The woman’s voice sounded low and soft, but with a faint blur that made me think this was a real voice filtered through electronics. They do it with motion detectors, I told myself. And heat sensors. And pre-recorded instructions. Still, my mouth turned dry at the thought of someone observing my movements. I swallowed and touched the keypad.
The locker clicked open. Inside I found a soft cotton robe, which smelled of fresh soap, and the suit Lia mentioned, which turned out to be a full-body leotard made from a stretchy material. There were even fingers and toes and a hood. Curious, I ran my fingers over the silky mesh.
After another glance around, I changed from my clothes into the leotard. It fit me perfectly, and the material clung to my skin as I stretched and twisted, testing its comfort. “When you are ready, please go through the next door and lie down.”
I twitched, then scowled. Resisted the urge to make rude signals to the invisible camera. Was that faint laughter, or the ventilation system? Whichever, I ignored it, pulled on a robe and stacked my clothes and purse in the locker. Another touch of my fingers to the lock, and the door clicked shut. At the same moment, the second door swung open on its own.
Motion detectors, I repeated to myself, but my nerves were jumping as I peered into the massage room.
It was empty, except for a long padded bench with a pillow at one end. Stepping inside, I had the sense of floating through an ocean. Floor, ceiling, walls were painted in shades of green, rippling from pale green to streaks of emerald. The bench itself was covered in soft black leather, making an anchor point in that unsettling room.
“Take off your robe and lie down, please.”
Again, that contralto voice.
I let the robe drop onto the floor and stretched out face-down on the bench. The leather was softer and warmer than I expected, and had the faintest scent of roses, which I found soothing. No sooner was I comfortable than music started to play from unseen speakers – a slow, contemplative piano piece. Modern, but I couldn’t recognize the composer. Between the soft perfume, the lighting, and the music, it would be easy to fall asleep, but I doubted that was the point of this mystery gift. Hopefully the attendant would arrive soon.
Somewhere, an unseen machine whirred into life. A moment later, warmth rippled down the length of my body. Startled, I jerked my head up.
“Hush,” said the voice. “This is the light massage.”
Still unnerved, I rested my head on the pillow. Now the music changed slightly – a clarinet joined the piano, weaving a counter-melody – and the light dimmed, making the walls look even more watery. Another ripple of warmth circled my legs, merged, then divided to travel down both arms and brush my palms.
A cello sounded a rising arc of notes. The piano answered with a brighter trill, joined by the clarinet’s throaty voice, which reminded me of the invisible woman, and lights flickered over me, echoing the path of warmth that touched and teased my skin. Like whisper soft feathers, stroking my body. Like silk-soft hair brushing over my skin.
It shouldn’t be this easy, I thought. That’s what happened with Tess. That’s why it hurts so much.
“Are you crying?” said the voice.
“I can’t help it,” I whispered.
“Then let me help,” came the answer.
Tiny electric pulses, counterpoints in sensation, just like the counterpoints of the music, tickled my cheek where it rested against my arms. Tiny kisses nibbled my throat, my fingers. I wanted to protest, to say this was no massage – not alone, watched by a stranger – but my greedy body refused to obey.
The pinpricks came faster now, spiraling outward from my belly toward my breasts and thighs, light stings that sparked a flame in my belly. Fire kisses running from my scalp to my toes, dancing over my skin and drawing my nipples to hard points. Another moment and I would reach a climax.
What if I electrocute myself? I thought hazily.
Soft laughter sounded in my ear. Or was it the music, which had quickened its tempo? Flutes and piccolos trilled brightly, the piano thundered now, and the violins and cellos cried, while the suit flexed and contracted, as though an enormous hand caressed me. Sweet, soft, hard, and sure. This lover’s hand knew me. I was sobbing and crying out, beyond caring who watched. Again, and again, the heat flashed over my body. The mesh rippled like fingers from an invisible lover, squeezing my breasts, diving between my legs, and licking me with fire, then plunging into my vagina – though surely that was not possible – once and twice and more, until that last delicious explosion that left me limp and sprawled on the bench.
And with the tide receding, so too the music and the warmth; the flutes and piccolos danced away, next the violins and cellos, leaving only the piano in a soft slow melody, while the suit clasped me loosely.
I lay there, breathing in the sweat and satisfaction.
“Lovely,” I murmured.
“Satisfied?” said the invisible woman.
“Oh yes,” I breathed. “Thank you.”
“The gift is mine.”
She did not speak again. For a while, I did nothing but stare off to one side, until the last few sparkles and ripples of passion faded away. Only then could I coax my body to stand and walk the few steps to the dressing room.
A brisk shower woke me up. I dressed, dried my hair, and returned to the reception area. Lia waited behind the desk, a curious smile on her face.
“Did you like the gift?” she asked.
Still unable to talk, I nodded.
Lia’s smile dimpled her cheeks. “You look thirsty. Would you like some water?”
Barely waiting for my nod, she disappeared a moment and returned with a large tumbler of sweet, cool water. Her hands wrapped around mine to steady the glass, reminding me of the night before. This close, I could easily smell her perfume.
. . . the scent of roses. A woman’s soft low voice . . .
All the clues shifted into place.
“You,” I whispered.
Lia went very still. Her friendly smile had vanished, replaced by a cautious look. “What about me?”
Even so, I noticed she had not removed her hands from mine. “You gave me the gift card, didn’t you? You set up this appointment.”
A long silence. Her answer, when it came, was like a sigh. “Yes.”
“But why?”
Please, not because you felt sorry for me. Please, not that.
A faint blush edged her cheeks. Lia dropped her hands and turned away. “Do I really need to say why?”
A wisp of hair had escaped her hair clips. I set the glass aside and brushed the wisp back into place. Her blush deepened. “No,” I said softly. “You don’t need to say why. But were you going to keep this a secret? The gift, I mean.”
Her gaze flicked toward me, then to the floor. “Oh. Well. It all depended on you. Before last night . . .” She drew a deep breath. “Before, I didn’t think I had a chance. But I wanted to give you something special. Just because.”
I laughed shakily. “You certainly did that.”
Silence. We were both embarrassed, I guessed. Both unsure what to do next.
“How late are you working tonight?” I asked.
Lia gave me a faint smile. “You were the last appointment.”
“The last one, or the only one?”
She laughed and shook her head. Was that ayes or wo? Hardly daring to breathe, I leaned forward to kiss her. A nibble-kiss, just at the edge of her mouth. It didn’t matter, her watching me before. This was new. This was, I thought, a little bit scary.
Lia slid her arms around my waist. Kissed me back. Tiny soft kisses that made my pulse flutter. “So,” she said, her breath tickling my face. “Are you going to the Christmas dinner?”
Not the question I expected. I drew back, uncertain. “Are you?”
“Of course. Aunt Delores would kill me if I wasn’t there to help with the kids.” She reached up and cupped my cheek in her warm palm, studied me with bright dark eyes. “But this year, I think I�
�m going to be very, very late.”
Laughing, I pulled her close and kissed her again.
Sexual Healing
Helen Highwater
Tia was abruptly ordered to sit when she entered the shrink’s office. Dr Kismet didn’t stand up or even greet her; she just looked at her over the top of her glasses and said “Sit down,” no “please”, not even a welcoming smile. Kismet read the case notes, with the air of someone who did not want to be disturbed. Not even daring to speak, Tia felt like a schoolgirl who had been sent to the headmistress for six full strokes of the cane.
Eventually, Kismet looked up. A petite but confident brunette, elegantly dressed in a gray business suit with a knee-length skirt, she presented a stark, harsh image to Tia. Nevertheless, there was something mesmeric and beautiful about her.
“You were referred to me by Dr Everett,” the doctor said at last. “She says here that you are a sex addict. Is that correct?”
“Yes,” Tia confirmed.
Kismet stared at her for a long, uncomfortable time. Tia’s cheeks burned. It wasn’t simply that she was ashamed of her condition; it was the doctor’s icy, impassive stare. It seemed rude and invasive, as if she were undressing every aspect of her mind and body and looking at her darkest secrets with a magnifying glass.
“And yet you’re only seventeen?” the doctor asked, as if suggesting she were somehow dirty and repugnant.
“Yes,” said Tia, lowering her head, both as a gesture of passivity and also with the intention of covering her blushes.
The doctor read on.
“According to this, you have never actually had sexual congress,” said the doctor “You’re a virgin?”
The question felt more like an insult. Tia nodded shyly.
“I see,” said Kismet, continuing to read on “you masturbate. On average seven times a day, according to what you told Dr Everett.”
The doctor put her file down neatly on the desk and walked around behind Tia’s seat.
“Do you feel dirty and shameful?” she asked.
Tia turned around and opened her mouth to retort. Doctor Kismet told her firmly to face the front and answer yes or no. She answered in the affirmative.
“Yes?” chided the doctor. “Yes what?”
“Excuse me?” Tia queried anxiously, turning in her chair.
“Don’t turn around. Yes, I feel . . .” Dr Kismet promted.
“Yes, I feel . . . dirty and – and shameful.” Tia managed.
The doctor congratulated her:
“Good!” She said simply. Not “Good! I know how hard that was for you”, just an economical (though ambiguous) “Good!”
Tia felt Kismet’s hair on her neck, leaning over her from behind.
“Would you like to tell me what you fantasize about?” she asked.
Tia blushed even deeper and lowered her head.
“It’s all in Dr Ev—”
The doctor interrupted her coldly.
“Tell me what you fantasize about, during these seven-a-day masturbation sessions of yours,” she commanded.
Tia breathed in deeply to calm herself. The hairs on the back of her neck were standing on end and she was beginning to realize that coming here had been a bad idea. The relationship with her counsellor was evidently not going to work.
“I’m sorry, Doctor, I have to go,” she said politely, placing her hands on the arms of the chair to raise herself out of it.
“You’re not going anywhere,” observed Kismet, confidently. “Sit down and answer my question, please.”
Tia sat involuntarily. She was taken aback by the word “please”. Steadying her nerves, she braced herself to answer the question.
“Facesitting,” she answered. She tried to let the word slip out matter-of-factly, as though it were as humdrum as the word “knitting”.
She sat facing forward, not daring to turn around. The shrink was silent. Was she even in the room?
Tia’s heart raced, but she calmed a little when at last she heard the doctor’s footsteps pacing the floor behind her.
“Facesitting?” Kismet mused. “Is that actually a word?”
“On the web search, it is,” Tia offered, meekly.
A hand came over her shoulder, holding a copy of the Webster’s dictionary.
“And what about in here?”
Tia flicked through.
“No,” she muttered at last.
“And what about you, are you a facesittee?” the doctor pressed.
Tia shook her head.
“What is the website called?” Kismet demanded.
“There’s a few of them: uh – butt munchers, ass . . .”
“So you’re a butt muncher?”
Tia bristled angrily at the intrusive and insulting nature of the question, but her will was already broken and she felt she had to nod anyway. The doctor was close now; she could smell her perfume strongly and hear the scratch of her pen on her notepad.
Dr Kismet returned to her seat and sat daintily upon it. She leaned on her hands upon the desk, staring deep into Tia’s eyes. Tia became lost in the deep brown eyes that fixated her so icily. The doctor’s expression remained calm, commanding and unchanging until at last she raised an eyebrow.
“When did you first discover that you were a lesbian?” Kismet asked.
Tia had only recently discovered that the sight of a slender ankle, a classical, poised breast, the ball of a beautifully rounded bottom all turned her on. The term lesbian offended her when applied to her own desires; these were visual, sensual images. To appreciate a sculpted sort of feminine grace was not necessarily homosexual. However, she did not appreciate the leering attentions of the guys in high school. Little boys, she would often think. And to crave the attentions of more mature and sophisticated girls and to yearn for them to tie her down with skipping ropes in the change room . . . well, perhaps this was little more than a fantasy. And fantasies can change as time goes by.
“I’m not . . .” she started, but the doctor killed her denial with a sharp look, “I – I started, I guess, a year ago.”
She thought for a moment and was about to supply more information when the doctor broke the silence.
“How did it make you feel?” she asked. “Were you sad? Happy?”
This was more how Tia had imagined the counselling to be, and she welcomed the chance to talk. “I was depressed. I still get a little depressed. Sometimes.”
“That’s not uncommon. Are you scared that other people might find out?”
Tia nodded. “And scared of living a lie. If this isn’t just a phase, I mean.”
“Again, not uncommon.” Kismet reassured her. “You have heard the word used as a schoolyard taunt, no doubt.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You are nearly a woman, Miss Rodriguez. Your friends have grown up. Do you really think they will treat you that way if you tell them the truth?”
Tia smiled shyly, brightening up. “I’m not ready to tell them, just yet.”
The doctor smiled supportively at her. She had gone as far as she needed to with this line of questioning; she stood up and resumed pacing the floor behind Tia.
“So, supposing I were to sit on your face,” conjectured Dr Kismet. “Supposing you were to ’munch my butt’, so to speak . . . take me through it. What would happen?”
Tia was a little surprised at the sudden reversion of the psychoanalyst to her former coldness. “Well, I really think you’re personalizing it.” Tia protested.
“Just describe what I would do to you,” came the sharp rejoinder.
Tia shivered and tried to recount her fantasy as best she could. “Well, you would drag me by the hair into a small room and lock the door,” she said, to the doctor’s evident approval, “then you would throw me to the floor at your feet, where you would taunt me for a while . . .”
“Would I bend you over and spank you with a hair brush?” inquired the doctor, interrupting.
Tia was puzzled. She wondered where this line
of questioning was leading.
“Wh- uh- no. I never thought about it,” she said. “I probably will from now on though, I guess.”
“And then . . .” prompted Dr Kismet.
Tia thought for a moment before continuing. “And then,” she said, “you would order me to lie down on a table, and bind my hands. Then you would squat over me and gently lower your ass down over my face.”
“And you would lick my anus, yes?” asked Kismet very matter-of-factly.
Tia nodded her head in shame. She continued facing forwards and listened to the doctor writing her notes.
“Turn around,” Dr Kismet instructed.
Tia turned around and instinctively pushed her chair backwards, on seeing her analyst. The psychiatrist was standing very close to her, with her back turned. Tia followed her calf up to her thigh and on up to her pert buttocks.
“I told you to turn around,” said the shrink angrily. “I didn’t tell you to move away. Move further forward.”
Reluctantly, Tia moved her chair back to where it had been. She felt nervous, yet excited; the hem of Dr Kismet’s skirt was practically brushing against her face.
“Now,” said Dr Kismet authoritatively, “describe what you find so attractive about my bottom.”
Tia stared at it.
“Its . . . its shape . . . so elegant and-and firm, but soft. Like the flesh of a peach.”
The doctor turned her upper body so that she could look down on Tia. “Good!” she congratulated, before turning back around and bending over, such that her dark brown hair touched the floor. “And now?”
Tia jerked backwards in her seat, but the doctor reprimanded her sternly. She sat up straight and looked. “It’s so perfectly curved,” she said. “So powerful, like a thoroughbred race horse.”
Dr Kismet stood up and turned to her. “So, at the root of your fantasy, there is something much more childlike and innocent,” she suggested kindly. “After all, what little girl doesn’t want a pony?”
Tia considered this. Her feelings of shame started to dissipate. She thanked the doctor and stood up, sensing that the appointment was finished. But Dr Kismet had something more to say. She told Tia that she would need to see her again, to check her progress. She explained that this next visit would be quick and that she should come around to her house in the evening, rather than bothering to reserve an appointment with the surgery.
The Mammoth Book of Lesbian Erotica Page 55
