Chapter 6: Therapy Session
The team sat in a tense semicircle around Dr. Whittaker’s oak desk, the scent of lemon polish and their own anxious sweat hanging thick in the air. “It’s like a switch flips,” Jake muttered, staring at his hands, his voice uncharacteristically small. Sergei, a brooding mountain in the leather chair, grunted, “Is craving. Like thirst.” Dr. Whittaker, a man in his fifties with kind eyes behind wire frames, steepled his fingers, his professional composure beginning to crack under the weight of their graphic, halting confessions. “And you say this all started after the… incident with the hypnosis tape for performance anxiety?” Ben adjusted his glasses, his analytical tone fraying at the edges. “The tape’s subliminal frequencies seem to have rewired our reward pathways, Doctor, but we… we don’t want it to stop.” A heavy, shared silence followed, charged with the shameful truth of his words. Dr. Whittaker, flustered, reached for his desktop speaker, saying, “Perhaps we should listen to the tape together, to understand the trigger,” and the moment the low, rhythmic pulsation of the hypnotic induction filled the room, the atmosphere shifted.
His own breathing deepened, his eyes glazing over as the suggestive whispers wove through the hum of the fan, undoing his clinical distance. Marcus stood up first, his movements predatory, and unzipped the doctor’s chinos, freeing his half-hard cock. “You need to feel it too, Doc,” Marcus rasped, before sinking to his knees and taking the therapist into his mouth. The touch broke Dr. Whittaker’s last restraint, a moan escaping his lips as his head fell back against the chair. Jake and Sergei moved in unison, stripping the doctor’s shirt, their hands roaming his chest as Ben guided his trembling fingers to Marcus’s head. The office became a slick, groaning tableau of raw need, the diplomas on the wall bearing silent witness as Dr. Whittaker, utterly consumed, began to thrust upward into Marcus’s throat, his hands now gripping the Russian’s and the goalie’s cocks with equal, desperate fervor. Alistair and Malik added their mouths, licking and sucking at the doctor’s nipples and neck, a groaning chorus of abandon rising around him. The climax built, a tidal wave of shared, twisted therapy, and when it hit, it was a violent, shuddering unison—Dr. Whittaker’s release down Marcus’s throat triggered the others, streaks of come painting the sterile office in shared, desperate relief.
Whittaker slumped back, gasping, his glasses askew. "Christ," he whispered, the word cracking in the quiet that followed their collective shuddering. He looked at the spent, sticky bodies around his desk, a clinical part of his mind already cataloging the biochemical catastrophe, but a deeper, awakened part thrummed with dark curiosity.
"We need to find that original tape," he said, his voice stronger now, stained with their shared depravity. "Not to destroy it." Jake let out a harsh, broken laugh, wiping his mouth. "To do what, Doc? License it?" Whittaker sat forward, his eyes scanning their faces, no longer a therapist but a co-conspirator. "You said it makes you unstoppable on the ice," he stated, his gaze settling on Sergei's immense, calm form. "That focus, that... unity."
He stood on unsteady legs, stepping over Tomas to reach his bookcase. "Imagine that state, channeled not at each other," he said, pulling a file, his fingers leaving smudges on the tab, "but at them." He dropped the folder onto his wet desk, scattering droplets. It was their upcoming schedule. "The Steelheads," he pointed, his nail tapping their most hated rival's name. "What if they walked into an arena already primed?" Sergei’s eyes narrowed, understanding dawning. "They would be... distracted." "More than distracted," Whittaker corrected, a terrible smile touching his lips. "They'd be vulnerable. Consumed." The office air, thick with sex and ambition, seemed to coil tighter around them. "We’d own them," Marcus said, the violence in his voice now perfectly directed outward.