"Little Courtney_s Family Secrets" - читать интересную книгу автора (Ryder Virginia K. G.)

CHAPTER 4

“Is sex dirty? Only if it's done right.”

How absolutely true.

And that was how I recounted my many sexual adventures to my therapist, as dirty fun, blissfully so, and certainly done right. Ms. Jennifer Grayson, PhD, sat across from me in a matching cordovan armchair, sheer nylon-encased legs demurely crossed, listening to my every word.

There was no analyst's couch within her plush office-much too tempting for sex addicts, I guess, which she specialized in. Although, in fact, her dark cherry Victorian desk was more than large enough to fuck on.

I was telling her I craved sex simply for the delicious physical pleasure it provided me. Period. Had I craved chocolate instead, the understanding of its appeal would be immediate and clear; there'd be no lengthy interpretation required.

I merely loved the intense sensations of pleasure that highly-orgasmic sex gave my entire body. Or mainly just my pussy.

She didn't readily agree with me, of course, but then her life's work involved lengthy interpretations of a particular craving. Had she been counseling chocolate addicts, again as an example, it's possible that that craving would suddenly require a complicated explanation.

In any case, Ms. Grayson was slightly older than me, early 30's, darkly pretty with fine features, surprisingly bright green eyes and an aquiline nose. To my knowledge, she'd never married. She had a slim waist and a solid-looking set of hips under a burgundy, below-the-knee skirt and a white, well-starched blouse that was buttoned at her throat. Even so, well-starched blouse or not, it was obvious she'd never had any problems of 'under-development' back in the high school boobs department.

Her large breasts were clearly quite spectacular.

I mention her good looks, and her hips and her substantial breasts, because my rampant bi-sexuality made everyone a potential sex partner for me, Dr. Jennifer Grayson no exception.

In our first meeting months earlier, I'd made it obvious, with some degree of subtlety (I thought), that as a sex addict who always wanted it, I'd love to kneel down in front of her and lick her vagina until she had one of the greatest orgasms of her life.

No questions asked and-yes, I'd still continue with the sessions.

“I'm just so damn good at it,” I'd said with genuine emotion. “Using my mouth, I mean!”

She peered at me over her large, oval glasses. All therapists must be required to wear those, but they looked right at home on her.

“Courtney, I'd be an extremely poor sex therapist if I leaped into bed with every patient who appealed to me, wouldn't I?”

“I suppose so, Ms. Grayson,” I'd nodded, adjusting my short skirt, sans panties. I was suddenly embarrassed at the wide-open beaver shot I'd given her. “I just thought, you know, sex surrogate, that kind of thing-”

“Therapist,” she corrected. “Sex therapist.”

Got it. My God, what a hopelessly huge whore I must be.