An unfortunate habit
By Maximilian Cummings
Part 1
It was a Friday. A long wet dark Autumnal Friday. Randolph Trevais stood at his window looking out over the sodden town. The sky was slate grey; the roofs were slate grey—to be fair to them, there was a reason for that: they actually were slate and grey; the roads were a matching slate grey; everything seemed grey. To an extent the brick of the houses relieved the greyness but even their ruddy orange had a very grey tinge. It was a depressing prospect on a depressing day. Business was not good and Randolph was bored; desperately bored. The afternoon still had another two hours to drag, he had no plans for the evening and there was nothing on television apart from the penguin. Randolph sighed, making poor jokes to oneself did indicate boredom even depression. He looked back into the room for something to read. What about ‘Hypnosis Today’? No, he really couldn’t face that.
The doorbell rang. It could not be a client on a day like this; people normally rang ahead first on the telephone; but Randolph was wrong—it was a client.
His receptionist ushered in a tall dark girl in a long wet coat. As she undid the buttons he was struck by her long neck, the way her head thrust forward moving in quick birdlike movements making her nose seem to be questing here, there and everywhere. Randolph preferred his clients young, female and pretty so this was a good start though, to be fair, he liked clients per se; alas, they were a little bit thin on the ground at present with the consequent cash flow problems that difficulty engendered for him. Randolph Trevais remained puzzled why he was not making money. It was not that he was not a good hypnotist. If he was not trying to be modest he would probably describe himself as the best, which might have been an exaggeration but not a wild exaggeration.
Randolph liked to think he had a good patter, a good way of putting clients at their ease and so he was not far into making interesting remarks about the terrible weather when his prospective client asked if he had a female hypnotist colleague. With the amount of business coming in this was hardly likely and Randolph explained he was a sole practitioner. Was there a problem with his sex? What indeed did she want to consult him about? Would she like him to ask the receptionist to step in?
“It’s embarrassing,” she said. Randolph promptly gave examples of the many embarrassing, and some very embarrassing, problems he had used hypnosis to cure or help people with. Whether this reassured her or not was not clear, but she confided the problem rather quietly, ‘bed wetting.’
Randolph was sympathetic, “how tiresome for you, certainly a problem, not a new one to me. I think I can do something about that, very likely cure.”
The woman looked relieved. Perhaps by the very act of mentioning her problem, of being able to say it out loud this had helped, particularly as Randolph had said he could probably hypnotise her out of the difficulty.
“So, what happens now?” she asked.
Randolph enquired about the regularity: was it every night; did she rise to urinate during the night; how much wetting was there; how long had this been going on; was it a problem with her partner and so on.
It transpired the problem was fairly frequent; yes sometimes she did get up for a pee; no the wetting was not the complete emptying of the bladder but significant nonetheless; for months now; no she did not have a partner.
Randolph took notes and tried some hypnosis: strong suggestions that if she wanted to urinate she should wake and get up but otherwise should sleep on, an attempt to build a prohibition in her subconscious against unconscious bladder release.
He watched her from his window stepping around the puddles on the grey pavement, her coat tightly pulled around her, the birdlike movement of the head as she looked ahead, then across the road and back again. The consultation had somewhat relieved the afternoon and there was a repeat consultation booked. Not exactly a picking up of business, nor the dawn of a new age of riches but it was better than staring out of the window or seeing smokers wanting to give up the habit.
At the next appointment, “I’m sorry Mr Trevais but it, your hypnosis, simply didn’t work.” She coloured visibly, “It was just the same yesterday and this morning.”
Randolph was puzzled; he was not used to his hypnotic suggestions not working. “Were the sheets very wet, had you emptied your bladder completely?”
She had trouble answering. “Yes... soaked but no I... um ... urinated when I got up... quite a bit.” She went really red.
Quite a pleasing colour Randolph thought.
Randolph lent back in his chair and put his fingertips together in a thoroughly professional manner. The gesture was like his patter, part of his professional image and showed clients he was giving something careful and profound consideration, or so he had been taught.
“I think I need to see for myself, watch you asleep.”
Alarm showed on her face. Randolph was quick to reassure her.
“Only if you wish, but I think it will help me understand the problem and its solution. Miss Evans, my nurse, will accompany me of course. I hardly think you want a middle aged man, however professional, in your bedroom at night unescorted.” He smiled in what he thought to be a reassuring way. Randolph did not want his client’s natural timidity to upset things. He leant forward and she was caught by his curious brown eyes.
“Yes, yes of course if you think that would be best. When, tonight?”
Luckily Miss Evans was free and Randolph arranged to visit at bedtime. He looked again at the card he had written for his new client, Cecily Stubbs, 14, Canning Street. It was not far and his receptionist lived on the route there.
Cecily was clearly perturbed by the intrusion.
“Mr Trevais, I really cannot think what you hope to get out of this. You hardly want to watch me wet my bed.” She went red again, glancing at the receptionist, a deep flush spreading up from her neck.
Randolph wondered where it started from. Did her breasts flush red? He would like to see that... and probably would. “Precisely, Miss Stubbs, precisely. I want to observe when it happens, what pattern of sleep you are in and hopefully understand the cause and for that to provide me with a solution to your very real problem.”
“But how will you know when I... when I actually wet the bed? You wouldn’t be able to see under the bedclothes. Oh, no surely not!”
“That is the very good reason Miss Evans is here.” Randolph turned his eyes to her, “it is a warm night so just a sheet and perhaps a nightie or pyjama top only so Miss Evans can... you understand.”
Cecily nodded looking decidedly uncomfortable.
“Call us in when you are ready.”
Randolph and the receptionist sat in the kitchen drinking coffee listening as Cecily made ready for bed—footsteps, the sound of the shower, the running water tap – all the usual sounds.
“It must be very unfortunate,” said the receptionist, “bedwetting I mean. Not an easy thing to live with.”
“Quite. If, of course, that is the problem.”
The receptionist looked puzzled, “But I thought that was what Miss Stubbs said?”
“She said so, but I have my doubts...” Randolph put on his mysterious, unfathomable look. He knew it always impressed.
There was a call from above.
Cecily was sitting up in bed in a rather thick pyjama top.
“Isn’t that rather hot?” asked the receptionist.
Cecily coloured again, “My others are rather thin.” She glanced at the receptionist and then meaningfully at Randolph.
Randolph and the receptionist sat down. He got out a newspaper.
“I usually sleep in the dark.”
“Hmmm. Yes but that presents two problems, one Miss Stubbs and I need to keep awake, two Miss Evans needs to watch for...” He might have added he could not read his newspaper in the dark but thought better of it.
“I do sleep very soundly, perhaps if you leave me to go asleep in the dark and then come upstairs?”
They gave her half an hour and pausing at her door, judged by the regular breathing, that Cecily was asleep. They entered her bedroom, switching on the light, Cecily did not stir. To Randolph she looked most attractive, her dark hair cascaded across the pillow, a hand resting atop the sheet and the swell of her breasts hidden by the rather thick pyjama material – was it really Winciette?
“Well, I think we should take a look.” Randolph hardened in expectation. He was a very good hypnotist, very good and effective at his work and had helped a great many people with difficult problems but he had a weakness, a weakness for sexual activity and a pretty woman. The prospect of exposing the naked lower half of this pretty girl by pulling down the sheet was not exactly unpleasant, nor was the prospect of opening her thighs and inspecting her vulva anything but interesting and arousing. It was a pity about the pyjama top but that could, perhaps, come off in due time.
Cecily was over on her side facing away, one arm over the sheet and that itself was moulding the shape of her body.
“Miss Evans, could you pull the sheet down, slowly so as not to wake Cecily.
The receptionist complied. The sheet slid down revealing Cecily. Randolph was impressed. “A finely formed woman, Miss Evans.”
The receptionist looked at him strangely, it had perhaps not been a very professional thing to say. But he was not at all surprised by her look; Miss Evans was very prim and proper, living with her mother and at 35 still a virgin and no boyfriend in the offing at all. Never had been. She was a surprising choice as a receptionist for Randolph but she had come well recommended, he had instantly liked her and she had been the best looking of the candidates. To say she had never had sexual relations would not be accurate as there had been liaisons with girls at boarding school and that was where her inclinations ran but, as far as he could judge, she now kept them on a tight rein.
Miss Evans had certainly had sexual activity with other girls and, though she did not know it, had absolutely no idea, she had actually had sexual relations with men: well one man actually, her employer, who could get bored on an afternoon if there were no clients and was quite happy to relax and listen to her telling him all about her school liaisons in most pleasing detail or the fantasies she had in bed at night; all whilst she knelt in front of his chair in her receptionist’s white coat and nothing else, alternately tugging and sucking his erect cock. He was, of course, as has been mentioned, a very good hypnotist.
Cecily’s bottom was certainly attractively rounded; she was facing away with her legs drawn up, and Randolph could see a few little black curls peeking out.
“Mr Trevais, you shouldn’t be looking. Miss Stubbs clearly expects me to do the inspecting.”
“Yes,” he said tetchily as if such concerns were beneath his professionalism, “well she’s asleep. Any sign, Miss Evans?”
“I can’t see.”
“Well, move her so you can.”
Randolph was amused to see just the hint of Miss Evans’ lower lip being licked. He had thought she would find this extra work satisfying though, he knew, she would not admit it to herself.
He stood the other side of the room as his receptionist carefully moved Cecily onto her back letting her see more of Cecily’s body, and indeed letting him see the same. Cecily’s round hips, smooth shapely thighs, neat little tummy button and a surprising profusion of black curly hair forming the usual triangular shape where her thighs joined. Cecily stirred a little, thighs opening; there was no sign of leakage.
The receptionist looked at him.
“I think we shall have to just wait and see what transpires.”
They sat quietly for some two hours, reading and saying little. The receptionist went to make some coffee. Whilst she was away Cecily began to stir, her even breathing and few movements gave way to tossing and turning and an opening and closing of her thighs. Randolph got up and looked closely between her legs. He smiled, a little smugly to himself, as if he had done something rather clever or made a correct deduction. He touched and looked at his hand and then touched again. It was a pleasant task.
When the receptionist returned, Cecily was on her back with her thighs open and bottom moving, clearly caught in some strong dream; it looked very much as if she was pushing herself in a sexual way against the unseen partner of her dream. Miss Evans stood in the doorway, mugs of coffee in hand, open mouthed.
Randolph glanced at her, “Come and look at this, Miss Evans.”
Cecily was gushing, it seemed an appropriate word and, certainly, Randolph had never seen the like. Whether it was the famed and elusive female ejaculation from the ‘G Spot’ or more likely over active glands preparing her body for intercourse; glands providing far more than the necessary lubrication to ease the insertion of the male organ; the effect was so clear that, whilst not actually visibly fountaining, Cecily’s lubrication was being secreted at a phenomenal rate and was, literally, dripping and running down her thighs. Her springy black hair was soaked and her pouting engorged lips seemed to have a pond or little lake of moisture between them. Randolph could not resist touching again and his fingertips dipped lightly into the pond feeling the extent of the wetness, touching the soft pink flesh; his fingers gently stirring before he held them up to show their wetness to Miss Evans.
“Look at that, Miss Evans, would you believe it! Bedwetting this is not!”
“Mr Trevais, you touched Miss Stubbs intimately.” His receptionist looked quite shocked at his demonstration.
“You feel her too, Miss Evans. I have not come across anything like this and nor, I am sure, have you.”
The receptionist looked startled, “I couldn’t.”
“Of course you can,” and Randolph took her hand, and she did not stop him as he moved it slowly towards Cecily’s open thighs; he glanced at her face—she was clearly fascinated by what she was seeing; unresisting as Randolph brought her fingertips into contact and brushed them lightly into the wetness. She did not immediately withdraw her fingers when he let go. He was amused to see her fingers gently stroking, even touching the prominently raised pink knob of the clitoris. Unconsciously Cecily pushed against the hand.
“Help her, Miss Evans, I think she needs to come again. I think we have a very over-sexed young lady here who does not know it at all; whose mind finds release in dreams. Please help her to orgasm again whilst I watch the flow. You know what to do I am sure.”
The receptionist looked as shocked as before, not least at Randolph’s allusion to her own knowledge about her body, the ways of bringing herself to orgasm, but nonetheless her fingers moved, even going so far as pushing a little into the vagina; it was not difficult to do. Cecily’s thighs were in motion now, pushing against the fingers; she was breathing fast and making little gasping sounds, her thighs alternately splaying then closing on the hand. Randolph watched as Cecily’s lubrication dripped steadily onto the bedclothes. He had solved the puzzle as to why Cecily had not responded to his hypnotic suggestion not to wet the bed. The solution was so simple; she had not been wetting the bed—not by urinating anyway. Randolph was pleased with himself but at the same time rather frustrated. He desperately wanted to release his cock and plunge it into the remarkable wetness but this was not yet the time. Miss Evans, though, would have to assist him later. Dare he risk taking Miss Evans virginity tonight without protection or could he make do with her sweet mouth?
Despite the frustration, Randolph was enjoying himself. Watching one woman touch another intimately was somewhat of a turn on.
“She’s coming,” said the receptionist.
Cecily was really bucking against the receptionist’s hand, moaning and thrashing her head from side to side; crying out as she came. Randolph could not be sure, could not quite see because of all the movement, but was she actually spraying lubrication into the air as she came? It seemed like it—a fine mist.
The bed sheet was quite definitely soaked.
There was quiet; Cecily no longer making violent movements, instead she was curled up, turned onto her side and seemed to drift immediately into a deep sleep with a, perhaps unsurprising, contented smile on her face; her sheets damp, wet even and the unmistakeable heady scent of female arousal permeating the room. Randolph and his receptionist gently tucked her up, turned the light out and crept from the room leaving Cecily to rest until morning.
Randolph turned to the rather flushed Miss Evans as they went down the stairs, “So, not indeed bedwetting at all, I thought as much. It is so pleasing to have your hypothesis confirmed, don’t you think, Miss Evans? Did you too suspect? Perhaps a nightcap, a hot drink before I take you home?”
Randolph found the light switch.
“It is a pity for Miss Stubbs, she will neither remember nor have the faintest recollection of her dreams; we cannot know what interesting fantasies were going through her subconscious whilst you so very kindly brought her to climax. I think this repression of her sexual feelings into her sub-conscious is intrinsic to her problem; it is something, the repression that is, she needs to bring into the open and accept about herself. No doubt her subconscious enjoyed the dream but what about you, Miss Evans, what about your conscious state? Did I not detect a certain pleasure in your work?” Randolph smiled and raised an eyebrow.
“No, no not at all... I did not want to... it was only that you asked.” Her voice trailed off.
They were in the kitchen, “Perhaps, if you do not object, a small test.” Randolph gently lifted the hem of his receptionist’s white coat. Beneath it she was completely naked—the result of a small suggestion of Randolph’s earlier that it was perhaps rather hot in the house. “Legs apart, yes like that. Ah, ha,” his fingers searched,” I can feel an accusatory wetness; can I not, Miss Evans?”
“Mr Trevais, how could you!” She stared; shocked at Randolph’s presumption but his remarkable brown eyes caught and held hers. Her compliance would follow.
“I think we need to have a little talk about your own sexuality Miss Evans, I take my duties to you as an employer seriously and think of your welfare. Perhaps if you would be good enough to make some tea, you can tell me whilst you sip your hot drink. Oh, and perhaps you might undo your coat, you really are finding it rather hot in here.”
Miss Evans came into Cecily’s lounge a few minutes later with a tray of tea, her white coat unbuttoned revealing both her unrestrained breasts swinging freely beneath it and her virginal bush, with its untamed riot of curly dark hair, equally visible. That had been a pleasant discovery for Randolph some weeks earlier. She set down the tea tray.
It is a pleasant thing for a man, and indeed some women, to have a women standing naked before you as you are seated. It provides ample and easy access both visually and physically to her sex—given its convenient position. Randolph was happy to take advantage of the facility and his fingers returned beneath the luxuriant dark growth and felt again the wet velvet softness hidden between Miss Evans’ thighs. He stirred.
“Mr Trevais!” she repeated.
“Now Miss Evans, perhaps you will answer me accurately and truthfully, would you rather this was Miss Stubbs’ fingers?”
The receptionist was hesitant but the answer came, “I would rather that, yes.”
“If Miss Stubbs was so bold as to kiss your breasts would you mind?”
“I would like that... yes.”
“Have you been thinking about Miss Stubbs, and I mean in a sexual way?”
“Yes.”
“In what way?”
It came gushing out, rather stronger than Randolph had expected.
“I... I want to sleep with her, feel her wetness on my skin, that lovely wetness, dripping; feel her hands, rub her sex with my sex. Oh, Mr Trevais, I want to lick her all over!”
“And so you shall! I think Miss Evans it is time you came to terms with your own sexuality, acknowledge men are not for you, and be comfortable in your desire for women, acknowledge it openly. Can you do that?” His eyes held hers: Randolph’s special gift was at work.
“Yes, I can.”
It would take more sessions to overcome her timidity, a repression rather shared by Cecily upstairs, but he would help Miss Evans but, just now, he had other needs.
“Would you pour the tea?”
His receptionist complied. Randolph did like a cup of tea. He also liked having his cock sucked and it was extremely pleasant at the very late end to that day to lean back in his chair with a cup in one hand and watch his, really rather attractive, secretary undoing his fly and releasing his penis into her mouth. She would not, of course, remember this part of the evening the next day. Randolph was mindful of the needs of others and did not let Miss Evans neglect her own cup of tea; but he had his own needs as well and it was particularly pleasant to feel the heat of the hot tea on her mouth transmitted to his cock after she had sipped her tea and turned her head back to him. Randolph mused on the interesting taste sensation of the mixing of the slightly astringent tea with the saltiness of his ejaculation when it came. Would it work as a blend or not? He smiled to himself as he took another sip, it would not be long before Miss Evans found out.
It was not.
“Drink, Miss Evans, drink!” Randolph gushed in a different way to Cecily, the pent up excitement of watching both Miss Stubbs and Miss Evans resulted in a copious ejaculation. He kept his eyes open as he came, savouring the image of Miss Evan’s lips wrapped around his penis and the movement of her neck as she swallowed.
He lay back in his chair, feeling very content, whilst his naked receptionist knelt between his legs still gently sucking on his now wilting penis, “I think, Miss Evans, it is time I took you home to bed. You will masturbate yourself to sleep thinking of our Cecily. You may tell me your thoughts in the morning.” He finished his tea. “Yes indeed, Miss Evans, a hot drink before bedtime does set you up for the night, don’t you agree?”