Copyright© 2004 by Carlos Malenkov
All right, so I'm a serviceman. What I service is women. Yeah, my business card reads "Sex Therapist," but I'm really nothing but a repair technician. What I fix is malfunctions in the female sexual response. I make women whole.
Ariella was an interesting case. A solid block of ice, that's what she was. A sensitive soul, but numb from the waist down. She had heard of how wonderful orgasms can be, but had never actually experienced it.
It wasn't as if she hated sex. She enjoyed the feeling of closeness, the warmth of cuddling up next to an affectionate male body. She was just afraid of giving up control, of letting go, even at the very height of passion. So, that glorious moment of release was denied her.
She called me on a Sunday afternoon.
"Is this Mr. Johnson?"
Johnson isn't my real moniker, of course. I use it as a professional name because of the obvious phallic reference. You know, like in "getting your johnson up." I had tried "Mr. Goodwench" for a while, but that got me more laughs than professional respect.
"You come highly recommended, Mr. Johnson. I have this problem, and I hope you can..."
"Ma'am, are you aware that weekends are time-and-a half? And house calls run an extra fifty on top of that."
"Money's no object. I need help and I need it now. How soon can you get here?"
I went through the hurry-up drill. A quick shit and a shower and a shave. Squeaky clean both inside and out. I gargled with a proprietary brand of mouthwash for non-offensive breath. Then into traveling clothes -- silk shirt with ruffles, and skin-tight velour pants with quick-release buckles. Grabbed my toolkit on the way out. A scant hour later I was pulling into her driveway.
She was a tall brunette. Wide shoulders and small breasts tapering to a slim waist, but generously endowed in the hips and butt. A pear-shaped body configuration usually indicates a greater than normal estrogen level and an above-average sex drive. The problem was likely a psychological block.
"The meter is running, ma'am, so let's not bother with the social niceties. Trust me -- I'm fully medically certified, so there's no need for shyness or modesty. Remove your clothes, please. All of them."
A quick but thorough physical exam confirmed my first impressions. (Yes, I'm fully qualified as a nurse-practitioner. It's a requirement of the trade.) Nothing wrong that needed medical attention, except maybe... Well, on to the next step.
"Lay on the bed, please. On your back. That's right. Now raise the knees slightly and spread your legs. Thank you."
Visual inspection showed labia well-formed and normal in virtually every respect. I gently probed with an index finger. No problems discernible inside. Now, the first test. Her vagina remained unlubricated even after clitoral manipulation. Aha!
"Are you able to masturbate to orgasm, ma'am?"
She blushed, then stammered, "Sometimes, well, maybe one time out of ten. But it's not really what you could call an orgasm. It's just so hard to..."
"To what, ma'am?"
"To let myself go. I guess, to give myself permission to..."
"That's a common enough problem and I've treated quite a number of women for it. First we'll try -- "
A vibrator brought her to the brink of orgasm, but nothing I could do would push her over the top. She squealed when I tongued her clit, then held me tight and sobbed. "I just can't do it. There's something wrong with me!"
I had some doubts about whether this particular client could be restored to normal function. During preliminary testing, my portable EEG unit had given some highly anomalous readings. All the same, I pasted on my best professional smile and summoned up my most convincing bedside manner.
"No, ma'am. We haven't yet begun to fight. Over on your stomach, please."
I had rather suspected it would come to this. A few women require something a bit more fundamental to remove psychological blocks. And there's nothing more fundamental than the fundament.
"Have you ever attempted anal sex, ma'am?"
"Well, yes, but -- "
"I kind of enjoyed the sensations, but it's... I don't know... it's dirty and perverted somehow."
"This is strictly a medical procedure, ma'am. I'm a fully board-certified technician, and you can rest assured that any therapeutic methods I employ are approved and appropriate."
Don't for a moment think that I was going to ass-fuck her for my own pleasure. In fact, the rigorous self-control we're trained in focuses on clinical detachment and denying one's self pleasure. I can hold an erection for a full hour, even during vigorous intercourse, but my capacity to enjoy it is greatly diminished. The client's therapy always takes the top priority.
I applied a specially formulated preparation of lubricating electrolyte gel to my erect penis, then gently rubbed some around and into the client's anal sphincter.
"Ooh! That feels cold!"
"Lubrication, ma'am. I'm going to gently insert a finger into your anus, both to check the muscle tone and to condition the interior. This is a preliminary to... what is vulgarly known as ass-fucking. However, this is a strictly clinical procedure, you understand."
"Well, if you must. It won't hurt, will it?"
Hurt? Causing a client pain could cost me my professional license. Not to mention exposing the agency to a lawsuit. But with the techniques we employ, there's scant probability of that.
"There. My finger is inside. Now a second finger to stretch the opening a bit. How does that feel?" (I was all the while massaging her neck with my other hand.)
"Soothing. Relaxing. Yes, that's so good."
Her anal opening gradually loosened and the sphincter muscles went slack as I gently flexed and applied accupressure from within. (It's a proprietary technique, of course, so I can't discuss details here.)
She was aroused. Her pulse had speeded up and her pupils were dilated. Her vaginal opening was sopping wet with lubrication. She was gasping and involuntarily arching her back and raising her hips. Definitely pre-orgasmic, and now I had to decide how to send her over the edge.
"I'm going to insert myself, my penis that is, into your anus, ma'am. We'll take it slow and easy, and if you feel any discomfort, just holler."
Of course she didn't feel any discomfort. I'm a past master at back-door therapy, and I know just the right buttons to push to make it enjoyable for the receiver. As the head of my penis pressed into her rear opening and began to disappear inside, she gasped, then a shudder rippled up her spine from the tailbone to the neck. Her body went slack, then began writhing as she let loose sharp yelps of pleasure. Her skin took on the radiance of a woman in the grip of forces she couldn't control.
Now was the crucial interval. She could still freeze up and block orgasmic release... unless I removed that choice from her. I began a slow rhythm of alternating deep and shallow thrusts. This would create low-intensity pressure waves from the air alternately compressed and distended in her lower intestine. It induced a thrumming vibration in her guts, similar to the overtones of a low-pitched oboe. Hypnotic mood-altering, resonating subsonics. I was playing her like a musical instrument, and the hole in her bottom was the echo chamber for our symphony. Thirty strokes per minute -- the heartbeat rhythm, the metronome throb of the pulse, the oceanic beat of the surf. An unearthly wail ripped through her intestines and a scream of ecstasy began bubbling up from her throat.
.... There is more of this story ...