The Stables: The Psychotherapist

The Stables

The Stables' owner decided to style herself as 'The Matron' when setting up the business that emerged after the breakdown of her marriage. The fate she had engineered for her husband gave her the idea, and his money allowed her to realise it. Their country hideaway had been called 'The Stables' when he bought it, but now the name seemed inspired. Her plan had been an exclusive establishment where young men would be offered the chance, though not always the choice, to become pretty young transwomen. The establishment would be funded by clients, who value the services the handful of girls would provide. She decided that she should hire a psychotherapist, to help persuade and manage the girls through their transition. Discreet inquiries lead to the appointment of Dr Elinor Vayne. A professional woman in her early 30s, Elinor was under no illusions about the nature of the establishment. However, avowedly lesbian, she imagined herself immune to the eroticism of the place. She was mistaken.

Arrival

Elinor Vayne arrived precisely on time. The gravel barely crunched beneath the wheels of the black car that brought her up the drive. The door opened and a woman stepped out with evident self-command. Black gloves, a leather case, an antique brooch pinned precisely at the collar of her ivory blouse.

The Matron met her at the door.

"Dr. Vayne."

"Elinor, please. Her voice projected easy confidence. The two women embraced briefly.

"Your office is ready," said the Matron, leading her through the vestibule. "Let's take tea. You must be tired after your journey."

The 'girl' arrived as they stepped into the drawing room: a slight thing in pale pink, bearing a silver tray with practiced caution. She knelt, serving tea with her eyes lowered, her voice soft and deferential. The Matron took her cup without comment. Vayne did the same, though her gaze lingered with professional assessment.

"And this is...?"

"Ava," the Matron supplied.

"Ah." Vayne's tone was kind, but the pause that followed was clinical. "She still moves as if she's claiming space, and her gait is not quite femine yet. That should be addressed."

Ava stood quietly, her hands tensed slightly on the tray.

"And the voice," Vayne continued, stirring her tea with immaculate precision. "She's trying, but it's not authentically feminine. It's an imitation. There's no placement, no felt sense of resonance in the softness. I'd prescribe morning exercises--half an hour, minimum. With playback."

"She's been... adequate," the Matron said uncertainly.

Vayne smiled faintly. "Then she can be better."

She sipped once, set the cup down, and turned her eyes on Ava one last time. "You'll report to me next week. Bring what you wear to bed, and something you think flatters you. I want to see what you think you're becoming."

Ava flushed but nodded.

"You may go."

The girl rose and left in silence, her exit observed by both women without remark.

"You will work wonders here" the Matron murmured, impressed.

After tea they walked to the east corridor together, heels quiet on the carpet. The study was elegant, restrained: velvet chairs, antique fixtures, shelves already filled with slim volumes and leather binders. A single mirror along the wall. No other distractions.

Vayne ran one finger along the desk's edge. "Yes. This will do nicely."

The Matron leaned against the doorway. "And the girls?"

"They'll adjust." She placed her case beside the chair, unclasped it. "I'll see to that personally."

Favouritism

By the third month, Dr Vayne had left her mark.

The girls were sharper. Softer. More pliable. Even those who had once stared with resentment at "the therapist" now crossed their ankles when they sat, asked permission with their eyes, and flushed when corrected. Vayne never raised her voice. She didn't need to. Her presence was enough to strip ego and replace it with posture, grace, submission.

The Matron had to admit--results were results.

But Vayne was also becoming a problem.

It wasn't just her overbearing comments at the clients' dinner, though that had pricked. It was the way a few girls had begun referring to her as "Mistress Vayne," unprompted. The way the clients seemed uneasy around her. The way Nina--the permanently gagged maid the Matron considered her own--paid too much mute attention to Vayne. The house had begun to tilt ever so slightly in her direction.

And then there was Clover.

Clover, a new girl, lingered at the edge of full surrender, and Vayne... watched her.

It wasn't professional. Not entirely.

The Matron had seen it: the long, considering glances when Clover passed in the hallway. The barely concealed pleasure Vayne took in correcting her--softly, intimately, like smoothing creases from silk. And Clover, for her part, flushed in ways she didn't for anyone else.

It was subtle. But the Matron knew longing when she saw it.

And so she smiled, and made a plan.

She called Vayne to her office with tea already poured.

"I'd like you to observe a session," she said lightly. "Clover appears to be having trouble properly engaging with clients. Can you watch her and see if you can improve her performance?"

Vayne's brows lifted slightly, but her tone remained composed. "Of course. I've had my eye on her for some time."

"Mm," the Matron murmured, watching her. "yes."

A pause. Vayne stirred her tea, suddenly careful not to meet the older woman's gaze.

The Matron leaned back. "I thought it might be... illuminating. For both of you."

Vayne nodded. Too quickly. "Is there anything in particular you'd like me to address?"

"Oh, I trust your instincts," the Matron said, lips curling faintly. "You seem to understand her well."

Vayne didn't answer. But her fingers tightened slightly on the handle of her cup.

She would tell herself it was curiosity. A professional challenge. Nothing more.

But something in her had already begun to fray.

The Session

A day later Elinor was feeling a confused shiver of arousal at the thought of watching Clover perform.

The Matron had told her "When we observe, we wear a uniform similar to the girls'. It keeps clients at ease." and handed Elinor a neatly folded set of clothes.

Elinor changed in private. The outfit was slutty, naturally. She touched herself absent-mindedly as she dressed, and again while checking her reflection. She was looking forward to seeing Clover's matching outfit. Later, she would wonder why she hadn't noticed how perfectly her outfit fit her.

They entered the client room together, Clover leading her by the hand. The client was in his 30s--handsome, rich-looking. Clover was clearly familiar with him.

"My friend will be watching," she told him with girlish glee. "She's hot for me too."

Elinor flushed, unable to quite meet the man's eyes. He looked her over with interest. He wants to fuck me, came unbidden to her thoughts. She usually didn't notice men's desire. Didn't care. She pushed the thought away.

Clover sat beside the client on the couch, wasting no time. With nowhere else to sit, Elinor knelt--hesitant, awkward, already losing her usual composure. The client and Clover kissed--wet, open-mouthed, unhurried. Elinor watched with what she realised was shock, her throat tightening. She knew Clover was a whore, knew what this was, had even been aroused by the idea of watching--but this was different. The client's hand was on Clover's waist, pulling her closer, and Clover let herself be drawn in--more than pliant. Elinor felt heat rise, shame and something sharper curling behind it. She'd thought she could watch, imagined enjoying it. But this was too much. Too close. And yet she was on the outside, watching someone else take Clover.

Clover's hands were deft, practiced--she eased the client's sweatpants open and drew out his swelling cock. She took it in her mouth like it belonged there.

Elinor froze. Her years as an academic and therapist hadn't prepared her for this. Not when this was Clover.

Shock. Arousal. Jealousy. It all mixed in her as she sat motionless, transfixed by the rhythm of Clover's lips. She could hear the client's breathing becoming ragged, urgent. Her mind went blank.

Then Clover stopped. Both Elinor and the client looked at her, confused.

Clover winked at the man, then turned to Elinor. "I think he wants you to finish him off," she said sweetly.

Elinor gave a small shake of her head. She couldn't speak.

Clover had expected no less. She leaned in and kissed Elinor softly, then deeply. Elinor held her control briefly, then melted. Her lips parted. Clover eased her back, fingers slipping into her panties.

"She's wet," Clover announced.

Elinor barely registered it. She just breathed and squirmed as Clover's fingers worked. Then Clover's voice again--low, coaxing: "You want to be fucked, don't you?"

Elinor glanced toward the client, who was clearly enjoying the spectacle. It was unthinkable. But not to Clover, who was covering her with kisses and had pressed herself deep inside Elinor's panties. Elinor bucked involuntarily, then melted into Clover's probing fingers. Her own hand slipped inside Clover's panties--only to strike metal. Clover's chastity cage. Elinor had fitted it herself. Her frustration was visceral. She let out a sob.

Clover's mouth pressed against her ear. "Say it. Say 'fuck me' like a good girl."

Elinor shook her head, but her resistance was crumbling. Clover's fingers moved expertly, insistently--her other hand keeping Elinor close. Elinor's breath caught. Her hips moved again. The heat was impossible now, flooding through her, and she felt the line between thought and action dissolve.

Her lips parted.

She didn't mean to speak.

But the words were already there, pulled from somewhere low and aching.

"Fuck me."

That was all the client needed. He rose, moving between her legs. She offered no resistance. Clover kissed her again, hand moving to her breast, as Elinor felt herself entered. The rhythm took her fast--body and mind surrendering--and the virgin whore and client came together, shaking.

Elinor collapsed, her abdomen rippling with aftershocks. Clover stroked her hair affectionately, then moved to tend to the client's softening cock with practiced care. Elinor lay still, dazed and blank.

She slipped out after Clover had escorted the client away. The Matron was waiting in the corridor. Elinor couldn't meet her gaze.

"That was unprofessional." The Matron's tone was disapproving, unsurprised. Perhaps a hint of smugness.

Elinor was lost for a response. "It won't happen again," she said eventually.

"Don't be so sure," the Matron replied. "In any case, you'll have to undergo the Ritual."

Elinor stared. "But that's not... that's just for the girls. Surely?"

The Matron's gaze was unreadable. "When a girl breaks and satisfies a client for the first time, she takes part in the Ritual. You know the rules. The others will already be expecting it."

"But I'm not a girl," Elinor said. Even as she spoke she realised how hollow it sounded. In the brief silence that followed she could feel the client's cum sliding down her thigh.

The Matron turned, and Elinor found herself following.

The Ritual

One of the house officers entered the parlour in the girls' quarters. The girls had been relaxing, but submitted eagerly as, one by one, the officer unlocked their chastity cages. Not Marcie's. It pleased the Matron to keep Marcie permanently locked. Jules stretched her arms, already swelling with anticipation.

Whispers flared in the dark.

"Who is it this time?"

"I heard it was someone new."

"Matron hasn't told anyone. Why is it so sudden?"

Marcie had her own hopes.

"You'll fuck me tonight, right?" she begged the freshly unlocked Jules.

Jules mussed Marcie's hair affectionately. Of course she would.

The door opened. Clover entered.

The room quieted instantly.

She walked in slowly, unhurried. Newly released herself, naked, but with a self-satisfied gleam in her eyes. She glanced around like she owned the room.

"You know, don't you," Ava accused her.

Clover smiled faintly. "You'll see."

Another beat passed--and then a second knock. The door opened again.

And there she was, brought in by the Matron.

Doctor Elinor Vayne.

Someone gasped, sharp and high. A silence fell--heavy, wet.

Elinor was stripped of all authority. Her skirt was obscenely short--too short to hide the panties she wasn't wearing. Her breasts, no longer encased in crisp white, strained through a translucent ritual top. No collar yet, but the girls didn't doubt she would get one.

She wasn't dragged or thrown in. She walked. Steady. Dreamlike.

The others shifted. Ava's mouth opened and closed. No one moved forward.

Elinor blinked slowly at them all, then focused on the girls in front of her. She seemed to recognize them--perhaps too much.

Matron brought them to order. "Dr. Vayne has something to announce," she said.

There was a pause in which everyone looked at Elinor. Her mouth opened.

"Fuck me," she said. Very quietly.

Nobody moved.

"A little louder please, dear," said the Matron, "and do ask nicely."

"Please fuck me." Her voice held a tremor. They wondered if she knew what she was saying.

But that did it.

Jules stepped forward, only to be stopped by a hand. Clover's.

"Wait."

The room held still.

Clover took charge. Not rushed. Just deliberate. She brushed Elinor's cheek once, tenderly.

"Lie down," she said.

Elinor obeyed.

But then Clover turned.

"Ava. You start."

Ava blinked. "Me?"

"You stare at her the most," Clover said mildly.

There was a beat, and then Ava dropped to her knees, fumbling with need, positioning herself between Elinor's legs.

"She's wet already," she whispered.

The room stirred like a pack of animals scenting blood.

Marcie clutched her cage.

"You'll get yours," Jules reassured her. "You'll be thoroughly fucked before lights out."

Meanwhile, Elinor moaned--real, high, human--as Ava sank into her. Her thighs twitched.

"Wow," Ava breathed, her voice more feminine than ever. "That's real."

Another girl moved to Elinor's mouth, unsure at first. Elinor didn't resist. She opened up, letting herself be used.

Clover knelt behind her, hand on Elinor's thigh.

"Sweetheart," she murmured.

When it was over--Elinor slick and half-limp, her face sticky with the scent of her new sisters--Clover helped her up. Clover had not taken further part.

"You're bed six now."

Elinor didn't reply. No thought of trying to resume her professional position. Her breath was ragged. Her cunt still trembled.

Clover climbed into the bed first and pulled Elinor against her chest.

"You'll sleep better in my arms."

Jules watched them curl together: the doctor turned whore, and the girl who brought her low.

"She's ours now," someone whispered.

No one disagreed.

Elinor - Before Dawn, Bed Six

She woke with a sharp breath, panic rising before thought.

Her body ached. Her cunt ached. The sheets were damp with the scent of sex, and the rhythmic breathing of sleeping girls filled the dim dormitory. For a moment she didn't know where she was.

Then it hit her.

The Ritual. The begging. The heat of them inside her. The eyes watching. The chorus of moans and laughter. Her voice--pleading to be used.

She curled inward slightly, heart pounding. Her face pressed against a warm shoulder.

Clover.

She was still there. Still in her bed.

Elinor shifted closer without thinking, her breath hitching. She needed--she didn't know what. Her chest felt tight. Her cunt throbbed. It wasn't over. Nothing was over. She'd been used, and there would be more. More to come. But now--

Now there was Clover. Warm and real beside her. Clover who had caused all this. Clover who had held her all night. Clover who hadn't had her yet.

Elinor reached for her.

"Please," she whispered. "Please fuck me."

Clover didn't ask questions. She didn't speak. But she smiled tenderly at the beautiful woman in her arms, and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. Then gently pushed Elinor onto her back, slid between her thighs, and pressed inside with an unfeminine hungry groan.

Elinor clung to her, mouth open in a silent gasp. Her fingers gripped Clover's back like she might float away if she didn't hold on.

There was no roughness. No hesitation. Just need.

Elinor shut her eyes tight and let it happen.

Let it take everything else away.

Arrival

It took several months to appoint a replacement psychotherapist. Dr. Lydia Markham was halfway through organizing her bookshelves when the soft knock interrupted her.

A maid stepped inside, eyes downcast. "Your servant, Doctor."

A girl was ushered in--naked but for a slim leather collar, the kind you'd expect on a pet. Her skin flushed at the sight of Lydia, but she didn't speak. She stood quietly, eyes down. The maid retired meekly.

Lydia took in the collared slave, her eyes sliding up the toned figure, then--

"... Elinor?!"

Elinor curtsied.

"Yes, ma'am."

Lydia blinked. "I..."

"I've been assigned to your quarters for domestic and... personal service," Elinor said meekly.

Her eyes didn't meet Lydia's. Her hands were folded neatly in front of her, barely concealing her sex. She stood with practiced stillness. The air between them was heavy with tense recognition.

Lydia closed the file on her desk and stood slowly. Hesitantly, she walked around Elinor, taking her in.

"I thought you were... reassigned. Or..." She trailed off. "I didn't expect to be presented with you."

"Ma'am."

Lydia felt her mouth go dry.

Elinor had been a peer. A fellow professional. Not warm, exactly, but formidable. Rational. Principled. Lydia remembered her giving a blistering keynote on trauma ethics in front of a full conference room.

And now--this.

"You were once my equal," she murmured, stepping closer. "You published more than I did."

Elinor said nothing.

"And now you're my maid?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Lydia's breath caught. She reached out--almost hesitantly--and touched Elinor's breast. Her nipple hardened. Elinor didn't move.

Lydia let her hand drift downwards across Elinor's toned abdomen. Then further.

She cupped her gently, fingers parting Elinor's folds, testing.

Slick. Warm. Responsive.

Elinor's breath hitched, barely audible.

Lydia pressed a little deeper, curling her fingers. Elinor's legs shifted, her lips parting slightly. A soft sound escaped her throat.

"You're wet," Lydia murmured.

"Yes, ma'am."

"And you want to be used."

There was a pause, and then Elinor looked up. Her soft voice became a little playful. Almost eager.

"Yes please, ma'am," she said. "I'm a slut."

The words hung between them like heat. Elinor held her gaze now--frank, utterly submissive, but filling with desire. To be used.

Lydia's breath faltered. She watched Elinor's face as she moved her fingers again--testing, drawing out another breathy reaction. Elinor's body leaned toward her, almost imperceptibly, as if pulled by gravity. Her lips parted further. Her nipples, already stiff, seemed to tighten.

Lydia stepped away, walked calmly to the armchair, and sat.

"On your knees."

Elinor moved quickly and knelt, her eyes lowered again.

Lydia lifted her skirt and spread her thighs.

"Do it properly," she said. "Show me how far you've fallen."

Elinor obeyed without hesitation. Her tongue, her lips, the way she moaned softly into Lydia's skin--it was devastating. There was no doubt she had done this many times since her induction. But something in the way she lingered, the careful reverence, felt special--like memory folded into obedience.

Lydia's head fell back against the chair. She bit her lip. Her hand found Elinor's hair, firm and possessive.

When the orgasm came, it left her trembling. More than she'd expected. More than she'd meant to allow herself. She spasmed a little, suddenly self-conscious.

Elinor was still kneeling, eyes on the floor.

Eventually Lydia stood, smoothed her skirt, regained command of herself.

"You'll come here at the end of each workday," she said, her voice calm. "Unless I call for you sooner."

"Yes, ma'am."

"You'll serve me fully."

"Yes, ma'am."

Lydia studied her for a long moment.

Then, without another word, she turned back to her bookshelves.

Elinor rose and slipped from the room.

Lydia waited until the door clicked shut before letting her hand rest between her legs.

She was still wet.

And she already knew she'd summon Elinor again. Very soon.