Dr. Pritchard, Hypnosextherapist

"Welcome back." I smiled at Mr. Kirche, who blinked his green eyes and yawned. He tried to cover his mouth with his hand, but his arms were slow to respond.

"I'm -uh- s-uh-rry" he murmured through his yawn.

I smiled again to reassure him. "That's quite alright. Take your time. I woke you up a little early because I know how hard it is to come up from your first time that far under."

He nodded in agreement and attempted a smile in return. The lamp behind his head reflected off his scalp where his hair thinned. This was only my third appointment with Mr. Kirche, but his hair always appeared to be the same length, as if he got a haircut each week. I had seen that on men who lined up to get a buzz every Saturday morning, but never in a man who favored a scissor-cut.

He had struck me when we met at his first appointment as a bit old-fashioned. Brown slacks, short-sleeve white-button down shirt. His thick-rimmed glasses lay on the same table as the lamp, along with a glass of water.

"There's a glass of water on the table behind your head if you're thirsty."

Mr. Kirche opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, as if he needed independent confirmation from his tongue that he might be thirsty. "Why, yes!" he said, seeming surprised by the fact that after I said be might be thirsty that he actually was. That was no trick of suggestion, though—it was just a simple observation as I watched him sleep with his mouth still open, drying his tongue as he sucked in air. I'd thought about closing it for him, but often touch at this stage of the process could bring him up too suddenly. When he was fully under, though, you could touch him in all manner of places.

Mr. Kirche sat up slowly, moving his feet to the floor and stretching his arms up in the air, bringing his hands down to rest on his knees. Then, remembering the water, he turned to the table and picked up the glass with his left hand, bringing it to his lips while watching me over the lip of the glass. I could tell he was smiling because the little crows' feet at the outside corners of his eyes deepened.

"Feel good?" I asked.

He brought the glass down to the table, half-full. "Fantastic. Really. Fantastic."

"Good. Good. I think that went splendidly, too." I shifted in my upholstered leather chair, rubbing my thighs together. My tight black skirt hugged my thighs snugly enough that I knew he wouldn't be able to see that I wore no panties. "Unfortunately, our time is just about up."

Mr. Kirche frowned.

"Same day and time next week?" I offered.

His frown dissipated. "Yes. That will work fine."

"Don't forget your glasses."

He nodded, turned to the table and picked up his glasses as he stood. He placed them on his nose and smiled at me one more time with an accompanying nod. "Next week, then."

I had a few minutes, after the door closed behind Mr. Kirche, to prepare for my next session. I decided to leave my panties off—not because there was a reason to leave them off, but because there was no reason to put them on. I took the opportunity to hike up my skirt and give my clit a quick massage while thinking about my next set of clients.

* * * * *

Melissa and Ken Saxton were in their mid-30s, but very fit. Melissa was about five-foot-four, with pert breasts, and a tight ass consistently clad in yoga pants. She wore her chestnut brown hair short—the only thing about her appearance that signaled "mom." Certainly she would fall into the category of MILF, even if it wasn't a perk of my occupation as a therapist. Ken, I suspected, would also nicely fill out a pair of yoga pants, but unfortunately for me, he kept things a mystery in some dark slacks. His biceps bulged against the sleeves of his polo shirt. He was clean-shaven with a rugged jawline. His hair was so close in shade to his skin that I thought for a moment it had started out whiter and tanned to that brown.

As this was their first consult with me, I tried to set them at ease with an overwhelming cheeriness. "You must be Melissa and Ken!"

They both smiled, but seemed unsure what to say now that they had lost the opportunity to introduce themselves.

"I'm Dr. Pritchard. You can call me Jeanine."

Again, I took the words from their mouths.

"Please, have a seat!" I stood to the side, and gestured like a game show hostess to the couch previously occupied by Mr. Kirche.

It's always a little tough breaking the ice in a first consult. Often couples have trouble putting words to their sexual problems even within the intimacy of their own relationship, let alone in front of a stranger. I never address the problem head-on, as if I'm rushing my patients. Instead, I try to put them at ease by asking questions that they can easily answer. I start with facts—how they met, how long they've been together, etc. This history is helpful for me to understand the context of their problem, but it also builds their bond and trust in each other as a couple.

Melissa and Ken had met in college, fifteen years ago, and gotten married in their mid-twenties. They had two kids, a five-year-old boy and a two-year-old girl. The one-two punch of nearly back-to-back kids and the accompanying complications of pregnancy, childbirth, nursing, sleeping, and so on, left them with little energy at bedtime and now they were simply out of practice. They no longer thought of each other in sexual terms. This was not an unfamiliar situation.

The trick is that it's partly an illusion of transference. It isn't so much that they don't find the other person sexy—it's that they don't see themselves that way—and then it follows that they don't understand how the other can see them as sexy and they assume that it's just a mutual lack of interest. It's a common problem with couples who have children so early in their marriage, breaking the momentum of a strong libido. I explained this to them, but they still seemed doubtful.

I spent the remainder of their session explaining how my program works—that I would use hypnosis to put them in a trance, and use their receptiveness in that state to gradually restore their self-confidence.

"Are we seeing you individually?" Melissa asked.

"Oh, no. I'm not providing individual therapy in a situation like yours. I'm working on your relationship—and for that I need you both to be here."

The next question was from Ken. "Will you be hypnotizing us at the same time?"

"Yes. Studies have shown that therapy with only one partner hypnotized results in a power imbalance."

Both the Saxtons gave me a confused look, nearly synchronized, mouths slightly open, the top of their heads tilted toward one another.

"That would be bad," I clarified.

Their mouths closed in unison and their heads nodded affirmatively, as if they had read those same studies. They were adorable. I was going to have fun with these two.

* * * * *

My next patient was Marguerite. Marguerite had never had an orgasm, even from masturbation. We had covered all of the particulars in her first session. How did she know she'd never had an orgasm? What had she tried? Did she have any unresolved trauma—physical or psychological—that might interfere with her ability to orgasm? What did she think about when she masturbated?

"Oh, the usual. Beautiful men."

"Do they turn you on?"

"Of course. Why wouldn't they?"

"They're not for everyone. What do you think about in particular? Walk me through a fantasy."

"I meet a man. We go out to dinner. We go back to his apartment. We take off our clothes. I lay on the bed. He puts on a condom. He gets on top of me and inserts his ..."

I tried not to make a face as she was describing this "fantasy"—after all, I'm a professional. "Let me stop you right there. Where did this fantasy come from?"

"It's a perfect relationship."

"Does it excite you?"

"It's ideal."

"Right. Well, a fantasy isn't always something you want." She looked at me like I was suggesting a rape fantasy. I made a rapid correction. "I mean, it's something you desire, but it doesn't have to be logical. It doesn't have to be responsible. A fantasy isn't like a dream. You can want something that's not good for you."

"Like ice cream."

"Exactly. Like ice cream." Marguerite nodded as if she understood while I continued. "For example, in your fantasy, have you ever had him not wear a condom?" I could see her legs visibly clamp together beneath the folds of her dress, resisting the notion.

I didn't speak again for a moment. Sometimes it's best to take a break, to let my words sink in.

"As you know, I am a hypnotherapist, and I do think hypnosis would help you to relax—we could get there faster ... and together. Do I have your permission to put you in a trance state?"

Now it was her whole body that appeared to clamp together, like a garage door coming down over her psyche. Her pale arms folded over her generous breasts. Her pink lips tightened and thinned with disapproval.

"I do think it would be best," I appealed, before taking another pause.

Her arms slid one by one down to her sides, and as her chest was released, it appeared to puff out a little, as if she was arching her back. These signals were all subtle, but I knew how to read them. The idea now had sunk in and she was ready to continue.

"I'd like you to lay down on the sofa, with your head on the end by the lamp and relax. Take your shoes off." As she complied, I stood and turned on the lamp, which sent a focused beam of light like a halo around her head. Her strawberry blonde hair cascaded over the arm of the sofa, shining in the light.

She brought her left forearm over her eyes. "It's bright."

"Yes, it will be at first. Relax with your arms at your sides. Use your eyelids to block out the light if you need to—but it will get dimmer." I looked down the length of the sofa with this woman draped across it. I knew my skirt was just a bit too long for her to see that I wore nothing underneath, even as I stood over her, demonstrating my authority and power.

"I'm going to block out the center of the light now." I moved a custom-made circular shield in front of the bulb, deflecting the direct light. "I want you to look at that disc, focus on it." The disc would appear to her only as a black circle in a halo of light. With this as the center of her vision, it would be difficult for her eyes to maintain focus.

"I want you to listen to my voice closely, Marguerite. I'm going to tell you some things and I want you to pay attention, Marguerite." Repetition of her name would create a trigger for commands. It's like the game 'Simon Says,' in a way. "Marguerite, I want you to listen to me. My voice is filling the room. There is nothing else unless I say there is something else. Marguerite."

I could see her pupils dilating, her body relaxing now, into the couch. "Marguerite. Where are you?"

"I— I don't know." Her eyelids were closed now. My voice had subsumed any sense of place.

"Marguerite. I want you to tell me a story, Marguerite."

"Uh ... a story about what?" Her tentativeness indicated a struggle between her conscious mind and her unconscious mind. The hypnosis was working.

"Whatever you want, Marguerite. It's your story. You are very safe here. You're just telling a story, that's all. It doesn't have to be a true story."

"Uh ... uh ... okay ..."

"In fact, it's better if it's not a true story." Marguerite nodded slightly. "Now tell me, Marguerite—where are you?"

"I- I'm in a park. There are trees. A field."

"Are you alone?"

"Yes. No. Someone's coming."

"Who is it, Marguerite?"

"It- it's a woman. She's jogging." I nodded knowingly at this revelation. I could see the muscles in Marguerite's tone calves twitching, as if she was the one running while she imagined the motion.

"What does she look like?"

"She's tall. Brunette. Slight figure."

"What is she wearing?"

"Light grey sweat pants. Pink sports bra. White sneakers."

"Tell me what she's doing now, Marguerite."

"She's slowing down. She's stopping to talk to me."

This was a critical juncture in the hypnosis. I needed Marguerite to focus on my words, and to use her own when I asked her to visualize something. Adding a third voice from Marguerite's unconscious mind could be detrimental to the procedure, so a bit of suggestion was necessary. "You don't understand her, Marguerite. What she says is reassuring, but you don't understand the words. Maybe she's speaking a different language. Tell me what she's doing now."

"She put her hand on my arm. She's smiling at me. She's guiding me into the field."

"That's good, Marguerite. You should go with her."

"There's a blanket. She's gesturing for me to lay with her. We're laying now, facing each other. Our heads propped on our arms. She's smiling. Laughing. She's touching my shoulder, my face, with her free arm."

"And what about you, Marguerite? What are you doing?"

"I'm doing the same."

"How does she feel?"

"Soft, but toned. Her skin is smooth, but doesn't have much give. My touch is making her smile more, touch me more."

"Do you want to touch her more, Marguerite?" Using her name made this more of a suggestion than a question.

"Yes, I do."

"Go ahead. Tell me what it's like."

"I'm caressing her face, her arm, her hip, her contours."

"And she's still touching you, Marguerite?" Again, a suggestion.

"Yes, her hand is cupping my left breast, gently." I watched as her hand wandered to touch her own left breast. Perfect. She was playing both roles. Sometimes I have to step in to play the other role, which I am more than willing to do—but therapeutically, in this case, it was better if she touched herself. "Now I'm touching her breast, kneading it. Her top is thinner than I expected. I can feel her nipple hardening at my touch. Her supporting arm is under my head now. I relax into her. Her lips are on mine." I watched as her lips parted, taking in her lover. I was getting excited myself, touching my own breast through my red silk blouse as she narrated.

Her sudden silence as she fell into the flow of the scenario made me ache. I prompted her again. "Is she touching you between the legs, Marguerite?"

"Yes, I feel her palm on my thigh, pushing my legs apart." Marguerite's idle left hand now moved down, rubbing against her thigh, pulling up the material of her dress. I took the opportunity to hike up my skirt to give myself more access. "She's cupping my mons, rubbing my clit slowly, back and forth. I don't know where my clothes are. Maybe I was never wearing any."

Yes, my decision to forgo panties was finally paying off. I love this part of my job, when the fantasies of my patients become my own. I got to live out my lust through their imaginations. I watched as Marguerite's left hand moved inside of her dress, and the middle finger of her right penetrated her slit. She was so beautiful now that she was letting herself go—so powerful in her desires. Her lips pursed in a prolonged air kiss. I fell forward a little, catching myself on the arm of the couch, next to her head, and granted myself a slow grind. I had to stay on top of her—I mean, the therapy.

"What is she doing now?"

"Oh, God. She's kissing my neck, her hand is ... her fingers are inside of me ... pumping in and out ... I'm so wet ... she's pulling out her fingers and bringing them up to her mouth, sucking my juices off ... she's smiling at me and she's so sexy with my sheen on her lips ..." She pulled her fingers from her pussy, and sucked them off, one by one, licking them, and returning them to explore further between her legs. I did the same with my own fingers, imagining they were hers.

"She's kissing my breasts now, licking my nipples ... one then the other ... sucking them into her mouth ... nibbling ... her hand pumping between my legs ... she's humping my thigh ... my arms around her, pulling her into me ... it feels so good."

"Yessssss ... Marguerite. So gooood ..."

Marguerite seemed to curl up like a piece of paper off a roll—her legs turned in toward each other, her shoulders raised up by her ears. She was folding in toward the only part of her anatomy that she cared to focus upon at this moment. Her right hand, acknowledging this priority need, moved between her legs to join her left hand. The hem of her dress was now up to her belly button and she pushed her black panties down mid-thigh so they wouldn't impede her access. She would learn, eventually, that all panties did was create more laundry.

Marguerite moaned into her narration. "Uhhnnggg ... she's ... she's down there now. I can feel her."

"She's down where, Marguerite? Be specific." This specificity was necessary because she was giving herself permission to go there.

"Her lips. Her tongue is on my pussy ... pushing in ... up ... the tip of her tongue on my clit ... uhhhhn ... her hands under me, pulling me into her mouth ... so strong ..."

It was time for her to internalize this other as part of her routine. "Wrap your legs around her, Marguerite. Possess her." I was straddling the couch arm now, digging my fingers in, frantically frigging under my clit hood, getting where I needed to go as I guided Marguerite. "Pull her head in between your legs," I told her, as I longed to do the same, to feel those coral pink lips part my own.

"Oh, God, yes ... my hands are in her hair, her mouth ... she's sucking out my nectar ... I can't hold on ... I can't hold on ..."

"You're almost there, Marguerite. Just a moment longer." Just a moment longer, Marguerite, I'm almost there. I reached up with my left hand and pinched hard the nipple of my right breast, sending a shock of pain into my nervous system to accompany the pleasure as I sent myself over the edge.

"Uhhhh ... " I let loose. Fortunately, Marguerite took this to be the sound in her imagination, made by her greedy pussy-licking lover.

Marguerite cried out, thrashing her legs, as she came with me. Her first orgasm, if her claim was to be believed. I wasn't so sure after this performance, but her payment had gone through and it wasn't like I was miserable at the prospect of continuing to work with her.

I took my time cleaning myself up with some baby wipes I kept on a nearby table. I took care to slowly slip Marguerite's panties back up to her hips, my fingers sliding along her outer thighs, making muscle memories. I arranged her dress artfully over her legs. I knew from experience that it was much less awkward for the patient if I took the time to do this before bringing them up from their trance state.

I took my seat, then a deep breath. "Marguerite, I'm going to count backwards from ten. When I get to one, you will wake up, feeling refreshed and satisfied.

"Ten."

* * * * *

I was already excited when the Saxtons arrived for their second session. Therapy could be like dating. Meeting someone for the first time, in what is essentially a blind date, is nerve-wracking, but by the second, you know what to expect and can relax and look forward to the time you spend together. It didn't hurt that I found both of the Saxtons to be sexy as hell and was interested to see more of them.

Ken wore black slacks, well-fitted, maybe even a little more snug in the crotch than was fashionable, and a button-down shirt. Melissa looked stunning in her tight black t-shirt and, of course, her usual yoga pants. Her blue eyes were absolutely shining—she knew she was going to get laid. I welcomed them in and invited them to have a seat on the couch while I described our session plan. The logistics were slightly more complicated with two people in simultaneous hypnosis. As they were both still fairly young, I figured they wouldn't mind laying on yoga mats (to go with Melissa's pants!) on the floor. I moved the lamp over and blocked the beam from the single light to each set of eyes while I talked them through the countdown procedure—telling them what had happened, then what is happening, and finally, overtaking their sense of time, what would happen next.