The Funnel

"The funnel was sticking out of the guy's ass. It was red, plastic. His shaved ass was perched high up in the air and the funnel was inserted into it. If you looked inside you could see that the stem-the stem?-was filled up with fresh cum. It was thick and white. Beautiful. It looked like liquid pearls.

"I figured that other guys had come before me who had shot their load in the funnel, down the guy's ass. Now it was my turn. But his ass was so high in the air, and I was down so low, I wasn't sure I could pull it off. The angle was bad. I was afraid some of my cum would miss the mouth of the funnel. I wouldn't hold up my end. Obviously the goal was to fill the entire funnel up with cum.

"Then it changed. I was the one with the funnel up my ass. I was the one down on the bed with my ass high up in the air."

"The point of view changed," my shrink coolly offered.

"Yes. No. But I could still see the funnel from above, even though I was down on the bed. Only now the funnel was brimming with cum. I was terrified! One move, I thought, and the cum would spill over the edge of the funnel and, I don't know, make a mess. The object was to keep it all inside, right? What's worse, I was still supposed to make my contribution to the funnel. I was supposed to shoot my load in it. But how could I do that? The situation was impossible! Besides, the funnel was full up already. Even if I could add my load it would cause the funnel to overflow its rim and the cum would spill out over the sides! I felt...helpless."

"A common theme. What happened after that?" my shrink asked.

"Nothing. I woke up."

My shrink consulted his Rolex. Behind him on his desk, and credenza, were pictures of a handsome blonde wife and two happy-seemingly-children. "In twentyfive words or less, owing to the time constraints, what do you think the dream means?"

"How do I interpret it, you mean?"

"Yes."

I shrugged. "Aside from the fact I love to bottom? I have no fucking idea."

"I see." He looked at his watch again. "Our time is just about up so I'm going to give you an assignment. Think about-and I'll do the same, over the course of the next week-think about your dream and jot down any thoughts you may have about what it means. In the context of what we've been discussing these past six months. Can you do that for me?"

Here we go again, I thought. I'm paying this guy $200 an hour, or its equivalent, and once again he's asking me to interpret my own dreams? Or explain my actions. Or my motivations. Isn't that HIS fucking job? And it's not even $200 an hour; it's worse. The sessions only last 50 minutes.

"Sure," I replied, reluctantly.

He uncapped a Mont Blanc. "Do you need a pen this week or...are you poor?"

"Poor," I conceded. My insurance didn't include "mental health" benefits and my bank account didn't accommodate them either. A little over a month ago, when I informed the shrink I could no longer afford his steep rates, he suggested an alternative. With a sly smile, re-capping his Mont Blanc, he had termed it a "radical form of therapy" he only practiced on "a few select patients. The cream of the crop."

Now he was re-capping his pen once again. "You know the drill," he said.

The drill. That was one metaphor for it.

As he left the office to go lock the outer office door, I rose with a sigh and began to undress. By the time he returned I was naked except for a pair of champagne-colored lace panties.

He closed and locked the office door-can't be too safe!-turned, and undressed me again. "Body of an eighteen year-old. God, I love it!" he said, as he too began to undress. "Take off your panties. I want to see...No, on second thought leave them on. I'll pull them down, when I'm ready."

I could see his hard-on through his striped boxers and when he yanked them down it sprang up, ready for action. My therapist had what I call an "aristocratic cock." By this I mean, unlike many, it was not misshapen in any way. It was not crooked or bulgy in the middle or, god forbid, uncut. The head was rosy, with a beautiful downward flare, and the veiny blue-blood shaft was exactly as thick directly behind the head as it was where it curved out of his pale brown bush. It was neither too big nor too short, too thick (if there is such a thing) nor too thin. Perfect, sort of. But also a tad dull. Beautiful to behold, when hard, but also lacking mystery. As in...how is this going to feel when he's seven inches deep in me?

It was like a perfectly clean pair of hands. A surgeon's hands.

He removed a tube of K-Y from a bottom drawer and motioned me into my usual position. One knee buried in the leather couch cushion, the other leg straight, bare foot on the carpet.

He pulled my panties down, to my knees, and then lubed fingers worked their way in. I was plenty roomy inside for him. I had no fears.

He pointed his cock toward my lubed hole, found entry and pushed in. Then, after a considerate pause, in the remaining way. It hurt not much, and only for a second.

He spanked my right cheek, as was his custom. "You OK?"

"Fine."

"Let's fuck."

What else were we going to do? I wondered.

He pinched the thin flesh of my hips, pushed my body forward on the pivot of my one knee, then brought me back. The second time made a slapping sound-my shaved, skinny ass against his hairy abdomen.

As he fucked me he couldn't resist talking, somewhat breathlessly. This WAS therapy after all.

"My hope is," he said, "that these after-hours sessions will...you know, release your inhibitions, some of them anyway, in regard to...you know-Oh, god-crossdressing, you know, and, and bisexual...being bisexual and...most importantly, well...your desire...your inclination-god this is good!-to fuck, I mean to bottom, be a bottom. Your need to...submissive by nature, right? And to be, and to be...you know, you're a sissy, a sissy as you call it don't you? Your need, well...you know what I mean..."

I could never tell when he'd cum because he never-aside from the occasional mid-sentence exclamation-made a sound. I only knew he'd finished when he pulled out of me, not long after starting, and said one of two trite things, without fail:

"That was fun. I hope it was as therapeutic for you as it was for me." Or, "No sex for wifey tonight. I'll have to plead a headache."

(FUN? I always thought. It may've been pleasurable, mildly so, but it was about as fun as sitting in a stationary roller coaster car.)

"I have to ask you," he asked me, after each of our "radical" sessions, "how do you feel?"

"Fine." I was getting off the couch.

"No, I mean how do you feel after our special therapy? Better? Less inhibited?"

"Yes," I said, to appease him. "Definitely."

"Good. That means we're making progress. You can use the washroom," he said, pointing forward of where I stood, naked, "to clean up if you want."

"That's OK," I said. His semen was tight inside me, where it would remain for another, oh, twelve hours.

As the shrink tucked his shirttail back into his trousers and I pulled my panties up, I finally worked up the nerve to ask what I'd been dying to ask ever since our first spermy dose of sex therapy:

"Your wife. She's beautiful by the way."

"Thank you."

"Does she know about these 'radical therapy' sessions of yours?"

"I keep no secrets from my wife. Well," he added with a grin, "almost none."

"And she doesn't object?"

He paused and considered the question a moment. "She might, if she knew I was doing other guys, bareback. And"-that grin again-"if she knew how many $200 checks she was missing out on, given her taste in expensive clothes."

"But in general," I asked again. "She doesn't object?"

"How could she?" the therapist said, tightening his black-leather belt. "She's one of my former patients."