(file contains chapters 15-17)
The Body Worker
by
PlanetDweller
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Standard Disclaimer & Legal Stuff: The following is adult fiction intended for private reading by adults over eighteen (18) years of age ONLY or a higher age if required by the political jurisdiction where you reside...if you are under eighteen years of age, you are required to exit now from your browser if accessing through a communications network or delete this file if accessing it through a local disk system...the following depicts sexual acts which if they were perpetrated in real life would be against the law in all countries and localities; if merely possessing descriptions of sexual acts which would be against the law if committed in "real life" is against the law in the political jurisdiction where you live, you are required to exit access from this and/or delete this immediately...the following is a work entirely fictitious and the characters, names, places, dates, acts depicted etc. bear no resemblance to any persons living or dead or events and acts which may or may not have taken place at some point in time....the author who is using the pseudonym above retains all rights of publication to this story...individual readers of legal age my freely possess this and distribute it to other readers of legal age on a strict non-commercial basis...storage of this on any commercial website or by any other means of storage and retrieval for commercial purposes is strictly prohibited without written consent of the originating author.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Pt. 15, "Make A New Beginning" (Sex therapy, Mb, Mg, mother/daughter/therapist, MF, Mf)
The last couple of days of class were a blur. I don't know if I'll ever remember exactly what when on. After being so intensely sexualized for the past week, the last two days somehow were so even more so that I think in some way I must have been pushed over the edge. More children, more teen-agers, and more adult "models" and real-life patients of Doc's, all seen in increasingly more professionally intense settings.
Then, late Sunday afternoon, it was all over. My mind felt as numb as if it was a broken limb. Numb. Bruised. Sore. Focus of intense denial of pain from shock. A graduation ceremony in our classroom, a group photo, a somewhat forced group orgy, like any of us really wanted recreational sex with each other after nine fucking days of being fucked by and fucking each other.
That night, Keiko and Gwen retreated back to their own room, softly apologizing to us as they gathered their week's worth of shared living detritus. Margot and I didn't mind. Marg' and I slept deep but fitful sleep that night, each of us waking the other up at least once that night by thrashing around enough to where our involuntary body spasms caused consciousness to momentarily rise in the other.
The flight back to Raleigh that Monday morning went as you might predict. Margot and I both got airsick. At least we were shoved towards the back bulkhead of the American Airlines 747 flight from LaGuardia to RDU in cheap coach where only a handful of other passengers bothered to turn and look at us as we both quite loudly wretched. At least the flight attendants were nice, bring us warm, wet washclothes and fluffy towels to clean up with.
I'm not sure why we got airsick, I mean, especially both of us. The only thing that is logical as to why, even though I don't want to admit it, is that it was because of all that Margot and I had been put through that, all the, all the, all the emotional and physical stress that we had been put under the week just past, just finally caught up with us.
It doesn't make sense, does it? I mean, I'm a guy, and are supposed to be able to take the hundred curveballs in a row that life throws at you during a single trip to the plate sometimes. I had just had more sex more times in the past nine days than I had in all my life previously up to that point. And aren't supposed to not just relish, but do anything short of kill for the kind of totally no-holds-barred sex I had just been "forced" to have for the past week?
Still, I knew in my heart that the stomach coming up was the result of my psychological center being lowered back into its usual place. After upchucking almost pure stomach acid, Margot put her head on my shoulder, and tried to nap. At least we weren't inhaling fumes like being tied to the back of a Greyhoud bus like we were on the USAir flight up.
Dr. Carol was waiting for us at our gate as we disembarked at Terminal "C". Mariva had told me/us in a phone call yesterday that she would be the one to pick us up, so seeing Dr. Carol waving at us as we snaked our way around the cordoned ropes was indeed a surprise.
Giving us both a nice, firm, sincere friendly hug and peck on the cheek each respectively, she dropped the first hint of the bomb-reason that she herself had taken the time to pick us up. "Eric, Margot..." she began to speak as she lead us arms-around-waists down the concourse, she in the middle of us "...there's been some changes made in the short week you've been gone...I didn't want to upset you while you were in class, your class was simply too important, but now that you're home, you need to know about them, you'd have found about them momentarily anyway...I'd rather you know ASAP...I'll tell you about them in the car, on the way to the office...anyone hungry, need a bite to eat?" she finished, we both shaking our heads "no".
In the week we had been gone, Wake Therapy had sold their bodywork practice, meaning they had also sold "us", Margot and I, to another local practice in town. Dr. Carol went into excruciatingly boring detail about their patient demographics and went through the same boring shit about how their practice was sliding downhill because their two main bodyworkers had left, stuff we had heard before because it was part of their respective recruiting pitches to us both to try to get us to sign up and come on board and get trained as bodyworkers etc. But the bottom line, she eventually confessed, was indeed the bottom line.
Dr. Nick Samiatakis, a psychiatrist in private practice locally who was probably the most local psychiatrist around because he often appeared on local television stations as an expert when there was a school shooting or multiple teen suicide or something similar, had bought Wake Family Therapy's bodywork practice lock, stock, and barrel. He had approached them unsolicitedly out of the blue by sheer coincidence last Monday, and by Thursday, had sole rights to their bodywork patient list and also future patient referrals. "I have to confess, Margot, Eric, and this stays in the car like everything else, that Wake will be getting a 15% gross referral fee for all future bodywork patients sent to Dr. Nick and you guys...we did the math, and the math didn't lie...we'll be making 3% more net this way than by assuming and keeping the overhead of having you two on our staff...I hope you don't think badly of us...we have an agreement with Dr. Nick (as everyone properly called Dr. Samiatakis) where you'll be available to us as consultants for 'special projects' and such, so it's not like we'll be strangers and Eric..." "Yes, Carol?" "You'll still being seeing me from time to time for our own special 'therapy sessions'...remember?" she syrupy said with sly grin. "Yes, Carol, I remember."
She babbled on, almost physically shaking from something, nervousness about feeling so guilty for screwing so boldly with our lives without asking or consulting with us first, as she puttered in and out of traffic on the Beltline before reaching their/our Millbrook Rd. office.
Dr. Nick was waiting with Dr. Kim and Dr. Carol's life-and-business partner Jean Forberg Ph.D in Wake Therapy's conference room. Dr. Nick rose and came over to us as we entered the room, shaking our hands as we sat down. Connie, the other bodyworker in WFT's practice who had given her notice and was leaving as soon as Margot and I got settled in to our practice, was also there, sitting at the far end of the conference table, sporting a look that was half-fear and half-being-totally-pissed-off.
Mariva came in and handed us another bunch of forms to look over and sign. Dr. Nick asked us if Dr. Carol had explained what had happened and why it happened while we were gone, Margot and I mumbling "yes". He then asked if we had a problem switching practices on the fly like we were being asked to do. "Well, I don't mind telling you, it's really damn presumptuous that all of ya' would do such a thing without asking Eric and me first, or at least letting us know what was going..." Margot hammered home. "Yes..I know..." Dr. Nick tried to say. "Dr. Nick, you're probably the most famous and most respected psychiatrist in the State Of North Carolina, but as a businessman, what you and Dr. Carol and Dr. Kim and all just did to us, this is total chickenshit!!!!" I hadn't seen Margot genuinely angry before, and had not heard her cuss quite like that.
"Just look over your proposed new contracts, Margot, Eric...take a few moments to read over them...if you decide that you don't want to become part of my team, then no hard feelings, I'll call Dr. and Mrs. Dr. Chaim myself, and see what other employment opportunities that they might have for you as bodyworkers with another practice somewhere else, assuming that is that you still want to be professional therapeutic bodyworkers...if you don't want to be bodyworkers any longer, I'll forgive your one-year service debt to 'repay' Wake for picking up the cost of your training, right here, right now...you can come to work for me, or someone else, or make a decision to go back to your previous careers or another job...whatever you decide is fine...but I need a decision NOW...we'll give you a few minutes" he concluded.
They all left us alone for a while. Mariva brought us canned Cokes and most of an opened box of Krispy-Kreme donuts. We whispered quietly between ourselves, just in case they were trying to listen. Dr. Nick was offering us each a much better package than Wake had signed us up for. A guaranteed thousand-dollar a week salary against fifty percent commission on billable hours/charges, bonuses if any which would be paid for and retroacted past quarterly. A new leased compact company car each, along the lines of a new Honda or Toyota. Three weekends guaranteed off per month, including two of those going into three day weekends. Just two nights per week working from 5-9 PM, mainly for group therapy sessions. A company, Dr. Nick's professional corporation that he used as a business shell, 401K plan. A company-furnished professional practice and residential apartment location, like WFT had promised us, except the description of what Dr. Nick was offering sounding better. 100% paid medical, dental, etc. insurance with no deductibles. No-nonsense, unlimited accounts at several restaurants and take-out places near where our new office/apartment building was. 100% paid tuition and expenses for ANY continuing education courses we individually wanted to take, not just those related to our new profession. More goodies than a candy store. Margot and I knew we had burned our bridges, and had to work somewhere. I went back up front to find Mariva and have them called back to the conference room. Fifteen minutes later, Margot and I were the proud new property, eeerrrrrr, new employees of Dr. Nick.
Dr. Nick drove us to his office first, making our way back to Beltline before exiting at the New Bern Ave. interchange and making our way to a nondescript office building across from the main county hospital, Wake Medical Center. Emily, Dr. Nick's secretary and receptionist, had us fill out the usual tax forms and such as Dr. Nick went to his office for a few moments to return some phone calls. Then back on the Beltline and off at Hillsboro Street, then to a huge three house on a massive acreage near the WPFT-AM radio towers on Chatham Street in the nearby snotty bedroom community of Cary, adjacent to western Raleigh. Connie was already there when we got there with Dr. Nick, and followed us around as he showed our new professional practice and home to us.
While looking like a more or less conventional old-style mansion house, it had been extensively remodeled. As you went in the front door, there was small alcove with Victorian benches and halltrees. At the back of this tiny alcove or foyer, were two doors, one with a large brass "A" on it, the other with a similar letter "B". Opening the door to the left lead into a long, narrow hallway, solid wall on the right, and just two doors on the left, one marked with the numeral "1" and the other with a "2". The other side was a mirror of that, except the doors were labeled "3" and "4". Each door opened up into a smallish but comfortable livingroom/den-type room, identical, sporting a large, comfortable couch, a couple of overstuff antique-looking chairs, a "No Smoking, Please" sign, some anonymous artwork, a dorm-type refrigerator, an overstuffed Ottoman that matched one of the chairs, a coffee table, a couple of magazine racks, a and VCR on a cart, a cheap looking stereo in a corner, and a single small window with vertical shade treatments. A cheap-looking desk with a 60's-style rotary phone and massive fax machine crowded its small top, a mismatched chair shoved in the kneespace.
A door at the far end of the small comfy room lead directly into a treatment room, where, like at Wake Family's, there was a screen in one corner which hid a gynecological-type exam table with foot stirrups which had a couple of bar-type but made-from-stainless-steel stools beside it, along with a rolling coatrack where patient gowns were to be hung along with patients' clothing, a small metal nightstand-type piece of furniture, and a small footprint but tallish metal rack that held the various supplies that we would be needing, the front of which was modestly by a thin fabric curtain. A four-poster bed was nearby, a nightstand beside it, a tall chest-of-drawers full of needed therapy stuff in front of it, a combination TV/VCR unit atop the chest.
Coming back out of each office and walking down the respective hallways lead to a large common room that once had been a kitchen but now was used primarily for storage of patient gowns and bodywork supplies and such. A commercial coffee pot and microwave oven and other small appliances were atop the and chipped Formica countertop. A large but cheap wobbly kitchen table and 50's style wiremetal chairs were pushed into the far corner. The rotting floorjoists underneath us groaned as we walked over them. An upright freezer was near the right-hallway door, an ugly brown refrigerator near the left one. The middle front of the room was boxed off by partitions, which clad an elevator inside it. "We'll go up to your new apartments in a few moments" Dr. Nick absentmindedly said as he continued showing us our new home.
A single door to one side of the kitchen area opened to a large wooden deck that sported not one not two but three hottubs and Jacuzzis of different sizes, and past that, a huge, immaculately manicured backyard. A wooden privacy fence at least ten-foot tall ringed the perimeter of the yard. Ancient trees from a giant woodlot next door towered over us to our left. To our right, we could barely see the very top of a roofline of our closest neighbor, whose house was actually several hundred yards away on an equally large suburban acreage.
Coming back inside, Dr. Nick handed Margot and myself new keyrings full of color-coded keys, green for the front door, blue for the back, and a one that was needed to activate the elevator, the buttons not working without first momentarily turning the key to the left.
The second floor was well, a surprise to us, at least to me. Not one but two "dungeon"-type rooms for BDSM work, racks of whips and BDSM toys lining the walls. A true padded-cell room, where every single bit of flooring and walls were covered in upholstered-type padding. A big "wet room" that was similarly covered floor to ceiling in sterile white tile, having three exposed commodes, two exposed tubs, two exposed showers, and an enclosed shower area with what looked like four or five different valves and at least ten different shower heads at different heights and angles, and was big enough where seven or eight people could comfortably fit inside it. A smallish "chapel room" complete with altar, podium, and a big single stained glass window. Another medical exam room, this one looking more like a conventional doctor's examination room, complete with locking drug cabinet that appeared to have some actual drugs locked inside it. And a couple of other rooms that Dr. Nick didn't open the doors to and we didn't push by asking what was behind them.
The elevator then opened up to the third floor and our new homes. A huge, communal living room with a very expensive round fireplace in the middle of a semi-sunken conversation pit area dominated our gazes as the elevator doors slid open. Towards the rear of the room, a large, nice kitchen with new commercial-grade appliances including two separate refrigerators and a large gas stove was separated from the den by a half-height counter which served as a bar and eating surface. A smallish breakfast table with matching chairs near a large floor-to-ceiling window were the only pieces of free-standing furniture in the place, save a couple of Lay-Z-Boy recliners and a couple of massive bookcases.
Along the edge of the living room, lots of wallspace filled with nice-looking original art, and four doors, unlabeled. "Connie's chosen the first apartment on the right, Margot, Eric..." Dr. Nick interjected "...I hope that's okay...they are all the same floorplan and same size...I've taken the liberty of having all your stuff removed from your respective places and put in your new apartments, here, on the left...there's a door between them which opens up between the bedrooms, you'll see it when you go in...I hope you didn't mind my presumptuousness in moving your stuff over, but by your psychological profiles I knew it was a high priority that you'd accept my offer, and I just wanted to help you get a jump on things..."
Margot and I just looked at each other as my arm pulled her tighter to me as we stood in front of Dr. Nick, and collectively rolled our eyes at each other and him in what-the-hell resignation. "Sure, Dr. Nick..." Margot mumbled "...that was fine...but what about our own refrigerators and stuff that there wasn't room for here?" "Oh...all that, I had put in storage for you, no charge, and I'll pay for storage as long as you work for me, no charge...but all your clothes and personal effects, you'll find in your respective apartments...though, I suspect, you two will be a 'couple' while you're working for me, and that's okay, I encourage it but won't require it of you two, you can grow together, be a source of strength and perspective from and for each other as you begin your bodywork practices...now, enough for now...I'll take you by your places so you can pick up your vehicles and seeing that everything's as it should be then by the storage facility where you other stuff is stored so you can see where it is exactly...now...remember...by contract covenant, you can't have any patient contact for the next 48 hours, but I have plenty of work for you to do for me over the next two days...I want you in my office first thing tomorrow 9AM, so you can begin selectively calling some of the clients that Carol and WFT 'lost' and try to recruit them back to our practice...Emily will give you each a list of whom you're supposed to call when you arrive in the morning...any questions?"
The next two days were a pain. They blurred together with the week just passed, but they were also a pain. I learned how telemarketers felt, calling blind to strangers, to people they didn't know, and try to sell them something, ME, even though they had used a "service" like me before and needed to continue their therapy in Dr. Nick's opinion, or he wouldn't have put them on our list. I asked Dr. Nick why Connie wasn't working the phones with us, and he replied that it was because she was leaving just as soon as Margot and I got settled in and he was sure we'd work out, and those people I was calling were potential patients that if successfully recruited back into therapy, I'd be working with specifically in my practice. I don't why that didn't hit me before he explained it, but he hadn't explained it, and once he did, my attitude changed, and eventually I was able to, with some follow up calls, to bring over 80% of those who had left WFT's therapeutic influence to come over to Dr. Nick's practice.
During lunch, Dr. Nick brought us last Sunday's auto ads from the paper, and told us he wanted to go ahead and order our new company vehicles today, that day. It was a nice perk, don't get me wrong, a brand-new company-paid vehicle and co. gas cards and all, but considering that my/our life/lives would be spent virtually 24/7/365 within the confines of our combined office and apartment house, I didn't understand why Dr. Nick was so adamant about us having company cars. Still, it was an easy choice...Margot and I both picked new fourdoor Accords, she ordering a green one, me one in fire-engine red.
That night, Connie did a review with us, making sure she was satisfied that we knew the "Principle Of Possession" drill, practicing on her as a model. She actually smiled a few times, the first times we had seen her break something other a pokerface look at us. That Tuesday night, Margot opened up the door between our bedrooms, crawling into bed with me not for sex but just to be supportively close to me, and from that night on, that door was never closed again. Yes, we became a couple.
Later on, we found out that Dr. Nick had "bought" us because another couple had worked out well for him for a number of years, before things happened and they started seeing patients off-the-clock and eventually became more outright hookers than professional bodyworkers, which is why he let them go. But, his experience with a MF couple had been so positive for so long, he wanted another one, another couple, which is why among other reasons things happened as they did.
That Wednesday, Dr. Nick called us into his office late that afternoon, and handed us each a schedule for the rest of the week and a stack of patient case files related to the schedule. We drove back "home". No, it wasn't "home" in quotes, it was really HOME now, our home. Our new Accords were waiting for us in the driveway, the keys on the respective front seats. I pulled my clunker and Margot did also into the around back that served as a garage and workshop.
Connie was lounging around in an expensive-looking nightie, had called out for take-out from the Pizza Hut around the corner of Maynard and Chatham, that being one of our nice perks, and had dinner waiting for us as we walked in, making the shuttle up the elevator from the first floor backroom with growing comfort and ease. That night, Margot and I reviewed our schedule and upcoming patient files, as we sat snuggled next to each other sitting in chairs pulled close to each other in my/our smallish library/study, each of our apartments having a small room stuffed floor to ceiling with bookcases filled with books mainly about psychology and sexuality and a new computer atop an antique desk where we'd also be doing most of our paperwork for patient file updating and billings and such. My schedule for my first real day on the job looked to a real, real bear of one. Dr. Nick wasn't being kind or nice to me because I was a new therapeutic bodywork therapist, nosireee. Margot's schedule looked much easier, but that was because she was a woman and therefor would tend to have a much different caseload demographic. We finished up going over our respective patient files, got out the proper sized patient gowns and other such items we'd need for the day to come and put them in our respective treatment rooms downstairs, as midnight drew near, had some quick, almost polite sex with each other enough to make each other come, and fell happily asleep in each other's arms.
The Body Worker Pt. 16; My First Day Actually On The Job by PlanetDweller
The alarm went off precisely at seven. Margot kissed me awake. Connie came in much to our surprise, totally naked, and hopped into bed with us. Mainly, she just wanted to reiterate that except for a couple of her own patients which she'd see after 3PM, that today and for the next few days her main purpose was to be as support for us both. She went on about how much she truly wished us well, that she thought we both were very special people, that she was sure we'd do well in our new profession, and she was glad that as her last act as a therapeutic bodyworker she'd be our mentor over the next few days to couple of weeks, helping us find our professional center. She then playfully my cock for a few seconds and lapped at Margot's under the covers before bounding back out of our bedroom. Getting up to take a quick shower, the phone rang beside our bed. No one save my and Dr. Nick and Margot's had the number. It was Dr. Nick, of course. He just wanted to reassure us that Connie was available 24/7 to help us over the next few days, and that he was, too, for us not to hesitate to call him for anything, should we feel the need to.
Margot and I wolfed down some cold cereal at the breakfast table beside the breakfast nook window in our large communal living room as Connie read the morning paper as she lay sprawled out on one side of the semi-sunken built-in octagonal sofa. Getting up to take our dirty bowls back to the kitchen to put them in the dishwasher, I just looked at Margot, bending my head down from my six-three frame to meet directly her eyes at her four-eleven level, my eyes boring into hers, pulled her close to me, gave her the most intimate, supportive hug to both give and take strength from her, kissed her lightly on the lips, and then told her it was time. Connie followed us down in the elevator, reminding us that she'd be doing some paperwork in exam room number 3, and that she would drop in on our therapy sessions during the day to observe and/or help out, as she thought was needed. She had been a professional bodyworker for the past some years. Even if she seemed to be a bit of a nice flake, with her stringy, frizzy, long dirty-blond hairdo that looked more like a frightwig than hairstyle at times, along with her whitegold nipples rings and couple of tattoos, she had not just survived but thrived in my/our new profession, and I sincerely hoped she could and would pass along some of her scars-earned wisdom to us before leaving.
My first case that first day on the job of my new profession as a professional therapeutic bodyworker was probably the absolute last one I would have chosen for myself, had I had the ability to pick and choose my patients. If I hadn't known better, I would have sworn that Doc Chaim had something to do with it being assigned to me. In reality, I knew intellectually if not emotionally it was because I was a male, and the therapeutic Rx and modality called for treatment by a man, not a woman.
A nice middle-aged lady, a psychiatric social worker, was standing at the front door with my first patient, an eight-year-old boy. Behind them, another car pulled up with a middle-aged driving, Margot's first patient. I hustled them in and down the hall to treatment room number two, the exam/treatment room which I had chosen to be mine for the rest of my employment with Dr. Nick. I bade them to sit down as I got her a cup of coffee from the 25-cup commercial perculator in the kitchen area in the back, one of the house rules being to always have plenty of coffee hot for patients and others, and got my first patient a plastic cup full of ice from same said kitchen for his canned Coke from the dorm refrigerator in the reception room and let him get a pack of Nabs from a box of assorted snacks atop same.
I made smalltalk for a couple of moments with the social worker and with Dale, my first patient. This was part of the drill, to relax them, the patient, but truth be known I was shaking like a leaf inside, though I hope I wasn't visibly shaking to them, the smalltalk being as much to relax me as Dale. The social worker then fished the needed paperwork from her purse, giving Dr. Nick the authorization to bill the County for professional services rendered, she and I both signing ahead of time that said services were satisfactorily rendered, she stuffing her copy back into her purse, I folding my copy and leaving it atop the plain desk in the corner.
According to Dale's case file and patient records, this was an especially sad case. His had begun molesting him at age five, mainly oral and manual sex giving and taking at first, but eventually leading into forced anal intercourse a few weeks before his discovered blood in his shorts and took him to his pediatrician who knew immediately it was abuse and what kind and reported it which ended up having Dale taken away from his and put in care of the County. His mother was fighting the County for custody, but the County was fighting equally hard for her not to obtain custody of him, suspecting collusion with the somehow. Jesus, what a sad fucking case. But Doc Chaim had pounded into us during our time at his Polykinetic Bodywork Institute that while not an everyday case that we would be having our fair share of similarly-paradigmed cases, what with child abuse being so rampant in this country, and that it was our job as healers to heal the psychically-sexually injured as best we could, no matter a patient's age, sex, etc. I took a visible deep breath, put my hand on Dale's shoulder, and told him it was time for his therapy, leading him back to the treatment room as I closed the door to the reception area and his escort behind me.
I lead Dale back to the gyno exam table area at the far corner of the treatment room. He looked at the four-poster queen-sized bed in the other corner, but didn't say anything. By Rx, no one had told him what was going to happen today, other than he would be seeing a therapist, not being told what kind. I lead him over to the exam table, pulled out a cellophane-wrapped sized-"S" for small white cotton cloth exam gown/robe from the stack of that day's anticipated usage inside the metal nightstand and hung it on a hanger on the stainless steel coatrack, told him to get completely undressed, put the robe on, and call me when he was done, pulling the privacy screen more taut behind me as I went to change from my white labcoat and navy-blue sansabelt-slacks and white polo and brown boating shoes-type-loafers into my multi-colored polyester robe and flip-flops which hung on a coattree beside my paperwork desk and sat down on one of the vinyl-covered overstuffed chairs next to the desk which was across the room from the exam area.
A moment later, Dale called out to me "I'm ready, Mr. Woods!" He still had on his socks as he sat on the edge of the exam table his gown too large for him covering him, so I pulled them off and threw them atop of the pile of his clothes he had left on an exam stool. He looked very, very nervous. "Eric, you don't know why you're here, do you?" "No, Mr. Woods..." "Eric" I gently suggested. "...no, Eric, I don't..." "You're here, Dale, because your committed a terrible act against you, many terrible acts against your body and mind, and I'm going to try to help you recover from what he did..."
"But I LOVE my Dad, I love my Mom, Eric!..." he exclaimed with high fervor. "I know, Dale...but truth is, your is probably going to spend time in jail for what he did to you, and while you will be able to spend some days with him months or years from now, it'll be quite a while...and your Mom...I know your loves you, and she's fighting to get you back, to get custody of you back so you can at least live with her though you'll never be able to live with your Dad agin...Dale..." "Yes, Mr. Eric?" "...you have to trust me, and trust Dr. Nick who sent you to me, on this...Dr. Nick thinks that by me helping you work through the pain your Dad inflicted on you, you can grow up to be a fine who won't have permanent emotional scars, and for now, if you work with me, Dale..." "Uh-hu, Mr. Eric?" "...and show positive results from your therapy with me, it'll help you, MAYBE, get back with your Mom...isn't that what you want?" "Oh, yes, Eric, that's what I want!" "Then, Dale...Dr. Nick has got you down for a minimum of twelve treatment sessions with me, one every other week for the next six months, and possibly another twelve after that...let's you and I work together, and I'll do what I can to help set the stage a little for your MAYBE regaining custody of you...okay?" " 'K, Eric".
"Now, Dale, you and I are going to do some things like you did with your Dad, except in a better, more fun way, okay?..." his expression changing from bewilderment to pure puzzlement and concern "...by doing those things with me, it'll help you work through those feelings you have inside you, it will help you heal, my friend, and then hopefully you'll be fine afterwards and can go on and have a nice life when you're grown, okay?...now, let's proceed, shall we?" I intoned authoritatively but polite, assuming control as the professional once more. " 'K".
My first bonding ritual, my first real-life use of Doc's "Principle Of Possession", thus began. As he sat on the edge of the exam table, I massaged that sweet eight-year-old face topped with mussed straight hair. My fingers worked pressure deep but gentle into his facial muscles and then down into his neck and shoulders, as I opened his gown up and let it fall to his waist, per procedure. Pulling him close, I massage his back some, feeling it tense up to my touch. "Just relax, Dale...I won't you...this is therapy, to help you...just relax".
Sliding the large, wedge-shaped pillow further the exam table underneath the crinkly rollpaper covering so his butt would be at the end of the table better, I took his gown off and had him lay flat, his head on the thirty-degree pillow where he could see exactly what I was doing. He still had his underwear on. I slid them off his legs, and put his feet in the stirrups. Per bonding ritual procedure for pre-adolescent boys, I just let him lay there a couple of moments, as my hands roamed over him, lightly rubbing his chest and face and legs, trying to get him both focused to my touch and desensitised to it simultaneously, get him unafraid of my hands on his body. Pulling a castered stool around, I took my place between his legs.
A pre-pubescent half-hard attempted to rise. My hands massaged his thighs, his buttcheeks, all around his genital area, before my mouth clamped over his 3" penis and tiny ballsack and I began a slow suck and manual manipulation, per ritual outlined in the "Manual". I had sexual contact with six or seven or more pre-pubescent during my training at Polykinetic Bodywork Institute the week before, but that was training, and this was for real. The realization that every action I took or didn't take would affect the rest of this nice man's life hit me like a ton of bricks. Now I understood and accepted it a greater, more core-emotional level, not just an intellectual one. Still, I didn't yet see how what I was doing to Dale could be healing when the identical act performed on him by his him, but then the flood of indoctrination yes but indoctrination I knew to be true because I had seen and experienced the results first-hand many times in the week just past swamped me on the backside of my centering tidal wave, and I knew because of the Principle Of Possession and the doctrine of healing that Polykinetic Principles promulgated that what I was doing was indeed a healing act, not a hurtful one. Connie stuck her head in for a second as I was bonding Dale, stage whispered if everything was alright, I nodding yes, she smiling back and closing the door behind her.
Getting him fully aroused and erect with my mouth and hands, I got up and took off and hung my robe up on the rack, and lead him to the bed. The Rx had called for a minimum of one hour from the two hour, actually one hour and forty-five minute, session of sexualization, meaning body-to-body contact such as general massage or touching or similar, with my patient Dale, of which thirty minutes had to be direct sexualization, meaning that my mouth or hands or penis or anus had to be in direct sexual contact with his mouth or hands or penis or anus, i.e., there had to be a direct sexual component for that time. I lay him beside me and put my arm around his shoulder, pulling him tight to me, our bodies touching on many levels and in many places. I didn't say a word, and he didn't either. We just breathed together for a while. I felt him relax in my arms. My cock, despite itself and me not necessarily wanting it to, firmed up a little. His was still reasonably hard as it poked my leg as we lay next to each other.
I put my hand on his cock, as I placed his on mine. "Dale..." I began "...when your touched you like this, and had you touch him like this, did you like it?" "Yes, Eric...I liked it...I guess". "Tell me, Dale...of all the things your did to you and made you do to him, what your favorite and least-favorite sexual things?" "Sexual?" he asked sincerely. "Like we're doing now...things with our penises..." he shot me a quizzical look "...pee-pees...Dale...a pee-pee is also called a penis...something 'sexual' between a and a body usually involves their penises, though it can also mean mouths and anus'...buttholes...like when you suck or have your butthole and licked...understand better now?"
"I think so...Eric...I liked it when he my pee-pee, errr, penis...and I liked it when he got me to stick my pee-pee in his butthole, that was most fun, but I didn't like it when he stuck his in mine, it hurt...and it was okay when Dad and I played with each other like you and I are doing now..." "Did your ever join in your fun?" "NO!...never!...Dad made me keep everything a secret...he said would be really upset if she knew, so I did, kept it a secret."
A long pause as we played with each other's cocks. "Dale...you like looking at Playboys and Penthouses and such?" "Boy, Eric, do I!...Dad used to let me see his sometimes...you have any?" "Yes, Dale, I sure do...would you like to see some now?" "Sure, Eric, that'd be neat!"
I fished three or four Plaboys and Penthouses from the bottom dresser drawer and looked at them with my first charge'-de-therapy. He pointed to an especially thin but buxom in one of the photo spreads, telling me his actually looked liked that, confessing he had sneaked a peek at her one time as she came out of the shower. His hard fully rose flagpole as he looked with glee at the softcore nudie photos. My hands masturbated him with a professional detachment but sincere touch as he flipped the pages as we lay nude together on the bed looking at the pictures together. He felt totally relaxed underneath my touch as I massaged his thighs and stomach while manually stimulating him. Boy, how I had dreaded this case, especially as my first one. But, actually, it wasn't bad, wasn't bad at all. Dale was a nice man, a good patient to have as my first professional charge. The Westclox big round office-type clock showed nine-fifteen.
"Dale..." I broke our friendly smalltalk of talking about boobies and pussies and such that we were looking at "...do you squirt whitestuff from your penis like your Dad did?" "You mean, do I come?...that's what Dad called it." "Yes, do you come?" "Well...I don't like Dad did...but I do have a nice feeling that rises like I think Dad was having when he spurted his come...is that what you're asking?" "Yes, Dale, that is what I'm asking...you said you liked putting your penis up your Dad's anus, butthole, best of all...would you like to put yours inside mine?" "Can I, Eric, can I?!?" "Sure, Dale, if you'd like...you've been an especially good patient today, and I'd like to reward you if I can...you can put your penis inside my anus you'd like, and tell you what, next time, two weeks from now, I'll have some different Playboys and Penthouses for you to look at, how's that?" I smiled at him. "Boy, Eric, that'd be great!"
His member was fully hard, but I on it anyway for a moment. Fishing a latex fingercot out from the nightstand drawer, I rolled it over his little 3" cock, and lubed it with a touch of KY. Asking him how he'd like to do this, he told me that his Dad usually just laid flat on his back. I propped my butt up with a couple of pillows and my head and shoulders with a couple more, and let my patient push his tiny but hard cock inside my anus. I couldn't help but think about Doc, about Doc's patience and wisdom in helping me get over my fear of being anally penetrated during my training at Polykinetic Bodywork Institute. Dale grabbed my legs and rammed his childcock home inside me, and then began a series of short orgasmic spasms. It didn't feel, well, good as he assfucked me, but it didn't hurt, either. This was therapy after all, NOT sex. Finishing, he snuggled up to me. I pulled the fingercot off his shrinking cock, and squeezed it to see what if any fluid was inside of it. The tiniest trace of clear liquid puddled down its length.
Nudging him hard but friendly, I told him our time was about up, and to go get dressed, and he could take a quick shower if he'd like, that there was a shower in the bathroom. He declined the shower, but did walk across the room to visit the bathroom at the far corner. He closed the door behind him, but I opened it back up as I followed him in. I watched him piss, then had him watch me piss. I hadn't come, hadn't had a come, but that was okay, I hadn't felt the need for one. But I did need to piss. We got dressed behind our closed therapy room door, then I took him out to his psychiatric social worker so she could take him back to the County facility. "God..." I thought "...I really hope I can make a difference with him, 'hope that I can help he and his at least get back together. As I lead them back down the corridor to the front door, Connie said my next patient was waiting for me, but she wanted to see me before I got started with her. My next patient, Lisa, a pert and pretty twelve-year-old girl, and her were waiting for me in the entrance foyer, sitting on one of the parson's benches, as I bade Dale and company good-bye. I followed Connie back to her office. Mainly, she just wanted a sixty-second recap of the therapy session with Dale, and studied my eyes deeply for a moment also, as she asked how I felt about it all, I honestly replying that everything was fine.
Lisa was another hard-luck, tragic case. A year earlier, at age eleven, she had been kidnaped from a public street in Raleigh and taken off to another nearby county by three thugs where she was brutally raped, sodomized, and beaten badly for several hours before being released. Her broken bones and other injuries required a six week hospital stay before she was well enough to be released. But her psychological scars had yet to begin to heal. Even the fact that her kidnapers were in prison now and would be so for close to the rest of their natural lives hadn't initiated a healing paradigm. Coming out of the hospital, she was in a state of near-catatonia for over three months. Her were referred to Dr. Nick by another psychiatrist, since Dr. Nick specialized in adolescent and pediatric psychiatry though he also does a lot of family-oriented counseling through that regard, and after six months of talking therapy with him produced little progress, he suggested professional bodywork therapy, much to the horror of her super-straight-laced, fundamentalist Christian parents. But when he had a couple of former patients call them with testimonials, and when he explained exactly how truly non-sexual for the therapist and patient the therapy is, even though bodyworking seems to be 100% about sex to the lay person, they finally consented, though with much reluctance. Lisa had been seeing the female-half of Dr. Nick's couple team every week, up until he had to fire them, but she had not produced the kind of results he was looking for, so he decided to switch therapist genders and give her case to me, to see if I could make any headway.
Walking down the hallway to my office, I tried to make the usual polite smalltalk, but was rebuffed by her rude mother, who told me that this was costing them a small fortune, that they only had the usual two hours today, and for me to get to it, chop, chop. Maybe I should have asserted more professional authority with her, but she wasn't my patient, Lisa was, so I just decided to ignore her and focus in Lisa. As we made our way to my office, her told me she didn't need to be here, that she was going shopping at nearby Cary Town Center shopping center, and she'd pick Lisa up in exactly two hours. Bitch.
Lisa had been through nine previous sessions with her former female therapist, and I thought she'd be more comfortable with the situation than she was, but she wasn't. Dr. Nick had R-x'd a full hour and a half out of the hour forty-five minutes of sexualization, with all but fifteen minutes of that being direct sexualization, but his Rx was only a guideline, a suggestion to me, if a damned strong one backed by the fact that he was my boss. Still, Lisa was MY patient, not Dr. Nick's, when she was with me.
I had her sit on the couch beside me out in the reception and waiting area, and tried to make smalltalk. She wouldn't budge. She just kept staring at the floor, not wanting to make eye contact. I tried every angle I could think of, saying any number of stupid and outrageous but non-sexual things to get a rise out of her, but nothing. I held her hand and whispered dirty jokes in her ear, but nothing, still. I put a hand directly on one of her and massaged it some through her blouse, but nothing. No reaction. I got up to fix myself a club soda with ice, offering her one, but nothing.
I sat across the smallish waiting room from her at the desk, staring at her. She didn't want to be helped, I concluded. Fine. Nine previous therapy sessions with a female therapist hadn't helped. I doubted mine would, too. I hated the thought of starting my career with a zero, an unreachable patient, on the very first day, but facts is facts. I'd write in my report to Dr. Nick that I had tried to break through her shell with no success. If he pissed and moaned, then he would just and moan. No health care professional has 100% success rate or even close, not Doctors, not massage therapists, not colonic irrigation specialists, not heart surgeons, least of all polykinetic bodywork sex therapists.
The Body Worker Part 17 by PlanetDweller My First Day On The Job Continues
"I'm going down to the kitchen area at the far end of the hall..." I announced in a very loud voice to my patient Lisa, not hiding the irritation in it "...to fix myself a sandwich...I'm a therapist, Lisa, I am YOUR therapist, not a rapist...you can sit here and wait for the two hours until your comes back, or if you'd like to talk, come see me down the hall".
I fixed myself a salami-on-rye sandwich, finding enough edible stuff stuffed in the refrigerator bracketed by the stacks of cardboard boxes of gowns and Chux and condoms and Kotexs and tampons and other bodyworking sundries, and poured myself a fresh club soda on shaved ice, noticing for the first time a crushed/shaved ice machine stuff under a counter which Dr. Nick had neglected to tell me about. Five minutes, no Lisa. Ten minutes, still no Lisa. Fifteen minutes, and I guess I had my first professional failure already, my second patient, just my first day on the job. Ghheezzzz. I knew Dr. Nick would not be a happy Greek-ancestry psychiatrist.
Then, the door to the kitchen and squeaky from so many layers of paint eased open. It was Lisa. She had already changed from her street clothes into her gown, she having been through the drill enough to know where to look and find her treatment gown in the treatment room. Her twelve-year-old barefeet sported a brace of painted toenails, two or three with glitter added to them, evidently a fad among girls. "Dr. Woods..." she began. "It's, Eric...I'm not a Doctor, Lisa, I'm a professional therapeutic bodywork sex therapist, not a doctor, just like the lady you were seeing before me...call me 'Eric', not Doctor or Mister Woods, okay?" I gently reprimanded her as her gaze didn't leave the floor in front of her. At least she was speaking now, her catatonia temporarily gone.
She took a pregnant pause, shuffled her naked feet as she waddled towards me. "Eric...can I have half your sandwich, please?"
Getting another paper plate and a canned Coke for her, I sliced the unbitten half of salami sandwich off for her, tossing her a small bag of chips from a variety pack atop the counter. Glancing up at me fleetingly just a second every now and then, she concentrated on slowly eating her sandwich. I could almost hear the gears in her mind turning. She was making decisions she and I both knew would affect the rest of her life.
"Eric...you see...you can pretty much see right through me, can't you?" she asked of very adult almost accusation as well as inquiry. "Yeah, pretty much, Lisa, pretty much...but that's what I'm trained to do...I couldn't help a patient unless I could figure out not just what they want but also what they need...so, yeah, with the information from your file and the vibes I'm picking up now, I pretty much know what you need and want." Another long silence as we both finished our finger sandwiches. She reached her thin, tiny arm across the old, wobbly kitchen table to near my paper plate. I put my hand atop hers in a gesture of support and professional friendship.
"I'm scared, Eric..." "I know, Lisa...you're just twelve, and you've been through more hell than many adults will ever be...I know you're scared....you're scared, and scarred, have deep emotional scars...I'm here to help you remove and heal those scars, Lisa, if you'd let me..." "Eric...one thing...if I say yes, will you show me how to kiss, kiss like a grown-up?...all my girlfriends at school, who don't know what happened to me by the way, all they talk about is how much fun kissing a guy is...I've never been kissed by a boy...if I say yes to treatment, will you show me how to kiss?" she asked as she raised her head and neck level and her eyes met mine head-on. "Sure, Lisa...during your treatment, I'll show you how to kiss".
Our bonding ritual was relaxed. When I massager her face as I pulled her gown open and down to massage her breasts, she put her hand atop mine. After spec'ing her, I found out she had a ticklish clit, giggling like the 12-year-old school she was when I massaged and played with and lightly pinched it with lubed fingers. Though the typical bonding ritual is supposed to last around five minutes tops, therapy sessions are usually just one hour, actually fifty minutes after all, though a two-hour/one hour forty-five minute session, the point of the bonding ritual is to quickly use the Principle Of Possession to gain therapeutic control of your patient and if you dawdle you're basically the patient from the time they're paying for, Lisa enjoyed me playing with her clit and massaging her labia so much as she lay on the exam table her feet in the stirrups that I let the bonding time drift into fifteen to twenty minutes, before moving to the therapeutic bed.
"Okay, Lisa...you said you wanted to learn how to kiss...I'll show you" I said as she lay beside me on the bed. Putting my hand behind her head, she eased to me as our mouths met, and began her lesson in oral connection. My left arm slid under her and pulled her tighter to me. Her little puffy nipples became engorged as our tongues started to mingle. My cock rose. Her hand found my cock without being told to and began playing with it. I didn't tell her not to. My middle finger of my right hand slid down to her crotch, and tunneled its way into her vagina, still wet from the bonding ritual G-spot expression I had given her just moments before. Dr. Nick's are-exxx had called for basically maximum direct sexual contact as the paradigm for her therapy. Rape, as much as an act of violence, is an act of removing control. As her therapist, I needed to reinforce that sex with male partners involved her always having control. Rolling on my back, having her roll a condom on me, she being a little clumsy and a lot shy but actually laughing a little as she got the first two "backwards", she slid atop me. I raised up as much as I could on my elbows and we kissed more as she fucked me. The clock on the treatment room wall caught my eye. Damn clock. It was already past eleven-thirty. We had spent the first hour doing the dance of denial and acceptance of the inevitable, leaving less than an hour for actual therapy. But at least she wasn't catatonic now, or pretending to be. She seemed to be enjoying herself as she rode my full-hard member as we kissed and I and played with her less-than-A-cup-12-year-old breasts. Damn clock didn't lie. Grabbing her asscheeks, I playfully swatted one, telling her "sorry, Lisa...time's almost up...you need to shower and put your clothes back on...your will be here soon". She seemed genuinely disappointed. As we walked down the corridor, I held her close to me. We stopped at the door to the foyer and I let her kiss me another two or three minutes as we hugged. A car beeped its horn in my driveway. Lisa's expression changed from one of basic happiness back to her faux catatonia one as her beeped the horn once more and she walked back into the sphere of bitchdom which was her mother.
Noon. I was hungry. Walking back down the hallway to catch my elevator upstairs to my apartment, Connie was in the kitchen, waiting for me. She had me briefly debrief on how my session went with Lisa, and seemed pleased. She told me she'd take me to lunch, at one of the nearby places that Dr. Nick had a company account set up. I told her that I really just wanted to be alone until my next appointment in an hour. She implied it wasn't a request.
We drove down the driveway to Chatham St., hung a left to the light on Maynard Rd., then went a hundred yards and pulled into the little strip shopping center to Guy's Sub Shop. Connie's new, well, last year's Corvette didn't even get woken up good on the less than quarter mile trip. Guy's was full, packed with people, but a waitress lead us to a small, somewhat isolated high-backed booth at the very back, a "Reserved" plaque keeping others from taking it. We got stares from time to time from the odd customer, I suppose because of us wearing our white doctor-style labcoats, both of which respectively sported our gold/brass-looking nametags with our names and "Wake Therapy" in big black letters on them, not having gotten or even having thought to ask Dr. Nick for new ones with the name of his professional corporation on them. In somewhat hushed tones because of patrons scooting by our table during the lunch rush, Connie basically just asked me more about my treatment modalities and sequences with Dale and Lisa, why and wherefor, etcetera. She also asked me about Margot's and mine friendship and relationship. Our replied honestly that our friendship was quite real but our "relationship" as such was totally professional. Finishing our lunch and heading back, Connie went to seek Margot out and take her to lunch to download her first half of the day more succinctly, as another car drove in the driveway with my next patients, a and duo.
I gave them both light but friendly hugs as they came into the entrance foyer. Louise Fortner was thirty-eight, average height and weight, elegantly styled medium auburn hair, matronly stuffed inside her off-the-rack designer dress copy. Her daughter, Sherrie, was pert and perky ten-year-old, only about four-five, less than a hundred pounds, straight hair past her shoulders. Louise had been divorced for about five years, and Sherrie saw her Dad every other weekend at his home about a hundred miles away and spent most of her summer vacations with him too. There had not been any abuse by her or prior to the divorce, and hadn't really had any since, either. This case was one of those that kinda fell through the cracks, definition-wise. Sherrie had caught her mother naked and masturbating late one night, as she walked into her room because she woke up sick to her stomach. Louise had then treated Sherrie for her nausea with some syrup of ipecac, but still being naked, a sexual moment erupted. Sherrie asked her what she had been doing, and her Mother told her, explained it all. Sherrie then asked if she would do it some more and let her watch, and her agreed. By the end of that first night, Louise had fully sexualized her daughter. By the end of the next week, she was wracked with guilt about what had happened, which also happened twice more the following week, and to make a long short, had sought out help through Wake Therapy, this being one of the referral cases I helped salvage by working the phones earlier in the week. Today was to be the first of six scheduled sessions.
There were no proscribed activities from Dr. Carol's and then Dr. Nick's Rx's, and not much of a PRE-scribed one(s), either, other than try to introduce a comfort level between and on a non-sexual level through bodywork means and try to introduce a level of hetero-centricity into their respective focus'. In other words, try to remove Louise's guilt about accidentally sexualizing her daughter, and try to introduce a level of heterosexual focus to Sherrie. Considering Sherrie was just ten and a virgin, this would require a little more structure and patience than normal.
Per procedures outlined in "The Manual", I had them undress and gown together behind the screen. I bonded Louise first. As I massaged her face and then her breasts, I had Sherrie join my massage of her mother's breasts. Both Sherrie and Louise got a far-away look in their eyes as Sherrie touched her thusly. In the stirrups, I had Sherrie look at the inside of her mother's and got a small flashlight out so she could see her cervix. Louise had explained "the facts of life" to her daughter just a couple of weeks previously to the initial sexualization session, on a scale probably too deep, complete with not just sex manuals but also instructional tapes and even a couple of regular X-rated tapes, which both Dr. Nick and Dr. Carol concluded helped set up the potential for what had happened happening.
Louise knew about G-spots only in passing, and definitely didn't know where hers was and had never had a G-spot orgasm before. Sherrie, still gowned as she stood beside me as I continued the bonding ritual with her mother, giggled as did Louise when, after a full five minutes of fishing for it then another three or four minutes of using increasingly hard pressure to express it, Louise's first G-spot come squirted far enough to hit both of Sherrie and I in the face as we sat between her mother's legs as she lay on the exam table. Sherrie wiped her mother's cyprinne from her face with her hand and tasted it. I wiped the thin come from my face and walked around to share with Louise, putting it on my lips to share with her in a kiss. Returning back to my station to finish up, I let Sherrie rub and play with her mother's labia some before telling her it was her turn.
Sherrie was an especially bright and seemingly well-adjusted girl. If she had been harmed by her mother's sexualization of her, and I knew she had because Dr. Nick and Dr. Carol wouldn't have recommended treatment otherwise, it wasn't apparent. As I rubbed her flat chest in the first part of the Possession ritual, she just sprung a nice, big bear hug on me, her ten-year-old short arms not reaching all the way around my large chest. I hugged her back and told her she was sweet. Feet in stirrups for the second time in her life, the first being her screening exam by a gynecologist before being sent to me to make sure the absence of social diseases and such, she fidgeted a little. I had Louise examine her still-intact hymen with me in detail as we shared the space between her daughter's spread legs. We both touched it and played with it, feeling the thickness yet suppleness of its membrane. The tiniest of vaginal openings peered its monocol eye at me. Even my smallest and most well-lubed plastic speculum from the wire rack of supplies nearby couldn't ease in to her. Remembering the label on a cardboard box inside the kitchen area, I excused myself for a moment and came back with one designed specifically for very girls, the width of the speculae blades being not much wider than a pencil. Per "Manual" procedures, I finished my bonding with her by mouthing the totality of her pudenda as best I could, she giggling with pleasure as I did.
I had already formulated a course of action in my head that I planned to take with them, based upon Dr. Nick's and Dr. Carol's treatment Rx or lack thereof, by the time I lead them over to the treatment bed. For the most part, for the first three sessions, I would directly sexualize Louise mostly, though I'd also sexualize Sherrie to some extent as part of my play with Louise. Watching me sexualize her would more focus Sherrie on heterosexual play. Over the next three sessions, I'd let Sherrie join in more and more, teaching her about M/F sex, and in the third or fourth session, would take her virginity then. From there, I'd concentrate more on Sherrie, since she was the victim in all this, and bring her to a point where her relationship with her was more where it was before what happened happened.
I had Louise get on all fours on the bed as I fucked her mouth as I stood in front of her. Divorced for five years, it had been two years since Louise's last date and fuck, and I suspect she was probably looking forward to these bodywork sessions. Then we had sex in various positions as her watched us up close and personal on the bed with us. Her pussy was very, very tight. It was obvious she hadn't had penile-vaginal sex indeed for the past two years. While Louise was on top of me, I had Sherrie play with my cock and her mother's as we fucked. She seemed to enjoy that, and I could tell she was focusing her fascination with my cock, the first real one she had ever seen let alone touched. Time does fly when you're having therapy. Damn clock again told of just a few minutes left. Having Louise lay flat across the bed, I had Sherrie join her in a sixty-nine, as I fucked Louise, having Sherrie lick my cock as it went in and out of her mother's cunt. That was nice. Not as erotic as you might think, I was trying to maintain my professional demeanor, but nice. Then our time was up.
The next two, my remaining two appointments, I knew would be the easiest ones of the day. Connie again pulled me into her office for a brief debriefing about what I had done with Louise and Sherrie, as I kept my next patient, Madeline, waiting for a moment. Madeline was a nice, polite, plump but not fat, bit of a frump frumpish housewife in her middle forties. Married for almost twenty-five years to the same first husband, having enjoyed a pleasant if not earth-shaking monogamous sex life for all those years except the recent most two, her lack of desire second but her IN-ability to achieve orgasm firstly was causing major problems in her marriage. Many thousands of dollars worth of medical exams and tests and such had ruled out physical or organic causes, and yet she didn't exhibit classical presentations psychologically that would lead to a psychiatric talking-therapy conclusive positive result. So, Dr. Carol, Madeline being another WFT referral, having seen the two previous women bodyworkers and Connie for several visits each (with mixed results at best so far, I might add) before Dr. Nick assigned her to me, had recommended and she accepted the idea of being polykinetically bodyworked.
I knew this was to be more typical of my caseload than the previous three others, especially with me being of the male gender. As Doc had drilled so firmly into our brains, there were millions of women "out there" who suffered from one sort of orgasmic dysfunction, who were pre-orgasmic, who had been orgasmic but were now no longer like Madeline was, who had better orgasms years ago but now had lesser ones and wanted their big ones again, etc., just an army of potential women patients who were beginning to demand equal medical treatment like had been getting from surrogates and sex therapists and bodyworkers for decades past.
As I slipped her gown down to begin massaging her per ritual, I couldn't help but notice that her bra straps had cut deep grooves, almost ruts into her shoulders. Her matronly, somewhat middle-aged floppy 38DD tits were large and pendulous, but a properly fitting bra wouldn't have cut depressions like that. I rubbed those what I knew had to be painful ruts out as best I could before attending to massaging her breasts, friendly suggesting that she really needed to go to Pennyrich Bra Patch or someplace similar and be properly measured and fitted for a correct-sized bra designed for amply-endowed women, she politely thanking me for the suggestion.
Working my way through the bonding ritual, she asked me exactly what I did, what I had done, after I expressed her G-spot, so I explained the physiology of the Graffenberg gland and the reason behind the bonding ritual. She again politely thanked me, and asked if I would give her another one like it. On the bed, I gave her not one not two but a good half a dozen or more G-spot orgasms, each one being a little deeper than the last, each one squirting a little more cyprinne fluidic expression onto the Chux pads I had put under her butt to keep from having to change the mattress pad before seeing my last patient for the day. Being just the usual fifty minute-hour session, I turned the focus around to her coming in the "usual" way by intercourse, she being on all fours as I pounded deeply away into her from the rear, pushing her face into a pillow, but while I felt a partial orgasmic plateau rise, she didn't in the end actually come, and I had to call "time". Kissing on the cheek as she walked out into the late afternoon creeping twilight, thanking her for agreeing to stay with her therapy despite the change in venue, she smiled at me and my next patient, Jani, as they passed each other on the short front porch.
Jani was a typical patient of Dr. Nick's. A mid-adolescent, age just 17, a product of a stable, happy, successful WASP-ish two-parent home, she had never been abused nor suffered any major trauma or even upsets in her life. A junior attending Cary High School just down the road from my office and home, she drove a new Mustang her parents, both of whom worked at different Fortune 500 employers in Research Triangle Park, had bought for her when she turned sixteen. Losing her virginity at 15, she had three boyfriends and no impulses or girlfriends so far. Her high school annual listed her as being a member of the Beta Club, the National Honor Society, and was a first-team "A"-team cheerleader. That said, she had been in on-and-off analysis with Dr. Nick since she was thirteen, for a condition described in what selective records Dr. Nick had copied and sent to me with her files as "non-clinical depression" or, in layman's terms, what you and I would call being depressed from time to time when life doesn't go a hundred-percent to our satisfaction. Having her on a laundry list of different pharmacological treatments for depression over the years and none having achieved results, she came to the polykinetic bodywork therapy treatment because, in her own words quoted in her chart, "none of my two boyfriends in the past or my current one has ever been able to make me come, I guess because I'm too depressed all the time to have the energy to come". The "Mrs. Therapist" now gone not having been successful over the course of six treatments, Dr. Nick had referred on to me.
She seemed bored by the initial part of the bonding ritual. Even when I more than lightly pinched her nipples while massaging her to try to get a reaction from her, no rise from her at all. My genital massage and G-spot expression barely produced a yawn. Only when I started on her clit like a vacuum cleaner while she lay spread eagle in the stirrups did she vocalize anything at all, a "hey, Doc, that feels good!".
She did have that perfect, 5'8", 130 lb., 38C with pyramid-shaped-tits perfect seventeen-year-old body, her long sandy hair wispy but not thin cascading to the middle of her back. I couldn't help but feel attracted to her, sexually aroused by the fact that I had total control of her sexually now in our patient-bodywork therapist relationship. "Ya' gonna fuck me now, Doc?" she asked semi-sarcastically as she popped a bubblegum bubble inches from my face as I bade her to lay down on the bed next to me. "It's Eric, Jani, not 'Doc', I'm a professional therapeutic sex therapist, not a Doctor..." I scolded only half-jokingly back. "Sorry...Eric...anyway, we gonna fuck?...last few times, me and that other lady therapist fucked, only she did me with a strap-on dildo, not a real cock, since she didn't have one..." she snickered as if she had said something funny.
"Well, your chart says you're here because you're non-orgasmic and wish to become orgasmic, so yes, we'll fuck, we'll fuck today and the next time and the next time you come for an appointment, until you and/or Dr. Nick decides results have been achieved or further treatments won't be necessary or do you any good..." I replied as my hands played with those perfect breasts of hers, my right hand wedging her thighs open so her would be exposed to my manual explorations. "Well, Doc, eerrrr, Eric..." she continued as her hand found my rising member "...I CAN come, but not by a cock inside me, but only when I play with myself instead..." "That's not in your records". "Well, I don't tell that perv' Dr. Nick everything, Eric..." "I still think I can help you, Jani, if you would like me to". "Sure, whatever...why not?"
I had her face away from me, we both on our left sides, and entered her from the back as I pulled her to me for maximum flesh-to-flesh contact. God help me, and I knew it was okay within the bodyworker-to-patient relationship and paradigm to feel this way but I still couldn't help but feel the ever-so-slightest twinge of guilt for feeling so, but Jani felt so good beside me as I fucked her, my hand reaching over and around to manually stimulate her clit as we fucked. My right hand mostly stimulated her clit as we fucked, roaming up for a moment to squeeze and play with her breasts before returning to her clit. Then, Clock reminded me again it was only a fifty-minute session. I picked up my pace, my fingers joining my cock inside her for a moment as they simultaneously mashed her clit hard while doing so, and she and I both came. Popping up to get dressed again, she lay on the bed, panting, for a few minutes. Finishing up my paperwork on her, I finally had to go rouse her and tell her she needed to leave, that therapy was over for today. She planted a firm but sincere kiss on my lips as she walked off the porch and to her car.
Margot lay nude atop a bathtowel half-asleep on the surround semi-sunken couch watching some cable how-to program on our wide-screen across the room, her eyes not rising to meet mine as I headed from the elevator to our room and my hot, hot shower. Connie, dressed in a nice pantsuit as she sat at the communal roll-top workdesk near where the elevator came up doing more paperwork, didn't acknowledge me as I spoke "Hi" to her as I passed within five feet of her. The shower felt good. The healing warmth of the hot water just seemed to wash the professional mistakes I had made that day along with my sins down the drain. Adjusting the showerhead to suit me, the torrent of comforting water relaxed my body and mind. Soaking under the umbrella of h2o for a long while, a still-nude Margot opened the accordianed glass shower door, lazily telling me that "Connie wants to see us both...get dressed...more work stuff...she says hurry up."
"C'mon, you two, dinner's on me, well, on the company, let's go eat". Her 'Vette being just a two-seater, we took my new Accord to Ragazzi's, over at Cary Town Center, instead. We didn't talk the first word about the day's past events as we gulped our wood-fired oven-cooked lasagna and house salad and house wine down. Instead, Connie pressed us for details about our experiences with Doc and Mrs. Doc and all at our Polykinetic Bodywork Institute. Margot and I both were still a little numb, I think, about all these major, radical shifts in our lives that had happened so quickly and well, so unexpectedly so recently so. Still, we both related both the highs and the lows, the good, the great, the bad, and the terrible experiences we both had while attending PKI. "Sounds like pretty much the same CV I went through five years ago, friends...while not preparing me for everything, it did prepare for most of what I've been exposed to in my five-year career since...have confidence in your training, Margot, Eric...Doc does a good job...and you'll also begin to appreciate it even more when you'll probably be called to assist with training of new bodyworkers, or being trained in a more narrow speciality, at some point in your career..."
The waitress dropped the check on the table, and Connie pulled out a Visa card to pay it. I couldn't help but notice it was a company credit card, one that didn't have her name, but did have "Dr. Nicholas Samiatakis PLC" printed on it. "We, Dr. Nick's professional company, has an account here with this Ragazzi's, but it's easier paying with the company card, because otherwise I'd have to fetch a number out of the purchase order book, and then explain it to our waitress who'll know nothing about it, who'll then get the manager and then twenty minutes from now finally let us charge it...it's just easier this way...oh, by the way, soon, a week or so, Dr. Nick will also give your own company Visa cards, too."
Connie sat beside me on the front seat as we made our five minute drive back home, playfully playing with my cock through my pants, I equally playfully warning her not to start something she couldn't finish. "Oh, I'll 'finish' it, later, Eric" she cooed.
Back in our communal space on our third-floor elevatored story, Connie was back to business. She had us retrieve our case files for today's patients, and handing us new pads of blank treatment records forms, told us to "go for it", to do our paperwork and do our patient write-ups for today, that she'd look over them when we were through. In less than three minutes, she had finished her own patient records, she having seen two patients late that afternoon herself. Half an hour passed. I was still writing my record about Lisa, hadn't even gotten to Louise & Sherrie and Madeline and Jani. An hour or so later, and Margot finally finished. A few minutes after, I finished, as my writing fingers began cramping. Connie looked at us both silently with scolding expression as she reviewed first Margot's then my effort. "I can see Doc has dropped his 'standard patient record notation' class, uh-hu" she blasted us quietly as she glared at us over the top of her reading glasses.
"I'm glad I decided to stay on and help you two better enter this world...you need the help, obviously...I'll have to do you a list of standard patient notations and let refer to it until you become accustomed to them...come over here, both of you...Eric, you damn near wrote a novel about your first patient, Dale...I know that was partly first patient and first day jitters, but damn!..." she barked as she made room for my original report and a blank pad beside on our large shared workdesk, we paying close attention as we stood beside her, watching, listening "...I can sum up your treatment diaryline in three or four sentences, Eric...watch..."
She first wrote "STDPOP" for "Standard Principle Of Possession" bodywork ritual. Then "TTP" for "Therapist To Patient", then next to it "MGC" for "(TTP) Manual Genital Contact", and beside that, the phrases "patient indicated was not an instigator or present when abuse took place or had prior knowledge of same". Then she scribbled "MTMGC" for "Mutual (Therapist To Patient and Patient To Therapist) Manual Genital Contact, and directly beside that the words "with aid of printed pictorial photography". Then, the next sentence began "PTT" for "Patient To Therapist" and beside that "PAP" for "Penile-Anal Penetration", and the next sentence being the conclusion "therapy session was positive and affirming for the patient; some progress was made towards recovery; recommend continuation of therapeutic program."
"You mean to tell me that Doc NEVER covered standard therapeutic notation in class?!?..." she scolded a non-present Doc more than us, we nodding our heads in unison "no". "And the sheet of standard notations and recommended syntax isn't in "The Manual" any more?...Jesus...let me see your Manuals, both of you..."
We retreated like fussed-at school children to our shared connected apartments a few feet away and quickly came back with our Manuals. "Where's your Volume II's?" she spat again. Margot and I looked at each other with puzzled crosseyes, then dashed back to our rooms. My "Manual Of Polykentic Bodywork Practice Vol. II" was still in my mostly unpacked suitcase, as was Margot's. Doc had told us all that it was full of reference stuff mainly, that we'd seldom if ever need it. Scooting back to the living room, Connie took Margot's and immediately flipped to a tabbed page entitled "Standard Notations & Syntax For Patient Reports", roughly shoving it back to Margot, with a "now, guys, re-write your reports all over again, this time using the Standard Notations only, and let me see them when you're through."
I could tell Margot felt as I did, like a schoolkid being made to stay after school for not doing his classwork properly, being made to re-do it all just to make a point, as Connie scanned our done-in-ten-minutes-tops new patient reports. "That's better, Eric, Margot...not perfect, but better...you'll get the hang of it soon enough...just remember, your referring psychiatrist is always a busy person, they want the maximum amount of information related to treatment recorded and relayed to them in as minimum amount of time and attention as possible...now...and I almost hate to do this to you on your first day, but it's now or never...about your lack of patient-therapist protocol....Eric, you first...get undressed and sit on the couch..."
I took many, many deep breaths as I got undressed, as Connie did too, and ordered Margot to do so as well. She just starred at me for the longest time as she paced a couple of feet in front of me, and then from nowhere, lightly but firmly slapped me squarely in the face. I would have returned the slap with a much harder one, but figured this was some sort of role-play game. "Eric, you contemptible sonofabitch...how dare you presume that your mental well-being comes before your patient's!!!" she screamed at me. "Whaaa...what do you mean, Connie?" "With Dale..." "Yes?" "You felt a 'passion of the moment' with him, didn't you, even though you weren't quite comfortable with that feeling, didn't you?" I thought for a second. But no point in denying it. "Yeah...yes...I suppose so". "Then why didn't you act on it?...why didn't you have Dale suck you off or you to orgasm or fuck his little asshole until you had your nice big come, HU?" "I...I don't know..."
"Oh, you know...could it be that, despite your intense training to the contrary, you thought that by denying yourself your passion of the moment, you'd be helping your patient somehow?" "I suppose so". "You suppose...you suppose!..." she screamed again as she slapped me again, this time I leaning back to avoid most of the force of the blow "...and what did you learn about this in school, hu, Eric?" "Not to deny myself my own pleasure, unless doing so is specifically stated as such as a treatment contraindication in the Rx, that doing so harms both myself and my patient..." "Let me tell you what happened, Eric...by denying yourself your own pleasure of the moment, you lost a perfect opportunity to become that much more deeply bonded with your eight-year-old boy-charge, and by doing so, probably lengthened his treatment cycle at best and negatively affected the overall treatment potential at worst...what do have to say about THAT, hu, Eric?"
There wasn't much I could say. I knew she was right. Mumbling promises about not denying my feelings again, Connie leaned down to passionately kiss me, her tongue finding the back of my throat. Then, it was Margot's turn. If anything, she ripped into Margot even harder. Slapping her face a couple of times with the same light but firm stroke she had laid into me with, she also repeatedly grabbed and twisted Margot's and nipples as she sat naked before her. She really ripped into Margot denying her own pleasure with a mutually inorgasmic couple she had an afternoon session with, and then screamingly ripped into her about denying herself her passion with this hunk of a guy patient who she had treated that morning for inorgasmia, making Margot open her legs for a light cuntspank about that.
"I'm doing this for your own good, Margot, Eric...even though I too was trained otherwise, for the first three years I held everything in, I consistently denied myself rising passion moments with my patients, when all the ethics and long-term knowledge about doing so not only allows this but tells yu that denying yourself your own pleasure actually harms your patient, and almost as importantly, causes so much internal tension as to cause premature professional burn-out....if I had someone mentor me at first like I'm doing now with you two, and really convince me of the validity of what Doc teaches about this, I might not be burned out now after five years, I might have many more good professional years left in my career, but as it is..." and with that, she slumped down to the couch beside Margot, put her head in her hands, and began sobbing uncontrollably.
"I'm sorry, Margot, Eric...it's just that, it's just that..." Margie and I held her in our arms in a sweet, comforting group hug. She kissed Margot firmly on the lips, then me. "Want to 'get even' with me?...heheheheh...want to have some fun?...we have two BDSM rooms downstairs...I haven't had anyone to play with me in a power exchange mode in months...I miss it...want to tie me up, and spank me some, dominate me some?....hehehehehe".
Marg' and I spent the next three or four hours just doing what we wanted to with our nipple-ringed and tattooed Connie in BDSM Room #1, the one set up more for more focus activities like spanking and whips and such than pain ones like needles and piercings and brandings and such. That night, we three slept together in our, Margot's and mine, bed. Snoring. Buzzsawing snoring. Breathing deeply but slowly. Margot's mouth on Connie's tit. My fingers up Connie's well-spanked and well-fucked butthole. As I drifted off to sleep, I felt lucky that Connie had agreed to stay on and mentor us for a while. She was indeed trying to impart the kind of knowledge that only the school of experience more than the School Of Doc could teach. A little more at least, I accepted my place a tad closer to the horizon of approaching heaven of being a being that lived, ate, slept, pissed, shitted, fucked, sucked, spoke, heard, and touched sex twenty-four-seven for the benefit of others, for the benefit of mankind.
-30-
Send comments to: planet_dweller@yahoo.com
Please visit my free ASSTR Author's Webpage at: http://www.asstr.org/~PlanetDweller
|
|