“Tell me about your week,” he asked.
“I really think the medication is useful,” she began. “I’ve felt better, really, than I have in years.”
She looked down at her lap. “I still have those intense imaginings, fantasies I guess you’d call them, but they seem so real.”
He crossed his legs. He was certain there was an appropriate therapeutic response, but his mind became entirely filled with the thought of her hair swinging over his face as she rode him. He could almost feel the soft weight of her hair brushing against his nipples as they bucked, driving his penis deeper into the soft, wet folds of her vagina. He caught himself, his body visibly startling. When he looked at her again, that soft fall of hair was framing her features.
She took his silence as encouragement.
“This time it happened while I was taking a nap. I like to sleep on my side, with one leg drawn up.” She twisted slightly to show him. Her legs nearly touched his and suddenly, he was so hard the seam of his pants cut painfully into his balls. He shifted slightly, and looked at her; he easily pictured her nude body turned to the side and stretched out on a bed, her crotch only partly exposed by her leg folded up toward her breasts.
“I imagine that I am asleep, and only gradually awake when I feel a warm hand slowly moving up my leg. I murmur like I’m waking up and the hand is still, and then I roll over on my belly, keeping my eyes closed.” He could see it; he wanted that hand to be his own hand; he fiercely, suddenly, needed to touch her soft and yielding curves.
She turned back and crossed her legs. He could almost hear the soft glide of skin against skin as she moved, and his cock throbbed again. “The room is so quiet I can hear his lips part as he sucks on his fingers to make them wet.” Her eyes became dreamy, half-closed. “It’s daytime and there are warm squares on the bed where the sun shines through the window. The heat feels so good and he slips his wet fingers underneath me, just brushing against the lips of my cunt.”
The doctor opened his mouth and tried to speak several times. If anyone had been watching, he would have appeared comical, like a fish stranded on dry land. But finally he was able to push the words through his lips, hoarsely. “Please go.” He stood up, towering over her, his crotch at her eye level. He didn’t even care if she saw his agonizing, unprecedented erection.
“I–I’m sorry,” she stammered, then turned and fled.
With great urgency he turned, too. He reached for his zipper and then he came, hugely, cum pumping out and staining his pants, his breath hard and painful. He didn’t even touch himself before he came to an orgasm, and he felt even more helpless with the thought.
He cancelled the rest of his appointments for the day, claiming a touch of a stomach bug. Feeling like a schoolboy, he held his folded jacket over his arm to hide his wet, stained crotch as he walked out of the office.
The next day he instructed his nurse to call the woman and schedule another appointment, this one in just three days. His skin practically crawled at the thought of her, not sure if he would terminate her diabolical hold over him or fall into her spell and her arms as helpless as a fawn. With all his mind he yearned to end this weird relationship; his body told him otherwise. His mind told him one more session with this woman could be the end of his career; his cock responded instantly, rudely, to the thought of a lock of her hair sliding across his face.
The third day arrived and he felt like a teenager, like a moronic character in a sappy musical, his heart dancing to the tune of her name, beating absurdly fast as the time of her arrival came near.
He felt hot with shame, and cold with the thought of never seeing her again, and hot again with desire for her, the way she crossed her legs, how she smiled just so.
Taking a great gulp of air before she turned into his office, he managed to greet her as if everything was the same. As though watching himself from a distance, he hears himself ask her coolly, almost coldly, if she was still “troubled” by her “hallucinations.”
When she looked faintly hurt, he began to melt, and his mind immediately melded with his physical self again, with predictable results. She began to speak and he roughly interrupted her, closing the door and directing her to the chair.
“Do any of these fantasies ever play out in real life?” He hated himself for being so abrupt, but steeled himself with thoughts of surviving with his career intact, not crumbling into chaos because he made love to a patient with the intensity of worlds colliding.
She looked slightly surprised. “No, I’d never be unfaithful to my husband.”
“Tell me about him.” The doctor was nearly gasping.
She immediately became warm and animated. A chance meeting between her and her husband was followed by a series of other unplanned encounters, she said, making their relationship feel inevitable, “fated.” The physical attraction had been intense and undeniable, their relationship following a fast track that would be unthinkable by today’s standards. “He can still make me laugh,” she admitted with a small smile.
The doctor felt his tension draining slowly and was almost surprised not to see it like a thick, oily substance on the floor beneath his chair. She described falling in love, spooning beside him every night for two decades, a deep companionship of spirit and body. This was not the talk of a sexually unfulfilled woman.
Now well in control of himself, he interrupted her once more. “If you’re not unfaithful to your husband,” he said slowly, carefully. “How do you resolve these frequent, ah, fantasies?”
For the first time, his patient looked shy. “I just find a convenient private place and, um, masturbate,” she said softly. “Sometimes I only need to touch myself before I have an orgasm. A couple of times I even had an orgasm just imagining that touch.”
He closed the session by saying she need only come back in six months, unless her anxiety troubled her sooner. He watched her walk down the hall to the women’s room, saw the door close behind her, and felt only a little foolish as understanding began to bloom. Without thinking he followed quietly, stopping just outside and listening intently.
Beyond the door, he heard the hushed but unmistakable sound of a woman reaching orgasm.
Chapter 2 — Celtic Fantasy
We had been walking around for what seemed like hours, in and out of small stone churches, ruins, and old castles nestled in people's backyards. As we climbed the hill, the sun began to shine behind the slate gray clouds, casting mystical shadows across the Irish landscape. I was thirsty and tired but we had come here to see all things magical and I wasn't going to miss a moment. A misty rain had been falling and my red hair was wild. The sun was struggling to come out. It was quite warm despite the mist. We climbed, looking like the oddest couple in Ireland. I looked like a native with my red hair, freckles, and green eyes. Bill was dark-skinned, exotic-looking. People had looked at us as if to say, "Look at that stranger defiling a good Irish girl."
It didn't faze us. We were here to soak it all in. I wanted Bill to see where my family was from. I wanted to feel the magic of ancestry. At the top of the hill overlooking vast green fields dotted with thatched cottages, we found the ruins of what was once a monks' abbey. Grass and weeds had grown through its foundation and vines twined their way around half-standing walls. All at once, I felt a hush and a pause as I surveyed the scene. Something about those ruined abbeys and castles held for me a beautiful mysticism that swept through my whole body. I turned to face my husband. God, he looked amazing. His brown hair flowed around his shoulders in the breeze and his large brown eyes scanned the horizon.