Session Seven
Story Codes: MF,  Consensual,  Exhibitionism



SESSION SEVEN                             
BY Big Don



Stefan’s psychiatrist wore only black Louis Vuitton stiletto heels of a very expensive nature.
She lay on the floor with her back against the desk, hair bobbed up on top of her head. Her
newly-acquired postoperative member stood up from her perfumed loins like a spring flower.
Aside from this costly attachment to her anatomy (though still a snip compared to her heels), Dr
Right, the bustiest member in the clinic by a street, was nonetheless rather plain looking; a
prime candidate for a celebrity-hosted television makeover, if you asked him. Until this Session,
that was, Session Seven on the Seventh of May.

Now, with her spectacles donned, those hungry hypnotic eyes blazing, pout lips parted by the
quivering tip of her tongue, she resembled the most irresistible of fallen angels.

That stiff, pierced tongue uncurled to reach for the split-head of her generously-sized erectile
shaft, as if to buff its shiny rim, as if its aroma drove her delirious with lust. Both tongue and
head matched in shades of luscious pink, equally tender, equally slick.

Methodically rubbing her vein-less prominence, sheen of her slick bulb bright with the
overhead office lights, her fingers so skilled and masterful over that taut bone so much more
impressive than Stefan’s own, Dr Right salivated at the sight of her client’s navel.

“Lift it higher,” she instructed, pointing a black index fingernail at his Topman shirt, “then take it
off and lick your nipples.”

Instead, Stefan tweaked with his belt buckle. “Your sex change looks wonderful, doctor, the
surgeon obviously takes pride in his or her work, but I’ve been a very bad boy, and I deserve to
be taken by it. Deep, but gentle.”

The warm moist refuge of her mouth parted as she groaned, dribbling more silky saliva, and
her free hand joined its twin in massaging her engorged gift.

He himself was as hard as a house in his own far-less spectacular way. The girth sprouting
from her loins he knew would taste better than any Chef’s Special from his local village’s Delhi
store. The fashion in which she ogled his exposed belly while teasing herself to the brink made
him feel synchronously weak and powerful, like the most succulent lamb on green earth ready
for roast.

His psychiatrist, who had only cast an occasional eye over the first six sessions, winked his
way.

Then she slipped a scented condom over her forbidden fruit. Her smile, so guilty with mischief,
pearly white incisors like a vampire in waiting, sought out his inner desire for explicitness, for
abandonment.

Enough was enough was already too much. He tore free of his tight suit like he was drowning
in it. She rose up onto her knees to kiss, her rippling breasts between them like cushions. As
she tilted her head back and opened her throat to him, he thought the pressure in his loins
would rupture, thought the desire of his heart would make him pass out.

She tasted like palm oil, peaches and pears. He fell madly in love: right there, right then.

His dick and his tongue seemed to be connected by his hot shivering backbone. She stared
into his eyes during her descent south, about to send him to heaven, her bobbing scalp
starting, stopping, speeding up, slowing down.  Serving him. Cementing his love for her even
more.

Before he released his juices, she whipped him around and moisturized his buttonhole with her
spit. The trembling euphoria as she entered him brought giddy tingling goose-bumps out all
over his skin. Her at first timid exploration of his virgin anus soon gained momentum and rhythm.

If only his parents and his friends could see him now.

Being in utterly dominated territory was the biggest thrill of his life. Her presence in him flooded
both his packed butt and his erection with swelling waves of gratification. Oddly, it felt like his
penis needed to take a poo.

He felt a little seasick, as if about to heave, like a kid who has ventured into an adult theme
park ride.

It wasn’t merely a case of her doodle going up, but of him being pulled onto it at the same time:
by his hips, by his neck, by his hair; her grip a glorious medium between rough and soft. He
gasped with delight when her nails stroked the grooves in his ribs. When she reached around
and found the tendons in his groin, either side of his scrotum, he ejaculated. And again.

After she finished, she invited him to make her come a couple of times. It wasn’t two
overwhelming spurts of semen she produced, but the female come she had been born with,
wetter and more palatable. She was still all woman…and more.

“Is it the usual hundred an hour, or do I owe you more?” Stefan asked between lingering
kisses, both now having caught their breath, yet still undressed.

Dr Right burst out in childish giggles. “Session Seven’s on the house.”

“Is that it for the day?”

“No. I’ve got Mr Balls due in next. He’s a chiropodist from Colchester . Successful. Widowed.
Maladjusted. I charge him more.”

“How many sessions have you had together?”

 Dr Right couldn’t help but be moved by the enviously jealous tone of his voice. She almost
lied.
“Six.”


Copyright© 2009  Big Don


Andrew Donegan aka Big Don started writing at age 16 to cope with the pressures of adolescence. He is now
30 and have have now completed 12 novellas. His goal is to have at least one of his books published and
available to rent in the local library. He enjoys watching comedy horror movies and listening to foreign
symphonic metal. His hobbies are badmington, pool and pottery.

Other stories by Bif Don featured on Bare Back Magazine
LOVE JUICE

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