tagIncest/TabooThe Therapist's Journey Ch. 04

The Therapist's Journey Ch. 04

byMaryAnderson©

Miles' Session with Sally

I considered decapitating my alarm clock. Last night's adventure had kept me up well past my normal bed time. Still, I headed for the gym accompanied by a cup of coffee, my tablet pc (to make notes), headphones, and the recording of Monday's session with Theresa. Thankfully, my surmise of the preceding evening was accurate: while the hard exercise dulled my libido I carefully reviewed Monday's session with Theresa.

I returned home to dress. I put on the garters and stockings, a lambskin red leather top, and a black leather skirt. The skirt fell just below my knees. I finished with a pair of ankle boots with a 3 3/4 inch heels. I checked the mirror; I did look good. If the boy wanted leather, he was going to get leather.

After the staff left at 5:00 I checked my hair, freshened my make-up, straightened my outfit, pick up my office, and reviewed my notes. Miles arrived promptly at 5:30. I put down the notes, shook his hand, and directed him to the couch.

He was a good-looking young man. A bit over six feet tall, he shared Theresa's dark complexion and dark hair. Unlike her warm brown eyes, his were hazel. He was well-dressed and well-groomed. He also spent time in the gym; his body was lean with a good muscle tone. I could see why Theresa found him attractive.

There are many problems interviewing teenage boys, starting with their default position: never tell adults the truth. Moreover, even a straightforward teenager often does not have the vocabulary and experience to talk about him or herself. An adult may know his or her anger is a mask for fear or frustration, a teenager may not. I could pierce almost any wall erected by a teenager, but it could take time. I decided to test his honesty immediately.

We exchanged pleasantries and I confirmed he knew why he was here. His mother, it turned out, had related her experiences with me in explicit detail. I asked how he had prepared for our session.

"What do you mean?"

"Who did you talk to or what did you read in order to learn about the session and how you should respond?"

He looked surprised. "How did you know?"

"Why don't you just tell me."

"I have a friend, Scott Stone, his mother is a psychiatrist, Lauren Stone."

"I know Dr. Stone." Lauren Stone was among our community's most respected mental health professionals. While she and I were not particularly close, I had worked with her on several occasions. She was meticulous and detail-oriented. Her appearance reflected her work. While she favored top-of-the-line designers, her clothes were never flashy. She was trim and her make-up and hair always perfect. I also remembered meeting her son, a tall lanky kid who was still growing into his body. He did not have his mother's cool grace. Another image then popped into my mind: Lauren on her knees, not a hair out of place, her make-up precisely applied, jerking off her son until he came, spraying his jism onto her perfectly coiffed face.

Miles was continuing his story. I was able to determine from context what he had been saying during my lapse of attention. After his mother's Friday session he had wondered whether I would want to talk to him. He called his friend Scott and invited himself over. While there he asked Dr. Stone if he could talk to her for a few minutes. She agreed and he told her there was a chance he would be visiting a therapist to address certain family issues. He wanted to know what his spin should be, how he should approach it.

"What did she say?"

"She said if I wanted to fix the problem, I would tell it as straight as I could, including saying I wasn't sure when I wasn't sure. She also warned me that the good ones would know I was spinning it. This meant not only that I wouldn't fool them, but that they would then have to ask themselves whether whatever else I said was, at best, designed to game the system or, at worst, flat-out dishonest. I asked who were the good ones. She rattled off about six names, and said she was sure she was forgetting several others. Yours was one of the names she mentioned."

Inside, I glowed with pride. Lauren Stone did not hand out compliments lightly. Of course, she didn't know how far over the line I had already gone with Theresa. That would, I suspected, rachet me closer to the bottom of her list. If I could get this consultation behind me, I could get back to the straight and narrow.

"So how are you going to play it?"

"Well, Dr. Stone says play it straight, my Mom adores you, and you've already figured out I talked to another shrink, I mean mental health professional. I will do my best to answer your questions."

I had not really said that he had consulted with a professional, my inquiry was more general, but I let it pass. Having a client think you're omniscient can be helpful. I also let the "shrink" thing pass.

"When did you first find Theresa sexually attractive?'

"As long as I can remember I thought I had the prettiest and nicest Mom in the neighborhood. My first explicit memory of seeing her sexually, however, was when I received my driver's license. She had driven me to Department of Motor Vehicles. After I got the license, she said I should drive home. I opened the passenger door for her to get in. She said I was more of a gentlemen then Dad and sat down. Her dress pulled up above her knees and I thought, it seemed out of nowhere, Mom's got great legs."

"What was your reaction to that thought?"

"Its hard to answer that question. I've thought about that moment thousands of times since it happened. I not sure if I remember what I thought or if I only remember what I thought about what I thought. If that makes any sense?"

Actually it did. The research was clear that the more often a person recalled an event, the less trustworthy the memory. The repeated contemplation of an event changes the memory of the event. I also noted that he had passed on an opportunity to tailor the story to his advantage.

"It is probably the right answer," I told him. He seemed relieved.

"Let me ask you a slightly different question. It was two years from the time you remember first seeing your Mom sexually to the time you became lovers. What was your sexual attitude towards her during that time?"

He shifted position. "There were a lot of attitudes -- it depended on the time of day. I spent a lot of time telling myself I was a frickin' perve. I mean, it's weird checking out your Mom. Then I would tell myself if I looked at her often enough she would revert to being my Mom. But part of me knew I was lying to myself, the fact is I just liked to look. But in any case, it was all pointless, you've seen her, she's hot. Looking at her was not going to help.

"I would tell myself it was some weird passing fancy. I actually started to spend more time with her, thinking that hanging with her would move me back to normal. It didn't. I loved her company. After awhile I had to just admit I had a crush on my Mom which I hoped, as you adults like to say, I would grow out of. Not that I would have turned her down if she reciprocated, but she showed no interest."

"Did you consider talking to her about it?"

"No, I was way too chicken for that. The last thing I needed was to tell my Mom I was a pervert. But, still, I paid attention to her and learned what she liked. Mom would drop some hint about what she wanted to do Friday night. Dad wouldn't hear it, but I would. So she and I would end up at some show in the city and Dad would go to bed early. In my head I would pretend it was a date. Like, when we want to the symphony I would spend much of the performance rubbing her neck. But I got no response from her and I'm sure she had no idea what I was thinking. At the end of the evening, in my room, I would imagine that we were still together, that we were lovers and, y'know...."

His voice trailed off.

"Play with yourself?" I suggested.

"Yeah, that."

"It became sort of an ongoing fantasy for me. It was like a crush on a movie star, its fun to think about but you know nothing is ever going to happen, although you wish it would. It probably would have never gotten any further than neck rubs except for that day at the beach."

"Please, go on," I said.

"I had heard them fight the night before and was on the porch when the argument picked up the next morning. I listened to them start and then stayed longer than I should. I guess I spied on them. And while I was not all that experienced, I knew I could be a better lover than Dad. Since her sister had talked about how she loved to dance I had often fantasized about talking her out dancing. I decided to ask her. I figured if she objected I could pretend it was all in fun. I did not really expect, but I guess I hoped, something would come of it."

"How did you feel that night."

"Scared shitless."

"Your mother described a confident guy full of bravado."

"That was the guy from my fantasy. I'd been rehearsing him in my head for months."

"One month into the affair what did you feel about its future?"

I could see he was, at first, reluctant to answer, but he decided to press on.

"I was loving it, but I was sure it couldn't last. On bad days I was convinced Mom would denounce the whole thing as insane, me a sex-loon, and throw me out of the house. On good days I just feared she would quietly, firmly, call it to an end."

"Did that change and, if so, when and why?"

"It did. Looking back, I should have realized right away she was serious about us. After all, she was putting a lot more on the line than I was. But I was mostly focused on my own fears. It was at the company picnic, which she told you about yesterday, that I began to understand that she loved and desired me the same way I loved and desired her. That is when what should have been obvious from the first started penetrating my thick skull."

Throughout the interview I could feel my level of arousal increasing. Dwelling on Theresa and Miles' sex-life was igniting a slow burn between my legs, but the picnic, which Theresa had described the day before, was like adding lighter fluid. I could feel my face flush. I hoped my dark skin would hide it from Miles.

My next question was to determine if Theresa could set limits and, if so, whether Miles could accept them.

"Are there any sexual acts you've suggested to your mother which she's declined?"

He checked his memory. "Three come to mind. There may be more. One of my best friends has long had a crush on her. I said it would make his lifetime if she would let him have some."

"What did she say?"

"Nothing. The look on her face required no words. It was a stupid thing to say, I guess I was just feeling my oats. I shouldn't have asked in the first place. I ain't never going there again."

"The other two?"

"I've suggested threesomes. One with two women, one two men. She didn't flat out turn those down, but said she'd let me know if exactly the right person came along."

The image of me with these two exploded in my head. Would Theresa consider me? I had to ask.

"Has it come up since that time?"

"On one occasion, about a month ago. I suggested a teacher at my school."

"What was her reaction."

"That look again. I figure she'll let me know."

Theresa appeared capable of drawing boundaries and Miles accepting them. I started to wonder why I had thought consent was a serious issue.

We then turned to a general discussion about the affair. My intention here was to gauge his feelings about his mother. Did he genuinely love her? Did he have her best interests at heart? Was he simply mouthing platitudes or were his actions consistent with his words? I came away satisfied. Theirs was an unusual relationship and while it suffered from the trepidations of any romance, I could find nothing inherently abusive or dangerous about it.

I looked at the clock. We had ten minutes left. The thought of letting him go so my fingers could get some personal time with the fire between my legs crossed my mind, but instead I asked, as I should, "Do you have any questions for me?"

He sat back, looked away, and then back at me, his gaze contemplative. He said nothing for a long moment, mulling over whether he should ask, or maybe how to phrase, what was on his mind. I encouraged him.

"Please feel free to say whatever you are thinking."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

My permission seemed important to him.

"Okay, when my mother consulted with you last Friday, she thought you were aroused by our story. Is that true? Were you turned-on by her description of the night she and I became lovers?"

My first reaction was surprise. Was I that obvious? The second thought was to tell him it was none of his business. But it was his business. When I decided to continue my therapy with Theresa, and then to include him in it, I had an obligation to disclose any personal reaction that might affect my counseling. And I knew it was affecting my counsel. I had been a bad therapist when I failed to make this disclosure. I would do better now.

Yet, I was still embarrassed. I looked down, averted my eyes from his, and said, "Yes." I was surprised by my voice tone. It was meek, bordering on girl-like.

"Don't look down, look at me."

I looked up.

"Yes, what?" he continued.

"Yes, I became sexually aroused when your mother described the night the two of you became lovers."

"Don't feel bad about it, Doc. Mom told me your reaction helped her out. She was wondering whether her desire was a sickness, just like I wondered if I was crazy when I first became attracted to her. The fact that you found it arousing gave her comfort. It didn't make it right, but at least she knew it wasn't insane."

He had adopted the same breezy manner he had displayed the night he had seduced his mother. I knew it was an act; he had told me minutes ago it was an act. Yet I couldn't resist it. In fact, I welcomed it.

"After the session, did you masturbate thinking about what she told you?"

"Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, I fingered myself imagining you and your Mom in bed together, as lovers."

"How soon?"

"You mother was probably still in the building when I started to finger myself."

"The forms that Mom and I signed gave you permission to record our sessions. Did you record the sessions with my mother?"

"Yes. I recorded the sessions with your mother." I wanted to look away, but I couldn't break his gaze.

"Have you listened to the recordings?"

"Yes."

"For professional or prurient reasons?"

"Both."

"Did you masturbate while you did so?"

"Yes. I fingered myself while listening to the recordings."

I could feel the blood engorging my breasts. I looked down. The dress would hide my stiff nipples, but I had no doubt he understood the effect of our conversation on me. Moreover, the act of confessing was somehow liberating. My improper conduct and lewd thoughts were public, I could no longer protect myself by pretending they did not exist.

Miles must have caught my gaze wandering to my breasts. He said, "You have beautiful breasts. Take off your blouse and bra."

I knew I should say no, but wanted to say yes. Instead, I said nothing. I stood, unbuttoned and removed the red leather top, and turned my back to him so he could undo my bra. I let it fall to the floor. I turned back. He took a breast in each hand.

"Nice and firm." He lightly stroked the nipples, sending shivers through my body.

"Did you play with these when you listened to the tape?"

"Yes, I made love to my tits with my hands. I also sucked and licked them."

"What is your favorite part of the tape? Is there a moment when you like to cum?"

His hands, fondling my breasts, his fingers, caressing my nipples, were sending shockwaves through me. I wallowed in the sensations.

"When you asked your Mom who owned her cunt. That's my favorite moment. That's when I like to push myself over the edge."

"Well, Doc, does a good therapist turn her sessions into private pornography?"

"No." My voice was meek, playful, seductive. "I must be a bad therapist."

"Did the naughty therapist listen to yesterday's recording and play with her hot pussy?"

The need to confess to this man overwhelmed me. It felt good to tell the truth, reveal the hidden me. The nasty words I was using were like spoons stirring the burning fury between my legs.

"I was naughty then too. I stroked my pussy over and over again, listening to Theresa describe how you shoved your fat dick up her ass. I knew it was wrong, but I so-wanted to be bad. I'm a bad little girl and a bad little therapist. Are you mad at me?"

He didn't answer my question. Instead he asked, "Is the bad little therapist wearing her garters?"

"Yes, she is."

"What kind of therapist wears sexy lingerie at her client's request?"

"A nasty one, a naughty one."

He reached behind me and lowered the zipper that ran down the back of the skirt, not far enough for the skirt to fall off, but far enough to slip his hand down its front.

"What kind of therapist tells her client he can't see her garters, but doesn't tell him he can't feel them?"

It is hard even now, years later, to describe how all of this felt to me. A week before I would have said it was impossible that I would be behaving this way. However, instead of being disgusted, it felt liberating to hear myself say these things. It was like a true me, a buried me, was emerging.

"A nasty naughty slutty therapist."

His hand only briefly checked my garters before it plunged into my panties and to my thighs. He then followed the juice coating my leg back to its source and found the opening of my vagina. I had to grab his other arm to steady myself, leaning my forehead against his shoulder. I liked the strong muscles in his arm.

"You are a sopping wet cunt."

"I am a sopping wet cunt."

He held the walls of my labia together, trapping my clitoris inside. He slid his fingers up and down, stimulating, but never directly touching, my clitoris. I had to hold onto him to maintain my balance. I wanted him to apply more pressure and reached down to try to push his hand harder against me. He was too strong, I couldn't move him.

I heard myself babbling. "You know how to take care of horny sluts like me, don't you baby. Your Mom says you're a great fuck. I need you to take care of me. I'll do whatever you want. I want to be your slut, make me your slut, please. Bad little girls like me need to be taught a lesson."

My breathing was becoming erratic and I was moaning.

The tips of his thumb and index finger pressed the lips of my labia together, applying direct pressure on my trapped clitoris. I pulled my hand from his and placed it on his chest in order to keep from falling. I was breathing hard and heavy. I kept babbling, but sentences were beyond my ability. "Baby, so good baby, so good, shit, fuck, oh yeah, oh yeah." I was humping my hips against his hand.

Then he stopped. He sat in my chair. "Suck my cock, slut."

I fell to my knees before him, unbuckled his belt, pulled it off, and threw it behind me. I unbuttoned his pants and undid his zipper. I could feel his hard cock against my hand; had his mother described it accurately?. He lifted himself from the chair and I pulled his pants and boxers down. I started to reach for his manhood when he said, "Stop." I did, but I looked at him, panting, my eyes begging for permission.

"I would be more comfortable with my pants completely off."

I started yanking his pants down, but was making limited progress. It took me a few seconds to realize he still had his shoes on. God, I had to be a smarter slut than this. I undid his shoes and pulled them off. I dragged his pants and boxers over his feet.

I turned back to his thing. It was as beautiful as his mother had said. I wrapped my left hand around it. While my hands were slightly larger than Theresa's, its girth still amazed me.

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