The Satanic Psychiatrist

[Blondie]

I am excited to post a story to this board for the first time. Some of you may know me from another site (since closed), and some of you may have read this story. My hope is that there will be some readers here who are unfamiliar with my work, and that those that are familiar will be okay that I post here.

I have a few chapters of this (unfinished) story already written. My plan is to revisit each chapter as time permits, then edit as necessary before posting the chapter. Invariably in doing so I will find a typo or two, and occasionally will edit a scene if I think it will enhance the story.

Hope you enjoy.
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The following is applicable to all chapters of “The Satanic Psychiatrist:”

© April 2002 by Blondie.

This is a work of fiction and is fantasy only. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

For ages 18 and older only.

Anyone offended by forced nudity or unethical psychiatrists should not read below this line.

Chapter 1: The First Session
Chapter 2: Monica's "Therapy" Begins
Chapter 3: The Devilish Receptionist
Chapter 4: Waiting Room Humiliation
Chapter 5: Girls Forced to Remove Their Tops
Chapter 6: Monica Stripped to Her Underwear
Chapter 7: Slave to a Seductress
Chapter 8: A Very Uncomfortable Session
Chapter 9: Events of Miss Prescott's Boy Victim Recounted



Chapter 1: The First Session

“I don’t know what comes over me when I do this. I guess I just can’t help myself, Dr. Withers. I mean, once I made the poor girl take her blouse off, there was no stopping me, like there was a driving force or something.”

“Go on, Monica. Tell me all about it. Start from the beginning. And please don’t spare any details," encouraged Dr. Withers.

Carolyn Withers clicked on her small recording device and laid it on the table next to her. She looked up at her new patient and jotted down some clinical information in her notebook. “Strong propensity toward enforced humiliation,” were the exact words. She smiled slightly to herself, recognizing that she shared the same tendency with her patient, a tendency that she fully intended to exploit.

Again she looked up at her unsuspecting subject and smiled wider, prompting a noticeable blush to appear on her patient’s cheeks, much to the psychiatrist’s delight.

Twenty-six-year-old Monica Prescott shifted in her chair, visibly uncomfortable under her doctor’s gaze. The doctor seemed mesmerized by her beauty. Monica was taller than average, slender, with short, stylish blond hair. Her innocent, strikingly beautiful face recalled a young Téa Leoni. Carolyn marveled at how someone so innocent and naïve-looking could be capable of carrying out the dirty deeds she had been convicted of.

Monica squirmed as the psychiatrist continued to study her. There was something about this doctor that just didn’t sit right with Monica, but she had no choice but to spill her guts to her. It was that or a prison sentence she didn’t even want to think about.

* * * * * *

Earlier, Monica’s stomach churned as she opened the door to the sleek, modern reception area. She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and walked in boldly with feigned confidence.

“May I help you?” asked the pretty receptionist.

“Yes, Monica Prescott to see Dr. Withers.”

“Ah, yes, we’ve been expecting you,” the receptionist said, flashing a smile that felt to Monica as just a little too amused. She extended her hand. “Hi, my name’s Tina. It looks like we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”

Monica hesitated before shaking her hand. She didn’t like the implication of that statement—or the way Tina was smiling at her, as if she knew more than she should. Also, Monica found her lack of professionalism a bit troubling.

“Have a seat,” Tina added, gesturing toward the small waiting area. “Dr. Withers will be with you shortly.”

While the receptionist brought the file in to Dr. Withers, Monica nervously sat down. She squirmed in her seat when she heard muffled whispers coming from the open office door, followed by soft laughter. Monica was sure they were talking about her.

The receptionist returned to her desk, smiling at the increasingly ill at ease Monica. This was not starting out well at all, from Monica’s perspective. She kept her eyes fixed on the floor, praying for the clock to speed up.

As the two sat in the ever-so-quiet reception area, the receptionist glanced up at Monica from time to time—and Monica could’ve sworn she caught a smirk playing on her lips. Ten excruciating minutes crawled by before Dr. Withers’ voice finally crackled through the intercom.

“You can send Miss Prescott in now, Tina.”

Monica didn’t wait for instructions, and she practically leapt from her chair, eager to escape the waiting room. She brushed past the receptionist without a word and entered the office.

Dr. Withers stood to greet her—a woman of medium height, somewhat plump but with pleasant features. She looked to be in her early thirties.

“Hi, Monica, I’m Dr. Withers. Please have a seat.”

She gestured to a rather plain chair in the middle of the spacious office—no arms, no cushion. Monica sat, nervously wringing her hands together on her lap, while Dr. Withers eased into a much more comfortable armchair facing her. There was an in-table directly to her right. No furniture separated the doctor from her patient.

Dr. Withers opened a manila folder labeled “Monica Prescott - Court-Ordered Evaluation.” For several minutes, she read in silence, poring through several pages of information. Monica fidgeted as the quiet stretched on, and Dr. Withers secretly took pleasure in her patient’s obvious uneasiness.

Finally, the doctor closed the folder, placed it beside her recorder, and looked up.

"Quite the record," she stated, watching Monica closely.

Her patient flushed brightly, to Dr. Withers' delight.

Monica was relieved that there was finally a break in the silence, even though she dreaded her own inevitable participation.

“You know why you’re here, don’t you, Monica,” stated Dr. Withers.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Why don’t you tell me.”

Monica took a deep breath. Her voice quivered as she spoke. “I, uh…uh…I was a substitute high school teacher, and, uh, I was working at the St. Augustine’s School for Girls. I…um…I…punished one of the girls in a way that was...well, it was perceived as improper. You see, Doctor, I believe in a disciplinary method that involves...humiliation. I find it very effective, and I have yet to have a repeat offender after its...application.

"In any case, two years later someone reported me, and I guess the authorities disagreed with my methods. They said my methods were...abusive. So here I am.”

“This wasn’t the only time, was it, Monica?”

Monica dropped her gaze. “Um, no. The….um….the state did an...an investigation after the complaint and they...they determined that I had done something...something like this before.”

“I’m guessing, Monica,” answered Dr. Withers, “that you have done this on several other occasions and have gotten away with it. Is that safe to say?”

Monica fidgeted in her chair. No answer was forthcoming, which prompted the psychiatrist to reprimand her patient. She set her notebook aside and leaned forward, her tone turning firm.

“Okay, Monica we’re going to set some ground rules now. As you know, the prosecution wanted to send you to prison. You are only sitting in that chair because the school’s administrator was sympathetic, and vouched for your potential. She thought—correctly, in my opinion—that rehabilitation might be better achieved through psychotherapy or psychoanalysis. The judge, though somewhat skeptical, turned you over to me.

"You are scheduled for several sessions here, at which time I am to make the determination on whether or not you are a candidate for rehabilitation through psychotherapy. If I determine that you are not a candidate, they will send you to prison for a period of not less than two years. Now, although I don’t think prison is the proper alternative, I will not hesitate to recommend to the authorities to have you incarcerated if I determine that you are not being completely open, honest and cooperative with me. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Monica said, meekly.

“You don’t want to go to prison, do you, Monica?”

“No, ma’am. I really don’t.”

“Do you have any idea what would happen to a pretty girl like you in the state prison system? You'd be very popular. The prison dykes would be falling over each other to have their way with your nubile, slender physique.”

Monica shuddered, not only at the image of being molested in prison, but also at her psychiatrist’s unprofessional reference to her body and the usage of the work “dyke.” She was quite uncomfortable with the psychiatrist’s approach.

"Please…" said Monica while wringing her hands intensely. "Please don’t make me go to prison. I promise...to cooperate with you.”

“Good girl,” Dr. Withers said, smiling.

Carolyn Withers was pleased that her pre-planned lecture had the desired effect. There was no doubt in her mind that Monica Prescott would do whatever she had to do to avoid the prospect of a prison sentence.

A warm feeling of delicious anticipation came over her. It was much like the feeling she had when the case was fortuitously dropped in her lap. Back then, it had felt like a gift from the heavens. Now, that sense of promise was becoming a reality.

“Now, answer my question. You have done this sort of thing on several previous occasions, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” confessed Monica.

“That explains why you’re a substitute teacher, and why you’ve moved around quite a bit.”

“Yes,” Monica said while staring down at her shoes.

“Excellent. We’ll get into all your transgressions in future sessions. Let’s focus today on the one that put you in your present predicament. Tell me about the incident at St. Augustine's.”

“I don’t know what comes over me when I do this. I guess I just can’t help myself, Dr. Withers. I mean, once I made the poor girl take her blouse off, there was no stopping me, like there was a driving force or something.”

“Go on, Monica. Tell me all about it. Start from the beginning. And please don’t spare any details," encouraged Dr. Withers. What was the girl’s name?”

Dr. Withers leaned back in her chair, her eyes fixed on Monica, hungry for every detail. Her curiosity was far from clinical—in truth, it was unabashedly prurient.

Monica swallowed hard. “Her name was Lana. I was teaching the sophomore class. One day she forgot to bring in her homework. Truth be told…” She paused, cheeks reddening again. “I was just waiting for a good reason to punish her.”

“What did Lana look like?” Dr. Withers interrupted.

Monica shot her a curious glance, wondering why this detail was meaningful.

“She was tall for her age and on the skinny side. She looked younger than her actual age of fifteen. Very innocent looking."

Dr. Withers leaned forward slightly. “Go on.”

"Anyway, I asked her to stand up, and told her that she must be punished. I explained to her that I had my own disciplinary method, in that I utilize punishment through humiliation.

"Now I must tell you, Doctor, that I took great pleasure in the anxious look on her face. ‘You will kindly remove your blouse, Lana,’ I told her. The alarmed look on her face was delightful. She just stood there dumbfounded. I think she initially thought I was bluffing, or was just trying to scare her. Well, I can be very forceful when I want to be, and I let her know forthwith just how serious I was. I walked toward her and slammed a yardstick on her desk. She jumped at the sound. ‘Now!’ I screamed at her. She started fumbling with her buttons. I knew I had her.”

Monica paused to catch her breath. Dr. Withers had been listening intently, gradually becoming stimulated as Monica detailed the enforced stripping.

Monica was becoming flush in the face, and it was obvious to her psychiatrist that she was enjoying the recollection. Little did the patient know that her doctor was, also.

“Please, go on,” prodded Dr. Withers.

“I stood over her as she deliberately undid the buttons. Gosh, the look on her face when she peeled off her blouse and I grabbed it from her...just priceless. She was blushing beautifully and had her arms crossed over her chest, covering her bra.”

“What color was her bra?” asked the devious doctor.

Monica was now too caught up in the story to wonder what clinical relevance this question could possibly have. As for Dr. Withers, the intimate details served to enhance her pleasure.

“It was white," Monica answered without hesitation. "All the girls were required to wear white bras. Their uniform was a white blouse and bra with a pleated, blue skirt.

"Then I laid the zinger on her. ‘I’ll take your bra now, Lana,’ I told her. She was stunned, and stood frozen on the spot, the poor dear. I slammed the yardstick on her desk again and she jumped and began undoing the bra behind her back. I must admit, Dr. Withers, that I was quite stimulated by that wonderful scene. I looked around the room and the other girls had these incredulous looks on their faces. I think most of them were enjoying it, too. Lana was always the snobby, stuck-up type, and I’m sure the girls were delighting in her shame.

"Anyway, when her bra was unhooked I snatched it away before she knew what hit her.

“And the sight of her,” she went on, her tone more animated now, “standing there with her arms clutched tight across her bare chest—bright red from her forehead all the way down to her breasts—it was...breathtaking.” Monica trailed off with a dreamy exhale.

“Tell me about her breasts, Monica.”

“They were tiny!” answered Monica without hesitation. “Which, of course, made it so much worse for her. I mean, if she had something to cover, maybe she wouldn’t have been quite so mortified—but this? This just made it...exquisite.”

The psychiatrist nodded to herself. It was becoming clear to her why the teacher chose this student as her unfortunate victim. The doctor smiled slightly, realizing that she would use this knowledge while carrying out her devious plan.

“But you didn’t stop there, did you, Monica?” she asked, though they both knew the answer.

Monica shook her head with a sheepish grin. “Well, no, like I say, there was no stopping me. It’s hard to describe the feeling, but...the more I pushed, the more...gratification I got from it. Watching her squirm, blush, obey—it was addictive.”

Dr. Withers knew exactly what she meant. So—what happened next?”

“Well,” Monica said, sitting up straighter, warming to her tale, “I went back to my desk and dragged my chair to the front of the room. Then I ordered Lana to come up. She shuffled forward with her arms still locked across her chest, doing everything she could to hide her breasts. I told her to stand on the chair. She looked like she was about to cry.”

“Did she resist?”

“Not really. She knew better. She climbed up, and I made her face her classmates. Then I told her, ‘Now reach for the sky, Lana. Both hands. As high as you can—and hold them up there.’”

Monica chuckled at the memory. “She hesitated, of course, but I said, ‘If you’re going to be difficult, Lana, I’ll have to remove your skirt.’ That did the trick. Up her arms went.

“Higher,” Monica added, mimicking her own command. “And she obeyed. The pose not only exposed her tiny breasts, but it caused them to contract. It looked like she was as flat as a boy! Some of the girls were giggling, and honestly, that made it even better. You could see the torment on her face. Oh, it was really something!"

She paused with a sigh, then added, “At one point, I decided to escalate her humiliation. I guess this is when I took things a bit too far.”

Dr. Withers smiled to herself, amused at the idea that Miss Prescott was of the belief that everything up to this point had been considered reasonable.

“I read the report. You must be referring to the fondling.”

“Yes, I don’t know where I came up with the idea, but I was on a roll and wanted to take it to another level. ‘Which one of your breasts would you like to fondle for us, Lana?’ I asked her. I remember the delectable, horrified look on her face, and there were some audible gasps from the girls. ‘Let’s play a game,’ I said…”

Dr. Withers raised a hand, cutting Monica off mid-sentence.

“Yes, I’ve read the transcripts about the game. We’ll revisit that later. But we only have a few minutes left, and I’d like to begin your treatment before you leave today.”

She folded her hands and fixed Monica with a calm gaze.

“First, though—earlier you said you were hoping to find a reason to punish Lana. Why her, Monica? Why did you choose Lana as your target?”

Monica stiffened, visibly uncomfortable. She hesitated, eyes darting downward.

Dr. Withers leaned in slightly. “I know why you chose her, Monica. I just want to hear you say it.”

Monica swallowed hard, recalling the doctor’s earlier admonition about being open, honest and cooperative. The alternative—prison—loomed large in her mind, and that thought alone gave her the courage to speak.

“Well, um, I...Lana had very small breasts, and I...her, um, body type was very similar to mine. I must admit that the idea of exposing myself like that is...unbearable. Absolutely terrifying. And, well, as you know, I have this weakness...this strong desire to see someone humiliated. And I figured if Lana was anything like me, she’d be especially self-conscious about her body. I wasn’t wrong. You should’ve seen how red she turned—”

“That’s enough, Monica,” Dr. Withers interjected smoothly.

“It’s time we begin your therapy—or as I like to call it, your treatment. I think it would be most therapeutic for you to experience the same feeling of humiliation that Lana felt that day.”

Monica’s eyes widened. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. Dr. Withers allowed herself the slightest smile.

“Perhaps then, when that familiar urge rises again, you’ll remember what it felt like to be a victim of your own humiliation methods. And maybe—just maybe—you’ll choose not to indulge it.”

Monica was already shaking her head from side to side in protest.

“No...please, Dr. Withers. I—I understand now. You don’t have to—”

But Dr. Withers was not to be denied. “Monica,” the doctor said, her voice cool and even, “please remove your blouse.”

Monica bolted upright in her chair. Her session had taken a sudden, drastic turn for the worse, and for her it was a living nightmare.

“No! Please—Dr. Withers, I promise I won’t—”

Without a word, Dr. Withers pressed the intercom button on her desk.

“Tina, would you get Miss Prescott’s parole officer on the line for me?”

“No! Wait—please! I’ll do it!” Monica gasped, her voice cracking. “Please, don’t call her!”

“Cancel that, Tina,” Dr. Withers said, then released the button.

She leaned back slowly in her chair, a small, self-satisfied smile tugging at her lips as Monica sat trembling before her, fingers hovering nervously over the top button of her blouse.

[jimmythehand]

One of my all time favourites of yours. Glad to see it reposted here for a new audience.

[Frank89]

I remember this story. Hope we will also get to see some new chapters of it.

[Hooked6]

This is one of my favorite stories! The premise is most intriguing and the story is so well-written. I am thrilled to hear that there are more unpublished chapters to come!!

Hooked6

[imanewb]

New to me, can't wait

[Blondie]

Chapter 2: Monica's "Therapy" Begins

Under the watchful eye of her psychiatrist, Monica—much like Lana had done over two years before—deliberately began unbuttoning the buttons of her starched white blouse. Her embarrassment was profound, an emotion clearly expressed by her profusely blushing cheeks. She slipped the blouse from her shoulders and instinctively hugged it across her chest. Dr. Withers took delight in her patient's bashfulness.

“You can hang your blouse over the back of your chair, Monica.”

With visible reluctance, Monica obeyed, then turned back to face the psychiatrist, while holding her arms steadfastly over the small protrusions on her chest. She was wearing a black bra with a small amount of lace around the cups.

Dr. Withers let the moment breathe before continuing. “I’d like you to take off your bra now, Monica.”

Of course, Monica was not surprised, but her lack of surprise did nothing to assuage her state of distress.

“P-please…” she started to plead. But she stopped herself, recognizing that it would be fruitless. She swallowed hard, reached behind, and unclasped it.

“Go ahead and drape it over the back of your chair, Monica.”

She carefully slid the bra from her chest and placed it with her discarded blouse. She immediately folded her arms into an “X” over her chest as if trying to will herself invisible. Dr. Withers smiled at her client, very much enjoying her body language and obvious embarrassment.

“I’d like you to fold your hands behind your chair for me, Monica.”

Overcome by despair, Monica slowly yielded. In her nakedness she bowed her head, eyes squeezed tightly shut.

“Look at me, Monica,” ordered Dr. Withers.

Monica opened her eyes and met those of her psychiatrist. Dr. Withers looked down at Monica’s breasts, smiled, then resumed eye contact with her patient.

“They really are quite small, aren’t they, Monica?”

Monica’s blush deepened, as Dr. Withers knew exactly which buttons to push to exacerbate her humiliation. She clenched her hands behind her and said nothing.

“I asked you a question, Monica.”

“Yes,” the beleaguered young lady answered.

“Yes, what, Monica?

“Yes...they are quite small.”

“What are small?”

“M-my breasts.”

Dr. Withers looked at her sternly, an indication she was not satisfied with her answer.

Monica swallowed. “My breasts are very small, Dr. Withers. Please….please let me get dressed now, I’m begging you.”

“We’re not quite done with your therapy for today, Monica. You put Lana through much more embarrassment than this, and it was in front of quite a few more people.”

That seemed to give her an idea. She pushed the button of the intercom.

“Tina, would you join us in my office, please?”

Monica’s mouth fell open. Her eyes darted in panic. She immediately uncrossed her hands and hugged herself, shrinking back in the chair.

Dr. Withers smiled and pressed the intercom again.

“Oh, and please bring the digital camera with you. I’d like to get some photos for Miss Prescott’s file.”

“Right away, Doctor Withers,” came Tina’s chipper reply.

“Oh God, please—no!” came the anguished cry from the half-naked woman.

Seconds later, the office door opened, and the receptionist stepped in, camera in hand. She smiled broadly upon seeing the barebacked woman hunched forward in her chair, arms clutched tightly across her chest.

“Shall I take some photos of Miss Prescott, Dr. Withers?” Tina asked, her tone far too exuberant for Monica’s comfort, as she stepped up beside the doctor and turned to face the clearly shaken woman.

“Yes, Tina, in just a moment,” Dr. Withers replied. “As you can see, Miss Prescott is extremely self-conscious about her body. That’s actually quite promising—because the more embarrassment she feels when she is forced to expose herself, the more effective the therapy becomes.”

She turned to Monica. “Now then, Monica. I'd like you to remove your heels, stand on your chair for me and reach for the sky.”

Monica flinched visibly at the command. The image of Lana in that very position was seared into her memory, and the thought of enduring the same treatment—especially under the watchful eyes of the leering Dr. Withers and her overly eager secretary—was nearly too much to bear.

Yet she knew what was expected of her. Sniffling softly, she slipped off her heels and, with trembling reluctance, climbed onto the chair. Her arms remained tightly folded across her chest, and her gaze was transfixed to the floor.

“Arms up!” barked Dr. Withers.

Monica hesitated, then slowly lifted her arms above her head.

“Higher! Reach for the ceiling!”

Swallowing hard, Monica stretched as far as she could. The pale skin of her belly stood out starkly against the dark fabric of her skirt and stockings. Her upper body pulled taut, which seemed to diminish the size of her small breasts even more.

“Excellent, Monica,” Dr. Withers said. “All right, Tina—let’s get a few photos for the file. You’re going to be amazed when you see these, Monica. All stretched out like that, your little breasts look even smaller—hard as that is to imagine.”

“Oh, please,” Monica whimpered, her voice barely audible.

Tina stepped up onto a small stool to attain a better angle. “Smile for the camera, Miss Prescott. Say ‘cheese.’” Of course, Monica wasn’t smiling.

The camera flashed regardless.

“That was lovely, Miss Prescott,” Tina cooed. “But I need you to look at the lens this time, sweetheart. I want to get your pretty eyes along with that dainty chest of yours. Ready? One...two...three!”

Monica glanced up with a pained expression just as the flash went off again.

“Perfect!” Tina chirped. “These are going to be exquisite. I’ve got your email—I’ll send you a copy for your own enjoyment.”

Dr. Withers gave a nod. “Why don’t you tell Tina what you told me earlier about your breasts, Monica?”

The patient hesitated, her face flushed with shame, before speaking in a barely-there voice. “My breasts are very small...”

“Why yes, they are indeed quite tiny,” Tina laughed, her gaze locked shamelessly on Monica’s exposed chest. She tugged at the hem of her own sweater to augment her own ample chest, which only added to Monica’s self-consciousness.

“And your nipples are so teeny, they remind me of my ten-year-old brother’s. You must be awfully embarrassed, showing those off like this.”

“Yes,” Dr. Withers added thoughtfully. “I’m sure Miss Prescott is quite mortified now. Much like Lana was, right, Monica?”

Monica remained silent.

“Now, you started to tell me about the game you had Lana play while she was standing on the chair half-naked, much like you are right now. Let’s see, I believe the question was, ‘Which breast would you like to fondle for us'? Please, show Tina and me what you made Lana do.”

Monica clenched her eyes shut, temporarily unable to do her bidding.

“We’re waiting, Monica.”

Much to the delight of her small audience, Monica raised one trembling hand and placed it behind her head. With her other, she extended a finger and began lightly tapping each of her nipples in turn, her voice quivering as she recited:

“Eenie, meenie, miney, mo...Catch a tiny titty by the toe. My mommy told me to choose the very best one...”

Her finger came to rest on her right nipple.

Dr. Withers and Tina responded with a light round of applause, the sound only heightening Monica’s humiliation, as a fresh wave of shame washed over her.

“Did you make Lana fondle her breast in front of everybody, Monica?” asked Dr. Withers, who was well aware of the answer.

Monica nodded gloomily.

“Well then, Monica, I think you should fondle your breast for Tina and me.”

The wretched Monica proceeded to caress herself. The wicked doctor allowed the scene to play out for a full minute or so while her receptionist captured the bizarre scene with video while watching with open fascination, visibly entertained by the surreal display.

Dr. Withers allowed the moment to linger a few moments longer before bringing the sordid proceedings to a close.

“Very good, Monica. You may sit down now.”

Monica lowered herself back into the chair, arms once again wrapped across her chest.

“That will be all, Tina. Thank you very much for helping with Monica’s therapy. Oh, and would you please take Monica’s blouse and bra with you and hang them in the closet? Thank you.”

While Tina gathered Monica's discarded clothing from the chair, she gave Monica a playful smile. “Cheer up, Miss Prescott—we’ve all had rough days. But you did great, really. And those little goosebumps? Honestly, they’re just adorable.”

Monica flushed a deep crimson, her eyes dropping to the floor before anxiously tracking Tina as she left the room, garments in hand. The soft click of the door closing seemed louder than it should.

Dr. Withers, now alone with her patient once more, turned her gaze back to Monica.

“That was a very productive session, Monica,” said the smiling Dr. Withers. “Do you feel it was beneficial?”

“I...I’m not sure,” Monica stammered. “I think I need time to...think. Please...can I have my clothes back now?”

Dr. Withers glanced at the clock. “Our time is up, so yes—Tina will return your clothing when you book your next appointment with her. I’ll see you again next week.”

“But...what if someone’s out there?” Monica asked, panic creeping into her voice as she slipped her feet back into her heels.

Dr. Withers knew the waiting room was empty, but she enjoyed making her patient squirm.

“That’s a risk you’ll have to take, I’m afraid. It’s part of the therapy, after all. Good day, Miss Prescott.”

Without another word, she turned her back, dismissing the anguished Monica with an air of finality. Monica lingered for a moment, then poked her head warily through a crack in the door before making her panicky exit.

When the door closed, Carolyn Withers leaned back in her chair, blissfully replaying the session in her mind. From the bottom drawer of her desk, she retrieved a bottle of aged cognac and poured a modest serving into a crystal snifter. Lifting it to her nose, she inhaled the rich aroma with slow, deliberate pleasure.

A warm glow spread through her as she contemplated the next encounter with her ill-fated new patient. Smiling to herself, she took a slow sip—celebrating Monica Prescott, who for the foreseeable future would be the perfect pawn to satisfy her most prurient desires.

[Blondie]

Chapter 3: The Devilish Receptionist

Monica Prescott shivered as she emerged from the subway station into the biting chill of the Chicago suburbs. It should be noted that her elevated state of anxiety was as much a factor in the cause of her tremors as was the wintry air. Her dreaded second session with the intimidating Dr. Withers had come due, and only two blocks separated her from the office, where undoubtedly another very unpleasant experience awaited her.

Compounding her unease was the inevitable encounter with Dr. Withers’ receptionist—the catty Tina Minsky. Just the thought of that smug grin was enough to make Monica’s stomach tighten. As she stepped into the building and approached the elevator, the memory of her previous visit—specifically, the humiliating scene in the reception area—came flooding back.

When we last left poor Monica, the slender young patient had just emerged from Dr. Withers’ office stripped to the waist—her blouse and bra having been “temporarily relocated” to the closet by none other than Tina herself. Monica had peeked into the waiting area, praying it was empty. Satisfied that only Tina was there, she’d taken a deep breath, flung the door open, and made a desperate dash to the desk.

Tina was engrossed in a telephone call, and did not look up at the anxious, half-naked young lady standing before her—though, with her peripheral vision she noted with amusement that her self-consciousness was quite evident in the way she clenched her arms tightly over her chest.

“Could I have my clothes, please?” Monica asked, her voice tight with anxiety.

Tina lifted her eyes for a split second. “Mmm-hmm...sure, I'd love to meet you for cocktails. Oh, and how are things with Brian these days?”

Monica's exasperation mounted. “Please! Can you just give me my clothes?!” she cried, her voice rising an octave.

Tina sighed. “Hold on, Sonia.” She cradled the phone against her chest and addressed the frazzled patient. "As you can see, Miss Prescott, I am in the middle of an important phone call. Please have a seat and I will try to address your needs when I'm finished here."

Returning to her call, she said with a smirk, “Sorry, that was just some poor woman who’s half-naked and all embarrassed. She wants me to retrieve her blouse and bra for her. Can you believe the entitlement?” She shot Monica a wicked grin, clearly enjoying every second.

Monica, realizing that she was completely at the mercy of the fiendish receptionist, subserviently slinked to a seat in the waiting area. Tina couldn’t resist twisting the knife.

“You might want to check out the new Talbots catalog, Miss Prescott,” she chirped. “There are some absolutely darling blouses that might interest you."

Giggling to herself, she went back to chatting as Monica curled into her chair, arms clinging to what dignity she had left. The catalog sat on the side table, and with a quick glance toward the entrance, Monica snatched it and held it up as a feeble shield.

A moment later, the outside door creaked open. Monica’s heart lurched. She frantically adjusted the catalog to hide herself better—just as the janitor strolled in to empty the trash.

Monica sat nervously, alternating her gaze from the catalog to the housekeeping gentleman, who was in the process of emptying Tina's garbage bin.

Ironically, the catalog had landed open to the very blouse section Tina had mentioned. Monica would’ve gladly paid ten times the listed price for any of them—just to be wearing one at that moment.

Then, to her horror, she noticed the trash can next to her. It would only be a matter of moments before the man would inevitably enter her space. She had to do something! The man's back was to her, so Monica quickly picked up the trash can and placed it on the other side of a curve in the wall behind her.

She glanced at Tina, who was still on the phone and grinning freely at Monica's predicament. Monica clenched her fists, barely resisting the urge to march over and wrap the phone cord around her smug little neck.

At long last, the janitor left. Monica exhaled with relief.

Tina hung up a moment later. Monica practically leapt from her seat.

“I’m begging you—can I have my clothes now?” she pleaded.

Tina, as cool as ever, simply pointed to a nearby closet. Monica dashed to it, tried the knob—and found it locked.

“It’s locked!” she shrieked.

Tina dangled a tiny key between her fingers. “I'll be happy to open that for you, Miss Prescott. But first, let’s go ahead and schedule next week’s appointment.”

It was clear Tina intended to prolong Monica’s misery for as long as she could. Voices sounded from the hallway, sending another bolt of panic through Monica.

“Please, can we just do this quickly?” she begged, glancing at the door.

“Of course,” Tina replied sweetly. She clicked her mouse a few times, taking her time, and not bothering to look up.

Monica looked anxiously at the door when more voices emanated from the hallway.

"Still checking," said Tina calmly while Monica shifted her weight nervously from foot to foot.

“I don’t know why you’re bothering to cover yourself,” she said flatly. “From what I’ve seen, you really don’t have much to hide.” She let out a giggle, scrolling idly.

"Okay, here we go," she finally said. "One week from today, same time." She scribbled it on a card and handed it over, though realistically, Monica wouldn’t forget even if she tried.

Monica looked toward the closet expectantly. But the devilish receptionist had other ideas.

"I was wondering if you wouldn't mind helping me with something," she said.

Monica’s eyes widened in disbelief.

Tina pointed to a ceiling fixture. “One of the bulbs is out. Normally maintenance would handle it, but they’re on a one-day strike. And you’re so tall, with nice long arms...”

Monica’s mouth opened in protest.

“I really don’t want to bother Dr. Withers. It’s just a quick fix. I’ll unscrew the brace if you hold the glass bowl.” Tina smiled sweetly. “Please? Then you’re free to go home.”

“I—please—I can help, but...just...just let me get dressed first,” Monica stammered.

“Ah, but that’s the thing, Miss Prescott. If I give you your clothes now, how do I know you won’t just run off? You see, your blouse and bra are my...my bargaining chips.” She leaned in with a wicked grin. “And besides, this way is so much more fun.”

She pulled two chairs beneath the fixture. Clutching a new lightbulb, she climbed up on one and gestured for Monica to take the other.

Wretchedly, she complied.

“Great. Now hold up the bowl while I unscrew this,” Tina instructed.

Monica raised one hand.

“Both hands, silly girl. We can’t have it falling and breaking.”

With a deep breath, Monica slowly peeled her arm away from her chest and reached upward. Once again, her breasts were on full display. And, incredibly, for the second time that day she was standing topless on a chair with her arms outstretched toward the ceiling.

Tina, barely a foot away, grinned unreservedly as she unabashedly stared at Monica's undersized chest.

“You must be incredibly embarrassed, Miss Prescott,” Tina said, her eyes locking onto Monica’s with a mischievous smile.

Monica blushed furiously, much to Tina's delight.

* * * * * *

Monica Prescott eventually reclaimed her blouse and bra that day—though not without paying dearly in emotional distress. Now, one week later, as the elevator doors slid open, she stepped tentatively into the hallway and eyed the door marked Dr. Caroline Withers: Clinical Psychiatry. As her hand found the doorknob, she was unable to fend off an involuntary shudder.

[ValerianXIII]

This is one my favorite stories I hope you continue it!!

[Blondie]

Chapter 4: Waiting Room Humiliation

As Monica walked into the reception room, she made her best effort to maintain her poise. With chin up and perfect posture, she strode briskly to the front desk, where the ever-smiling Tina Minsky awaited her

Monica ignored her smile and very business-like announced, "Monica Prescott to see Dr. Withers, please."

The receptionist played along—for the moment.

"Yes, welcome, Miss Prescott. May I take your coat?"

Monica winced ever so slightly.

"No thank you, that won't be necessary. The coat goes with the rest of my outfit, thanks."

Indeed, Monica, who habitually dressed nattily, wore a charcoal-grey coat with matching slacks, her favorite white blouse and 2 1/2-inch black heels.

But Tina was undeterred. She stepped to the closet and withdrew a wooden hanger, holding it out for Monica.

“And a beautiful outfit it is, Miss Prescott. You look quite handsome today. But Dr. Withers left very specific instructions regarding your attire, so I'll need your coat."

Monica's spirits drooped significantly, recognizing that her "state of attire" (or lack of it!) would once again be a point of interest during today's session.

With a resigned sigh, she slipped off her coat, carefully folded it over the hanger, and placed it in the closet. Her plan to exude poise and confidence was falling by the wayside.

"You can put your purse on the shelf." It was more a demand than a request, and Monica reluctantly followed her instructions.

Two occurrences instantly followed that intensified Monica's state of apprehension. First, Tina had followed her to the closet and immediately inserted a key, locking the door.

The message was unmistakable: Monica would need permission to reclaim her belongings.

But more unnerving for Monica was that when she turned around she spotted two people sitting in the waiting room. She hadn’t noticed them upon entering, but they had clearly witnessed the entire exchange.

Monica's discomfiture was not lost on Tina.

“It’s okay, they’re friendly. Actually, they’ve been looking forward to meeting you. Please, come have a seat.” She took Monica by the elbow and gently steered her toward the lounge. “This is my sister Paula, and this is my cousin Ricky.”

Both stood and extended their hands. Monica, somewhat taken aback, warily offered hers in return. She observed that the girl was sixteen or seventeen years old, and the boy was probably not a day over fourteen. As she collected herself, she considered that they were high school students, the same age as the students she had been teaching over the last several years, the same age as the students she had regrettably abused through humiliation, thus leaving her in the dire situation she presently found herself in.

What is this? Are they plants? Part of Dr. Withers’ twisted little game?

Suffice it to say, Monica was feeling more than a little uneasy with the presence of the young twosome.

Tina interrupted her thoughts.

“Please, sit down, Miss Prescott. Dr. Withers will be with you shortly.”

Monica sat—rigidly—as did the other two, directly across from her. In silence, they watched her. Monica thought she detected a smirk on the girl's lips. Monica’s stomach turned.

Has Tina told them about me? About...all of it?

Knowing that the two had observed the scene where she was coerced into removing her coat didn’t help. Feeling oddly exposed, Monica crossed her arms across her chest—only to hear Paula giggle.

Trying to salvage her composure, Monica reached for a magazine—but all the magazines had been cleared out.

The three sat in silence. For Monica, it was unbearable.

What the hell is going on here?

A sudden ring from the desk phone made her jump.

“Yes, Dr. Withers?” said Tina. "Will do, Dr. Withers. Yes, that’s an option. Hopefully there won't be any fuss. I’ll inform Miss Prescott immediately.”

Monica sat up straight, hopeful.

But Tina was already unlocking the closet.

She returned holding a wire hanger. “Dr. Withers would like me to hang up your blouse.”

Horrified, Monica instinctively looked at the two newcomers. Paula was grinning freely—Monica noted that she didn't seem a bit surprised by the demand—and Ricky was wide-eyed and open-mouthed, obviously surprised, and clearly quite delighted by the turn of events.

"P-please, may I...may I take care of this in Dr. Withers' office?" Monica did not even consider the absurdity of the fact that she was requesting to strip against her will for Dr. Withers.

“No, Dr. Withers isn’t quite ready for you yet. She’d like you to remove your blouse now. Come on, Miss Prescott—off it comes.”

Monica, seemingly unsure of what to do, sat frozen, in a semi state of panic.

“Dr. Withers said to remind you,” Tina added coolly, “that we do have the number of your parole officer. And she won’t hesitate to contact her.”

Monica needed no further prodding. Under the watchful eyes of the three bystanders, Monica, while fighting back tears, reached for her top button and deliberately began unfastening her blouse. While Tina and Paula looked on in amusement, Ricky stared in fascination as her lacy black bra slowly came into view.

Monica couldn't help but wonder if the innocent-looking boy had ever seen a woman stripped to her bra before. She thought not, a perception that in some way intensified her embarrassment.

As she peeled the garment from her slender figure, Tina unhesitatingly pulled it from her grasp and draped it over the hanger as she strode purposefully to the closet. The sound of the closet door closing echoed throughout the room. Monica cringed as she heard the key turning in the lock.

Monica sat trembling, arms wrapped tightly around her chest—a posture that wouldn’t last long.

"Dr. Withers requests that you rest both arms on the armrests of your chair, Miss Prescott," said Tina, who had returned to her desk.

Monica, while strongly suspecting that the psychiatrist gave no such order, was in no position to argue. Slowly, miserably, she lowered her arms, exposing her partially-clad chest to the captivated couple across from her. She knew she was blushing crimson—indeed, she looked down and noticed that even her upper chest was flushing pink.

The girl across from her broke the silence. "What is your bra size?" asked Paula, while staring unabashedly at Monica's chest.

Monica was in no mood to engage the impish teen. And it occurred to her that if only she were larger than a triple A cup that this dreadful situation would somehow be just a wee bit less humiliating. Her lack of endowment had been a psychological burden for her since she was a young teen. In any case, she was tempted to tell her that it was none of her fucking business, but caught herself and decided to ignore the question.

"Paula asked you a question," came the voice from the reception desk.

"It's a...32...triple A," said the shamed Monica softly, her gaze downcast to her knees.

“Triple A?!” Paula gasped. “Wow, I didn’t even know they made bras that small! She continued to stare at Monica's chest. "If I was that flat I wouldn't even bother wearing one. I mean, who's going to notice?"

Monica flushed even deeper and glanced up, seeing Paula’s much fuller chest and smug grin.

She glanced at the lad to Paula's right. He didn't seem the least bit put off by her lack of size. In truth, the sight of a pretty, twenty-something young lady sitting across from him stripped to her bra was more than enough to hold his fascination.

Paula wasn't finished teasing poor Monica. "Do you get a discount on your bras since there is so little material?" she asked with a smirk on her face, eliciting a giggle from the reception area.

Monica fidgeted in her seat without answering.

“Miss Prescott?” Tina prodded.

“No,” Monica said quietly.

“Well,” Paula chirped, “you should look into that. It's not fair that you have to pay the same price the rest of us when you're getting far less."

Monica squirmed in her seat and glanced anxiously at Dr. Withers' door. “Please...just leave me alone.”

But Paula was relentless. "Have you considered shopping at the little girls' department for a training bra? You could save some money that way." Monica sat in silence, blushing profusely. "Or maybe there’s specialty store that caters to women with tiny breasts."

Tina could no longer contain herself, and outright laughter burst out from behind the reception desk.

Just then, the sharp ring of the phone echoed through the reception room.

“Yes, Dr. Withers? Of course.”

Monica tensed, eyes clenched shut, dreading the words she feared might come next—that she’d be told to remove her bra. The thought of sitting there exposed, bare-chested and humiliated, was almost too much to bear. But to her immense relief, it was something else entirely.

“Dr. Withers will see you now, Miss Prescott,” Tina announced.

Monica shot to her feet, desperate to escape the mortifying atmosphere of the reception area. Never had she imagined she’d feel relief at being summoned into Dr. Withers’ office.

That relief, of course, would be short-lived. The satanic psychiatrist had some exquisite torments in store for the vulnerable and beleaguered Miss Prescott.

[Blondie]

Chapter 5: Girls Forced to Remove Their Tops

Dr. Caroline Withers stared at her computer monitor, a smile playing at the corners of her lips as a wave of satisfaction washed over her. She watched intently as her star patient—ever so reluctantly—began unbuttoning her blouse under the watchful eyes of her trusted receptionist and the two carefully chosen newcomers. She pressed a button near her keyboard and nodded with approval as the camera zoomed in on the object of everyone's attention. Another button press, and the screen flashed briefly—capturing a still image of her profusely blushing victim.

Satisfied for the moment, she zoomed back out, knowing she could—and most assuredly would—revisit the footage later for further enjoyment.

When the Monica Prescott case had dropped into her lap a few weeks earlier—a gift from the heavens, in Caroline's estimation—one of her first priorities had been upgrading her surveillance system. As the reader has probably ascertained, the depraved psychiatrist's motive for this maneuver had very little to do with surveillance and everything to do her with prurient interests. The state-of-the-art system featured multiple 4K cameras, discreetly tucked throughout both the reception area and her private office.

By her estimation, the investment had already paid for itself—yielding both mental stimulation and, if one must know, a measure of physical gratification during her review of Miss Prescott’s previous visit.

She owed a debt of gratitude, she thought, to Tina Minsky, as her favorite scene took place in the reception room after the appointment. It was an unscripted stroke of genius by the receptionist when poor Monica—half-naked and flushed with embarrassment—was persuaded to stand on a chair to “help change a light bulb.” It had been delicious, and delightfully degrading.

Dr. Withers had already reviewed that footage multiple times. Tina was doing her proud, and Caroline took pleasure in watching her embrace her new responsibilities—not only without hesitation, but with unrestrained delight.

She watched Monica squirm a few moments longer on-screen, then finally picked up her phone.

“Tina, could you please send Miss Prescott in now?”

“Of course,” came the prompt reply.

Caroline chuckled softly when her door opened almost instantly. No surprise—Monica would’ve gladly run through fire to escape the reception room.

“Good afternoon, Monica,” Dr. Withers said warmly, gesturing to the armless chair directly across from her.

Monica sat, trying to adjust her posture in the seat she already knew offered no real comfort—or coverage. Dr. Withers, as always, occupied her favorite easy chair directly across from her. Again, no furniture separated doctor and patient. It was not a comfortable setup for her patient, but of course that is exactly what Dr. Withers had in mind.

She wasted no time turning up the heat.

“Do you know why I had you remove your blouse?”

Monica instinctively crossed her arms over her chest. “I...I’m not sure,” she muttered.

Dr. Withers offered no response—only a long, expectant look.

Monica fumbled for a better answer. “Is it...part of the therapy?”

A satisfied smile spread across Caroline’s face. “Yes, Monica, it is. But more specifically—and feel free to correct me if I’m wrong—wasn’t it one of your preferred punishments to have your female victims remove their tops?”

She had deliberately used the word "victim," knowing that was exactly how Monica perceived them. It was her way of getting her warmed up, hopefully to get her in character as the perverted teacher.

"Yes, I thought this was a very effective form of discipline," said Monica, somewhat enthusiastically. "I've never had a repeat offender."

"You utilized this form of discipline more than once, didn’t you?”

“Oh, yes. Several times,” Monica said with a slow nod.

"Tell me about it, Monica," said Dr. Withers. She purposely was being vague, wondering where Monica would go with it.

"Well, the student would misbehave, and..."

"How would the student misbehave?" interrupted Dr. Withers.

"Oh, she would either talk in class, or she would not do her homework. Usually something like that, nothing serious."

Dr. Withers raised an eyebrow. “So...minor infractions. And yet you resorted to public undressing?”

“Well, yes,” Monica said defensively. “And it depends on what you call ‘minor.’ Again, I thought it was very effec—"

“You keep saying ‘she.’ Did you ever discipline the boys in similar ways?”

Monica perked up. "Oh, yes, I absolutely did." Monica chuckled. “I once made a boy undress and then put him in a dress.”

Dr. Withers' interest was piqued. "Tell me about it."

Monica was grinning. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone turn so red in my life. He was mortified. It was really something."

"You say you made him take his clothes off to put the dress on. Did you make him strip naked before putting on the dress?"

“Not that one, no,” Monica said, wrinkling her nose, "though on other occasions I did just that. To tell you the truth, I didn't have any interest in seeing this one naked. He had too much body hair—it was unappealing. I just wanted to embarrass him. Guess I succeeded in that!" She laughed.

"Anyway, I preferred the smooth ones. The boys that hadn't started developing yet. They were much more self-conscious, so the humiliation was more intense."

Dr. Withers nodded slowly. “Indeed.”

“I have to say,” Monica added, without being prompted, “I really did enjoy disciplining the boys.”

Dr. Withers wanted to hear more—much more—but chose to stay on her current line of questioning.

“We’ll revisit the boys some other time,” she said. “Tell me more about the girls. You enjoyed making them strip their tops off?”

“Oh yes,” Monica said eagerly. “Very much so.”

Caroline allowed herself a slow, private smile. Her patient was loosening up beautifully and was getting caught up in her humiliation fantasy.

"The look on their faces when they realize they're actually going to have to strip..." Monica let out a breathless laugh. "Oh, it’s just so precious!"

Dr. Withers, always alert to the subtleties of speech, noted with interest that Monica was speaking in the present tense—as if the scenes were playing out again, right before her eyes.

"And then, once they see how serious I am...once they start reaching for that top button..." Monica’s voice lowered, almost reverent. "That’s when I know I’ve got them. And this...warm feeling just comes over me."

Even Dr. Withers was astonished by the woman's passion. She let her continue unprompted.

"I watch as they fumble with their buttons—working their way to the bottom. Sometimes they're fighting off tears. One girl just completely broke down, bawling uncontrollably, and I really didn't care for that. It killed the moment for me."

Monica rolled her eyes at the memory, then pressed on.

"Anyway, their faces get redder and redder as their humiliation grows. Then when I take the blouse from their hands...sometimes they'll hold on to it as I'm pulling on it. I kind of enjoy that. What, do they think I'm going to change my mind? I don't think so!

Dr. Withers watched with growing delight as her patient leaned into her story, utterly absorbed.

"And once they finally relinquish the blouse, and their bra is exposed, and their arms fly up across their chest in absolute mortification...oh, what a delicious sight!"

Monica gave a small, dreamy sigh. She was so engrossed in her reminiscences that it never crossed her mind that just a few minutes before she was doing exactly that in the waiting area.

Dr. Withers, of course, hadn’t missed the irony.

"Tell me, Monica," the doctor said, steering the conversation gently, "were there certain girls you found...particularly well-suited to this kind of discipline?"

Monica didn’t hesitate. "Oh yes. The flat-chested ones. Without a doubt. They're so embarrassed to expose their double A's, or even their triple A's, if I'm fortunate enough to get one of those."

Monica, who was already a little flush in the face from excitement, blushed deeper as her eyes flicked down to her own barely-there chest, clad in a 32AAA bra. Dr. Withers caught the flicker of recognition—and noted it with satisfaction.

The psychiatrist got her back on track.

"How long would you keep them that way—without their blouse?" she asked.

"Oh, it varied. Depended on how much fun I'm having with them, I guess." She giggled. "Usually, I’d just let them sit in their chairs like that until the lesson ended. But sometimes, if they were especially mortified—and I'm really enjoying myself—I’d call them up to the front of the class."

"And what would you have them do?" asked Dr. Withers, her titillation mounting with each word.

"At first, I had them read from the textbook. That was okay, but they tended to cover their little chests with the book. So I had to try something different. I had them recite poetry. Or quiz them on the reading. All while keeping their hands behind their backs. They just hated that."

Her eyes twinkled with the memory.

"One girl tried to puff out her chest—to make it look bigger, I guess—but come on. She was maybe a double A. Who was she kidding? I’m sure the other kids teased her for the rest of the year."

She paused for a breath, clearly enjoying herself.

"One of my favorites..." she said, her voice taking on a delighted tone, "was when I made one absolutely pancake-flat girl—I mean, if I didn't know better, she could have been a boy—come up and sing for us."

Monica practically beamed.

"She was so self-conscious. She kept on trying to cover her bra with her arms. It was more like a training bra, and she was sixteen years old! She was so humiliated...it was a wonderful experience."

Monica paused and smiled, seemingly picturing the ill-fated girl in her mind.

"The timing was perfect, too. It was just before Christmas, and I had her sing 'The Twelve Days of Christmas.'"

Dr. Withers chuckled softly.

"It goes on forever," Monica explained gleefully. "Oh, and every time she got to the ‘five golden rings’ part, I made her stretch her arms out like this."

Without thinking, Monica stood up and demonstrated—arms raised, palms out, chest exposed once again. Dr. Withers watched with quiet amusement as Monica suddenly caught herself, turned beet red, and dropped back into her seat, arms folded tightly over her chest.

Dr. Withers let the silence linger just long enough.

"Tell me about the girl at Crestview High."

The question snapped Monica back into the reality of being Dr. Withers' subservient patient.

"I...that was a while ago..." she mumbled.

"It looks like you only substituted there only one time," Dr. Withers continued.

"Yes, that is correct," answered Monica while focusing on a carpet fiber in front of her."

"I believe her name was Ginger," prodded Dr. Withers.

"That’s right."

"What did Ginger look like?"

""Um...she was tall. Very pretty. Great figure. And she had this gorgeous red hair...I suppose that’s why they called her Ginger."

"How big were her breasts, Monica?"

Monica hesitated. "They were...small. Quite small."

"Were they as small as yours?"

She stared at her patient's chest while asking the question, and took pleasure when Monica again covered her bra by crossing her arms over her chest, while blushing yet again.

"I guess...I mean maybe. They were very small."

"Like yours."

Monica squirmed in her chair. "Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, her breasts...her breasts were very small, just like mine."

"Very good, Monica," Dr. Withers said approvingly. "You’re cooperating beautifully. Now tell me how you disciplined Ginger. First of all, what was her offense?"

"She wasn’t paying attention to my lecture," Monica answered, her voice steadier. "She was staring out the window. She was clearly distracted."

"And you managed to get her attention, didn’t you?"

A small, sly smile crept back across Monica’s face. "Oh yes. I most certainly did."

"Did you make her take her top off?"

"Oh yes," Monica replied with a dreamy smile. "And I must say, I really enjoyed this one."

Monica was stepping back into her element, to Dr. Withers' delight.

"Was there something special about Ginger?"

Monica’s eyes lit up. "There was something. I can’t quite put my finger on it...I mean, yes, she was extremely flat-chested and undoubtedly very self-conscious about that, which always makes it pleasurable for me. But there was more to it than that. Just the look she gave me when I suggested that she might be more focused if I took possession of her sweater for the remainder of the period..."

She gave a little chuckle, her voice warming as she continued.

"And then, when she realized I was absolutely serious...the fear in her eyes..." Monica closed her own eyes for a second as if savoring the image.

"When she hesitated, I told her she could take it off herself or I would do it for her—but either way, the sweater was mine. She was sniveling a little bit as she reached for it. Poor thing. She was wearing a black turtleneck—just snug enough to see the outline of her wee little breasts—and a pair of tight jeans. She looked marvelous. Absolutely marvelous. Especially when I peeled the sweater out of her trembling hands and left her standing there in that little black bra, blushing crimson."

Monica paused, a faint smile touching her lips at the memory. Dr. Withers waited, her silence carefully measured—though inwardly, she was anxious to hear more.

"I decided right then and there—she was going to parade around in her underwear. I knew it would be such a delectable sight. And I was a just a little curious to see if she was wearing matching black panties—she was, by the way—and flat chest or not, she looked quite sexy, I must say.

"But then the bell rang. Well, I was having way too much fun to let that get in my way. Luckily, it was the last period of the day. Ginger looked at me so hopefully, poor dear, like I might release her from her misery. But no—I told her she was to stay after school because I wasn't quite finished with her yet."

That mischievous gleam returned to Monica’s eyes.

"You should’ve seen her face. She was trying to figure out what else I could possibly have in store for her. And honestly, I thought she deserved a little audience. Strictly for her benefit, of course."

She paused and looked to Dr. Withers for approval.

"Of course," Dr. Withers replied with a cool smile. "Much more humiliating that way."

"Exactly!" said the now animated Monica. "So I asked for three volunteers to stick around and assist with Ginger's punishment. I’d say more than half the class raised their hands. I guess I wasn't the only one who was enjoying Ginger's humiliation." She let out a girlish giggle.

"I read the transcript," said Dr. Withers, folding her hands in her lap. "You chose two girls and one boy. Why those three?"

"Well, the girls were clearly enjoying themselves—smiling, giggling, whispering to each other. I figured their presence would only amplify Ginger’s humiliation. As for the boy, I knew she’d be absolutely mortified having him watch her strut around in her underwear. And the way he looked at her when Ginger pulled off her sweater—eyes wide, like it was the first time he’d ever seen a girl in a bra. And he had this innocent, boyish face...I don’t know, something about him just felt perfect."

Dr. Withers decided that this would be a good time to cut her off, convinced that she had chosen the perfect course of action.

"Thank you, Monica, you can stop now." Dr. Withers stood up and walked toward her desk. "Do me a favor, please, and set your chair right next to mine, if you would."

Monica, a bit confused, picked up her chair and placed it to the right of Dr. Withers’ easy chair. Meanwhile, Dr. Withers rolled her desk chair to the left, then retrieved a third and placed it directly beside Monica’s, arranging the chairs into a semi-circle—facing the now-vacant spot where Monica had been sitting moments earlier.

Monica stood by, frowning, watching the formation come together. Her confusion deepened...until, slowly, her expression began to shift. Her lips parted slightly. A dawning realization crept across her face as the apparent intentions of the evil doctor started to register.

"Is this pretty much how the chairs were arranged that day, Monica?" asked Dr. Withers.

Monica was now open-mouthed in horror. "Oh God, please no, Dr. Withers," begged Monica. "Please, I'll..."

But Dr. Withers had already pressed the intercom. “Tina, could the three of you come in here, please?”

"No!" Monica screamed, her voice breaking into desperation.

But within seconds she heard the turning of the doorknob.