Evidence (futa-male)

Evidence

a short story by jokermon

This is a work of erotic fantasy fiction for the entertainment of adults only. It contains explicit futanari (hermaphrodite) content. If that's not your bag, or if reading this type of material is illegal where you reside due to your age or whatever, don't read it. Everything in this story is fictitious and is not meant to represent any actual people, events or medical conditions. This story is copyright the author(c)2014.

(*Global Crisis Management Investigatory Branch, Operation Flashpoint Division. Copy all following for immediate distribution.

First concrete piece of evidence: video file fragment recovered from Dr. Victor Deschenko’s laptop, item#A6781, original title ‘Jack Warrenton, interview1.’ Reconstructed webcam video. Note to all: it was this psychiatrist’s practice to covertly record his sessions. Many of these video files were unrecoverable, and in most we have only partial coherence. In this case, the recovered audiovisual data begins at the 7min23sec mark*)

~~~

“All I want, Dr. Deschenko,” the haggard man says, “is a prescription for a god-damned dream suppressant.”

“Mr. Warrenton,” answers the psychiatrist with admirable patience, “for the third time, I assure you, no such medication exists.”

The man could hear the doctor’s sincerity. He cradles his head in his hands.

They sit facing each other in deep brown-leather armchairs. The psychiatrist’s office is soothing by design with long-fibred carpets, wood panelling, recessed bookshelves and carefully pleasant paintings. Calming potted plants flank a stately mahogany desk nestled to one side. There is even a fish tank in the waiting room; its cheerful burble is just barely audible here in the office.

“Dreams are a symptom, not a cause,” says the doctor. “If they are particularly upsetting, it usually means there’s something in your waking life that needs attention.”

“There isn’t, that’s the point,” the man groans. “My life was great. I had no issues, no stress.”

“That would be a first in my fifteen years of practice,” remarks the doctor. “Even self-described happy, well-adjusted people have some degree of adversity in their lives.”

“It’s true,” insists the man. “I’m great at my job. It’s rewarding and I like it. I paid off all my student loans before I turned thirty. I inherited my parents’ house, I own it outright. No mortgages, no debt. I live easily within my means. I don’t gamble, never had any problems with booze or drugs. It just doesn’t make sense!”

“Relationships?” the doctor suggests.

“I’m not in one right now,” he answers. “The last one lasted five years and we parted friends.  We still talk. Coming here was her idea.”

The doctor makes a note on his pad. “Please tell me about these dreams.”

The man draws a deep breath. “Well, they’re always...sexual. That’s another thing. I never even had wet dreams when I was a kid, but now...”

The yawning silence prompts another probe. “Wet dreams? You mean you…ejaculate? In your sleep?” the doctor sounds intrigued.

The man nods. “Couple times a night. Sometimes more.” He sounds disgusted. “I wake up and my pyjamas are just soaked.”

“And that concerns you?”

“Well yeah, it’s upsetting! It’s not normal. I guess it wouldn’t bother me so much if the dreams were just me banging some actress or a hot chick from work, but...” The man bites his lip.

“But?” the doctor prompts gently.

“But.” He sighs. “It’s...totally beyond that.”

“What is it about the content of these dreams that upsets you?”

“Well, Jesus, everything!”

“Can you describe them?”

Warrenton looks away. “I’m not…ready for that, yet.”

“That’s fine,” the doctor says in his professionally soothing voice. “Tell me this, though: is the dream always the same?”

The man shrugs. “It changes up a little. The...things that I do, that get done to me, they vary from night to night, but the woman, the…setting, it’s always the same.”

He pauses.

“So tell me about the setting,” the doctor suggests gently. “Just the setting.”

“Okay.” He blows out a breath. “I’m...I’m in some great temple type place. Marble pillars, tall ceilings, like...” he frowns. “My ex and I went to France a few years back. When she and I were still together.  She dragged me to all these gothic cathedrals, like...Notre Dame, and that other big one?”

“Chartres.” He’d visited it himself, back in happier times.

The man nods. “That’s the one. It was like that. Long aisles and columns a mile high. You couldn’t even see the ceiling. Colored light coming through all those stained-glass windows. Only...it wasn’t a Christian church. It never is.

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