Sensuality

Her fingers moved over her trimmed vee, then down to her fleshy lips that had begun to dampen the second he’d walked into her office. Her body milk had seeped twice when he told her of his recent dream, and now she was squishy wet as she searched for her clit. It was so sensitive that she was about to burst. She found the hood and exposed the hardened satiny nub and rubbed her index finger over it. Slowly at first, feeling the tough little bun soften and become pliable under her caress. Rubbing it faster, her breath became rapid as she closed her eyes and threw her head back. She saw his eyes, his face, and her finger became his tongue lapping her like a maniacal demon of the flesh.

She felt it race through her. Her secret orgasm that no one knew she could have. It fluttered through her, from her chest, over her belly, down into the bucket of her release. Her eyes were shut tight as she allowed her free hand to balance against the wall, her finger now accompanied by another working furiously against herself. Gritting her teeth, she stiffened as the satiny milk of her body creamed out of her in waves. It slithered and slathered over her working fingers, and she smiled as she finished, her nose imagining the subtle odor of his expensive cologne.

Breathing heavily, she removed her hand and let her dress fall. Taking a deep breath, she composed herself and turned to go back to her desk.

He stood there looking at her. His nostrils flared as though inhaling the high scent of her sex.

“I forgot my attaché case,” his deep voice said.

A blush crept up her face as her eyes followed his to the deep brown leather case that leaned unassumingly against the side of her therapist’s couch.

THERAPY—PART TWO

It was a good thing that he was going to be away for a week. It would give things a chance to cool down—to be forgotten. She was going to a medical seminar herself in a few weeks, and it would do her good. It would keep her mind occupied and she wouldn’t have to think about him. It was medically unethical, and although tired of the rules, she didn’t dare break them.

The best thing was to go on as though nothing had happened. But could she do that? Could it be professional, and business as usual, after he’d seen her pleasuring herself? Thank goodness he couldn’t read her mind or he would have known that he was the object of her masturbatory fantasy.

She decided she wouldn’t say a word about it; after all, she was the psychologist. He was paying her to help him work through his problems, not analyze hers. But just what were her problems? The men who chased her but she didn’t want? Or was it men she’d made love to but who could never reach the part of her where passion was aching to be freed? She wanted someone to break the rules for her. Somehow he might have guessed that about her, and it made her nervous knowing that.

He leaned against the window, sipping a snifter of fifty-year-old cognac. It slid over his tongue with a warmth much like what he thought she would taste like. His psychologist, his doctor, his medical advisor, with her professional icy demeanor.

He knew the effect he had on women. Hell! His voice alone made more panties wet than he’d wanted to count. How he remembered that day when he went back to her office for his briefcase. He watched as she had fingered herself, then leaned against the wall for support when she released her juices.

How he wanted to taste it, but not the way she would have thought.

It was the dream. He chased her in his mind, knowing that she really wanted to be caught. Somehow he knew, without really knowing, what she needed and how she needed it.

But he also knew it could never be, not now, when they were so wrapped in the neat little package of professionalism. Not as long as there was a line of doctor-patient ethic that she would never cross. The strain of his yearning was becoming too much. There was only one thing to do….

Dear Dr….

I regret to inform you that I feel I am no longer making the progress I should and, therefore, feel it is best to sever our therapeutic sessions. I trust your decision, so please feel free to recommend, and transfer my records, to any of your esteemed colleagues you deem worthy.

He signed it with just a single initial—J.

She had returned from her business trip and was still on West Coast time and unable to sleep. It was 1:00 A.M. and she was wide awake. Maybe I should go to the office, she thought. Why not get a jump on all the unopened mail that she knew would be waiting on Monday?

She put on a long gauzy dress and flat shoes. No one would be around to know that she wore nothing but bare, soft skin underneath. She liked the way her nipples felt against the material, scraping against them just enough to make them harden and stay erect.

Twenty minutes later she sat sorting through her mail. She saw the expensive beige envelope and the neat, handwritten return address. She opened it and her eyes blazed with anger long before she reached the end.

Not progressing…esteemed colleagues, of all the…

She paced. She had invested a great deal of time on him, trying to get him to understand his emotions, his feelings—trying to work him through why he did and said the things he did. True, he’d paid her a lot for her services, but she’d thought they’d made wonderful progress.

She threw the letter on the desk and began to read her other mail. But no matter how she tried, her eyes kept going back to the note. There was no concentrating now, and she was even more awake than ever. Just go home. Go home and lie down.

She grabbed the note, stuffed it into her bag, and left the office. She gunned the motor of her Mercedes and pulled away from the curb. She was ten minutes from her three-bedroom luxury condo, waiting at a red light, her fingers drumming on the steering wheel impatiently. When the light turned green, she abruptly turned the wheel and made a screeching U-turn and headed back up the street. She fumbled through her purse until she found the crumpled envelope. Scanning the return address, she drove five more blocks and found his building. When she was about to ring the doorbell, a laughing couple exited, leaving the door to close on its own. She slipped inside and rode the elevator up to his floor. Exiting, she followed the apartment numbers until she came to his door. Without hesitation she rang the bell. What if he wasn’t home? After all, it was Saturday night—or worse, he might not be alone. She pushed the bell again. Then again. And yet again.

There was no telltale click of the peephole cover being raised, just the swish of the door as it was flung open. He stood before her, his face an angry scowl, and wearing nothing except a pair of striped silk pajama bottoms. His chest and belly were finely chiseled, with the slightest hint of paunch if he didn’t watch it. His nipples, which seemed to catch her gaze and not let go, were as hard and erect as her own.

“Doctor…” he said. “Don’t you think it’s a little late for a house call?”

“What’s the meaning of this?” She waved the note under his nose.

He moved back a scant inch and lowered his gaze to the paper.

They both heard one or two peephole latches being raised.