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BWOR15 17 thick and squeaky from many
(file contains chapters 15-17)
The Body Worker
by
PlanetDweller
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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-
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