“Sure” he soothes, nodding and listening while glancing back through his notes to remind himself of observations made from earlier sessions. “So, how does it feel to be back home?”

Home. The word catches in your mind, and sticks. Home. What is that? Where is that? England? Not now the girls are grown and moved on. Europe? It was once, but what’s left? America?

He watches you, his kind hazel eyes reading you, but he doesn’t speak, he only smiles and waits gently for you to settle and relax.

~ IV ~

My eyes squint, stretching to the limit of the horizon. Reading nothing. I lift my focus a few inches above the horizontal line of flat land, reading the cloudscape that smatters the enormous canvas of blue that fills the vast dome of my perception.

I’m looking for clues, signs of a storm or some other hazard. Nothing. I take a moment to look deeply into the small circular rearview mirrors, each extending either side of my handle bars.

I see the road reaching relentlessly back behind me. Her long black surface reminding me of the sheer finish of your stockings.

Catching the memory of you, my eyes return to the road ahead, my mind drifting, set free, I begin to play with my memory, rummaging through an archive of erotica and recalling moments of our deep connection.

Looking down, the road whipping away under my front wheel, my hands relaxing their grip beneath the thin armor of their leather gloves, the outdoor air feels clean.

Reminding me of your hair, flowing, recalling the squeeze of your thighs around my hips, riding with me into the who knows where.

This open road, peeling away, like layers of our past, bringing you into my present and molding you to me, we move as one through a forest of fantasies, a library of confessions, all as yet unwritten.

~ V ~

“Might I suggest a guided meditation” your therapist offers, his warm hazel eyes gesturing for you to relax further, to lay back on the soft leather couch and allow his words to wash over you.

You lean forward, reaching down with your hands, unhooking your shoes, before bringing your feet up onto the couch, turning to lay back, closing your eyes, and listening for his voice.

He dims the light to a soft and mellow twilight, his words carefully chosen, drawing your attention to the tensions in your forehead, around your eyes, and in your jaw, neck and shoulders.

Slowly his confident voice, deep and direct, works its way down your whole body, each instruction taking the requisite time to untie one knot, and then another. Until finally you feel mentally massaged, a motionless marionette, entirely unstrung.

Your breathing has reached a rhythm, a state of hypnosis, open to subliminal suggestion, where neural linguistic programing could easily and effectively be applied.

“What can you feel?” he coaxes you gently.

“Softness” you answer, as if talking in your sleep.

“Like the moss in the forest?”