Stephanie The Fourth Session Aftermath

Stephanie: the Fourth Session Aftermath

I've put this episode in the LESBIAN section, firstly because it deals only with lesbian sex, ie. there are no men in it, and secondly I'd love for it to be read (and enjoyed) by lesbians.

BUT!!! Note: there are references to 'buggery' and 'spunk' in it (it is part of a series in the ANAL section). So please avoid if you would be offended by that. Dildonicus

The tone of this episode is a homage to

Taylor_b

's lovely story 'Something for her Arse'--a highly recommended read, for lovers of curvy bums everywhere.

15:47

The room that she used, for her therapies on all matters sexual, was in an annexe to the main building. The building itself belonged to the National Health Service, part of the Mental Health Unit.

In Alison's little--only partly used--piece of the facility, there were no assistants or secretaries, and--today being a Thursday--no other rooms actually in use. It was quiet, save for the muted bustle filtering into its corridors from the main block. Dust floated in the bars of sunlight that entered through the old, metal framed windows. Room six's door, at the very end of the hall, was efficiently painted an NHS cream, and bore the legend: DR.ALISON BRIDGFORD PhD, SEXUAL THERAPY.

They lay on their sides; naked, exercised and replete. The therapy room carpet was functional but soft and eminently welcoming, to bare, traumatised skin. Alison was in a near foetal position, her hands her pillow, her gaze a mile away, through the large, single window. There were trees, a telephone mast.

Stephanie lay immediately behind her, in a similarly curled position but up on an elbow, directly facing the other's full, flushed bottom. She was perusing the nylon-bristled head of a hairbrush, that luridly protruded from its cheek cleavage.

"You have a stunning rump," she said, with awe.

Eternally, supremely, penetrable

occurred to her. She endeavoured to discover, soon, if there had ever been a cock up there. She hadn't said...

"I know--it goes with my stunning mammaries and stunning legs. I'm stunning all over," came the purred reply, the voice floating over her shoulder.

"I know you know...just wanted to say it," she said enrapt, offering a long, red-varnished fingernail gingerly to the hard, purple plastic. "Wanted to hear the sound of the words, floating about." She tapped it gently--just enough to send the tiniest vibration along it, to the nerve receptors of the anus that gripped it.

"Don't," was the barely audible response, although the smooth flesh of her palm-reddened globes did twitch, in a furtive appreciation. There was a silence, then: "We have to get dressed--I have another client." She lifted an arm, checked her tiny watch, then let it fall. She exhaled deeply, with a content sound.

"Who is it," Stephanie droned, fixated by the hairbrush. It had been her mother's...

"Ahmm...Mister....Mister Myers--four thirty. Erection problems...esteem, you know..."

"Oh him," came the disinterested reply. Her attention was still firmly elsewhere. "I used to do the housework, you know...with this stuck up my bum. Naked." Tease time--just a quickie, before everything breaks up. Couldn't do any harm, surely.

"You did what..." No movement, just a slight raise in volume.

"Mmm, it was really nice. Had a mad summer--year of the hormones--you know...anything went," she drawled, getting into her stride. She stroked the nylon bristles with a fingertip, this way, then that. "I was...quite young. Summer of... '96, must've been--"

"Ninety six."

"Mm--must've been. Year granny died...yes. Everything was...happening. Randy--you know? So randy. No pants in class--the lot. So...mum and dad worked together at the same place--house to myself a lot, you know? School was off...hot, that summer was. Too hot for clothes--proper ones, anyway..." Wait. Seek encouragement before proceeding.

"Proper ones--what does that mean, proper ones?" the back of Alison's head appeared to ask, blithely. Her round, fulsome thighs changed position slightly.

"I mean proper clothes--clothes that cover your bits up; ones that haven't been ripped or cut about, so your tits are all bare--I was a C-cup when I was

twelve,

you know?" Conceited. "--and your arse and pubes are all showing. I made a skirt, a wraparound--no pants, obviously--too hot--out of one of mum's old silk scarves. Bum cheeks half showing, and pubes left completely exposed, by a wide slit up the front...right up to the waist. Looked lovely in the big mirror--I used to pretend I was at a disco--you know, dancing, and that, in front of it. Sister Sledge on the stereo. I loved the way dancing to the beat made my tits jiggle, and bounce around... Mmm," she went. She was taking a gentle hold of the brush head, as she saw the skin of Alison's back seeming to react to an invisible caressing.

"It was the least I could do," Stephanie continued, "to do a bit of tidying up, while mum and dad were out, slaving away, putting food on the table." She carefully began to push the already snug brush handle a little more than fully home, before drawing it--

"Don't," came the response; but no attempt was made to halt the proceedings. "Stop it--I have another client..."

"I'm not doing anything," Stephanie droned, lifting her upper knee skyward, allowing her free hand a lazy access to her own moistening genitals. The dildoing being perpetrated by her other hand was insidious and sly; shallow movement, and languid. Hardly merited a sustainable objection, really. She continued her impromptu confession, noting the subtle deepening of her victim's breathing.

"I did it--the hoovering and dusting and that--nude a few times, it was nice. I liked cleaning the windows like that--no Windolene, of course, just a dry cloth, just a polish. Keep 'em sparkling...but I soon found a nicer way," she mouthed. "Much better with something on--but not covering a damn thing, all my rude bits showing--I tell you," she said, starting to probe a little more deeply now, just a little faster, "that was the summer I got addicted to the taste of my own sweet cunt juice--I was addicted to it...still am." She lazily licked her slick, wet fingers, like a child with chocolatey hands.

"It wasn't long, of course, that I progressed to shoving stuff up me--utensils, and that. I felt

so

beautiful, walking around the house like that, with, say...dad's toothbrush up my slippery cunt--right up to the head..."

That

was nice, you know," she remembered. "Complimenting dad on how white his teeth looked just after he'd cleaned them...when half an hour before I'd been stroking my clit with the bristles...didn't even rinse it--half hoped he'd smell something. Taste it. He never did...Anyway--" she continued, nearing a full depth, steady rhythm with the improvised probe. She flicked a glance at her own, heavy breast on that side, as it wobbled in harmony with the movement. She loved the way they jiggled--even when just walking. This--this was heaven.

"I progressed, in very short order, to doing the chores like that--with everything showing, you know, and objects sticking out of me...grew to love doing the hoovering--the whole house, top to bottom. Wasn't long--"

"Stop it now, Stephanie," Alison opined. She was leaning further forward, and the hairbrush handle was sliding in and out a treat, not too fast, and full depth--just steady. "We've got to get dressed," she said. "--you have to go--I have another...appointment..." the last word was breathed, and accompanied with just a slight lean towards the floor. Coincidentally, it offered a better angle for the tool. More...comfortable, wasn't it. For the steady, metronomic invader.

"I know you do," said Stephanie. "And I'm not doing anything. I told you." The glistening handle was shiny, but unmarked. It winked at Stephanie on every out stroke. Out three quarters, and in, right up to the bristles. Out, and in. Out, and in. Steady as she goes. When she stops nobody knows.

"So," she resumed, "it wasn't long before one thing led to another and I tried experimenting with my bum--because that felt nice, too. I'd had this--" she gave the brush a gentle sideward jolt, "up my sweet cunt a few times--it's my mum's you know--and it was lovely. I fucked myself with it loads of times...Did the dusting like that, you know, stuck with it...what a gorgeous summer that was...So anyway--"

She dragged herself from that little reverie. "Not long before sweet Stephanie was parading around the house, with mummy's favourite hairbrush shoved right up her tight young bum--the dirty little slut. Hoovering?--no problem, stayed in a treat--waisted, isn't it--did the whole house a few times, like that. Hour and half! Kneeling on the dining room table, dusting imaginary cobwebs, from the ceiling?--I'm your girl; I just love to chip in--I'm helpful, like that. Wanted to mow the lawn, too--now that

would've

been gorgeous..." The garden had been just not quite private enough, she remembered.

Grrr.

"So," she finished."That's the, er...provenance, of this little beauty," she said. "But now, Madam, I think an anal orgasm is in order--just a little one. I want to see how...tactile your lovely bumhole is..."

With that, she began to increase the fequency and depth of her assault. In a very short time she was hammering her plastic heirloom into the soft, quivering cheeks, not at full speed but a speed that never failed to bring

her

off. Her lips were suddenly tight with determination, to conquer--

"Enough! Fucking little pervert--" Alison lurched forward, and away from her assailant; it popped out of her violated anus with barely a glimpse of the interior, the slick looking sphincter closing immediately to protect it.

Stephanie was left holding the shiny, purple baby, with a rueful grin on her face. It had not gone entirely unnoticed by her, that Alison, as she rolled away, was sporting a set of very wet, very engorged genitals indeed.

Get you properly next time,

she promised.

Outdoors.

"I think we'd better get dressed," Stephanie parroted, with a resignation. "You have another client. We'll be here all day, else," she added with a toothy grin.

Alison was standing now, inspecting her abused behind, feeling the wetness between the cheeks. The leaning afforded Stephanie a lovely view of her heavy, hanging, lipstick smeared breasts

I did that,

she bragged to herself.

And I will again, in a pub beer garden...and soon. There'll be an

audience

when you suckle me next.

"I'm not a lesbian," Alison finally managed, facing her. "And you shouldn't do that to me." She made to retrieve her blouse and, hopelessly damp skirt. She offered it to her face--fish factory floor rag. Useless--Mr. Myers would have a coronary. No way--unless...

"Could I borrow your skirt?" she asked. "It's drier than mine--it must be; this is...fucked. Stinks. We're the same size." She blinked.

Stephanie was in the process of buttoning up her own blouse, her full, cleavage perfect breasts--with similar evidence of attack by lipsticked mouth--being systematically obscured, button by button. Her Clairol black, trimmed pubic triangle peeped rudely from below it.

"It's a bit short," she said, meaning cheek-glimpsing, "and

you

haven't got any knickers either, have you," she arrowed. "Don't appear to have come to this...therapy session,

with

any, do you? Madam?"

Alison shot her the proverbial withering look. "They're in my bag, actually--"

"Oh,

I

see--" Stephanie retorted, "took them off, did you--just before I arrived, eh. Now, isn't that interesting...can't have forgotten then," she concluded. "Deliberate, premeditated act. You're guilty--of being...?" She gave Alison the opportunity of coming clean, to the authorities--make a clean breast of it.

"A slut?" Alison offered. She had her own blouse just about reinstated, was similarly naked below--the pube twins. "So, how about that swap--d'you mind?"

Stephanie pulled a moue. "Oh--you don't mind, then--me going home in a skirt drenched in your pussy juice?--Charming. I'll be arrested by the Minge Police--give it here, then."

They exchanged skirts, put them on.

"No, I don't mind that," Alison returned. "And you don't either--you'll just

love

it if anybody notices--

won't you?

Because you

like

doing it to them--to strangers, don't you..." Her eyelashes were batting.

"It is, ah, a hobby of mine," Stephanie admitted cheerfully. "That's true." She zipped up Alison's icky skirt--good fit. "We must be sisters," she mused, and stooped to retrieve her bag, and the discarded, rapidly drying hairbrush.

"Incestuous sisters," Alison countermused. "What a fucking afternoon, at the National Health." She tucked her creased blouse into the far too short, green satin skirt.

Stephanie chortled. "A fucking afternoon indeed...and both of us homosexual virgins, until this very day--who'd have thought

that...

"Well!" she chirruped finally, threw her bag over her shoulder, and picked a piece of lint from the abused hairbrush's handle. "I'll love you and leave you--I'll ring the receptionist...I'm sure I could...benefit greatly, from just a little more therapy--doctor. I'm almost...cured, I know I am. I've learned a lot about myself, I really have, I'm so grateful. Byeee!"

With that, she popped the hairbrush handle into her mouth, and began sucking on it like a baby. She turned with a skirt swirl, and left--mute and arrogant, closing the door behind her. Muffled, her high-heels clicked echoing up the corridor, fading into the afternoon.

Alison was staring at the door, drymouthed, stunned, and incredulous...with her hand, seemingly of its own volition, creeping up the inappropriately short skirt she wore until it reached a hot, slippery part of her, that was now in dire--desperate--desperate need, of a caress. What had that girl just done, and why had she done it? To shock, yes, but...

Honour. It was to do with honour, she realised quickly.

She had felt an instant compulsion to call out to her, as she had popped the perverted thing into her mouth--

Don't--Stephanie! There are germs!

Mother, concern, guilt.

But, she had immediately reminded herself, it would be hypocrisy. After all, it wasn't as though she hadn't already had a twenty minute service at least--by tongue--of her rectum this afternoon, by an extremely willing servant. No expressions of concern about hygiene

then

--not for a second. She had, she remembered to her sudden shame, actually

held

Stephanie there--by her hair.

Keep going baby--mummy likes that. You're doing it just right. My sweet darling. Now the other hole...that's nice.

But then--that had been...in the heat of the moment--driven spontaneously by desire. What her lover had just done was so...disembodied. Deliberate--a deliberate act, designed to...blow the brain of the cognizant observer?

To be blown away by the sight of someone like her--an Amazon--licking a spunklolly, for example, you had to know what spunk

looked

like--be familiar with it, with its texture, its slide, as it melted under the tongue.

Similarly, it was only

she

--Alison--that could be devastated by the...seeing, of her

doing

that, because only she--Alison--knew where it had just been...for half an hour, or more. Up her...dirtyhole.

Her

dirtyhole...

Another crazy idea ran wild eyed into her brain--what if, when she left, Stephanie

didn't

take the hairbrush out of her mouth--it's shocking purpose served--as she--Alison--would have assumed? What if she'd actually

left the building

like that, and crossed to the carpark, past bemused or disturbed faces, sucking the thing for a

different

gratification: not the joy of seeing the lust, or shock, or disgust on their faces, but...leaving them perturbed but

clueless

, blissfully unaware of of its obscene secret. The secret that only

she

--and her victim of course--were aparty to.

You may snigger, and scowl, and gossip,

she would think, striding past them, but if you only knew this silly, incongruous hairbrush's history...where it had been, what had it been used for--only minutes ago. If you

knew

that this absurd thing I am cheerfully sucking as I walk past you, had just been used, by me, to fuck another woman's rectum--at length and with enthusiasm and vigour--what would your reaction be then? Different--very different. And

that's

my fun this time--

if you drones only knew.

Suddenly, Alison knew--she

knew

that her dirty girl had done that--after all, it was cheap: how much does it

cost

you, to have strangers consider you--for a minute, before they forget it and get back to the chores, an eccentric or an oddball. A weirdo? So what. Don't know them. Never see them again, probably...all over in a trice--for them: but for herself, the performer, it was one for the memory banks indeed.

A very, very odd feeling came over Alison. She had just been...sapphically sodomised--and loved it--and now, in all probability, the perpetrator was swanning around sporting the

instrument

, in her mouth,

showing

it to people...everyone...

She shook her head, in a forlorn effort to straighten it. Today, she realised, was the most confusing, brain-mashing, fucked up day of her life, and she didn't know which way was up...

She reached around, touched her used bottom, felt the naked globes almost exposed by the inadequacy of the borrowed skirt...a toddler's treat of a skirt.

And what

about

this skirt! She'd been distracted--she must have been--to not fully appreciate just how

useless

it was, for anyone other than a prostitute--a fuckslut. What had she been thinking! She could feel her cheeks level with its hem--and it was now all she had to wear, here.

But, she might just get away with it, she thought, not a little irrationally--

fuck it,

she decided--there's still a tiny chance she could drag this day back into some semblance of normalcy yet. If she could just get through today--including the arranged session--she might just salvage some sanity. She picked up her bag, and opened it--

Fuck. Double fuck. That was it--game over. She'd taken her pants. Hadn't noticed her do it--but then why would she; the contents of her brainpan had been spinning like a catherine wheel for the last hour...still were. Fucking bitch. Sly, fucking, cuntbitch.

She was now stuck--at work, in a satin micro-skirt and no pants. No coat, nothing to cover her.

Forget

Mr. Myers, she told herself suddenly, feeling like a crash victim in shock. She was not only out of commission, she realised, but marooned--until everyone had left, at least. She just couldn't be

seen

like this--not at work, not here. She had a career! She hoped the janitor wouldn't have to throw her out...she had the keys to the annexe, and thank goodness for that.

She locked the door--when her client came, he would try it, knock in vain, be confused, angry or both...and leave.

Sorry. I'm so sorry. It's not possible.

She slid down the wall, and settled to wait, until the coast was clear. She opened her legs, and rested a palm on her naked, vulnerable crotch, protectively.

She wouldn't have been any use, anyhow, she knew now. It crossed her mind that she might be useless in that regard from here on in. Her head was...had been, fucked. She felt at this juncture an inability to interact with

anyone,

much less someone in need of her help, in need of a sympathetic, attentive ear. Someone whose attention

wasn't

in another...dimension entirely, one of willing slits and sphincters, tits and mouths and exploring fingers, driven by perverted, ravenous ideas...ideas that she could not ever imagine being able to banish from her brain.