Golfing Fiasco: Zoey's Aftermath

This is a QUICKLY put together fan-sequel to https://www.reddit.com/r/BallbustingStories/comments/1u6shrb/the_golfing_fiasco_a_brothersister_accidental/

I did NOT have time to edit it. I put it together pretty fast, and as usual, used AI to help keep the dialogue organic.

Shoutout to u/Terrible-Lemon-Day for his great original story.

This contains no ACTUAL ballbusting, just.. a psychological examination into the mind of.... an accidental castrator.

"It was a seven-iron," Zoey said, staring at the scuff mark on her sneaker. The therapist's office smelled faintly of lavender and old books, the kind of place where people were supposed to feel safe saying terrible things. "I wasn’t even trying to hit it hard. Just-you know how you swing when you’re drunk and laughing and it’s two AM on a golf course you’re definitely not supposed to be on?"

Lisa nodded, her pen hovering over the notepad without writing. She had the kind of face that made you want to confess things-soft around the edges, but sharp enough to catch the details. "You’ve mentioned the golf course before," she said. "But you haven’t told me what happened after the swing."

Zoey's fingers dug into the armrests of the chair. "It made this-this sound. Like a wet melon hitting pavement." She swallowed hard. "Tristan just... folded. Like someone had cut his strings. Everyone screamed. I dropped the club and ran to him, but by the time I got there, he was already-" Her voice cracked. "He was laughing. Hysterical, gasping laughter, like it was the funniest fucking thing that ever happened to him. Until it wasn't."

Lisa's pen finally touched paper, jotting something brief. "And when he stopped laughing?"

"Blood." Zoey's knee bounced uncontrollably. "So much blood on his shorts. I didn’t even know balls could bleed like that. We called 911, wrapped him in someone’s shirt, but..." She trailed off, eyes glazing over at the memory of flashing ambulance lights cutting through the dark fairway.

Lisa waited. The clock ticked three times before Zoey spoke again, quieter now. "The doctors said it was like a shotgun blast at point-blank range. Total vascular rupture. No chance of salvage." A bitter laugh escaped her. "I didn’t even know golf balls could do that. Turns out they can when they’re hit at 90 miles an hour directly into-" She mimed an explosive impact with her fists.

Lisa leaned forward slightly. "Zoey, you’ve told me about the physical aftermath. But I’m hearing a lot of medical details and not much about how *you* felt in those moments."

Zoey's hands clenched tighter, her knuckles whitening. "I felt like I'd just murdered someone," she whispered. "Like I'd reached inside his body and ripped something out with my bare hands. But at the same time-" Her breath hitched, and she looked away, ashamed. "At the same time, part of me was... fascinated. Like when you see a car crash and can't look away."

Lisa didn't react-no judgment, no recoil-just steady eye contact. "Fascinated how?"

"Not right then. Not while he was bleeding." Zoey picked at a loose thread on her jeans. "But later. In the hospital waiting room. When they told us they'd have to remove... everything." She swallowed hard. "I kept replaying it in my head. The sound. The way his body jerked. And instead of feeling sick, I got this-this *tingle*. Like when you're watching a horror movie and someone gets stabbed, and you know it's wrong to enjoy it, but your body doesn't care."

Lisa wrote something down-just two words, Zoey caught a glimpse before she flipped the page: *arousal response*.

Zoey's face burned. "It's not like I *wanted* to feel that way. Tristan's my *brother*. We shared a fucking *bunk bed* until I was twelve." Her voice cracked. "But three nights after his surgery, I-" She squeezed her eyes shut. "I masturbated. Thinking about it. Not Tristan specifically, just... the idea. A woman swinging a club. That *impact*."

Lisa set her pen down carefully, her fingers lingering on the notepad as if weighing whether to write more. "Zoey," she said, her voice neither warm nor cold-just present. "You're describing something called *trauma arousal*. It's not uncommon, though most people never admit it out loud."

Zoey wiped her palms on her thighs, leaving damp streaks on the denim. "So I'm not a monster?" The question came out smaller than she'd intended, like a child testing the water with one toe.

Lisa shook her head. "Monsters don't worry about being monsters. They just chew through the scenery." A faint smile touched her lips. "You're a person who experienced an extreme event, and your brain-which is essentially a meat computer running ancient software-is trying to make sense of incompatible inputs: violence, family, sex, guilt."

Zoey picked at her cuticle until a bead of blood welled up. "But Tristan's *fine* now. Like, actually fine. He jokes about being bulletproof below the belt. He's dating Sarah now from that night... somehow." She swallowed. "So why am *I* still stuck on this?"

Lisa tilted her head slightly. "Tell me about the first time you saw him after surgery."

Zoey exhaled sharply through her nose, remembering. "He was sitting up in bed, pale as hospital sheets, scrolling through his phone with one hand and holding a juice box with the other. He looked... smaller somehow, even though they hadn't even taken the bandages off yet." She twisted the hem of her shirt between her fingers. "I started crying before I even got through the door. But Tristan just grinned and said-" Her voice broke into a watery laugh. "He said, 'Relax, Zoe. Now I'm aerodynamic.'"

Lisa's pen tapped lightly against her notepad. "And how did that make you feel?"

"Like I'd been handed a life raft in the middle of drowning," Zoey admitted. "But also like I didn't deserve it. Like he *should* have thrown something at my head." She pressed her palms against her knees to still their shaking. "That's when I realized I was... different. Because while everyone else was bringing him get-well cards, I kept noticing how his sweatpants folded flat where they shouldn't have."

The therapist nodded, making another note. "Physical changes can be confronting, even when they're not our own. Especially when they're tied to-"

"-to the fact that I took a seven-iron to my brother's future children?" Zoey's laugh was jagged. "Yeah. Confronting." She dragged a hand through her hair. "Here's the fucked-up part, though. When he first showed me the scars-just two neat lines, like a doll's stitching-I got *hard*. Not like, full-on, but enough that I had to cross my legs." Her face twisted in disgust. "What kind of sister gets turned on by her brother's *surgical scars*?"

Lisa set her pen down completely now, folding her hands together. "First, let's clarify-arousal isn't always about attraction. Sometimes it's about power, or shock, or the brain's way of coping with something unthinkable." She leaned forward slightly. "Have you ever had similar reactions to violence before? Even in movies or games?"

Zoey chewed her lower lip, thinking. "Never. Usually I cringe to violence. I'm still in shock, i think, of the violence that golf ball inflicted... I couldn't imagine ever thinking about the violence of that in a way other than disgust."

Lisa studied Zoey for a long moment before speaking. "The brain doesn't process trauma in a straight line," she said, her voice low and even. "Sometimes it reroutes through strange territory-especially when sex and violence collide unexpectedly." She tapped her fingers against the notepad. "Tell me about the masturbation fantasy. Not just the act, but the emotions around it."

Zoey's throat clicked when she swallowed. "It wasn't-I wasn't picturing Tristan," she insisted, too quickly. "Just... a faceless guy on a golf course. And a woman winding up for the swing. The way her hips would rotate, the power in her shoulders." She pressed her thighs together under Lisa's gaze. "The moment of impact, that fucking *sound*-it's like my brain latched onto it like a catchy song. Like something about that exact moment of a guy having... his guy...ness destroyed by some lady... I tried thinking about normal stuff-beaches, candlelit dinners-but my body kept dragging me back to that split second when everything changed."

Lisa nodded slowly. "And after? When the fantasy... concluded?"

"Shame," Zoey whispered. "Like I'd poisoned myself from the inside out. I showered for twenty minutes." She picked at the armrest's stitching. "But then two days later, I did it again. And this time I came *harder*."

The clock's ticking filled the silence. Lisa finally spoke, her words measured. "Your brother's accident rewired something in you. Not because you're sick, but because our sexual responses are wired to intense stimuli-even when those stimuli are traumatic." She tilted her head. "Does Tristan know about these feelings?"

"Absolutely not," Zoey hissed, recoiling as if Lisa had suggested she set herself on fire. "Why would I ever-how could I possibly-" Her hands fluttered like injured birds before collapsing into her lap. "That's *Tristan*. We used to have fart contests in the backseat of Mom's minivan. He cried when I stepped on a bee when we were eight."

Lisa remained perfectly still, her expression neutral but attentive-the human equivalent of a padded wall. "You'd be surprised what siblings can survive," she said mildly. "But I wasn't suggesting you tell him. I was assessing your level of shame."

Zoey dug her thumbnail into the meat of her palm, focusing on the bright sting. "It's not shame. It's... preservation. Some things exist to stay buried." She glanced at the window where afternoon light painted the walls in long amber streaks. "You ever see those nature docs where meerkats chew through scorpion venom sacs? That's what this feels like-if I let one drop out, it'll paralyze everything."

A faint line appeared between Lisa's eyebrows. "Interesting metaphor. But venom can also be medicine in proper doses." She uncrossed her legs, the whisper of fabric unusually loud in the quiet room. "Let me ask you this: if Tristan came to you tomorrow and said he'd developed an unexpected kink related to his injury-say, a fascination with eunuch porn-how would you react?"

Zoey's laugh punched out of her, harsh and startled. "You mean my brother... who now has to take hormones to even be aroused... telling me that he now gets aroused thinking about dudes without balls? or like dudes LOSING their balls? I think I would be overwhelmed with guilt and a little mad about the oversharing."

Lisa didn’t flinch at Zoey’s outburst. Instead, she let the silence stretch just long enough for Zoey to feel the weight of her own words. Then, softly: "Guilt and anger are understandable. But let’s focus on the guilt first. Where does it live in your body when you think about Tristan now?"

Zoey pressed a hand to her sternum, as if she could physically push the feeling down. "Right here. Like I swallowed a fucking grenade and it’s just... ticking." She dropped her hand, flexing her fingers like she could shake the sensation off. "And its so much worse when I see him, even worse when I see him with his girlfriend knowing... his sex life now depends on a chemical because of me. And the guilt when I masturbated to this... weird adjacent idea? So... so much."

Lisa's pen hovered over the notepad again, but she didn't write. Instead, she leaned forward slightly, her elbows resting on her knees. "Zoey, guilt is a compass, not a life sentence. Right now, it's pointing to something you need to examine-not punish yourself for." She tilted her head. "Tell me about the last time you saw Tristan happy."

Zoey blinked, caught off guard by the shift. "I mean... he was having a really great night at that golf course with me and our friends. The group all knew he and Sarah had a thing for each other and hadnt said anything about it, so once we were all drunk and broke the ice by getting naked, that made everything easier.. for both of them. And he had a huge smile on his face during all the stuff we were getting into... Until he.. didn't."

Lisa's pen tapped once against her notepad-a soft, deliberate sound. "So before the accident, Tristan was happy. Uninhibited. Enjoying himself with people he cared about." She paused, letting the observation hang between them. "And now? How would you describe his happiness now?"

Zoey exhaled sharply through her nose, remembering Tristan last weekend at their parents' barbecue, flipping burgers with one hand while the other rested casually on Sarah's waist. "He's... lighter," she admitted grudgingly. "Like he lost something heavy and doesn't miss it. Which makes no sense because he lost-" Her throat closed around the words.

"Body parts don't define happiness," Lisa said evenly. "Though they certainly complicate it." She uncrossed her legs, the whisper of fabric oddly loud in the quiet room. "Zoey, do you think Tristan would trade places with his old self if he could?"

"100%. If he were to take a look at his whole life right now and compare it to before... He's largely the same... but his body is worse... because of me."

Lisa set down her pen with deliberate slowness, the click of it against the desk louder than it should have been. "Zoey," she said, her voice calm but unyielding, "you're assuming Tristan's experience based on your own guilt. Have you actually asked him if he'd undo it?"

Zoey's mouth opened, then shut. She picked at the fraying seam of her jeans, avoiding Lisa's gaze. "No," she muttered. "Because I already know the answer. Who wouldn't want their balls back?"

Lisa's eyebrow arched slightly. "Plenty of people, surprisingly. Trans men who've had elective orchiectomies. Testicular cancer survivors relieved to be rid of the threat. Even some athletes who-"

"Yeah, but Tristan's none of those things," Zoey snapped, then immediately winced at her own tone. She took a shaky breath. "He's just... Tristan. My dumbass brother who used to jump off the roof into snowbanks and now can't even-" Her voice hitched. "He has to take fucking HRT, Lisa. Because of me. He's certainly living.. and hes trying not to dwell on it negatively, but I know he misses the simpler times"

Lisa let the silence stretch until Zoey’s breathing evened out. Then, softer: "Have you considered that your guilt might be protecting you from something more uncomfortable?" She leaned forward, her chair creaking slightly. "Like the possibility that Tristan doesn’t blame you nearly as much as you blame yourself?"

Zoey’s laugh was brittle. "We.. we have talked about it. He certainly wishes he had his balls back for one, but he also largely blames himself. It was dark, he wandered downrange... he was in a bad place. Had he stayed near the group.. never would have happened. But it was still MY shot."

Lisa studied Zoey for a long moment before speaking again. "You keep saying 'because of me' like it was a targeted act of violence," she said carefully. "But from what you've described, it was a perfect storm of alcohol, darkness, bad angles-a one-in-a-million accident." She tapped her pen against her knee. "Tell me, Zoey-if Tristan had been the one swinging the club, and you'd been the one who wandered into the shot, would you blame him?"

Zoey's fingers froze mid-pick at her jeans. "I dont know.. how thats comparable? Worst that could happen to me is I take a hit to the face and maybe lose an eye? I'd be PISSED for sure, I'd definitely blame myself a little, but then I wouldn't have to take hormones daily to fix it. I wouldnt have to come to family dinners with the girl who castrated me every night."

Lisa leaned back in her chair, the leather sighing under her weight. "You're right-it's not a perfect comparison. But let's try another angle." She tilted her head slightly, studying Zoey. "Suppose Tristan had been the one to swing the club, and it hit you somewhere... sensitive. Say, your breasts. Total mastectomy required. Would you hate him forever?"

Zoey's breath caught. She hadn't considered that-the idea of Tristan seeing her scarred, her body changed irrevocably. "I... I don't know," she admitted slowly. "I'd be furious at first. Devastated. But..." Her fingers traced an absent pattern on her thigh. "If he looked at me the way I look at him now-like he'd broken something irreplaceable-I'd probably end up comforting *him*."

Lisa nodded once. "Exactly. Because love complicates blame." She let that sit for a moment before continuing, her voice softer now. "Zoey, what you're describing-the arousal, the guilt-they're two sides of the same coin. Your brain is trying to process an impossible contradiction: that you could both harm and adore someone in the same breath."

Zoey pressed her palms to her eyes until colors bloomed behind her lids. "But why does it have to be *sexual*? Why can't I just have normal guilt like a normal person?"

"Because trauma doesn't follow rules," Lisa said simply. "Think of it like this-when something shocks your system that profoundly, your brain scrambles to file it *somewhere*. For you, it landed near power dynamics, irreversible change, maybe even the taboo of it all." She shrugged slightly. "Brains are messy. They don't separate 'appropriate' and 'inappropriate' as neatly as we'd like."

Zoey exhaled sharply, her fingers twisting the hem of her shirt into a tight rope. "You're right," she muttered. "Tristan blames himself too. Maybe even more than I blame me." The confession left her mouth like a stone dropping into still water-heavy, final. "But that's not the part that keeps me up at night." She pressed her palms flat against her thighs, grounding herself. "It's the... other thing. The way my brain keeps circling back to that moment like a fucking vulture."

Lisa's pen hovered over her notepad, but she didn't write. "Describe 'the other thing' without judging it first."

Zoey's laugh was brittle. "Okay. Fine." She swallowed hard, staring at the water stain on the ceiling tile above Lisa's head. "I'll be at the grocery store, and some guy will bend over to grab a six-pack, and suddenly I'm imagining his nuts just... vanishing. Not even bloody. Just *poof*-like a balloon popping inside his jeans." Her knees bounced erratically. "Or I'll see a couple holding hands, and I'll picture the guy getting hit in the crotch with a baseball bat, except instead of screaming, he just... deflates. Like a sex doll with the air let out."

Lisa's expression remained neutral, but her fingers tightened slightly around her pen. "And these intrusive thoughts-do they always lead to arousal?"

"No!" Zoey's voice cracked. "Not always. Sometimes it's just... there. Like a song lyric stuck in my head." She dug her nails into her palms. "But then I'll be in the shower, and my brain will serve up this *HD footage* of some faceless guy's balls getting obliterated by a tennis serve, and suddenly my hand is-" She cut herself off, throat working silently.

Lisa didn't flinch. She simply folded her hands over her notebook, her wedding ring catching the light. "Let me ask you this," she said, her voice steady as a metronome. "When these fantasies happen-whether intrusive or intentional-who's usually the one destroying the testicles?"

Zoey blinked. The question was so absurd she almost laughed. "What?"

"The woman with the golf club," Lisa clarified. "The tennis player. The baseball bat wielder. It's always a woman, isn't it?"

Zoey's mouth went dry. She hadn't noticed that before. "I... yeah. I guess it is."

Lisa nodded once, like she'd confirmed a hypothesis. "And in these scenarios, is the man ever consenting? Or is it always an accident? An act of violence?"

Zoey stared at her hands, the nails bitten ragged. "It's never consent," she muttered. "But it's not always an accident. Nor is it always violent." Her fingers twitched against her thighs. "Sometimes it just... *is*. I mean, it's always a woman-I'm not into man-on-man stuff, so I guess my brain says balls need to be touched by a lady." A humorless laugh escaped her. "But sometimes they're not even *touched*. Sometimes I get this HD image of a woman snapping her fingers, and somehow the internal image is some dude's balls just... exploding in the sack. Like popcorn kernels."

Lisa didn't react beyond a slow blink. "And when you imagine these scenarios," she said, her voice carefully neutral, "how does the woman feel?"

Zoey's breath hitched. She hadn't considered that before. "She's... calm," she realized slowly. "Not angry. Not even turned on. Just... decisive. Like popping a bubble wrap sheet." Her fingers mimicked the motion unconsciously. "One second they're there, the next-" A sharp exhale. "Gone."

Lisa's pen hovered over her notepad. "And how does *that* make you feel?"

Zoey’s thighs pressed together involuntarily. "It makes me feel like a fucking god," she whispered, the words sticky with shame. "Like I could snap my fingers and erase every dick and balls on the planet." Her nails dug into her knees. "And that *scares* me, because it also makes me so horny I can't think straight. Like my brain took the whole 'go forth and multiply' thing and flipped it upside down into 'go forth and *delete*.'"

Lisa's pen remained still, but her gaze sharpened. "Describe the fear."

"It's like-" Zoey's breath hitched. "Like standing at the edge of a cliff with this *urge* to jump, except the jump feels better than the not-jumping." She swallowed hard. "I keep imagining a woman, maybe shes a little bit of an insert of myself but shes not me... seducing some random guy. Telling him she'd love to hear the final sound his balls make when they explode. That she's wet thinking about it. And the worst part?" Her voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. "I think some of them would get rock hard from that... and it sort of feeds this vicious cycle."

Lisa's eyebrow twitched-the first crack in her professional calm. "Have you researched this?"

Zoey's face burned. "There's... forums. Guys who fantasize about it. Women who get off on the idea." Her fingers twisted the hem of her shirt into a noose. "I spent three hours last night reading about 'ballbusting' porn and now my search history looks like a fucking war crime."

Lisa set down her pen with deliberate slowness. The clock ticked three times before she spoke. "Zoey," she said, her voice neither judgmental nor alarmed-just clinically curious, "what percentage of these fantasies involve Tristan specifically?"

Zoey recoiled like she'd been slapped. "Zero. Absolutely zero." Her hands flew up as if physically warding off the thought. "I told you-it's faceless men. Strangers. Never him." She dug her nails into her scalp, pulling slightly at the roots. "I mean... even after the hospital visit it was never him. But... admittedly... when I think about myself in ten years... i think I will get a certain kick out the fact that I COULD, not that I WOULD, intimidate some guy with the fact that I castrated my own brother. Like it doesn't... make me horny.. but the idea of some guy reacting to that does..."

Lisa tapped her pen against the notepad-once, twice-before speaking. "Zoey," she said, her voice measured, "let's focus on something else for a moment. Tell me about the first time you felt arousal unrelated to this... specific scenario."

Zoey blinked, caught off guard. "What? You mean like... normal horniness?" Her laugh was sharp, disbelieving. "I was twelve. Saw some guy in a magazine ad for cologne, shirt unbuttoned to his navel. Standard stuff."

Lisa nodded, jotting something down. "And since then? Healthy relationships? Sexual experiences?"

Zoey exhaled sharply through her nose, fingers unknotting from her shirt hem. "Yeah, I've had plenty of normal relationships. Like Jake sophomore year-we dated for nine months, did the whole prom thing, broke up because he wanted to go to Arizona State and I didn't." She picked at a loose thread on the couch cushion. "The worst thing he ever did was forget my birthday once. And Kyle last winter-we hooked up for like two months, perfectly nice guy, just zero chemistry." Her shoulders lifted in a shrug. "Hell, I lost my virginity to Ben Harris behind the bleachers after homecoming, and it was exactly as awkward and mediocre as you'd expect."

Lisa's pen moved silently across the page. "Any particularly positive experiences?"

"Positive?" Zoey's mouth quirked. "Ryan, junior year of college. First guy who actually bothered figuring out what I liked instead of just jackhammering away like he was trying to start a lawnmower." A faint blush crept up her neck. "We dated for almost a year. Broke up because he got into med school out east, but it was... good. Healthy. We're still friends on Instagram."

The therapist nodded. "And in these relationships, did you ever experience violence or aggression from these men? Any reason to resent them?"

Zoey snorted. "Unless you count Ryan stealing the last slice of pizza, no. I've been catcalled twice, got an unsolicited dick pic once-standard issue woman-in-America stuff." She spread her hands. "That's why this is so fucked up. My brain didn't get broken by some dude beating me up in an alley. It just... short-circuited watching my brother get turned into a soprano"

Lisa set down her pen with deliberate slowness. The silence stretched until Zoey could hear the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. "Zoey," she said finally, "when you masturbate to these fantasies-afterwards, do you ever imagine comforting the man?"

Zoey's fingers twitched against her knees. "No," she said, voice flat. "It's never about *them*. After... the event, they just sort of fade into the background like bad CGI." She mimed a vanishing motion with one hand. "No realistic medical trauma, no hospital scenes. The mental focus is always on the woman-her stance, the way her muscles tense, that split-second expression right before..." Her throat clicked. "These sessions usually just end with... the woman's climax coinciding with mine. Right after. Like dominos."

Lisa's pen hovered over the page. "So the fantasy isn't about violence per se," she mused. "It's about irrevocable change enacted by a woman's hand. Or golf club. Or-"

"Or whatever," Zoey finished bitterly. She picked at a hangnail until it bled. "And before you ask-no, I don't fantasize about *being* her either. It's more like... watching a really fucked-up home movie where I'm the camera operator."

Lisa set down her pen with deliberate care. The clock ticked three times before she spoke. "Zoey," she said slowly, "have you considered that what arouses you might not be the destruction itself, but the *certainty* of it?"

Zoey froze mid-breath. "What?"

Lisa leaned forward slightly, her elbows resting on her knees. "Think about it-when you imagine these scenarios, the outcome is always absolute. Irreversible. No maybes, no second chances." She tapped her fingers together. "That kind of certainty is... intoxicating for some brains. Especially ones drowning in guilt."

Zoey's fingers stilled on her jeans. "But Tristan's outcome *was* certain," she whispered. "One swing, and his future was rewritten."

"Yes," Lisa agreed. "But *your* future wasn't. You're stuck in the 'what ifs'-what if you'd swung differently, what if he'd stood elsewhere." She tilted her head. "Your fantasies eliminate those variables. One decisive moment, and the story can't change after."

Zoey stared at the water stain on the ceiling as if it held answers. "So my brain's trying to... control the uncontrollable?"

"More like your subconscious found a loophole," Lisa corrected gently. "If everything can be destroyed in an instant, then your guilt loses its power. No lingering consequences-just clean, surgical finality." She paused. "Does that resonate?"

Zoey's fingers dug into the couch cushion, her knuckles whitening. "So what now?" Her voice cracked like dry kindling. "Am I just... stuck like this? Forever fantasizing about some imaginary lady turning guys into eunuchs while I jerk off in the shower?" She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes until starbursts exploded behind her lids. "Am I supposed to *embrace* this? Like, 'congrats Zoey, you've unlocked a new kink-ball annihilation'?"

Lisa didn't flinch at the outburst. She simply adjusted her glasses, the lenses catching the afternoon light in twin flashes. "Would it help if I told you kinks aren't permanent fixtures?" Her tone was clinical, but her eyes were warmer than Zoey expected. "Think of them more like... scars. They fade differently for everyone."

Zoey's laugh was a sharp bark. "Great. So I either learn to love my new fucked-up brain, or I spend the next decade trying to bleach it out." She mimed scrubbing at her temples. "Either way, Tristan still doesn't have balls because of me, and I'm still the sister who gets wet thinking about-" Her throat closed around the words.

Lisa waited through the silence, her pen poised but unmoving. When she spoke, her voice was softer than Zoey deserved. "Tell me this-when you imagine future relationships, do you see yourself *acting* on these fantasies? Or just... privately enjoying them?"

Zoey's breath hitched. She hadn't considered that before-the idea of actually *doing* something, not just imagining it. The thought sent twin currents of terror and electricity down her spine. "I... I don't know," she admitted. Her fingers traced the seam of her jeans absently. "The idea of actually hurting someone that way.. or ever seeing something that violent again against a person's body parts makes me want to puke. But the idea that someone might *want* me to..." Her thighs pressed together involuntarily. "That's different. That's... complicated."

Lisa’s chair creaked as she leaned back, studying Zoey with an unsettling calm. "Complicated isn’t a life sentence," she said. "It’s a starting point." She tapped her pen against her knee. "Let’s try something. Close your eyes."

Zoey stiffened. "Why?"

"Because I want you to imagine something *without* the guilt for thirty seconds." Lisa’s voice was steady, uncompromising. "Not Tristan. Not golf balls. Just-a woman. Any woman. She’s standing in front of a man who’s on his knees, looking up at her. He’s not afraid. He’s... eager. What happens next?"