I catch myself thinking how I really must get around to chucking a lot of this stuff out. I keep looking, knowing there’s a little box back here somewhere.

A secret box, it even has a small lock and key. It’s where I keep my fantasies, the darker ones. And the darkest ones. The one’s where I am in control and you are my submissive, ready and willing to conform to my absolute authority, where I demand your obedience and you are so possessed by my desire that you must obey.

~ XI ~

“The pleasure is torture.” You groan your confession, your open hand rubbing over your blouse, sensing the tenderness trapped underneath, the firming in your breast, the very length of your body squirming on the couch.

“Why? What’s happening?” your therapist whispers.

“He’s at my breast, sucking, kissing, tugging. Trapping my nipple with his tongue, his lips peppering me lightly one minute, then pounding my breast with hot passion the next.”

“I can feel the soft sand of the beach, trapped underneath the many towels. I’m sumptuously surrounded with throw cushions. The fire crackling. The heat of the flames burning on one side of me, while he lays on the other, smoldering with his own heat.”

“The night sky is cloudless, filled with stars. I can see Andromeda, I can see the edge of our galaxy. I can hear the Ocean, the waves we made love in softly lapping up and over the sands.”

“He’s tended my breasts, while his hands have run up and over and in between my thighs, for what seems like hours, and he’s not tiring.”

“And you are?” your therapist gently asks

“No. I love this…”

“But?” your therapist senses the conflict stifling your speech.

“But, I want him to go further.”

“You want him to hurry?”

“No, but…”

“You want him to tease the lace hem of your Chemise?” his voice, deep, and intentionally so, a coquettish cocktail of innocence and guilt: “Up, off your thighs, and onto your hips?” he continues.

“Yes” you confess, your voice laden with arousal.

“You want him climb over the cushions and ease himself down between your legs?


“You want him to break his kiss from your breast and lower himself down your body, where he can easily press his hot mouth against the inside of your thigh?”


“You want his kissing to slowly climb the inside of your thigh until he reaches the softness of you sex.”

“Ahh. Yes, baby, just there…”

“Until he’s pushing his tongue against your soft wet sexy lips?”

“Ahh, fuck, baby that’s so good.”

“That’s good, he needs your approval, to hear you tell him he’s doing good, he wants you to guide him, teach him how to be better.”

“Ahh, that’s it, kiss me there, ahh, yes, push your tongue against me, and spread me open with your fingers.”

Your therapist retreats to his armchair, legs crossed and taking notes, watching, as you thrust your hips up off the couch. One hand gripping between your thighs, rubbing through your clothing, reaching to soothe the rising heat of your sex, while the other squeezes gently at your breast. Your body turning tidal, slowly motioning for more.