From: richh@netcom.com (richh)
Subject: RICHH:  TRANSFERENCE MY ASS!(or FINALLY!)
Message-ID: <m=6n_ma.richh@netcom.com>
Date: Mon, 21 Sep 92 06:42:34 GMT
Organization: Netcom - Online Communication Services  (408 241-9760 guest) 
Followup-To: alt.sex
Lines: 276


You know how this works.
<My(Richh's)additions>

>From a story found in rec.arts.erotica

Archive-Name: therapy


Hello! :)


This is my first attempt at erotic prose<kew-el!>.  I really don't
know if it's the kind of fiction you're looking for<trust me, this is
*it*!>, but as I read I see a lot of different styles and plots. 
If at all possible, I'd like some feedback as to how I  might be
able to improve my writing<um....can we talk here?>. (I know,
you're probably not a writing critic<I know, you're probably not an
Olympic gymnast, but maybe you could tell me how I could get my
back handsprings more whippy, kinda like Kim Zmeskal's?> but
anything would help<you know, truer words were never...you know>.) 

                    THERAPY
     Rachel climbed the stairs of the university's Behavioral
Sciences building to finally arrive at her office on the 6th
floor<ok...>. (And I thought being a grad student would get me some
respect<"Heh, lemme tell ya, I don't...>,) she thought
sarcastically<No!>. The corner nook the department liked to call
her "office"<office my fibula!> was hardly 10X10 feet in floor
space and crammed with all sorts of books that the regular profs
didn't seem to want<"Love Story", "American Psycho", "Being and
Nothingness", ""Foucault's Pendulum", "If Life is a Bowl of
Cherries, What am I Doing in the Pits?", "100 Days of Sodom,"
"Yesterday I Saw the Sun"--the poetry of Ally Sheedy", "I'll Take
the Alphabet!", "C D C", etc.>.  If nothing else, it was
comfortable<as a pebble in a birkenstock>.  She had found room for
a fouton<sic> that served as a couch during appointments and as a
bed when she stayed there to chip away at<tenured profs?  her
thesis advisor?  the hockey team??> her dissertation<Ah.>.  (Ah
well, another day, another assistantship dollar<Who said that,
La Rochefoucauld?) she mused as she turned on her Mac SE<by talking
dirty to it?  Works with mine.  "Oh MAC SE, you are just soooo
user-friendly and every time I double-click I just get all skwewky
inside!"> to chech<and, subsequently, chong>> her appointment
calendar.
      As the <reader>Mac booted she examined her reflection on the
screen<no, silly!  That's the trashcan icon!>.  Rachel was a
pleasant woman<for a virago>, perhaps not a super-model<read "ugly
as sin">, but she held her own against the "cheerleader" types<of
which there are many thereof>.  Her mother had always bragged about
her<extra chromosome!> combination of brains and <brawn, pure
brawn.  Makes Rachel Macleish look like Shelly Duvall>beauty<Um-
hum.>.  Rachel didn't completely dissagree<sic>, either<being
conceited as all hell>; she had the classic Norweigan<sic??>
features<months of darkness, elevated suicide rate, a liberal
abortion policy...>, blonde hair, blue eyes, and a
<bottomless>well<of a...> proportioned body.  A bit top heavy<read
"pendulous dugs">, pehaps<sic>, but there were worse things<Like
her chitinous exoskeleton, her obsession with bleach and tabletops,
and oh the flatulence!>.  He<!> breasts were quite adequate for
turning<and turning and turning> <stomachs?>heads<ah.>, especially
among the under<privileged, who could only dream of being as well-
fed as this girl> grads, she noticed<sarcastically>.  
     It turned out that she had only one appointment<with DEATH!>
that morning, a counselling session with a student namedA<sic>
Christopher<Robins?!!>. Due to arrive in 15 minutes, she decided to
put on some <gyno-lotrimin>coffee and settle down<get
married...quit the bar scene.  Sure, it was hasty, but the could
hear the biological clock a-tickin...>.      
     Almost exactly 15 minutes later, a head popped out from behind
the door and a timid voice called out <"Mommy?">"Hello?"   
     "Hi.  Come in and sit down<on my lap, Chrissy-Chris>," Rachel
said warmly. "My name's Rachel, and you must be Chris<t>."
     "Yeah, I'm Chris<t>."  He seemed like a balloon that couldn't
hold any more air without popping<You know the kind, all filled up
and stretched.  Call me crazy, but the simile works for me.>. 
Stress was written all over his face<Moral of the story:  Don't
apply lipstick on the subway>, and Rachel noticed that he had
probably stayed up all night last night because of his bloodshot
eyes and weary expression<being the master of observation that she
be.>.  
     After the formalities<quick soul-kiss, cursory sphincter
check, SAT scores compared> were out of the way, Rachel asked Chris
to tell her about himself<He, of course, lied.>.  Chris was a music
major<wheeeeeeeeeeee.  "I gotta be ME...">, and sang in the<wrong
key> university choir as well as played <vitiligo in the "Black or
White" video. Huh?>  trumpet in the orchestra.  Rachel could see
why he was stressed; music majors are well-known for hellacious<!>
schedules and long practice/study hours.  She was amazed at how
Chris thought nothing of working until 2 or 3 in the morning only
to have an 8am class the next day<inCREDible!>. 
     "How  long have you been doing this?" Rachel asked<as Chris
began to masturbate.>.   
     "Since my freshman year, and I'm a junior now<so there!>.  It
never bothered me until a while ago." Chris said.  "It was just
part of surviving<until my roommates caught me reading
"International Male">." 
     "What do you do to relieve stress?"<she asked, knowingly.>,  
     "I used to be able to do anything to relieve stress<Kill
whores, rape, maim, break things...but now that I'm on parole..." 
"Your options are more limited?"  "I knew you'd understand.  You're
swell!">.  Music<Murder> used to relax me so much.  Now music<the
memory of my father buggering me> is the biggest source of stress
I have.  I have to be that much better than the next guy or else I
don't get into the grad school I want<"Please help me.  I'm so
pathetic.  You're so beautiful.  Think I should switch to pre-
med?">.  You should understand that<being Norwegian!>."     
Admittedly, she did<yet never once admitted it, befuddling.>.   She
remembered back to her undergrad days<*sigh*>, when she
fought<other girls in bikinis at frat parties for money so she
could afford tuition.  Ah...memories.> tooth and nail to be the
best psych major there was<ever, kicking Freud's wrinkled, non-
female-sexuality-really-understanding-Oedipal-complex-penis envying
ass!> so she could have this assistanship<this England.>.  "I do
understand, Chris<I'm a girl, remember?>.  I remember worrying
about it as much as you are now.  But there isn't ANYTHING you can
do to relax?<hint FUCKING hint!!>"
     "Hell, I can't even masturbate to relax anymore!" 
Chris<ejaculated?> blurted out. Almost immediately Chris realized
what he had said<almost.  There *was* that short pause of the
recently brain-injured...>.  He blushed a deep<er> shade of <soul>
crimson.  "Um. . . I'm sorry.  I shouldn't have said that. . .maybe
I should leave now--"<"Now don't be silly," said Rachel, crossing
her legs way up high...">
     "Wait, don't leave."  Rachel said, almost too anxiously<too.
TOO anxiously>.  A furious wave of<tsunami?> thoughts went through
her <tiny little> mind.  Somehow Chris's remark had taken Rachel
out of her "professional"<PRO!  a fookin'  hoo-er!  Knew it. Could
tell the minute she asked if I wanted 'half and half' or 'around
the world'  No fool I!>> mode and now realized that she was getting
turned on!<No!> (Stop it, stop it right here.  Rule number 1 about
counselling: DON'T get involved<read "sodomize"> with your
patients--MAJOR no-no. . .But he *is* cute<and I *am* just a silly
little girl  and I've got this *itch* that I just can't scratch and
it sooo needs to be scratched">. . .and I haven't had any
fun<"catfights"> lately. . .NO! You can't do it<FUCK her!  "DON'T! 
She's passed out.  She's underaged.  FUCK her!">. . .why not? 
Maybe it's just what he needs. . .<Rachel, what a good shrink
you're gonna make...) 
     Rachel went to the door and closed it tight<er than Debbie
Gibson>.  With no other appointments this morning, she wouldn't be
<hot and> bothered for a good three hours<doubt it.  Slut!>. (Well,
I've never seduced anyone before<chyeah>. . .but I guess there's
always a first time<Who said that, Eve?>.  Here goes nothing<You
said it.>), she thought<she *THOUGHT*!>. 
     "Chris, I'm going to ask you some<Miller analogies.  Okay,
lessee: 'Your dick is to my cunt' as 'Now would be a good time is
to...?  "Duh.  Fuck?">  . . .personal questions.  You don't have to
answer them if you don't want to<But if you don't I'll have to kill
you.>.  I promise that anything you tell me<can and> will be<used
against you...> kept between us.  Okay?"  Chris only nodded<and
drooled, reassuringly>.  "Chris, how long have you been
masturbating?" 
     "Since I <slipped my hand into my pocket about ten minutes
ago."  "No, I mean..."> was fifteen."   
     "Have you had sex since then?"<"Duh--in the last ten
minutes?"> 
     Chris blushed again. <And, ever-articulate, said> "um. . .
no." 
     "You're a virgin?  That's surprising, a good-looking guy like
you."<She lied, like any whore.> And he *was* good looking<Yeah,
and so was David Merrick.>.  He was just a little shorter than
<Bilbo Baggins> she was, solidly built muscles under his <scrawny
frame?>T-shirt, short brown hair, and a pleasant<read "well..at
least not leprous"> face.  This was getting more interesting by the
minute<sez *you*!>.  She began to run her fingers through his
<nostrils>hair, and stood in front of him so that her breasts were
level with his <pustules?>eyes.  "Can you still masturbate now, or
did you mean that the stress wasn't letting you?" <"Um, duh, would
you please repeat the question?  Am I gonna have to know this for
the test?">
     "Oh, I still can, it just doesn't feel as good as it once
did."  He was getting more comfortable with the sudden twist
of<FATE!> conversation, it seemed.  "I bet I sound rather silly to
you now,<Duh-uh...droodle bloodle>"
     "Not at all.  It's not something you need to be ashamed of<you
fucking fagGIT!>."  Rachel  couldn't believe she had just said
that<Despite the fact that it was the first sensible thing she'd
said.>.  "Perhaps you'd like to try it here and now. 
Mastrubating<sic>, that is," she said with a little smile<across
her lap>.  
     "<Right> HERE?  <Right> Now?<Jesus!" "Jones," she added,
topping him>."    
     "Why not?  If this is how you used to be able to relieve
stress, why not try again?<"Dear Penthouse Forum, I never thought
I'd be writing one of these letters...">"  She began to unbutton
her shirt and changed her tone<to that ridiculous high-pitched
squeal they used in all those Monty Python routines> to be as
seductive as she could possibly comprehend<comprehend??> . "I'll
even help," she said with a smile, pulling a c-clamp and a belt
sander out of her desk>.
     This got some results, Rachel noticed<all observant, like she
was>; a bulge was beginning to grow in Chris's Levis<Unfortunately
for them both, he was wearing Toughskins.  That bulge was just the
penicillin that was growing in the pocket of the sandwich he'd left
in his corduroys back in his room.>.  Rachel sat down beside Chris 
and began to stroke his <fragile ego?> crotch<same thing>.  "Would
you help me take my bra off?"<"Um, um, duh-um..."  "Just do it.">
     Chris was too caught up in the moment<nor was his grasp of the
interrogative strong enough> to ask questions.  Instinctively<like
a sleek jungle cat>, he reached around Rachel and undid her bra<by
placing his foot against her lower spine and p  u  l  i  n  g.>. 
With a deft movement<chyeah>, Rachel had taken off her top and bra
so that her newly bared breasts hovered<free-fall-like> mere<mere!>
inches<cubits> from Chris's face.  Tenatevly<YowZA!> at first,
Chris began to lick at her nipple<almost as a Franciscan monk would
greet a Jesuit>, then became more confident when Rachel
<be>moaned<the lack of a viable third party candidate yet again. 
"Lenora Fulani *these*!"  "Uh, duh?"> in response<"Oy gevalt!  The
ceiling needs a painting.  Oy v'avoy li">.  "Oh...yeah, *baby*...
suck my tits!"  It was rare when Rachel would actually speak during
lovemaking<given to grands mals and the accompanying difficulties
that number 2 pencils make during said speech attempts>. More often
than not, words<or penises> just got in the way.  However, this was
different<It *was*!>. Chris needed stimulation from all the
senses<at the dojo>, and Rachel was happy to oblige<pausing to make
him a sandwich>. Her hands found Chris's button fly<out the window,
which made it difficult to undo.  But she did not blame herself!>,
and within seconds had pulled his throbbing manliness<Oh dear, if
only she'd found his cock> out for her to <divide and>conquer. 
Making Chris lie down<w/a quick shot of sodium pentothal>, Rachel
looked over Chris's cock and paused only for a moment to admire<how
much neater her own genitals were, all neat and inside and not
yukky and sticky-outy>.  She wasn't good at estimating size<oh,
g'wan, give it a shot>, but figured that he had to be at least 7
inches long<in length!>.  "I'm gonna make you cum, Chris," she said
huskily<like a Russian dog>. "I'm gonna suck the cum right out of
you, and you won't be able to do a thing about it."<"Um, but duh. 
Duh-uh.">  Chris could only whimper in response<"To sleep,
perchance to dream.  Ay, there's the rub."  Chris had a funny way
of whimpering.>.  Running her tongue over his purplish<ugly,
bruised> head, down his shaft and down to his balls, Chris
<past>tensed, letting the ecstasy<MDMA> overcome him.  With
practiced skill<Hey, Chris, how you think she acquired that
practiced skill'?  SLUT!>, Rachel took him into her mouth<gave him
suck>.  She worked him up<into a rich lather>, pushing him higher
and higher until she was sure that he would explode<one can only
hope>.    
     "Wait, please." Chris managed to squeak out<a nasty one.  Damn
those burritos!>. 
     This surprised Rachel.  She was sure that Chris had lost
complete control<of his bowels.>.  Oh well, no big deal.  "Yes,
love?"
     "Let me cum inside you.  I want this to be right."<"Oh, but it
doesn't get any better than this.>
     She had planned to wait for the second time around, but what
the hell<Who wanted to get married and divorced anyhow?>. "Whatever
you want, Chris.  I'm yours."<"Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.  The clown
suit?  Mommy??">  Eagerly, Rachel stripped off her skirt and
settled down on top of him.  She gasped as she impaled herself on
his <Harley belt buckle>dick.  She realized that she'd
underestimated Chris's size as he had reached farther<further,
father?  That can't be right.  Isn't it anything father further?>
that Rachel had ever felt before<As she felt her cervix rupture and
she began bleeding to death, Rachel knew he'd finally found Mr.
Right.>.  She ground<up some Jamaican Blue> into him, and with each
stroke she brought herself closer to <the edit?>orgasm<ah.>.  Chris
was breathing heavy, a twisted look of <dementia praecox>pleasure
on his face.
     "Ooohhh...It's almost there!" Chris grunted<like a hunter-
gatherer whose ship was finally coming in.>.
     "You can do it baby!  I want your hot cum!" Rachel yelled<much
as Carl Jung was rumored to, back when he did analysis>.
     This was too much for Chris, as he blossomed<!> into <a big
ole Georgia O'Keefe>orgasm, shooting his virgin load<of..you know>
deep into Rachel, who in turn was brought over the edge.  Chris
fell in a heap onto the fouton<sic>, exausted<sicsic>.  Ironically,
it was the most relaxed Rachel had seen him<!!Note justification
for violating every code of ethics Rachel had ever skimmed. 
"Transference my ass!" Freud was nearly heard to say.>.  (This may
not be bad therapy for me, either,) Rachel thought<"Hee.  I'm so
silly!" as she cleaned herself up and waited for Chris's
strength<pride> to return.  

RICHH                              
--I love the fall