He led her into the room. Indicating the bed, he told her to get undressed and lie down on her stomach.
"I'll be back in a minute or two with the massage oil," he said.
She looked around. It certainly wasn't what she had expected to see. Despite what Caroline had told her about Eric, she expected the appointment to be in one of those seedy motel rooms that were rented out by the hour, cigarette burns on the furniture, who knows what stuff staining the carpets. Dubious looking bed linen.
The office park she had come to, though, was nice enough, tucked in to a cul-de-sac far enough off the highway to be quiet and close enough to the beach that she could see the ocean when the taxi dropped her off. It looked like the sort of place she might go to for a periodontist appointment.
This, however, was not a dentist's office. Certainly not.
The room was luxurious, with deep soft carpet and silky cotton bed sheets that felt like fine Egyptian cotton. One wall was all mirrors. On the night stands on either side of the bed were two lamps. They had been draped with a batik-style fabric, which cast an interesting play of shadows and colours on the bed.
And Eric himself — Caroline had said he was good looking, but she hadn't said anything about how tall he was, his curly hair, not quite dark enough to be black but close enough, his sinewy physique. Those chiselled cheekbones. Those deep, brown eyes.
As she removed her clothes, she thought about how she had arrived here. She draped her blouse and skirt over the back of the chaise lounge, and caught a glimpse of her body in the mirrors. A few months ago, she would have shuddered at seeing her body exposed that way, but the physical scars from the operation had almost completely healed. She placed her hands under her full, round breasts, rubbing her thumbs over her hardening nipples. At least she still had that lovely sensitivity there. She had always imagined there were wires running from her nipples to her clitoris. All it took was a light touch of fingers or lips to get her aroused.
It wasn't the physical scars from the operation that was her concern now, though. She pirouetted in front of the mirrors, stretching up to extend her legs. No, she was pleased with how her body looked. It was the emotional scar tissue from the operation — from the cancer. From the loss of that most feminine part of her body. Was she still a woman, with those parts gone? Could she still satisfy a man? More importantly, could a man still satisfy her?
It was at lunch with her friend and confident Caroline last week that she first spoke of her fears. Since the cancer was discovered, Caroline had been her rock. A uterine cancer survivor herself, she gave Di the strength and encouragement she needed, speaking from her own experience. She had shown Di the scars on her abdomen; let her feel the places on her skin where the surgeon had cut her open. She had shared her fears, her own sense of loss, and she had been there when Di rolled out of the operating theatre.
Her lover of several years had left after the initial diagnosis, claiming he couldn't deal with the emotional strain of supporting someone though the disease. She had cried at first, but Caroline told her someone who couldn't commit to really supporting her would only pull her down. The additional loss of her lover was just a small extra burden for her to bear.
She really wasn't sure how to broach the subject with Caroline. Although they were good friends, Di wasn't used to discussing such intimate topics with her, and she didn't want Caroline to think she was prying. Eventually, she just came out with it.
"Have you been able to ... um, have you tried to have sex yet? I'm scared that somehow I won't be able to do it, inside I'll be too short, or I won't be able to get wet, or I can't please a man anymore."
Her face was burning. Caroline smiled and patted the back of Di's hand.
"I have been able to have sex, and it still gives me lots of pleasure," she said. "I've had sex with several men. They all appeared to enjoy it, too."
That's when she mentioned Eric, a counsellor who specialised in what she called 'sexual healing.' According to Caroline, he was someone who knew and understood both the medical and psychological impact of a hysterectomy on a woman. She took the card Caroline gave her. It took her two days to summon the courage to call.
He sounded nice on the phone, softly spoken with a delightful Belgian accent. She asked at first if he was Dutch — his name was Van der Stock — but he corrected her with a gentle laugh. Di blushed and apologized, terribly embarrassed. No, no. Very many people make the same mistake. Perfectly understandable.
He outlined the procedure for her, which she found, in an odd way, comfortingly bureaucratic. She was to go first to his office, complete the necessary paperwork and payment. Her health insurance would cover the bulk of the payment; it was coded as some form of post-operative physical therapy.
It had been difficult talking to the assistant, Sharon, a middle-aged woman who could have been her maiden aunt. When she explained her situation and fears, though, the woman was very understanding.
"Don't worry! A lot of us who have been through this have those fears," she said. "I know I did. I worried that I might never have sex again, or not be able to reach orgasm. Dr. Van der Stock will be just what you need."
A doctor! A sex doctor! She never knew such things existed, but everything appeared to be run very professionally — forms, privacy statements, credit card receipt.
Di had been concerned, along with all her other concerns, that Dr. Van der Stock's office would be too much like a periodontist's office, and she'd have to share a waiting room with other patients — other women — all waiting for their turn with the therapist. Fortunately, though, the waiting area was small, with several comfortable chairs. Rather than ancient magazines, there were a number of well-read hardback books on the waiting area table — Pride and Prejudice, Lord Vanity, Aristotle's On the Soul. An illustrated volume of the Kama Sutra.
She had just about convinced herself to go ahead and take a peek at that last volume when the door to the consulting rooms opened, and Dr. Van der Stock stepped out.
Tall. Dark, curly hair. Sinewy, like she imaged a rock climber would be. Brown eyes, so deep. He was dressed in pale blue scrubs and black slippers. Just like a doctor.
"I'm so very pleased to meet you." His accent was just barely there; just enough to let you know it was there. He took her hand in his — strong, but gentle, too. He covered her hand with his other as they shook. Then he invited her to follow him back.
Now that she had seen his "consulting room," she felt more relaxed and at ease, even rather excited at what was — what might be — about to happen.
She removed her bra and panties, placing them over her other clothes on the lounge, and lay face down on the bed, on the cool, smooth sheet. She felt the same inner excitement that she did so many years ago with her first lover — Russell — when they had decided to lose their virginity together.
She heard him come back in, close the door; put something on the night stand. He turned on some music, soft, like a stream running over rocks. The tune was vaguely familiar, something she recalled from years ago. He must have lit a scented oil burner, because she could now smell a rich scent — sandalwood, something similar. She kept her eyes closed, and her other senses were heightened. She felt the movement on the bed as he knelt astride her legs, and his breath warm on her shoulders.
She felt the skin of his legs on her. He was nude, as she was. A spark shot through her.
"Now I want you to relax," he said, once again his soft accent entrancing her. "Let all the tension out of your muscles."
He trickled the oil between shoulder blades. Its warmth immediately soaked into her skin. His fingers rubbed it around her shoulders and neck, probing her muscles. He pressed firmly — not so hard as to be painful, but she could feel him manipulating her knotted muscles. With her shoulders and neck done, he slid a little further down, and poured some oil onto the small of her back. His thumbs pressed along her spine while his fingers spread the warm oil. Each time he moved, she could feel his prick pressing against her backside. She was sure his prick was getting larger, and harder the more he massaged her body.
Her vagina starting to respond, growing hot and wet. In a few minutes, her juices would seep from her, and start trickling down her lips, around her clit.
She closed her eyes, and tried to picture how her pussy would appear as she became more turned on.
She remembered the first time she had looked at herself, as a teenager, when she started to develop pubic hair. She had taken a small hand mirror and sat on her bed, her legs spread. She used the fingers of one hand to spread her labia, amazed at how intricate it appeared — the folds of skin, the darker opening of her vagina, the tender bud of her clitoris.
Would he try to look at her there, she wondered? Would her vagina — her pussy — turn him on? She though back to one of her lovers — Travis — who would spend hours just lying between her legs, studying, touching, licking her there. He would say how he was addicted to her 'honey pot, ' that he needed a daily ration of her 'fresh honey.' She smiled at the memories and the countless number of orgasms he had given her.
.... There is more of this story ...