Amy 8

'The little bastard!'

Amy snuck one hand across his mouth, the other under the waistband of his jeans, and jerked him backward from the cracked open door he'd been peering through. Tim jumped with shock and tripped over his feet because Amy pulled him so hard. Still, she managed to keep him upright, and stifle the grunt of surprise he made, as she bundled him through the adjoining door into his own bedroom.

"What on earth do you think you're doing, Tim?" She asked in an angry whisper as she released him.

"Nothing... "

"Liar!"

Amy slapped him across his face with the full flat of her hand.

"Fuck, Amy! That hurt."

"Amy? Is that you?" The voice came from his mother's bedroom.

Amy wagged a finger in warning at him - not that he was going to do anything, not with that furious expression in her eyes. She slipped out of his bedroom, and quickly moved to the other end of the corridor not.

"Hi, Susan. Yes, it's me."

"What was that noise?"

"I... I tripped over something. I'm ok, nothing broken."

"Is Tim with you?"

"He's around somewhere. Why? Do you want him?"

"No... just wondered. I'll be down in a little while. You can help me with supper."

Amy crept back to her cousin's bedroom door and beckoned him with a finger. She'd bawl him out downstairs, and not where her aunt might hear. He shook his head, a hand still pressed to the side of his face. Amy could see the redness from across the room, but she didn't care — he deserved it.

'Now!' she mouthed fiercely. 'Or else!'

He shrugged, rising off the bed, and Amy led the way downstairs to the room the household used as an office, thinking it to be about the furthest from her aunt's bedroom. She leaned back, her bottom conveniently resting against the edge of the desk, folding her arms across her chest, and waiting for him to come into the room.

"Close the door," she said firmly. "What the hell do you think you were doing, Tim?"

"Nothing!"

"Don't start that again, unless you want the other side slapped too. What were you doing?

"I was just going to the bathroom. I wasn't doing anything."

"Well, I watched you 'doing nothing' for at least two minutes with your head bobbing up and down. Trying to get a better view, were you?"

"I was just passing! I was trying to see if Mum was in."

"Oh, you've lost your voice have you? Couldn't call out? Don't you know peeping is wrong? You can't go peeping on your mother. You can't go peeping on anybody! Do you understand?"

Tim stood looking at the floor wearing a sheepish expression, from what she could see, and eventually nodded his head.

"I'm sorry. Are you going to tell Mum?" he asked, finally looking up, a slightly anxious expression creasing his face.

Amy couldn't tell whether his contrition was genuine — it had all the right components but she thought he might be faking... the blush, for one thing — she'd hit him so damn hard she couldn't distinguish blush from redness.

"I'll not tell, not for the moment, but... I want you to call my office in the morning and make an appointment. We'll have a talk about this problem you appear to have — on a professional level."

"Amy! I can't do that! I don't have a problem."

"Yes, you do Tim," Amy said in a gentler voice. "And you'll have a bigger problem if I tell your mother. So, do as you're told. The first thing you do tomorrow is phone my office and make an appointment."

Now he was blushing.

He sauntered shame-faced out of the room. Amy raised a hand to her mouth to silence a chuckle.

- - - - - - - -

"He was peeping! Honestly. His head was bobbing backwards and forwards, up and down, trying to get a better view of you. All the while he was rubbing himself off through his jeans."

"Oh dear," she laughed. "I should have made sure the damn door was properly closed."

"What were you doing, anyway?"

"You know... I get a little bored in the afternoons. Tim is usually at college. I'd forgotten he'd finished... and didn't expect you for supper so early. I was keeping myself amused."

"Yes... I can easily imagine. I've had the pleasure of watching you amuse yourself."

They weren't lovers, not really, just two people who decided to shun the rigors of middle-aged dating and who cherished a certain intimacy enhanced by familial ties that added a frisson to their play; theirs was a relationship of unsullied mutual pleasure.

"Do you want to watch now?"

"No... Aunty," she added for emphasis. "I'd much rather you do me. Catching Tim peeping has made me quite horny."

- - - - - - - -

The intercom buzzed — 'Tim is here', and Amy pressed the reply button, "Thank you, Mary. Five minutes then show him in."

She'd just finished entering up the notes on her last patient when Mary knocked lightly on her door and showed Tim into the consulting room.

"Hello, Tim." She smiled. "Sit yourself down." She pointed to the sofa along one side of her office. "Get comfy."

She watched his nervous glances around the room. He's clearly embarrassed, she thought, whether that's because he's here at the centre, or because he's shamed-faced about why he's here... I shall discover.

She moved from behind her desk and into an armchair, close to Tim, straightening her pleated black skirt beneath her as she sat, and arranging the matching jacket to hang neatly on her slim frame. She looked up and smiled inviting him to ask the obvious questions she could see in his expression.

"I didn't realise Mary worked with you."

"No reason why you should, Tim. You two have never really been close, not when you were growing up. When did you last see Mary?"

"We were just talking about that, while I was waiting. We both reckoned it was my fifteenth birthday party."

"So, that's what, almost four years ago?"

Tim nodded. "Well I'm guessing she looks at you differently now you've reached adulthood, you're no longer 'the baby' of the family."

"Mary's your receptionist." Tim asked.

"Well, yes - amongst other things. She's just completing her therapist training. She's been working with me part-time, while studying."

"What exactly do you do here?"

"What do you think we do here, Tim?"

"I'm not sure. I thought you worked as a psychiatrist, a therapist, or something."

"That's partly right. A lot of our work involves psychoanalysis and therapy. We specialise in sexual therapy, helping people overcome a wide range of sexual problems that darken their lives and sometimes the lives of people they come into contact with."

Amy paused for a moment, watching the little gestures and movements clearly expressed in his face and body language as Tim absorbed the salient content of her statement.

"Do you know why you are here today, Tim?"

"You told me to make an appointment."

"Yeesss... but do you know WHY you are here?"

"I guess you want to shout at me some more."

"I'm not going to shout at you," she said in her calmest, sweetest voice. "I was very angry with you on Monday, surprised more than anything, and I sincerely apologise for slapping you. That was wrong of me. I didn't ask you to make an appointment so that I could shout at you. What I would like is for you and I to discuss your little problem, like adults. Do you think we can you do that?"

He nodded sheepishly, already squirming a little at the intensity of Amy's look.

"It's is a common enough problem for boys — I'm sorry, young men of your age. Nothing that we can't resolve today, or perhaps with a further session."

She talked with him for a few minutes, mostly about what he planned to do now he was going to university, softening up stuff, just to get him talking. Amy already knew most of it from his mother, and slowly, she skilfully steered their conversation toward his friends and social life before plunging in.

"When you masturbate..."

"What?" Tim asked with a startled expression, his hands involuntarily moving into his lap.

"Masturbate, wank, toss off... what ever your generation calls it... "

"I don't," he blustered, glancing anywhere around the room except where Amy sat.

"Look at me." She commanded in a tone impossible to ignore, waiting until Tim's eyes returned to her. "Yes you do; all eighteen year olds masturbate, both boys and girls. There really is no point in pretending otherwise. Ok?"

Tim nodded... after a moment's reflection.

"What I want to hear from you is, when you masturbate, who are you thinking of? Is it a girlfriend, a girl from the internet, your Mum, or maybe it's me... or is it a boy?"

She spoke each component on her list slowly, letting each one register before moving to the next, closely observing his reactions, silently noting Tim's expression, when his eyes opened wide enough for them to drop out, and when his cheeks flushed with colour.

"Amy!"

"Tim, I thought we were going to be grown up. Anything you say here, anything that happens here, will never be repeated; it is completely and absolutely kept within these walls. So tell me, please, whom do you think about when you are masturbating?"

"I... I'm not... I can't."

"Ok. We'll take them one at a time if that will be easier for you. Let's start with boys. Do you ever think about boys when you masturbate?"

"No! Of course not!"

"I didn't think so, though you shouldn't dismiss male on male sexuality so lightly. There is absolutely nothing wrong in following that path, if that is where a person's happiness is to be found. Ok? So, don't rush to judge. Let's move on.

"The Internet next, that's really easy. I take it you look at porn, yes?"

He wrinkled his nose, and then nodded.

"Well, I'd be very seriously worried if you didn't. So, tell me what you like? Blondes? Brunettes? Redheads? Young girls, older women? You're of a good age to have a serious crush on older women."

Tim said nothing, just turned a deeper shade of red. Amy had dealt with worse.

"Ok. Let's try something else. What about breasts? Do you like large ones, little pointy ones, big nipples, introverted nipples...?

Pussies — do you like them shaved or hairy, spread or teasingly tucked between thighs, wet or dry...?"

Tim moved his hands over the threatening bulge in his trousers.

"Penetration... lesbianism," Amy continued. "Girls masturbating. Do you like to see girls masturbating, Tim?"

He nodded once and squirmed in his seat, trying not to be obvious, trying to get comfortable.

"Good. We are beginning to get somewhere. Now, when you are looking at the pictures of these girls masturbating, who are you thinking of? Is it just the picture on the screen, or do you fantasize, with a particular girl in mind?"

"Varies... If the girl is... you know... hot. Sometimes it's girls I know."

"Do you have a girlfriend, Tim?"

"Yes."

"Is she nice. Sexy?"

"She's ok."

"Ah... I take it from your less than enthusiastic response that she doesn't let you do anything. Is that it? Girls can be really awkward just at the age when you long to plunge headlong into discovery. Girls need to be wooed, they need you to be confident, and responsible, and above all else, they need you to be loyal and trustworthy. They are not going let you into their knickers if they think you'll be straight down the pub to boast about it.

"So, I imagine you get frustrated because she won't let you touch her, and you turn to the Internet for a bit of relief? That's perfectly normal for your generation. My generation had to rely upon magazines, with all the problems of where to hide them so parents wouldn't discover them. Is it your girlfriend that you visualise when you look at pictures of girls masturbating?"

"Be difficult. I've only ever seen her with her clothes on."

Amy regarded him in silence for an uncomfortably long time, watching him fidget, and imagining the conflicts and desires stirring his emotions.

"You are at that wonderful curiosity stage of imagining what a real pussy looks like and the screen images don't quite get you there; an abundance of curiosity and no way to release it. Tell me, Tim, was that why you were sneaking a peak at your Mum? Were you simply curious, or do you actually think about your Mum when you're wanking?"

"Amy... come on, that's not fair."

"Well... do you think about me? I'm only five years younger than Susan... but I don't think I'm exaggerating when I say I look at least ten or twelve years younger."

Tim cast his eyes round the room looking for some place to hide. "I'm not saying anything else. Do you have a toilet?"

Amy observed him for a moment, professionally, but with a deep smouldering gaze from Tim's point of view, which seemed focused around the level of his waist.

"Yes. Through there," she finally answered, pointing to a door.

Amy watched Tim shuffle to the treatment room, smiling, wondering quite what he would make of it. She looked at her watch, and thought she'd give Tim ten minutes, moving to her desk and pressing the intercom button.

"Mary, Tim's on channel 2 if you're bored."

Amy called up the treatment room video camera on her computer screen, noting Mary had wasted no time in logging on. Amy pooled her skirt onto her lap, and settled to watch Tim while her index finger drew figures of eight across the tight stretched fabric of her panties, using the end of her nail to focus the sensations.

It took Tim less than a minute to work out that the second light switch turned on a projector. Amy used the images for sexual therapy treatment — most were erotic rather than pornographic, although there were a few cum shots, vaginas and mouths — nothing Tim wouldn't have seen on the Internet. Tim, like a kid in a candy shop, didn't know quite what to look at first. The images, two and three times life size, were great, but so was the range of dildos on the shelf by a treatment couch. He'd not seen those before; well, only pictures. He picked one up, a pink one, and sniffed it.

"Did you see that, Amy?"

"Yes, quite funny."

"If I'd known, I'd have left my panties for him. Ooh, he's unzipping."

Amy quickly leaned forward, pulled up a sub-menu and loading images of herself, just her pussy and breasts, for Tim to enjoy.

"That's not fair. Put some of me up."

"Which ones, Mary?"

"The ones where I'm using that same pink dildo. Ooh... he's into it."

"Leave the line open Mary, I always enjoy listening to you."

Amy stretched back in her reclining desk chair, pushing her bottom into the seat and pulling the fabric tighter across her labia as she snuck her hand in from the side of her panties, enjoying the tight pull of the thong fabric across her anus rocking herself in the chair for effect. With two fingers, she worked herself off watching Tim spray with looping spurts onto the tiled floor and listening to Mary's gasped mewing through the intercom.

Amy cleaned her fingers on a citrus scented wipe (it masked any sexual odour that pervaded the office) and dropped it in the waste bin. Tidied herself, shut down the video and the intercom, blowing a kiss to Mary as she did so, and looked at her watch — eight minutes. 'Time flies when you're having fun,' she thought.

Tim emerged shyly from the treatment room and took a couple of steps into the office, turning his head back to the door, disbelieving where he'd been.

"Where were we?" Amy asked, with complete nonchalance, once again in her armchair as if she'd never left it. "Yes. I asked you when you masturbate; when you cum, do you imagine it is me you're unloading yourself into. Do you imagine it's my pussy, or do you imagine it's your Mum's?"

"I... What's that room for?"

"It's a treatment room for clients with serious sexual problems. Some people have to be stimulated to express themselves sexually. We can, if we think it will help them, show them pictures, teach them to masturbate, by themselves, or with a partner; and sometimes we teach them how to fuck. I don't think your problems are really all that serious, Tim." Amy struggled to keep her face impassive. "So I'm afraid you won't be getting to see our private porn collection. Are you going to answer my question?"

"And all those dildos — why so many?"

"Don't play naïve. You know full well what dildos are for. You've seen them in porn shots. Different girls and women like different things. Different colours for example. The dark ones excite some pale-skinned women and some dark-skinned women are the opposite. Some women can't get by without the bunny ears to stimulate their clitoris — you know what the clitoris is?"

"I've heard, seen pictures."

"Well, maybe we can ask Mary to demonstrate."

Tim turned so swiftly in the direction of the door to reception that he almost fell over.

Amy smiled. "Don't look so shocked. Come and sit down, before you fall over. Our primary function is to educate, so that our clients, such as you, know what they are doing and don't go fumbling around causing grief to everyone they touch. If we think our client will be best served by a personal demonstration, then that is what we do. You would be surprised how few men actually know where the clitoris is and how to give it the attention it deserves."

Tim sat, his mouth wide open, wondering what depth of ineptitude he'd have to display to get a 'personal demonstration'.

God, I love working with young men, Amy thought. They are so deliciously transparent. "You still haven't answered my question."

"What question?"

"Good heavens, Tim, concentrate! When you are cumming, whom do you imagine you are pumping yourself into? We appear to have narrowed the choice down to me... or your Mum, unless of course you now want to add Mary into the equation?"

Tim's eyes moved of their own volition back toward the reception room door and he tried to imagine Mary, what she might look like. He could only really remember her from the party four years ago when she was wearing shorts and a top and she seemed chubbier then she was now. She had spied him ogling her. She'd been drinking and sidled up to him, teasing, begging for a birthday kiss, tonguing his ear and whispering, 'Come and see me when you're old enough. I might have a surprise for you.'

"Hello, I'm over here. Are you going to answer me?"

Tim shook his head, trying to remember what Amy had asked him, and let his mouth run away with his thoughts.

"It was too dark to see anything really in Mum's room, and how could I imagine your... thingy..."

"It's called a vagina, pussy, fanny, or cunt... but it is not a thingy." Amy said, with just the right tinge of mock irritation.

"Well, I couldn't anyway."

"Yes, you could. You are not really trying. Each of us is an expert in imagining, and we can project our deepest and sometimes our crudest desires onto the images we need to see."

Amy reclined in her seat and crossed her legs, turning his way, knowing he would just be able to see the pale skin of her upper thigh above the lacy elastic tops of her stockings.

"For example, if I close my eyes," which she did. "I can easily imagine you wanking. I can see you standing naked, a young muscled frame, your hand clutching your shaft, working it up and down, and I can imagine creamy ropes of cum spurting — you shoot lots because you're young — that changes as you grow older."

Amy opened her eyes, catching Tim, mouth agog, and eyes transfixed on her now slightly parted legs.

"Close you eyes Tim, and imagine me. You know what I look like, my face, my body shape, shouldn't be too much trouble there. I am sure you can easily imagine my breasts, even though there pretty much hidden by my blouse and jacket. They are small, and even now, despite my age, almost like pyramids, little volcano peaks on my chest, crowned by tiny little button nipples that need to be stimulated to show properly and set in a pink areola about half an inch across. Can you imagine them, can you make them appear in you head?"