The Therapist's Journey Ch. 02

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.