No, this is not a true story, but it could be.

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WARNING! This warning is possibly not needed for this particular story, but I am including it because it is needed for most of my stories. If you decide to read other of my stories make sure that you read the disclosures and warnings at the beginning of each story.

All of my writing is intended for adults over the age of 18 ONLY. Stories may contain strong or even extreme sexual content. All people and events depicted are fictional and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Actions, situations, and responses are fictional ONLY and should not be attempted in real life.

If you are under the age or 18 or do not understand the difference between fantasy and reality or if you reside in any state, province, nation, or tribal territory that prohibits the reading of acts depicted in these stories, please stop reading immediately and move to somewhere that exists in the twenty-first century.

Archiving and reposting of this story is permitted, but only if acknowledgment of copyright and statement of limitation of use is included with the article. This story is copyright (c) 2016 by The Technician.

Individual readers may archive and/or print single copies of this story for personal, non-commercial use. Production of multiple copies of this story on paper, disk, or other fixed format is expressly forbidden.

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The plastic ice cube was sitting on the little vanity table in the bedroom where I sit each morning to put on my makeup and earrings. Dwayne, my husband, left it there when he got up to go to work. He is a morning person and gets up as soon as light starts coming through the curtains.

I tend to stay in bed until a more reasonable hour unless I have a reason to get up. The kids are old enough to get their own breakfast, so as long as I check on them before they leave for school to make sure they are properly dressed and have everything they need for the day, I have fulfilled my motherly duties for the morning.

Dwayne has a really good job, so I don’t have to work. I do a lot of volunteer things while the kids are at school, but I don’t have any sort of paying job.

We have a pretty good relationship and our marriage has always been in pretty good shape… except when my little problem pops up. It is always the same problem. Once in a while I withdraw inside myself and shut out everyone and everything– including Dwayne.

According to my therapist it isn’t true depression, but is “depression-like.” I guess that phrase is her excuse for the fact that none of the depression medications have any effect on me. No matter what chemicals they put me on, every four to six months I start to turn “cold.”

Dwayne and I often fought about my occasional “coldness” when we were first married. He tried to talk to me about it, but since I would already be withdrawn I wouldn’t listen. And his attempts to break through to me just resulted in me getting angry and upset. Finally a marriage counselor helped us agree on a physical signal he could use that meant he felt I was shutting him out.

We decided that the time for the signal would be in the morning before I got up. That way, I would find it after he had gone to work. Then, after I had time to think about it all day on my own, I could talk to him about it when he came home from work.

The plastic ice cube with a fly embedded in the middle of it is a practical joke left over from his college days. He thinks it is a good symbol of what is happening. I am the fly trapped in the middle of the cube, turning cold and isolated from the world.

When he sets it on my vanity, it means that he thinks we really need to do something to deal with my coldness. He’s almost always right. Sometimes I’m just pissed off at him for something– in which case I break my stupid silence and talk to him about it when he gets home. But usually he is totally right. I have unconsciously slipped back behind my wall and cut myself off from the world. I need to deal with my wall… and my coldness.

Dealing with my coldness usually means a trip to see Sheila Madison-Baxter for a tune up. Sheila is my best friend from high school. My therapist doesn’t like my trips to see Sheila– and not because Sheila is a psychiatrist.

She thinks that what happens with Sheila is destructive behavior. She has told me several times that if I was seeing Sheila as a patient rather than as a friend, she would report it to the board. But since Sheila and I were doing this as friends for a long time before Sheila became a psychiatrist, it would be treated as social interaction and the board would dismiss the complaint.

My therapist still doesn’t like it. Even when it has been months since I went in for a tune up, she will bring it up and tell me that I need to recognize my destructive behavior for what it is. She says that I need to find a more constructive means of resolving my issues. Which, to her, means additional counseling sessions.

But I have been working with her and other therapists for over fifteen years and nothing that she– or any of the other expensive shrinks– has come up with does anything to break down the wall when it forms. Only a tune up from Sheila will do that.

It all started in sixth grade. All of the other girls were starting into puberty, but I remained all “knees and elbows.” In fact, I remained flat and hairless until the summer before high school.

In sixth grade they primarily teased those girls who developed early rather than us gangly and awkward ones, so it wasn’t real bad for me. Then, I was glad that I didn’t have a heavy bush or prominent mounds on my chest. But those same girls who had been teased were the ones who led the teasing when it was the late developers who were picked on because they were different. And I was the latest of the late developers. That’s when the teasing became intolerable.

“Are you sure you’re not just a boy with no wiener?” they would tease as we dressed for gym class or showered afterwards. Once I sprouted a little hair they would say things like, “Do you shave that? Or do you just rub hard with your washcloth when you take a shower?”

It didn’t help that I had always been shy. I always had problems making friends or interacting with people– especially crowds of people. When they would tease me, I would turn red and stammer out something like, “Please don’t do that!”

That was like blood in the water to sharks. The main bullies would start saying, “Do what?” and start plucking at my wisps of hair or tweaking my nipples.

I finally escaped their torment by going behind my “wall.” I shut everything off. It no longer hurt because I wasn’t really there to be hurt. After a while, they lost interest in teasing me because I didn’t react to their taunts.

By my senior year of high school, my now eighteen-year-old body caught up with the rest of my class. My pubic hair– which I kept trimmed into a neat triangle– was now a nice shade of light brown. My breasts, while not huge udders, were proportional to my size. I was no longer different enough to be a target of teasing and bullying.

The boys in my class started noticing me. Some even asked me out, but my wall was now so thick that even I couldn’t tear it down. Kisses did nothing for me. Even petting didn’t start anything inside of me. I could feel their hands on my body, but there was no sensation of pleasure. In fact, there were almost no sensations at all.

I thought maybe I was gay, so I maneuvered things so that Sheila, who was openly a lesbian, was my partner for a joint project in one of my classes. We were working on the project at my house. My parents were gone and we had the house to ourselves.

“Sheila,” I asked after we had more or less finished the project, “how did you know that you were a lesbian?”

“Why?” she responded. “Do you think you are?”

“I don’t know,” I replied. “But boys don’t do anything for me… so, I was wondering if maybe I should try girls.”

“Do you want to try me?” she asked with a smile.

I very slowly nodded my head. My fear probably showed as she reached over and lightly stroked my face. I know my whole body was shaking as she softly suggested, “Why don’t we go into your bedroom?”

Soon we were naked on my bed. It felt kind of nice when she stroked my stomach and suckled on my nipples, but just like when I made out with boys, it was just nice sensations. I really didn’t get turned on.

“Do what I do,” she said as her hand slid down between my thighs. Soon my fingers were swirling around her clit as she did the same for me.

When she tried to slip her fingers into my cunt, she suddenly stopped. “You’re totally dry,” she said in obvious surprise as she raised her hand up in front of my face.

I had already pushed my fingers slightly into her sopping cunt. “Let me take you high,” I said as I pressed my body against hers.

She groaned as my other hand found her nipples. Soon she was thrashing on the bed as I pumped my hand in and out of her. She brought her own hands down and began massaging her clit. I kept pumping with one hand and tweaking her nipples with the other. After a few minutes, she suddenly threw back her head and let out a very loud groan.

I continued to stroke her breasts and slowly slide my hand in and out of her cunt as she slowly relaxed into post-orgasmic bliss.

“I’m sorry,” she finally said, looking up at me. “I should have also taken you high, but there must be something not right about you.”

She gasped as my face showed my pain and disappointment.

“I didn’t mean it that way,” she stammered out. “I’m not saying you’re weird or that there is something wrong with you as a person,” she then said evenly. “I’m just saying that your turn on switch must be broken or something.”

She pushed herself into a sitting position and sat cross-legged facing me. “I don’t think you’re gay,” she said. “Well,” she added, “maybe you are, but that’s not the problem. It’s more like you won’t let your body feel anything from a boy or a girl. I think that’s why you can’t get turned on.”

“My wall is too thick,” I replied, looking down at the bed between us. “It’s what protected me when everyone was teasing me,” I said softly.

Then almost crying– in those days, I almost cried a lot. I never, ever really cried, but I often almost cried. … Almost crying, I stammered out, “And now I can’t tear it down. I don’t feel anything bad, but I can’t feel anything good either.”

Sheila reached up and tweaked one of my nipples. “Did you feel that?” she asked.

“Sort of,” I replied. “But it’s like I’m watching someone else.”

She put her fingers under my chin and lifted my head so she was looking directly into my eyes. “Your eyes are dry,” she said quietly. “It is obvious that you are in great emotional pain. Where are your tears?”

“I can’t cry,” I said, looking down. “I shut all that off back in eighth grade. Once I didn’t cry, they stopped teasing me. I got really good at not crying. I got even better at not feeling anything.”

Sheila’s eyes were overflowing with her own tears as she pulled me close to her and hugged me very tightly. “My mother’s a psychiatrist,” she said softly. “I don’t think you’d be comfortable talking to her, but she can recommend someone who specializes in working with teen sexual problems.”

Sheila’s mom insisted on speaking with my parents. Dad and mom both worked but I had two brothers and a sister so finances were tight. Mrs. Madison got one of her colleagues to do the therapy pro-bono.

After several sessions it became apparent that I had bottled up all of my emotions– good or bad– and had to learn how to release them. We did trust-building, safe-zone creation, safe body touching, and all sorts of other approaches that are supposed to help someone open up, but nothing worked. I even– on doctor’s orders– binge watched a whole weekend full of sad, sappy movies hoping that something would get me to cry.

“If only you could break through and cry,” he told me, “I think you would make great progress.”

Sheila joined me for that chick-flick marathon. We had our own private sleep over in the apartment above her parent’s garage. I think Sheila went through three boxes of Kleenex, but by Sunday afternoon, I still hadn’t shed a tear.

We were lying on the bed as another movie ended when Sheila turned off the TV and sat up facing me. “When was the last time that you actually cried?” she asked. “Maybe you have never cried.”

“No,” I replied. “I used to cry… a long time ago. The last time I cried I was when dad caught me smoking a cigarette when I was in eighth grade. He hadn’t spanked me in a long, long time, but he really lost it when he could smell cigarette smoke and came in to my bedroom and caught me.”

I shrugged my shoulders and smiled at her. “It was my first ever cigarette and I got caught. That’s the way my life goes.”

I smoothed out my pajama top and added, “Like now, I was wearing just my pajamas and he was really mad. I can still hear the loud slap as his hand connected with my butt. I remember that it hurt a lot and that at I cried and cried and cried.”

I looked down at the bed because I couldn’t face her as I admitted, “Actually, I felt pretty good after it was all over. It was like the tears washed all of the guilt out of my body and I could be close to my dad again.”

“I think we need to try an experiment,” Sheila said as she stood up and then sat back down on the edge of the bed with her feet on the floor.

“What are you going to do?” I asked.

“I’m going to spank your ass until you cry,” she replied firmly. She then patted her lap and said, “Lay yourself across my lap and lets see if I can make you cry.”

I stood up and started taking off my pajamas.

“Why are you doing that?” Sheila asked.

“I’m not a little girl anymore,” I replied. “Big girls get spanked naked.” I really don’t know why I said that, but somehow I knew that I had to be naked over her lap for this to work.

As I lay down, she patted my asscheeks and said, “You know you really do have a beautiful ass.” She softly stroked me and added, “It’s almost a shame to turn it all red and purple.” Then she started spanking me.

At first I almost didn’t feel her. It wasn’t just my wall. I think she was holding back to see how I reacted. When I just grunted a little, she started hitting harder and harder. When I yelped, she got faster and even harder. I was now yelping with each strike, but I was still not crying.

Then she paused and bent over to pick up something from the floor. On the next swat, I screamed. What she had picked up was her house slipper. It had flat leather soles that really hurt as they slammed into my ass.

“Oh God!” I cried out. “Please no. This isn’t working. Please stop!”

“Not until you cry,” she yelled back and began hitting even harder.

The pain was starting to get intense. I tried to plead with her again to stop, but the words wouldn’t form in my mouth. Instead, loud guffawing sobs erupted from my lips. My whole body began to shake and tears began flowing from my eyes.

I don’t know how long I lay across her lap crying, but it felt like forever. All the while I was crying she was gently stroking my back and my behind. I felt totally drained by the time my sobs turned to sniffles.

Her hands started stroking further up my back and further down my legs. I could feel a twinge of pain as her fingers passed lightly over my swollen asscheeks, but the light stroking on my back and on my legs felt soooooooooo good. Then one hand moved between my legs and I parted them to give her access.

As soon as her fingers touched my slit, I felt something like electric shocks jolt through my entire body. I had never felt any sexual feelings before, but I was pretty sure that was what I was feeling. I didn’t realize that I was doing it, but I turned over on Sheila’s lap so that I was face up.

“Let’s get you onto the bed,” she said softly as she slid me slightly to the side and rolled out from under me. She then guided me into the middle of the bed and said quietly, “Just close your eyes and open your legs. Let me do the rest.”

She started rubbing my breasts with her hands. She must have oiled her hands or my breasts because she slid easily over them. I could feel my nipples stiffening under her palms. Then I felt something cold against my stomach. She was pouring more oil on my skin. Her hands were now sliding around my stomach and moving down my legs.

I pulled my legs up slightly and parted them and she moved to my cunt. At first she just slid past my slit and moved her hands down my legs, but soon she was dipping into me with her fingers with each pass. I was starting to squirm and moan.

The fingers of one hand were now inside of me, moving in and out. The fingers of the other hand were alternating between swirling around my clit and stroking my breasts. I was starting to make a loud noise with each breath that soon became an almost continuous “Ahhhhhh” that rose and fell in pitch and volume with the stroke of her hand going in an out of my cunt.

Finally the room turned bright white and electricity shot throughout my body. I screamed out a loud “Aaaiiieeeeeee!” as the orgasm washed over me.

Sheila kept rubbing me, but now it was much slower and much softer. After a while I relaxed back into the bed and began murmuring soft sighs of contentment. “I think we broke down your wall,” she said with a big smile.

She put another movie on and we lay on the bed naked together cuddling as it played. Soon we were both crying into our Kleenex. When it ended I began sobbing almost violently. “I can cry,” I said shakily. “I can cry.” I reached over and stroked Sheila’s breast and added, “And I can feel.”

We made love three or four more times that night.

My wall remained broken down for almost six-months. I don’t remember any one particular thing which caused it to rebuild, but one day Sheila said to me, “I think we need to do another movie marathon.”

“Why?” I asked.

She glanced around to see that we were actually alone before reaching over and twisting one of my nipples… really hard.

“Why did you do that?” I asked, sounding somewhat perturbed.

“Why didn’t you scream?” she replied.

“Why should I scream?” I answered. “It didn’t hurt.”

She just stood there looking at me. Then it hit me. “Oh,” I said. “It didn’t hurt. My wall is back, isn’t it?”

We didn’t bother with the movies. I just went over to her place in the evening and she whaled on my ass until I was bawling. It didn’t take as long this time. Once I was crying, she pulled me into the middle of the bed and we took each other high– twice. Then we fell asleep in each other’s arms.

In the morning I asked her, “Do you think it worked?”

In response, she reached over and twisted my nipple. I yelped and then said, “I guess it worked.”

As we were getting dressed I asked, “How long do you think it will last this time?”

“I don’t know,” she answered. “But your emotional engines seem to be running fine now. When you feel the wall starting to rise again, come back for a tune up.”

Ever since then, we’ve always called it a “tune up.”

***

When I arrived at Sheila’s house, her partner Ginny opened the front door. Now that they have been able to be married, I guess I should call her Sheila’s spouse. They don’t like the terms “wife” or “husband.”

“In our marriage,” Sheila had explained, “we are equal partners, but the legal term is spouse. In our psychiatric practice we are also equal partners, but there the legal term is partners. So I can introduce Virginia as my partner or as my spouse.”

“She’s waiting for you upstairs,” Ginny said.

“Upstairs,” meant the guest bedroom. Ginny was OK with what Sheila and I did, with one proviso. It could never be in their bedroom. Maybe “OK” isn’t the right term. Ginny accepted what Sheila and I did, just like Dwayne accepted it. Neither really liked it.

For that matter, I didn’t really like it either. I wish there were some other way, but the only way for Dwayne and me to remain close– or for me to be close to anyone– was for me to visit Sheila.

Sheila was sitting on the bed when I entered the bedroom. She was wearing a black bra with a matching set of panties and dark thigh-high stockings. She looked very sexy, but the real reason for her outfit was so that I didn’t get her turned on. She was very faithful to Ginny and once they entered into a mutual relationship, she no longer joined me in post-tune up coitus.

I stripped and walked over to stand in front of her. Over the years, I had gotten into the habit– ritual?– of using a depilatory cream to remove all hair below my neck in preparation for our sessions. Partly it was to make myself even more naked. And partly it was to make my skin more sensitive to what was about to happen. Using the cream over my entire body made my skin very smooth and after I came back out from behind my wall, it was even more sensitive to all sensations.

She looked up at me and said, “You need to say the words for the recording.”

I took a deep breath and began, “I am here of my own volition. I have not been coerced in any way. This action is by my request and is not associated with any therapy offered or given by Doctor Madison-Baxter. I know that this is being video recorded for Sheila’s– Doctor Madison’s protection and I agree to the recording and storage of these images and their use, if necessary, should Doctor Madison-Baxter need them to explain the nature of our sessions together.”

Lawyers are always such mood killers, but my therapist wasn’t the only one who knew of Sheila’s sessions with me and because of me, she has had to defend herself several times against charges of inappropriate relations with a patient or patient abuse. I took a deep breath to clear my mind and lay myself down over her lap.

She picked up the little leather paddle that had been sitting on the bed alongside her. She spent several minutes just stroking my ass. “You do have a beautiful ass,” she said softly. She looked up at the camera and added, “Almost as beautiful as Ginny’s.”

Virginia must review the videos, or perhaps she was watching live.

The first slap of the paddle took me by surprise and I gave a short gasp. It didn’t really hurt, but I felt it more than I do if I have gone way too long between tune ups. It wasn’t very many slaps until the swats were actually starting to hurt. I was starting to squirm my ass trying to avoid the slaps, but Sheila had my legs trapped with one of her legs while I lay over the other leg with my ass high in the air.

I could hear Sheila counting softly to herself. Somewhere in the high forties, I began screaming for her to stop. I don’t know why I did that, because whenever I ask her to stop she starts hitting harder and faster. I yelled at her to stop twice more before the wall broke and I dissolved into tears and sobs.

After another dozen or so swats, she released my legs and I rolled over into the middle of the bed. She knelt beside me with one hand between my legs and the other massaging my tits. It didn’t take long until I was screaming once again, this time from an extreme orgasm.

Sheila continued to stroke my belly and breasts lightly as I drifted in post-orgasmic bliss. After I had fully come back to normal, she said quietly, “Ginny needs to talk to us,” and got up from the bed.

I started to pick up my clothes, but she said, “No, remain naked. Just follow me.”

We walked downstairs and into the living room. Ginny was sitting in the middle of the room on a straight-backed wooded chair. She was fully-clothed and was holding a rather large, leather hairbrush in her hand.

I recognized the brush. It was the one I had bought for Dwayne when we tried to break down the wall ourselves. He whaled away on me with it for a long time before we finally admitted defeat and I called Sheila. Sheila was the only one who could spank me to tears and break my wall. I don’t know why that is, but it is.

Ginny looked up at me and patted her lap. As I lay down she looked over at Sheila and said, “She does have a very nice ass.” She smiled and added, “Thank you for saying mine was better.”

She stroked my ass several times. I flinched as she ran her hands across some of the heavier welts. Then she slammed down into my ass with the hairbrush.

“Aaiiee!” I screamed.

It hurt! I screamed again, “Stop. Please stop! Oh, God, please stop!”

Then I started crying. She kept spanking, and I kept blubbering, “Stop, please stop,” as I shook and convulsed on her lap.

After a few minutes I realized that I was crying softly and Ginny was again gently stroking my ass.

“I think the experiment was successful,” she said.

“Experiment?” I asked, raising my head.

“Yes, experiment,” Sheila said. “Doctor Baxter has been talking to your husband Dwayne. Both of them– actually all of us– would prefer that there was a different way to break down your wall.”

“But you are the only one who has ever been able to do that,” I said. My voice was slightly shaky. I don’t know if it was fear or hope that was making it shake.

“Dwayne had an idea that none of us had thought of.” Sheila said. “Sometimes someone outside the loop has fresh eyes and a fresh question.”

“What was the question?” I asked, still lying across Ginny’s lap.

“A simple question,” answered Ginny, “actually two of them. The first was, ‘Is there any way we can keep the wall from forming?’”

“And the second question,” continued Sheila, “was ‘Do we have to wait until it is fully-formed before we knock it down?’”

I looked up at Ginny, “You wanted to see if you could make me cry when the wall wasn’t there.”

Ginny smiled. “Close,” she answered. “We wanted to see if Dwayne could make you cry when the wall wasn’t there.”

Sheila laughed and said, “But Dwayne isn’t here. Ginny is. But, of course, Dwayne’s hairbrush is here.”

“So what are you suggesting?” I asked. I felt kind of silly still lying naked across Ginny’s lap, but she was holding me in place so I just stayed there.

“Let’s think of it as preventative maintenance,” Ginny said, also laughing. “With proper regular preventive maintenance you might not need a tune up for a long, long time.”

I gasped and struggled to stand up, but Ginny kept me pressed firmly into her lap. Dwayne had just stepped into the room. He sat down on the couch in front of Ginny and me.

“OK,” Ginny said. “From this point on, I am your joint counselor. It is my professional recommendation to you both that Dwayne take care of preventative maintenance on a regular schedule.”

“You,” she said, patting my naked ass,“will have to decide how often this will be necessary. It will be your responsibility to give Dwayne the signal– and permission– to spank you and make you cry.”

“You,” she said, pointing to Dwayne, “will be responsible for seeing that the kids are taken care of. You can leave them at home with a babysitter and go to a hotel, or take them to their grandparents or whatever. You will then use this hairbrush until she is a sobbing mess.”

She patted my ass once again, but continued looking at, and speaking to, Dwayne. “That is not the end of it,” she continued. “While she is crying you must soothe her and stroke her and tell her you love her. Once she is cried out, she will begin to respond sexually to your stroking.”

She caressed my ass and slipped her fingers slightly between my legs. I moaned softly.

“At that point,” she said, “take her to bed and fuck her senseless.”

I was a little surprised at her language, but I was surprised even more by the fact that I suddenly gushed and wet her lap.

“Do you agree to that?” she asked as she slapped me lightly on my asscheeks.

“Yes,” I said as I nodded my head.

“Dwayne, do you agree to that?” she asked.

Dwayne answered, “Works for me.”

Sheila then spoke. “Why don’t you go back upstairs and dress,” she said to me. “Ginny drove Dwayne up here, so he can drive you both home in your car.”

As I stood up, Dwayne took me in his arms and kissed me. I pressed my lips against his and clung to him with my naked body rubbing against his clothes.

“The kids are at your mom’s,” he said softly. “We have the house to ourselves for the rest of the weekend.” He took the leather hairbrush from Ginny and added, “I think we need to do a little experimenting on our own.”

He could have fucked me or spanked me or done just about anything to me right there in that living room, but he just patted me on the ass and said, “Go on upstairs and get dressed.”

We didn’t say much to each other on the two-hour drive home. Actually, we didn’t say much to each other once we got home. I left a trail of clothing from the front door, up the stairs to our bedroom. Dwayne followed me chuckling… and slapping the leather hairbrush slowly against his palm.

He did just as Ginny told him to do. He spanked me until I was sobbing uncontrollably. Actually I was crying from almost the first swat since my ass was already so tender, but he kept going until I totally lost control. Then he very gently stroked my back and my ass as I lay across his lap crying.

When I was cried out, his stroking started extending further down my legs and his fingers began slipping between my legs as his hands moved up toward my back. I slid off his lap and pulled myself into the middle of the bed.

Again, he did exactly what Ginny told him to do. He continued to stroke me until I was nearly at orgasm, then he fucked me senseless– literally. I think I passed out or had a fit or something as I orgasmed. I have never gone that high before in my life.

***

It’s been almost three years since my last tune up with Sheila. Dwayne continues to give me preventative maintenance whenever I ask for it, which is usually every six or eight weeks. I still can’t tell that my wall is rising, but I can sense a difference in how other people seem to be relating to me.

For instance, today my daughter came home from school with news that she had placed first in a science competition. I congratulated her and praised her for her effort, but I could see that she was disappointed that I wasn’t happy for her.

I didn’t realize I wasn’t feeling happiness, but somehow I knew that she could tell that I wasn’t happy. I knew it was time. Tonight, before I go to bed, I will put the sparkplug on the bathroom counter next to Dwayne’s shaver. He will see it in the morning before he goes to work.

If my mom or his is willing to take the kids for the weekend it will happen this weekend. If not, it will happen as soon as that can be arranged. When the sparkplug is back on my small vanity, I know that everything is set for the coming weekend.

Saturday morning, I will use the depilatory cream, and Saturday night, I will present myself to him. He will use the hairbrush until I am sobbing. Then he will comfort me as I cry myself out. And finally he will fuck me senseless.

My therapist thinks this, too, is destructive behavior, but that’s OK. I stopped seeing her two years ago. My wall isn’t that much of a problem anymore.

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END OF STORY
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