Kimmie grabbed the towel quickly to cover herself. Glancing down, she saw a line of her own wet footprints leading to and from the shower. For a moment, it crossed her mind that she didn't really need to get out of the shower to pee...then she forced the thought away like a bad dream. Wrapping the towel tightly around her breasts and body she shook her head for the mess she made, then, grabbing another towel, she dropped to her knees to wipe up the water.
Another therapist, another couple of hours wasted, she thought as she cleaned. More stress from trying to escape the stress, does this make sense? They always ask the same questions...what about your childhood?...how's your marriage?...and, heaven forbid, they always asked about sex. Why, always about sex? What possible difference could that make to my stress level? They're all just sex-addled pervs anyway. "There", she said, rising. With a start her towel dropped and she let out a gasped, "oops!" She pulled the towel up quickly, covering her nudity against no one's gaze but her own.
Quietly, in the empty house, Kimmie walked to the bathroom door and peered into the bedroom, then closed the door. Facing the bathroom mirrors, she opened the towel like a Central Park flasher and inspected her body. Blushing slightly, she admired her full breasts (Yes- 36, why do you ask?), light brown dollar sized (and I'll give you change back) nipples, conservatively trimmed V and, her straight, firm legs. Not a bad body for a thirty year old, not bad at all, she thought, then dismissed the thought quickly. With a sigh, she closed the towel and shook her wet hair back.
She dressed in white cotton panties, khaki shorts for a warm day, thick sports bra to keep her breasts under wraps and a thin white cotton tee shirt to keep cool in the mid-day drive. She brushed her hair, her teeth, anointed with lotions, and made a simple application of make up. There, good enough for a stranger who just wants my time and money...no, must think positive....she shook her shoulders slightly to settle the tension and grabbed her keys and purse on the way to her car.
She pushed open the doors and strode into the foyer of the office building. She checked her hand written notes against the address at the top of the building guide and then ran her finger down the listings. Suite 2D, Medical Offices. The elevators were in front of her, but, with a glance, she took in the two flights of open stairs and opted for them. Taking the steps two at a time, she quickly climbed the stairs to the next floor. In front of her, a twenty-something brunette sat behind a receptionist's desk, chewing gum and talking on the phone. The waiting area was empty.
The receptionist appraised her. Another up tight, square shoed, white cotton, marriage refugee. "Gotta go, a patient is here.", she hung up the phone.
"May I help you?", she asked, donning her best, "I'm not thinking what I'm thinking smile".
"Yes. I have a 1:00pm appointment with Dr. Buck."
"You're lucky to get in so quickly, we had back to back cancellations this afternoon, fortunately."
"Yes. Fortunately." She shifted her weight to her other foot and crossed her ankles.
"I'll let the doctor know that you're here."
"That'll be fine."
She glanced again around the empty waiting room. Kimmie choose the seat that let her keep her back to the wall and watch the stairs, the desk and the entrance the doctor's office all at once. Wild Bill Hickok style, or was it Buffalo Bill? She absently prodded the stack of magazines.
Newsweek. A too-thin, too-flexible woman doing yoga on the cover with a silly smile on her face. Aquarium Life. How to get your Guppies Breeding Overtime! American Journal of Hypnotherapy. Finding the Goals within the Subconscious.
Turning away, she stared out the window. Then, in a double take, flipped the magazines again. Finding the Goals within the Subconscious? What does that mean? She picked up the magazine, flipped to the article. Skimming the sidebars, she picked up: 'Patients often bury their own goals within their deepest thoughts. 'Sex, love, money, power may be lurking motivations that your patients don't realize they possess. '
Crap, she thought, and then tossed the magazine back down. I will be damned if I'll let this guy charge me for an hour if he makes me wait past my appointment time. She flushed slightly, letting her anger rise.
"Miss. Please come in. The doctor is ready for you."
Standing, she walked to the offered door, held open by the twenty-something. The door was partly blocked by the receptionist, forcing her to turn sideways to get by. At that moment, the doctor stepped into the hallway beyond the door, catching Kimmie's eye. Her breasts slid across the breasts of the receptionist. Slide, soft thump, slide, and soft thump.
Now, that was graceful, she thought. The receptionist giggled like she liked it, dark tiny nipples at attention, and closed the door. Turning to the doctor, Kimmie felt the heat rise in her face. Her anger disappeared in an instant.
"Hi. I'm Dr. Buck." He extended his hand, pretending not to notice her close encounter with his receptionist.
"Hi. Nice to meet you Dr. Fuck..er..Buck..".
He shook her hand firmly, smiling evenly, and showed no reaction. "Hi, relax. Come on in." His eyes traced her neckline, her curves, and settled on her tightly bound breasts. Then back to her eyes. Hey, I saw that, she thought.
"Please, get comfortable."
"Thanks. I'll try."
His office was furnished in early Sigmund Freud. The classic therapist couch (I've never seen one of those for real, she thought). Dark wood. Comfortable rug. Broad desk with a single file open. Large chair for him.
Sit down, he said, offering the chair to her. He sat on the couch. He swung his feet up and kicked off his shoes. She sat staring at him, confused.
"Sorry. This must be a little strange. I just need to get my feet up after my noon work-out."
"Oh."
She realized she could look at him in profile, while he looked up at the ceiling. In an instant, her eyes roamed him. Blue eyes, now closed, thick brown hair, broad chest, bulge hung to the left, long legs.
Eek. Bulge on the left, what am I thinking?
Kimmie felt an unwelcome, pleasant twinge between her legs. She crossed her legs tightly and stared out the window. For a moment, she remembered a beach, her husband, and a salty, fertile, musky smell...the ocean? Another wild thought escapes? Sorry, Bono, now I know what you were singing about.
"Now, before we start, why don't you ask any questions that come to mind."?
She sat, again dumbfounded.
"Well. Ok." A moment ticked by. "So what does the CCHT mean behind your name?"
"Certified Clinical Hypnosis Therapist."
"Oh."
Hypnosis, great, I'll be dancing around clucking like a chicken in no time. That'll relieve my stress.
"So, let's discuss your reason for being here. Tell me about what you'd like to achieve..."
