Tales from a Psychologist

I had a good female friend who was a clinical psychologist. We didn't talk very much about her work, because she made a big deal out of the fact that she had to preserve the anonymity of her clients. I didn't mind, though, because she was a fun friend. We never dated, but we did flirt a lot. She was a pretty blonde with a curvy body, not skinny but not obese: kind of an Amy Schumer type.

One evening she showed up at my door unannounced. I was surprised but happy to see her. She was obviously fairly tipsy but she asked for some more wine. I asked if she was sure she wanted more, and she got a little serious and said, "Yes. I need it to get something off my chest."

We sat down and after she took a deep breath she said, "Do you think I'm a good person?"

"Of course you are!"

"Okay. Because sometimes I wonder."

"I think you are a wonderful person. Why do you even doubt it?"

She took a gulp of her wine and said, "If I tell you, will you promise not to judge me for it?"

My friends know that I am not a judgmental person, and they end up telling me a lot of their personal secrets, so this scenario was not unusual for me. I promised her I wouldn't think less of her and she began to talk.

"I often deal with patients who have suffered some significant trauma, like rape or incest. I help them, and everyone tells me how good I am at what I do. But there is something about it that has always worried me. You see...I get turned on by their stories. I know that I shouldn't, but I do."

She glanced up at me, nervously. I just smiled empathetically and nodded for her to continue.

"Sometimes after a day at work, I go home and I masturbate frantically, cumming again and again as I think about the stories they have told me. After I can't cum any more, I often end up in the shower crying, trying to wash off the shame of my reaction. I feel like I am taking advantage of my patients' suffering."

I tried to comfort her. "Sweetie, as a psychologist you know that you are not responsible for your reactions, and masturbating to a fantasy, or even an unfortunate reality, is not the same as condoning it."

She started to tear up a little. "I know, I know. But it's one thing to recognize that intellectually, and another to accept it emotionally. I think part of the problem is that I haven't been able to verbalize my feelings with my own psychologist. I just don't feel like I can open up to her about this."

I began to understand why she had come to see me. "So you feel like your own psychologist, as a fellow professional, might judge you. But...I'm not a psychologist. I'm your friend. You can tell me what you're feeling."

She gulped the rest of her wine and put out the glass for me to pour her more. Her hand was trembling. She looked down as she said, "I want to tell you a bunch of stories. Not even complete stories, I guess. More like scenarios. Don't ask me whether they are true or not. Just listen. And everyone in these scenarios is at least 18 years old, okay?"

I nodded.

"Okay. The patient is - uhm, I mean, there was this young guy who lived alone with his mother, who was widowed. They were close and joked around a lot. One day he asked her to buy a back brush for the shower. She joked that it would save money if he just asked her to wash his back. The next time he showered, he called for his mother to scrub his back. He thought he was just teasing her, but he later admitted that he wasn't sure what he expected to happen. His mother called his bluff and told him to turn his back to her before she came into the bathrooom. They both laughed as she scrubbed him. When she was done, she slapped his butt and chuckled as she left. The next time he showered he had an erection, thinking about the possibility of her washing his back again. He called to her and she came in. This time there was no laughing, and there was sexual tension in the room. She washed his back more sensually, caressed his shoulders and tentatively touched his behind. His penis ached, and he turned around. His mother was flushed and tried to avoid looking at the erection pointing at her. She washed his chest slowly, gradually working her way down to his stomach. As her hands got closer and closer to his penis, he instinctively jutted his hips out, and she grabbed his penis and started to stroke it. He heard her gasp, "Oh my God! So big and hard! It's been so long!" She stroked his penis expertly, and leaned over as if she were going to take it into her mouth. Although her face got close to it and he pushed toward her, she never took it in her mouth. However, when he ejaculated, his mother caught it in her other hand and rubbed it into her skin, first on her neck and then on her face. His mother looked like she might cry, but before the son could comfort her she fled the bathroom, apologizing as she did so. The son reported extreme ambivalence about his feelings."

I took a long sip of my own wine and tried to conceal my arousal as I said, "I see. What else?"

"A young woman was very close emotionally to her brother. At one point, she was dating her brother's best friend and he was dating her best friend. The four of them ended up in the basement of their parents' home, without anyone else around. She's not sure who first made the suggestion, but they ended up playing strip poker. Eventually, everyone was down to their underwear. The young woman could see the erections of both her current boyfriend and her brother straining against their shorts. She and her friend were trying to conceal the wetness that was showing through their panties. She and her friend said they had to stop before it went any further. The boys objected, and eventually got the girls to agree that if they stopped playing strip poker the girls had to at least do dares. First the girls made the boys twerk for them. Then the boys made the girls kiss each other, and the girls played it up because of the encouraging cheers from the boys. Then the girl's best friend said that the boys had to touch themselves through their shorts. The boys complained that that was 'gay,' but she insisted that they had to do it because the girls had made out for them. Her friend looked to her for support so the woman pressured her boyfriend and her brother too. Eventually, the boys agreed to touch themselves if the girls touched their own breasts through their bras. They did this in front of each other for several minutes. You could hear nothing in the room but heavy breathing and the occasional moan. The woman could see the clear outline of the boys' turgid penises, and the pre-cum staining their shorts. Suddenly, they heard a car come into the driveway. They all quickly got dressed.

"That evening the brother snuck into his sister's room and they had a whispered conversation about what had happened. They acted like their boyfriend and girlfriend were weird and responsible for everything that happened. There were lots of awkward pauses in their conversation. Finally, the brother confessed that he was 'very hard' from thinking about it and couldn't sleep because of it. The young woman spontaneously said, 'Can I touch it?' Without saying anything else, he took out his penis and she started to stroke it. Soon her brother pulled her nightshirt off and began to caress her breasts. He eventually ejaculated on her breasts. He looked ashamed immediately afterward and the woman said he should go back to his room. After he left, she began to masturbate while playing with his semen, smelling it, tasting it, and rubbing it into her skin. She normally masturbated with her fingers, but this time she took a brush and inserted the handle into her vagina, pretending that it was her brother's penis. She reported having feelings of guilt after she orgasmed, and blamed herself for what happened with her brother."

I nodded for her to go on.

"I only have one more story I need to share with you. A woman had what she called a 'consensual incestrous relationship' with her father. Her mother often had to go on business trips, and when she did the woman would visit her father. Their incest was very ritualistic, almost always following the same pattern. They had an intimate dinner out together and when they got home she would sit beside her father on the couch. He would put his arm around her, and she would say, 'I like it when Mommy goes on trips, Daddy. I like it when we get to have special Daddy-daughter time.' Her father would then say, 'I like it too, princess. I think it's time again for Daddy to check your little breasts and make sure that they are growing right.' The daughter would then take her blouse off, and her father would caress and fondle her breasts until she squirmed with desire. Eventually, the daughter would plead for her father to 'do the special trick to make my breasts feel better.' The father would then kiss and suck her nipples. Soon the daughter would say in a pouting voice, 'My pussy itches Daddy. Will you scratch it the special way you you?' The father would then reach under the daughter's dress, pull her panties down, and caress the lips of her vulva and her clitoris. Soon the daughter would ask, 'Can I sleep in your bed tonight, Daddy? Can I sleep with you like Mommy does?' The two of them would go to bed together, and the daughter would feign innocence, asking her father to show her how to do the things Mommy did in bed. When he orgasmed in her, she would beg him, 'Show me I'm your special girl, Daddy! Please give me your Daddy-cum!' After her father passed away, she continued to fantasize about this scenario, and was prone to reenact it with other men. However, she felt extreme guilt about doing so afterward."

We sat in silence for a moment, and then she said, "That's all I need to share right now. But there is one more thing I need your help with." She looked at me directly and said, "As a psychologist, I can often read people very effectively. Even though we've never talked about it before, I could tell that these stories would turn you on. They do, don't they?"

I nodded.

"Have you ever made a girl call you 'Daddy' while you fucked her?"

Despite all that she had just said, I was embarrassed by her question. Nonetheless, I forced myself to answer honestly: "Yes."

She finished the last of the wine then sat down next to me on the couch. Taking my arm and draping it over her shoulder, she whispered, "I like it when Mommy goes on trips, Daddy. I like it when we get to have special Daddy-daughter time."

I looked down at her and whispered back. "Daddy likes it too, princess. I think it's time again for Daddy to check your little breasts and make sure that they are growing right. Take your blouse off so Daddy can see."

That night was some of the most passionate, intimate sex I have ever had in my life. When I woke up in the morning, she was gone. I called her and didn't get an answer. I left a discreet message saying I hoped she was having a great day and I'd like to talk to her again. I called her again that evening, and then again the next day. Each time I was careful not to say anything that gave away what we had talked about or what we had done. By the third day, she had changed her number. I wrote her one letter, saying that our time together was very special to me, and that I would always cherish it. I also said that I would always be available if she ever wanted to talk to me or see me again, and that I would never tell anyone who she was. That was 10 years ago, and I haven't heard from her since.

I miss her.