An Ordinary Life (standard:Psychological fiction, 2618 words)
Author: MsCroft	Added: Oct 05 2009	Views/Reads: 5544/2471	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
This is a story about a psychologist who's sensual awakening is a result of the clients she attends to. Though erotic in nature, it portends to a more viseral experience for the reader.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

or two with this fresh meat, not only had she offered a sum in this 
deal but she was quite the looker too, something all little more 
refined than what the current clientele was accustomed. A thought 
rested on the female role: was this really the way to regain the power 
the Neanderthal beings stole from us? There was a time when it was 
women, the devadasi, who were worshiped for their better qualities, the 
mother earth, the giver of life, the intuitive mysticality that 
testosterone failed to lock onto. Their ability to attenuate the 
worldly burdens and adhere to the higher qualities made them revered 
beings offering a union mediating men and god. Married to the higher 
deity, a union with them was considered an act of reverent worship of 
that which is pure and sacred under the eyes of the heavens. If she 
weren't so eager to indulge the powers behind the feline mask she'd 
barf all over this letch. A sorry state for human existence, this 
‘protector', and all he represented was the reason for the demise of 
womankind in all her glory, drunk with their masculine qualities, it 
was becoming all too clear that these men folk were doing a shoddy job 
in their rein. 

Her nerve was beginning to fail as the jazzy beat pricked her ears. In a
moment of centeredness, she shut out the world and all its weight 
allowing the waves of rhythmic measure tempo her pulse. In the day, she 
had mastered the intimate caveats of the human psyche yet she lacked 
the happenings behind the cold rude world and all its calluses that 
proffered the experience of the human condition. The bassy tempo was 
the push she need, following no mercy, she slid the feline mask over 
her smooth red-brown hair, and the game was on. 

What the feline mask unleashed was the all freedom kept safely at bay
from breathing its wondrous talent, feeling its enormous beauty, 
revelling in its divine sublimity. Having grown up with a passport to 
the norm, she had always wondered what it you be like to enact the 
impulses her patients failed to suppress. No fuel was needed; her 
anonymity being the source of her intoxication played such a 
treacherous game; behind the feline mask she betrayed every natural 
order she was accustomed, from this her dark eros emerged. A warm 
capacity rose from her solar plexus, on the stage she stretched out her 
carcass, her arms affording the emblem of dominant royalty, there is 
something terribly sensual with all that rising and stretching when the 
warmth pours through her limbs down through her fingers and toes. Her 
curves submitted to the grey light, her hips enhanced by the light, her 
waist diminished by the dancing shadows, her swollen breasts superior 
to all that was before; those that observed beheld the film noir save 
her blood-red pout sublimated only by her glistening crown. 

It was here where the discovery of her true self emerged from the
darkness, of what she was capable, and the sirens of the shadows raised 
its head in salute to that which we call woman. As a youth, she often 
wondered how these sirens talented the skill of such seduction, the 
mysterious recipe bound for the heart of the human soul. In her 
performance discovered the seat of all that was sought after was 
optimum desire, the opium, and its search for it became an 
all-consuming passion as she begun to understand why her patients did 
as they did. The excitement fuelled her synapses far better than the 
remedials she prescribed. With each twist and turn her inner thoughts 
became saturated with images of desire. Fuelled by the sea of 
transfixed faces she became sodden her own desire to capture the eyes 
of the falling down. Her legs folded round the pole; her derrière 
extended its intent to the bassy tune of lust, her youthful dancers 
dream served its purpose for she never lost a beat. Empowered by the 
cold hard metal against her warm potent flesh she slid her torso along 
its boundary, immoveable, steadfast, she could do anything so long as 
the pole remained immutable. She would of stayed there all night save 
she had to finish what she had started. 

---- 

The sight of the hard-earned door of the hard-earned home conjured up a
melancholy that remained indignant in its prolonged sustenance. This 
was what it all was for? With instinct betrayed by the nights' hungry 
exploits, she reached for the threshold of her psychic freedom; its 
silken tie smoothing over her red-brown hair, the sound alone is 
pre-emptive. The door slams behind her as she slips off her coat. 
Devoid of a single utterance, she continued to shed one garment after 
another, allowing them to fall to the floor she strutted her 
hip-accentuating saunter one foot squarely in front of the other. She 
stood before her paramour threadbare save her black satin six-inches. 
In a single act of submission, she knelt before him pressed between his 
legs she raised her chin up towards his face. He leaned forward, 
slowly, holding her beseeching face he pressed his lips upon her face 
and kisses her deeply the way a woman always yearns. Her smoky eyes fix 
firmly on him she withdraws from in him in a reverse cat-like prowl; 
she draws up a chair and lowers herself onto it as she stretches her 
legs athwart their spread. She runs her right hand the length of her 
inner thigh allowing her fingers to linger at their meeting point. 

‘Eat this'. 

Like a trance in Mesmer's bewitchment absent of intent, transfixed he
can do no other than to obey this enticing command, he strode towards 
her, and their eyes locked communicating everything and nothing. At 
times like these when two souls connect a single word needn't be 
uttered, all that could be said would never suffice. In the mind of the 
seducer, a fantasy one contrives often limits in the psychology of the 
other. A art is found in the creation of a parallel sensation, in 
making the other feel as you feel. He kneels before her dewy pink, his 
moist tongue releases its' upward stroke, she lets out a throaty moan, 
‘yes, that's my boy. 

He rose to his feet and put forward his hand to her. She placed her hand
in his as he pulled her to her feet. Without losing her gaze, he sat 
down in the chair pulling her onto him with his hands around her 
thighs. The gentle stoke along the contours of her neck down to her 
clavicle followed by a firm grasp of the breast is enough to send a 
girl's blood rushing. That is what he did, made her blood rush. It that 
been some time since he had done that to her and his intent pursuit 
aroused her even further. The firmness, yet tenderness, of his grip 
sent a red-hot surge through her cranium, blinding her with desire and 
lust she missed a breath, her mind, vacant of every thought she could 
feel every inch of her pulsing. This was how she wanted it to be. As 
she rolled her head back, he tugged her hair, which gave her another 
blinding rush; warm white light bathed her senses. He placed his hands 
squarely on her shoulders and pulled her onto him so deeply her pupils 
widened to their max and that, was all she needed. That buzz took its 
hold. She wrapped her heeled legs around the legs of the chair with 
silent intent; it was in control that drove her completely out of 
control. She wrapped her arms around the back of the chair thrusting 
deeply as if it were never enough, him helpless laid a puppet in her 
action. Like a succubus she took his fever, surrounded by the red-hot 
glow they lost their senses to the tangible these two souls rose united 
in the throws of passion entered the Pleroma and the revolving universe 
implodes unleashing the stars in the cosmic heaven. 

Him: grateful for his sensuous surprise rolled over to a deep restful
slumber. Her: restless, something inside her was stirring, harrowing, 
and raising its ugly head out of the beaten shadow that her milieu 
worked so hard to suppress. Years of obeying, following the rules of 
socio-economic conduct was beginning to backfire. She of all people 
should know that it was inevitable. She was always the determined one, 
the wild child; she knew her own mind and did not need to be told, but 
her parents caught it early on while she was young and managed the 
control the inner fire the used to burn a hole in every ironclad law of 
the sophisticate. In a fit of disgust with her inability to coax 
herself into the arms of wanton forgetting in the land of the forgotten 
few, she headed for the bathroom cabinet and found the false-labelled 
sleeping pills she kept ‘only for emergencies'. Startled by the 
civilised image that did not reflect the dark barbarous soul that 
refused to join the manufactured refinement cultivated by the very ones 
that needed cultivating, she stared back into those dark fiery eyes in 
search of the lost true self, something was stirring, she didn't know 
what would come, but she know it would come. 

That night she dreamed she laid supine upon an alter of sensual
indulgence. Yielding herself to the fur-lined fingers on her form she 
surrendered to the worship of the rich Adonises the heavens blessed 
upon the earth. Her every corner were carefully attended to the tones 
of her sensual desire, her vulva engorged through the shucking of her 
toes, the nibbling under the curve of her breasts, her nipples sucked 
to the ripest pink, her inner thighs clawed drawing the blood to the 
surface of her goose-pimpled skin. Warm moist tongues found their way 
to every crevice, mounds, and erogenous zones. The garden of her 
ecstasy flourished with juices of fruition as they guided her hands to 
the only place she would truly arrive, for she alone held the master 
key to the doorway of her rapture. With unbridled passion, she embraced 
her charge; her fingers rubbed the velvety folds of her pinkness, her 
nails grazing her pulsing clitoris pinching it to its peek. Wave after 
wave of hormones reverberated her innards, impulses raged, fingers 
rubbed harder, she felt her mind about to explode when in a sudden gush 
a hormone filled red glow enveloped her as the doorway burst open with 
the juices of unbridled passion, and, she found herself wake, panting 
heated breaths of lustful decadence. 

The pre dawn alarm wakes him from slumber's escape. In He-man tones, he
raises his heavy head, showers off that tell-tail musky scent. Douches, 
hair slicked back. Starched white-collar ruffles over his well-defined 
hard-earned traps, slacks on, belt bucked, tie pinched, blazer armed. 
‘Remember your keys,' she calls out. Briefcase in hand, he opens the 
door and steps out back into an ordinary life. 


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