all over my calves and thighs.  My head went back in response.

“You’re killing me,” I uttered.

I felt her push her luscious breasts around my dick, the cream wetting our skin as she moved them up and down around my hard cock.  It was so painful at this point, that I was sure it was red, and my balls were blue.  At least I’m a full blooded American.

I let her titty fuck me for a few minutes before started to buck my hips at the response, just needing to feel a little more friction.  My moans and whimpers were going unnoticed, and she certainly wasn’t giving me what I wanted or needed.

“You’re not very patient, Timberlake...” she uttered, and as she spoke, I could feel her breath near my balls.  I had abandoned watching her a long time ago because it only made the pain worse.

“You’re fucking a-right I’m not,” I screeched.

“Tsk Tsk...you should really learn to enjoy yourself,” she mumbled.  

I heard some rustling, but was too afraid to look down.  Before I knew it, I felt a painful pinching over my nipples, and I looked down hastily to see her affixing some strange kind of clamp over them.

“What the fuck is that?” I yelled, my anxiety about this situation getting more and more heightened.

“Don’t worry, you’ll like it,” she smirked.

And in one foul swoop, she pulled her skirt up and slid her way onto me just as she pushed a button that sent a shock through my nipples, and into my body.  I came right there.  I didn’t even have a chance.

“Holy fucking Jesus, I’m...fuck, fuck...” I whimpered, my body convulsing heavily into her heat, noticing that she didn’t bother to put a condom on.  I was so far gone at this point, however, that I couldn’t take a moment to care.

I laid there, and figured she would be disappointed with my performance, but would leave me alone.  She didn’t, though.  She stayed on me, milking her hot vagina around my dick, and it was then that I realized that I never went soft.

“Oh, fuck me...” I whimpered.  I had never wanted sex to end in my life, but I did right now.

“I thought I told you that’s what I was going to do?” she smiled, waiting for me to be ready again before she started working her hips in a manner I had never seen before.

And we had sex.  Boy, did we have sex.  More sex than I had ever had in a short period of time.  Ever.  I was electrocuted, fucked with a dildo in my ass, bitten, scratched, and tortured to the highest feeling of pleasure I had ever felt.  It was torture.  And it was fucking brilliant.  So much so, that I passed the fuck out halfway through, and don't remember much thereafter.

____ 

The next morning, I awoke exhaustedly.  As I started to come to, I realized I was no longer in solitary confinement, and that there was a weird presence in my room that wasn't normally there.  When I looked over, I realized it was the new guy Jake, that I had met a few days ago in the cafeteria.  I was wondering what he was doing here, since it wasn't common practice for people to be in your room if they weren't your roommate or a doctor.  As I sat up, I ran a sweaty palm over my face, still trying to adjust.  My body felt like it had been hit by a Mack truck.

“Dude, are you okay?” Jake asked.

I shook my head, hoping to wiggle the cobwebs loose and figure out what the fuck had happened the night before.  

“I think so.  I don’t remember getting back to my room, though.  I thought I was in confinement?” I asked tiredly.

“You were.  They found you last night, tied up and getting fucked senseless by one of the girls that just got out of the psych ward...I guess you were passed out or something.”

Immediately, I sat up.  “What do you mean...psych ward?  There’s a psych ward?”

Jake nodded.  “Yeah, there’s like...a place where they put the crazies that get a little too...you know, hard to handle.”  I nodded.  “Apparently she got out, knocked one of the nurses out, tied her up, and left her in one of the abandoned rooms.  She was walking around here pretending to be Nurse Jackie.”

I felt my blood run cold.  “What???”

Jake just nodded in sympathy.  “Yeah...”

“So...Nurse Jackie...she isn’t...but...but she...”

All Jake could do was nod.  "Yeah."

"Oh, fuck."