by some childhood experience you've long since repressed,' he patiently explained. 'As far as my seeing your bare thighs, your embarrassment is unfounded. Force the rational part of your thinking to remember that I am just your doctor, and doctors, of course, are quite used to seeing the salient aspects of the human anatomy. For example, I'll bet your gynecologist has seen you completely nude several times. He's undoubtedly inspected your breasts and peered into your vagina, yet you probably felt no embarrassment about the situation at all. Just think of this circumstance in the same fashion.'
What a brilliant man, I thought. It was magic the way he could explain away my uneasiness, just as though he knew exactly what made me tick. On his advice I forgot all about my skin, letting it rumple up around my hips as much as it wanted to while Dr. Bruce and I began our doctor-patient relationship.
Dr. Bruce turned out to be a practitioner in a relatively new school of psychiatry called Primalcy. It was a form of psychotherapy which emphasized the articulation of raw, basic feelings by the patients. As Dr. Bruce explained it to me, the primalist saw all these basic feelings as primary for life. However, sometimes feelings became so massive and entrenched – like overgrown roots – and needed to be dredged up from the soggy bottom of the unconscious. Only when the raw, untreated feelings had been yanked into the conscious could the offending emotions be expelled. And at that point the patient was supposed to spill out the primal feelings, getting them to the surface in the most direct way possible.
'But doctor,' I said, 'what if your feelings are so powerful, so shattering, that you can't bear to say the words that will describe them? What if you just can't make yourself talk about it to another person, even if he is a psychiatrist?'
'Then act it out – with your body,' he said calmly. 'Words are not the only force of communication. For example, I once had a patient whose underlying problem was that she wanted to be an infant again so everyone would love and take care of her. She had denied this to herself for years, and then when Primalcy Therapy forced it into her conscious, the truth of its existence stunned her into muteness lasting for three weeks. Finally, she was only able to gain her equilibrium by acting her feelings out instead of verbally articulating them. During one session she got down on the floor and actually crawled around my desk and then got into my lap, just like a baby. When she snuggled in my lap her dress came up and I noticed that she wasn't wearing any panties. Being a psychiatrist, I knew what was coming next, but before I could act it happened.'
'What?' I asked, somehow strangely excited by his stow. I put my hands in my lap to keep them from fluttering.
'Well, she urinated on me, of course. Just like an infant,' he said with a smile.
'Weren't you angry?' I gasped, my fingers fiddling with the hem of my skirt.
'Don't be silly,' he said. 'I was pleased. Infants only relieve themselves on those they trust. When it happened I knew we were making real progress.'
By now my fingers were under my skirt, the tips touching my panties, tracing the line of the elastic. My pussy was uncontrollably throbbing between my thighs.
'Do… do a lot of your female patients take off their clothes?' I asked, my curiosity overcoming my inhibitions.
'First of all,' he said, 'women are the only kind of patients I treat. I prefer them because they're so much more sensitive than men, so much more human. And as for your question about the clothing. Certainly, many times my patients take off items of apparel. I encourage it if it will make them freer and more comfortable. For instance, I suspect right now that you'd like to be out of those panties… the way you're rubbing your fingers over them.'
Suddenly, without warning, I could feel my cunt gushing into my panties. There must have been a spreading circle of dampness at the sheer crotch that he was looking at right now.
'My, my,' he confirmed my suspicion, 'they must be chafing against you for that to happen. Why don't you take them off. You'll feel more comfortable. The sense of freedom will help you to get more out of the therapy. Believe me, the doctor knows best.'
Comfortable. Free. That's how I wanted to feel all right.
Deciding to do it, I started to get up, but he stopped me. 'No need to be formal and stand up,' he said, 'just take them off while you're sitting in the chair. The patient is always right in this office. I like to think I practice what might be called Consumer Psychiatry.'
Going along with him I pushed my fingers under the elastic, feeling my bare belly. The panties slid down my hips, their wetness causing a smacking sound when their sopping crotch was pulled from the moistness of my pussy. Within seconds they were over my knees and around my ankles. Then I froze, not being able to figure out what one does with a sopping pair of panties in a psychiatrist's office.
'Just kick them onto the floor,' he said. 'You can pick them up and put them in your purse on the way out.'
I gave a big kick, sending the sopping missile all the way across the room where they landed in a heap. When I started to bring my leg down, I remembered Dr. Bruce's admonitions about being comfortable and hooked it over the armrest. I lolled back in my chair with my thighs apart, self-conscious about nothing.
'You have a beautiful cunt,' he said, running his tongue over his lips.
'My gynecologist never told me that,' I giggled.
'Well, you'll find that gynecologists and psychiatrists use somewhat different techniques,' he said. 'Especially those of us practicing Primalcy. Now, tell me what brings you here. I notice your card here says something about gambling.'
'I guess that's what my husband told the nurse when he made the appointment for me,' I explained. 'He just thinks gambling is my problem because I told him that's what accounted for where all the household money's been going, and why everything's been in such a mess around the house lately.'
'What really is the problem?' he asked, leaning forward across his desk with obvious anticipation.
'My husband,' I said tersely. 'George is the problem. He doesn't satisfy me.'
'And…?' His mouth seemed to be watering.
'I have to play around behind his back to keep from going nuts. Although I guess that's a funny thing to say when your husband thinks you're so screwy already he makes an appointment for you to see a shrink.'
'And the money,' Dr. Bruce said. 'Where does the money go?'
'This summer I've been paying a young man to… uh… uh…' Suddenly my candor failed me and I was at a loss for words. When I started to tell him about Ron, all of a sudden it struck me as absurd. Who would believe that a full-grown, attractive woman of thirty-eight would pay a young man ten dollars a throw to fuck her?
'What does the young man do to you?' Dr. Bruce asked, practically bridging the top of his desk now in his excitement. 'Go ahead, you can say it. You can say anything in this office. I want to hear it.'
'I've been paying him to… fuck me,' I let it out. With my admission of my relationship with Ron, the psychic pendulum abruptly swung full tilt and all of a sudden I wanted to say everything explicitly. 'He sticks his cock in my pussy and he fucks me.'
'Are there others?' the doctor asked, staring right between my open legs.
'At first there weren't,' I said, 'but lately it seems like everyone I can get my hands on. I'm starting to wonder if I can even control it any more.'
'Both sexes?' he asked.
'Yes,' I admitted. 'Even my daughter.'
'How was it?'
'Oh, doctor, it was divine!' I gushed, totally unable to hold anything back. 'Her pussy was sweeter than you can imagine. And so tight. I can't wait to eat her cunt again. Doctor, does that mean I'm sick?'
'It means you're a normal, healthy woman,' he said, drawing back from the desk top and starting to get up.
'Really?' I asked hopefully. 'Are you sure?'
'I'm a psychiatrist, aren't I? If you don't believe me, I can prove you're normal right now in this office,' he said, walking towards me. Unless my erotic imagination made my eyes deceive me, there was a thick round bulge at the crotch of his expensively tailored pants.
'But how?'
'You're afraid you might be sexually abnormal, correct?' he said, coming up right in front of me. I stared not at his face, but at the apparent bulge in his pants, thirsting to know if it was real.
