I'm seated across from him in one of his gray leather chairs. He narrows his eyes, leans back, and folds his hands together.
"So," Dr. Lecter says. "What seems to be pressing at you today?"
"I don't know," I answer, and he raises an eyebrow. "I mean, I do, but I don't know why. I can't explain why."
Dr. Lecter leans forward, his maroon eyes flashing with interest. "Tell me," he says.
It's like he's put a spell on me. Words start to form in my brain. "I hate myself. Flat out despise. Everything I do annoys me. I try to empathize with people to see how they feel about me, but then I think about how much they must hate me too, and I'm ugly as a nail and I can't get a boyfriend and I can't stand myself." I say it all in one breath, and have to take a second to regain myself.
"Not all of that is entirely true," Dr. Lecter says carefully.
I look away. Of course, he's getting paid to say that I don't annoy him. When he speaks again, I bring my eyes back to look at him.
"Have you tried-" he starts, but before I can stop myself, I blurt out, "I masturbate but I hate myself for it."
I can't tell if the flash in his eyes is surprise or just a reaction. His eyes narrow. "Why do you hate yourself for it? It is a very normal thing."
"I can't even explain it..." I say quietly. "I just do it, and I hate myself during it and after as well."
"Why would you experience self-hate while performing one of the utmost processes of self-love?" He thinks for a moment. "Perhaps it is shame. Related to, I think, what or who you are thinking about while doing it?"
Almost too quickly, I break his gaze. I can't make myself tell him that it's him whom the thought of has gotten me there the past six weeks.
"That might be part of it," I mutter, talking to the ground.
He reaches across and places a hand on mine so as to get my attention. "I want you to masturbate right now, right here. I think it will be good for you to do it in the company of another. A slap in the face, so to speak, for self-consciousness."
I jump in my seat. "I can't!" I burst out.
"Why not?" he demands.
"Because...because it's you."
It might be my imagination, but I could swear his expression softens.
"Do it," he says quietly.
Realizing that I can't resist his treatment, I nod obediently. I pull off my pants and underwear and self-consciousness floods my entire being. Dr. Lecter doesn't look down, but keeps his gaze locked on my face. He nods.
I realize quickly that as usual, I'm already wet from my session with him. It's that accent, I think as I apply pressure to my clit with two fingers. I close my eyes as I trace small circular patterns. I don't finger myself. That's never worked for me. Perhaps it's because I'm a virgin.
I open my eyes to see Dr. Lecter staring intently at me. I take in his features, biting my lip. A moan escapes my mouth. I imagine his mouth on my clit instead of my fingers. His thin, perfect mouth. My body shudders. I'm soaking wet and my lower half is starting to pound. I quicken my pace, applying harder pressure and a faster motion. I take one look at him and throw my head back and close my eyes. I'm moaning loudly now, almost to my limit.
I dare one last peek at him and see a trace of a smile on his beautiful lips. "Come for me," he says in that damn sexy accent.
I throw my legs out and my head back and I'm coming harder than I ever have in my life. "Doctor Lecter!" I yell, removing my hand and being resorted to do absolutely nothing but quiver in ecstasy. When the orgasm passes, I look at him, tears in my eyes. He stands up and hands me my clothes.
"Please, call me Hannibal."