Christina Young Again

I turned onto the driveway of my psychologist, Dr (Mark) Chandler, and parked. As I had done many times before, I marveled at the expertly-restored facade of the stone farmhouse that he shares with his wife and two children. Built in the late eighteen hundreds, the place has remained virtually unchanged from the day its original owner moved in some one hundred and thirty years ago. It's unpretentious, though projects an air of elegance that belies its humble beginnings. In short: the kind of place that welcomes you immediately, and makes you feel right at home . . .

At any rate; it was a Thursday afternoon in late July. Not too hot. Not too cool. Deep-blue skies with fluffy, white clouds drifting along on a gentle breeze. I got out of my car and closed the door. From reflex, I clicked the remote and set the alarm. The horn sounded its familiar confirmation, shattering the peaceful quiet. I shook my head and laughed, then started toward the side entrance to Dr Chandler's office. With each step, the sound of my stilettos on the granite sidewalk made me smile.

"How long has it been since I wore heels on a regular basis?" I wondered aloud, "Too long!" I answered.

Like usual, the door to his tiny waiting room (formerly a potting shed) was unlocked. I reached for the latch and pushed it open. The old-time bell jingled to announce my entry.

"Come on in, Chris." Dr Chandler said.

I closed the door to the outside and walked back to his office. As I stepped inside, he rose from his desk and allowed his eyes to dart over me. From my new hair style (all grey banished); to the deep V neckline of my aquamarine, halter top dress. To its hemline: short; but not too short. To my four-inch, color-matched heels.

"Very nice." he complimented, ushering me to a seat at the small games table.

"Thank you." I said, slowly lowering myself into the ancient, Windsor chair.

"I must ask." Dr Chandler said, sitting down opposite me, "Is this . . . sex-kitten outfit for my benefit; or is it a real change?"

"To be quite honest?" I said with a flirtatious smile, "Partly for your benefit . . ."

I allowed my expression to drop the front, "but . . . hopefully . . . it's real."

"You say 'hopefully'. Does that mean you still might go back to being a 'grown-up'?"

(An issue I'd been grappling with.)

"Possibly . . ." I replied with a wry smile, "But I doubt it."

The look on Dr Chandler's face was a mix of curiosity and amusement. "Why do I feel like you're trying to set me up?"

Cute quip after cute quip came to mind. Better judgement ruled, as I remembered why I was there.

****** *********

Two, quick side-note for the following:

1] Three nights a week I teach an aerobics class at our YMCA. While I do Aaron hits the fitness center.

2] Aaron is my husband of just over twenty-five years.

****** *********

"Last Friday, on our way home from the Y, Aaron told me about a conversation between two lifeguards that he overheard in the men's locker room." I began.

Dr Chandler donned his poker face as he jotted a quick note. "The age of these lifeguards?"

"Seventeen . . . eighteen." I replied, accustomed to these requests for detail.

Another quick note. "Go on."

"Anyway," I said, anxious to get on with my story, "it seems that I made quite an impression on the younger of the two when I was swimming laps the day before. So much so, that I am now number one on his 'to do' list."

A telltale smile flashed on Dr Chandler's face.

"According to Aaron," I continued, "my admirer started off by saying: 'That Chris Samuels is by far the best looking woman I have ever seen!'. Then adding: 'If I had the chance, I would love to spend a long afternoon screwing her every way possible! Then; I'd take her out for a night of dinner, dancing and whatever turns her on!'. To which his buddy chimed-in: 'I know what you mean! She is one hot babe! Even better than that Valerie Bertanelli chick my dad has it bad for.'. To which my admirer said: 'Isn't she the one that was all over the place posing in a skimpy bikini on her forty-ninth birthday?'. To which his buddy said: 'That's her.' To which my admirer said: 'I wonder what it would take to get Chris to wear a bikini instead of that one piece.'. To which his buddy said: 'I don't know, but I'd sure like to find out!'."

A smile crept across Dr Chandler's face. "So. What would it take?" he asked, "To get you into a bikini."

"Well." I replied as coyly as possible, "At this point; not much."

"Interesting. Care to elaborate?"

"I'm not sure I can." I replied, honestly, "But what I can say, is that Mason; my admirer, is on the schedule for next Tuesday from four until closing; and unless I get delayed at the office, I'm planning on swimming laps after work. . ."

I paused, for effect.

". . . wearing a Hawaiian print bikini that Aaron bought me when we were in Maui a couple years ago."

Dr Chandler jotted a few more notes. Shifted gears a bit. "Do you think Mason and his friend knew Aaron was your husband when they were talking about you?" he asked.

"No. I don't." I replied, "From the little I know about them, I'm pretty confident that it would be out of character for both of them to speak so; lewdly, in front of him if they did."

Another quick note.

"When Aaron told you what he'd overheard, how did it make you feel?"

"Sexy." I replied immediately, then added: "Desirable. Foolish."

"Why 'foolish'?"

"Because you and Aaron, among others, have tried so hard to convince me that turning fifty isn't terminal, and that I wouldn't listen. Because finding out that one so young wanted to have sex with me brought it home."

Dr Chandler jotted a few more notes. "Next Tuesday," he began, "you plan on swimming laps wearing a bikini. Why?"

The question caught me off guard. "Why next Tuesday?" I replied, "Or why swim laps in a bikini?"

"Both."

After a moment's thought, the answer became blatantly clear. "To thank Mason for wanting to have sex with me." I heard myself say, "To thank him for helping me be young again."

A few more notes.

"So; after next Tuesday, the bikini goes back on the shelf?"

"No." I replied with new-found confidence, "Although the day will come when I no longer look good in a bikini, and they will go back on the shelf, that day is somewhere down the road. Until then, unless my wearing one would be inappropriate, I plan on keeping them an integral part of my wardrobe."

Dr Chandler jotted another note.

"A few minutes ago," he said, "I asked if your, sex-kitten outfit was for my benefit, or if it was a real change. Your response was that, hopefully, it was real."

"You then asked me if I planned on going back to being a grown-up, to which I said: no."

"To which you said: 'Possibly . . . but I doubt it.'."

"Did I?"

"You did."

(I had.)

"Just now, you said, without hesitation, that you planned on keeping bikinis as an integral part of your wardrobe. How about the rest of your pre grown-up clothing? Will they become integral parts as well?"

"Most certainly." I replied, with a smug smile.

"How can you be so sure?"

"Easy. You see, last Saturday Aaron and I went through my closet and bagged all the dowdy."

"And?"

"And; we made a sizable donation to the Guild for the Poor. Which means, if I decide to try and go back, I will have to buy a whole new wardrobe. Which will prove to be a very expensive proposition and should dissuade me. . ."

****** *********

For those of you who have been faithful readers, you are probably more than a bit confused as to where I'm going with this.

For those of you who are first-timers, you are probably wondering: what the hell?!

The answer (for both of you) goes something like this. A little more than two years ago, I turned the big five-oh. Just another birthday. Right? Except for the fact that (despite my best attempts to remain 'forever forty-two') hitting the half century mark did a real number on me.

Within the first month, my heels had been traded in on flats.

Two weeks later, the hemline on my skirts and dresses went from an inch or two above my knee, to mid calf.

By the end of the second month, let's just say that Ms Hillary Clinton was a bigger fashion plate than I.

To say the least, my wardrobe change was disconcerting. But by comparison, nowhere near as disconcerting as the fact that I had begun acting as if I was mere days from moving into a nursing home. Nor as worrisome as the fact that I had begun doubting just about everything. Especially my sexuality.

Fortunately, a LOT of people who care about me, saw what was going on and convinced me to seek help.

Which is why I enlisted the services of Dr Chandler.

So; if you would like to hear more of my story on battling-back, please read on. If not. . .

****** *********

". . . I must ask." Dr Chandler said, with a quizzical smile, "When you decided that it was time to start 'dressing your age', you kept everything you'd deemed inappropriate. But now that you've decided to reverse course, you got rid of all the; dowdy, I believe you called it. How come?"

"My first transformation was subtle." I replied without hesitation, "I didn't really realize what was happening. This time, I was a woman on a mission, and I wanted to make myself think twice if I ever decided to go back."

"Interesting."

Dr Chandler jotted a few more notes, then leaned back in his chair and shook his head. "After thirty- some years of practice, it still amazes me how the most innocent of events can often have the power to make us realize the truth." he said.

"When you began relating the conversation Aaron had overheard, I could see exactly where you were going with it. It made sense. For better or worse, you allow your sexuality to play a key role in defining who you are; which made it logical that your turning point would be learning that not only did someone like Mason find you attractive, but that he also wanted to have sex with you."

"I suppose." I replied softly, suddenly filled with melancholy.

"But?" he said just as softly.

"When Aaron told me what Mason and Josh had said," I began, "there was a part of me that was overjoyed. There was also a part of me that didn't want to believe."

"Which is understandable."

"So why did I choose to believe?" I asked.

"My best guess?" Dr Chandler replied, "For months now, you've been looking for someone to give you permission to return to the life you'd abandoned, and this young man gave it to you."

"That makes no sense." I challenged.

"Chris," Dr Chandler continued, "when you turned fifty, for some reason, you made a conscious decision to start acting your age. Problem was: you already were. So, to make the transition you thought you needed to make, you went out and bought clothes that fit the image you had created, and started changing your behavior.

"I'm still not sure what brought on your sense of urgency; but what I am sure of is the fact that it didn't take long for you to realize something was amiss and that you needed help."

"Are you saying that if Mason had voiced his desire to fuck me the day after my fiftieth I would have been okay with hitting the half-century mark?" I asked, in a tone verging on sarcastic.

"Not at all." Dr Chandler replied, "In fact, had you learned of his desires then, you probably would have dismissed them in the blink of an eye. Why? Because at that moment, that's not what you wanted, or needed to hear."

"Because I hadn't hit bottom yet?"

"Because you didn't know what you wanted yet. . ."

****** *********

See what having a milestone birthday can do to you?

****** *********

". . . sometimes I'm a slow learner." I laughed.

Without warning, the melancholy returned. "Okay. I sort of understand why I started dressing and acting the way I did, and almost understand why Mason helped me turn the corner . . . but I still can't figure out the other part."

"You mean why you started fixating on giving yourself over; completely, to another woman?"

"Yes."

Dr Chandler opened my folder to a page he had flagged.

"Since our last session, I read the postings you have on Literotica." he said, "The ones you asked me to."

I could feel my face . . . neck . . . chest blush. I studied his expression; searching for clues.

"What . . . what did you think?" I asked, overwhelmed by fear.

"What struck me most," he began, "was checking your profile, and discovering the sheer volume of stories you've written."

"There are . . . quite a few." I heard myself say.

"You seem ashamed of the fact."

"A little."

"Why?"

I thought for a long while, considering my response carefully, then answered in a flamboyant manner: "By day: straight-laced CPA. By night: nymphomaniac writer of erotica!"

Dr Chandler jotted a quick note.

"Interesting." he said with the greatest poker face ever, "Would it be safe to say you feel like you're leading a double life? One respectable, the other not?"

"Yes." I replied softly; then added, my volume once more returning to normal: "I often wonder what my friends, colleagues, clients would think if they ever found out about my . . . dark side."

"Most of them would be envious." Dr Chandler said, very matter-of-fact, "For many people, the idea of exploring their sexual desires, is just too far out of their comfort zone. Let alone writing about them."

"Like my friend Jannelle." I replied, with a nod.

"The one who went to the funeral home wearing little more than . . . a string of pearls, some heels and a long raincoat?" he quoted from (my posting) Christina: At the Cabin.

"Yes." I said, growing more nervous by the moment.

"Although many mainstream writers view erotica as; substandard, it does have its place." he continued, "For the shy and timid, it gives them a voyeuristic peek into a world that is far different from the one they call home.

"For you, it provides an opportunity to explore the 'dark side' of your personality; and gives you a forum to relate your adventures."

Dr Chandler turned to another page he had marked in my folder.

"Becky's Instruction. Becky's Instruction Chapter two. Christina: Yes Mistress."

The moment I had been dreading was at hand. The postings he'd just listed were chronicles of my friend Becky's (and my own) venture into the world of Mistresses and subs.

I waited; nervously, as he pulled a page he'd printed (from Becky's Instruction), and read:

". . . Deanna smiled, and raised an eyebrow. 'Open your blouse.' she said.

'Pardon?!'

'Don't make me tell you twice.'

Deanna's tone was soft and soothing, yet threatening. Not wishing to anger, Becky hurriedly undid the buttons and allowed her more-than-ample breasts to tumble free.

'Now remove it.'

As if her free will had suddenly been taken from her, Becky did as instructed. She then stood perfectly still, naked from the waist up, as Mistress Deanna gave her a visual inspection.

'Turn around.'

The cold, wintery air stung Becky's breasts and thick middle. Slowly, she turned, until she was facing the street. 'Stop!' Deanna commanded.

A minute. Two. Three, passed. Becky shivered in the icy cold air.

Another minute. Two. A car drove slowly down the street. Becky's heart pounded with fear.

'You may put your blouse back on, little one.' Deanna said, 'Then cum inside.'

Becky watched the taillights disappear around the corner, then slowly put her blouse back on and fastened the buttons. Her fingers (and other parts) were freezing. A sense of embarrassment/ disbelief washed over her. Had she actually, without question, taken her blouse off at the behest of a total stranger? While standing outside? In the wintertime? Where anyone could see?"

Memories of the weekend Becky and I spent putting fingers to keyboard came back in a rush.

"How do you think Becky felt when your sister ordered her to expose herself like that?"

More memories. These from the way I felt when Becky made me do virtually the same (my posting titled Christina: Yes Mistress).

"Scared. Exhilarated." I replied.

"Interesting."

Dr Chandler returned the page to his notes. Studied me for a long while.

"The time you spent role playing online with Victoria . . ."

****** *********

A lifetime ago, I received a 'feedback' e-mail from a woman named Victoria. Using e-mail and online chat, we had many Mistress/ sub sessions, in which we took turns embracing each role.

How far did it go? In the role of sub; per my Mistress' instruction, I once shed my skirt and panties – yes, naked from the waist down – sat at my desk and had a meeting with a client.

Did I see the client out when the meeting was over? Um. No.

As Mistress, what did I have her do? Hand a (female) Barista a note expressing in no uncertain terms the sexual favors she would provide in exchange for a deluxe espresso.

Did the girl accept her offer? No. She politely declined.

****** *********

He paused. Studied me some more. "Which did you prefer: being the Mistress or the sub?"

"Sub." I answered honestly.

"But more times than not, she convinced you to take on the role of Mistress."

"Correct."

"If Victoria were to appear at your door, and commanded you to perform cunnilingus on her, would you do it?"

My heart began to pound. Dr Chandler had definitely struck a nerve. "Probably not."

"Why."

"Online was fantasy. In person would be reality." I answered spontaneously.

"I want to read you a couple passages from Christina: Yes Mistress. Although they will be out of context, I doubt that will really matter much. The first; Becky is speaking.

'Christina; does the phrase 'Be careful what you ask for because you might just get it.' mean anything to you?'

'Yes Mistress.'

'I'm glad; because I must tell you, before I gave myself over to Deanna, it didn't for me.'

Becky raised both eyebrows, and nodded as she spoke, 'It does now.'

Her message was clear.

'When I was going back to school,' Becky said, almost lectured, 'my human sexuality class barely touched on the erotic nature of one woman being submissive to another. I'm not sure why, since having a firm understanding of 'control issues' is key, to being a good counselor.'

A combination of fear and anticipation welled in me.

'Unless I miss my guess,' she continued, 'the idea of having to obey my every command or suffer the consequences terrifies you. But here you are. Naked. Ready and willing.

'Put your hands behind your head and interlace your fingers!'

The sudden change in Becky's tone startled me. Without hesitation I did as told. Immediately, I could feel my breasts lift up; my nipples strain against the clamps. Becky rose to her feet and strutted over to me. As before, she circled me. . ."

With clarity, the moment flashed in my mind.

"The second.

. . . Her fingers combed my maiden curls. Danced through them. Teased them. Took hold of them, and tugged on them. Gently at first; then more and more viciously.

I drew a sharp breath.

'Did I hurt you?' Becky asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

My mind raced. 'No Mistress.' I lied.

An even more vicious pull. 'That was for trying to deceive me.'

Another vicious pull. 'That was to serve as a reminder of who's in charge here.'

'Yes Mistress. Thank you Mistress.' ."

A wave of humiliation.

"The third. Becky is speaking.

'. . . Now, to prevent you from ending this little exercise too soon, I'm going to remove the nozzle (from the enema) and replace it with a retention (butt) plug.'

I glanced back, and was horrified by what I saw. The plug was huge! Its bulbous head looked to be a good two inches in diameter, and abruptly tapered back into a smooth and straight shaft that was at least four inches long. Its base was wide, and perfectly contoured to nestle right in between my reddened cheeks.