Page 34 of Biker's Tribute: Property of Bear

Ethan

Amanda enrages me thoroughly. I haven't had the space or time to jack off in days, and she has the audacity to look like a full course meal while lounging in bed, undoubtedly scheming my demise. Her therapist tricks won't work on me. I'll get everything I want without falling for her womanly manipulations. I'm sure of it.

"What do I get if I fix you?" she asks, looking up at me with those impossibly sexy dark brown eyes. I'm grateful she believed my stupid lie about my attraction to her, even if it's massively embarrassing to get a talk about alleged racism from your mother in your late thirties…

"Your freedom would lead to your immediate death, so don't bother asking."

"Even if I left Boston and moved to Chicago?"

Her attempt at negotiation reminds me not to underestimate her.

"If you can stop me from gambling for two weeks, I'll allow you to use the internet. Unlimited contact with whoever you want."

"Two weeks?"

"Yes," I respond.

My balls ache and I don't want to talk about my gambling problem. I just want to stop.

"Now give me the tactical information that you people hoard with your fancy degree."

"That's not how it works, Ethan."

The way she says my name sends arousal straight down to my cock. This isn't fair.

"Then how does it work?"

"You have to want it and more than that... you have to fight your urges."

"I'm fighting plenty of fucking urges," I say through gritted teeth with a tone that unfortunately betrays too much to the therapist holed up in my bed.

"Good," she says, clearly intrigued despite herself. Amanda moves to sit on the edge of the bed, bracing her weight with her hands as she gazes directly into my eyes.

I hate it. She makes me feel like a teenager with a crush and her penetrating eye contact makes it impossible to catch even a glimpse of her tits without her noticing. It's an impossible position.

"You know what it feels like to fight an urge, now you have to experience the full glory of winning that battle. And you just keep fighting, Ethan. Every day. For someone as stubborn as you are, that should be easy."

"Is that insult part of your therapy tactic?"

"It's not a tactic," she says, running her tongue over her lower lip, most likely to stop another insult from spilling out of that sexy ass mouth. "I don't consider this a professional environment."

"I don't care about fancy rules. I just need to quit."

"You never got around to telling me why."

My whole body goes rigid. Exposing this level of vulnerability to Amanda poses a risk. But I'm too tired to fight her and if I don't stop this conversation soon, I won't be able to hide my growing erection. Which hurts, I might add.

I gesture towards the door, childhood memories of me and mom flooding my consciousness.

"Her."

Amanda's body language changes. I feel strangely defensive, and I want her desperately to like my mother. I know she hates me, but mom is... perfect.

"She's really kind."

"Nothing like me," I respond. "And I've always been a fuck up. Even now..."

"You're stressed," Amanda says, her softness disappearing as the doctor version of her jumps out. "You're leaning on negative coping mechanisms. It makes sense to me."

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