Incest/Taboo The Therapist's Journey

II -- Sally Under the Influence of Theresa's Confession - The Weekend

According to the clock in my office it was 6:00 P.M. The staff was gone. It felt like Theresa had walked in fifteen minutes, not two hours, ago.

I retrieved the digital recorder from the office console. In order to defend the growing number of lawsuits filed by disgruntled former patients over advice never actually given, my malpractice insurer required me and all its insureds to record their sessions. I am not sure how many of my patients are actually aware of it, but when they sign the forms presented on their first consultation they consent to my recording the sessions. There is a lot of controversy in the profession about the propriety of this practice and the recordings, at the least, must be treated professionally and confidentially. Their misuse is a significant ethical violation. I store mine in a small safe in my home. Five years after the therapeutic relationship ends, the recordings are destroyed. I looked at the recorder in my hand; I was pretty sure my insurer would not approve of my performance with Theresa.

I normally deal with the day's stresses with a tough two-hour work out. The best I would be able to do today was sixty minutes. Maybe that would take my mind off the steam between my legs. While changing clothes I kept repeating the mantra not to let my emotions become intertwined with those of my clients, but it was doing no good. My hand kept sliding down to my soaked vagina and distended clitoris. I managed to make it to my car, but at every opportunity continued to play with myself. My hand had slipped back into my leotards at a red light when I noticed the driver of an eighteen-wheeler enjoying the show. I let him pull out in front of me -- I didn't need to let that guy see my license plate number -- and stopped in an empty bank parking lot. There I brought myself off. I arrived at the gym even later than I hoped, but got forty-five hard minutes on the treadmill.

I drove home with my leotards bathed with sweat, which I hoped disguised any lingering flow from my masturbation and the scent of my arousal. In an effort to distract myself I did wrist strengthening exercises with a hand grip I kept in the car.

After parking my car in the garage I heard my son swimming in the pool and decided to come through the back gate to say hello. I caught his eye and he swam over. I had the pool installed about six years ago, when he first showed interest in competitive swimming. It had been a hit with him and the kids in the neighborhood and he was now a solid performer on his school's swim team. He was not headed for the Olympics, but he was pretty darn good.

"How was the day at the office?" he asked.

"Good," I replied, "I had an interesting new client. I'm running late. Would you mind cutting your work-out short and chopping up the onions, bell peppers, garlic, and basil on the bottom shelf of the frig?"

"No problem, Mom."

"Thanks honey. " I turned to go inside. I was thinking about how Theresa had been oblivious to the fact that her son saw her not only as his mother, but as a woman -- an attractive woman. Could I have the same blind spot? As I walked towards the glass door that led from the house to the pool I glanced at the curved mirror I had installed when I bought the pool. It allowed me to monitor the pool and environs from inside the house so I could intervene before teenage rough housing turned potentially fatal. It seemed my son had his eyes squarely on my butt. But the image was somewhat distorted and, maybe, it was my imagination.

After stripping I climbed into the shower. I would have preferred a nice long one, but my son had a date with Katie that evening and I had promised to feed him first. Still wondering if my boy had checked out my butt, I decided to continue the experiment. After the shower I put on a pair of tight jeans, a bra, and a loose fitting red shirt with a tendency to flop open.

He was in the kitchen finishing the vegetables. He was still in his swim trunks and while I had been wondering if he judged me sexually, I found myself now doing the same with him. I liked what I saw. I had always thought my baby was beautiful. There has always been enough admiring females hanging around the house to let me know I was not alone, but my session with Theresa had given me a new perspective.

He had a swimmer's body: long and lean. His waist was narrow and his shoulders broad. As he chopped away I could see a slight ripple in his well-muscled back. I walked up quietly behind him and tapped him on the butt -- which was nice and hard -- and leaned forward. As expected, my blouse fell forward, offering him a view of my breasts. At the same time I glanced at the refrigerator, averting my gaze while keeping him in my peripheral vision. He took the bait, his eyes wandered down.

"Thank you honey, I really appreciate this. I'll take over from here. You go get ready for your date."

"No problem Mom. I'm glad I could help."

Then, before he left the room, he did something unexpected. He tapped me right back on the butt.

I added some chicken to the vegetables and sauteed them in olive oil and balsamic vinegar. I had just finished setting out the plates when my son arrived at the table dressed nicely, he was wearing a polo shirt and slacks. He started to serve himself, but I told him he had already done enough and brought him his food. I leaned over his plate and as I scooped dinner from the skillet, allowing him an extended view down my shirt. Again he took the bait. As we finished and cleaned up I gave him several more peeks, all of which he seemed to enjoy. He was also making far less effort to hide his interest. When he leaned over to kiss me before he left he whispered in my ear, "You do need to do something about that blouse, it put on quite a show tonight."

He knew I was flashing him! As he headed towards the car, I headed to my bedroom to deal with the fire between my legs.

I was still in a post-orgasmic haze when my cell phone went off. It was my boy friend, if that is the right term for a thirty-seven year old woman dating a fifty-six year old man. I had started seeing Robert about a year after my divorce. He was a distinguished physician and a leader in local society. We had talked about getting married, but had always decided that the dangers of a blended family -- his daughter was the same age as my son -- advised against it. I suspect that both of us, in fact, liked it just the way we had it: a committed relationship with maximum independence.

"Hey guy."

"Hey sweetie," he replied. "You sound tired."

"It was a long day and I've been running late for most of it."

"You work too hard. And speaking of that, I was calling to check on the race tomorrow."

There was a series of fund-raisers for a local child-care facility scheduled the following date. Robert was on the Board of Directors. I was in charge of the five kilometer run in the morning and would be his date at the cocktail party that would end the day.

"Everything is under control. I spoke to all the team captains earlier today and I can't find a single problem to address. Do you think we can get some alone time after the party tomorrow night?"

"My daughter is with her mother this weekend. If you can get rid of your son, sure. I wish I could be with you now, but there is still so much work to do."

"I understand. In any case a woman consulted with me today with a," I paused, "problem is not the right word, let's say an issue that I have never dealt with before. I going to spend some time tonight doing research."

"She's lucky to have you. I hope you find what you are looking for. One last thing, I do appreciate all the work you've done. It's a shame that the race is scheduled the same time as your son's swim meet. I know you hate not being there to cheer."

"I'm just trying to do my part for the community. And I talked to my son, he understands."

We hung up and I got out of bed. I could access the research facilities of the American Psychiatric Association from my iPad so I grabbed it, a notepad and pen, and a glass of sherry and headed for the couch.

My research found that incest was not considered a socially acceptable alternative lifestyle. It had been condemned throughout history and around the world. Exceptions were few and sui generis. The marriage options of Pharaonic Egypt's ruling family may have been limited to each other, but this both centralized power in the family and affirmed their divinity. Gods do not court and marry mortals. Of course, the need to create a pervasive normative structure against incest meant that incestuous desires were equally pervasive. There is no societal taboo against bringing elephants to church because no one brings elephants to church. That the rules against incest were as old as humanity established that family members were rife with sexual desire for each other since the dawn of human history. In this sense there was nothing abnormal about the intensity of the sexual longing Theresa described.

The primary reason provided for its taboo status was the increased risk of birth defects, but the actual risk was much smaller than I expected and didn't seem to justify the taboo. While studies vary, most of them estimate a 2% to 3% risk of birth defects in the general population. The risk in an incestual union was between 4% and 5%. This was not good, but it was less than the risk faced by a pregnant woman over forty years of age and no one suggested prohibiting mature woman from having babies.

I would discuss these points with Theresa, but I saw nothing here that overrode her freedom to choose.

The next two topics were a bit more straightforward. One was normal development. Someone involved in a sexual relationship with a family member might lose out on the opportunity to develop social skills. If I was a teenaged boy living with a sexually-available woman who looked like Theresa, I doubt I'd learn anything about dating. I saw nothing to be concerned about here. Miles, as described by Theresa, was far from a social misanthrope. There was also the problem of how to end such a relationship. The conclusion of most romantic and sexual relationships was difficult; how to do it amidst the tangles of a family's other concerns more complicated still. I would discuss this with Theresa but, again, that was a risk that she was free to accept.

In the end I saw only one real basis for concern: consent. Theirs was not an obvious case of lack of consent; Miles had seduced Theresa, not forced himself on her. However, the question of consent was tricky. Every family came with power imbalances. At what age and level of development could a son or a daughter, who had been brought up to obey his or her parent, be said to freely consent to a sexual relationship? I was surprised to find that these concerns ran in the other direction; there were numerous examples of children taking sexual advantage of dependant parents.

Theresa was intelligent adult, but she was also in a dull unimaginative marriage from which her son promised relief. It seemed clear he enjoyed dominating her. In our session she explained how he had made her promise to obey him and not only claimed her as his property and talked about taking her -- as if she was an object -- from his father, but demanded that she affirm his status. He has also required that she neatly fold his clothes while he threw her garb in a heap. Of course, she had said that she had enjoyed aggressive sex early in her relationship with her husband. Her son's demands might just be her definition of normal.

I looked at my note pad, with its scribbles about incest. I had a lot to discuss with Theresa, but I would have to spend time reorganizing my thoughts. I was also getting turned on. For the third time that day I slipped my hand between my legs. I had a sweet orgasm and fell asleep.

When I woke up at 2:00 A.M. my first concern was whether my son was home. My second was that he might be home. How would I explain that I was asleep in the living room with my hand down my pants and surrounded by pages of notes about incest? I went to his bedroom and cracked open the door. He was asleep.

I slept well the rest of the night and when I woke up my libido seemed a bit more under control. I put on the official race tee shirt, my favorite pair of little red running shorts, the whistle that indicated I was the boss, and my running shoes. I made a few telephone calls to ensure everything was under control. This left me with some time to kill -- I didn't need to at the race site for another hour -- so I decided to do something special for my boy. Even though I would miss his swim meet, I could cook him his favorite pre-meet breakfast. After getting all the preliminaries ready I stuck my head in his room and told him to get his butt out of bed, his mother was cooking him the works. I got a mumbled what I think was thanks and returned to the kitchen.

He stumbled into the kitchen a few minutes later. My eyes soaked in his body. My impression of the night before was right on; he was a handsome young man.

I poured him a cup of coffee and brought him a spread of eggs, ham, and grits.

"What time did you get in last night?" I asked.

"A few minutes after midnight. I broke curfew." He looked up, "I beg forgiveness."

"You're forgiven this time, but don't make it a habit."

"Thanks, you were sure crashed out on the couch."

He had seen me. I felt a need to explain. "I had my first session with a new client yesterday. She presented some issues that I thought I needed to research. I must have fallen asleep."

"I was going to wake you up, but you looked pretty comfy."

Had he seen what I was working on? How could I ask him? I ventured the following: "You know what I do is confidential. Anything you saw should be treated that way."

I returned to the kitchen counter to pour myself another cup of coffee.

"Your secrets are safe with me, Mom."

I had no idea what that meant.

He suddenly stood up. "I just noticed what time it is. I've got to be on the team bus in fifteen minutes. I know I am supposed to clean my own dishes, but you don't mind doing it for me this once, do you?"

"No honey, you know I'd do anything for you."

"Thanks." And then, as he headed for the door he turned back to me. "Those will be some mighty lucky guys at the race. Your butt looks great in those shorts." He was out the door before I could manage a retort.

The race went according to plan. I only had to blow my whistle twice. I updated Robert and headed back to the house to get ready for the party. Robert was a gentle man and treated me like a queen. He was also gentle in the bedroom and as I bathed and applied my make-up I thought about how I could spice up the night. The last twenty-four hours had put my libido in hyper-drive. I selected a sleeveless white cocktail dress. It hung down to my knees and was pinched tightly at my waist. From there on up it clung appreciatively to my body. It managed to display my ample bosom without revealing any cleavage. After slipping on orange patent leather sandals with a 4 ½ inch heel, I stood in front of the mirror.

I could see why my son might think I was still attractive. My mother was white and my father black. My bi-racial skin is mahogany in color. Years of work at the gym had ensured that I have retained an hour-glass figure. I was curvy, toned, slim, and athletic. After spending years experimenting with my hair, I had settled on a closely cropped pixie style. My hair now emphasized my face with its well-defined chin and high pronounced cheekbones.

When I got back to the kitchen I saw that my iPhone had a message on it. My son had won two races and wanted to know if he could spend the night celebrating with his friend and fellow swimmer William. I texted back in the affirmative. I had long suspected he purposely picked my date nights to spend at friends' houses, allowing me an excuse to spend the night with Robert rather than hurry home to avoid setting a bad example. I drove to Robert's house to co-host the party.

He met me at the door and leaned down to kiss me.

"You look great tonight." The tone of his voice indicated he was just not being polite.

"Glad you like it. I have been thinking about you all day long. And my son is spending the night with a friend."

I kissed his lips. He got my meaning.

The party was perfect. Most of our community's leaders were there. We even got the ever-busy mayor to drop in. Everyone had a good time and we were happy to announce we had exceeded our fund raising goals. After the caterers left, promising to return at noon the next day to clean up, I grabbed Robert's hand and headed for the bedroom.

We undressed. I pushed him back on to the bed and started kissing him. I licked his nipples, licked his mouth, eyes, nose, and chin, and even contemplated taking him in my mouth. I had performed oral sex on him only a handful of times. He acknowledged he liked it -- he certainly came fast enough -- but the next day always managed to drop a comment to the effect that it seemed a bit slutty. This night I wanted him in me and he was only generally good for one orgasm a night. Thus, oral sex was out. I asked him if he minded if I got on top. When he said no, I straddled him and slid down on his penis. I tried to focus on my own orgasm, minimizing his thrusting while focusing on sliding my clitoris and hips across his pubic bone. I closed my eyes and the image of Theresa and Miles fucking in the same position infiltrated my mind. Except I had no idea what Miles looked like. In my fantasy he started to look a lot like my own son. Then, Theresa suddenly started to look a lot like me. I tried to push the image out of my mind, which distracted me from what was going on between my legs. The orgasm that had been so close was gone and then, frustratingly, Robert came. I tried to keep the action going, but Robert asked me to stop. His penis was always hyper-sensitive after an orgasm. I laid next to him. He was soon snoring. He would be out for another eight hours.

Sex with Robert was always hit-and-miss, but that night I did something I had never done before. I left the bedroom and walked down the hall to an empty guest bedroom. I placed my finger on my clitoris. I tried to fantasize about Robert, but I knew it was pointless. I gave up fighting it and imagined myself on all fours, ass in the air, my son fucking me from behind. He was slamming into me hard. One of his hands was wrapped in my short hair, pulling my head up high. The other reached up the right side of my body to my breast, half-fondling it and half-using it to hold me in place. He ordered me to play with myself and I obeyed, reaching with by right hand to fondle my sex. When I had entered the empty bedroom my plan had been a nice long slow masturbation. That was not going to happen; I came quickly and powerfully. After taking a few minutes to savor the feelings in my body, I caught my breath, cleared the cob-webs, and returned to Robert's bed.

Wearing the pyjamas I kept at his house, I cooked Robert breakfast the next morning. He said I had been pretty wild the night before. I replied that although I always wanted him, last night I just wanted him more. We moved out to the porch with our coffee and the Sunday newspaper. About 11:30 he noted that the caterers would be returning soon. I packed my stuff and drove home.

My son was not home, and if history was any guide, he was probably just getting out of bed. I decided to complete my research and organize my materials for the following day. I put on my favorite orange bikini. It was not too revealing. It left the upper third of my breast exposed and fully covered my behind, but still it was a bikini. I gathered my material and sat in a recliner in the shaded area by the pool. I had completed most of my preparation when the warm weather sapped my resolve and I relaxed, closed my eyes, and started to free associate. How had I gotten here?

I met Paul, my former husband and the father of my son, when I was a freshman at Louisiana State University in Baton Rouge. I had finished third in the Miss LSU contest and so was in the winner's court when she was introduced at the half-time of a football game. As we left the field the players came back onto it. I couldn't distinguish one from another; they were all big and wore matching equipment and helmets. Paul, however, noticed me. During the second half of the game one of team's trainers brought me a note from Paul, who identified himself as number 40, and asking me to team party scheduled for that night. Of course, I spent most of the rest of the game following number 40. He was, I learned later, a back-up safety. He did not play a lot, but in the fourth quarter he made a game saving tackle on a punt return that clinched our victory.

The party was at one of the fraternity houses. A bit nervous, I asked a couple of girlfriends to go with me. When we got there the crowd was flowing out of the house and all over the grounds. I thought it was going to be impossible to find a man whom I had only seen in a football helmet. I was about to suggest we leave when I heard a voice behind me.

"I didn't know if you would come; I'm glad you did. I see you brought an escort. My name is Paul Barry."

He was beautiful. Sandy blond hair, blues eyes, and built like what he was, a college football player. He escorted us into the frat house to the kind of cheers reserved at LSU for football heroes. It took about five minutes for my friends to realize I no longer needed their services and they merged into the crowd.

I lost my virginity that night. We made love that night and almost every night after that. He was fun to be around, with a grace and confidence I had never known in a man before. He seemed to know half the campus.

When he took me home at Christmas I also discovered he was wealthy. When we pulled up to a mini-mansion in the most expensive subdivision in the city he told me, for the first time, that his family owned fast food franchises throughout the region. He also warned me that his parents could be cold and controlling.

He was right. While they were stonily polite, there was no warmth. They made no effort to hide the point of their questions: my suitability as a daughter-in-law. Paul, so confident and outgoing everywhere else, was cowed in their presence. He did nothing to defend me. My response to their judgmental tone was to answer their questions honestly. I was proud of myself and my background; I saw no reason to sugar coat my history. I was born in New Orleans. My mother, a licensed practical nurse, was white. My father, a bus-driver, black. They never married. Mom reported that he had hung around for the first few years of my life, but had eventually disappeared. I had no recollection of him. My mother was determined that I not repeat her mistakes and taught me to work hard, obey the rules, and be a lady. I was the valedictorian of my high school glass and was awarded a scholarship to LSU, where I intended to major in psychology.

Paul and I had our first fight that night. I was angry over his failure to stand up to his parents. He said no one talked to his parents the way I had. I told him he should learn to. It took several weeks for the coolness between us to dissipate, but I loved him and we soon returned to our former ways. For the most part we avoided family functions; when we did I continued to suffer second-rate treatment while Paul sat silent. It remained a simmering issue between us. In January of his senior year he landed a job at a major oil field company and proposed. By then I had given up any hope he would ever stand up to his parents. After he promised he would never go to work for them, I accepted. I wanted no part of a big society wedding, but it was required for someone with Paul's background. The constant friction with his parents sapped most of the pleasure from what should have been the happiest day of my life.

At first all was great. Our son was born during my junior year. About the time I graduated Paul struck out of his own and did extremely well. I stayed in school and received my Ph.D. Then the oil market collapsed. Paul's investments failed and the bank repossessed much of the company's assets. Paul had personally guaranteed the business loans, leaving us deeply in debt. When his parents offered to bail him out if he came to work for them, I begged him not to. My own practice was growing and I knew if Paul persevered things would turn around. But his financial failure had sapped much of his confidence. He agreed to return to the family business.

Our marriage came apart over the next few years. His parents' endless belittling of him destroyed what confidence he had left. We spent more and more time at family functions where his parents treated me like an outsider while Paul sat there ineffectually. Soon, my respect for him evaporated. I had a bad feeling when his parents hired Ashley as his assistant. Ashley looked a lot like me. She was of Cajun descent and we shared a dark complexion. Like me she had close to jet black hair. Her's hung in long curls to her shoulders. She also had a killer body. She was sweet, eighteen years old, and worshiped Paul and his family. I can't say I was shocked when she turned up pregnant five months later.

Paul gave me little trouble in the divorce. At heart he was a decent man and he made no attempt to hide his guilt over his indiscretion. His parents were happy to throw money at me to get me out of their lives. I met Robert about a year later. We have been together ever since.

I was brought back to reality by the whoop of three sweaty boys rushing through the back gate to the pool. They poured onto the deck and stopped. At first I think that they were startled just to see an adult in an unexpected place; then they started to stare. I looked down, following their gazes to my body and my bikini.

Then I heard my son's voice. He was closing the gate behind the others. "C'mon guys, you are supposed to at least pretend you've seen a pretty lady before."

He walked over and extended his hand. I took it and stood up. He leaned towards me to whisper in my ear. His manner was designed to make it clear to his friends that his comments were for me only. As his bent towards me his chest slightly flattened my left breast. At the same time his right arm curled around me and he placed his hand on my shoulder blade, moving my head in position for his sotto voce performance. This increased the pressure on my breast. I looked over his shoulder to determine if any of the boys could see this contact. While all three were looking at us, my son's body blocked any view of it.

He said so only I could hear, "Forgive them, their homes lack such eye candy." Then, stepping back and bowing, he proclaimed in a mocking tone loud enough for everyone to hear, "Fair lady, please forgive me and my band of lunkheads for disturbing thy rest."

I curtsied and forgave my knight and his band.

"Thanks Mom. On more routine matters, we've been shooting hoops for the last three hours. Is there enough stuff to feed the herd?"

"Sure is. Don't worry, I'll get the food ready."

"Thanks Mom." He looked down at the materials I have been reviewing for my session with Theresa. "Let me bring this inside for you."

We entered the house through the sliding glass door overlooking the pool.

"Do you want me to put these papers in your office?'

"Sure honey." I replied. Then, since my office adjoined the bedroom and aware of my scarcely dressed condition, I asked him to bring me some clothes.

It took him a few minutes to return. He was carrying some white shorts.

I looked at them. "I was thinking of a robe."

"Are you sure? You would look great in these."

He smiled; my resistance melted. As I pulled them on over my bikini bottoms, I wondered why he had taken so long in my bedroom.

"Honey, did you have trouble finding the shorts?"

"A little, Mom."

"You know those papers are confidential."

"Yes, Mom. And don't worry, your secrets are safe with me."

He left the kitchen to rejoin his friends. I made sandwiches, stacked them and fruit juice on a tray, and headed for the backyard. The boys were gathered around the patio table; my son sitting in the largest and most comfortable chair.

I placed the pile of food on the table and turned to go. My son asked me to sit down and join them, pulling one of the smaller chairs next to his. At first I declined, but at the urging of my son and the other boys I, somewhat reluctantly, sat down. I ate a sandwich, enjoyed a drink, and paid half-attention to the boy's chatter. I pulled a stool over and put my left foot on it, raising my knee so I could rest my head on it. My son put his hand on my right knee. I leaned over, occasionally, to pick the crumbs of his sandwiches off his chest. But mostly, head on knee, I gazed up at him, enjoying the sun and daydreaming.

Then my professional side kicked in. I had adopted the classic posture of a female primate, sitting in my male's personal space, his hand on me, my head down, eyes up, and grooming him as needed. What was worse was my reaction to my observation, I felt blood pour into my breasts and my nipples harden. These boys were already taking far too many covert glances at me. I did not need the neighborhood boys gabbing about the time they saw Doctor Barry's nipples outlined in her bikini.

I turned towards my son and away from his friends as I placed my arm across my chest to obscure any view. The motion of my arm directed his gaze to my breasts and the stiff nipples.

"Mom, I know you had a lot of work to do today. I'm sure we've kept you from it long enough. I'll give you a hand with the tray."

He picked up the tray, shielding the boy's eyes from my engorged nipples, which allowed me to turn around and head for the house. In the process I could feel my breasts continue to swell and my nipples swell. I imagined their eyes on my butt, which further racheted up my arousal. Was I putting an extra wiggle in my walk?

When we got to the kitchen my son was rewarded with a big hug and a kiss. He kissed my forehead and headed back outside, turning to tell me as he left, "I'm sure they will want to thank you before they leave. You may want to put on a tee shirt."

I took his advice. I returned to my bedroom and took off the bikini top. I started rubbing my breasts, feeling my nipples once again becoming pert. My bikini bottoms came next, sticky with the juice flowing from inside me. I could hear the boys outside. My left index finger was running up the length of my labia, stopping at the top to tease my clitoris. I imagined myself on myself by the pool, surrounded by four naked boys. I would have a cock in each hand, one in my mouth, and one up my pussy. The one up my pussy would be the biggest one of all, my son's. I headed for the shower and there finished my fantasy, bringing myself the relief of a series of mind-blowing orgasms. I was wearing loose fitting jeans and a red tee shirt, with bra, when the boys came inside later to say thanks.

After they left I returned to my study to continue my research and prepare for my session with Theresa. My son went to his room to do some homework. He knocked on my door about 8:00 P.M., holding two bowls of leftover vegetable soup. We ate the soup sitting together on my bed, exchanging small talk.

"Sorry about the guys staring today. If I had known you were by the pool I wouldn't have brought them over."

"Apology accepted and its your house too. In any case, I should thank you. If it hadn't been for your quick thinking, I not sure if they would have ever stopped gossiping about my tits." I felt my now-always damp groin get damper.

I waited for a reaction to my choice of words. He pondered my remark for a second, as if he was trying to gleam my intent, and then replied in kind. "Well they are great tits and you've got a great bod. All your work at the gym pays off. However, while I agree you are worth staring at, that doesn't mean they should."

After we chatted about our plans for the following day he left with the now empty bowls, closing the door behind him. I completed my work and was picking out a nightie when I caught my image in my full length mirror. I turned, looking at myself. What was happening to me? What would my society friends say if they could see inside my head? What would my society friends say if they could see me do this. I slipped the first digit of my index finger into my sex. I was already wet, there was no friction. I moved it slowly at first, dipping in slightly, then pulling out, then stroking up my vertical slash. I didn't realize that watching yourself masturbate could be so sexy. But why shouldn't it be, I was a beautiful woman. I watched two more fingers, those also up only to the first digit, slip into the cunt. I saw how much the cunt liked the fingers, how it was getting wetter; I could see the light glistening off the cunt's juice. I could hear the breathing of the woman who owned the cunt becoming deeper and slower. She seemed to be shaking slightly.

I gasped as all three fingers probed the cunt. I could feel them explore inside me, wanting to touch everywhere, wanting to find each new sensation. It was all good, but occasionally they would find an electric spot and I would shudder and stagger. I took my hand from my cunt, spreading the juice across my tits. I looked at my tits in the mirror. I could see how the light reflected off the liquid. Robert rarely sucked my tits. Why would anyone not want to suck such lovely tits, still big and firm? When he was a baby my boy loved to suck my tits. I remembered how good it felt. How I would get turned on. How sometimes I would finger myself while my baby boy's mouth was on my tits. But mostly I would search out my husband. If he wasn't in the mood I would suck his dick till he got in the mood. Then I would mount him and fuck him hard. I would lean forward, dropping my tits in his mouth, where he would suck and lick them. Sometimes I would beg him to bite my titties hard. Even after life and his parents had turned him into a wimp, I would fuck him hard and push my tits into his face, imagining he was the man he used to be.

My cunt was dripping. Each hand reached down and took its share of juice and spread it across a breast. My tits needed to be sucked. I thought of my son. If I went and asked would he suck them? Would I need to beg him to suck his Mommy's fat wet tits? I bet he would. I bet if I begged him he would suck my tits. I could tell, he thought I was a hot number. I bet he would suck my tits; I bet he was a great tit sucker.

I was not that kind of girl. I was a good girl. I was just having bad thoughts. But I still needed my tits sucked. I looked at the woman in the mirror. God she was hot. I knew that slut would suck my tits. I saw her pull my left tit to her mouth. She started licking at the top, her tongue moving slowly toward the nipple. Then she stopped. How could she stop? My nipple was so beautiful. It was almost black against the creamy brownness of my tit. She did it again and she stopped again. I asked the slut to please suck my tits.

"You must be a bad girl who wants her titties sucked," she mocked.

"I am a good girl, but please suck my tits," I begged her.

She didn't look convinced but blew me a kiss. "Okay, I will suck your slutty tits."

I wanted to tell her that they were not slutty tits, that they were good girl tits. However, I was afraid if I made her angry, she might not suck my tits. So I didn't argue. I looked back at her, pleading with my eyes.

She pulled one of my tits closer to her mouth and licked it in a hard swift motion. My cunt exploded and I staggered half a set back. She did it again and then again. I felt the pleasure from her tongue reverberate throughout my body and then center on my pussy. She opened her mouth and took my entire nipple and areola inside. My areolas are small, not like the wide ones Theresa described. I looked into the mirror and saw that my nipple had disappeared into my mouth. I could feel my tongue lashing it. I sucked the entire nipple deeper into my mouth. I could feel my tongue stroking and exploring it, teasing it, loving it. I loved the taste of my tits. I buried my other hand in my cunt, my thumb stroking my clitoris.

My eyes turned to the safe in my bedroom. I had promised myself I would not surrender to this temptation. I was a respected therapist; I obeyed the rules. I did not act unprofessionally. I did not act unethically. But I would now; I would turn my client's most intimate moments into the most personal entertainment. I removed the recording of my session with Theresa from the safe, donned headphones, and listended, fingering myself the entire time. When her son proclaimed that he owned her cunt, I exploded. Soon I was asleep.​