[In Part 1 of this story, readers met Dr. Lorraine Theriault, a licensed psychologist and registered nurse. As a 22-year-old otherwise healthy man, I had been referred to her with an embarrassing problem: I could not sustain an erection when trying to penetrate a woman. I had been treated by several medical doctors and behavioral professionals, but none had resolved my problem. Finally, my most recent doctor's office manager suggested Dr. Theriault.
With patience and unorthodox treatment methods, this 49-year-old woman had both solved my problem and uncovered what she called my remarkable "gift." It had been an expensive discovery for her. First she had done several laboratory tests on me. They indicated something, but she was not sure exactly what. Then she hooked me up to a laboratory instrument of her own creation to gather some data while I was masturbating. When I orgasmed, her machine fried. Well, actually only a couple of its sensors smoked. But the machine was not happy.
It wasn't until a few weeks later when Lorraine and I fucked (the first time I had ever been able to successfully penetrate a woman) that she fully understood why her machine had been damaged. It seems that while my body is building toward orgasm, it is also generating and storing an electrical charge. When I orgasm (or maybe just before) while in contact with my partner's sensitive sexual trigger spots, the electrical current is discharged. It is not a quick discharge, nor is it lethal. When I fucked Lorraine and came inside of her, she experienced a prolonged and remarkably intense orgasm. Based on her personal experience, she called it my "gift." I wasn't so sure.
During her initial interview and examination with me, Lorraine had determined what traits and characteristics in a woman were sexually exciting for me. What she found was that my preferences were for mature women who were vocal during sex and who recognized their own body hair could be a sexual facilitator, an aphrodisiac, with me. Obviously, there had to be more, something of a personal chemistry between us. In every respect, Lorraine met all my desires and expectations in a sexual partner. Moreover, she preferred me as a much younger man with stamina and a reasonably open mind. Since then we have sex almost weekly, sometimes twice weekly.
Until she treated me and experienced my "gift" personally, Lorraine had rejected the thought of writing for peer review in professional journals. After we had fucked two or three times, she felt there needed to be something documented about my condition. Since she could not both participate and write objectively about my condition, she had been carefully reviewing her clients to see if any of them might be a suitable laboratory sex partner for me. Of course, her first concern was that neither the prospective partner nor I could in any way be harmed by engaging in intercourse while she watched and recorded the interaction. Thus far, she had not found a suitable partner.
That brings us to Part II of the story. ]
*
I walked into my apartment and practically threw my book bag across the room toward the sofa. It had been a rotten day.
First my master's thesis committee had contacted me to schedule a supposedly urgent meeting, but when I arrived at the appointed place, on time, a note on the door just said, "Tom: Sorry, must reschedule. Call me."
So then I went to the university's swimming pool to swim off my frustration with some laps. As an undergraduate I had been on the swim team all four years. As a graduate student, I swim two or three times weekly just to stay in shape and work off frustrations. But when I arrived at the pool, it was filled with people from the community. The university had decided that with the economic downturn, it would open the pool at certain times to anyone and everyone and all their pool toys. I did manage to get a few laps in before the townies with their water play toys overwhelmed me.
The only thing that had a chance of turning out well was I had an appointment with Dr. Lorraine Theriault.
I took a quick shower to get rid of the chlorine odor lingering from the pool water. Then I dressed in jeans and a tee-shirt and headed to Lorraine's.
I arrived promptly and rang the doorbell. Her office was in her home, so there were no signs or other outward indicators of a business presence.
She greeted me with a bright and warm smile. She was wearing a very conservative pantsuit. She had a way of sending subtle sexual signals to me by the clothing she wore at our meetings. If she was wearing a skirt with dark stockings of slacks or a pantsuit, the meeting would likely be all talk, no sex. If she was wearing a skirt with no or sheer stockings, sex was a definite possibility as the meeting progressed.
"Let's go into my office, Tom."
Her demeanor was reminiscent of my first appointment with her. All business. She gestured to the easy chair in front of her desk. She seated herself behind, hiding her gorgeous legs under the desk out of sight, out of mind (well, not completely out of mind). Yet in our first meeting, she had been confident and clearly in control. Now, today, she seemed a bit unsure, maybe uneasy.
"After our last session, I went to my regular appointment with my cardiologist."
Instantly she was acutely aware of the distress her statement had caused me.
"Oh, don't worry. I've had a condition called atrial fibrillation for several years. It's just an irregular heartbeat. It seems to be more common or maybe just more noticed by people as they reach middle age. The condition itself is not the problem as much as the possible secondary effects. I don't really need to go into all the details. A-Fib is often controlled with medication. It has been in my case. There are other, often more permanent treatment options involving radio frequency energy. In my case, the doctor felt that medical control was appropriate."
"So are you telling me that we can't have sex any more because my charged orgasms may hurt you?" I asked rather indelicately.
Her stern expression flashed first to surprise and then to one of reassurance.
"Not at all, Tom. In fact, quite the opposite. I went to my cardiologist for a scheduled checkup after the second or maybe third time we had sex. She noticed a dramatic decrease in my A-Fib, so she reduced my medication. I think she fully expected the A-Fib to worsen. It didn't. When I went back for my next scheduled checkup, the A-Fib had declined even more. That's when she decided to take me off my meds entirely, but she wanted to see me monthly. Of course, you and I have had sex many, many times, but I never made any connection between the lessening of my condition and our sex until the doctor did more comprehensive tests. She said that my A-Fib was gone, and more than that, it was as if I had received the radio frequency treatment that often cures it. That's when it occurred to me that our sex might have been not only exceedingly pleasurable but also therapeutic."
"What did your doctor say when you told her about us?"
"I didn't tell her, Tom. I told you during our first meeting I would never betray your trust."
"Well, I think you should tell her. If we're doing anything that either helps or hurts your health, your doctor and you need to know that."
"Thank you, Tom. I was sure that is what you would say. There is more to this story, but I can't share it with you until after my appointment with her Friday. But just to be clear, you don't object to my telling her everything about our visits and even showing her your records and the videos of our sessions?"
All of Lorraine's examination and treatment rooms are fully wired with concealed audio and video recording equipment. All parts of each room, except the dressing room, shower, and toilets were covered completely. Audio and video recording of her sessions was only done with the client's explicit consent. I had consented early, so each of our sessions had been recorded.
I thought about it for a while. Although Lorraine's treatments had not exactly turned me into an exhibitionist, she had made it much easier for me to be able to both discuss and also display my sexuality, at least with her in her office. Now she was talking about someone else possibly watching me jack off and us fuck. She had always been completely honest with me, and I felt it important to reciprocate now. And yes, I guess I might have been a little excited at the possibility of an unseen third person watching.
