The Troubled Man

by Tedbiker

Caution: This Romantic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Heterosexual, Fiction, Extra Sensory Perception, First, Transformation, .

Desc: Romantic Sex Story: Kat helps a young man, then helps him to help someone else.

He was young, and very slim – the technical term is, or used to be, ‘asthenic’. He woke in his tiny flat over the shop in the busy street, assailed as usual by the cacophony of voices in his head. Years of attention from psychiatrists since puberty, when the trouble began, had failed to find a solution; drugs only muted the racket and made him feel, well, drugged. The specialists had eventually given up and allowed him to live as he wished apart from periodic visits from a Community Psychiatric Nurse.

He dressed hurriedly, almost carelessly, and headed for the nearby park where, at least early in the morning, he could be almost completely free of the voices. There was a café there, too, where he was if not actually comfortable at least less troubled than elsewhere, and he could get some breakfast. If that pretty red-headed girl was there he knew it would be even better – her presence, for some reason, muted the voices completely.

He sighed in relief as he walked among the trees and the voices faded to a mere background mutter, though he was aware of the animals around him – mostly squirrels, of course. He assumed it was his imagination that imbued that awareness with meaning.

A glance in the café door. Good! She was there.

“Hullo, David! What can I get you today?” Her smile warmed his heart and as usual her presence soothed his mind. His eye was caught by a gleam of gold on her left hand, which derailed his train of thought.


“Your usual? Veggie breakfast and coffee?”

He pulled himself together. “Yes please. When did you get married?”

“Oh, just a couple of weeks ago.” She handed him a number stick and turned away with the ticket for his order. Maybe ten minutes passed as the girl polished windows and wiped tables, then she was delivering his breakfast, and coffee with it, as he preferred. As he finished, the café still empty apart from himself, she came and sat in the chair opposite him. “You’re not mad, you know.”


“You. There’s nothing wrong with you. You just have a talent which has never been trained or controlled.” She handed him a slip of paper, which bore an address and a telephone number. “Come and talk to me. Any time between eight and ten in the evening. Or ring and I’ll find a time when I’m not working in the café.” She saw the expression on his face and chuckled. “Hey, this isn’t a come-on. I love my husband, and if you come round, he’ll be there. It’s just that I think I can help you. If you let me.”

He ate his breakfast and, though the café began to fill with dog-walkers (the dogs left outside to bark or whine until their owners reappeared) and parents, out with their pre-school children, his mind was still at peace. He was tempted to stay but felt bad about occupying a table as the café was so busy, so he left to walk up the valley.

It was a windy, blustery, overcast day with an occasional splatter of rain, so few others were about – just dog-walkers, really. Of course, they were talking (so were the dogs) but one voice, or two, he could cope with. He walked all day, and returned to his flat rather wet and footsore. A makeshift meal of cheese on toast and baked beans stopped the hunger pangs but did nothing for the renewed cacophony in his head, so taking a deep breath he set off for the address the redhead had given him.

The clamour eased as he stood in front of a very ordinary front door, but it was several minutes before he could bring himself to ring the bell. The door was opened by a middle-aged guy in dark grey trousers and a white button-down shirt, open at the neck.

“Hello!” the man spoke warmly. “It’s David, isn’t it? Kat said you might call. I’m Harry Bird, Kat’s husband. Kat!” A large ginger cat with a white bib emerged from the first door along the hall and weaved around Harry’s calves, purring, then streaked off upstairs. “Well, come in, David, come in.” He backed up to make room for the young man, reached round to shut the door, then led the way into the room the cat had emerged from.

It was a comfortable, if uncoordinated room, the furniture being two sofas and an office type chair at a small table bearing a laptop. A moderately sized t/v stood next to a bulky stacking Hi-Fi set-up, and a fire burned in a small stove, set in a brick fireplace.

“Take a seat – Kat’ll be down any minute. Would you like a drink? Tea? Coffee? Soft drink?”

“A cup of tea would be lovely, um, Harry.”

“Right away.”

Harry left the room and David settled in one of the sofas and looked around. He noticed a little pile of clothes in a random heap next to the table and wondered about it.

Kat came in, smiling. She was dressed in ... what? It was off-white – perhaps ivory, or something like that. One piece with no apparent fastenings, it covered her from neck to ankles and had a sort of hood draped at the back. A thin rope of the same colour gathered the material in at the waist with the ends dangling in front.

“David! I’m so glad you came.”

“I ... well ... I get pretty desperate sometimes, you know.”

She nodded, her face sympathetic. “Yes, I do know. But it’s probably worse for you. I knew what I was, so things made sense to me.”

At which point Harry came in with a tray – two mugs of tea, sugar and milk, and a glass of fruit juice. He set the tray on the table next to the laptop.

“Do you take milk and sugar? I should have asked.”

“A little of both, please.”

Harry dispensed tea to David (milk and sugar, just a little) and to himself (Earl Grey, black and straight) and orange juice (freshly squeezed) for Kat, who smiled at him and pursed her lips in a mimed kiss.

“Would it be best if I left?” Harry asked.

Kat looked at David, who shrugged. “I don’t think I care.”

As they sipped at their drinks, Kat began. “Would you like to start, or shall I?”

“I’d be interested in what you think is wrong with me and why you think you can help...”

“David, you come in the café pretty regularly, don’t you?”

“Sure – you know it.”

“I see your face, and I see the tension leave it when you come in. More to the point, I have ... a gift. I sense things about people. Not always. In your case, I think you have a gift, or a talent, perhaps, but one which is uncontrolled. You hear voices in your head, don’t you?”

The young man’s eyes widened. “Y ... yes...”

“But they aren’t usually distinct voices, are they? I mean, you don’t hear them talking to you, or about you, distinctly, do you?”

“Well, no. I mean, it’s more of a babble. You know – lots of people talking at once.”

“Exactly. What it is, David, is you’re hearing people’s thoughts. Because you’re untrained, you can’t shut them off, or tune into one distinct set of thoughts. So you hear this cacophony of voices most of the time. But you don’t have the problem in the café, do you?”

“Well, no...” he paused, “especially when you’re there...”

She put her half-drunk glass of juice down on a nearby coffee-table, rose and adopted that semi-kneeling pose on the floor in front of him that looks so uncomfortable to the average man. He had to look down in order to meet her eyes.

“Do you trust me?” she asked, quietly.

He shook his head slightly. “Well, I’m here, aren’t I? And no-one else has had any help to offer.” Then, after a few moments more, “Yes, of course I trust you.”

She stretched out her hand and, after a moment’s hesitation, he took it. Her grip was firm, warm and dry, though not threatening; his, cold and moist with anxiety, but she showed no sign of distaste at his touch. “Close your eyes, David.”

He seemed to be floating over the path outside the house, though he could feel the pressure of his seat upon the sofa; it was dark and cold. He saw an elderly woman walking a small dog on a lead along the path, and seemed to hear her voice muttering disjointed words, mainly about what food she needed to buy the next day, but muddled in with ... pictures! Pictures of couples dancing ... words ... thoughts, of course ... about the people, about the dancing... ‘Strictly’ of course. Then he was back in his place on the sofa, and she’d released his hand. (Strictly Come Dancing – a BBC reality t/v show. Strangely popular)

“I’m hearing thoughts?”



“I can teach you to shut the voices out, or tune in to one person’s thoughts.”

“I don’t want to hear what someone’s thinking!”

“No? Never wanted to know if someone was telling you the truth?”

“Well...” he smiled – was it the first time? “Sometimes I wonder about the doctors and the nurses. I’m sure they think I’m mad.”

“Well, David. You need to go home – I’ll give you a little potion which will block your ability to hear thoughts – and give you space to think what you want. I won’t deceive you – it’s not going to be easy. But first, you need to turn your ability off. Don’t take too much of the potion – a teaspoon at night is enough, okay?”


She rose gracefully to her feet and left the room, and the young man looked at Harry. “She’s really something, your wife.”

He smiled. “Yes, she really is.”

.... There is more of this story ...

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