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Dustin and the Psychiatrist,
by Skorpio
PART TWO
All night long, Dustin tossed and turned, dreaming feverishly of Dr. Ezinwa's magnificent black "bura." Waking to a morning hard-on, the college senior pulled away the linen sheet and reached instinctively for his quivering prick. Then, he froze, remembering Dr. Ezinwa told him not to masturbate without permission. That was part of Dustin's treatment for a hopeless, life-changing malady.
It was not easy fighting the urge to whack off. He considered doing it just this once and not telling the doctor, but he knew Ezinwa would find out, sooner or later. If the handsome psychiatrist did not draw out the truth, Dustin would have confessed from a guilty conscience. He did not want to disappoint Dr. Ezinwa. Disappoint him? Yes, but there was more. Young Dustin was afraid to defy the older man.
The tow-headed student with the kissable lips remembered being commanded to worship the Nigerian's "bura" and told there was no cure for jungle fever, that his assigned place in the world as a white cocksucker was to service the sexual needs of black men. It was a compulsion that could never be appeased. This is what comes of two distinct races from different continents living together in the same society.
Dustin's next appointment with Dr. Ezinwa was in a few hours. He took a cold shower and got dressed, fussing like a nervous schoolgirl readying for her date. He slipped on Calvin Klein briefs under snug blue jeans to show off the curve of his buttocks and tucked in the light blue Polo shirt that made his nipples pop. He sprayed behind the ears with Giorgio Armani cologne. Around his slender, boyish neck he hooked his best chain, a 14 karat Milano rope.
Bounding to the doctor's office in a pair of new sneakers instead of catching the bus, gave Dustin time to think and to enjoy this warm spring morning. All of the flowering trees along the street were in full, colorful bloom, perfuming the breeze. He glanced at the crotches of strangers, although white men no longer interested him at all. His eyes roamed the streets on the qui vive for men of color. Any brown-skinned man caught his interest at once.
There were many turbaned shopkeepers of Indian and Middle-Eastern descent in this part of town. They did not much intrigue Dustin. There was something ever so fastidious about their manner that put him off. Among the Latinos, some attracted his lowered gaze and some did not. Only men of Nubian appearance really mattered. From executives in suits to thugs in hip-hop gear, any age, any shape, so long as they were black. He was drawn to them like a hummingbird to nectar.
This was the craving that Dr. Ezinwa told him had no cure, and yet it eased Dustin's mind knowing his condition was not a mystery to the professionals. Dustin wondered how his first therapeutic hour might have gone had his psychiatrist been caucasian. Would he have known as much as Dr. Ezinwa who came from a culture which already understood these things? Dustin was lucky to have a shrink who could give him exactly what he needed.
Dustin arrived half an hour before his ten o'clock session. The pretty receptionist was on the phone. She motioned for Dustin to take a seat and returned to her conversation. As before, Dustin waited nervously, trembling with excitement and apprehension.
To distract himself, he flipped through the magazines neatly set out on the coffee table. Ebony, Jet, Essence, Black Enterprise, Black Family Digest, Source. He picked up an issue of Upscale with Usher on the cover, shirtless, arms, chest, and shoulders bulging, head cocked with an inscrutable expression. There were photo spreads of many sexy black men throughout the magazine. Every one of them made Dustin lick his lips. Even when he was attracted to white men, he never felt this way.
Using his smartphone, Dustin combed the internet for images of Usher naked, suddenly overcome with curiosity to see what the singer's cock looked like. There were numerous photo-shops but nothing that appeared authentic. One of them was of a twink impaled on a thick black cock with the faces of Justin Bieber and Usher superimposed. That interested Dustin because people often told him he favored Bieber. Only a few months ago, before discovering black cock, Dustin thought Bieber was sexy in a narcissistic way. Now, that pallid physique did nothing for him. Instead, Dustin fantasized about giving Usher a blowjob.
After what seemed like an eternity, the door to the inner office opened. Dustin looked up, heart pounding in his chest, at the paragon of masculine perfection which haunted his dreams. There was no doubt in Dustin's mind that Dr. Ezinwa was one of the most handsome men on earth, although it was hard to swallow he was only seven years older. He appeared much younger than twenty-eight, yet bore the dignified gravitas of a gentleman in his mature prime.
The Nigerian's height and frame were intimidating, but he was so easy on the eyes that the whiteboy wanted to melt into a puddle of infatuation. Those large, piercing eyes. Chiseled cheekbones. Jet black goatee. Smoldering, dark brown skin. Daunting and inviting at once. It was like being in the presence of an African god.
Emerging from behind the psychiatrist was a scruffy dude about Dustin's age. His longish hair was unkempt, clothes rumpled. Dustin wondered what his emotional issues might be that he needed a shrink. Probably court-ordered, he thought, feeling strangely scornful of this man. Almost as if Dustin was jealous of Dr. Ezinwa seeing other patients.
Dr. Ezinwa said to the gamin, "I will see you on Friday, adabesi.' Pay Jennifer and bring the rest next time." Then, the doctor turned back to Dustin. "I'm pleased you are punctual. In both our countries there is a saying: Never keep a brother waiting.' That's a lesson some of you never learn."
Following the doctor into his office, Dustin looked over and saw the other patient handing the receptionist an unusually large wad of cash. The doctor had called him "adabesi." That was a derogatory term for Europeans in the Nigerian language. It also meant "a man who sucks penises like a woman." Could this dude be suffering from the same condition Dustin had? Why did that make Dustin dislike the stranger all the more?
The heavy door clicked shut behind them. Dr. Ezinwa leaned against his desk, arms folded across his deep chest, appraising Dustin from head to toe. "How are you today, `adebesi,'" he asked. His accent and baritone shaped the words into more of a demand than a polite query.
"I feel great," Dustin replied, enthusiastically. "I really enjoyed our session yesterday. I wasn't expecting that. What you did for me, it really helped. A lot."
"I am pleased, very pleased, indeed," said the doctor, although his tone and the absence of a smile seemed to belie those words. "It was therapeutically necessary for you to connect with the object of your obsession. You will be doing a lot more of that in the days to come. You will be doing it more often and with more determination than ever before. But that was not the only reason for yesterday's treatment. It was the only way for me to evaluate your FQ."
"My FQ?" Dustin questioned, blond brows beneath his bangs wrinkling with bemusement.
"Your Fellatio Quotient," explained Ezinwa. "It is like your IQ, only it measures how proficient you are using your mouth to sexually satisfy a man. Does that surprise you? Scientists have been studying your particular pathology for a long time. The FQ scale runs from one to ten. If a patient has a high rating, say between 7 and 10, it is safe to say most men will approve of the service provided. Some men prefer only top grade performers. Indeed, I have heard reports of a world-class "adabesi," who scored a 12 on the FQ scale, which is rare but not unheard of."
"What was my rating?" ventured Dustin.
"I told you yesterday that you did a good job, but there is room for improvement," said Ezinwa, sternly. "Why does it concern you what your FQ rating is?"
"I was just kind of wondering, you know?"
Came the reply: "How can I know unless you tell me? You must tell me everything if I am to reconcile you to your potential. Hold nothing back. You trust me, don't you?"
"Yes, absolutely," said Dustin with conviction.
"Good." For the first time, Ezinwa smiled. "Now, try again. Think before you speak. Why is knowing your FQ important to you?" His charismatic smile annihilated the smitten lad's defenses.
Dustin blushed. "If I knew my score, then I would know how much I need to improve," he said at length. "I want to be the best that I can be."
"Have there been any complaints?"
"No, no," said Dustin. "But, you know, I was, um, blowing white dudes until six months ago. It's not the same. It wasn't a challenge with them."
"I am sure it was no challenge at all," the doctor chuckled. "No, indeed, not like the black men you have serviced. When you serviced me, did you perform your best?"
"I tried."
"Do you still want to know your score?"
"No, I guess not," Dustin nibbled his lower lip.
The psychiatrist reached for his notebook and flipped through the pages until he found what he was looking for. The number 7 was circled with red ink. He scrutinized Dustin carefully, glanced back at the notes, and then looked up again.
"You scored a 5," said Ezinwa, without batting an eye.
"5? That's it? 5?" Dustin gasped like a child who opened a birthday gift expecting an Xbox One and found a sweater instead.
"Natural talent can only take you so far," said Ezinwa, injecting a hint of consolation, "It may be adequate for the caucasians you serviced and was doubtlessly pleasurable and fun, but as you have learned, satisfying a real man takes effort. It's work. I can help you improve, but first, you must understand this is not entirely about technique. To truly please a man you must submit to him entirely. Do not just use your mouth. Become your mouth. Do you understand any of this?"
"A little, I guess," said Dustin. "I just can't believe I'm only a 5. That's average, right?"
"I'm afraid so." The doctor jotted something down. "You are, as you would say in English, an ordinary sucker of cocks."
That was not quite how Dustin would have put it, but he got the point. He was mediocre at what he loved doing most. He was not special at all, despite what his mother always told him. This was as crushing as the first and only time Dustin clumsily kissed a girl and was told he did not know what he was doing.
"May I ask a question?" said Dustin. The doctor acquiesced with a nod. "Your patient before me, does he have the same problem I do?"
"Usually it would be wrong to discuss one patient with another," said Ezinwa, "but in this case, it seems more than appropriate. I think the two of you would benefit from group sessions in the near future. Owen has been in therapy for over a year, recommended to me by another psychiatrist. I caught the way you looked at him. Would you care to explain what you were feeling?"
"I didn't like him," Dustin admitted. "Maybe I was jealous? I don't know."
"Your reaction was perfectly normal, `adabesi,'" was Ezinwa's amused response. "I can assure you, Owen felt exactly the same way when he saw you. This naturally happens whenever two, how do you say, suckers of cock, come into close proximity. It's a territorial instinct. It's like the time my wife wore the same dress as another woman to a banquet. If looks could kill, that gala would have ended in a double homicide."
"But, when I'm at a gay bar, I don't feel that way," Dustin brought up.
"You need to stop frequenting those dens of iniquity!" said the doctor, sharply. "Those places are neutral ground. When you go there, you expect to meet others of your kind. The instinct only kicks in when an encounter occurs unexpectedly while you are prowling for bura' or have bura' on your mind. What were you thinking about?"
"I know that I should not be embarrassed about these things," Dustin blushed, shifting his balance from one foot to the other, wishing the doctor would give him permission to sit down. He wanted to shrink, cross his legs, fold his arms.
"On the contrary, I suspect you should feel deeply ashamed, but I won't know unless you tell me what you were thinking about before Owen and I walked into the waiting room."
"I was thinking about Usher, the singer..."
"I know who Usher is," said Ezinwa, with an impatient huff. "Don't make me drag it out of you. What thoughts could you possibly have about Usher? Do you like his music? Are you impressed by his stage presence?
"I was thinking about his cock," said Dustin. "That's what was on my mind. I was wondering what it would be like to suck his cock."
"I see," said the psychiatrist. "You may sit down now."
Dustin took a seat on the leather sofa dappled by emerald sunlight passing through the veil of foliage hanging in the large window. Dr. Ezinwa walked slowly around the room, sometimes stroking his chin, sometimes with his arms folded, as he continued speaking.
"Before you can take pride in what you are, you must see yourself for what you are and suffer the self-loathing which comes with the truth. This may be hard for you to grasp at first, but you deserve to have the truth spelled out as clearly and simply as possible. Let me be blunt. What you do, sucking `bura,' that is something to be ashamed of. Your parents did not raise you to be a sucker of cocks, do you think? Were you not a disappointment to them? Are they not ashamed of what you have become? If the man and woman whose love brought you into this world, fed and clothed you, taught you right from wrong, now think of you with moral revulsion, how can you not be equally disgusted with yourself? What you do is vile, immoral, perverted, and yet you are not irredeemable. Suckers of cock who know their place can be put to good use."
Until now, Dustin had been proud of coming out. Maybe he went a little overboard having sex indiscriminately for a while, but he liked sucking cock. As for his parents, they never said a word about his being gay. He always assumed they accepted him, but listening to Dr. Ezinwa gave Dustin new qualms. He remembered how his parents distanced themselves when he came home in tears after other boys in the neighborhood called him names like faggot, sissy, homo, fairy, and fruit. A few years later, when Dustin was in high school, some of those same guys came to him for blowjobs, threatening to beat him up if he breathed a word to anyone. They called him by the same epithets as before along with several creative new ones. If the neighbors and everyone at school knew Dustin was a homosexual, his folks must have known, as well.
"Did you masturbate since I saw you yesterday?"
"No, sir," said Dustin, solemnly. "I was really tempted this morning, but then, I remembered what you told me and I couldn't do it."
"What was on your mind when you wanted to masturbate? What were you thinking about?"
"I had been... dreaming about... you, sir," said Dustin, meekly.
"I see."
Once again, the doctor wrote something in his notebook, but this went on longer than before. It seemed he had a great deal to record. Dustin squirmed like a suspect being interrogated. When the doctor looked at him, he felt like an object under a magnifying glass. One by one, his innermost thoughts were being vivisected, handled, and examined.
To escape these uncomfortable feelings, Dustin rested his eyes on the significant bulge of Dr. Ezinwa's crotch. He remembered vividly the black as velvet, soft as silk, veined and hooded, monster-sized cock. How it smelled and tasted. Day-dreaming about cock was one of Dustin's favorite pastimes. When he thought about cock, all of his doubts and worries melted away.
"What do you think you're doing?" Ezinwa demanded, disturbing the patient's reverie.
"I'm sorry," said Dustin, looking up.
"Yes, you most certainly are," said Dr. Ezinwa. "Your crotch gazing is rudimentary at best. When you concentrate on a man's crotch, you must lick your lips seductively and look him briefly in the eye before lowering your gaze again, repeating these steps as necessary. This is to communicate your availability without being obvious or offensive. Once the signal is received, you do nothing but wait. Either the man will make a move or he won't. He knows what you are. The ball is in his court. I am sure Owen can teach you some tricks. He is very good at this sort of thing."
"May I ask a question, sir?"
"Of course, `adebesi.'"
"I know you said there is no cure for my addiction," said Dustin. "Does that mean I have to be a whore? I think that I can control my urges. It's not like I want to do nothing but suck cock for the rest of my life, you know?"
"I think that is exactly what you would like to do," stated Ezinwa, bluntly. "You think so, too, but you are afraid to admit it even to yourself. It will come out in time. Denial is common at this stage. To answer your first question, you are definitely a whore. I'm sorry if that comes as a shock to your tender sensibilities, but it's a fact of life you have to accept. What you are serves only one purpose. Your craving for `bura' creates a need in True Men where there was none before."
"What are True Men" Dustin asked.
"We are everything you are not," the doctor shrugged, as if it were blatantly obvious. "Be honest with yourself. Do you actually think of yourself as a man?"
"Lately? Not so much," said Dustin. "I've always tried to be a proud gay man... that was my goal."
"Have you gotten any closer to that goal since you set out?"
"That's hard to say."
"I expect it would be. You will never reach your goal because there is no such thing as a proud gay man.'" Ezinwa misted the lush, green, hanging plants as he spoke. He tossed into the wastebasket one limp leaf that had lost its color. "Setting aside the ridiculous matter of pride, the terms gay and man are contradictory. If there was such a thing as a gay man' he would be a paradoxical, chimerical hybrid. Like a lion with wings or a woman with a fish's tail. Such an abomination as a `gay man' would burst asunder from its own inner contradiction. How can a man be a sucker of cocks and still be a man? In my country, there is no confusion about these things."
"What is it like there?" Dustin's eyebrows jumped at the thought of an entire nation of men like Dr. Ezinwa.
"The modern era has brought many changes, some good, some bad, to my people, but there still remain many villages and neighborhoods where the old traditions are upheld," said the Nigerian. "In the pre-colonial days, a man of wealth might have a harem of wives to bear his sons, but he would also keep a stable of catamites to satisfy his more wanton lust."
"What's a catamite?"
"It's just another word for male whore," Ezinwa went on. "That is what you would be considered in my country. A whore. An individual such as yourself has no other useful purpose except to be used as a whore. I know that you were raised to think of yourself as a man, that you have certain rights, and that God does not make mistakes, but in time you will come to see that I am right. You are not a mistake. You are exactly what you are supposed to be. Repeat after me: I am not a man."
"I am not a man."
"I am an `obo."
Dustin: "I am an obo.' What's an obo?'"
Ezinwa: "An obo' is the hole between a woman's legs. That is what you are. That will be your name from now on whenever you come to see me. Think hard. What purpose does an obo' serve?"
"To get fucked."
"That is how you must see yourself. Not as a man, but as a hole for fucking. Nothing more. The quicker you reconcile yourself to the truth, however harsh it seems, the sooner you will learn to live with your insatiable sexual cravings. Total submission is the only thing that will keep you from ruining your life and that of everyone who knows you. I want you to give that some thought."
Dr. Ezinwa sat behind his large, tidy desk. He made more notes, and then took out a pack of Sobranie cigarettes which were long and black with gold-foil filters. Lighting one of these "Black Russians," he rotated his chair until his back was turned to Dustin. Without being told, Dustin understood this meant the doctor wanted to think. The silent intermission made the whiteboy feel like his heart and soul and baser instincts were being scrutinized. He wondered what more of himself was left to reveal.
This obsession with black cock was abnormal. It went beyond being horny. At sixteen, he was constantly horny every minute of the day. This was nothing like that. This was downright scary. It was why Dustin needed a psychiatrist. His faith in authority figures was absolute. The system never let him down. Somehow, everything would be all right.
These things the learned doctor just explained were both seductive and difficult. Dustin did not want to believe his lust for black cock made him a whore or that he deserved to be treated like one. And yet, Dr. Ezinwa was the expert. A man of knowledge. Dustin did not have a single clue as to what was wrong with him, but Ezinwa held all the answers.
The thought of being uncontrollably consumed by lust had not seemed possible. But the longer he sat in silence, the more he contemplated the unthinkable. This compulsion for black cock was like nothing he had ever known. It was maddening being all alone in a room with a tall, powerful, extraordinarily handsome black man, and not worshipping his magnificent "bura," that formidable Nigerian cock. Dustin was counting on this session ending like the first.
Dr. Ezinwa swung back around and looked over at Dustin on the sofa. "Where were we? Ah, yes. Did you consider what I said? You are an `obo,' the hole between a woman's legs. But you are not a woman. You are not a man. You are that hole. Let that sink in. It excites you when I tell you that you are the hole between a woman's legs, does it not? It is degrading and exhilarating at the same time, is it not? The elation you feel is your body and spirit being drawn to the truth like a green plant turns toward sunlight. The truth is liberating. It contradicts the lies you have been taught. You know what you are at your core. You know what you are called to be. If you fight against your nature, not only will you suffer for it, so too will your family and friends. Yield, and know that total submission is the royal path to peace of mind."
Dustin was spellbound by the deep, virile voice, ensorcelled by the web of words. Much he did not understand, and yet meaning came across in the way it was spoken. The doctor's accent dripped with polite contempt.
"You may stand," said Dr. Ezinwa. "Remove all your clothing."
"Everything?"
"Was I not clear when I said `all your clothing'?"
"Yes, sir." Dustin wriggled out of his Polo shirt and kicked off his sneakers.
"Then, why did ask?"
"I don't know, sir."
"Were you trying to provoke me by saying something pointless and stupid?" Dr. Ezinwa exhaled one last cloud of smoke before putting out the gold and black cigarette in a jade ashtray.
"No, sir! I don't think so, sir."
"Are you quite certain? Do you not become sexually agitated when I show signs of anger or displeasure?"
"Yes," Dustin admitted, meekly, now stripped to his gold chain and white Calvins.
Although his pecker was hard indeed, Dustin looked like one of those attractive underwear models whose bulge, if any, has been discreetly airbrushed away. His thumbs hooked the waistband, poised to go all the way. Dr. Ezinwa's gestured for Dustin to stop.
"Today, we will not be exploring the consequences of provoking me to anger, little one. It's a common, but unpleasant habit in a slut. You are so greedy to experience the power of a True Man that you would do anything it takes. Flattery, lies, defiance. There is one and only one response to these tricks, and that is punishment. Maybe you want to be punished? We shall see. I know many ways to disabuse you of taking perverted pleasure in discipline. For now, give me that chain. I will look after it. You are too easily distracted by material possessions."
The 14 karat rope went into a drawer. It cost seven hundred dollars. Dustin spent money from his trust fund now that he had full access at twenty-one. His birth father, deceased, had left a sizeable estate. This money, that is, an iota of the interest on the principle, was paying for his psychiatric sessions as well. Although covered by his step-father's insurance, the young man understandably did not want them to find out.
"Remove your underwear," said the African, sternly. "Turn around and bend over."
Dustin did as he was told.
"Spread your cheeks apart."
Dustin had done this once before when he took a physical in his freshman year. Then, as now, it made him feel him embarrassed to expose his virgin hole. A few men had fingered him, but that was as far as it went.
"You have not yet been taken," the doctor observed. "That is very nice. Very surprising. Why is that? Surely you desire to be taken from behind."
"I want to get fucked, but I've been too scared," said Dustin.
"There is nothing for you to be frightened of, little one. You are an `obo.' What you fear is not pain, but pleasure. What you have yet to grasp is beyond pain, beyond pleasure, there is the sheer bliss of submission. When you can look into a mirror and see the hole between a woman's legs, only then will you completely understand."
Dr. Ezinwa commanded Dustin to open the bottom drawer of the file cabinet. There was a black dildo, nine inches long, resting on a towel beside a tube of KY jelly. "Lubricate the instrument and your hole. Lay on your back as you insert it slowly." Dustin followed the doctor's command. "Take a deep breath and relax as it goes in. Push harder. There you go. Rest. Clench the dildo. Push it in a little further. Don't think of this as a plastic phallus fucking your hole. Think of yourself as the hole. The dildo is fucking you! Because... what is your name now?"
"Obo!" Dustin groaned. "Obo! Obo!" His bent, white legs were in the air, stretched apart as he jammed himself with the black dildo. It was only halfway inside. There was so much more to go. "It's so BIG! It's so BIG!!!" he cried. "Oh, my God, I can't take it... it's too big..." But he kept at it, moaning and whimpering uncontrollably.
The doctor came from behind his desk and loomed over the supine youth.
"Get up! Get on your knees before me. Keep the dildo deep inside you!"
Dustin awkwardly maneuvered his body into position as Dr. Ezinwa unbelted and unzipped his pants. Out tumbled the chunky-thick, uncircumcised, black cock and large, velvet sack chockfull of nuts.
"Put your face in my groin, but do not let my `bura' pass your lips. I know what it is you crave. I know what you are. We shall see if you deserve a second opportunity to service me. First, convince me of your earnestness. Rub your nose into my pubic hair, breathe through your nostrils, inhale my scent, while you fuck yourself."
The musk of the Nigerian's crotch made Dustin's senses swim. It was intoxicating. He remembered what the doctor had said about the white man's susceptibility to Nubian pheromones. How could that not be true? The powerful scent-molecules tingled Dustin's sensitive nostrils as they became absorbed into his bloodstream, hot as brandy under the delicate skin, rushing to inebriate his defenseless, dysfunctional amygdala.
"How do you feel about the simulacrum? Is this how you thought a `bura' would feel inside your hole?"
"Unnhhh, please, unnhhh, sir," Dustin grunted. "Unnhhh, I wish it... was... the real thing, sir.. unnhhh..ohhh....god....."
"You will get the real thing' when I decide you have earned it. The therapeutic protocols in cases like yours are quite strict. Or so they will seem to you, accustomed as you are to being pampered and spoiled. In any case, your hole is not yet ready for the real thing.'"
Not too roughly, Dr. Ezinwa pushed Dustin away. The naked whiteboy stretched out his free hand to keep from falling over. The large black dildo slid deeper into his bowels. It felt like the very axis of his being. If only it were a column of blood and flesh.
"I'm leaving the room for a few minutes. While I am away, you must continue utilizing the artificial phallus. Do not stop. You must learn to enjoy pleasuring your hole without me watching because you will have to do it at home. You must want to do it, or this will all be a waste of my time. Not to mention, yours."
The psychiatrist left the room. Laying on his side, Dustin drove the dildo in and out. He found that a particular rhythm with a certain twist followed by a series of stabbing thrusts made him see stars and comets. It was a spasm of intense pleasure, like an orgasm except the explosion of sensual excitement was internal. He cried out wordlessly in abject surrender to these physical and emotional extremes.
The initial pain was gone. These were amazing new sensations. His ass wanted and needed to get fucked. His pussy-hole was more than capable of taking a cock. It felt so good. All his fears were for naught. If Dustin had known it would feel this incredible, he would have given up his precious cherry long ago. For the present moment, an ersatz black cock was better than none at all. The hole must be filled.
The whiteboy's eyeballs rolled back and his long lashes fluttered. His ruby lips parted to gasp. It felt so wonderful. He did not want to stop. His little penis had deflated, but that did not matter. Dustin's hole was now a pussy for black cock. He was a hole. He was a pussy. His name was Obo. He was the hole between a woman's legs.
Twenty minutes later when Dr. Ezinwa returned, Dustin was working the dildo with mechanical regularity, inhaling sharply as it went deep and groaning as it was slowly withdrawn. The dazed, dizzy rapture on Dustin's face with drool on his lips and chin made him look an idiot. Dr. Ezinwa shook his head in dismay.
"I think you get the idea," said the doctor. "You may stop now. I am sending the dildo home with you so you two can get better acquainted overnight."
Out came the dildo from Dustin's pussy-hole with a sound like a cork popping from a bottle of champagne. The long, thick rubber cock was slick with filthy santorum. Dustin could not believe that huge thing had been up his ass.
"Put the dildo in your mouth and suck it clean," said Ezinwa. "I have to leave the room again. I expect to find you deep-throating when I return. Get it wet with your saliva. Make all the noise you want. Suck it greedily. You will be doing this at home, as well. Practice makes perfect, as we say in my country!"
The slimy dildo made Dustin gag. He came close to vomiting. He broke out in a cold sweat. But he kept at even when his jaw felt like it was going to crack. He slobbered over the dildo. He gobbled and choked. It pressed upon Dustin's tongue and pushed past his tonsils, passing inch by inch into the esophagus.
Dustin's eyes watered. He felt a little spasm of pleasure in his throat. Not as strong as what he felt deep inside his bowels. But a spark of sexual exhilaration nonetheless. Maybe it was all his imagination. He was not a woman. He was not Linda Lovelace in "Deep Throat." He could not possibly have a clitoris, not in his ass, not in his throat. And yet, it felt like he did.
The psychiatrist's voice thundered in Dustin's head like an epiphany from heaven: "You are the hole between a woman's legs!"
That was the explanation all along. Dustin understood why he felt orgasmic in his ass and throat. He was, for all intents and purposes, nothing more than a woman's hole. He was made to take cock. Made to want it. Made to need it. Made to love it.
Dustin was slobbering over the dildo with his eyes shut when Dr. Ezinwa returned twenty minutes later. "That's very good, Obo, very good, indeed."
Dustin's eyes opened suddenly, surprised by the voice. He saw that the doctor held a small plastic shopping bag. Because he had not been told to stop, he continued sucking, striving to impress or even seduce the doctor with his deep-throat prowess.
Said Dr. Ezinwa: "I know you do not wish to stop practicing fellatio on the simulacrum. I see how much pleasure you are having despite it not being the real thing.' If you ever to receive the real thing' on the regular basis your addiction craves, you have to be worthy of it. You have to prove you are worthy of a True Man's bura' every day of your life. That means using the dildo routinely. The more often you use the dildo, the more you prove to yourself and to True Men that you are a desperate hole in need of bura.' But now, you must stop. Remove the dildo from your hungry throat. Our session is almost over, but first, I have something for you."
Ezinwa produced from the plastic bag a strange device. It looked a metal jock. The flexible waistband was made of stainless steel. It had a silver buckle and small padlock with a key. Connected to the steel cup was a pair of slender steel chains. "Put it on," he said.
"What is it?" Dustin asked naively, as he adjusted his privates to fit into the contraption. The chains rode the curve of his buttocks like the straps of an athletic supporter. The steel cup provided a tube with a hole to urinate through. Touching his pecker and balls was impossible.
"Snap the lock shut and give me the key," said Dr. Ezinwa. Not until the key was in the doctor's large, brown, perfectly manicured hand did Dustin receive an answer. "It's called a chastity belt. It will enable you to redirect your sexual energy from selfish self-stimulation toward more positive and productive purposes."
"Does this mean I can't jerk off ever?" Dustin looked warily at the gilded cage which he had locked himself into. "What if I have to scratch myself? If you tell me not to jerk off, I won't, I promise. I didn't jerk off this morning. I was good. You know what? I don't think I need this. I won't jerk off. I give you my word."
The more Dustin spoke up, the more entitled he felt to make his own decisions. It was an ingrained habit. He did not hear the shrill panic in his own voice at the thought of never masturbating again. Another habit. But Dustin had to speak for himself. He had retained that agency, at least. Even the doctor had encouraged him to speak freely. It was amazing how much Dr. Ezinwa understood. Who else but Ezinwa could have confirmed Dustin's fear that he was indeed in the grip of an inexorable fixation? Any other psychiatrist, certainly any white one, would have prescribed anti-anxiety medication and sent Dustin on his way. Dr. Ezinwa listened to him. He had treated boys with the same condition. Dr. Ezinwa even provided Dustin with a mouthful of what he needed most. The doctor would understand.
"Of course, you will be allowed to masturbate again."
The doctor clapped his hand firmly on Dustin's naked shoulder. He swept the dirty-blond bangs from the whiteboy's big green eyes, and then he put a thumb to the quivering lower lip. For a heart-pounding moment, it seemed to Dustin as if the doctor was going to kiss him. But the doctor pulled away and went on:
"Calm down, Obo. All your needs will be taken care of. I have only your welfare in mind. Let me be the doctor and you try to be a good patient. Shall we do it that way? Good, very good. As for your word... what your word means to me... you have no idea... I will simply say your word is not enough. Caucasians cannot be trusted to refrain from self-abuse on their own. No other male, human or animal, masturbates more frequently than your kind. That's a scientific fact. There is an old saying in my country: the white man would rather touch himself than a voluptuous woman. It is also said: when a white man comes to town, lock up your sons and ugly daughters. You see, there is much truth in folk lore; wisdom that modern science would do well to recall. You may get dressed now."
Dustin was surprised to find that the chastity belt fit comfortably beneath his clothes. His hair was disheveled. He knew his face looked a mess. Dr. Ezinwa gave Dustin the black dildo to take home and use every night for an hour. If not more often.
"When you use it, remember what you are," said Dr. Ezinwa.
"I'm a hole, sir," said Dustin, like a dutiful schoolboy proud of mastering his lessons.
"What kind of hole?"
"I'm the hole between a woman's legs," said Dustin. "I'm a pussy. My name is Obo."
"I will see you tomorrow morning at the same time. Be sure to pay the receptionist. There is hope for you yet, little Obo."
Not until the elevator doors opened onto the lobby did Dustin realize he had been denied a second taste of Nigerian cock. Although he had seen and smelled it, his hungry mouth was left to salivate in vain. Maybe tomorrow, he thought. Maybe tomorrow Dr. Ezinwa would let him masturbate and suck his cock. It was not a possibility.
Meanwhile, in his office, Dr. Ezinwa opened a wooden cabinet with double glass doors and pressed a button marked "stop" on a hidden camcorder. He tapped a few numbers into his desk phone and spoke into the receiver.
"Conrad? Yes, it's me. Remember the new patient I was telling you about? Yes, yes, that's the one. Yes, I know. You were right. Are you free for lunch? I have something to show you."
The psychiatrist reached into his pocket, pulled out a small, silver key, and chuckled softly. It was ironic that such a tiny thing could wield such a major impact on a full-grown individual. All one had to do was insert the key into its proper hole to free the captive from his cage.
Dr. Ezinwa did not lie when he promised Dustin would be allowed to masturbate again. Dustin would learn in time that stroking his small penis was precluded from the varieties of self-abuse the doctor had in mind. The steel key hit the bottom of an empty wastebasket with a light clang.
TO BE CONTINUED. . .