The Psychologist

"Princess, when you were in college, did you ever take a course in psychology?"

I wondered where Sly was going with this question. He'd never before asked me about my educational background. His interests had heretofore always been limited to my body and my sexual performance. My mind to him apparently was a nice accessory, but important only to the degree it helped me to satisfy our clients.

Obviously, I'm talking about sex.

That's what our business is, after all. Sly's my managing agent and sales representative, while I'm the customer satisfaction department (and the sole product). Anyway, that's how I prefer to describe our little two-person corporation. It may sound silly to you, but it's important to me to consider myself a professional. Helps me to take pride in my work, in keeping with the way I was brought up in an upper-class family of professionals. My dad always encouraged me to take pride in my talents and abilities; he just never could have imagined how that seed would bear fruit.

Of course, neither did I, until Sly blackmailed me into servicing him and a few of his buddies, whereupon we both discovered my previously unrecognized talent. Sly may be a tough product of the mean streets, but he knew a good thing when he saw it, and he made me see it too. In the months since, we've parlayed my abilities and his shady contacts into a nice little side-line. I often smile when I watch my co-workers at the law firm where I work during the day, wondering what they would make of my night job.

"Funny you should ask. Yeah, I did. It was a distribution requirement. Why?"

"What's a 'distribution requirement'? Oh, wait, I really don't give a shit. It's just that I've got a prospective client who's a psychologist who thinks he can use your help with a patient."

"Sly, what in the hell are you talking about? You do remember what we do, right? How in God's name is that related to some psychologist's patient?"

Sly smirked his knowing smirk. He takes a wholly inordinate delight in winding me up.

"Okay, Princess. Keep your panties on (for now, anyway). I'll explain it for you.

"Seems that this psychologist's patient has pretty much resigned from the world. He's rich, has tried everything, and sees no reason to go on. He just sits around all day, won't talk, won't get up except to go to a bar and drink himself unconscious. His wife's hired this high-priced psychologist to get him out of his funk. The psychologist is desperate to earn his big bucks, so he's hit on a last-ditch scheme to get the guy to re-enter life. And that's where you come in."

"Holy shit. That's gotta be the wildest you've ever come up with. Look, you said the guy's tried everything in life. What makes you think I can reach him?"

"Hell, Princess, I've watched you in action. You're the best."

"Flattery isn't going to do it, Sly. What if I can't make it work?"

"Christ, where's your self-confidence, Babe? Hey,

I'm

willing to bet on you. But whether you deliver or not, the psychologist has agreed to pay through the nose to have you try. He's already paid, up front, too. Maybe more if you pull it off."

"Great. I can just imagine what you told him about my abilities to get

that

deal out of him. So tell me, how much 'up front' are we talking about? It'd better be damned good for me to risk taking that kind of a hit to my self-image if I don't come through."

Sly smiled and showed me a very thick wad of bills. Y'know, I never get tired of seeing Ben Franklin's face. Amazingly handsome guy. Heck, given that pile, I figured maybe I

could

live with trading my self-image for Ben's, at least this one time.

Besides, I really do like a challenge. And, after all, in my profession you have to know a little psychology. It comes in handy.

"Well," I said, "I guess if you've already committed me..."

"I always know I can count on you to do the right thing, Princess."

I made an appointment with the psychologist. I've read some military histories and I know that no campaign was ever successful without some pre-planning and a working knowledge of the terrain.

I dressed in my professional persona (the daytime one): hair up, tailored blue blazer, white blouse, modest skirt, neutral stockings, and mid-level heels. No, I don't much like pants suits; I've got long and very nicely shaped legs, and I think that if you've got an asset, you're pretty dumb to hide it unnecessarily.

The psychologist's office was in the upper seventies across from the park, announced discretely, like so many other offices in that block, by a small brass plaque. His name was Donaldson. He was rather good-looking, probably in his early forties, and very well dressed. I introduced myself and sat in the chair across from his desk. I crossed my legs.

Dr. Donaldson seated himself and spent some time looking me over, his gaze lingering on my breasts and winding up on my legs, seemingly stuck there.

"You are certainly beautiful," he told my legs. "Your agent's description of you, while somewhat earthy, was remarkably accurate. Umm, perhaps another time..."

"I'm sure it would be my pleasure," I said with a smile. "But for now, I'd like to learn more about our mutual client."

"Um, oh, yes, of course. Mr. Anders."

I watched with clinical interest as with visible effort he changed from biological male to neutral professional. His eyes finally met mine. Professional to professional.

As we talked, I learned that my client's client, Anders, was thirty-five, very wealthy, and had seemingly devoured life up until recently. Sky diving, safaris, mountaineering, etc. etc. Abruptly, a few months ago, he lost all interest in life and was content to vegetate. His wife, who clearly loved him, was desperate. I did pick up on two salient facts I thought I could use: one, he had been an enthusiastic chess player, and two, his frustrated wife threw him out of the house most days at around nine o'clock in the morning, hoping that maybe something out there would reach him, or maybe she simply couldn't stand to see him sitting motionless in his chair all day.

Anders lived in a lovely brownstone in the upper fifties, across from a little pocket park. For several mornings I watched as the door opened and he listlessly crossed the street and sat on a bench. He'd stay there for a couple of hours, unmoving, and then wander off. I followed him. He usually wandered into Central Park and just strolled around aimlessly until the local bars opened, after which he headed for the nearest one and spent the afternoon there, until he knew that his wife would let him in again.

I planned my approach. The next morning, I was sitting on one of the benches in the pocket park, dressed casually in a shortish skirt, cardigan sweater and low heels, no stockings, when Anders appeared as usual around nine, wandered over and sat on a nearby bench. He totally ignored me. I waited a few minutes and then got up, walked over to his bench and sat down next to him. His eyes never looked at me, something, I must say, that I was unused to having happen with men. It was a little disconcerting, though I suppose not completely unexpected.

He continued to ignore me as I took out my tablet and opened up my newly installed chess app, I started to play. Still Anders paid no attention. I pointedly ignored him, too, and continued to play.

"That move is incorrect."

Anders spoke in a dull, robotic tone, not looking at me or my tablet.

My gosh, the sphinx speaks!

"You're wrong," I said, not because I knew better, but just to keep things going.

"It is not. You are going to lose your queen in three moves."

"Bullshit. Show me."

He moved closer and proceeded to run out the next few moves on my tablet. Of course, he was right. Not, however, the relevant point.

"Amazing," I said. He continued to look straight ahead. I needed to follow up on this opening.

"That was kind of you to point out," I said. "Perhaps you can help me. My husband can be very cruel. He's a chess player, and insists that I play him, but whenever I make a wrong or foolish move, he ridicules me and keeps at it until I'm crying. Then he laughs at me. Maybe you could help me to improve my game?"

Anders continued to look straight ahead, as if I hadn't said anything. Damn. He got up and started to walk away, in the direction of his apartment. After a few steps he slowly turned back to me and looked vaguely curious, as if something didn't make sense to him.

"Are you not coming?" He spoke in that slow monotone.

"Oh, yes, yes of course," I said. I got up. Without a word or any acknowledgement of me he turned and headed toward his brownstone. I meekly followed him, a few paces back.

We entered the brownstone. His wife was standing there. Apparently alerted by Dr. Donaldson, she had watched the entire scene from the front window. Anders ignored her. She looked quizzically at me. I smiled back and winked. She looked me up and down, carefully. She gave me a rather wistful smile and addressed Anders.

"Sweetheart, I have to go out for a couple of hours. Please be careful."

Anders ignored her. She left, closing the door behind her.

Still paying no attention to me, Anders slowly walked over to the couch, which had a chessboard set up in front of it. He sat down before it. I sat down alongside him. I let my skirt hike up a bit and leaned back to accentuate my bosom. He didn't seem to notice at first, but then I saw his eyes slowly wander to my legs. His right hand twitched a bit. I smiled at him and reached over and gently guided his hand to my thigh. I covered his hand with mine, pressing it down on me reassuringly.

"That feels very nice," I said. "Do you like it?"

His eyes remained on my legs. After a moment he said, very slowly, "Like. Beautiful. Legs. Warm. Nice."

"Good,' I said. "I have nice breasts, too. Would you like to touch them?"

"Breasts," he muttered, almost abstractedly, as if the word was new to him.

"You can touch them," I said, "but you're going to have to ask."

Silence.

I decided to take it up a notch. I unbuttoned my cardigan. Slowly his eyes drifted up from my legs. I opened the sweater to give him a good look. I had a rather skimpy bra on, so it was indeed a good look. His hand started to move.

"No, you need to ask."

For the first time he actually looked at me, eye to eye.

"I know what you are doing," he said.

"Good. So do I. Do you want to touch my breasts?"

"Yes. They are lovely."

I slipped off my cardigan and unsnapped my bra and let it fall. His hands felt warm as they embraced my breasts. I reached up, put my hands behind his head and drew him down until his face was buried between my breasts. I stroked his head. He moved over enough to take my left nipple in his mouth and suck on it. It felt very good. I was beginning to really get into this. Therapy be damned!

I reached over without disturbing his mouth on my breast and ran my hand lightly over his crotch. I could feel the hardness there. I stroked it and felt the swelling beneath. His breath was coming faster, now. So, for that matter, was mine.

"I feel your desire," I said. "I would really like to feel your hard cock. Do you want me to hold it and stroke it? You just have to ask."

He came up for air long enough to say "Please. Touch my cock. Stroke it." Then he was back at my breasts.

I pulled him away long enough to get him to lie back while I undid his belt and unzipped his fly. I made sure to lean over him so that my breasts filled his field of view while I did it. I could feel his warm breath on them. I tugged at his pants and looked him in the eye until he caught on and lifted his hips long enough for me to get his pants down. His cock was tenting his shorts. I carefully pulled them down to expose it. He was breathing hard, now, and his full attention was on his cock. So far so good.

"Would you like me to kiss it?" I said.

"Oh, please. Yes. Kiss my, kiss my cock. I want your lips on it." This was going well. It was the longest string of words I'd yet heard from him.

Good psychologist that I was, I rewarded his behavior by leaning over and planting a solid, wet kiss on the blunt tip of his cock. I tasted his pre-cum.

His hands were on my head, now, pressing me into him. His hips were rising up to meet my face.

I pulled back. "I would love to suck your cock," I said. "It's a beautiful cock, and it looks full of sperm I'd love to draw out. But you still have to ask."

"Suck me! Suck me, dammit! I can't stand it anymore! I want to cum in your lovely mouth!"

That's what I wanted to hear. Real, honest emotion. We had connected. Technically, my job was done. But it really was a nice cock, and I was already there, so what the hell. I took him in my mouth.

His member felt very good on my tongue as it slid into me. Warm, pulsing with life, heavy with his sperm. His salty pre-cum mixed with my saliva, lubricating him. I wasted no time in getting going. Up and down I slid on him, sucking on the outstroke, my cheeks dimpling in with the suction and then bulging out as I dove down on him, occasionally taking his cock deep into my throat and caressing the base of its shaft with my tongue.

He was fully involved, now, his hands gripping my head, guiding my pace to extract the most pleasure from me. He moaned and gasped. I felt him getting harder and harder, swelling as he did. I felt a thrill of anticipation, knowing it would be only seconds before he came. One of his hands left my head to take up the new and delightful assignment of cupping and stroking my left breast, running his fingers over my erect nipple. It was a highly pleasurable accompaniment to the pulsating cock filling my mouth with its warmth and male promise. I redoubled my efforts. I reached between his legs and massaged his prostate. That usually deepens a man's pleasure and extends his ejaculations, which I like. I listened to him groan as he felt my fingers manipulate him. He grew even stiffer.

It was on the outstroke that he came. His hands on my head and my breast convulsed. He cried out loud. I stopped moving and clasped his shaft tightly behind its swollen head with my lips and probed his slit with my tongue, anticipating his delivery. I could feel his pelvic muscles coil and then spasm powerfully in their mindless imperative to pump as much sperm-laden semen as forcefully as possible into me. His hips rose up to push deeper into me as he held my head steady. I let him know he was welcome.

He came, directly into my mouth.

My god, he must have been saving it up for a long time, because after a first tentative discharge, the dam broke. In rapid succession burst after warm, salty burst of semen shot into my welcoming mouth, rapidly coating my tongue and the insides of my cheeks. His cock throbbed and the thick underside vein swelled and pulsed with the intermittent flow of semen through it, pushing my lower lip down, ignoring all resistance and exploding inside me. The sheer force and volume of his ejaculations felt wonderful. I kept licking and sucking him as he came, encouraging him to let it all go, to hold nothing back. I tried my best to swallow his copious male gift as he came, but even so some leaked between my clinging lips and dribbled down onto his spasming balls.

At last the frequency, intensity and volume of his discharges wound down to a few gentle spurts and then stopped. His hands relaxed and his head fell back. I could hear him gasping for air. I've always loved that sound, a reward for a job well done. I do take pride in my work.

I held his wet cock in my mouth for a while, enjoying its feel, gently massaging it with my tongue and sliding up and down just a bit to gentle him down, riding on a cushion of his cum, until his breathing slowed, and he began to deflate. I felt deliciously warm inside. My vagina was thoroughly wet. If you've never sucked cock, you are missing something special, and I feel sorry for you.

At last I slipped off him with a lingering soft kiss to the tip of his member. My lips and chin were slick with his frothy cum.

He reached down and grasped his wet cock in his hand and stroked it a few times, almost absently. After a few seconds of this, he steadied my head with his other hand and re-aimed his cock toward my mouth. I smiled and parted my lips invitingly, and he rose to slide in on a cushion of his own cum. I caressed his balls. He stroked his cock a couple of times more and came again, this time much more leisurely, relaxed and simply enjoying himself. I was happy for him and happy to accept his second load. Even his ejaculations were more relaxed, without the frenzy and force of his earlier orgasm. I could sense his contented smile when he finished.

I waited until he was thoroughly relaxed and then rose up and looked directly into his eyes. I slowly and lasciviously licked his sperm off my lips and wiped some from my chin into my mouth. A drop fell onto my breast, and his eyes followed it. At last he looked up and into my eyes.

"Oh my God," he said with a beatific smile. "That was incredible. You've made me feel alive again for the first time in a long time. You've made me realize how nice life can be. How can I ever repay you?"

"You just did," I said. "I really enjoyed that. And it was wonderful to see your pleasure. Perhaps, though, if you'd like, you can teach me some killer chess moves."

He smiled. It was a very nice smile. I felt really good about what I had done.

I love this job.