In which I dream of Dr Butler’s cunt

Since Boris disappeared after our session, I have daydreamed about Dr Butler. Strangely enough, she is always my little strumpet. She stands there like a doll, letting me handle her, betraying no emotion.

One recurring fantasy is, I strip her down. I pull off her simple blouse. Beneath it is a sheer bra, her pale pink nipples clearly delineated beneath. I take that off, stroke her pale, delicate limbs. Remove her shirt. Underneath she wears no knickers, with black suspenders, attached to black stockings. First I lead her over to me, press her full breasts together, rub my thumbs over her nipples. She moans.

I lead her over to a chair, where I put her over my lap and part her pussy with my fingers. She is well lubricated, and I play with her clit until it is as hard as a little pearl. Then I leave her, on the edge of orgasm, and stroke her beautiful smooth bottom.

“You know why you’re here, of course,” I say, letting my hand slap against her bottom cheeks. They wobble a little on impact. I smile and feel my pussy prickle with pleasure as I see her bottom cheeks reddening.

“No, why am I here?” she replies, in a pleasingly submissive voice.

“Because you’re a bad, a dirty girl. I know how much you’ve been dying to fuck me.”

“But I haven’t.”

Slap.

“Shut up. Don’t lie to me. I know how much you want me. I’m not like that, I don’t sleep with girls. I think that girls who touch each other are sick little cunts. Don’t you agree?’

“Not really, I….”

“Now, I want you to get all these dirty thoughts out of your head, you hear me?”

Slap.

A little harder this time. I thrust a finger into her pussy and tickle her G-spot.

I remove my finger and pick up a switch lying on the floor beside me. I am practically salivating, thinking about what her bum will look like, all criss crossed with red marks.

“You're a dirty bitch,” I say, letting the switch fall onto her orbs. “Say it!”

“I’m a dirty bitch!”

“Yes, you are. You whore. You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“No.”

I bring down the switch again.

I push a finger into her pussy and it contracts around my fingers. “Yes, I think you’re ready now.”

I lift her from my lap and bring her over to Boris, who is reclining naked on the bed.

“It’s such a waste, I think,” I say, sitting her down beside himm. “That such a pretty girl should only desire women.”

“But I don’t only fancy women.”

“Oh really,” says Boris, stroking her tufts of pubic hair. “That's interesting.”

Soon I am lying back on the bed and Boris is positioning her with her legs splayed, her cunt hovering over my mouth. Aah, now her pussy lips are mushed against my mouth. I open my lips, drinking her in and spreading her open so I can torment her clit with my tongue. Her cunt is so warm and sweet and wet, I could stay there forever, lapping away.

Meanwhile, Boris is lubing up her arsehole and sliding his thickness into her.

I look up at her, head thrown back, pulling at her nipples. Her face is wracked with pleasure.

And as Boris fucks her from behind, her cunt fucks my face, and now the two of them are coming, and I don’t care that I’m not, because she’s bucking away against my face and I feel this rush of pleasure shoot out of her, like a bullet.

Today, at the session, I decide not to tell her about her cunt fucking my face. Instead, we discuss my shoplifting. Since our last session I have not lifted a thing.

“Why is that, do you think?” she asks, while I remember her bottom as I slapped it. I get the equivalent of a hard on, and try to focus.

I tell her about Boris, about Niko, about the sex. I hope she will be well and truly shocked, but she just nods occasionally and says, “Go on,” while she scribbles in a note book. The depraved bitch! Maybe she’s heard it all before. I almost feel like inventing some strange fetish like having to be wrapped in fur to come. Would that interest her? More to the point, would it get her off?

She wants to talk about my childhood again.

I say, “Why? Don’t you want to talk about the shoplifting?”

“No. What is your mother like?”

“She is a slut.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Okay, I’m sorry. I just never liked my mother. I don’t see her very often. All I can remember is how, about a year after dad died, she started sleeping with lots of different men. One day I woke up in her bed and she was on one side of me, and a strange man was on the other. I felt sick.”

“Do you think this man may have molested you?”

“No. I didn’t mean—“

“I know.”

“I just meant that you shouldn’t bring your lover in the bed with your child.”

“No.”

“I think she ruined me, in the sense that I don’t think I could ever have a child.”

“Why not?”

“I would be afraid of turning into her. I mean, I suppose I already am her, only, you don’t bring a child into that sort of lifestyle.”

“But you could stop the lifestyle, couldn’t you?”

“Dan doesn’t want kids.”

“Do you?”

I think about the baby trousers I lifted in Harrod’s.

“Maybe. Sometimes I think I do. But just because you want something doesn’t mean you have to have it. Anyway, I’m here to talk about my shoplifting, aren’t I?”

“Maybe you simply don’t want to stop.”

“What kind of a stupid comment is that?” I shrieked. I don’t remember feeling that angry since my last row with my mother. “I’m sorry. I do want to stop.”

“Why. Because you feel bad about doing it?”

“No. Because if I’m caught again, I might get a criminal record.”

This evening, Dan called. We talked about my session. He feels I am making progress.

Maybe I am.

I go to sleep after masturbating, thinking about that cool, collected bitch and what it would be like to see her composure crack while she humps my face.