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Vibration Therapy

By: rikkitampa2014



"Don't you feel better now? Doesn't your inner soul feel unburdened, liberated...?"

"Y-yes," he stammered. "That was...awesome."

Although the guy's medium-sized balls had long-since been emptied, and his penis was beginning to wilt, Amber continued stroking him. And pontificating:

"When you let all that...stuff for lack of a better word, back up in you like that, it becomes like a toxin inside your body. It poisons the soul. It becomes both psychologically and physically debilitating. It leads to-"

"But you told me to hold it in for a few days. Until my appointment."

"Of course," Amber said, letting go, pulling back. "Quod erat demonstrandum. You're a college boy. You should understand that."

"Is that Spanish?"

"You can wash up in the sink," Amber said abruptly.

As her naked, pale-bodied patient ambled awkwardly to the right, Amber turned the shower on and, after rinsing off her left hand, her therapy hand, began washing the sticky clots of fresh semen off the tile floor and down the drain. Steam rose as the hot water kicked in.

Afterwards Amber came up behind her dazed patient, still hovering over the sink, and put her hands on his bony shoulders. She stood close behind him, but not so close that her erect nipples brushed his scrawny back.

"Would you like a massage?"

"Uh, yeah!" he said, turning with wet hand. "Is there like, a charge?"

Amber lowered her hands and gave her dyed-blonde locks a shake. "I'm very exicited about this new, um, this latest therapeutic service I'm able to add to my practice. Just this week I earned my state license as an LMT. It's very prestigious. Very few qualify. Dry your hands off. Follow me."

Amber led him across the hall into her bedroom—her practice office I should say. It had not served as her bedroom since highschool, and visits home during college, many moons ago. She pointed at the certificate on the otherwise barren beige wall.

"My dad framed this and hung it up for me just yesterday."

The patient was standing just behind Amber's left shoulder. He was caressing her sumptuous, slightly pocked right butt-cheek with his damp right hand. She let him.

"You live with your dad?"

"Hunh?"

"At your age?"

Amber pivoted. "What do you mean my age?"

"Aren't you, like, 40 or something?"

"I'm barely 30!" she lied.

"I'm 22," he shrugged. "That's still old to me. My mom's only-"

Another shake of the golden locks. "I'm not anybody's mom."

"I'm just saying..."

"And feeling my ass and fondling my breast...is not part of the therapy."

"Oh. Sorry," hand falling. "I mean it's cool with me if you live with your-"

"It's my father's house, yes. Our house. When I returned from my sojourn in California some months ago I was looking for a space with great light—sunlight has a profound effect on mood—a bathroom, privacy, a warm and inviting environment for my patients. What could be better than a house? A home? It's perfect," sweeping her left hand out as exhibit of her cramped childhood bedroom.

"Did your dad plant the flowers?"

"Roses. Yes. And he put up the latticework. Privacy but with a great, secluded view."

"That one looks like it's dying. You're really hot, you know," switching gears. "I didn't mean to imply, just because you're a MILF..."

"Do you want the massage or not?" hand on generous hip.

"How much?"

"Normally sixty. But for the next week, in celebration of my newly acquired license, I'll do it for forty."

"I shot my wad," the patient said, with a shrug.

"No joke. Well, maybe next visit. When mommy sends you your next allowance."

"How did you know she sends me like, an allowance? And I won't get it until next month."

"Next month then," shoeing her hastily dressing patient toward the hallway. "Save your pennies. We'll work a deal."

Over a shoulder: "So should I masturbate?"

"Every four days. No sooner, no later."

"Really? That's like-"

"Ciao."

Amber showed her patient the door. The front door. The front door of the house. My house.

I'd just lowered the headphones from my ears and backed away from the quad-screen computer monitor: bathroom/bedroom/hallway/vestibule. I could now hear my daughter Amber's wide bare feet thumping up the stairs, in real time.

She threw something, upon abrupt arrival. A G-string? A dog collar?

"A MILF? A MILF?" she exploded. "Did you hear that? The little..."

"You're not 30 years old, Amber," I reasoned.

"I'm close!"

"You're 35. He's 22. Think back. That thirteen-year difference is like...75 percent of his lifespan. It seems enormous."

"I'm not old, I'm not a fucking MILF. Look at me," cupping slightly sagging pale breasts in her two lifting hands. "I bet I'm hotter than 95 percent of the little twats on that campus."

"Twats?"

"I said twits. Twits. As in Twitter. That's about all they're good for..."

My eyes rolled. I sighed. "You're very hot, darling."

"Thank you."

"But you have to keep in mind...the customer is always right. You gotta roll with it."

"Fuck the customer! I'll fuck middle-aged guys from now on, I don't care. I mean... practice therapy on them. God knows they need it..."

Amber breathed through her nose. "I've gotta find a way to sell this massage therapy gig."

"It'll come. Give it time."

"I may need another infusion of cash."

I sat up. "For what?"

"Flyers. Constant Contact. A revised website now that I have my license. It's a fluid situation."

"Yeah, I saw his fluid..."

"The sooner I break even, dad, the sooner I can start paying rent."

"How do you define...breaking even?"

"Plus one of the roses died. Can you fix that?"

"Bring it back to life?"

Amber made a dramatic, silent film-like gesture. "I need to take a shower. I feel dirty..."

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Taking a shower."

"Take it in your own bathroom."

"That's like my therapy chamber. Yours is bigger..."

"Amber...?" I protested, rising from my swivel chair at Therapy Central, in the Master Bedroom.

Seconds later, still sumptuously naked, and dry-bodied, my daughter Amber reentered the bedroom, my bedroom, holding a vertical dildo.

"What's this, dad?"

"What?"

"It was in the shower stall?"

"So?"

Including the round battery base, and black turn-knob, the thing was about eight inches long. It was pink, and translucent, and you could see, from a distance, the mechanical workings of its insides. It was an old tried-and-true friend that had been deep up my ass hundreds of times.

"Is this what mom used to use on you?"

I lowered my head. In answer.

"I know she used to do you. She told me..."

I looked up. "She did?"

"Said once you get a man in your life, if you want him to be loyal, and submissive—a lapdog I think she called it—use one of these on him. In a matter of weeks he'll be yours for life—or as long as you need him. He'll be wrapped around your little finger."

"I don't remember that."

My naked daughter, pink dildo in hand, shook her locks once again. "I think it's great that you're still doing yourself. Picking up where my slutty mother left off. The bitch."

"Amber..."

"There's nothing wrong with self-therapy, daddy. It's..." Amber's lovely face contorted. "Yes, there is. A man needs a licensed, professional therapist for things like this. Bend over..."

"Hunh?"

"No, I mean..."

Naked Amber, with her ample breasts and wide body and wider hips, and her shaved pubes, stood before me. Index finger to her left cheek, blue eyes toward the ceiling.

"Vibrator therapy," she said, tentatively.

"Vi...?"

"No. Vibration therapy. That's better. That's the next step. Sexual Release Therapy, Massage Therapy, and my coup-de-grace...Vibration Therapy."

"And what would that be?"

"This dildo," she said, looking at it, eye-high, "not this one but one like it...No, I'd have a slimline one for beginners, one like this for regulars, then a really big one—black—for the advanced group."

"Advanced?"

"Guys who are like one step away from my fist," Amber said, making one in midair.

"You're going to...?"

"Fuck, yeah," she proclaimed. "I'm adding Vibration Therapy to my repertoire. Thanks for the idea, dad! And then fist-fucking as a final stage. 'Cept I won't call it fist-fucking, I'll call it something, you know, therapeutic. Digital Dilation. That's a working title. Bend over, I want to try this on you..."

"Your fist?" I asked fearfully.

"No, your pretty little pink dildo here. You'll be my beta test."

I dove for the bedtable drawer. The lubricant. God help me!

Seconds later I has on my hands and knees on my bed, a lump in my throat. Imagine a prostate exam administered by a complete whack-job of a doctor. Who was not a doctor at all. Amber's greasy left hand now rested on my left buttock. While her right guided the chilly vibrator to its entry point. She paused. Mercifully.

"No," she said, "there's got to be another step."

I swallowed. "Step?"

"Stage. Revenue source. Colonic cleansing, of course! $99.95 for Vibration Therapy plus a mandatory $39.95—this week's special—for colonic cleansing."

"No," I said through my vulnerable legs.

"Is that too cheap? Should I...?"

"Amber? Listen to me. I draw the line at guys—your patients—blowing their holes in my bathroom."

"Why, daddy?"

"Guess."

(The dildo was now two, maybe three inches deep in me.)

"I'll clean up after them," Amber offered feebly.

"No you won't."

"Yes I will."

"No you won't. When have you ever cleaned anything in your life?"

"I'll hire a maid."

"That's cold," I grimaced, referring to the dildo.

"Oh, sorry," pulling back an inch. "That's another thought. I'll need a heating pad."

"A...?"

"To keep my dildos warm."

"You can't just soak them in hot water?"

"Water gets cold. You've got to spend money to make money, dad. Does that hurt?"

"A little." Thinking: Yeah, my money.

"See, if I had a heating pad..."

"I'll buy you a heating pad, OK?"

"And three vibrators?"

"No colonics? Promise?"

"On second thought, you're right. That's kinda gross. There's a reason why I dropped out of med school."

"When did you ever go to medical school?"

"That's what I'm saying, I dropped out. Feel good?" she asked, gently working the dildo in and out.

"Yeah," sounding doubtful even to my own ears.

"So the question is," pushing in a penultimate inch, "how do I keep my vibrators clean? If I can't do colonic cleanses."

"Condoms," I said.

"What?"

"Condoms," I once again grimaced. Now I could feel the round base of the dildo, the battery end of the jellied contraption, flush against my spread crack. It was in all the way. She twisted the circular knob, firing up the vibrator. It was not exactly unpleasant. Just not quite pleasurable yet. A few more seconds for it to warm up to body temperature and...it would be a walk on the beach on a summer day. A mind-bending hallucinatory one!

"Brilliant!" my daughter had exclaimed. "Condoms, of course! I'll make 'em wear condoms. My dildos I mean. Then all I have to do is peel them off. Daddy you're the best. Are you OK?"

"Am now."

"Feel good?"

"Oh yeah."

"So I turn the vibrator on high, like this...," my entire being buzzing with the made-in-China's top speed, "...then I work it in and out..."

"I would pay for this."

"You'll pay for this?"

"Not this. I'm playing my part."

"What part? You're my dad. I'm doing you with a dildo. Giving you Vibration Therapy, I mean. Like mom used to."

"It was not therapy, believe me."

"Yes it was. You just didn't realize it."

"Oh I realized it, all right."

"There was method to her madness, I guarantee it."

"Her madness?"

"Then I reach underneath...," her left hand locating my flaccid cock. "Which do you think I can charge more for? Ejaculatory Therapy or Vibration Therapy?"

"Is this Vibration Therapy?" six inches of jelly dildo sliding in and out of my now warmed and welcoming, dilated hole.

"Yes."

"Vibration."

"Of course. ET is just a hand. This involves...equipment. Overhead. Tax deductions..."

"But it's really just another form of ET, right?"

"What do you mean?"

What I meant was, my daughter's left hand was stroking me to hardness while her right slammed the buzzing vibrator home.

"OH!"

"Good, daddy?"

I was drooling, on the mattress. "Yes, darling. Thank you. Thank you."

"Thanks for being my guinea pig. So to speak..."

"I..."

"You're getting hard..."

"Oh, darling..."

"You like it up the ass, don't you boy?"

"Boy?"

"I'm pretending. Play along..."

"Oh, yes."

"And soon we're going to release all that tension in your body. All that pent-up frustration. Your wife left you. You don't have a girlfriend—or boyfriend. You're depressed, lonely. You've turned to me, a certified Sex Therapist..."

"Yes, darling!"

"Don't call me darling. I'm your doctor."

"Master!" I blurted.

"Let it out! Go for it!"

Under the guidance of her left hand, and her right, I was now prematurely shooting every ounce of sperm my shaved balls had to offer, shooting it onto the sheeted mattress I was about to collapse to, in wet disgust, the vibrator popping out of my ever-tightening asshole.

"You see?" Amber exulted. "You see what I mean?"

"What?" I asked, chest-down in the thick wet.

"Vibration Therapy! Tell me that's not worth $99.95!"

I couldn't argue. I couldn't even speak.

"Thanks, dad," Amber concluded, admiring her work, the used pink dildo still vibrating in midair. "And you'll remember to replace that rose in my garden?"