You wouldn’t believe how many married men — sissy, crossdressing, closet-case men — are out here cheating on their wives, and not just with some side piece. No, they’re dropping their wives’ hard-earned vacation money on young, fresh-faced tranny escorts right here in San Francisco. I’ve seen it all.

One day, I get a call from a woman. Furious. Desperate. Not crying, but on the verge. You know the type — one who’s just had enough. Her husband’s been draining their accounts, sneaking off to get plowed by some young thing while she’s home planning their next anniversary trip. And she’s done.

“I want you to make him completely fucking impotent,” she says, voice cold as ice. “I want him to vomit every time he even thinks about cheating. Every time he so much as considers spending our money, I want his dick to shrivel up and die.”

I tell her to send him in.

He shows up in my office, all nervous energy and sweaty palms, shifting in his seat like he’s got an itch he can’t scratch. We start the session, and before I can even guide him under, he’s already blabbering. He can’t help himself. The fantasy has rotted his brain. He goes on and on about this young, supple tranny escort he’s been seeing. How perfect she is. How he loves sucking her cock, feeling her weight on him. His wife’s money is funding the whole thing — his special little secret.

I ease him deeper, his eyes fluttering, rolling back as he sinks into my voice. His hand slides to his lap, and the fucker starts rubbing himself. Right there. So deep in trance, so lost in the filth of his own confession, he has no idea what’s coming next.

I lean in. “Now, I want you to think about spending your wife’s money. Yes, the money in the accounts. The money for vacations. The money she saves. Feel it in your hands.”

His breathing changes, deepens. He’s lost in it. And then —

A shudder. A gag.

His body jerks. His eyes are locked shut, but his face twists in horror. A retch forces its way up his throat. He gags again, then chokes — and then it happens. Vomit. A thick, disgusting spew, spilling past his lips. He coughs, gasping, his hand still glued to his now-limp dick.

“What the fuck?” he sputters between heaves. His cock is useless, shriveled in his grip like a dead worm.

I keep going, my voice smooth as silk. “That’s right. Every time you even tryto spend the money, you puke. You go limp. And your hair starts to fall out.”

His fingers claw at his scalp as if he can already feel the strands loosening. Panic floods his face. He wants to move his hand, but he can’t. He wants to open his eyes, but they’re glued shut. He’s locked in a loop of disgust, repulsion, and shame.

“That young little thing you love so much?” I whisper. “Every time you think of her — her soft skin, her cock in your mouth — you’ll feel that bile rise. You’ll feel the sickness churn in your gut. You’ll never get hard again thinking about her. Or any other. Your wife is the only thing that keeps you whole.”

He thrashes, dry-heaving now, his body betraying him completely. He knows. He knows it worked.

When I wake him up, his face is pale, slick with sweat. His mouth tastes of acid, and his dick is as dead as his dignity. He stares at me, horrified.

“Session’s over,” I say, already writing up my invoice. “And tell your wife she owes me extra.”