2 comments/ 35555 views/ 3 favorites Stephanie: the Fourth Session By: Dildonicus But only the second of the 'Stephanie' stories. 13:58 The skirt was shorter today, Dr. Alison Bridgford noted, not without interest. A lot shorter--almost up to her bottom, this time. She had to admit--although she was no lesbian--that as she followed Stephanie into the therapy room the sight of her full, wiggling rear in the tiny skirt did seem rather irresistible...a bricklayer would have no choice but to give it a squeeze, involuntarily. The thighs, bare, pink and round, were similarly full and healthy looking. Strokeably smooth. There was no envy, of course--Alison herself was similarly satisfied about her own voluptuous physique. They could have been sisters, facial differences aside. Her own face was more oval, less triangular, than her fulsome client's. Alison's black hair was worn short, Stephanie's was collar length and blonde, a hank of it hanging over her eye that often she had to flick aside, with a beguiling neck mannerism. Nice shoes too, Alison thought, closing the door. The woman's high heeled court shoes were a perfect match for the ensemble. If her therapist had been male, he would no doubt have had trouble concealing a lump. "Take a seat," she said, settling in for the hour herself. "How have things been lately?" she asked, as Stephanie crossed her legs, depositing her bag on the floor. She was again braless, her heavy breasts straining the material of her orange satin blouse as she leaned over. Nipples, as per usual, were plainly present and correct. "Things have been...interesting," she said. "Quite interesting." "Oh? Pray tell." Alison grinned. "That's why I've come," her client conceded, teeth gleaming. ------------------ 14:17 "Obviously," Stephanie continued, "I can't get all of something that big in my mouth--nobody can. Unless, of course, you try it when it's limp! Aha! Still a good four, thick inches mind, even flaccid. I can just get it all in, with my chin nudging his scrote. I like to just...harbour it, in my mouth like that--it's nice. Is that weird?" Alison pulled her reassuring 'not really' face. "Presumably," she countered, "this is not long after he's ejaculated? So he's unable to...stiffen up, as it were?" "Not necessarily. I can do it when he's asleep--if he's lying right. I like it. Go to sleep sometimes, sucking it like that. Comforter." "Like a child's dummy." "I suppose so." She blinked innocently. Alison tried a change of tack. "What about hygiene? Does he wash himself, after he's been--you know..." "Up my behind." "Thank you--yes." "If it was ever necessary, he would. It isn't. Always comes out clean. Just a littly tangy, that's all. I don't mind--it's an honour. An honour to have him up my bum and in my mouth--even when he's asleep." "Does he know you do that? Or it a secret...ah, vampire visitation?" Stephanie chuckled. "Oh, he knows. He's woken up a couple of times--caught me at it..." "And?" This client, she realised, was rapidly becoming her favourite. "He just smiled, like you'd imagine a dad would, at his cheeky daughter. 'Course, his cock starts to rise again--obviously--so I have to pop it out of my mouth, before I choke on it." She grinned at Alison. "I'd imagine so!" Alison replied, suppressing her own grin. "Too right." She asserted. "There's only one thing to do when he does wake up--if he wants to get some sleep, that is, and I can suck it again..." She waited. "Which is?" "To unload. He tosses off into my mouth--a night feed! Then it subsides while he nods off; I can stuff my mouth again, and go to sleep like that. It's really nice--have you tried it? Feel so...protected, somehow. Like a contented child at a breast, I suppose...that's it! Not a dummy--a nipple. A big, squidgy nipple. My big squidgy nipple." "All yours. And all is well with the world," Alison offered, realising that she was getting somewhat hot and gooey down below. She was beginning to regret having had that mad idea, just before Stephanie arrived...Very unprofessional, indeed. And mad... There was a momentary silence. Stephanie was studying her unplanted foot, wagging it gently. She seemed to be waiting for something, Alison felt. An opening, possibly...she made her one. "Do you want to tell me about the...shenanigan in the mall, now?" she asked, tentatively. She immediately sensed a resistance, put up her hand. "It's OK if not..." Her client flushed a little, then nodded. "The spunklolly..." "Sorry--the what?" Alison was craning forward. "The spunklolly! Oh, God..." She covered her face with her hands, causing Alison to smirk. "Stop grinning." She had suddenly peeked from behind her fingers. "It's not funny." "I'm sorry," Alison said. "It's just...embarrassment is so...endearing, don't you think?" Still the smirk, muted now. "Is it really," Stephanie droned, tight-lipped. Then she seemed to ready herself. "It was a month back...yes," she went on. "I'd been wondering why he'd been..." She looked at Alison, as if needing a signal to continue. "Why he'd been...?" she coaxed. "Collecting it." She gulped, involuntarily. "Collecting...?" Pretence of cluelessness. Interesting! "You know what," she snapped, transfixing her interrogator. "Collecting his semen," Alison conceded. Stephanie was definitely her favourite client, she had decided. Proceed. "Yes. He'd--" She took a deep breath. "He'd been pulling out of me, for a week--pulling it out of my...rump, I mean, before he came, and...shooting it into a paper cup. Cups, plural." She looked wide-eyed at Alison, hardly believing that she could tell another person this, in the wide world, ever. "This is at home, presumably?" Alison asked, gently. "Yes, yes. At his house. He shot it into a cup, and disappeared with it into the kitchen or somewhere--he kept doing that, all week--a dozen times, must've been. Leaving me spread out or bent over each time, reamed, and...empty. Like--I wasn't even a vessel any more, just a...ring of muscle, to get him off." She looked up from her reverie, an opportunity for Alison to ask: "You must've asked him why--did you ask him why?" She grunted. "Same thing, every time I asked: Surprise. Once, he got snippy--about the fifth or sixth time he was heading off with it--he said How is a bloke supposed to surprise his girl when she keeps asking him what the surprise is? Mmm? Condescending bastard. Ooh, he's such a bastard." Alison snorted a grin. "You must have had some ideas yourself...what did you suppose he was doing with it?" "Ideas!" she retorted. "I couldn't think straight, for all that week! Even worse than usual. Every time I tried to do my job--pay attention to it, I mean--I'm in the legal profession, as I said--ideas of what he was going to do, with all that...spunk, kept poking into my head--no warning, no defence--" "Like his penis penetrates your behind," Alison offered. "Out of your control." Fuck. She hadn't meant to say that. "Yes. It must be his way of fucking me when he's not even there." She blew her hair out of her eyes. "I couldn't get it out of my mind...oh, I'm going to get the sack, I kept thinking, I'm going to get the sack. I still may, yet," she added. A loud groan. "How does a girl hold a job down, when she's forever trying to anticipate what her pet pervert is going to do to her next? With his giant nob, and truly fucked up ideas?" She looked a little lost. "Difficult, isn't it," Alison quipped, somewhat unhelpfully. Never mind that--she wanted more about the cup thing. "Tell me about the...cup thing." Stephanie nodded, with a moue. "I assumed he was freezing it," she continued. "Turns out, he was--but I thought he wanted to make me a Spunk Sundae, or something, and watch me eat it--in a pub beer garden, of course. Or maybe whip me up a Toss Trifle--" Alison threw her head back with a laugh. "Nice alliteration!" "Like it, do you?" she rejoined, not altogether similarly amused. "Can I continue, can I?" Droll. "I insist." "Thank you. So, Saturday comes around. By now he's collected--and fridged, presumably--something approaching...what, half a pint?--of his fresh best, when he decides, that afternoon, that we're going into town. We're going shopping. Let's go shopping! he says. While I'm doing my face to perfection he goes off a minute to fetch something, comes back with--what?--a Thermos flask--yep--a Thermos: won't answer any questions about it, either. Oh, my God--what's in that. It won't be coffee, will it." She shot a slit-eyed look at Alison, who said nothing. "Something's going to happen," she went on, "in town, involving him, me, and a vacuum flask. Or its contents. And it's going to be...perverted." "Stands to reason," Alison said, keenly. She felt as if she were melting into her chair. She crossed her legs, precisely. "I knew it must be time for my surprise," Stephanie intoned, pinning Alison with her gaze. "Well, I thought," she said, "as we went out to the car, the missing jizz, Dr.Watson, is in that flask." Alison couldn't suppress a giggle. "Elementary." "Very," Stephanie continued. "And it seemed that the collect it routine was done with, because he'd just come up my arse--a quickie, on our way out of the door. Arm bent behind, the usual. Ninety seconds! Took a minute of that to get all of his nob in--he's huge, remember. Oh, don't, I said, please don't...Stop it! Stop! I want to go home! Ow! OW! Etcetera etcetera. Academy Award? I'm getting to be something of an actress, you know. Anway--when I felt him coming up my colon, I knew, then. Ooh, I said. A load. I'm honoured. He said--know what he said?--Shut up, he said. You're not supposed to get anything out of that, you slut. Then he kissed me on the cheek." She shook her head, incredulous; answered by another half grin from Alison. "So," she resumed, "whatever the 'surprise' is he's been saving it for, he thinks he's got enough. Enough...goo, for the job. Oh, lucky, lucky me..." She crossed her legs again, Alison finding herself--disconcertingly--unable to not watch as she did so. The thighs were full and pink, the skirt tiny. The twin expanses of smooth, soft skin presented a powerful attraction. Almost irresistible... She wondered if she had on any panties...Would it occur to her, to attend a talking therapy session such as this, without them? Alison's attention was vacillating, she couldn't stop it. Why she herself, as a man's woman, would suddenly be driven to ponder these things, she was uncertain. She may have to finish the session early, she thought--surely, she'd have to... "So anyway," Stephanie was saying, seemingly unaware of her confidante's difficulty, "we're off to town, apparently--that's where whatever it is is going to happen. Shops--shoppers. Great. "As we walk to the motor I can feel that familiar slippery, slidey feeling between my bumcheeks, as the stuff leaks out--like it does. It's a good case for knickers you'd have thought, but as usual I haven't got any. They're illegal--particularly if I've just been bummed--" "Sorry--'bund', did you say?" Alison blinked. "Bummed. Buggered," Stephanie assisted. "Oh--bummed. Sorry. Go on..." "Prefer 'bummed'. Less...pervy sounding." She followed her own digression. "Pants are outlawed by decree, in the event of my having just been reamed. Likes to show off his stuff glistening down the back of my legs, you see--I swear, Doctor Bridgford, he uses the expressions on peoples' faces as some kind of sustenance. He...feeds off it. Does that make sense to you?" Alison was yanked out of a reverie somewhat. "Yes. Yes, it does," she replied, a little croakily. She wanted to open a window, or turn off the heating. She had her own slidey feeling, and she wished--oh, how she wished!--that she hadn't taken her own pants off for the session; that she hadn't succumbed to one mad impulse before Stephanie had arrived. She just knew that the seat of her skirt was a soggy, aromatic mess, and it would be impossible for her to stand up with Stephanie still in the room. Not without her seeing, that was. And smelling her discomfiture. If she couldn't already... "Thanks," Stephanie was saying, with a hint of sarcasm. "Anyway, we're off to town--I've got my plug in, obviously--got to watch the car seat--" "Sorry--plug?" Alison interrupted. "What do you mean?--oh..." She had realised, before Stephanie answered. The realisation made her wetter. "Sorry--thought I'd mentioned it before. He plugs me, before we get in the car," she said. "Buttplug. Stops the stuff leaking into the seat. Takes it out when we get there, wherever it is--sometimes. Sometimes he leaves it in--depends what mood he's in and what the situation is... "So," she went on, "we're on our way there, he's driving one-handed as usual and me changing gear for him, and--" "Why's that?" Alison said, starting to have difficulty in not interrupting. She felt not in control of this, at all. "Because his left hand lives up my skirt in the car. It's...policy, you'd call it. Middle finger right up my babyhole. He says," she was straight faced, "it's safer for me, if there's a crash. Extra impact protection for my pelvis, apparently. Isn't he thoughtful? Hey--" Her face lit up. "I'm getting to be a pretty good right hand gear changer, you know? Do it without the crunching, now." She smiled a disarming smile. "Aren't I clever?" "Mmm," Alison managed. Her face felt red, she hoped not noticeably. "So...what happened at the, er, shopping centre?" She hadn't realised she had skipped a part. "Nothing, because we hadn't got there, yet." She was studying Alison, a faint bemusement on her face. Her therapist was crimson, and had a little difficulty in breathing. "Sorry," she said again. "Go on--please, Stephanie. Bit hot in here." "Is it," said Stephanie, looking at Alison's flushed face and thighs, beginning to realise, at last. Oh my God, she thought. I'm getting you all creamed up, aren't I? Bit gooey? Now isn't that interesting... She gave the impression of giving her the benefit of a doubt, and resumed. "So anyway--we got there. It took an hour's drive--Leyton. Nobody I might know there to bump into, while being a public...spunkbitch. It was the mall there--he'd just said 'shopping', not the mall. So, not tens or hundreds, but thousands of Saturday afternoon shoppers. And moochers, and layabouts--yobs, tarts and drunks. It was the big stage!" She stared wide-eyed at Alison, wondering if she--anyone-- could possibly anticipate what he made her do, there. "You'll have to say it, Stephanie," Alison managed weakly. "Say what happened." "Yes," she replied. "He parked us up, had me clean his hand in the usual fashion..." "With your tongue." She knew. "Yes. I did that, then he told me to take off my blouse--fuck, I thought he was going to have me parading around in there topless, I didn't know what to think, and he wouldn't tell me. He slapped my hands away when I tried to cover up my bare tits, to stop a couple loading groceries seeing. Their eyes were out on stalks, and I was bright red. He told me to keep my hands on the back of my head, while he fished something out of a bag on the back seat. It was the Thermos, and a t-shirt--something written on it, couldn't make it out--too...folded. Three inch letters, I could see that much. "What does it say? I said--bit scared, you know. Fuck My Butt--could be anything, with this cove. Find out later, he said...and he refused to tell me. Told me to look away as he pulled it over my arms, put it on me. It was on the back--couldn't see what it was...Tell me what it says! I told him. Find out later--now quit fussing, he said. My head was pounding like a...pounded head--then he picked up the flask, unscrewed it, and tipped it out into my lap." She was staring at her enrapt therapist. "The spunklolly," Alison breathed, at last. "Yes. It slid out and fell in my thigh cleavage. I picked it up, awed at it. Pure spunk. Solid frozen cylinder, ten inches long, two inches thick--rough copy of his...prick, with a proper iced lolly stick. No orange or anything in it, mind--unadulterated. It was exactly what it looked like--half a pint or so, of neat, frozen spunk, on a stick. I could smell it, as it started to melt a bit in my hand. Take a lick, he said. It's yours--I made it myself. "I gawped at him, I was starting to...cry a bit. Have I got to walk about in the mall...with...this? I said. Afraid so, he said. It's essential. But first... He unzipped himself and got his cock out--it was solid to bursting, and dripping--it was a slippery mess. He had a polythene bag in there, so no slime would...soak away. He..." She looked to Alison, tears ready to fall any second. "Say it," Alison breathed, her own blood hammering at her temples. "He rolled the spunklolly in the slime--the precum--" "The glycerin," Alison remembered. "Yes--he rolled it over and around in it, and over his slimy cock, coating it--glazing it with it. It was fucking coated with it--dripping off that lolly, in great, glistening, strings. Then...he handed it to me, licking his fingers, with a paternal smile. Try that, he said. He fished a pair of Jack Nicholson shades from the glovebox, and put them on me--something he'd never done before--as I took a lick of it. Instant stringing, Doctor Bridgford! From something that could possibly be mistaken for a plain iced lolly, he'd made it into an unmistakeable..." "Sex act on a stick." "Yes! Perverted sex while strolling, fully dressed! And, you know what--I only went and did it!" "I believe you did," Alison replied. "You're very brave." She had to masturbate, very soon. "I am aren't I. I was crimson throughout of course--can't stop that--but I did do it. There were gasps and insults--even a threat or two. Lot of lads making rude gestures, like. Lot of swearing. Offers of marriage! No trouble, though. One bloke--tosser--said I was a fucking dirty cunt, said it straight out. I said How do you know? and walked on. Last we heard of him...Took twenty minutes to finish that lolly, you know! All those people, all those...reactions! You know, I felt...bigger than them, afterwards--can you understand that?" She was wide open. "Yes," said Alison. "You just did what almost none of them can, once they've had their inhibitions...hammered into them. Almost nobody. I should imagine..." she felt her therapist head screwing back onto her shoulders, thank goodness, "that the only way to retrieve that...freedom, is to be retaught. I think--" "That's what he's doing to me. Reteaching me." "Yes. Reteaching you. There are some far worse crimes than licking a slimy lolly, surely. Why, then, the intense negative reaction, from all those people, like...sheep? Get into trouble if you don't catcall." She looked up from her knees. "What about the, er, plug? Did he take it out this time, or leave it in? Did you get wet legs, too?" She smiled broadly. "The plug? Left it in--felt quite nice, actually. Feel it moving around inside you, you know?...Mmmm. Nice in Tesco's--try it. Besides, it would've been a distraction from the back view, all that wet down the back of my legs. That's what he said. Distract from the message." "Message?" "On the t-shirt." She was grinning. "Oh! That t-shirt message--What did it say?" Stephanie: the Fourth Session Aftermath Stephanie: the Fourth Session Aftermath I've put this episode in the LESBIAN section, firstly because it deals only with lesbian sex, ie. there are no men in it, and secondly I'd love for it to be read (and enjoyed) by lesbians. BUT!!! Note: there are references to 'buggery' and 'spunk' in it (it is part of a series in the ANAL section). So please avoid if you would be offended by that. Dildonicus The tone of this episode is a homage to Taylor_b's lovely story 'Something for her Arse'--a highly recommended read, for lovers of curvy bums everywhere. 15:47 The room that she used, for her therapies on all matters sexual, was in an annexe to the main building. The building itself belonged to the National Health Service, part of the Mental Health Unit. In Alison's little--only partly used--piece of the facility, there were no assistants or secretaries, and--today being a Thursday--no other rooms actually in use. It was quiet, save for the muted bustle filtering into its corridors from the main block. Dust floated in the bars of sunlight that entered through the old, metal framed windows. Room six's door, at the very end of the hall, was efficiently painted an NHS cream, and bore the legend: DR.ALISON BRIDGFORD PhD, SEXUAL THERAPY. They lay on their sides; naked, exercised and replete. The therapy room carpet was functional but soft and eminently welcoming, to bare, traumatised skin. Alison was in a near foetal position, her hands her pillow, her gaze a mile away, through the large, single window. There were trees, a telephone mast. Stephanie lay immediately behind her, in a similarly curled position but up on an elbow, directly facing the other's full, flushed bottom. She was perusing the nylon-bristled head of a hairbrush, that luridly protruded from its cheek cleavage. "You have a stunning rump," she said, with awe. Eternally, supremely, penetrable occurred to her. She endeavoured to discover, soon, if there had ever been a cock up there. She hadn't said... "I know--it goes with my stunning mammaries and stunning legs. I'm stunning all over," came the purred reply, the voice floating over her shoulder. "I know you know...just wanted to say it," she said enrapt, offering a long, red-varnished fingernail gingerly to the hard, purple plastic. "Wanted to hear the sound of the words, floating about." She tapped it gently--just enough to send the tiniest vibration along it, to the nerve receptors of the anus that gripped it. "Don't," was the barely audible response, although the smooth flesh of her palm-reddened globes did twitch, in a furtive appreciation. There was a silence, then: "We have to get dressed--I have another client." She lifted an arm, checked her tiny watch, then let it fall. She exhaled deeply, with a content sound. "Who is it," Stephanie droned, fixated by the hairbrush. It had been her mother's... "Ahmm...Mister....Mister Myers--four thirty. Erection problems...esteem, you know..." "Oh him," came the disinterested reply. Her attention was still firmly elsewhere. "I used to do the housework, you know...with this stuck up my bum. Naked." Tease time--just a quickie, before everything breaks up. Couldn't do any harm, surely. "You did what..." No movement, just a slight raise in volume. "Mmm, it was really nice. Had a mad summer--year of the hormones--you know...anything went," she drawled, getting into her stride. She stroked the nylon bristles with a fingertip, this way, then that. "I was...quite young. Summer of... '96, must've been--" "Ninety six." "Mm--must've been. Year granny died...yes. Everything was...happening. Randy--you know? So randy. No pants in class--the lot. So...mum and dad worked together at the same place--house to myself a lot, you know? School was off...hot, that summer was. Too hot for clothes--proper ones, anyway..." Wait. Seek encouragement before proceeding. "Proper ones--what does that mean, proper ones?" the back of Alison's head appeared to ask, blithely. Her round, fulsome thighs changed position slightly. "I mean proper clothes--clothes that cover your bits up; ones that haven't been ripped or cut about, so your tits are all bare--I was a C-cup when I was twelve, you know?" Conceited. "--and your arse and pubes are all showing. I made a skirt, a wraparound--no pants, obviously--too hot--out of one of mum's old silk scarves. Bum cheeks half showing, and pubes left completely exposed, by a wide slit up the front...right up to the waist. Looked lovely in the big mirror--I used to pretend I was at a disco--you know, dancing, and that, in front of it. Sister Sledge on the stereo. I loved the way dancing to the beat made my tits jiggle, and bounce around... Mmm," she went. She was taking a gentle hold of the brush head, as she saw the skin of Alison's back seeming to react to an invisible caressing. "It was the least I could do," Stephanie continued, "to do a bit of tidying up, while mum and dad were out, slaving away, putting food on the table." She carefully began to push the already snug brush handle a little more than fully home, before drawing it-- "Don't," came the response; but no attempt was made to halt the proceedings. "Stop it--I have another client..." "I'm not doing anything," Stephanie droned, lifting her upper knee skyward, allowing her free hand a lazy access to her own moistening genitals. The dildoing being perpetrated by her other hand was insidious and sly; shallow movement, and languid. Hardly merited a sustainable objection, really. She continued her impromptu confession, noting the subtle deepening of her victim's breathing. "I did it--the hoovering and dusting and that--nude a few times, it was nice. I liked cleaning the windows like that--no Windolene, of course, just a dry cloth, just a polish. Keep 'em sparkling...but I soon found a nicer way," she mouthed. "Much better with something on--but not covering a damn thing, all my rude bits showing--I tell you," she said, starting to probe a little more deeply now, just a little faster, "that was the summer I got addicted to the taste of my own sweet cunt juice--I was addicted to it...still am." She lazily licked her slick, wet fingers, like a child with chocolatey hands. "It wasn't long, of course, that I progressed to shoving stuff up me--utensils, and that. I felt so beautiful, walking around the house like that, with, say...dad's toothbrush up my slippery cunt--right up to the head..." That was nice, you know," she remembered. "Complimenting dad on how white his teeth looked just after he'd cleaned them...when half an hour before I'd been stroking my clit with the bristles...didn't even rinse it--half hoped he'd smell something. Taste it. He never did...Anyway--" she continued, nearing a full depth, steady rhythm with the improvised probe. She flicked a glance at her own, heavy breast on that side, as it wobbled in harmony with the movement. She loved the way they jiggled--even when just walking. This--this was heaven. "I progressed, in very short order, to doing the chores like that--with everything showing, you know, and objects sticking out of me...grew to love doing the hoovering--the whole house, top to bottom. Wasn't long--" "Stop it now, Stephanie," Alison opined. She was leaning further forward, and the hairbrush handle was sliding in and out a treat, not too fast, and full depth--just steady. "We've got to get dressed," she said. "--you have to go--I have another...appointment..." the last word was breathed, and accompanied with just a slight lean towards the floor. Coincidentally, it offered a better angle for the tool. More...comfortable, wasn't it. For the steady, metronomic invader. "I know you do," said Stephanie. "And I'm not doing anything. I told you." The glistening handle was shiny, but unmarked. It winked at Stephanie on every out stroke. Out three quarters, and in, right up to the bristles. Out, and in. Out, and in. Steady as she goes. When she stops nobody knows. "So," she resumed, "it wasn't long before one thing led to another and I tried experimenting with my bum--because that felt nice, too. I'd had this--" she gave the brush a gentle sideward jolt, "up my sweet cunt a few times--it's my mum's you know--and it was lovely. I fucked myself with it loads of times...Did the dusting like that, you know, stuck with it...what a gorgeous summer that was...So anyway--" She dragged herself from that little reverie. "Not long before sweet Stephanie was parading around the house, with mummy's favourite hairbrush shoved right up her tight young bum--the dirty little slut. Hoovering?--no problem, stayed in a treat--waisted, isn't it--did the whole house a few times, like that. Hour and half! Kneeling on the dining room table, dusting imaginary cobwebs, from the ceiling?--I'm your girl; I just love to chip in--I'm helpful, like that. Wanted to mow the lawn, too--now that would've been gorgeous..." The garden had been just not quite private enough, she remembered. Grrr. "So," she finished."That's the, er...provenance, of this little beauty," she said. "But now, Madam, I think an anal orgasm is in order--just a little one. I want to see how...tactile your lovely bumhole is..." With that, she began to increase the fequency and depth of her assault. In a very short time she was hammering her plastic heirloom into the soft, quivering cheeks, not at full speed but a speed that never failed to bring her off. Her lips were suddenly tight with determination, to conquer-- "Enough! Fucking little pervert--" Alison lurched forward, and away from her assailant; it popped out of her violated anus with barely a glimpse of the interior, the slick looking sphincter closing immediately to protect it. Stephanie was left holding the shiny, purple baby, with a rueful grin on her face. It had not gone entirely unnoticed by her, that Alison, as she rolled away, was sporting a set of very wet, very engorged genitals indeed. Get you properly next time, she promised. Outdoors. "I think we'd better get dressed," Stephanie parroted, with a resignation. "You have another client. We'll be here all day, else," she added with a toothy grin. Alison was standing now, inspecting her abused behind, feeling the wetness between the cheeks. The leaning afforded Stephanie a lovely view of her heavy, hanging, lipstick smeared breasts I did that, she bragged to herself. And I will again, in a pub beer garden...and soon. There'll be an audience when you suckle me next. "I'm not a lesbian," Alison finally managed, facing her. "And you shouldn't do that to me." She made to retrieve her blouse and, hopelessly damp skirt. She offered it to her face--fish factory floor rag. Useless--Mr. Myers would have a coronary. No way--unless... "Could I borrow your skirt?" she asked. "It's drier than mine--it must be; this is...fucked. Stinks. We're the same size." She blinked. Stephanie was in the process of buttoning up her own blouse, her full, cleavage perfect breasts--with similar evidence of attack by lipsticked mouth--being systematically obscured, button by button. Her Clairol black, trimmed pubic triangle peeped rudely from below it. "It's a bit short," she said, meaning cheek-glimpsing, "and you haven't got any knickers either, have you," she arrowed. "Don't appear to have come to this...therapy session, with any, do you? Madam?" Alison shot her the proverbial withering look. "They're in my bag, actually--" "Oh, I see--" Stephanie retorted, "took them off, did you--just before I arrived, eh. Now, isn't that interesting...can't have forgotten then," she concluded. "Deliberate, premeditated act. You're guilty--of being...?" She gave Alison the opportunity of coming clean, to the authorities--make a clean breast of it. "A slut?" Alison offered. She had her own blouse just about reinstated, was similarly naked below--the pube twins. "So, how about that swap--d'you mind?" Stephanie pulled a moue. "Oh--you don't mind, then--me going home in a skirt drenched in your pussy juice?--Charming. I'll be arrested by the Minge Police--give it here, then." They exchanged skirts, put them on. "No, I don't mind that," Alison returned. "And you don't either--you'll just love it if anybody notices--won't you? Because you like doing it to them--to strangers, don't you..." Her eyelashes were batting. "It is, ah, a hobby of mine," Stephanie admitted cheerfully. "That's true." She zipped up Alison's icky skirt--good fit. "We must be sisters," she mused, and stooped to retrieve her bag, and the discarded, rapidly drying hairbrush. "Incestuous sisters," Alison countermused. "What a fucking afternoon, at the National Health." She tucked her creased blouse into the far too short, green satin skirt. Stephanie chortled. "A fucking afternoon indeed...and both of us homosexual virgins, until this very day--who'd have thought that... "Well!" she chirruped finally, threw her bag over her shoulder, and picked a piece of lint from the abused hairbrush's handle. "I'll love you and leave you--I'll ring the receptionist...I'm sure I could...benefit greatly, from just a little more therapy--doctor. I'm almost...cured, I know I am. I've learned a lot about myself, I really have, I'm so grateful. Byeee!" With that, she popped the hairbrush handle into her mouth, and began sucking on it like a baby. She turned with a skirt swirl, and left--mute and arrogant, closing the door behind her. Muffled, her high-heels clicked echoing up the corridor, fading into the afternoon. Alison was staring at the door, drymouthed, stunned, and incredulous...with her hand, seemingly of its own volition, creeping up the inappropriately short skirt she wore until it reached a hot, slippery part of her, that was now in dire--desperate--desperate need, of a caress. What had that girl just done, and why had she done it? To shock, yes, but... Honour. It was to do with honour, she realised quickly. She had felt an instant compulsion to call out to her, as she had popped the perverted thing into her mouth--Don't--Stephanie! There are germs! Mother, concern, guilt. But, she had immediately reminded herself, it would be hypocrisy. After all, it wasn't as though she hadn't already had a twenty minute service at least--by tongue--of her rectum this afternoon, by an extremely willing servant. No expressions of concern about hygiene then--not for a second. She had, she remembered to her sudden shame, actually held Stephanie there--by her hair. Keep going baby--mummy likes that. You're doing it just right. My sweet darling. Now the other hole...that's nice. But then--that had been...in the heat of the moment--driven spontaneously by desire. What her lover had just done was so...disembodied. Deliberate--a deliberate act, designed to...blow the brain of the cognizant observer? To be blown away by the sight of someone like her--an Amazon--licking a spunklolly, for example, you had to know what spunk looked like--be familiar with it, with its texture, its slide, as it melted under the tongue. Similarly, it was only she--Alison--that could be devastated by the...seeing, of her doing that, because only she--Alison--knew where it had just been...for half an hour, or more. Up her...dirtyhole. Her dirtyhole... Another crazy idea ran wild eyed into her brain--what if, when she left, Stephanie didn't take the hairbrush out of her mouth--it's shocking purpose served--as she--Alison--would have assumed? What if she'd actually left the building like that, and crossed to the carpark, past bemused or disturbed faces, sucking the thing for a different gratification: not the joy of seeing the lust, or shock, or disgust on their faces, but...leaving them perturbed but clueless, blissfully unaware of of its obscene secret. The secret that only she--and her victim of course--were aparty to. You may snigger, and scowl, and gossip, she would think, striding past them, but if you only knew this silly, incongruous hairbrush's history...where it had been, what had it been used for--only minutes ago. If you knew that this absurd thing I am cheerfully sucking as I walk past you, had just been used, by me, to fuck another woman's rectum--at length and with enthusiasm and vigour--what would your reaction be then? Different--very different. And that's my fun this time--if you drones only knew. Suddenly, Alison knew--she knew that her dirty girl had done that--after all, it was cheap: how much does it cost you, to have strangers consider you--for a minute, before they forget it and get back to the chores, an eccentric or an oddball. A weirdo? So what. Don't know them. Never see them again, probably...all over in a trice--for them: but for herself, the performer, it was one for the memory banks indeed. A very, very odd feeling came over Alison. She had just been...sapphically sodomised--and loved it--and now, in all probability, the perpetrator was swanning around sporting the instrument, in her mouth, showing it to people...everyone... She shook her head, in a forlorn effort to straighten it. Today, she realised, was the most confusing, brain-mashing, fucked up day of her life, and she didn't know which way was up... She reached around, touched her used bottom, felt the naked globes almost exposed by the inadequacy of the borrowed skirt...a toddler's treat of a skirt. And what about this skirt! She'd been distracted--she must have been--to not fully appreciate just how useless it was, for anyone other than a prostitute--a fuckslut. What had she been thinking! She could feel her cheeks level with its hem--and it was now all she had to wear, here. But, she might just get away with it, she thought, not a little irrationally--fuck it, she decided--there's still a tiny chance she could drag this day back into some semblance of normalcy yet. If she could just get through today--including the arranged session--she might just salvage some sanity. She picked up her bag, and opened it-- Fuck. Double fuck. That was it--game over. She'd taken her pants. Hadn't noticed her do it--but then why would she; the contents of her brainpan had been spinning like a catherine wheel for the last hour...still were. Fucking bitch. Sly, fucking, cuntbitch. She was now stuck--at work, in a satin micro-skirt and no pants. No coat, nothing to cover her. Forget Mr. Myers, she told herself suddenly, feeling like a crash victim in shock. She was not only out of commission, she realised, but marooned--until everyone had left, at least. She just couldn't be seen like this--not at work, not here. She had a career! She hoped the janitor wouldn't have to throw her out...she had the keys to the annexe, and thank goodness for that. She locked the door--when her client came, he would try it, knock in vain, be confused, angry or both...and leave. Sorry. I'm so sorry. It's not possible. She slid down the wall, and settled to wait, until the coast was clear. She opened her legs, and rested a palm on her naked, vulnerable crotch, protectively. She wouldn't have been any use, anyhow, she knew now. It crossed her mind that she might be useless in that regard from here on in. Her head was...had been, fucked. She felt at this juncture an inability to interact with anyone, much less someone in need of her help, in need of a sympathetic, attentive ear. Someone whose attention wasn't in another...dimension entirely, one of willing slits and sphincters, tits and mouths and exploring fingers, driven by perverted, ravenous ideas...ideas that she could not ever imagine being able to banish from her brain. Stephanie: the Fourth Session Aftermath She was now, it seemed, in the category society called 'bisexual'...she had just been fucked by--and had enthusiastically fucked--another woman. And, she knew, would again--she had no control over it. As if in league with the edict, her hand--her erstwhile protector--had already begun to betray her, as it set treacherously to work at her liquifying cunt... To be continued Stephanie: the Fourth Session "It's why there were a few people--lads--come up to me from behind and say It's spunk, isn't it? Have I won? and Is it spunk?--it must be. Do I win? Is this for real?" Alison chortled. "What did it say!" "It said, Win Five Pounds: Guess What My :Lolly is Made Of..." Her teeth were on full display. "Oh, my giddy aunt," Alison gasped. "Oh my fucking giddy aunt." "Quite," Stephanie replied. She flashed a quick glance at Alison's skirt hem. "Are you, er, just about ready for a wank then, Doctor Bridgford?" Alison instantly sank into her soaked chair. Oh, God, she groaned inwardly--she was right in the mire now. She put her hand to her brow, to somehow block out Stephanie's gaze. "It's OK, Doc," she heard, "I'm wet, too. Soaked, look..." Alison looked up, with a blend of dread and hope. Stephanie sat open-legged across from her, daring Alison to look at her, up her tiny skirt. Alison had been right. There were no panties. Staring right at her from its tent was Stephanie's beautiful, shaven cameltoe, slick with intense arousal. "How about that," Stephanie said, feeling strangely replete, drinking in the lovely feeling of having Alison study her naked vulva. "Oh my God, Oh my God," muttered Alison. "I'm not even lesbian..." "Neither am I," said Stephanie. "But I really do think it would be better if you took off that soaking skirt...don't you?" Her hand lazily wandered up her own skirt, and began a delicious, slow fondle, as Alison shakily stood, and did as she was told. She was staring at the ceiling as her skirt hit the carpet, feeling never so naked, so vulnerable as she did right now. She felt the sudden cool on her bare, damp flanks. "Oh--no knickers either," murmured Stephanie, gently stroking her clitoris. "Now why would that be, I wonder..." She pulled up her skirt a little, for access. "Me, I've got an excuse--I'm a vulnerable, confused, abused person, come here for help. But you--" She ran her gaze up and down Alison, lingering a second on her trimmed pubic triangle and glistening skin surrounding. "You're being paid good money to listen, to hear, to attend to your clients' concerns--what's your excuse for taking your pants off, hmmm? Are you just trying to get away with being a filthy slut on someone else's time, perhaps? Oh--it's only Stephanie. She won't mind if I...get off, on her heartfelt, intimate confessions... Now, that's not very professional, is it, Doctor Bridgford? Is it!" To be continued...