The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

At the Grosz Institute

I was a journalist on the health beat working for a small weekly newspaper. My editor was trying to persuade me to write as story about this strange clinic she had heard about where a new technique was being developed to improve women’s sexual response. Women who previously thought they were frigid were being cured, if that was the word for it, and women with what would be considered normal sexual responsiveness were becoming “hyperorgasmic.” My editor couldn’t resist grinning when she said the word. “Just think of it, Maud,” she said. “Even if it isn’t true, wouldn’t you want to read that article? Just to get to imagine the possibilities? Our audience will eat it up. You could have them eating out of your hand.”

“Sound preposterous to me,” I said. I had better things to do; I was reporting out a piece on innovations in deep-brain stimulation with implanted electrodes that was achieving amazing breakthroughs for nervous disorders. This hyperorgasmic business seemed like smutty fantasy stuff to me. Sure, it’s a tragedy that some women don’t orgasm, but in many cases, those women are doomed to their fate by inept partners or preadolescent prudishness. It was never a problem for me, at any rate—and my boyfriend at the time was especially attentive to my needs—so perhaps I was having trouble sympathizing.

“It’s called the Grosz Institute for Orgasmic Health, and it’s located out in the country on a huge estate,” my editor continued. “Was started by a Reich disciple who hoped to build the first working orgone accumulator, a bit of a crackpot, I suppose. But now it’s run by his daughter, a Dr. Eleanor Grosz, who by all accounts is a highly respected psychologist. Papers in all the major journals, and well cited too. And she has a Ph.D. in sociology and in neuroscience for good measure.”

“You’ve already done the research, why don’t you write the story?” I asked.

“I just want to give you some background so you see I am not wasting your time,” she replied. “Just go out there. One afternoon. I’ve already set up a meeting for you with Dr. Grosz next Tuesday. If in your estimation it’s nonsense, I’ll pay you a kill fee for your trouble. You don’t have to write a word.”

“You must really want this story,” I said.

“Hyperorgasmic,” she said. “Just go.”

Finally I agreed, more to get her off my back than anything else. That’s how I found myself in Dr. Grosz’s office, listening to the woman tell me about her clinical successes. I sat across her desk from her in a black leather armchair; she perched herself in one of those complicated ergonomically optimized office chairs. I had noticed when she stood to shake my hand that she was slightly taller than me, but part of that was the heels she wore—nothing flashy, but they added a few inches. Just plain black pumps.

Dr. Grosz had begun to explain her methods at length. “Of course, Freud demonstrated long ago, in the Three Essays on Sexuality, the sexual responsiveness in children, from their unspoiled polymorphous perversity at birth up until the onset of the genital stage of psychic development. I know it’s not fashionable to invoke Freud in this day and age, but it seems to me equally foolish to discard all his empirical observations.” Dr. Grosz had somewhat deep, nearly masculine alto voice and the faint trace of a central European accent. I couldn’t quite place it. “The basis of the clinical protocol we’ve been working with at the institute is premised on the idea that orgasmic function can be restored to its original vitality,” she continued. “That is to say, the original condition of receptiveness that we all experience as preconscious infants and lose as we are socialized into our civilized state of optimal repression. The theoretically limitless pleasure a woman can take in her bodily experience is something that is demonized in the literature. They call it erotomania, which is of course suggestive of the masculine bias that has corrupted much of the psychoanalytic literature”

The doctor was dressed primly in a gray suit with a knee-length skirt and a cream-colored blouse and dark stockings underneath, expensive looking ones. I’d guess she was in her mid-30s, younger than I had expected. Her chestnut brown hair was pulled back into a tight bun, and she wore severe glasses with thick black frames. She had a habit of pulling them off while she talked as if to emphasize a point she was trying to make, and then sliding them decisively back up the bridge of her nose with her finger. Her eyes were a luminescent olive green and seemed lit from within by the fire in her mind. They glowed stronger as she grew more enthusiastic, and then dimmed when she would subside into the sorts of details that bored her.

She certainly wasn’t interested in the questions I had prepared. Instead she seemed to strongly desire sticking to her prepared script, the litany she must offer to all the reporters she speaks with. She went on about Freud and the repressed sexuality we inherit from childhood. After a pause, she said, “Some people find these ideas somewhat disturbing, but that is usually an index to their own repressions.” She studied me intently for a moment and then opened a drawer on her desk and pulled out a cigarette case. She opened it and offered it to me. “Would you like a cigarette?”

I said no immediately. It had been years since I quit.

“Well, I hope you don’t mind if I have one.” She removed one from the case and lit it, holding the cigarette between her long fingers. I watched the smoke rise lazily in swirls. “I know it’s an unpopular indulgence these days,” Dr. Grosz said after exhaling. “But I find it can be quite relaxing in its way.” She took another deliberate drag, and then resumed with her discussion of what she was calling controlled disinhibition, which seemed a bit paradoxical to me. I thought about writing the phrase down in my pad, but she said it so many times it seemed unnecessary. Instead I watched the smoke wisp in curls around her face and the movement of her lips, which she had darkened with a deep shade of burgundy lipstick.

I hadn’t wanted a cigarette in years, but I found myself wanting to ask Dr. Grosz for one. I wanted to be communing with her in the ritual, pausing to inhale when she did, knocking off ash in the ashtray, taking little private moments in the conversation to draw the smoke inward. I admit I suddenly saw the glamour in it again through Dr. Grosz. She made the cigarette part of her consummate presentation of poise, not an emblem of a weak will.

“In a series of stages, the therapy induces disinhibitive states in the patient and readies their acceptance in the conscious mind, established the possibilities of boundaries for them. For our unconscious memory of them can be quite overwhelming and terrifying, the idea of unbounded impulsiveness is something we are quite unready to accept, to trust ourselves with.” She paused to take an elegant drag from her cigarette. I realized just how beautiful she was in that moment; it struck me suddenly as if her face suddenly resolved itself into a perfect symmetry. I noticed her high cheekbones, her supple chin, her lovely expressive mouth. Behind her cold professional manner, clearly, was a strikingly attractive woman.

“People tend to think of childhood as a time of innocence, and it is, I agree,” she continued. “But the enlightened view of what is innocent is rather different from what conventional morality allows for. Sexual innocence is not ignorance. On the contrary. It is what the French call jouissance. An in-born capability for unmediated pleasure, a direct apprehension of sensuality. Culture necessarily redirects this libidinal flow, frustrating it with gradations of shame and guilt and self-consciousness. But women disproportionately pay the price in adulthood. It has been my mission to change that unfortunate fact.”

She went on about the difficulty female children have in negotiating the psychosexual conflicts of childhood and she talked about her father’s experiments with various therapeutic approaches and I watched her lips, moving deliberately, colored a deep shade of red, almost purple, and the rising smoke from her cigarette, so entrancing and seductive for some reason. Her voice was quite mellifluous of course, and at times I found myself drifting off while she talked, listening not to the words but the sibilant sound of them and to the way she was controlling her breath, lifting and falling with a gentle, soothing rhythm. She talked about her sessions, and pleasure, and opening women to desire, and it all seemed to go in a circle, everything she was explaining, it was hard to pull out the thread.

Suddenly I noticed she was no longer talking, just staring at me with a look of haughty bemusement. I couldn’t even guess at how long she had just been staring. “I’m sorry, what was that?” I said embarrassedly. I looked down at my note pad but I had done nothing but doodle some spirals within spirals.

She took a drag from her cigarette, which was almost finished now, and exhaled through her nostrils. “I only asked you a question,” Dr. Grosz said.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Grosz…” My voice was strangely shallow.

“Eleanor,” she said.

“I’m sorry, Eleanor, could you repeat your question.” I don’t know why, but I almost felt like I was blushing. It was silly to have drifted off, but it wasn’t that big of a deal, and certainly not something that hadn’t happened dozens of times before in interviews. But still I was inordinately relieved when she smiled. I saw her cigarette had been extinguished in the ashtray. I hadn’t noticed. The smoke still seemed to be swirling.

“No apologies necessary, Maud,” she said slowly. “I had just asked If you would like to observe a session with one of my patients. I have an appointment is scheduled to begin in a few minutes, and I think observation is one of the best ways to demonstrate the efficacy of the procedure.”

I wanted to say yes instinctively, as listening to Eleanor speak had made me very curious to see her in action. I looked at her mouth and oddly I wanted to keep watching it, watching her talk in her alluring, distinctive accent. But her proposal sounded ethically dubious when I thought about it. “Are you sure that would that be okay with the patient?”

“I will ask that you not use her name, of course, in any story you may end up writing about our institute. But all of my patients sign a waiver, and in this particular patient’s case, I believe an observer may facilitate her progress. Her name is Joan, 22 years old, upper-middle-class background, works as a school teacher in a small town not far from here. No boyfriend currently, but her lack of sexual responsiveness led to the break-up of her previous relationship, with a wealthy man to whom she had been engaged. She was devastated. Her family more so”

“Hence, her coming for your institute’s treatment,” I said.

“Naturally. She has come for several sessions already and seems to be making some progress, though she has not yet reported the ability to achieve orgasm outside of the clinical theater.”

“Clinical theater. What does that mean?” I asked.

“I’m sorry. I have a bad habit of lapsing into jargon.” Eleanor smiled warmly, and again I saw the glow in her green eyes. “Patients typically have orgasms during the therapy sessions,” she said. “It’s necessary for the treatment, of course. But in Joan’s case, she is still only orgasmic when regressed under hypnosis. In a state of infantile disinhibition she is quite readily capable of sexual satisfaction. The stumbling block for her conscious mind has to do with an oppressive feeling of shame at exhibiting her sexual arousal. Her body shuts down when she becomes aware of outward signs of her excitation. When, for example, her nipples stiffen, or when she feels flushed.”

I was starting to feel a bit flushed. “It sounds like your therapy sessions are pretty private and pretty intense,” I stammered. “I can’t imagine a patient would welcome an observer for something like that.”

“But that’s just the point, Maud,” the doctor said sitting up in her chair. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of in sexual enjoyment. But Joan has internalized the opposite message, probably from her parochial and overstern upbringing, I daresay. She thinks it is only shameful. That’s is why she must habituate to pleasing herself before an observer, someone who stands outside the relationship of transference.” I nodded as she continued, enjoying the pattern of stresses she brought to the words she spoke. “And it sounds as though you might benefit from the session as well. Intensity is nothing to fear, Maud. It something to be relished. It is part of nature’s gift to the female.”

“She’ll actually be hypnotized?” I asked.

“Of course. It’s a standard part of a psychologist’s repertoire. Too often it is neglected on account of Victorian scare stories, outdated abuses. But in the hands of responsible practitioners it’s a quite powerful tool.” Dr. Grosz smiled at me. It was as if the room had lit up suddenly. She really was quite an interesting woman, I thought.

Though I was still reluctant to go through with it, I agreed. I had decided by this point that a story was worth writing about this curious doctor, this beautiful woman, and I had to admit that there was no better way to learn more about her abilities than to do what she was proposing.

“Splendid,” she said. “We will proceed to the clinical theater. I will introduce you as a colleague, and I ask that you only speak when I directly address you. You make take notes of course, but please try to remain as quiet as possible.” We proceeded from her office to a slightly larger room, which was fragrant with the smell of fresh-cut flowers. Heavy shades covered the windows, and the only dim light came from a table lamp that was beside a small sofa with a slipcover over it. Presumably that was where Joan would sit. Beside the sofa was another black armchair like the one in Dr. Grosz’s office. Something about the size of blackboard on an easel stood in one corner, covered with a sheet. On the other side of the room was a unadorned desk. That was where Eleanor asked that I sit.

We waited. I grew nervous with anticipation, my stomach floating strangely, my senses oddly heightened. I was hesitant to admit to myself how keyed up I was for this and tried to remind myself it was just another therapy thing. I had covered sex therapists before. There was no reason why this should be any different, and any less mundane when all was said and done.

Still my heart leapt when the patient entered. Joan. A well-dressed receptionist showed her in. Joan was obviously mousy, of medium build, dressed in shapeless clothes that did their best to hide her figure. She sat on the sofa as I had expected. She wore a frumpy skirt, a bit wrinkled, and thick wool tights like the kind I used to wear as a girl in the winter. Nicely turned ankles. She had pale ivory complexion, a thin long neck, and dark hair pulled clumsily in a pony tail. She seemed as though she could be quite attractive if she made a little more effort.

“Now, Joan I have a colleague here today to assist with today’s session. Just like we spoke of in our last session. Her name is Ms. Morris. That’s all right of course.” I felt a weird unearned pride at that introduction and almost blushed again. I tried to look stern and professional, but Joan never looked over at me.

“Yes, Dr. Grosz,” she said quietly. The girl seemed sullen and vaguely fidgety. She sat herself on the sofa, where she slacked into a hunched posture.

“Remove your sweater, please, Joan. Make yourself comfortable here.” Dr. Grosz sat in the armchair by the sofa. She began asking a series of questions about how Joan had been feeling lately. They were innocent enough questions, but Joan seemed to hesitate before answering any of them, and her answers were stammered when they came. She wouldn’t lift her eyes off her knees. Dr. Grosz wanted to know if she had been in any conversations with men that had made her uncomfortable over the past week. From what I had seen so far, I couldn’t imagine Joan having a conversation that wouldn’t have that effect on her.

Joan was asked to describe a recent date she had, but she was very reluctant to talk, and Dr. Grosz had to draw every detail out of her. How did that make you feel? And what happened next? And what do you think he thought of that? And so on. It went on for about a quarter of an hour, during which I was on edge in my seat, waiting to see something as exciting as what Eleanor had promised in her office. I couldn’t remember the last time I was so impatient, but I didn’t even know what I was waiting for exactly.

Throughout this part of the session, Joan was eerily composed, almost dour. She spoke with haughty, concise precision and seemed to be trying to fend off the doctor, as if it were all a waste of her time. She said several times with resignation that the whole thing is hopeless, that even though she liked the gentleman, she couldn’t stop thinking of herself and her frigidity, as she called it, and how useless it was even when she could tell he flirted with her and showed an interest. “I could tell he was looking at my breasts,” she said at one point. “It made me feel a bit nauseated.”

Dr. Grosz glanced over at me and shook her head solemnly. “Well, that obviously won’t do, will it? Take off your glasses please,” Dr. Grosz said to Joan, and she complied wordlessly, setting them on the table beside the lamp.

“Are you beginning to feel more relaxed, Joan?” Dr. Grosz asked her, looking over at me again, knowingly.

“Yes,” said Joan slowly, with a muted eagerness. Her eyes opened a little wider suddenly, and she bit her lip. He knees turned toward each other, her toes pointed inward.

“What do you think about the boys looking at you?” Eleanor asked.

“I don’t know,” she said, her defensiveness markedly reduced. “I know they do it, but I don’t know what I should do. I just feel funny and confused.” The haughty tone was suddenly gone. She played absently with the stray strands of hair that had escaped her ponytail. She looked around her as though she saw nothing. She kept starting to smile and then stopping herself.

“You should know,” Dr. Grosz said to me, “as I’ve told you, Ms. Morris, I’ve established certain hypnotic triggers in my previous sessions with Joan. One of them is the ritual removal of the glasses.” Eleanor took her own off and flashed her shining eyes at me. I remembered the weightless feeling I had when she had looked at me earlier in her office, how easy it was to lose oneself in her steady gaze. “That begins her regression,” she continued, “which experience has already taught her unconscious is highly pleasurable and desirable indeed.”

It gave me a peculiar feeling when Dr. Grosz spoke of Joan as though she weren’t there. It made me both uncomfortable and faintly excited. It implied unbounded consent. I continued to watch Joan, fascinated. Her knees knocked together slightly, and her face continued to open and brighten. I noticed her perfect teeth for the first time, as she couldn’t seem to keep her mouth closed for long, always starting to smile or giggle to herself for some internal reason. Could she really be losing her inhibitions right before my eyes? She seemed so innocent, so prim, so composed. It seemed totally preposterous. Yet I found myself wishing it could be possible, hoping. What was going on in her mind? She still looked from the outside, at first glance, like any other woman I might see on the morning commute. Yet were those cracks in the façade, those furtive smiles she couldn’t suppress, those fidgets with her hair, the way she seemed to be uncoiling herself, her eyes widening?

Dr. Grosz continued, in her warm, deep, resonant voice, “Joanie, think of your room. You’re back in your room. You have Willy.” Joan now broke out into a broad, artless smile. She held one of the throw pillows from the sofa tightly against her breast. “Willy is her stuffed elephant from her girlhood,” Eleanor said in an aside to me. “Yes, you have Willy. And you are safe in your room.” Joan started to giggle and breathe more rapidly, the transformation, I had to admit to myself, unmistakable now. I noticed Joan toying with that loose end of her hair, twirling it around her finger obsessively. There seemed to be nothing studied about her posture, her gestures. They were spontaneous, almost spastic compared with what they were before. Her knees had begun to knock in a steady, insistent rhythm, as if she couldn’t help herself. Even though she wasn’t talking, she couldn’t keep her lips still. She kept licking them compulsively.

“Put your hair down, please,” Eleanor commanded. Joanie complied, putting the rubber band beside her glasses on the little table. Her hair spilled down to her shoulders. She bit her lip and ran her hands through her hair to loosen it more and seemed to get caught up in the action, repeating it again and again and again. And it was becoming more and more obvious that she couldn’t sit still, like a child who needed to go to the bathroom. Her eyes had begun to wander around the room with a vacant curiosity, as if she couldn’t possibly comprehend what she was taking in visually. Dr. Grosz seemed to pay no attention to Joan’s growing agitation. “How are you feeling, Joanie? Remember what we talked about with letting yourself feel. Right Joanie? What is your body telling you?”

Joanie leaned back against the sofa cushion. “I’m all tingly all over,” she said girlishly. It was striking how childish her voice had become by now. “I want to play,” she said coyly, looking down at herself and started to smile.

“Yes, I’ll bet she does,” Eleanor said to me. “I have designed the induction to unfold slowly in her mind as she moves her body. The rhythms regress her further toward her earliest memories of polymorphous perversity. The more she rubs against herself the more pleasure she begins to feel, and the further she is from her adult consciousness.” I watched Joan as Eleanor explained. Indeed she was stroking her body with the same rhythmic strokes, up and down her arms, and along her legs, which sometimes made herself shiver and coo. She was licking her lips unselfconsciously and persistently. Dr. Grosz continued, “It’s important that she learn her body, understand its pleasures.”

At this point Dr. Grosz stood up and strolled regally across the room to where the blackboard was covered with a sheet. Only it wasn’t a blackboard, it turns out. She removed the sheet to reveal an oval full-length mirror in a wrought-iron frame, mounted on a wheeled stand. Joanie’s eyes lit up noticeably when she saw it. With deliberate care, Dr. Grosz wheeled and adjusted the mirror over so that it faced the patient, who quickly became engrossed with her reflection. The pace of her stroking accelerated to a much more vigorous rubbing, and expanded in scope to include her inner thighs, as her legs lolled open and closed on the palms of her hands. Then she began to touch the tops of her breasts as well, which heaved slightly beneath her blouse. She made faces at herself in the mirror too, sometimes delighted, sometimes redolent with a curious desire, as if she were crudely trying to seduce herself. It was as if I were watching a child pretending to be a grown-up woman.

“Joanie. You can hear me?”

“Yes, doctor,” she said in her babyish voice, still squeezing her legs together and lewdly touching herself in the mirror. The mirror seemed to teach her where to fondle herself to flood her consciousness with more sensation, as her hands hadn’t left her breasts, and her fingers had begun to fiddle with her nipples, which had become clearly erect underneath her clothes.

“How do you feel?” Dr. Grosz asked. Joanie just started giggling, without stopping her languid movements on the couch, without taking her eyes of herself in the mirror.

“Do you like what you see?” the doctor asked. “You see how beautiful you are, yes?”

“Yess,” Joanie said compliantly.

“Look at her,” Dr. Grosz said to me in a proud, confidential tone. Joanie was stroking her thighs over her tights and squirming on the couch. Her hips were pumping up and down as though she were rhythmically squeezing her buttock muscles. “It’s wonderful, isn’t it.”

“Yes, wonderful,” I said immediately, and only then thought it was hardly the word I would have thought to choose. But it was a wonder. My throat was dry and I licked my lips. “Wonderful,” I said again. I tried to imagine what was going on in Joanie’s mind, wondered if it had blanked out completely in the pleasures she felt from touching herself, from gazing with weird adoration at herself in the mirror. That was how it appeared. As I wriggled in the wooden desk chair I had to admit I was becoming weirdly a little bit turned on by watching her.

“What husband would be able to resist such a creature,” Dr. Grosz said. “At this stage of the regression she is generally quite suggestible.” There was something not quite right about the line of conversation Eleanor had adopted, but I couldn’t pin down what it was. My notebook was still just open to a page full of pneumatic-looking doodles. And I couldn’t take my eyes off Joanie, who was becoming progressively more flushed—her cheeks were a florid pink—and animated in her self-pleasuring. Oddly enough, it seemed hypnotic, watching the way she ran her hands over her body. I wished I could see more of her flesh, for some reason. “Maud?” Eleanor asked, abruptly taking me out of my reverie.

“Yes, doctor?” I replied.

“You should try it,” she said.

“Try what?”

“Suggesting something to Joanie, of course,” she said. Dr. Grosz was staring intently at me and I could see she was waiting for me to acknowledge her request, her glasses in her hand below her eyes. I nodded quickly, as a wave of lightheadedness washed through me. What was I going to say?

“Joanie, listen to Ms. Morris, she has something nice and important to tell you,” Dr. Grosz said. Joanie nodded and bit her lip as she began to gyrate her pubis against the base of her palm while her other hand stroked gently at her breasts.

Dr. Grosz nodded at me. “Take off your top, Joanie,” I blurted out impulsively. Then I sat stunned as she began to comply, clumsily fumbling with the buttons on her blouse. I watched with dumbfounded excitement as she struggled out of it, and I looked at Eleanor again. She nodded approvingly, so I said, “You’ll be more comfortable without your bra, Joanie,” imitating the doctor’s authoritative yet comforting tone.

Sure enough she slipped her arms through the straps and discarded it onto the floor, baring her heaving chest. It was a lovely porcelain-white expanse marked with blushed, roseate patches beneath her throat. Her breasts were small and girlish but beautifully formed, her nipples were stiff and poked out, deep red nubs atop snowy swells. Her hair was disheveled and hung over her shoulders in serpentine strands. She was stroking herself more fervently now, her eyes closed despite the mirror, clearly enrapt by the touch of her hands on her naked body. She was squeezing her nipple between the tips of her fingers and still churning her thighs together, the wool of her tights starting to bunch and twist, what were once straight seams and ribs in the fabric now running in wanton diagonals.

“You may as well go on,” Dr. Grosz suggested, watching me watch Joanie moan to herself in delight.

“Joanie,” I said. “Take off your tights please.” I could hardly believe what I was saying. Joanie began to wrestle herself out of her wool tights and her underwear, sliding them hurriedly down over her knees and pushing them to the floor. Her genital area, I was surprised to see, was shaved nearly clean, and it was clearly engorged, swollen and wet. It didn’t take long for Joanie to begin touching herself there, rubbing eagerly at her clit that poked out between her folds. Her toes pointed outward and then curled as her legs stiffened out in front of her. I thought she might slide right off the couch.

“You like touching yourself, Joanie,” Dr. Grosz told her.

“Yess.” She then popped her thumb in her mouth quite suddenly and began to suck. She watched herself suck and lick her fingers. I saw a strand of drool suspended from her glistening index finger. I squirmed in the wooden desk chair I was sitting in. I was becoming somewhat uncomfortably aroused myself at the sight of her. Get a hold of yourself, I thought. You’re reporting a story. You are not a participant. You are a neutral observer.

“As you can see,” Dr. Grosz said frankly, turning to me, “Joan is reaching back to an oral stage of gratification.” Joanie sucked contently at her thumb while her other moistened hand continued to stroke between her legs. Her skirt—all she was wearing—had come up around her waist like a coiled towel. “Of course the thumb is an imperfect substitute.” Joanie began a low, guttural whine as she writhed on the couch. She had rolled on her side and was grinding herself against the cushion’s edge while she still sucked intensely on her thumb. She seemed to gasping and grunting simultaneously. I could feel my own pulse between my legs. I was breathing heavier myself and I felt so warm. I realized suddenly one of my hands was in my lap and I had been furtively pressing my own pubis unaware. Joanie’s body bucked and swayed as she gasped to herself, her eyes squeezed shut as she kept playing. She seemed so close to coming but she couldn’t bring herself over. It was as if she didn’t know how and was just rubbing and sucking and touching herself desperately, indiscriminately, trying to find the key.

And then what happened next was dreamlike, surreal, as if everything I had experienced at the Grosz Institute up to that point hadn’t been unreal enough. Dr. Grosz stood up again from her chair, straightened her skirt for moment, and then sat beside her naked, drooling patient on the sofa, who was feverishly and unselfconsciously masturbating in the strangest and most abandoned way I could imagine. “Calm down, Joanie, calm down, that’s a girl,” Eleanor said to her in a comforting, motherly tone. “I know it feels good but I know it’s not enough.”

And then Dr. Grosz carefully removed her jacket and set it aside on the chair. And then she began to unbutton the top buttons of her blouse, talking soothing words to Joanie all the while. “That’s a girl. It’s all right. Mama’s here. It’s all right.” Joanie was curling herself into a fetal position beside the doctor, still with a thumb in her mouth and her fingers in her slick pussy, slipping in and out as she sucked, then strumming her clit.

The doctor then pushed the silk of her blouse aside to expose one full, heavy breast. Even from where I was sitting, I could see the nipple, long and inviting and fully erect. Eleanor’s face was strangely radiant. She removed her glasses and set them aside. “There, there,” she cooed quietly to Joanie, who was still fervently on the brink. “Let’s get you settled.” Joanie turned herself around so that her head lay in the doctor’s lap, and then gently the doctor guided her head toward her breast. Weaving her fingers through Joanie’s loosened hair, Eleanor positioned Joanie’s head and mouth, and then with a kind of irrepressible instinct, Joanie’s lips went to the nipple and sucked it in. I moaned audibly as Joanie began to suck eagerly and contentedly.

“Many observers find this aspect of the therapy very arousing,” Dr. Grosz said. “It’s not unusual for them to be intensely engaged or even jealous of the patient. It’s perfectly natural.” I could hear the liquid suckling noises coming from Joanie as she worked at the breast. Dr. Grosz gently stroked Joanie’s back, while Joanie’s hands continued to play feverishly with herself. “There’s no need for embarrassment though,” the doctor continued. “It’s all very natural. Some observers find they need to relieve themselves as they watch.”

I could hardly believe what I was doing, but that made it that much harder to stop. Joanie nursed away contentedly on the doctor’s breast. Eleanor’s back was stiffened proudly, which gave her a regal posture as she offered herself to her patient. A cryptic, inscrutable smile was on her face as the girl’s mouth tugged at her exposed nipple.

I found myself rubbing my clit furiously, blindly, as I panted, watching Joanie nurse. I didn’t know what I wanted more, to be Joanie sucking or to be the doctor feeding her, guiding her mouth. My legs were beginning to buck uncontrollably as I thought about it.

“Yes, that’s right, that’s very good,” Dr. Grosz said, and I wasn’t sure if she was talking to Joanie or to me. I felt a weird pride and almost a jealousy, wanting her to watch me. I was so close. I licked my fingers and went back at it,desperately.

Then her eyes suddenly locked on mine, and she smiled and nodded. She undid her hair from the tight bun, and let it fall, luxuriant chestnut brown waves undulating to her shoulders. On the sofa, Joanie began to quietly spasm, and Dr. Grosz nodded beatifically again, and then, yes, under her soft command, I began coming to, and coming, and I wasn’t sure if it would ever end or that I ever wanted it to.