tagMind ControlThere's Something You Have To Do...

There's Something You Have To Do...

bymrjones502003©

Philosophers have argued for centuries whether we chose what we do because of the way we are or we become who we are because of the things we chose to do. In my case, did I become a psyche major because people have always found it easy to come to me with their problems or have people learned to come to me with their problems because I am a psyche major?

Regardless of the answer, by the middle of my senior year at college I was beset almost constantly with fellow students unburdening their souls upon my shell-like ears. Between neurosis and psychosis, dreams and nightmares, fantasies and fears, I heard some of the sickest shit imaginable. I had no idea how many girls secretly want to fuck their fathers, how many of them actually have fucked their fathers, nor how many boys have similar urges surrounding their mothers/sisters/hot aunts/and small boys next door. Fortunately, none of it fostered in me the urge to alert the police about imminent deaths or destructions (although one young lady's sexual confessions about life growing up on a farm would have sent PETA into a tailspin!) and while listening to all this cerebral garbage made me feel generally unclean, there were more pleasant aspects.

Among those, at least in the beginning, was meeting Mackenzie.

I first saw Mackenzie in a freshman biology class I was retaking to better my grade. Already signed up for post-grad work, my overall average would determine placement and financing. I considered retaking an otherwise dull general bio class an investment in my very near future.

Mackenzie was not the sort of person I gave a second glance. Of average height and build, she had medium length brown hair in no discernable style, wore very little makeup to enhance what appeared to be a quite ordinary face, and hid whatever physical attributes her body offered under baggy sweats and unflattering ankle-length denim jumpsuits. I was therefore quite surprised when, about mid-term, she approached me in the quad (all campuses have quads; an area where either four paths intersect or four buildings form an unintended courtyard, quite often the only discernable landmark available) and asked me for help.

My dorm-mate was almost never in our room and so it was usually no problem for me bringing people home for whatever purpose. In her case I assumed another mundane session 'on the couch' listening to her tell me the details of her secret soul. Wearing bib overalls two sizes too big and a flannel shirt handed down from some lumberjack ancestor, she sat on the edge of my bed while I rolled over my desk chair and, with clipboard and ballpoint in hand, prepared to be dumped on.

Her problem, it seemed, was an overactive libido.

"It's why I dress like this," she said, tugging on the front of her unfortunate attire. "I try to make myself as undesirable as possible because," and here she laughed nervously, "it doesn't take any encouragement at all for me to lose control. All boys have to do is smile at me and I start getting wet and excited and..."

I could see she was already approaching a heightened state of arousal just talking about the process. Using my best sotto voce I calmed her down and assured her she'd be fine, that she was perfectly normal (for a nymphomaniac perhaps!) and that everything would be all right.

"I can't concentrate on my work," she complained, the strain showing on her face, which somehow looked incredibly better with some emotion coloring her otherwise sallow cheeks. "All I think about is fucking! My grades are suffering! I don't even eat right, all I want in my mouth is cock!"

A thought came to me then, and had she come to me the previous year I most assuredly would have found some other way to attack her problem, but I was currently halfway through a course in hypnotherapy. Dr. Wosciewicz told us it was, in practiced hands, a moderately useful tool, but had also warned us that despite what we may have seen on TV and in the movies it was not, nor should ever be used as, a parlor trick to amuse our friends. I must admit the temptation to have some of my friends clucking like chickens whenever they hear bells ring was at times overwhelming, but the ethical and legal aspects of being caught doing so (and of possibly not being able to stop it after the fun was gone) would have meant all my hard work and vocational planning being nullified by my misuse of an already questionable practice. I'd be the best educated Taco Bell employee anyone ever saw. Mackenzie's plight, however, screamed for its immediate application, and so taking the proverbial bit in my teeth, I began.

I had her recline and relax, gave her some breathing exercises to perform, and made the final decision to give it a try. Putting someone under is not so much a matter of dangling a watch or other shiny object before them but more an attitude and, most importantly, a tone of voice. One must be confident and comforting in order to successfully place someone in a suggestive mode, and even then a large percentage of people are immune to the effects, but Mackenzie seemed to be quite susceptible and in no time I had her in that state which is sleep but is not sleep.

Hypnotism can be used, among other things, to help people lose weight and quit nasty habits by reprogramming their natural responses to certain stimuli. In her case, it was a matter of redirecting her libidinous response to everything even remotely interpretable as a sexual come-on, which I found remarkably easy to do. I can't here give any details for fear of my gentle readers taking it upon themselves to experiment on their spouses, significant others, friends, neighbors, and co-workers. I shall not be responsible for a sudden blush of impotent people going about making chicken noises at the sound of bells.

About halfway through the session I was seized with an urge to play, however. Perhaps the ease of my success had gone to my head or maybe it was a lingering juvenile fantasy left over from some antiquated sit-com scenario, but I could not stop myself from giving her a final suggestion before bringing her back.

Her sexual appetite would be rekindled (and amplified, if that was possible) if she heard the word 'sponge' three times within a minute (it was the least likely term I could, at the moment, think of to be used so frequently) and then turned off again with the use of the word 'dishtowel', something I supposed imagining would instantly cause one to lose whatever ardor they had managed to accumulate anyway, either while under a hypnotic suggestion or independently in the midst of a roiling orgy.

I then gave her the usual 'when I count to three' routine and she awoke refreshed and alert and with no memory of what had been said during her time under. In fact, I was surprised when the first thing she said to me was, "When are we getting started?" I had always thought that a screenwriter's gimmick.

"We're all done," I told her, and she seemed positively giddy at being cured in so short a time. "Go back to your life," I said, "and don't worry. You'll find everything is changed for the better."

She stood, and offered to pay be.

And that's when I made my second mistake.

"No, please," I told her. "I can't very well go about sponge-ing off my fellow students."

Her expression changed, as if something she'd eaten that morning had suddenly decided to make an enemy of her. Perhaps it was my expectations overwhelming my observance, but she seemed suddenly prettier. Her facial features softened, and her whole carriage became far more feminine than it had when she first slogged into my room.

"Is it warm in here?" she asked, and I could see her face flush. It was a very nice face, full of promise.

"If it gets any warmer," I quipped lamely but for effect, "they'll have to mop us up with a sponge."

She wiped the back of her hand across her brow. "Would you mind if I took this shirt off?" she asked. "It's too hot in here for all these clothes."

I said nothing but watched as she unfastened the bib of her overalls and unbuttoned her flannel shirt. She tugged it free of the baggy overalls and discarded it as if never interested in seeing it again. Beneath she wore nothing, and before she returned her bib to its upright position I had a marvelous look at her champion breasts.

They were not massive but perfect for her body. Creamy white, smooth, round, pale globes with brick-red nipples already distended from arousal. Even with the bib back up, the side swells showed nicely and if she moved the right way she may as well have not bothered buttoning the denim flap back up after all.

I couldn't find another excuse to use the word and by my reckoning was running out of time, so I just looked at her and said, "Sponge!" once more.

Her whole face changed. Her eyes widened and then closed languorously. Her lips became thicker, they pouted. Her cheeks flushed and her nostrils flared. She swept her hair behind her ears, exposing a marvelous neck and shoulders.

"You do keep it hot in here," she said, and her voice had taken on what is classically called a bedroom tinge, low and sultry. Her eyes opened and fixed on mine, and with a smile slowly creeping across her face she tugged on the front of her overalls. "Do you mind?"

I shook my head, afraid for the moment to say another word.

Mackenzie unbuttoned the bib again and let it drop dramatically, watching my expression as she bared her breasts for me. She liked what she saw, as apparently so did I, and she reached down to unbutton the side at her hip.

"I never realized how cute you are," she said.

One button open. Two.

"I like cute guys."

And three.

"Cute guys make me horny as all hell."

She let go of the overalls and they fell in a crumpled heap at her feet. She kicked off her sneakers and stepped out of the abandoned jeans, clad now only in a white thong and ankle-high white socks. She came to me, her body undulating like a snake prepared to strike.

"I bet you have a lot to offer a girl like me," she said, and came close and reached a hand to the front of my jeans. "As Grandma says, 'The proof of the pudding'," and rather than finish the adage she sunk slowly to her knees and unzipped my fly.

Good old Grandma, using a saying rendered meaningless in this day of prepackaged instant pudding which tastes like whatever it happens to be wrapped in. Mackenzie reached in and wrestled briefly with my boxers and then grabbed my dick and brought it out into the open.

"Nice," she said, being kind to my quite ordinary six inch weapon.

Her hand pulled back and stretched the foreskin, and the purple head jutted upward, leaking a small drop of clear viscous liquid. Mackenzie leaned her face in and extended her long, pink tongue, which she then used to flick that teardrop off my dick.

I shuddered as if someone had plugged me into the nearest wall outlet.

This was the point where, had I any ethics at all, I would have said 'dishtowel' and ended the trance and saved her from being any further used, but, good God!, her mouth felt so good as it engulfed my cock right down to the balls that I suddenly found myself left with as many ethics as a presidential candidate in need of funding.

I placed a hand gently atop her head as she moved her face back and forth, sliding my cock in and out of her very warm and wonderfully talented mouth. Her tongue was amazing. I swear the damned thing had to be a foot long and as prehensile as an elephant's trunk. I thought of a girl I had met my sophomore year (who's name escapes me but who's body will forever be a standard by which I judge all women) who could tie a knot in a cherry stem with her tongue, and all the magical other things she could do with it as well. Mackenzie put that girl to shame.

And then she moved away and left my cock with a last kiss on the throbbing, swollen head, and she looked up at me with huge deep eyes. "You have to do something for me," she said softly.

I'd have slaughtered my best friend for her right then, in broad daylight and on camera, and eaten his liver, uncooked, with nothing but a tepid can of flat Mountain Dew to wash it down with. "What?"

She smiled naughtily. "Get naked?"

My Grandmother had a saying, too. "If you're born an asshole, you're gonna die an asshole." It's not as endearing as Mackenzie's Grandma's aphorism about pudding, but it suddenly swept through my head as if Grandma herself had been standing there, smacking the back of my head.

If this was any indication of how I was to handle being a shrink I should have dropped out of school the next morning and signed up for a correspondence course in hotel/motel management. The first rule of providing a service to patients is to not objectify them. I was objectifying Mackenzie all over the place. At the moment I was objectifying her amazing body and what it was going to feel like to be inside it.

I couldn't get my clothes off fast enough.

While I stripped, Mackenzie laid along the length of my bed, watching me. Her eyes sucked in every inch of my flesh, and just as I was finishing she said, "There's something else you have to do for me," and I asked what, and she lifted her knees and pushed them apart and said, "Eat my cunt."

There's something about hearing the 'C' word coming from a girl that drives me over the edge of control. It's a very hard word, with often derogatory undertones, and most women shun using it and very few like even hearing it. For a girl to use it on herself tells me how firmly engulfed in lust she is. Upon her directive, I placed myself between Mackenzie's knees and grabbed the skinny side straps of her thong.

For all that it covered, the undergarment was more of a garnish to begin with, like a parsley sprig placed on a plate of scrambled eggs. She lifted her hips and let me slide the silky item past her hips, then drew her knees together and then lifted her feet so I could remove it altogether. I had thoughts of taking her ankle socks off as well, but feet are often unfortunate sights and leaving the ends of her legs thus clad in white added an additional touch of purity to her body. I left them in place.

She parted her knees again and I studied her body. She was shaved and pink, her labia already wet and thick. I lowered my head and without hesitation placed my mouth over her pussy. It was hot and moist and smelled and tasted divinely. I dragged my tongue slowly between the lips and over and around her hooded clit, and the whole thing pulsed as if an independent creature symbiotically occupying her nether region, bringing her men to satisfy not only its own needs but hers as well in exchange for transportation and protection from sudden wintry winds.

As I licked her, my hands followed the soft curves of her body, up around the soft swell of her hips, through the trough of her waist, to the solidity of her ribs and there found the soft but firm mounds of her breasts. I cupped them, felt their weight as if assaying their value that way, and rolled and pinched her nipples between my thumbs and forefingers until I held two distended hard nibs, which I then tugged on.

She moaned, and arched her back, pushing her pussy into my face. Her legs crossed behind me and I felt her small cotton-covered feet come to rest on my spine. Her hands grabbed fistfuls of my hair and held my head in place while she ground her pussy onto my mouth.

In no time she cried out and tensed and I felt the shockwave of her first orgasm vibrate down the length of her. A relationship exists between a women's attachment to sex and the ease with which she reaches climax. That Mackenzie reached her first so quickly told me all I really had to know about the problem that had initially brought her to me, but such clinical considerations were far beyond me at that point.

Feeling her come on my face like that drove me crazy and I ate her with increased ferocity until she rippled a second time. Her hands grabbed my hair and lifted my face away from her crotch.

"There's something else you have to do for me," she said, forcing my eyes to lock with hers as we stared at each other across the magnificent mesa of her nude body. "Fuck me," she said.

It seemed the logical next step, and I really didn't need direction, but taking the orders of a woman never bothered me before and in this instance I was all too eager to be directed. I lifted up over her. Her arms spread to welcome me. I eased my hips between her thighs, and her legs came up and around my shoulders, forming a funnel a blind man could have followed all the way to heaven. I slid into her easily, and held my torso up on stiff arms to watch our bodies merge.

Her pussy was hot and tight, soaked with her own juices and my saliva. It felt as if she had a small hand in there, grabbing my shaft, holding it in place. I moved slowly at first, and every time I slid my entire length inside her, her back arched and her breath caught. You'd have thought I was shoving a foot-long inside her, the way she reacted, and I supposed afterwards that in her state of mind (of which I was at least partially responsible for!) she would have felt the same rush if I'd been built like a used pencil.

Her legs slid down and crossed around my waist. Her hands massaged my chest and her nails dragged down my pecs, leaving skinny red lines beneath the curls of soft black hairs. She flicked my tiny pink nipples, and on seeing them harden she began to thrust her pelvis into me, quickening our pace.

She came again, and as that third orgasm swept across her she smiled and began to fuck me at an incredible speed. "You have to fuck me harder," she said, and with all the encouragement I needed I did as she commanded.

My own orgasm built suddenly inside my loins and my legs stiffened. My breath came in short hot puffs. Mackenzie recognized the symptoms and sunk her claws into my shoulders. "You must cum for me," she said. "Cum all over my belly and tits."

That was it. The 'T' word. Another audible trigger.

I pulled out of her just as I felt the liquid fire fill my cock, and grabbed my dick and pumped it over her. One of her hands went immediately to her pussy, holding it, using the meat of her palm to rub her clit and give herself a last and massive orgasm.

I shot long hot strings of cum up her belly. A glob fell on her left breast, partially coating her nipple. A pool formed in the concavity around her navel. I jerked myself dry and the let go of my dick. It dangled, softening while beneath me Mackenzie reached yet another howling good orgasm.

"There's something else you have to do for me," she said immediately. "Lick up all that cum and give it to me."

An odd request, but I was still intoxicated by her enough to do it.

I'd tasted my own cum before (the circumstances of which are another story altogether) so its salty muskiness was not a completely strange experience for me, although admittedly nowhere near as familiar (or as pleasant) as rice pudding. I fell to her and licked it up off her belly, holding as much of it in my mouth as I could and rising to her face. Here lips parted for me and I kissed her, spilling my seed into her mouth. She greedily sucked on my tongue. I went back for more.

"There's something else you have to do for me," she said, and I hesitated, my open mouth hovering over that patina of sperm coating her left nipple, wondering what else this incredible girl could possibly want, and if now would not be a bad time to use the release word before the monster I had created managed to fuck me to death.

"I want you," she said, at first very slowly, and then with rapidity and energy, "to wrap your three sponges up in that dishtowel and shove them all up your ass!"

In a flash she was out from under me, standing and pulling her clothes back on.

"You son of a bitch! How dare you?" she bellowed. "I come to you for help and you pull this shit?" She found her abandoned flannel shirt and pulled it on and searched for her thing. "I hoped you liked it, baby, because it's the last you'll ever get from me!"

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