Therapy Rapture Read online

  Ever had secret thoughts about a counsellor? Fitness trainer? Ever put two and two together?

  Perry has a desire for the right woman to spend some time with, enjoying each other’s company, a romantic interlude that would lead to that one fabulous encounter, bringing complete ecstasy.

  Rowena is a therapist who has endured a repressed childhood. She loves dressing up and feels that the clothes have a way of caressing her body. She wants him to open up his mind to his dreams.

  He begins to ache for Rowena. He finds her dark, sultry and somewhat reserved. He finds hard professional women sexy, and she happens to be just the one he believes could bring out that strong urge that he needs to release. Rowena wants him to incorporate his dreams into a healing process. She is able to help him release his inner self as the two have some romantic interludes that lead to total satisfaction. By giving into what their hearts and mind desires, they are able to find that one medium that captures their souls. After everything is over, will they be able to face the world positively?

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Therapy Rapture

  Copyright © 2013 David Russell

  Cover art by Carmen Waters

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published by eXtasy Books

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  Therapy Rapture

  By

  David Russell

  Chapter One

  A breeze smiled on me, soothing the migraine of the day’s travelling.

  Rowena, my therapist, was so soothing. Her almond eyes were a warm synthesis of liquidity and matured resin, her lips verging on purple. She was dark, sultry, feline, laid back, reserved, and accommodating, but with such potential for elusiveness! Her low velvet voice melted my reserve and made me ache, my fingers poised to do that touch talk. She had a hold on me, so tender, so yielding, but so firm, I had some token resistance, some caution, but I wanted that, I arranged it, but I did not know what to do about it.

  I’d been in my self-protective shell for so long, and always tended to put others down for being conned. It was good that I finally got out of that job. I had had to stretch my upper lip to near the snapping point. Considering what I felt about my supervisor, that good lump of severance pay would give me time so sort myself out. Still, I had committed myself to what I had decided was essential treatment. She had to bring me out, and it would be a sustained operation. She outlined to me that there were a multitude of blocks. We had been consulting together for several months, and at the mental level, we had melted many defensive barriers. How often had our breath felt like a string, pulling us closer to that introductory caress, how often had I felt we nearly touched each other as we delicately paced our minds through those in-depth confessions! Or, how skilled she was at covering up a possible web of stresses and tensions, which was strictly her private area! What traumas must she have experienced to get that delicious equipoise that now faced me, defined me, challenged me, the positives balancing the rejection taboos of my past? Her body language rippled and throbbed—the way she controlled the crossing and uncrossing of her legs, the way she wore skirts of just the right length, or jeans just loose enough to ripple, knowing how to caress herself, knowing how to make her clothes caress her. Her favourite delicate fabrics must really turn her on. She certainly showed me a wide variety of outfits at our various consultations. My wishful thinking simmered. Perhaps there was a coded message underneath her assured professional front. My eyes alternated between her body and her file, between the hand controlling her pen and the eyes, brain and body controlling me. I had laid myself open to her by consulting her…there is always two-way potential…

  She had put on no scent, but the natural perfume of her aura permeated me. I was a confused cocktail of trance and clear-headedness.

  She had spent one long session struggling to coax me into positive thinking. Through the usual heavy family conditioning and through a good number of snubs and vicious deceptions, I had grown so many defensive membranes, layers that now felt congealing, coagulating.

  Next session, I had to go back to her with a progress report on the programme of self-redirection she had drafted for me. As ever, Rowena urged me to incorporate my dreams into the healing process. She switched on some rippling, vaporous meditation music with a background of natural sounds, water and breeze on her sound system, got me comfortable on the couch. She then sat beside me, looking me hypnotically, straight in the face. I felt that she always mentally undressed me in these sessions, putting out laser rays on my buttons and zips. That was what made them so effective and sustained her hold on me.

  Her soul embraced me, so that I wanted her to absorb my essence into her own body and mind. Her lips and nostrils were in titillating accord as she faced me and acknowledged me. I ached for her hands, I longed to reciprocate. The buttons on her blouse, the suggestion of the crisp bra within, were so magnetic. When she touched the buckle of her belt, her fingers almost clinching to undo…Rowena induced a trance in me, barely repressed by formality, and I felt it was taking hold of her, as well. It was obeying a non-verbal instruction, tunnelling out of the prison of routine obedience. I ached for her hands to undo my clothes.

  In the trance induced by my interview, we were transported to luscious glades and woodlands, to sultry beaches, or to a velvet-padded bedchamber, where that lithe but ample form would be revealed in its full glory, through shimmering half-clouded moonlight and maroon lamplight, open windows, alluring skirts of half-drawn curtains, caressing breezes. Some pigeons cooed in the distance as if they might have registered something…

  “Okay. Take your time…relax. You had to sustain top speed throughout the day, so slow down, now. If you feel you’re on the point of rushing at anything, take a deep breath. Sift through your past, and let the key facts come clear. Try to tell me everything. Don’t be shy, don’t hold back, even though something might hurt a bit, but if it does, that’s a signal for a better sensation to be on the way. All that’s happened, all you’ve wanted to happen, all that’s held you back, enforced an orbital rather than a linear progression.”

  There was the implicit drawing together of our lips through her words. Lips make a perfect balance of the solid, the liquid and the vaporous. My mind sustained the distance, but it also wanted to become a bridge…

  I was writhing, aching, panting, and yearning for my dreamy encounter to happen. I told myself what she had repeated to me so often, live, and with her tantric chant and natural sound recordings—breezes, waterfalls—I continued to imagine her words, get all of your will, all of your imagination in harness, and it will happen, it will, it will…

  “Express your deepest dreams and longings, no matter how preposterous they may seem to your rational faculty, or have been in other people’s dismissive judgments. You’ve got to hold onto your dreams, and build up your trust that they can be
made real…”

  Chapter Two

  I recounted a composite of fact and fabrication. You’re a perceptive reader, so I am sure you can tell truth from fabrication.

  The day after my last therapy appointment, I took the plunge and placed my ad in the contact magazine. I’d held back from it for ages, battling with that preconditioned revulsion against the top shelves, but what the hell? The behavioural revolution had gone on in leaps and bounds and so I just had to join it. There was absolutely nothing to lose. If everyone who read it thought it was ridiculous, or dicey, or dangerous, then they simply need not bother to reply. “I want a fearless encounter with a fully liberated woman who knows how to elicit the libidos of repressed males from under several layers of inhibition. I can gently initiate, and slowly release the sluice gates of orgasmic abandon. What is postponed is enriched.”

  There was a nod, a wink, and a smile, but no patronising giggle. I felt opened up, and able to continue.

  There—silly adverts get silly responses, or inspired adverts get inspired responses. There was nothing to lose either way. Okay, just place it on your mental back burner, provisionally forget about it while you attend to your everyday business, but wait and see…

  The reply letter, true to form, came through the post when I got over my initial itching expectations, and half put it out of my mind. It was on pink, perfumed stationery, the envelope deckle-edged.

  It was a terse message…

  I can give you what you want, but I must prepare you to give me what I want—you must be fit. Follow my guidance, and you will shed your layers of reticence.

  She of course included her telephone number.

  That got me thinking. I had admitted my need to work on myself. So, should I have hired a fitness trainer? Good idea, basically, but maybe a little cold and clinical—though some of those photos at the Pilate Centres are pretty impressive. I must keep some suspense and mystery, some sense of the unknown, but maybe she would have some aspects of that…

  Rowena’s lips quivered in an attentive smile. Her eyes darted in all directions, but frequently sparkled in response to my gaze. She was playing a good game of Ping-Pong with her professional detachment.

  Yet, it did work—what was this?

  I spent many years in the Andes, tutored by a tribal sage who shared the stored wisdom of the millennia. My clairvoyance is all-embracing. I can read your body and your mind. I intuit every depth of your needs.

  Just what I needed! That throbbing magnetism to the mysterious! Breathy words to commit me, to tip me out of my rut of hesitancy. She was exercising me, toning me up by letting her gaze rove over all over my body… Her eyes, in turn, baited me, drew me. She was the moon and I was her tide.

  I located the block where she lived and arrived a half an hour before the appointed time. I felt I needed split-second timing to make this work properly, so I walked around the block several times, twitchingly, every 30 seconds or so looking at my watch, using the cracks between the paving stones to divide and carve up the last of my waiting time.

  Marina came to the door with inaudible footsteps. A navy-blue tracksuit and white trainers greeted me. She had blonde hair down to her shoulders. She was lithe and lean, with a touch of Spartan austerity, but also rippling and glittering—one who had done her balancing exercises at the gym, literally and metaphorically. Her tanned complexion looked authentic—weather-beaten with no sign of make-up—to my eyes, anyway. She sized me up with a benign but penetrating glance.

  “You’ve always been afraid of the hard to get, taken their remarks too literally. Your previous situation is going to be reversed with me. You’re going to get into shape, but you’ll realise that discipline is what sets you on the path to true pleasure.”

  Her laid-back facial expression, the warmth and softness in her eyes assured me that the discipline would not include canes or whips! She could command an exquisite poise in muscular tension—the right amount of strain for this human elastic band. There was something lunar, tidal in her soft breath control.

  Her tenth floor apartment was warm—alluring after the bleak concrete staircase. Though sparsely furnished, it had a balance of thick purple carpeting, a dark green divan and armchairs, large glass-topped table and four long wall mirrors, ideal to reflect full-length bodies, seeming to be of polarized glass. I focused on the thought of her flexings, her press-ups, as those keen green eyes peeled back their lashes and answered my penetrating gaze. I felt my stomach muscles tighten, matching hers.

  “Hmmm. I could see from your advert that your mind is right. Now, I’ve got to do the same with your body.”

  She went to a back room and came back carrying a grey tracksuit and a pair of new trainers, black edged in white.

  “Get changed. We’ll go for a jog first to limber you up a bit.” She then went into the bathroom while I obeyed her instruction.

  It was bitterly cold in the frost-tinted park, but the simmering heat of desire counterbalanced this, its thermals shimmering skywards. She exquisitely timed her breathing. The rippling of her loose tracksuit gave me a thrilling intimation of her lovely proportions, counterpointed the underlying firmness.

  We did our preliminary jog at a quite spacious park. It was bitterly cold, and for a few seconds, I wished I’d never embarked on this adventure. I knew there were people who did it in the winter cold. Then, the heat circulation got into its stride, and my sense of well-being began to well up. My legs got tingling good after the first ache. Delayed action, long-fused timer…

  We completed a circuit, and then returned to her flat where we had a ten-minute cup of black coffee—no sugar. Then Marina took me by the armpits and drew me up to face her.

  “You’ve done all right, You certainly rose to the first challenge, but I want to put you through a further physical ordeal, which will make fulfilment total. I want you fully toned to do me justice.”

  She led me out of the flat, down another spookily lit corridor in the block, to that clinical space, bathed in subdued neon. “Okay, it’s the gym”.

  There it was, full of equipment, but bare of people, except for the odd shadowy dark blue uniformed attendants, male and female, lurking in the background. We changed into our clingy black shorts and tops provided in the changing rooms.

  I followed all the gruelling exertions that she led—up and down the wall bars, up and down the ropes, over the vaulting horses. She also forced me into some press-ups. It must have taken several hours. I felt a strange cocktail of aching and tingling, the frissons gradually simmering. I was aching, but guided by that gymnastically garbed body…aching for that body…the lighting was just right. It wasn’t so glaring as to detract from the sight of the physiques. Legs straightened and angled beautifully.

  “Are you okay for the next?” she asked with a smile.

  “I’m on, darling,” I replied.

  “Okay, honey. First of all, we’ve got to loosen up with a dance. You’re going to go through all the steps you know, and then you’ll discover some new ones.”

  She led me into an empty ballroom, glittering with mirrors, strewn with plush maroon velvet armchairs and sofas, dimly lit in orange from ornate chandeliers. Sure enough, the sounds of Madonna’s Immaculate Collection were resounding through the loudspeakers elevated on the walls. That album was just right. Parts of it made me reflect coolly—parts were bitter, hurting. Parts of it bade me to enter new, deep areas…hypnotic videos throbbed through my mind…

  “Just give me a minute for the next wardrobe change.”

  Marina disappeared through a mahogany side door, leaving me agog with expectation.

  She came out in a flowing, low-cut purple satin dress, split skirts, as I’d seen in some Come Dancing broadcasts. Her stockings were near flesh-colour, giving her legs a tantalizing, near-bare look. Those lovely forms moved alluringly through and behind the splits. Sure enough, true to my intuition, Justify My Love came on, deep and sensual.

  Her shoulders were available to touch and her lips
came close. My mind wavered between that video and our tactile reality as if they were vying against each other. We swayed each other backwards and forwards through Marina’s undulating movements, beautifully raising her skirt. Her shoulders were available to touch and our lips came close.

  Her body flirted alluringly with the horizontal and her back zip was giddily tantalising. Our dancing was sinuous, muscular, and delicious. She drew out of me ballet steps and movements that I never knew I had in me—undreamed of suppleness on my trunk, spine and legs. I felt as if I had satisfied a professional. I must have managed a pirouette. Our bodies orbited each other, into planet, out of asteroid, out of planet, into asteroid, into nova, out of nova…

  “Well done, honey. You got every bit of me moving. Now, we’ll go on to Part Two. Undo me at the back.”

  I had had a welling up of fantasy desire to do just that, cumulative, too. All those years of Hollywood and video belles I had longed to disrobe, the chaperoned sensual icons…and then to have the sluice gate opened by an order from reality…

  Oh, what I’d dreamed of, brought to life! The dress shimmered down to reveal Marina in an exquisite cream corset, luminous, reflective, flickering in the orange light. Madonna in the flesh! At last, I could see her legs in full.

  I had already kicked off my shoes. She stripped me down to my shorts and singlet. We danced on, writhing, edging into an embrace. I massaged her back, felt her aroused breasts under the boned corset. We swayed ourselves breathless. My inner fires were rising, seething.

  “Now, for the deeper plunge, we’ll do a swim together.”

  We left our clothes in a heap in the ballroom. Marina led me through a long, dark corridor to the pool. It was huge, glass-roofed, warm, exotic, flanked with palm trees. The water was turquoise—an encapsulated lagoon. She pointed to the changing room in the far corner. There’s a costume for you in there, okay?”