By: Georgia Le Carre

I walked toward the computer screen.

It was not a very good picture. A long lens photo. Grainy. And not even in color. But my cock twitched and woke up from its deep sleep.


I glanced restlessly at my watch: ten minutes to spare before Lady Olivia’s appointment. My heart was pumping strongly and there was a strange tension in my gut. I pulled the bottle of JD from my desk drawer, unscrewed the cap and took a long swig straight from its mouth. The fiery liquid burned all the way into my empty stomach. Heat sped along my veins warming, easing, dulling. Artificially relaxed I sprayed breath freshener into my mouth.

Horrible stuff.

I stood up and walked over to the window. It was late in the afternoon and the pavements were already full of people hurrying home. I had been there for less than a minute when a Rolls-Royce Phantom pulled up on the street. Then, even though I really, really wanted to watch her slide out, I moved away from the window. I straightened my tie, shot my cuffs, sat in my chair, and twirled my pen. My pulse was jumping.

What the hell is the matter with you?

Behaving like a fucking hormone-crazed teenager.

The bell rang. I put the pen down and listened to the blood pumping in my ears while out front she was let in, asked to fill in the disclaimer form, and reminded to use the restroom before her session started. I glanced at my watch. Four minutes. I badly wanted to have another swig. I resisted and waited for Beryl’s soft knock.

It came three minutes later.

‘Come in,’ I called.

The door opened and she stood in the doorway dressed in a tailored, gunmetal-gray dress, thick black tights and flat black pumps. How should I describe her? Petite. Blonde hair tightly pulled back into a ponytail. Heart-shaped face. Straight nose. Absolutely enormous, glossy, gray-green eyes. And a full, small mouth that she had painted a frank red. She was neither classically beautiful like her stepmother nor pretty in the girl-next-door sort of way.

But she was…intriguing. Very.

‘Good afternoon,’ I greeted, standing up.

‘Hello, Dr. Kane,’ she said and took a step into the room.

Her voice held that fey, non-aggressive, aristocratic tone of the British upper class, and her expression was a politely closed door, but her sexuality reached out like a long tentacle and touched me. I can tell you now, it wasn’t pleasant. It was cold, sensual, compelling…and undeniable.

The Goat of Lust had me by the fucking balls!

I had never encountered anything like it before. I could liken the sensation only to the moment when a youth first discovers that he is attracted to other men. There is sadness and regret that he is not like everybody else, and dismay at the task of confronting his parents with the ‘bad’ news. Laced underneath the trepidation is intense curiosity, terrible excitement for the forbidden, and not an ounce of revulsion.

Right there and then I knew that under no circumstances could I treat Lady Olivia. I was too sexually aroused to remain detached or impartial. And I could only see the situation in my pants worsening with more proximity. The last thing in the world I needed was to court another scandal. Nothing good could come of it—for me, or her. I would give her one session and at the end of it when I had a better overview of her case, I would recommend a couple of regression experts whom I trusted.

I gestured my open palm toward the chair facing my desk. ‘Have a seat,’ I invited.

‘Thank you,’ she replied and began moving toward it.

Coming forward, Beryl raised her eyebrows and gave me an old-fashioned look as she passed me Lady Olivia’s forms.

‘I’ll be out front if you need anything,’ she offered archly.

‘Thank you, Beryl,’ I said dryly, but she just winked, and quietly closed the door.

I turned my attention back to Lady Olivia. She had just reached the chair and was slipping into it. For some seconds I stood simply staring at her, mesmerized, actually helpless in the pull of her sexuality. Totally at odds with her cool expression, her carefully measured greeting, her severe hairstyle, and dull, somber clothing, her movements were shockingly sensuous.

She actually reminded me of those insects that have no voices and communicate by vibrating their bodies. Her body was communicating with me. The touch-me-not image she had created for her new amnesiac self was not the truth. Behind the façade lived a supremely sexual creature. The clue was in the startlingly red, come-hither lipstick.

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