When older men write to my online I get disgusted and I usually scold them. But I think I wouldn’t mind my psychiatrist rubbing my crotch. He’s much older than me, a widow and he has two adult sons. I’m 24.

Sometimes I also go to consultations with a female psychologist, who’s not that young either. She asked me if I would feel better talking to her about intimate things. Because yeah, I guess that’s the way it’s supposed to be. It’s probably strange that in that regard I’m more open to my psychiatrist – who is a man. When I feel comfortable, I have no problem discussing m***********, s** and o***** with him. (I’m the one to initiate it.) He’s strictly professional, I must admit. And that’s the way it should be.

Still, I feel this rush of perverted pleasure when I talk about s** topics with him. For example, I told him how I liked my ex partner to ejaculate inside me. Who knows, maybe at least once he felt the urge to j******* his old d*** to my dirty words.

I remember telling him I consider myself a s***, and he consolted me with gentle words as I was crying in his office. I wish I could kneel in front of him and serve him. Yes, he’s the one who told my parents they have a girl with a soul of a child, in the body of an adult woman.