Chapter Text
Carl Jung and Sigmund Freud walk into an office, as they have so often done since the first day they met. The sun had dipped out of the sky and been replaced by the moon as it came time for dinner, though both men made the decision to skip in preference for conversation. They'd planned for this discussion to happen for a bit, letters thrown back and forth for the past few months.
Each took their respective seats in the room, Freud easily offered up his apartment as a place to discuss and Martha, his wife, would never mind much. A discussion is all that would happen, nothing more.
Returning to talk here was always a nice activity, the same room they had their first conversation in. If a 13-hour discussion could be called that.
A comfortable silence fills the room as the two make themselves comfortable. Freud automatically pulls out his cigar box, offering one to Jung, who declines, before grabbing one for himself and lighting it with a practiced ease. His typical brand was a Trubucco,a smaller cigar produced by the Armenians.
"So, how have you been lately?" Jung attempts, though neither have ever been big on small talk, not during these meetings they have specifically to discuss their latest theories. The younger had been worried about his mentor, especially when he fainted. He's realized well enough that they were close, anyone would be blind to think they weren't, but he hadn't realized Freud viewed him in such a way. As a son. And he certainly hadn't known Freud feared patricide from him. The man had been so worried he fainted, so Jung would like to stay away from that side of their theories today.
Just as Jung had expected, the attempt at small talk got him a quirked eyebrow and a soft chuckle.
"Now my dear boy, you know quite well that's not what we're here to discuss," Freud hums and slowly brings the cigar to his lips, wrapping around the cap in an almost delicate fashion as he inhales the smoke smoothly.
"Of course, theories and patients. Did you have anyone particularly interesting in today? Or was it your usual clients?" Jung asks, leaning forward and folding his hands in his lap.
"Oh today was quite dreadful. Plenty of information and the usual clients, but I found myself stuck on one particular man."
"Did you? That's not a common occurrence."
"No, it isn't. And worse, it was one of my own theories that stumped me."
"Oh? Now, how does that work?"
"I hardly know myself. A gentleman who struggles with an oral fixation, you know of it—"
"Yes, the oral stage mustn't've have been met properly or was met too thoroughly leading to said neurosis issues."
"Exactly. Well, this man came in and any form of distraction we attempted has resulted in failure. Many different solutions have been trialed. We've even attempted full ignorance and yet…"
Jung couldn't help the chuckle that escaped him at the almost childish look gracing Freud's features. His mouth was pressed in a tight pout, eyebrows drawn together. For a man in his 50's with such a successful career, one would think he would complain in a more respectable way.
"Has there been any possible other thing to be done?" Jung questioned, voice lilting softly with humor at the situation.
"Well… nothing that I think wouldn't harm him later on," stated Freud, with a hint of hesitance in his tone.
"Ah yes, well…let's not go that route."
"My thoughts exactly"
"Oh but what about fulfillment?"
"Sorry?"
"What if instead of avoiding the fixation, it's fulfilled?"
"I believe it'd be quite hard to fulfill something that stems from lack of proper nursing in childhood."
"You think the attachment to the breast is what fulfills the oral stage, yes?"
"A fairly simple way to say it, but yes."
"What if it's attachment to the figure? The child may not be able to fully process things but it can certainly make a connection. What if an adult attempted to fulfill the fixation with someone they are frequently with."
Freud blinks while staring, a very insulted look in his eyes, though he doesn't make an issue of it.
"Jung, truly, you think I haven't thought of that? It's just that the fixation is so unusual and so completely connected to the I'd that I could never think of asking someone to allow for this theory to be tested."
"Why ask?"
"Sorry?"
"The perfect subject is sitting right in front of me."
"Are you suggesting I'm a victim of the same activity I spend my days curing?"
"I am saying that you smoke twenty cigars a day and have done so consistently since you picked them up, or that's what you've told me. If you believe that isn't an oral fixation than you must've lost a bit of intelligence since I lost saw you."
Freud, despite the insult to his person, had to stifle a chuckle at the teasing in his protege's voice. As much as he didn't wish to admit it, Jung was right. And Freud was never one to avoid something that could very well become a method for treatment, so he follows the statement with an inquiry.
"So what are you suggesting? Because I feel many are opposed to nursing on someone, even if they are quite close."
Jung folds his hands, right thumb beginning over the left, which immediately grows Freud's suspicion. If there's anything he's absolutely noticed since they began working together, it was the man's tells. Freud stares at him, room now caked in an uncomfortable silence, though it's a very particular kind. Not completely uncomfortable, there's a certain charge surrounding it. Though Freud brushes it off as interference from the ego. His straying train of though is interrupted almost as soon as it started.
"Maybe the patient doesn't have to nurse specifically. Perhaps it is just the need to have something occupying the mouth, just for a few minutes of the day, to satisfy their need." The pause after the suggestion is said fills the room as if it was shouted into an empty cavern
"Are you suggesting…" Freud's voice trails off slowly as his eyes narrow, watching Jung with suspicion.
"Well, yes. It is the only thing one can really… use in this case. Especially with the two of us."
Freud stares blankly at Jung's words before glancing away, clearing his throat and adjusting his spectacles as he attempts to hide the flush rising from his neck.
"Is that truly necessary?"
"It is your theories that are rooted in the sexual subconscious. Wouldn't this test make the most sense?"
"If I were a woman, yes, but…"
"Are you worried something unpleasant may be revealed about your true self, Sigmund? Perhaps a homosexual subconscious?"
"Of course not! I am simply… not used to being a factor in an experiment regarding my own theory. Wouldn't it be biased?"
"I believe it'd actually allow for you to get the most true information. Only you truly know your theory and you struggle with the issue it belongs to. First-hand experience will give you the clearest understanding."
"I suppose."
"Wonderful! Shall we get started?"
Freud's eyes widen behind his spectacles at the suggestion. Surely Jung couldn't mean they attempt something with heavy homosexual connotations in the same house where Freud's wife is likely cleaning up after making a dinner that only she ate.
"Freud?" Jung speaks, voice lilting with a teasing chirp.
"We cannot- truly, here? Right now? My wife is just a room or so over…"
An energy that Jung never thought possible seemed to envelope the man who as he glanced around, as if she'd pop out any second. Freud stubs out his cigar and sets it on the ashtray to his side, attempting to look unbothered but truly all of his movements give him away.
"It's no issue though, is it? She should understand the lengths that one must go to to achieve a proper understanding in their field… I doubt she'd harbor any grudge were we to attempt this once."
The already burning face of the older went even brighter, mimicking the color of a rose now. He struggles to form an answer but finds he doesn't have to as his shoulder is gently pushed upon. His brain seems to just stop for a moment as he's guided to his knees by a man half his age.
Sigmund can't believe he allowed himself to get into this situation. Here he was, in his own office, in front of Jung. His protege is looking down at him like he was some soft delicate thing, though a spark of intensity flashes through his eyes as he stares, unblinking.
Freud was about to begin speaking, mind finally returning but found himself silenced with the click of Jung's belt, his eyes leave the younger man's face to peek at the growing bulge in his trousers. He feels so nervous about this situation for no apparent reason. It's simply the two of them working together to try and find a way to fix an issue. If an oral fixation can be solved through fulfilling it as opposed to forcing it away, it'd be much easier to deal with.
Freud finds his thoughts cut off as Jung takes the initiative, pulling his cock out from his trousers and letting it spring freely. It ends up against his mentor's cheek, slapping against it with a soft sound.
The phallus is already leaking. Freud can feel the heat of it, can smell Jung in a way he's never done so before. He's not sure there are words to describe what he's feeling but he's certainly glad his wife isn't around to see him like this, debased and on his knees.
They sit in silence for about a minute, neither moving from where they are, when Jung makes the decision to egg on his mentor. One hand wraps around his cock as he guides it to Freud's lips, repeatedly tapping it against them as he coos something, the older psychologist doesn't exactly hear it though. He's too focused on trying to categorize everything going on, this is a test after all.
Freud glances up at his friend who is still looking down at him and realizes, quite belatedly, that he needs to open his mouth for anything to happen. He hasn't a clue why he's so nervous about all of this. And it's not as if opening his mouth for something this shape is an issue. Jung pointed out earlier that Sigmund is quite practiced in the motion, with how many cigars he smokes and all.
Jung's hand grabs his chin, thumb rubbing on his lower lip. It's as if he knows Sigmund is going to protest because that is exactly what the man does. Jung takes his chance and, with the hope he won't be bit, shoves his cock inside that annoyingly sure-of-itself mouth.
Sigmund gags immediately, attempting to pull his head back to get away from the foreign object in him mouth, but it seems Jung anticipated that as well and had a hand already in place to push him forward and hold him there.
Jung begins to speak softly above him, standing still as Freud gagging repeatedly, though not serious enough to warrant a pause, and began to speak on the importance of this. They're both well aware of oral fixation as an issue and this could be an amazing way to solve it, something so simple yet so impactful. Freud cannot respond as the cock is pressed deeper inside his mouth, causing saliva to pool and spill out from the corners.
Jung laughs and begins to slowly move his hips, hand moving from the back of his head to the top to tangle in the man's graying, thinning hair. Despite the slight pain it causes, Freud is glad his face isn't smushed against the hairy pelvis anymore and he can breath for a bit, though it's still hard with the mess that's down there.
Both psychiatrists feel a sense of guilt for participating in such perversion, they'd thought themselves beyond the homosexual subconscious, or at the very least beyond acting on it. As much as they told themselves this was simply an experiment to find an answer for the issue of oral fixation instead of them truly giving into their desires for a moment, they knew otherwise.
It's not as if they remain on that fact, though, as pleasure quickly overcomes them both. Freud can feel his mind blurring, any thoughts he had about actually noting this experiment has escaped his mind as he gets lost to the weight and taste on his tongue. Jung, on the other hand, had never once taken this as a experiment, he knew that he could influence the man beneath him, he was Freud's crown prince, his successor. The man would hardly ever deny one of his ideas, not without first testing it out. So Jung simply used his resources to take advantage of that.
Freud is quite distracted trying to fit the entire phallus into his mouth once more. The taste of it was absolutely addiction. He had no thoughts of smoking, of analysis, no way to connect this to his psychosexual theories. He simply needs to take this. His mind is clouded and desperate, he years for his control to be taken by Jung. He should do no more than kneel there and take what the younger gives him.
When they'd first assumed positions, Freud hadn't noticed that Jung had slid his foot between his legs, shin pressed right against his clothed length which was dripping just as Jung's was on his tongue. Losing any sort of decorum that he'd somehow managed to preserve, he began to rut against the leg. Like a mindless dog. One hand rested on Jung's thigh, the other gripped his calf so he could pull himself closer. He was sure he'd release just like this, from pleasuring a younger man and rubbing against him like a common street walker. How embarrassing…
Nonetheless, within the next 5 minutes, Freud found himself trembling as intense pleasure overwhelmed his senses. The heat that had been pooling in his stomach burst forward and emptied itself from him, staining his nice trousers, ruining them. His vision flashed white and his eyelids fluttered rapidly as he reached his peak, a choked sound forced out of his mouth despite the object in there.
Jung had a complete understanding of the state his mentor was in and took the chance to feed his member in to the hilt. The convulsing throat massaged his cock quite well and he found himself finishing inside that wet cavern, shooting his essence into the stomach of the man he admired oh-so much.
The two remained stuck in place as they worked to regain their composure, Jung was much more successful than Freud in that process, not currently on his knees with a fairly large object shoved down his esophagus.
After a minute or two, Jung slowly pulls his member out of the older psychoanalysts mouth, allowing him to properly breathe, chuckling softly as he does so. Freud attempts a glare at the man as he slowly pulls away, shifting his weight off of his knees and more onto his calves. As…thrilling as the events were, his aging body was not built for kneeling for this long. Or at all.
Jung was quite happy with the result of this experiment, though he keeps his thoughts to himself as he assists his teacher to his feet. He'd always thought his teacher above Id, but here he was proven wrong. And in such a thrilling, breathtaking way.
Freud frowns at the sticky and wet feeling in his trousers against his skin, he must bathe tonight, much to his chagrin. He doesn't mind being clean but this is certainly a stump in his rigid routine. While brushing invisible dust from his clothing as he straightens himself, he steps away from the younger, trying hard to ignore him as Jung tucked himself back into his trousers.
"Perhaps this shall help end that habit of yours, yes? The amount of cigars may drop to ten," Jung needles with a lecherous grin.
Freud finds himself struggling to hold down a smile as he rolls his eyes and returns to his seat. "I truly doubt it. Even if your theory of "fulfillment" was to work, it wouldn't succeed in one session."
"So you're suggesting we try something following this experiment in the future, hm?" Jung snarks, watching his teacher's features closely and huffing out a laugh when he turned away yet again to hide a slight flush. Jung will never get over the thrill he gets being able to do this to the person he respected so deeply.
They don't end up finishing their conversation. It'd grown a bit too late and Freud, despite his many sleepless nights, was not one to let it interfere too deeply with his routine and he should be heading home by now. He says his goodbyes and escapes the office, coat wrapped tightly around him to avoid the cold and hide the damp spot that was still drying at the front of his trousers.
Jung, alone in his office, leaned against the desk, his mind wandered as he imagined the lengths his relationship with Freud could go to. He's certain something further will happen, he will just have to be patient. He's not one to enjoy that, but for Freud, he'll take the chance.
Perhaps their next meeting will result in another theory being tested.