noble humanity and ended in the emotional gutter. My therapist was a tiny woman of about forty-five, and a litde too heavy to be considered anything but fat. Her approach was an eclectic grab-bag of traditional theories and avant garde techniques, with a strong neo-Reichian bias. The whole thing was submerged in great bowls of chicken soup which she dispensed as easily as advice on cold winter days.
One day, after almost a year of opening my heart to her, and letting her run all kinds of breathing and body trips on me, I looked up from some convoluted rap I was into and saw her gazing at me with lustrous eyes, warmth and affection pouring from her huge breasts. I was taken aback.
'Why, Sarah,' I said, 'you're beautiful.'
She got up and came over to me. 'Thank God,' she said, 'I thought you'd never notice.' And kissed me on the mouth.
I was shocked, and froze in the chair. I still had the romantic notion that therapy was a more sublime mode of existence than just plain life, and that a therapist was above the mundane desires which plagued the rest of us. But when she put her hand on my cock, all my evaluations dissolved and I responded emphatically to the gesture.
'Not here,' she said, 'I make it a practice never to fuck in the office.' Her words were like cold water. They stated most clearly that she did this often. But I suppressed the thought. 'I'll come to your place, later, she said.
The first fuck was so overwhelming that I didn't experience it. Sarah was goddess and Mother Earth and the spirit of Freud and my personal ticket to salvation all in one, and when she swarmed over me with all of her bodies and minds, I blew all my fuses and lost consciousness of what I was doing. Some whispered words remain in my memory, and the feeling that the skin of our bellies had disappeared and our entrails were spilling and coiling inextricably into each other, binding us together like Siamese twins. But when she was finally lying peacefully by my side and saying, 'That was wonderful,' in my ear, I realised that I had maintained an erection and come in her without being aware of it.
For a month or so, we attempted to continue the therapy and the fucking, but sex was too strong for the fragile bonds of our professional relationship. And as soon as I ceased being her patient, the metamorphosis took place. In therapeutic sessions, if I had said, 'I hate you,' to her, she would patiently help me contact the feeling, scream it or kick it out, and then examine the aspects of its causes and contingencies. But once we became pure lovers, any expression of negative feeling on my part was taken as a personal attack on her, and she would get sullen or hurt. She lost all objectivity concerning the fact that I had a right to my feelings, and would whine, 'Why do you hate me? Please don't hate me.'
I began to feel oppressed, and this was the prelude to introducing violence into sex. I found I could no longer share my fantasies with her, and their energy emerged in ugly forms. Perhaps she had her own guilt concerning what she was doing, but she readily fell into the masochistic posture necessary to complement my rage. It was with her, for the first time, that I saw myself slapping a woman.
I was only twenty-four, and although she became the victim physically, I suffered immense psychic damage. One fuck had me pouncing on her again and again as she tried to crawl away from me across the floor and over the furniture. I finally pinned her to the couch and fucked her in the arse, growling in the cavern of her soundproof studio. I bit her neck and became the leopard killing the deer. I gnawed on her skull and became the caveman cannibal. Her eyes filled with a watery pleading which oscillated between wanting to let go and wanting to be totally brutalised. Her whimpers inflamed me. I wanted not only to kill her, but to eat her, to tear her flesh and swallow it, the blood running down the corners of my mouth.
'Do you want coffee?'
Lucinda was
One day, after almost a year of opening my heart to her, and letting her run all kinds of breathing and body trips on me, I looked up from some convoluted rap I was into and saw her gazing at me with lustrous eyes, warmth and affection pouring from her huge breasts. I was taken aback.
'Why, Sarah,' I said, 'you're beautiful.'
She got up and came over to me. 'Thank God,' she said, 'I thought you'd never notice.' And kissed me on the mouth.
I was shocked, and froze in the chair. I still had the romantic notion that therapy was a more sublime mode of existence than just plain life, and that a therapist was above the mundane desires which plagued the rest of us. But when she put her hand on my cock, all my evaluations dissolved and I responded emphatically to the gesture.
'Not here,' she said, 'I make it a practice never to fuck in the office.' Her words were like cold water. They stated most clearly that she did this often. But I suppressed the thought. 'I'll come to your place, later, she said.
The first fuck was so overwhelming that I didn't experience it. Sarah was goddess and Mother Earth and the spirit of Freud and my personal ticket to salvation all in one, and when she swarmed over me with all of her bodies and minds, I blew all my fuses and lost consciousness of what I was doing. Some whispered words remain in my memory, and the feeling that the skin of our bellies had disappeared and our entrails were spilling and coiling inextricably into each other, binding us together like Siamese twins. But when she was finally lying peacefully by my side and saying, 'That was wonderful,' in my ear, I realised that I had maintained an erection and come in her without being aware of it.
For a month or so, we attempted to continue the therapy and the fucking, but sex was too strong for the fragile bonds of our professional relationship. And as soon as I ceased being her patient, the metamorphosis took place. In therapeutic sessions, if I had said, 'I hate you,' to her, she would patiently help me contact the feeling, scream it or kick it out, and then examine the aspects of its causes and contingencies. But once we became pure lovers, any expression of negative feeling on my part was taken as a personal attack on her, and she would get sullen or hurt. She lost all objectivity concerning the fact that I had a right to my feelings, and would whine, 'Why do you hate me? Please don't hate me.'
I began to feel oppressed, and this was the prelude to introducing violence into sex. I found I could no longer share my fantasies with her, and their energy emerged in ugly forms. Perhaps she had her own guilt concerning what she was doing, but she readily fell into the masochistic posture necessary to complement my rage. It was with her, for the first time, that I saw myself slapping a woman.
I was only twenty-four, and although she became the victim physically, I suffered immense psychic damage. One fuck had me pouncing on her again and again as she tried to crawl away from me across the floor and over the furniture. I finally pinned her to the couch and fucked her in the arse, growling in the cavern of her soundproof studio. I bit her neck and became the leopard killing the deer. I gnawed on her skull and became the caveman cannibal. Her eyes filled with a watery pleading which oscillated between wanting to let go and wanting to be totally brutalised. Her whimpers inflamed me. I wanted not only to kill her, but to eat her, to tear her flesh and swallow it, the blood running down the corners of my mouth.
'Do you want coffee?'
Lucinda was
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