She had come to me from a recommendation of a colleague. I had a full patient load, nothing too exciting really. A mix of bi-polar, manic-depressives and one obsessive compulsive. This one though, this one was so very, very different.
I had only agreed to the meeting to be courteous. She arrived at five, my last patient. My secretary Sara buzzed me, to let me know she was here. Lauren stepped into the room, and I instantly felt my heart skip. She was wearing a long dress, a deep blood red and black. I know nothing about fabrics, just that this was dark, a swirling pattern.
She had on far too much jewelry, so much that it worked. I saw that each finger had a ring. Multiple bracelets on each slim wrist.
My mind jumped at obsessive compulsive- that would be the mark here. The makeup so perfect, the hair swept back except for the ringlets she dangled on each side. The effect was breathtaking and carefully calculated. I could not see the shoes. Only razor sharp tips, black like the dress. She settled back into the chair, my hand weak from the grip she gave when we shook hands.
She looked around my office, eyes appraising the contents. She stopped at the Tamara De Lempicka, then the Alma Tadema, Rosetti. I saw her lips curl into either a smile or sneer. I could not tell. She swept over the bookcases, the historical figures in the glass case, painted by me. She said nothing, staring with dark intensity. I could tell I was being snap judged also, the realization focusing me back to the task of getting her to talk, to tell me why she was here. We made small talk, her medical history, family. She had a deep lyrical laugh.
She told me that therapy was not her idea, but her husbands. He felt that she had become too aggressive, was not herself. She laughed as she told me. I felt myself hanging on her every word, much more than most patients, I'm ashamed to admit. I blushed when she caught me staring at her mouth as she formed words, wondering what she tasted like. We agreed to a weekly schedule, Fridays, my last appointment.
I went home and could not get her out of my head. I realized when she left that I had been hard since she walked in. I had nothing to base this arousal on; I had met more attractive women, had been to bed with them.
This was different, the way she studied me, sized me up was thrilling. I wondered what she thought of me, my mind drifting to what she looked like under those clothes. Like a teenager I went to my bedroom, slipping down my pants, jacking off quickly, the semen sticking to my stomach. I dressed before my wife got home, sheets changed to avoid any questions.
Weeks went by, I learned of her past, the wanton sexuality. She spun tales that would have made DeSade blush crimson. She dressed more provocatively each time we met, her stories more detailed. I was not sure what was true, what was her fantasy life.
My hands shook sometimes as she told me of nights prowling the streets, picking up men, fucking them, leaving to find another, the sperm still hot in her as another man slipped in. She told me that she loved that feeling, one mans semen lubing her as she took another in. They always told that she was so hot, so 'wet'. Lauren told me that she had to stop herself from laughing, giving her secret away. She said she always agreed, told them how good they were, blah blah, blah....lies whispered to shut them up.
My hands tried to write as she crossed and uncrossed her legs deliberately. I had a clear view, right to her center. I thought the lips called to me, parted and wet. I could hear them, then I truly felt like I was losing my grip, that I was going to need my own therapist.
