Mrs Potter

Many young men get the urge to try on their mother's clothes. A small percentage actually have the nerve to do it, and sadly, a small percentage of them get caught. I was one of those young men. Mother and I lived alone. She had gotten back early from the supermarket and I was wearing her panties and bra. She went mental, beating me and locking me in my room for days.

Then she started blaming my absent father for not providing an appropriate role model. Then she started beating up on herself for being a failure as a mother. Eventually she heard about a child psychiatrist in our town who had 'worked wonders' with street kids and delinquents. I was a well behaved young man who had excelled at school, but in my mothers' eyes, I was lower than a delinquent.

Mother and I went to see Mrs Potter last week. Mrs Potter briefly listened to my Mother's ranting, took a quick look at me, and quickly decided that I would need weekly sessions on my own. Mother was relieved.

"Come in Terry, dear",

she beckoned.

I entered tentatively and walked down the long dark hallway to her office. She motioned for me to have a seat.

"So why are you here, dear?",

she asked kindly.

"You know why. We came to see you last week, remember?"

I answered with just a little annoyance. She was supposed to be good, and yet she couldn't remember what happened last week?

"No, no, no, Terry. That is why your Mother is paying me. I'm asking YOU. Why are YOU here?"

She was clearly smarter than I had given her credit for, and I immediately felt very awkward and nervous about any answers I might give her.

"Mum caught me wearing her clothes. She thinks I am mentally ill. She thinks I need a psychiatrist."

I figured I may as well be honest about it. I felt so stupid about my predicament. I had suffered such humiliation and abuse from my mother over the whole business; I doubted a shrink could hurt me any more. Besides, anything I said would be in confidence, right?

Mrs Potter threw her head back and scoffed.

"There's nothing wrong with boys dressing up as girls, in fact, I encourage it."

She added sternly. I went to speak but she shook her finger as she had more to say.

"There is nothing abnormal about you, if anything, I'd say you are very average for an 18 year old."

Again I went to voice my shock at what she was saying but again she shook her finger.

"And........ I am no psychiatrist."

I sat silently, trying to make sense of what she was saying.

"But your reputation? You turned those kids' lives around where others had failed! Are you saying you are not qualified?"

"Oh I'm qualified alright, and yes, I have had some high profile successes, but I am not, nor have I ever claimed to be a psychiatrist. I'm a therapist. A sex therapist."

"So what would a sex therapist know about delinquent teenagers? How the hell were you so successful?"

I asked incredulously. I didn't mind a shrink having a crack at solving my 'problem', but a sex therapist?

"You can't see it, can you? Sex is the motivating force behind just about every male behaviour. Show me a messed up male, and I'll un-cover an un-fulfilled desire or a deep sexual trauma of some kind. Sort out the male's sexual problems, and the rest of his problems will practically disappear."

She answered assertively. I was acutely aware of her disdain for men, and her manner was quite intimidating all of a sudden.I was well and truly out of my depth with her.

"So you sorted out their sexual problems, and their behaviour improved. Is that what you're saying?"

I asked.

"Pretty much."

She replied, smugly, before turning serious and looking straight in the eye again.

"So why are YOU here?"

She asked softly.

Her words echoed in my ears.

"I really don't know why am I here. Maybe I have some deep dark issue that you can resolve for me."

I replied tentatively.

She smiled and got up from her big leather chair and paced the floor, deep in thought.

I studied her. I don't know if it was the fact that she mentioned being a SEX therapist or not, but it struck me that in a weird sort of way that she was sexy. Not in the playboy bunny sense of the word, for she was easily 40 years old and solidly built. But there was something about her that caused my tiny cock to stir.

She wore a white business shirt and a black business jacket. The top two buttons of her shirt were undone to allow the material to stretch over her ample bosom, even though she showed no cleavage at all. Her black skirt covered her knees, and yet I noticed she wore silky black, seamed stockings, and unconventional clunky black platform shoes. Her shiny black hair was styled into a bob, and she continually tucked both sides behind her ears, only to have them spring back again, almost immediately. She had something.......

"You're here to make your mother feel good about herself. You're presence here convinces your mother that she is doing what's best for you, and no matter how you turn out, she can say that she did her best."

She asserted, causing me to jump. Sexy in a weird sort of way, AND smart. She had my mother pegged.

I smiled and added,

"That's her to a tee! Honestly she is such a pain....."

"THAT'S NO WAY TO SPEAK ABOUT YOUR MOTHER. HAVE SOME RESPECT!",

she bellowed. Her face flushed and her brown eyes wide open. I shrunk with fright.

"I I I I 'm sorry.",

I managed to whimper.

She slumped down in her chair again and contemplated me, her rage softening into a slightly amused smile.

"It's alright. I'm sorry I shouted, but you need to remember that you are only here because your mother loves you. A mother's love is important to a young man, even when it is misguided."

"So, I don't really need to be here then?"

Her smile spread to a wide grin and she chuckled to herself and shook her head.

"Oh no, Mister! I'm afraid you DO need to be here, but ...."

She left me hanging on her next word as she leant forward and played with the curls on my forehead with her long, graceful fingers, before standing up and walking over to me, and planting her self on the edge of the desk next to me.

"not for the reasons your mother thinks, and I suspect, my dear young fellow, not for what you expect."

She stood up again and opened a door leading out from the side of her office.

"What do you mean?"

I asked as she left the room.

"Come with me."

I heard her say. I got up and went after her, almost running. I came to an abrupt halt.

Mrs Potter stood proudly in front of a full length, fully lit make-up mirror. Hundreds of items of lingerie hung from a huge rack to the right, and a similar rack stood to the left, packed with dresses and assorted feminine items. In shelves above and around the mirror were wigs, shoes, and every imaginable make-up product.

"This is where we explore your inner being. In here, somewhere amongst all these stockings and panties and bra's and dresses and everything else, lies the key to your sexual psyche. It is here that we will destroy any preconceptions of normality and taboo. In here you forget what you have been taught, and learn to express what you feel."

I stood and stared. My eyes were wide with shock, my breath short and my heart racing. My cock was straining for release. I had to mount some sort of protest.

"But I don't need this! I need, you know, counseling. I mean, don't you try and blame all this on my absent father, show me ink blotches that look like breasts, ask me about my mother, teach me to forgive myself, and then we all go home. Isn't that how it works?"

I fear I may have annoyed her with that comment, but that pretty much summed up what I thought I was getting into.

She spun on her heels and stared into my eyes.

"As I have already pointed out to you, I am not a psychiatrist, but even if I were, I would not blame this on anyone but you. YOU are the one who wears his mother's underwear. YOU are the one who got caught in the act. YOU are the one trying to blame everybody else. I, on the other hand, am trying to explore your inner most feelings. I am trying to help you understand your feelings. I'm not about blame – I'm about getting my clients to discover who they really are, and learning how do be themselves. I suggest you leave your stereotypes at home in future. Are we clear on this?"

"Yes, Mrs Potter."

"Excellent! Well come my dear, it's time for you to undress."

To be continued.