The Cure for My Fixation: The Therapy of Too Much

The Cure for My Fixation: The Therapy of Too Much

When I first confessed my “problem,” I didn’t expect him to take me seriously. I laughed it off — told him it was just a joke between friends, that I liked having things in my mouth because it helped me focus, calm down, whatever. But my therapist, Dr. Leland, didn’t laugh. He tilted his head, studying me like I’d said something worth dissecting.
“An oral fixation,” he murmured. “A classic case. We can work with that.”

The next week, he introduced something called exposure therapy. I was familiar with it in theory — you expose a person to their anxiety trigger until the response dulls. But the way he explained it to me sounded… different. “If we overexpose you,” he said, “maybe the fixation loses its hold.”
He smiled like a man who knew what he was doing, and I was too curious to argue.
At first, it was small things — guided breathing exercises with a lollipop in my mouth, needing it for my oral fixation, or repeating affirmations while chewing ice cubes. He said the goal was to make the sensations ordinary again. “Desensitize the pleasure centers,” he explained. But instead of dulling anything, every session sharpened something else — awareness, anticipation, a strange intimacy that lived in the quiet between us.

Then, one day, he brought others in.

He said it was part of a “group desensitization program,” something experimental. I told myself it was harmless — more voices, more distractions. But when I entered the dimly lit room and saw three men seated in a semicircle, each with the same curious glint in their eyes, I understood this wasn’t just another appointment. Dr. Leland asked me to sit in the middle.
He told me each of them had their own “attachment behaviors” — that by observing and interacting, we’d learn from one another.

“Exposure through social mirroring,” he called it. The language sounded clinical, but the energy in the room wasn’t. It was charged, electric. Every gesture felt exaggerated — every word, heavier than it should’ve been.
They asked me questions. Simple things at first: what I did for work, what foods I liked, what calmed me down when I was nervous. But as the conversation deepened, so did their focus. They listened with that kind of male attention that feels almost physical. I found myself hyperaware — of my voice, my lips, even the way I swallowed between sentences.

Cure for My Oral Fixation

Dr. Leland noticed. “You see?” he said softly. “You’re conscious of the fixation now, not consumed by it. You can name the tension instead of feeding it.”
Except that wasn’t true. The tension wasn’t fading — it was changing form. It had become something I couldn’t quite label.
By the third group session, I stopped pretending it was all science.

Whatever experiment he’d designed, it wasn’t curing anything. It was amplifying everything I’d buried under control and cleverness — the part of me that loved being observed, the part that wanted to surrender to the attention rather than fight it.
Afterward, I told him as much. “You’re not curing me,” I said. “You’re teaching me how to hide it better.”
He smiled — not the professional kind, but the one that hinted at understanding. “Maybe that’s the point,” he said, “Maybe it’s not about curing. Maybe it’s about knowing where the fixation ends and you begin.” That night, I couldn’t sleep.

I kept replaying the sessions in my head, trying to find a cure for my oral fixation

The men’s steady breathing, the way my voice trembled when I spoke, the calm authority in his tone. I wondered if therapy was supposed to feel this intimate, this disorienting.
The next week, I told him I wanted to stop.
He didn’t argue. He just nodded, jotting something down in his notes. Then he said, “You’ve learned enough about control to know when to take it back.”
I remember staring at his hands as he wrote — steady, deliberate, beautiful in their restraint. I wondered if he’d planned it all this way: to make me want distance just enough to prove I could.
It’s been months since that last session, and I still catch myself testing my resolve — noticing the pull toward distraction, the way certain textures or tastes stir memory. But now I don’t flinch from it. I don’t try to cure it away.

Sometimes I even miss those sessions — the slow intensity, the psychological play that blurred between therapy and temptation. But I think he knew that would happen. He knew that giving me too much exposure wouldn’t dull the desire — it would transform it into understanding. Now, when I catch myself tracing a fingertip over my lip or biting back a nervous laugh, I remember his voice: “Maybe the fixation isn’t the problem. Maybe it’s the language you use to hide it.”
And he was right.

I still have the fixation. Only now, I own it. Cure for My Oral Fixation

If you want to hear the details of this exposure therapy, give me a call for all the juicy details. Or if you want to know the details about the night I became a submissive. Call your perfect fantasy girl now!

Call Mya 1-800-244-0699