The Veiled Master

"Define... obsessed", said Isabelle, peering over the upper rim of her readers. "You use that word often Jane, and I just want to hear in your words how you experience it."

"It consumes me" started Jane. "It absolutely just fucking consumes me."

"And by it you mean...?"

"Sex... well more specifically orgasm, climax, the big O... that perfect minute where every part of my body ignites in rapture. So much so that I'm not really sure how it doesn't similarly dominate all of our thoughts... all of the time."

"Priorities. Responsibilities. Worries. Hopes and dreams. The dishes. The laundry. I can think of plenty of reasons," shot back Isabelle, attempting her best to temper the obsession with practicality. "It's the same reason we don't eat doughnuts for breakfast and candy for dinner."

"But see, those have consequences. Tangible ones. But being obsessed with the a neuro-chemical climax... no harm, no foul. My dishes are done Dr. Bennet, my underwear are clean, well..." Jane paused to laugh slightly, "At least they are when I first put them on."

"So... all day, just... sex?"

"Not all day, like I said, and not just sex either... but sexual pleasure and all the wonderful emotions that enhance that... but that arena... yes ma'am, every fucking minute."

Isabelle felt her professional discretion slip slightly into genuine interest but her experience was able to keep her impartially focused, at least for the time being.

"Explain a little more about that, about these enhancing emotions."

"Confidence is always good," started Jane, "but sexual confidence is everything. Believing that your body is desirable, that you are deserving of it, that you can command it to certain ends and train it to certain... tolerances. Indiscretion is another. Allowing yourself to be ok with it dominating your thoughts. It's a constant inside joke that only you know the punchline to. How in a room of people, everyone else is pre-occupied with this or that, but my mind is consumed with my next orgasm, where it might happen, what are my immediate potentials, if that cute guy at the gym would get me there... does he fuck hard, or like to use his hands, and what does that feel like when I spread my legs for him? You see..." she snickered, "It devolves quickly."

"Those are very primitive emotions though Jane", contested Isabelle. "Discretion requires evolution... higher level thinking."

"Well consider me a happy fucking Neanderthal then. And I just... I think it's even further than that, in a way it's an evolution from what we have been to what we can be. But in another way, it's simply acknowledging that at our primitive core, we are hedonistic, pleasure seeking creatures. Over time, we women have felt it proper and saw fit to build a maze around that, and every worry or responsibility, the way we prioritize other emotions or endeavors, just adds another turn to that maze. Instead of winding my way through... I just live at the center of it. Did you ever see that movie The Matrix? Everyone walking around content and unaware because the machines built that construct to keep everyone asleep and complacent? Well I woke the fuck up."

"So why then, are you seeking therapy Jane?" Isabelle let the question linger intentionally for a moment. "If you feel so resolved in this, so justified in these indulgences... why are you here?"

Laughing slightly without looking up, it was the question Jane had been waiting for.

"You mistake my participation for desire Dr. Bennett. Apparently it is frowned upon to proposition a masseuse in the fine state of Colorado, even further less appreciated when you cum so fucking loudly on that masseuses hard cock that you empty the entire spa." Looking up, Jane intentionally locked eyes with her naive therapist, silently conveying her amusement. "It was the oil... and the sweat, the heat of room, and his fucking, glorious hands that could touch me what seemed like everywhere... all at once."

"I knew this was assigned but I don't need to hear..."

"But you do", interrupted Jane, "you absolutely do. If at the end of this you don't agree with me, we can call it a professional difference of perspective, but you need to hear me out before you can pass judgement. It wouldn't be scientific for you to do anything less."

"I'll agree to listen Jane", conceded Isabelle, "I'm not astounded by anything I've heard yet and trust me I've heard it all. You know what every sex therapy patient has in common, the witty intelligence to make the mundane sound extraordinary. You fucked your masseuse, and got off too... good job. Not everyone turns it into a seduction narrative from a smut novel. That's why you're here... to re-connect you with behavioral norms."

"The societal norm is wrong. It's just flat wrong", shot back Jane. "And newsflash... our role was contrived BY MEN. Be dutiful and doting. Raise a family. Have the dinner ready, house clean, chores done, and be ready when HE wants it cause his work is hard... wah wah, FUUUCK that. I've achieved a lot, and worked hard to get it, work ever harder to keep it, and I deserve mine. I deserve to choose what I want, where I want it, and as often as I like, even if that means fucking a massage table off its mounts."

"But see that's just it... you're prioritizing your wants over everyone else's. Everyone in that spa wanted, expected, 'earned' if you will, a peaceful spa experience... one free of vulgar interruptions and hedonism."

Jane smiled back reflexively, but it was evident from the slight shake of her head and pursed lips, that she took that comment with more pride than shame.

"I should have been quieter... I should have stifled it. I tried to apologize, and I honestly couldn't tell you if it was just unnaturally long or if it was just part of our divine giftedness in lacking a refractory period, but by the time I wound down, it was too late."

Isabelle could feel herself becoming more frustrated, both by the logical argument and by the helpless jealousy of Jane's bold and resolute impropriety..

"So let's recap", started Isabelle, "you participated in a public sex act..."

"Private" interrupted Jane. It was just me and him, in our own room... it was private."

"I'm not even going to argue that point, just... you had an inappropriately loud, disruptive, not to mention destructive, lewd tryst in an establishment completely unaccustomed to such an act, upsetting numerous high profile clients... wealthy, well lawyered clients I might add, then proceeded to run out into the lobby, half naked, covered in... what was it "oil and sweat?"

"And cum", interrupted Jane coyly.

"What?" Said Isabelle, feeling her tirade completely derailed.

"There was a load of cum... ALL over my back".

"WHY DO YOU THINK THAT'S OK?", asserted Isabelle. "You were charged with felony solicitation and indecent exposure, somehow granted leniency down to a misdemeanor and sentenced to community service and sex therapy."

"And I'm really hoping we can get to the therapy part" Dr. Bennett, "cause all this feels like so far is shame veiled in interrogation."

"In what reality is this ok Jane? That's all I'm asking. I will consider this session a success if you can just see how you are complicit."

"I was too loud... I was, absolutely. And my post orgasm brain had me acting a little wacky, yes. But I have no shame in the rest of it."

"Then let's try something different..."

"Oil and sweat" interrupted Jane. "Remember... you promised to listen. I took your judgement, now let me justify mine."

Isabelle didn't want to concede. There were a dozen other places and two dozen other people she would have rather spent that hour with, but for as much as her professionalism walked a hard line, her personal interest and curiosity were no longer deniable.

"Proceed then."

"You've had a massage before I'm assuming?" asked Jane.

"Yes, of course," acknowledged Isabelle.

"You can't tell me it's not inherently erotic. A man, or a woman when the mood is right, sliding their hands over every inch of your body. Your skin, our beautiful skin, filled with touch and pressure receptors, laid bare in front of them. The warming oil, covering your body, finding its way into the darkest of covered places. Skin to skin, sliding over you in long strokes. You see Isabelle, what you reduce to a pedestrian transaction through repression, I just don't repress. And quite the opposite, there is something so potently powerful about flipping an otherwise intentionally vulnerable situation into one you whole heartily control. He may have been massaging me, but I held the power.

And I didn't need to say a word. He could tell my body was primed in how it reacted. Sure a thoughtful arch here and a subtle moan there, the obvious tightening of my nipples under the sheet, the puddle of... oil and sweat, between my legs. He barely had to work. I love looking down on a pair of strong shoulders between my legs. That tuft of hair, just devouring me. Tongue flattened against my clit, just teasing it; hands everywhere else, and I mean... everywhere. The only thing that kept me from cumming was me... my own desire to feel him inside me.

How are your nipples right about now Dr. Bennett"?

"Excuse me?", said Isabelle, caught slightly off guard.

"You heard me... and answer honestly. Not with some contrived, heady, professional response. Listen to your body."

"I don't think... it's not a...", fumbled Isabelle.

"Gotcha didn't I?", smirked Jane, rising from the office chair and walking over to the bookshelf. "Your brain... your big, beautiful, accomplished brain Dr. Bennett, just got a glimpse of what it'd be like to wake up from that coma of repressive neurohormones. All of this knowledge..." Jane raked her hands across volumes of texts "all the constructs you psychologists have built and defended around right and wrong, decent and indecent, all just institutional rationalization to justify the condemnation of what you perceive to be the peculiar deviancies of a civilized society. But none of it, no matter how well constructed, will allow you to deny your primitive, biologic response."

Jane let the message linger in a comfortable silence.

"They're starting to tighten aren't they? And no, you won't allow yourself to admit it at first, but the more I mention it... you can feel them right now can't you?" Jane looked her target square in the eyes. "That little underwire is no match for your magnificent biology Dr. Bennett."

"Let's say you're right.", replied Isabelle. "You've got me, not to mention every woman... hell, let's just say every living thing figured out. We are the imperfect evolution of intellect over instinct. Then what? Where do we go from there? Are things like moral decency and social etiquette just unworthy constructs compared to this basal carnal instinct?"

"Not unworthy of effort," replied Jane, finding her place again in the brown leather arm chair, "just unworthy of shame. How I live and what I covet are not a deviancy, they..."

"Check mate", whispered Isabelle, soft enough for only her to hear.

"I'm starting to understand your perspective now Jane and I can appreciate it, I can acknowledge that with all sincerity, but I must say for all of your confidence and bravado, this enlightenment that you pride yourself in discovering is really quite... juvenile."

Rising from her seat, Isabelle turned and began to walk over to the office windows, the view of the city at altitude projecting an impressive backdrop on the office landscape.

"It's one thing to be so completely enveloped in a crusade, that it becomes the ethos of your existence. I applaud the commitment it takes to get there." Isabelle paused, briefly glancing at Jane before continuing to walk toward a framed picture of a pop art peach that hung within an open space in her bookshelf. Swinging it laterally as if it was on hinges, she began to spin the dial of an obvious combination lock.

"It's quite another", Isabelle continued. "to be a master of that influence. Imagine being in such disciplined control over this oppressive sexual power, to wield it... at your discretion, in a way that frightened most, but impressed the fuck out of those who's deviancy compares even slightly with your own."

Turning to face Jane, the intent in Isabelle's eyes was obvious. And if not gleaned from her expression, the massive black dildo she held in her left hand and the equally impressive white vibe she held in her right, left nothing to the imagination.

"I've been studying... suffice it to say... 'mastering' the art of optimizing sexual climax for the last 15 years, Jane." Isabelle's sinister grin projected an undeniable confidence.

"I can make you cum so hard and so repeatedly that it will make this whole fascination of yours seem like a juvenile fantasy."

Isabelle sat stunned in silence.

"So how's your clit right about now Jane?" asked Isabelle deviantly. "Starting to well up I bet?"

"If you walk away from this, consider yourself cured. Your obsession lies not in the act itself, but in the glorified marketing of a 'dirty little sexual deviant revolutionary'. There's no shortage of fuck-boys in this city, eager to help you bolster that archetype. But if you sincerely desire to learn the epitome of sexual ecstacy... you better take those fucking panties off, crawl over here, and be prepared to do exactly as I say."

As her faculties and reasoning abilities returned, Jane felt something that until that moment had been fundamentally foreign to her... contentment.

"You get an A for enthusiasm, I'll give you that." said Isabelle, returning her instruments to their secret safe. "But we'll need to improve your stamina. You burned up all your dopamine with those first two, you almost couldn't accomplish the third. We'll need to work on that."

Jane sat exasperated and speechless in the office chair like a wet rag discarded to dry.

"Get your fucking panties on and collect yourself. My office manager is a confidant... magnificent cock by the way, strong Australian, disciplined and well trained... but you need to collect yourself and be presentable by the time you hit the street level."

Walking over to her desk, Jane hailed the intercom button of her conference phone.

"Conner?"

"Yes ma'am?" replied a deep Australian voice.

"Miss Doucet is going to need weekly appointments. Last of the day, cause we are apt to need the cleaners. And clear your schedule and be available weeks 4-7 please."

"Yes ma'am." acknowledged the voice with subordinate anticipation. "Looking forward to it."