Masturbation phone sex CS’ cure for amnesia

Dr. CS came to see me once or twice per week to check my memory–to see if I had any certain recall of my identity. He assuaged my fears that I would never remember by tapping a pencil on the frames of his wire-rimmed glasses. I had insisted that I knew who I was, but Dr. CS insisted that I had conjured another identity for myself due to a trauma that would become known to me whenever I remember who I truly was. I consigned my fate to being interred forever in this asylum unless I accepted the identity that Dr. CS conferred upon me.

My days were mundane–filled with useless group therapy and sewing cards. I felt so juvenile–a grown woman consigned to preschool activities. I remained steadfast that I would not be broken. I knew who I was and that was that. Now I just needed to allow myself to feign believing in the doctor’s take on my identity. It wasn’t long before the nurse came for me again–she always gave me a pitying look. I often wondered if she would help me escape from the treatment that Dr. CS developed for amnesiacs–but alas I was mistaken. She would willingly take me to the waiting room where I would be stripped down and bathed. All vestiges of body hair would be shaven from my silken skin. Even my womanly hairs–the ones that covered my vulva and labia were removed. I would be ushered into his lair where he’d wait with his manhood in his hand. He would grope at my womanly mounds and insist that the injections of his seed would rattle the cages that bound my memory.

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