Psych Credit

Even before her mother is seated, Ags has ordered a bottle of wine and has cleared both chairs of clothes before she takes a chair herself.

Her mother's story came out in a gentle river of words interrupted only by the delivery and pouring of wine. Her river was a smooth flow, never rushed, no turbulence, no dramatic rapids or falls, just a necessarily elongated and languid version of this: she had known she was a lesbian since youth; knew that in their community, never mind the times, she had to suppressed it; married her father because she really had loved him, at many different levels; that they've had a happy life together, and when Agnes arrive their world got happier. One of her joys was that, unlike herself, Agnes seemed to have a healthy regard for sex, heterosexual sex. But for me, she added, "I have always wondered, always wondered what it would be like to be, not with you, but with any woman. You were just there."

And I am now.

When Ags covered the five short steps from the table to the bed she explained to her mother's total satisfaction that she, Ags, loved sex and would love to have sex with her mother and to think of her as whoever she wanted to.

And then kneeling on the bed they faced each other, "Have you thought of this moment, do you know what you'd like to do?"

Sally smiled, thought of this, is she kidding? I have thought of this with half the women I've laid eyes on. "I'd like to slowly take your clothes off and then just touch you for awhile, then I'd like to kiss and lick and suck on places I've dreamed about every night of my life but mostly I want to hear you moan."

"I'm a moaner, mom."

The fingers that found her daughter's sweater were strong and determine and in absolutely no hurry but the sweater was off soon enough and the mother's hands were caressing her daughter's breasts through her tight, red bra. "They're pretty, Agnes, really pretty and they feel wonderful."

"Mum, can you call me Ags? I've never liked Agnes."

Her mothers eyes never left her daughter's breasts and she never stopped feeling them, these were her first, but for her own, so it took awhile for her daughter's words to mean anything to her. "No, I won't call you Ags, it will always be Agnes to me, that was my mother's name."

"Ok, but for tonight, how about Jennifer, I've always loved that name."

Her mother's face was close to her daughter's breasts now, enjoying the nipples grow in the flimsy bra, "How about Jen, a single syllable, three may be too much for me tonight."

"I'll call you Sally."

Sally was at Jen's pants now undoing the buckle and opening the button. Jen moved to lie down but her mother stopped her, not wanting her to move, sending her own hand down to feel the outside of Jen's jeans rubbing at the material trying to feel the hot skin beneath. "Spread your legs. Open them more," and Jen obeys and her mother rubs at her mound as if it's a stain.

Sally is pushing at Jen's pants now so Jen falls on the bed, kicking them off with her panties then she rises to where she had been, with her legs spread apart, with her mother's hand on her pussy.

"Move on it."

Jen willingly gyrates on her mother's hand.

"Take off your bra."

When Jen does as she is told she feels her mother's mouth lick at her breast, all over, from the chest to the nipple, "Mom,... Sally, I'm not going to last."

With her fingers, Sally stops her daughter from moving, "Don't move." Then she takes the lips of Jen's cunt, gripping them, squeezing them together, pulling on them so hard that Jen grunts, then harder still, then she feel inside her, her hand forcing her daughter to open, then she pulls her fingers out and smothers her daughter's breast with her own cum and then she is down on it sucking at the breast, licking, washing.

"Have you dreamed of doing that, Sally?" Jen was intrigued, she has never done that before.

There is no answer.

But she is watching Sally's head now, it bobs on the surface of Jen's breast and she wonders what her mother may been thinking during all those nights, lying there on her bed, beside her husband, late into the night, for 25 years.

"Do you like pussy Sally, do you like the taste, the smell, the smell of cunt, do you want to suck me?

Jen is on her back now, forced there by Sally's insistent push and Sally is between her legs, her eyes closed and even though Jen has already orgasmed, Sally stays where she is, lost and Jen runs her hands through Sally's hair, gently tugging at it, encouraging her to go deeper, to drink deeper. Then Jen remembers but she waits, forcing her legs wider, then wraps them around her mother's head, encouraging her, allowing her to fold her cunt about her face and then she gives out a long moan, the best she could produce.

Jen did as she was told and had a shower and when she returns, toweled, to the room her mother is sitting at the table, fully dressed, smoking, with her legs crossed and a wine glass in her hand and when Jen sits across from her, the mother smiles, "Thank you."

Jen gets up from the table and dropping her towel goes behind her mother and wraps her hands around her, "Now you."

Sally pats her daughter's hands. "No, I've done what I've dreamed of doing."

Jen objects, tries to pull her mother from the chair, tries to get her to the bed, but her mother resists and then pries Jen's hands apart and tells her to put on her clothes.

Agnes did as she is told.

While Ags is watching her mother's head bob between her legs, Gail is studying her computer screen. She thinks her report is going well, it's necessarily incomplete but it's going well, and would be going even better were it not for the telephone that is ringing now and will be ringing about every hour on the hour throughout the weekend. But a telephone she deliberately ignores.

Gail decided on the thesis of her report even before her initial meeting with Tom: 'Understanding an individual's sexual proclivities is the most complete way to predict an individual's behaviour.' She didn't know if that was true, didn't care really, but she had overheard one of her brother's use the phrase and when searching for a premise on a subject she knew nothing about, she remembered it and thought it might just do the trick.

Now I don't think we want to read Gail's paper, we don't want to read it for a number of reasons: she is no expert on her subject; the thesis may be entirely improvable, even erroneous, but the reason I've decided to pass on her report is that I know Gail is a mathematician and her cold, clinical writing style will not be fun to read. Her report will be dauntingly boring, in fact, I already pity Dr. Flemming who must endure it. But let's look at a few of her thoughts.

• The unfathomable nurture-nature debate is all about programming and obfuscates the notion of man as a beast who's sexual predispositions and proclivities tend to dictate individual behaviour. After all, sexual instinct is fundamental to the propagation of the species and is, thus, a beast's defining behaviour.

• The complexity of understanding the nurture-nature of an individual is so daunting that in trying to predict an individual's behaviour we, by necessity, tend to take short-cuts: facial features, body types, clothing, jobs, locations, and many more. Sexual proclivities is just one such marker, but it is the one that offers the greatest incite into total behaviour, rational and otherwise, and with the least amount of effort, and, indeed, with the potential for considerable pleasure.

• 20 minutes in another person's bed is the best way to gain true insight into an individual's soul, every other methods involves a substantial decreasing marginal return on the investment of time and effort.

• Case study: a virginal naiveté visits three beds and observes three different sets of behaviour which will, in the conclusion, be correlated with the Frederick Strunk Personality Type Aptitude Indicator and Behaviour Predictor to establish the veracity of the observations/experiences.

Gail is entering room #345 now and Tom is behind her. They kick off their shoes and sit on the edge of the bed. Why this room, he asks? I know it, I've been here before, I feel comfortable here.

"You called this a lab."

"Yes."

"What do you want me to do, I mean, is there anything you specifically would like me to do with you?"

"No," Gail looks into Tom's eyes, he really does have a sensitive face. "Do whatever you want to do?"

"Do you mean that?"

"Yes."

If we look closely, and not even too closely at that, we can see a boner in Tom's pants, a boner that grew at Gail's last 'yes.' There is every evidence that Tom has been looking forward to this and he wastes no time, he turns to Gail and strokes her hair while bring his lips to hers. She kisses him back, as she has been taught, and he lies her on the bed and brings her legs on the bed beside his own, then his hand quickly moves to the breast. "God, I've wanted to feel these for a long time." And he does, with mounting passion until he tears off Gail's sweater and stares at the nipples straining against Gail's 35C. His lips are on them now, feeling their heat and sensing their aroma but he can wait no longer and the bra is off and his lips press on the nipple, sucking noisily while his hand fumbles with Gail's pants which she kicks off leaving her only in her plain white cotton panties and he is on those now, kissing them, wanting to have kissed them since their disclosure. His lips can feel that she is hairy and as his tongue travels her covered mound his moisture, was it just his? makes the thin cotton translucent and the blackness of her pussy hairs is revealed.

He's on her thighs now, how white and smooth, and he sees the tufts of hair at her crotch and smells the heated essence of her sex. The white cotton panties come off easily and his face mashes into a zone he had assembled, meticulously assembled so many times in his own bed with his hand on his prick, and he is fumbling for that prick now, pushing at his trousers and underwear until it jumps free just in time to send, with an animal grunt, a rope of sperm onto the patterned bedspread.

His head is on her pussy now, resting, regaining sense and it only slowly dawns on him that she hasn't moaned, hasn't cried out, hasn't moved. He turns his face a fraction and through the thatch of her pussy looks up at her and sees those eyes, those lovely, round, innocent eyes looking back at him. What are they saying? He knew in an instant, because he had seen them so often in the coffee house, they are always the same, he thinks, they seem to be trying to decode a mystery with the logic of mathematics, she is trying to understand him, not through connecting with his passion, but through empirical study. His prick, so responsive to his thoughts, so willing, was ready, as usual, but now begins to let him down, and itself, as it slowly falls to lie wet against the bedspread.

She remains motionless as he sits up, sitting cross-legged on the bed, looking down at her.

"Will you put it in me now?"

He didn't know if it was a question or a statement, if it was a plea or a plan. "Do you want me to?"

She nods but with such encouragement that his shrinkage seems complete, and that's when she hands him the condom.

Playing pool with a rope is tough but putting a condom on a limp dick is impossible — and embarrassing, and when he looks at her he blushes. Can I help? Maybe if you touch it for awhile, and she gets up and faces him, cross-legged and, as she takes his penis in her hand, he reaches between her legs and tries to coax her cunt into life and it seems to be working, his soldier is stiffing and the rubber now hoods the head and she does as directed and slowly rolls it down, painfully pinching his hair so he is forced to take his fingers from her twat and finish the rolling himself.

He has her by the ass now, her legs are wide in acceptance and his sheathed manhood is touching the gates, "Are you sure?" Then he remembers she's a virgin and adds, "it may hurt." She doesn't look sure, doesn't even look interested and he feels himself weaken so he takes his own advice: sight, sound, smell and he rubs in her pussy, drags his fingers across his nose, licks his fingers, squeezes a breast, they really are spectacular, and urgently enters before he loses the power to do so.

It isn't going well, it's those eyes, they are so innocent, yes, but so analytical, too, that's the word, analytical, it's as if she is trying, not to enjoy him, but to understand him, ... but don't think about that, not now, think of her tits, the tits are the key, they are so fucking spectacular, so round, with such perfect areola and nipples, to suck, to bite, oh, God, just a few more strokes, a few more ... and then the now familiar grunt.

They are in the chairs now, both in towels and Gail is absently sucking on the tit of a disposable water bottle. "Are there other ways to do it?" Fuck? She nods, still sucking on the bottle. He thinks for a moment, you can blow me, or I could put it in your ass.

"Really?"

The monastic cell is quiet, but for the clatter of the keys and now the ringing of the phone. She knows its her father before she answers it. She listens, the voice is loud, lecturing, "yes I was out both nights," more lecture, "yes I know it's wrong," more noise, but louder now, we can hear it, "... will talk to you, you have a reputation, morals ..." and she holds the receiver a little away from the ear and finally says, "yes, Ok, tomorrow, at 3:45." When she hangs up she wonders which of her brothers will come, but she doesn't really care. Her finger's hit the return and then shuffle on the keys, 'Incest, My Personal Observations and The Report of a Friend.'

She isn't sorry it will be her last time in the coffee shop, she's becoming tired of it, but she'll miss Tom, he really is an interesting man, and that face is so sensitive, and he so sensitively reflects on their time in room #345. She is watching the clock, trying to extend the conversation, but, as the hands reach the hour, finally it is time.

"I have a graduation gift for you," she says. A graduation gift? And she arrived on the second, standing by the table.

"This is Ags, I can't give her to you, but I can give you both this," and she pushed the familiar key to room #345 towards Tom. "I know I've been difficult, I know you both deserve better, and I am giving you that: I'm giving you each other. The room is yours for two days."

They are talking now, excitedly, but they stop as the figure passes by the window.

She hasn't a pretty face, but it isn't plain, either, and the eyes: so round, so innocent. They appear to be looking inward now, searching for something, not critically, not analytically, perhaps only for a piece of information that she can add to another. She is, after all, a student.