The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Out of the blue I have an assignment to keep a journal, almost an elaborate diary. An old-fashioned journal, too, pen on paper. It’s not a daily assignment; in fact, Stephen, my new therapist, said it would be wrong-headed to feel like I have to make daily entries. When I’m moved to, he said. When I need to tell myself the story of myself in writing. When I feel like I can’t help but write. So here goes.

I can begin with this: I liked Stephen, and I suppose that’s the most important thing. Right off the bat I told him about my five sessions with Dr. Morrow, Tanya, and how her Jungian approach wasn’t a good fit for me—the main reason being that I don’t remember my dreams, and I was certain that Tanya thought I wasn’t being completely truthful about that. “Everybody dreams,” she insisted. “Everybody gets messages from the subconscious. To remember the dreams you just have to try.”

I did try. She gave me dream-recovery techniques and I used every single one, but no luck. I could see that she was frustrated, and rather than take me at my word she would look at me like I was a dream-slacker, perfectly capable but somehow unwilling. Lack of trust, I suppose, and it went both ways, so I quit.

I think it’s better for me to have a male therapist anyway. Stephen came highly recommended by Ashley Holloway, one of those coffee shop encounters that happened just at the right time. Ashley used to be a heavy smoker; she hated the habit and tried a patch and nicotine gum and all the other gimmicks, and could never quit. Until, she said, she had half a dozen sessions with Stephen, recently completed.

“Six weeks without slipping even once!” Ashley beamed. “My tastebuds are back!”

To me, a handful of weeks without a cigarette sounded like nothing more than the first quarter-mile of a marathon, not a provable success story. But Ashley wouldn’t hear of that.

“I can’t even stand the sight of them now, I’m serious. He has a way of working magic through this hypnosis-meditation technique. You should definitely look him up if you’re searching or a new therapist. Only…”

“Only?” I asked.

“He has an eye for beautiful women and you’re… Well, you don’t need me to tell you how gorgeous you are. I just wish…” Ashley said, and then trailed off. “He’s freaking sexy,” she picked up again, mouth pouting a little. “You’ll see, and you’ll need to watch yourself.”

Hardly, since I’m married to Tom. Ashley gave me the office number and I searched online—Dr. Stephen Striker, a name right out of a comic book. The site had a black and white head shot of him, and another color photo where he was shaking hands with the Dalai Lama of all people. He was much younger than I would have imagined, and definitely attractive, lean-faced with a good head of hair and a well-formed jaw. I thought of Ashley saying he had an eye for beautiful women, and it didn’t take too much imagination to see where some might eye him right back.

The initial phone conversation was entirely with his receptionist, and eight days later I was in his office, wondering if he could work a bit of therapy-magic on me. When working with Tanya, she mostly had me lying down on a long leather couch, and there were times when I’d wonder if she had seen too many Woody Allen films. It was different with Stephen; he sat in a rolling swivel chair behind a big mahogany desk, and I was positioned in front of the desk in a cushy armchair. I found I could sit up straight and be perfectly comfortable, and I could also relax and lean back a bit without my butt self-sliding forward. A great chair, very welcoming and stable.

He listened patiently to what went wrong with Tanya. I asked whether his training was also Jungian-based and he said yes and no, and when I fished for more he laughed and said that his training had been unusually eclectic. I brought up my issue with remembering dreams and that didn’t faze him at all; he said we’d have plenty of tools at our disposal whether I ever remembered a dream or not. Special arrows in the quiver, that was how he put it. And when I asked what kind of arrows, he just looked relaxed behind steepled hands and said we’d explore one of them near the end of the session. It had to be the technique Ashley had mentioned.

He asked me to say in as few words as possible why it is that I’m seeking therapy in the first place, and I answered like this: I’m bored, and I feel adrift. Tom knows that; he said I’ve become far too quiet and withdrawn. He also tells me that he misses my laugh, and when I mentioned that to Stephen he asked if I’ve noticed that for myself, that I don’t laugh very much. I said I wasn’t sure, but that might have been an evasion. I’m not a worry-wart but I know I’m not as exuberant as I once was. What is there to laugh about, after all? I spend too much time staring at these ultra-tasteful color-coordinated walls, and I shop, and I do the expected volunteer work like my well-heeled sort-of friends, and now that it’s winter I keep fit by swimming laps at the country club’s heated pool, and working out in their weight room. And there’s the monthly women’s book club, which can sometimes be interesting. There’s nothing wrong with living this way; the other wives, some trophy wives like me, love the easy-going, languorous lifestyle. But for me the clock moves far too slowly, and sometimes I forget what day of the week it is because they’re mostly all the same. Even the good life, it seems, can become nauseatingly repetitive.

I just admitted that I am a young trophy wife. It feels strange to see those words written so matter-of-factly in my own hand, but it’s true. I’m essentially overkill in looking the part, and I’m aware that Tom would be thrilled for me to also become a MILF, because he wants children. I’m not at all ready for that and I try my best not to argue, and I don’t complain because I chose this life; nobody talked me into it. I wanted security—I have it. A big beautiful house and more spending money than I even know what to do with—definitely. All the right connections if we ever do have children and want them to have all the advantages—check. And Tom, though a tad boring and barely at home like most lawyers, is basically a decent man, and I know for a fact that not all of the rich husbands are. I have everything I wanted at the tender age of twenty-four, or everything I thought I wanted, but I wasn’t prepared for all this endless meaningless time!

Stephen probed a bit in a way I don’t think Tanya ever would in a first session. He said I’d stated what I didn’t want to be—bored and adrift—but what did I truly want for myself? He put it another way: if I could picture leading a life that satisfied me in a manner that this current one couldn’t touch, what would I be doing? What would I care about the most?

I didn’t have a ready-made answer. Eventually I came to something that felt right: “I want to wake up in the morning with a purpose in front of me. Like that thing you need to get out of bed for because you both want it and need it. Passion, I want to feel passionate about life.”

I had it in my head before he even made the comment that some people get that from their children. I don’t think I’m built like that, though, and I told him. So what am I built for, he wanted to know, and there we were, in front of a very big question. It used to be dance, but my top-heavy build closed that door long ago.

I didn’t say that to him—we left his question as an open and perhaps evolving topic to explore. He said a lot of people have the tendency to fill in the blanks about themselves too quickly, like they want to get an ‘A’ in their therapy and maybe a gold star, childhood thinking. I didn’t tell him this but I could remember the satisfaction of receiving straight ‘A’s almost every report card—always an ‘A’ for Angela, one of my childhood friends would sometimes tease.

And then—the time really had flown—there were only fifteen minutes left in our hour, and Stephen said we had just enough time for one of those aforementioned arrows he had in his quiver. Which turned out to be, as I’d been forewarned, a short guided meditation that was also a gentle form of hypnosis.

I acted surprised and asked a couple of questions; I mean hypnosis, really? I can be stubborn, so would that even work on me? But he just waved my trepidations away and said it was a proven relaxation technique that might help me to ponder the “what do I want for myself” question from a deeper place. With no remembered dreams to guide me along the way, he said this technique would be invaluable.

I had pictured a swinging watch or counting backwards with my eyes becoming drowsy, cliché images from t.v. or movies, but the reality was quite different. I didn’t have to lie down or move or anything; it was just me in my plush chair with my eyes closed and being guided by his voice, almost like being told a soothing bedtime story when I was a child. I remember the beginning, Stephen saying we were walking down stone steps into a beautiful sunlit valley, a land below where there was no “doing”, no effort, no time. I must have bought into it all because I felt more relaxed than I could ever remember, so much so that I might have fallen asleep. I must have because I started awake, not quite sure where the story had gone, or if there had even been one.

My nipples weren’t asleep, though. When my nipples get erect it’s quite the visible event, and when I left his office it must have looked like I had bullets under my blouse. I wondered whether Stephen had noticed; it’s hard to imagine he could have missed them. And I’m not sure how or why that happened; have I ever gotten turned-on before while also feeling so perfectly relaxed?

Anyway, that was therapy session number one, and this is diary entry number one. I just re-read what I’ve written from the beginning, and I wonder: Am I going into too much detail? Am I making it too literary?

I did always like to write, not thesis papers but the creative writing classes. “You’re a natural storyteller,” one of my college professors said, after giving us an assignment to keep a well-written journal for a semester. She said I was the only one in the class who wrote as if there were readers, an actual audience, and I don’t think I can resist writing my thoughts in something like story form now. So really, I’m just going to write the way I like and not worry about it. Stephen specified that I’m not to obsess about specifics of form when I write my entries; what’s most important is to be as sincere on these pages as I can be, doctor’s orders.

And my most sincere thought right now? That I have a really good feeling about my new therapist. I’m also a little afraid of what I might discover about myself in working with him, because I have the sense that he’ll be able to get under my skin over time, uncovering parts of myself I barely know.

And what will we find? Whatever it is, I’m committed to writing it down.

That thing about my nipples being so excited yesterday—maybe I was having a dream this morning, because I woke up before the alarm with my nipples—actually the entirety of my tits—horny as hell. Is that possible, for my tits to be the harbingers of horniness? It sure seemed so this morning, prompting me into giving Tom a spontaneous tit-job. He was disoriented at first, trying to pull the covers back on like he’d kicked them away, instead of me having pulled them aside to get at his cock. Once I had my beautiful monsters all oiled up and squeezing his comparatively puny dick from every direction, he got with the program. I’m so big that I can completely overwhelm Tom’s cock—he could have an outright schlong and I could still bury him in there—and today I played with my nipples most of the way through, pulling and fondling them as I wobble-vibrated his dick half to death. There’s a wobble-gear I can get going if I want—it’s less about sliding Tom’s cock in there, more like fleshy wave action that must feel incredible to him, because that’s when he gets the most vocal, almost begging me not to stop. It felt unusually good to me, too, so I didn’t stop, making Tom’s legs thrash from all the abuse I was giving him. And then, out of nowhere, I received my own reward in the form of a sudden climax. That almost never happens without a good deal of clitoral stimulation, which had been totally absent.

Tom kept kissing my nipples long after we’d both wound down, saying over and over that I must have the most incredible breasts in the world. Maybe he’s right, or maybe not; what was going through my mind was something entirely different, which was the question of whether I’d just experienced my first evidence of beneficial results from therapy with Stephen. It’s hard to believe that anything could happen that fast… Probably not, but regardless of the cause it sure was a fine way to begin the day!

It inspired me into calling Ashley to thank her for recommending Stephen, and she was very friendly, as always. She asked how things were for me and I said fine, and after just a couple of minutes I thought we were basically through with our conversation. But then her voice went wistful, and she said an odd thing, that her only regret from working with Stephen was that she hadn’t been able to become his girlfriend, or maybe even marry him.

“You had a real crush on him!” I said.

“Have a crush, still, even though it’s been a while now since I laid eyes on him. I want to call him, or faux-accidentally bump into him… It’s weird, but I can’t seem to make myself. And I know what you’re thinking—transference, isn’t that what they call it when you fall in love with your therapist? But it isn’t that. I just wanted… I suppose I’d call it wanting more of the experience of him. I was his final client of the day one time, his receptionist gone, nobody else around. We only had… But the way I felt when… I need to shut-up.”

“Wait, by the experience of him you mean—”

“I mean fucking him, Angela. I wish that somehow, we’d ended up in bed, fucking for days, or weeks. That man, and the way he got me… No, I can’t say any more.”

“Ashley, come on. Did you two—“

“I really can’t say any more, seriously. Only… You’d have a much better chance than I did. Oh, except you’re married; I almost forgot. Don’t ever tell Tom I slipped up like that, okay? It can’t be good to piss-off that high-powered a lawyer.”

I laughed and told her not to worry.

“Did you check out his receptionist?” Ashley asked. “He likes, you know, what you both have.”

I have pretty much everything and in abundance, but Ashley was referring to my huge boobs. Stephen’s receptionist, Pauline, has one hell of a set, too, above a similarly trim waist.

I moved on to other tasks in the day, but something about Ashley’s story had me feeling agitated. I still feel agitated now, though I can’t say why. My therapist’s love life doesn’t concern me at all, but what had Ashley kept herself from saying, that she and Stephen did make love, but only once? And was she implying that he hired Pauline specifically because he likes having a pair of oversized boobs adorning his waiting room, or because they’re lovers? But maybe where Ashley is concerned I’m bringing a dirty mind into completely innocent territory, because interoffice hanky-panky is frowned upon these days, and unless I’m missing something, therapist/client sex is morally and perhaps legally unethical.

It’s funny that Ashley sounded so into Stephen, like there was something about him that she still wasn’t over. I’ve heard that tone of voice before; it was always after a split in a longstanding relationship, so why would she… No matter. I’ve learned that other people’s affairs, and especially their love affairs, are none of my business. Every one of Cupid’s arrows is unique and indecipherable, and as they say, chemistry is everything.

Funny, but in writing that down just now I have to wonder: Do I understand my own heart? And the chemistry I have to bring into any intimate relationship? Like awakening this morning with my nipples so excited, and actually needing sex…

I feel that there is much I could try to write on this matter, but perhaps it’s best to wait. I have this feeling that there will be even more to say later.

A challenging second session with Stephen this afternoon, that became rather exciting at the end. He asked me fairly ordinary questions this time, like where my parents lived and where I went to college, did I have any brothers or sisters, all that. I gave him the basics and then, without me even being aware it had happened at first, I was mostly talking about my looks.

I didn’t have any intention of going on about that; it started slowly, me recounting the first time Tom and I met at my parent’s river home. He was there to draw up contracts for a business venture of my father’s, and I had just returned from an afternoon of sailing, wearing only my swimsuit. I was tying up the boat and there was Tom on the long pier with my father.

And then Stephen, picturing the scene, said something along the lines of how Tom must have had his breath taken away, with me in a bikini the very first time we met.

“Well, yes,” I admitted.

“Your extreme beauty captivated him,” he said.

It was interesting how I felt an inner thrill from my therapist calling my beauty “extreme”. I had an impulse to flirt the way I sometimes do, uncrossing and re-crossing my legs to draw his attention, and I did it, telling Stephen that yes, Tom was completely smitten with my looks, and especially my figure. And I wondered—should I tease Stephen by telling him that it was only later, when Tom saw my naked breasts for the first time, that his situation became truly hopeless? I stopped myself from quite saying that—a girl doesn’t need to reveal everything to her therapist, does she?

“You were going to say,” Stephen prodded, but there was no reason to tell him how Tom insists I must have the sexiest nipples and areoles in the world. He calls them, by turns, my “ultimate leverage” and my “deal closers”, his way of expressing that no one would ever be able to refuse me anything once they saw just how finely made I am. But I wasn’t going to brag about all that to my therapist, so I simply added that Tom adores every inch of my body. With that I thought we were done with anything about my looks because we got back to me feeling unfocused, and then boom, Stephen asked what it was like for me when I was very focused, when I danced.

I hadn’t said anything to him about all those years of ballet training, and when most people look at the volume of my chest, the last thing they’re thinking of is a traditional dancer’s body. But people intimate with ballet see the turned-out feet or the flare of my calves, and they know.

“But you are no typical dancer, or ex-dancer,” Stephen said. A genetic lottery-winner and beyond drop-dead—that was Stephen’s matter-of-fact description of me. Anyway, the next thing I knew I was confessing that I’m perfectly aware of how built and beautiful I am. I don’t know why I didn’t feel narcissistic speaking about it the way I did; I guess Stephen has this way of making it feel safe to utter the truth, or my truths, whatever they are. But talking about my looks led to Stephen asking questions about my sex life, or should I say our sex life, what it’s like for me with Tom. I didn’t say a whole lot—I suppose I’m not ready—but I did tell him that I believe that’s one thing Tom is hoping for from these sessions, that some sort of life-engagement spark will ignite in me that will have the side-effect of making me a more enthusiastic lover. He often tells me I’ll be the most desirable woman in the room no matter what room we step into, and boy does he like to show me off. But that’s not the same as feeling sexually satisfied in our relationship. He isn’t, and I know that.

Stephen asked if I like sex and I was taken off-guard; I didn’t know what to say. Like it? What does that even mean? Was the question really about the reverse, a way of asking if I don’t like sex? I didn’t know how to respond, so I said almost nothing. But then I remembered the tit-fucking I’d given to Tom the morning after my first therapy session, and after a slight hesitation I mentioned it, in case Stephen thought it was important.

He listened behind those steepled hands, and his eyes did go to the rounded shelf of my sweater. I could feel my cheeks flushing hot when I mentioned that I orgasmed while overwhelming my husband’s penis with my tits; I mean, only our second session and here I was speaking of such intimate things. I made sure Stephen understood how unprecedented that was, to cum without any direct clitoral stimulation, and I thought he’d hear the unspoken question there, that I wondered if that little miracle could be in any way linked to our first session. In the end I had to screw up the courage to ask him directly, and he replied that he wouldn’t be surprised if my body responded that way after being led to such a deep state of relaxation.

“Then keep the guided meditations coming!” I joked under my breath, knowing I’d be heard.

“I certainly will,” he smiled back, then glanced at his watch and proclaimed perfect timing, because we were at the fifteen minute mark before the end of the session.

I was an enthusiastic participant this second time, and again it was like gliding into a much finer and more natural place inside myself. I tried to stay awake the whole time but fell asleep again, maybe for just a few seconds. And, as before, my nipples were completely erect afterwards, what appears to be my body’s reaction to being that relaxed and open. I didn’t mind; if anything, it gives me a lingering thrill to imagine nipples like mine stiffening right in the middle of hypno-therapy, and Stephen having to maintain his focus in the face of that. It’s so funny that I decided not to tell him how lavish my nipples are, but ended up giving every indication without even meaning to.

When I left the office it was really cold outside, but I felt a palpable inner warmth because I know I have a great therapist. Stephen is an enlivening presence and I would say that I trust him completely. Like what I just wrote above, that we were speaking about my love life too quickly… It’s obvious that he knew, before I did, that it was time to go there, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it ever since. Now, I’m hoping we’ll keep talking about my love life, and by that I mean sex.

It’s at the heart of why I sought out therapy to begin with, and thank God Stephen has figured that out already.

A very interesting couple of days.

First, I’ve been swimming extra laps at the pool, and I’ve felt the desire to work out my upper body more diligently in the weight room. It’s not like I’m not perfectly toned and swimming plenty of laps already; I wouldn’t be able to explain this to anyone since I’m not quite sure of it myself, but I’m feeling a drive to increase both my upper body strength and my stamina. It certainly can’t hurt, and I have plenty of time for it, so why not?

The second thing I wanted to write about is what happened on Saturday night. The law firm had a February Blues party at The Biltmore, and Tom asked me to dress sexy for the event. How sexy do you want me, I asked, and he said to dial it to a good eight or nine. “Not eleven?” I asked, indicating a risqué show of my tits, and I didn’t even have to look there to know that Tom had a boner distorting the crotch of his trousers.

I went more with my parameters than his, looking unreasonably sexy in a sleeveless dress with a daring hemline and a scooping front, and OMG the hungry looks from the law partners, and the eye-daggers from some of the wives. They’ve all met me before and know I can look good, but no one there had ever seen me showing so much, and working it, too. The jazz/blues band was excellent and when they played their up-tempo songs I found another of the wives who knew how to dance, and we absolutely smoked that floor. I twirled every chance I got and I mean I twirled shamelessly, my skirt up above my waist, and I knew I had every pair of eyes in that place glued to my legs and panties and heaving tits. I saw that Tom had taken a position standing behind a chair with his arms holding onto the chair back’ he was trying to appear admiring, but was really hiding his hard-on from the others. That, mixed with eating up the envy from the other men, that he was the one who got to go home with me afterwards.

All of this came up in today’s session with Stephen, and he asked some pointed questions. Specifically, how did I feel when I was flirt-humping an entire room of sixty people, versus how I felt later at home with a husband who was almost desperate to make love to his prize. I knew where my therapist was going—we were back to the question of whether I actually like sex. I said I’d been thinking about that since our last session, and I’d tried to write about it in my diary but I couldn’t, because I didn’t feel safe.

He perfectly intuited what I wasn’t quite willing to say, that I’m afraid Tom might find this diary someday and read things he has no business knowing. I expected to get a lecture on how husbands and wives must learn to trust one another; instead, Stephen said it was perfectly reasonable to suspect that Tom wouldn’t be able to stop himself from spying. And then—I’m going to make certain my husband is paying this man enough—Stephen had the most brilliant suggestion: keep two diaries, a real one where I can totally be myself, and a sanitized one where it wouldn’t matter if Tom did find and read it. I was amazed at how brilliant this idea is—if I only casually hide the fake diary, and take much better precautions with the real one, there’s zero chance that Tom will ever search for and find this one. He’ll believe he already knows my most secret self and will have no reason to snoop any further.

“It’s one of the reasons I wanted you to keep a non-digital diary,” Stephen said. “Husbands and wives can almost always figure out one another’s passwords, so this method is much better at assuring privacy.”

I instantly felt more free to speak my mind, like until I had this duplicitous option at my fingertips, just uttering certain thoughts would somehow become known to my husband. That’s silly I know—therapist/patient confidentiality is pretty much absolute, so Tom will never know what goes on during these sessions. Still, I had a deeper feeling that Stephen really is on my side, like we’re co-conspirators, even. In that spirit, I told him that some of Tom’s colleagues did more than stare and dream of me as their lover on Saturday night—three of the law partners found ways to corner me and none-too-subtly proposition me. They’re the type of men who only half-jokingly call themselves the masters of the universe, after all, and they aren’t used to being refused something they desire.

“That’s happened to you before,” Stephen said, a statement rather than a question. “You drive men to distraction—“

“Some women, too,” I added. “But yes, I get more than my share of being propositioned; it’s the combination of this body and what my parents still call my little angel’s face.” I figured that needed no explanation, but drew an air-circle around my small nose and wide eyes, making sure to include the high cherubic cheeks.

Stephen was right there with me, saying: “Don’t forget the fine ringlet curls in your hair, straight out of a Renaissance painting. But your expression… Perhaps you’re a startled angel, who finds it hard to believe how lovely she is?”

Other people have commented on that aspect of my appearance; with the big eyes and the structure of my eyebrows, I do sometimes look surprised even when I’m not. But we didn’t linger on that point, as Stephen’s Renaissance painting comment turned out to be a surprising change in direction. We talked art history for several minutes, which I minored in at college, and Stephen was very knowledgable. I asked him a few questions and it turns out he’s traveled quite a bit, not just the expected places like France and Italy but into the Amazon and high in the Himalayas.

Did we squander too much of my hour speaking that way, conversationally about this and that? I asked that out loud and Stephen said it was a necessary part of trust-building, that it was good to see one another as people with interests and histories, as man and woman even, not simply therapist/client.

What mattered to me the most was that we had sufficient time for another hypno-meditation session. Stephen told me before we started that in our next session we would get back to the question of what I want for myself, and I have more homework, which is to carve out some alone time to actively ask myself that question at least three times a day. And not just an abstract “oh right, what do I want for myself” approach, but deliberate consideration of what I would be good at, and what I might be willing to dedicate myself to.

“Because there are no overnight sensations,” he said. “Any change, real change, takes repeated and dedicated effort.”

And then his soothing voice leading me down, and I’m sure I slept because I could almost remember dreaming. No details like always, but some emotion there that had the whole of me tingling as I left his office. And my nipples… I’d worn a very thin blouse, so all I can say is that poor man. He must have gotten quite an eyeful.

What do I want for myself—it won’t be a problem doing the homework because the question won’t let go. Tom came home especially late tonight and we had wine on the sofa, he going on about a mega-merger telecommunications deal and snafus with those contracts, and me nodding while inside it was like I’d become two people, one going through the motions with my husband, the other churning inside with, “What would I be really good at?” and, “What would I be willing to dedicate myself to?”

And feeling a definite vibration in my thoughts or in my skin or somewhere that was like the whisper of an answer, unseen still but close at hand.

I’ll keep asking those questions. For now, though, this diary gets put away, followed by fifteen minutes of bland musings in the fake diary.

Maybe it should be concerning to me, bad character or something like that, but I think I’m going to enjoy making b.s. entries in a fake journal, while embracing real freedom of speech here. The fake entries can be my creative writing—what will that Angela be like, when she only exists for public consumption.

Maybe the better question is: What will the real and uncensored me be like, here?

I already feel kind of sneaky, and—sue me—I like it.

From the moment I awakened this morning, the homework questions were like ghosts plaguing me at every turn. In the shower, over coffee, reading news headlines on my computer…

“Okay, okay!” I shouted at the ceiling, at my haunted home or at myself. “I’ll figure it all out!”

I sat in the kitchen drinking tea with pen and paper in front of me, writing down whatever came into my head. Some of it was obvious—having these fetish boobs means I could never resurrect my ballet training, but there are other forms of dance, and why haven’t I given any of those the proper consideration? I’m a physical girl; there’s no escaping that. I did well serving on a committee to raise funds for Mercy Hospital, but that was mostly sitting through interminable meetings, no chance to move around at all, and I need to move.

I wrote down those and some other things but I knew it was all crap. I drove to the country club and swam like I was training to traverse the English Channel, and worked out on the weight machines like I wanted to break them. My body is responding to the extra workouts, more definition and strength in my arms and shoulders.

Back at home I did some chores and kept catching glimpses of myself in different mirrors, and this odd feeling came over me. It was early afternoon and there was no place I had to be, and I found myself stripping naked and really looking at myself in my walk-in closet’s full-length mirror. There were no surprises; I’m breathtaking, top, bottom and sideways. But it was like I felt something different about that this time, something that got my heart racing.

I did something I’ve never done in my life—I resumed my household chores without ever putting on any clothes, and made a point of looking, really looking, every time I got anywhere near a mirror. Eventually I sat at the kitchen table again, and this time I had my laptop.

I googled “dancer” and looked at pictures, all pretty familiar. Then I looked up “belly dancer”, followed by “exotic dancer” and “pole dancer”. It was almost like my nipples were trying to touch the images on the screen, they got so stiff and tingly. I could be an incredible exotic or pole-dancer if I wanted to. Or, with this God-what-a-bod, a stripper. Pole-dancing strip-tease? That one made me feel so good between my legs, like “Whoa!”, which I think I said out loud. The pole dancers had stronger arms and more developed shoulders than a professional ballerina would feel comfortable with, but I’m so much more muscular than a typical ballerina anyway, just my genetics. And how lucky for me that, without even being aware of a use for it, I’ve been building up my arm and shoulder strength already.

But I’m still all about these boobs, and these legs. An idea came to look up “leg models”, and there was an entire world there—leg modeling, calves modeling, legs and feet, fitness, glamour, muscle glamour, glamour fitness…

On a whim I searched the words “beautiful areoles” and “great nipples”, and found sites entirely dedicated to that. Some of the links were to nipple-oriented videos on porn sites, and again I found myself comparing and feeling that, even though I know they’re special, I don’t treasure my breasts enough.

“What I’m good at is looking like a living wet dream,” I said out loud.

Lingerie—I had some really sexy little numbers, but I needed more. I browsed a few lingerie sites and was practically salivating over some of what I saw.

My train of thought got interrupted by the phone, one of the book club women needing to change the date and time of our upcoming gathering. I stood in front of a full-length mirror for most of the conversation, letting my reflection have its voice, too. My nipples went kind of crazy again—I would swear sometimes that it’s like they’ve developed a mind of their own. God, my nipples are so hard, right now. When I touch them, or pinch them…

Pauses in time between lines of writing don’t show up by themselves, so I’ll write how I just now couldn’t resist going into my lingerie collection and putting on a sheer silk nightgown. The material is amazingly thin and I couldn’t take my eyes off of what my nipples did to the fabric, punctuating it and creating mesmerizing folds. Forget eleven—in the right attire I can dial sex-appeal to fucking fifty. Seeing myself like that, it was like the answer to Stephen’s “What would I be good at?” question was staring me in the face with two exclamation points. Just by looking the way I do and being built the way I am, I’d be great at getting a lover outrageously excited, that’s what. And with my ability to move, my limberness and endurance…

Although—here must lie the root of the problem—I can’t imagine ever stripping or performing for the purpose of exciting Tom. It’s like I have the build of a Maserati, but knowing my husband will be the driver turns my engine into that of a Ford Focus.

Another kind of focus, that’s what’s needed. And for motivation, I did cum rather nicely, just from giving Tom a tit-job that night. Isn’t that a hopeful sign, that with the right conditions or the right attitude, so much more is possible, the horsepower I know I have inside me charging into view?

There is going to be plenty to talk about in my next therapy session.

I can’t wait.

It was wintery today, windy with snow and sleet. I wore wool pants and boots to Stephen’s office and had my first extended chat with Pauline, his receptionist. When I asked she said she has both French and Ukrainian heritage, and she’s just captivating to look at, with curves that almost rival mine. There were a few times when she’d answer the phone or perform some other task, and I studied her bosom, especially in profile when she reached for something. Her top was just translucent enough for me to make out that she was wearing a white laced bra; the patterning on the huge cups kept drawing my eye, that and the strain her breasts put on the buttons of her blouse. I came to the conclusion that she’s just a cup-size or so less full than me. Not that it’s a competition or anything.

I couldn’t help wondering, though, about what Ashley had suggested, that there might be a little office hanky-panky going on between Pauline and Stephen. She obviously feels proud to be working for him—she pointed to an oddly shaped drum hanging on the wall behind her desk, and said it was pretty much like the other framed certificates, that he was given the drum to signify he’d mastered certain techniques practiced by Mongolian shamans. I suppose I’d noticed the drum before, and the certificates, but it had never fully registered that he had accomplished so much for someone so young. He can’t be more than twenty-seven or twenty-eight, after all. When I asked how he could have studied so much and not even be thirty, my words were met by more of that palpable pride. In Pauline’s estimation, she is working for a great man.

Could she be in love with him? I focused on her expressions and body language as Stephen brought out his earlier client, and Pauline’s eyes tracked her employer’s every gesture with the precision of a leopard surveying its next meal, and though she never stood from her position behind her desk, some subtle shifting of her upper torso animated the projection of her tits, to the point that I wondered if I’d sold her short on just how copious she is in there. I found myself wondering what sort of horsepower she might have under her hood, and whether it was in line with the spectacular exterior. Something about that gleam in the blue of Pauline’s eyes, and the fullness of her lips and the thrusting of her tits, told me she must be completely opposite from me in bed, a tiger in heat.

Once in Stephen’s office I didn’t go straight into the territory of the homework on whom or what I want to be. I needed to get there in my own way, so I returned to the February Blues party, and how some of Tom’s colleagues had hit on me. I admitted that I get kind of turned on when men make asses of themselves because they find me so desirable, and when asked to explore that more, what I said was: “It’s like I’m a powerful drug and they’re half-addicted from the packaging alone. They see the sweet face and then all the curves, and sometimes it’s like I can watch them short-circuiting inside. Maybe some people would say this is warped, but seeing them going haywire makes me feel… special.”

Stephen wanted to know if I’m ever tempted to give men like that an actual dose. I said no, I love the attention but I can’t believe that I’d ever do that. “Not even in the privacy of your thoughts?” he asked.

Maybe I squirmed, before thinking to say: “Remember when you said my expression is sometimes that of an angel unable to believe how lovely she is? Well, what if it’s a bit different than that, like the angel is sometimes surprised at how she thinks and behaves like she’s no angel at all.”

Stephen smiled at that one, and then turned up the intensity by saying, in that spill-the-beans voice they must teach in therapist school: “Tell me about the Angela who isn’t always such an angel. More specifically, tell me about the thoughts or fantasies you have that you wouldn’t want your husband to ever read in your diary.

“I’ve had sex fantasies,” I admitted, “where I’m unfaithful to Tom. It’s almost never anyone specific; for example, even though several of his law partners have propositioned me, like really propositioned me, I never picture myself having sex with any of them. It’s more like an abstraction of a lover, the mysterious tall, dark and handsome semi-stranger.”

“Your version of Heathcliff?”

I laughed. Stephen pressed for details on these fantasies, and it became a little embarrassing but I did my best to describe them. It’s always me looking really sexy, getting my small thrills by flirting a tad too much. But there’s this one man—I started calling him Heathcliff for Stephen—where something about him compels me to flirt that extra bit, and before I know it he’s getting me to say things, and do things, and what was unimaginable before is all of a sudden very imaginable, and I find myself getting excited to the point where I might do anything.

And did these become masturbatory fantasies, he wanted to know. I admitted, feeling only slightly vulnerable, that sometimes they were.

“Describe one in specific detail,” he guided, but I couldn’t do it. I had never admitted anything about my sexual fantasies to anyone, not even Tom, and there was too much electricity charging through me to speak that intimately with someone as attractive as Stephen. He showed no disappointment, thank God, but he thought this might be a good example of where I was blocked in myself, which he gave form with the following summary:

“You want a greater intensity of experience in the sexual realm. You get tiny tastes of it when you tease and men respond—that places you in the territory where possibilities beyond your everyday experience could be there for the taking. In real life, however, you remain in control and these possibilities dissipate, and the excitement also dissipates. In your fantasies, your moral structures or your willpower—whatever it is that keeps the physical expression of your fantasies in check—magically collapses, and you can actually pursue one of these affairs. And there, you find, is where the real excitement lies.”

It’s a very odd thing to have your secret and forbidden desires stated to you in such a non-judgmental way. Even so, I felt a bit like my guts were lying on the floor at the end of that session. So private, these things, but more than that I felt like I was buzzing with energy, both my mind and my body. I mentioned that to Stephen as we were transitioning to our end-of-meeting hypno-therapy, and he said that energy came from getting my first glimpse of the difference between the facade and the real me.

“The real me,” I said, feeling both wistful and inspired. “I’d sure like to see that.”

“Meaning you’d like to be that?” he asked. “Think for a moment before you answer.”

I thought as he asked, but it didn’t change anything. “Of course I want to be that. The real me, to the hilt.”

Stephen looked pleased; there was no mistaking that, and so it wasn’t surprising when he said he would try, while I was hypnotized, to further open what he called “the channels towards the real”.

What was real when I came out of that state, the same as always, was that my nipples were terribly excited. Stephen walked me to the reception area as he does after every session, and it occurred to me at the doorway that we’ve never touched, not even to shake hands. He was speaking with his bombshell receptionist about the calendar when I placed my hand on his left bicep, just an innocent bit of contact. I’m not even sure if he registered that touch; nothing in his demeanor changed. For me, though, my fingers felt like they could shoot fire.

As I was bundling up, Pauline rose from her desk to get something from a filing cabinet, and I think I froze, just gaping. I had never seen her legs before and they were spectacular, their shaping accentuated by sheer diamond-patterned black stockings. It just didn’t seem right, that a woman with legs like those would have them hidden underneath a desk all day.

The snow had stopped out in the parking lot, and I had the strangest idea that I should get out of my boots. I would have been driving home without shoes so I kept them on, but it wasn’t easy. It’s difficult to find boots that can fit around my calves, so I’d always treasured this custom-made pair, but now they felt strongly distasteful, and I knew why—it’s criminal to cover legs like mine with pants and unflattering footwear, even on a bleak winter’s day. I don’t have to be an idiot about it—if it’s twenty below zero I can wear leggings. But my legs are every bit as beautiful as Stephen’s receptionist’s, and there’s no way I should ever enter his office without emphatically proving that point.

I figured out something else, too, just an hour or so ago: I want to get back on the pill. Tom won’t like it, but he doesn’t even have to know, at least not to begin with. I’m aware of what the pill means for my body—my breasts will grow even larger, because that’s what happened the one time I was on birth-control before, in college. That happens with some women, and for me it happens quite a bit.

I would have even more to flaunt, insane as that would be. Which, I have to admit, would be a pleasure for me.

And an additional aching for others.