Once in a While

I had seen my GP. He had sent me to the gynecologist.

"Physically, my dear Mrs. Meier, you are all right, you may rest completely reassured. The problem probably sits between your ears. I will recommend you to a good therapist who will be able to help you for sure."

And so I found myself now sitting in the therapist's waiting room. On the soft crème walls hung a few paintings, landscapes with vague, naked people.

"You may enter now, Mrs. Meier," the receptionist announced.

"Good day, ... Mrs. Meier, my name is Martens, please sit down. " I sat down on one of the two chairs that stood diagonally next to a sofa.

"Now please, tell me, with what can I help you?"

"With what you could help me? Why does one visit a sex therapist?" He cringed a little at that.

"I know, it is not easy for you to open yourself, but you have to tell me about your problem, if we have to chew through the whole range of sexuality, you may be old and wrinkly before we come across your problem."

"How do you want to know it is not easy for me to me to open up?"

"Dear Mrs. Meier, here is a comfortable sofa, but you take a chair. You answer my question with a question. Believe me, people just like you have sat on that chair before you. Give yourself a push, tell me what hinders you."

"I cum only once in a while."

"Not an unusual problem. We will find a solution. Do you orgasm easier when you masturbate or when you are with a partner?"

"Once in a while."

"Do I understand you right: in both situations you orgasm only infrequently?"

"Yes."

"But you know what an orgasm is?"

"Yes."

"You have often experienced one?"

"Once in a while."

"Do you want to experience orgasms more frequently?"

"Hm." In the office my eyes had discovered a well-known statue, "The Kiss" by Rodin.

"Well, let us talk about in which situations you had one."

"During sex!"

"Okay, Mrs. Meier, your problem is quite common and not really a novelty to me. I meant what exactly did you or your partner do when you had an orgasm?"

I shrugged my shoulders.

"I had one!"

"Mrs. Meier, do you enjoy sex?"

"Yes."

"Would you describe yourself as willing to experiment?"

"Well, actually, yes."

"Then please tell me what different methods and positions have you tried?"

"With my first boyfriend, different variations of the missionary and 69. With a one -night-stand, anal by accident. With my second boyfriend, doggy and standing against the wall, bend over a table. With the third, feathers and hot oil massages. During another ONS a sandwich. With my fourth boyfriend, half of the Kama Sutra. With the fifth, the other half."

"Always hunting for your next orgasm?"

"They, not me."

"Do you tell your partners that you orgasm only once in a while? With these words?"

"Sometimes. Yes."

"And then some of them do concentrate on giving you one?"

"Most of them almost always."

"If you masturbate, do you work towards an orgasm?"

"Once in while."

"So you enjoy to caress yourself without having an orgasm as a goal?"

"Yes."

"During sex with a partner, the same applies? You enjoy it, even if you don't get an orgasm?"

"Yes. Only ... "

"Yes, Mrs. Meier?"

Again I shrugged my shoulders.

"Do you mean that you do not enjoy it when the partner tries trick number whatsoever he has in his box on you?"

"Yes."

"You feel pressured then?"

"Yes."

"If you masturbate with a satisfying orgasm as a goal, do you feel the same pressure?"

"No."

"Do you always manage to get one?"

"No."

"But that does not bother you?"

"No."

"You say something like: "Okay, I enjoyed myself," if you don't reach an orgasm?"

"Yes."

"With your first partner, did you have more often an orgasm percentage wise, than with the second or third?"

"... No."

"I have to ask you again in more detail. What exactly do you mean with the "different variations of the missionary" you tried with him?"

"I on my back, he on his back, my legs around his waist, me pulling my legs up, he pushing my legs up, me stretched out on top of him, me lying on my stomach. Is side to side also a missionary position, or is that another one?"

"Do you mean spooning? Your partner lies on his side behind you, penetrates your vagina that way, maybe even stimulates your clitoris with his fingers?"

"Yes."

"Did you mean by : "he on his back me on top" the cowgirl position?"

"I think so."

"In which of the positions you got an orgasm easily, are there positions you never orgasm in?"

"Not really, the positions didn't matter, I came if it wasn't important I came."

"As soon as he felt he needed to give you an orgasm and started to concentrate on it, it would be very difficult for you to really enjoy yourself?"

"Yes."

"If your partner suggests something new to you, do you like it to try it?"

"Occasionally."

"Are there suggestions that didn't appeal to you, could you give me some examples?"

"Yes."

"Mrs. Meier!"

"Okay! I tried a blindfold, my hands tied to the bed. When one wanted to piss on me, I kicked him in his nuts. He then said I was a frigid bitch."

"You are not frigid, at the maximum you have orgasm problems when you are under pressure."

"..."

"Do you bring ideas into the love making?"

"Occasionally."

"Mrs. Meier, lets come back to your first partner, with him you had sexual intercourse for the first time?"

"Yes."

"You had masturbated before and had orgasms?"

"Yes."

"Did you reach orgasm easier when you masturbated before your first intercourse?"

"No."

"But you enjoyed it anyway?"

"Yes."

"You still do?"

"Yes."

"Did you have an orgasm when you had sexual intercourse for first time?"

"No."

"No?"

"No."

"What is your view on it in retrospect?"

"We had fun, we made out, we had sex, he came, asked me if I did too and then, when I said I hadn't, he said I should definitely experience this feeling at the first time and started to lick me."

"And you got an orgasm."

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"What exactly happened?"

"My clit and my pussy got licked and kissed for a long time"

"And you did not get an orgasm?"

"No. ... "

"Mrs. Meier?"

"I had watched his face when he came and I mimicked his expression."

"Mrs. Meier, I am sorry, I cannot help you."

"I thought so as soon as I walked in, Sam."

"I've noticed, dear. Why did you stay?"

"You always liked to talk."

"I'll recommend you to a colleague, dear."

"Nah, don't. I don't have to cum, right?"

"Right. You are you and as long as you are contend with having lots of fun ..."

She is one of a kind. Absolutely unique. Thoughtfully I watched her as she walked out of my room. Ten years ago she had ended our relationship.

"You ruin the fun for me with your eternal talking," was one of the things she had thrown at me.

The little beast. Faked an orgasm at our first time and her first time ever. How long had I licked her clit? Probably far too long, when I finally lay down beside her, she had pulled a corner of the sleeping bag over her breasts and quivered. Because she had cum I thought. The rain had splattered on the tent roof for hours.

"Stop it, Sam," she had once sighing said and not "Do not stop."

How stupid I was at twenty?

The next two days I couldn't get her out of my mind. More and more detailed memories put their head up. If she had not cum -or had faked it, I had to admit now- she loved to cuddle. If I had not annoyed her too long with something because then she turned her back on me and curled up. If she really had an orgasm, her arms and legs were all over the place; then she wanted her peace, time to come down and enjoy. Some careful caressing of her arm or a leg was okay, but more wasn't. She would growl to make me stop. As she would growl if I talked then. Which of course I did.

"Was it good, dear?" Or even worse: "Did you come two or three times?"

How stupid was I?

In retrospect, it surprised me she had endured for nearly two years after the first time. But all the other things we had experienced together, the fun we had ...

I picked up the phone. Invited her to a pizza. Sparing with words as ever, she agreed with an "okay " and told me when and where.

A quarter of an hour I waited the next night at the Italian restaurant pondering if she had changed her mind?

"A glass of Prosecco?" I asked after I had breathed a relieved butterfly kiss on her cheek.. She nodded and sat down on the chair I pulled out for her.

Selecting the pizzas provided a topic to chat about at first. Then I asked her about her job. Her short, usually monosyllabic answers didn't really help to start a lively conversation. Only when I asked her about her grandmother, she started to talk freely. With regret I heard the original woman who was my landlady, died six years ago. The stories she told me about her last years made me grin and chuckle.

After dinner I was allowed to take her to the bus. I was even permitted to breathe a peck on her lips.

After we had met a couple of times in the next weeks we had found back to our old comfortable ways with each other. I hadn't found a way into her bed though; more than a few modest kisses while saying hello and goodbye weren't in it for me.

Meanwhile I was sharp as a razor when I thought about her.

"I have discovered a dance hall," I offered, at the end of my patience, "everything like it was in the early seventies, will, you come with me tomorrow evening, reenact the dance school times?"

"True dancing, no jumping around?" she asked suspiciously.

"So true like the hours we spent at the ancient dance school your grandmother forced upon us," I confirmed with a grin.

"Pick me up."

Carefully I suppressed my surprise, with this she had crossed one of her boundaries. Another one had fallen, I saw the next evening when I picked her up, instead of jeans and shirt she wore a swinging, knee-length skirt, blouse and pumps. Cleavage or calves, I did not know where to look first or what turned me on more.

"Hello, beautiful lady," I risked; for weeks I had limited myself to: You look good, and: Pretty color, suits you very good, and the likes. She blushed slightly. When I allowed my tongue to a little dancing on her lips when I greeted her properly, her color deepened.

"Thank you, Sam," she whispered and took my arm when I escorted her to my car.

"Surprise!" I cheered silly when we arrived in front of the old dance school. The short distance from the car park we had walked arm in arm. With some chitchat I had distracted her, and only now, she realized where I led her.

With wide-open eyes she looked at me, then at the facade of the dance school. "Dance school Meier" was written in large letters across the window.

"The son has finally taken over from his father half a year ago, and offers, in addition to dance classes, Tea- and Dinner-dances on weekends. The furnishing and the decoration has become fashionable again, he now rides on the nostalgia wave." I explained.

"Do you remember, his father always tried to prove a relationship between him and me?" She giggled and I nodded.

"You actually brought your family tree with you once to show him that you're not his great-niece."

Continuing the chitchat with her, I helped her out of her coat, escorted her to the table I had made a reservation upon. The evening was wonderful, we danced, ate some tidbits, treated ourselves to a sparkling white wine.

First, we had to get used to each other again, which gave me a chance to listen to her giggles until I planted my heel on her toes during a three step. I apologized wordly, promised to kiss the painful area later on.

"My big toe? How erotic.. Can't you think of something better?"

"I can. I could kiss you on your pretty mouth instead, here and now." I offered.

She actually lifted her face up to me. In the middle of the dance floor I kissed her and she opened her lips and kissed me back. With an iron will I constrained myself to push only the tip of my tongue in her mouth

"Nevertheless, I would like to start kissing your big toe and work my way up," I murmured to her as we whirled over the dance floor again. Inwardly, I triumphed, she was clearly flirting with me. Would I be able to show her tonight what I had learned the past years? During the following Viennese Waltz I every now and then eased my foot a bit too far between her legs so that she could imagine the extent of my bulging spear, also was my dancing stance no longer entirely correct, which didn't seem to bother her at all.

Her skirt swirled around her legs while dancing and I was envious of the men sitting at the sides. They saw what I could not see.

Tango! I savored this dance even more than the waltz, she turned so in my arms her breasts brushed against me challengingly; she leaned far back into my arm looked deep into my eyes, lifted her knee high, before she kicked her foot up.

The perfect prelude.

She seemed to feel it too, because when I suggested to leave, she nodded breathlessly.

The consult actually had been enough. The way he kept turning back to our, my first time was just kind of too much. Then he called, invited me to a pizza. Halfheartedly I had accepted, and was almost determined to not go.

He used all the tricks in his book to ensnare me. Successfully. .My thoughts anew circled around him.

Then the dance, it was tantalizing, The tango made me melt in his arms. I wanted to continue to dance. But not here; in my bed.

But a big "what if" was still open.

Gallantly he opened the door of his car and helped me inside. Before I could take the safety belt, he had it already and closed it around me. One hand rested lightly on my headrest, while he stroked over the belt with the other. One finger beside it, on my body. He breathed a kiss on my lips, closed my door and sat behind the wheel.

Now or never, I thought, as he started the engine.

"I don't want a new debacle."

"What do you call a debacle?"

"Psychologist! A debacle is a disaster!"

"Do not use my profession as an insult, dear," he chuckled. " Explain yourself: What kind of debacle do you mean?"

"A sex debacle."

"Lovemaking debacle."

"Sex debacle, yes!"

"We won't have sex, we will make love," he said confidently.

"That is the same. I do not want an orgasm. Forced.

Look at the road!"

"The road is empty. How should I not look at you if you give such outrageous things from you? To make love is more than mere sex, certainly not the same. Then you tell me you don't want to cum! Add "forced " as an afterthought!"

"Where are you going?"

"To my place. It is nearby, my girl, we're almost there."

He parked in an underground garage. Arm in arm we walked to the elevator. With one arm around me, he stroked my cheek with the fingers of his free hand, looked me in the eyes.

"Do you trust me?"

"Am I here?"

"You are, dear, I've been thinking a bit. In SM-games, hush, don't pull away, I just wanted to say they use is a code-word which stops everything. If limits are passed. If I violate your boundaries, say "football" then I'll stop, with whatever I 'm doing."

"Even if you were inside me?"

"You do have a mean streak. Okay, I promise, even then."

Inside the elevator he used a key.

"Come here, I want to devour you, no one can stop us."

He did not quite finish me, but was nearly done when the elevator door opened.

"Welcome to my home, my girl," he said proudly while I looked around astonished.

"You own a penthouse?"

"Yes," he said smugly.

"Since when?"

"Since I won the lottery three years ago."

I was flabbergasted.

"I also bought art," he said proudly and showed me a man's dream, a playroom with a jukebox, pinball machine, pool table and table football. On the wall hung drawings from the Kama Sutra.

"Art." I said skeptically. He chuckled and pulled me with him.

"My study"

His arm had slipped from my shoulder down to my waist, he gently drew me to him and with a broad swipe of his other hand he presented the room. Two large display cases caught my eyes, desk and settee I registered only in passing.

"Those you had already," I pointed out some dildos, one of jade, two of wood, and a marble one.

"108," he said proudly, "and 89." in the second case were statues. Art and kitsch, mixed but all featuring some form of the act.

"The Kiss should be here too, but..."

I nodded it was displayed in his consulting room. But why? Certainly not because I gave it to him on our first annual.

"When it is missing here ... " I said musingly and maneuvered him to a chair. Slowly I pushed him down and sat on his lap. An arm around his neck I leaned back in his supporting arm, looked into his gleaming eyes as he lowered his lips towards mine. What he had only hinted at while dancing, now bloomed.

Deep his tongue plunged between my lips, I moaned softly into his mouth when I tasted his real first kiss after a long time. His hand stroked my thigh, his tongue danced possessively with mine, thrusting rhythmically deep into my mouth, suggesting how he would fill my pussy later.

He held me tight when we finally parted our lips from each other. I sighed and leaned my head on his shoulder.

"Wonderful," I whispered.

He nodded. "I want more, dear, you know that, don't you? " He cooed into my hair and now I nodded.

"Our Rodin isn't right," he whispered and began to unbutton my blouse. I tried to get his jacket from his shoulders and we got in each other's ways.

"First I you, then you me," he suggested with a chuckle and pushed me gently from his lap. Trembling I stood before him, between his legs while he undressed me, covering newly revealed skin with kisses. After he had stripped me of my blouse, bra and skirt, he looked at me for a long time.

I literally felt his eyes wandering over my body; they rested on my breasts, my tummy and mound before they found a new old target. All the time his fingertips painted paths over the hem of my panties, the straps of my stockings, spending more and more time on the strip of bare skin between stockings and panties with each journey they made.

"We have to change something, dear," he whispered, undid the garters, slipped the bands under my panties and fastened them again.

Tantalizing hot she looked. No other words would do, she was simply tantalizing hot, even if she was wearing the thong under the straps. Her skin was warm and smooth as always, her breasts were slightly larger, heavier and softer, her belly was rounded, not girlish flat like before. She was a woman. No longer the seventeen years old girl I met at her grandmother's, or the eighteen years old who was allowed to go on vacation with a boyfriend (me!) for the first time and no longer the twenty years old who showed me the door.

"We have change something, dear," I said hoarsely, carefully opened the clasps on her straps, eased them underneath her thong and fastened them again; enjoying the soft click they closed with. Then I looked at her again. My hands seemed to lead a life of their own. Again and again my fingers wandered along the small strips of shiny fabric, just grazing her skin. My gaze wandered over her body, often it sank into her blue-green eyes, to lavish on her breasts, her mound, her tummy and her thighs anew.

"Are you afraid my breasts won't be around tomorrow?" She asked me grumpily.

"No, dear, I simply can not believe my eyes. I think my hands need to confirm my brain that it's true what my eyes report," I murmured. Leisurely I stroked up her belly, glided over her sides to finally hold her breasts in my hands. She moaned softly, leaned her head back a little, arched her chest forward, her hands resting lightly on my arms.

I moaned with pleasure as I weighed her soft, supple breasts, stroking them and the feeling her nipples transform into solid little turrets under the strokes and flicks of my thumbs. Seeking support she put her hands on my shoulders as her knees wobbled.