Mind Caviar Poetry

Prima C  is the alter ego of a psychology graduate student in New Jersey. Her other erotic works have appeared online in Dare Magazine, Girlphoria, and Venus or Vixen?. She has also published in other genres, under other names. She welcomes comments and feedback at prima_c_2000@yahoo.com.

Warning: The following is a work of fantasy only. Sexual contact between psychologists and clients is explicitly forbidden by the American Psychological Association and should not be engaged in under any circumstances. Ever.

Triumph of the Id

"Right then, Mrs. Schwartz, Iíll see you next week."

Carla wrote a quick note in her case file as her 4:00 client (intermittent depressive episodes with underlying histrionic personality) departed the office. Thank goodness the day was almost over. For all the rewards of full-time practice, seeing five to six regular clients a day was nevertheless exhausting. 

Carla stood up, stretched her limbs, and surveyed her office. The room was small and cozy, dominated by the brown leather couch in the center. Even though she wasnít a strict Freudian, she enjoyed the idea of the therapistís couch.: The soft brown leather was comfortable and warm; she liked to think of it as a nurturing environment where clients could feel sheltered and secure, very important considering the harrowing mental journeys some of them took on a weekly basis.

She checked her book. Just one more appointment for the day. Robert was one of her favorites, in many ways an ideal client: young, attractive, verbal, and intelligent. And saddled with a truckload of insecurities and self-esteem issues, due largely to a mother and father who, through liberal doses of punishment and strict religiosity, had all but succeeded in quashing his sense of trust in anyoneís motives, including his own.

Recently they had reached a breakthrough in their therapy. Sheíd finally got him to trust her enough to the point where they could really begin discussing some deep areas of insecurity.

All his life, Robert had been punished, both physically and psychologically, for having what his parents called his "unclean thoughts", which meant heíd spent the better part of his life repressing what were essentially normal, healthy urges. No surprise that as an adult heíd been unable to maintain any normal healthy love relationships. For how can you love another person without first loving yourself? 

Carla pushed up her glasses, did a quick run-through over her case notes, and opened the door to let him in.

+ + + 

Robert lay reclined on the leather couch as Carla studied her clipboard, her glasses balanced on the end of her nose. "If I remember from our last session we were talking about how your childhood related to what you felt about yourself, about your body."

"My body?" he snorted. "Itís always disgusted me."

"Can you tell me more about that?"

"Itís just - all my life Iíve been told these feelings I have - well, that theyíre wrong, that theyíre dirty, that Iím dirty for having them." 

"Makes sense, if you think about it. When youíve been told all your life that somethingís dirty, you canít help but approach it in a dirty way."

"And not just that, but I think itís turning into a preoccupation too."

"In what way?"

"You wouldnít believe how much of my time I spend thinking about it. I see an attractive woman I automatically start thinking about what it would be like to make love to her, to strip her clothes off slowly, run my hands over her curves, find out what makes her cry out with pleasure...."

"Go on," she prompted, aware that her cheeks were becoming flushed, her lips wet. She slipped off her glasses and dangled them absently on her finger.

"And I canít help touching myself; Iíve got the most incredible sensation all over, imagining her hands on me, her mouth, both of us getting more and more excited..."


"Then the baggage kicks in. The worthlessness. The shame. The feeling that itís all bad and wrong and that I donít deserve this pleasure." 

"Oh," she said, settling back on the chair, disappointed. "If I were to phrase it in clinical terms," she said, looking up at him over the top of her clipboard, "I would say youíre suffering from a dominant superego. You are familiar with the superego, arenít you?" 

"Only vaguely."

"Well, let me put it this way. Freud conceived of the self as three components - the id, the ego, and the superego."

She put her glasses and clipboard on the floor and shifted over to the edge of the couch, becoming vaguely conscious of the way her silk panties rubbed up against her crotch as she moved, and sat down beside him. "Letís try a simple exercise," she suggested. "You do trust me, donít you?" He nodded silently. "Right, then, I want you to close your eyes, and keep them closed. 

He did what he was told, breathing shallow with anticipation. Slowly, she drew one red-lacquered nail down the front of his nose and flicked it over the tip. 

"Now the id," she began, "is the most primal part of the self, the seat of the basic desires. Food, sex, pleasure, anything that gratifies these urges, all thatís driven by the id."

He opened his mouth to speak, and she hushed him with a press of her finger over his lips. With the same finger she traced the outline of his lips, just barely darting inside his slightly opened mouth. She heard him inhale sharply when her fingertip brushed lightly against his tongue, and felt an answering tingle in her breasts.

"The ego, on the other hand," she continued, running the moistened finger over his lips, "is what Freud called the executive. Thatís what keeps the id in check. If the id is the pleasure principle, then the ego is the reality principle. Basically, the ego is what keeps us from running wild gratifying ourselves every minute of the day."

She withdrew her finger from his mouth. His breathing had deepened, and his lips were quivering slightly. Her own breasts felt full, swollen, nipples taut and straining against the silky confines of her bra.

"Now, the outermost layer is the superego," she went on. "The superego is the total of the outside influences. Family, work, church, all the morals and values dictated by society. Itís the seat of all those feelings of guilt and shame. The part thatís keeping you from taking pleasure in your body."

The finger continued its descent, tracing over his chin, down his throat, over the quivering Adamís apple, to the hollow in the middle of his collarbone, down to the top button of his shirt. In a single motion she had it undone.

"Good," she said. "Youíre doing great. Now youíre going to strip away the layers. Literally and figuratively. And with every layer youíre going to lose one layer of your superego. Soon there will be nothing there but you."

His breathing deepened as she deliberately released the next three buttons. "There they go. Your school, your family, your church." She opened the shirt to mid-stomach and worked the sides down over his shoulders and upper arms, trapping his arms to his sides. He squirmed a bit, making a small noise of protest. "Hush," she whispered, close enough so she could feel the heat of his ear. "Trust me. Let yourself experience your sensations. Your reactions. Your impulses."

Her free arm supporting his weight, she eased him back gently against the soft cushions on the leather couch as the exploring finger continued its travel over his chest. She rolled the pad of her thumb over his nipple, feeling the puckered skin tighten under her touch. Her own nipples, swollen and sensitive, begged for her touch, and she resisted the urge to fondle them with her free hand.

"Talk to me now," she whispered. "Tell me what youíre feeling." 

"I think Iím -" 

"Donít think, just feel. Remember, your problem is, you think too much. Just bypass your thinking and tell me exactly what you feel." 

"It feels - good, I guess."

"Tell me, where does it feels the best? Do you like it here, or here, or - "

"Oh, god, yeah, right there. And there. Ohhh."

"Thatís right. Allow your body to enjoy it. You deserve this. Yesssss..."

Her hand continued to stroke him as his back arced reflexively, chest rising and falling. His skin was wonderfully smooth and warm to the touch, and the faint noises from his mouth were stoking her own arousal. With every shift of her body she could feel the friction of her underclothes against her breasts and crotch.

She opened the front of his jeans.

His penis sprang out, already erect and eager for her touch. She stroked the length of his shaft, enjoying the feel of the smooth velvety skin stretched tight over the urgency of his desire. He squirmed. "I canít -"

"Hush... Donít think. Just feel. Let yourself enjoy it." She closed her hand around him.

She felt, rather than saw, the ripple pass through his body as he gasped with pleasure. She tightened her fingers around his rock-hard member, so swollen she could barely wrap her whole hand around it, felt the hot blood pulsating, throbbing inside. Her thumb found the sensitive spot at the base of the head, flicking over it, rubbing back and forth. His whole body was quivering now, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

She squeezed. 

His back arced up violently as a whimper escaped his lips. Without missing a beat she continued to plunge her hand up and down his thick shaft, gradually increasing the pressure of her fingers. His arms strained against the opened shirt. One hand found the top of her thigh, clamped it tightly. She could feel his fingers digging into her flesh. God, she was wet. 

He was close, she could tell. Reaching under the couch with her free hand, she pulled out a clean white towel and laid it over his stomach.

"Go on, come," she urged. "Let it happen. Let yourself feel it. Enjoy."

She knew the moment he would come even before the first drops shot out. His body went rigid as the orgasm wracked him, discharging thick white fluid in bursts on the towel. His fingers clenched on her thigh. Her own sex pulsed in sympathy as she rubbed herself back and forth in tiny motions against the crotch of her panties.

His climax past, he lay there, trembling. She smoothed a lock of hair away from his damp forehead. "How are you doing?" she whispered.

He said nothing, just smiled, a look of pure contentment on his face. A perfect response, it told her all she needed to know. 

+ + + 

She let him lie there awhile, collect himself. "How are you feeling?íí she asked after a few minutes.

He opened his eyes and smiled weakly up at her. "Iím okay." 

"See? Whatís the worst thing that could happen to you?"

"I - I guess - nothing. I mean, Iím still here, right?"

"See? Your urges can be a natural and positive thing. I think we can focus some time on getting you to allow yourself to accept that part of you."

On cue, they both looked up at the wall clock. The fifty-minute therapy hour was just about up. Perfect.

Robert refastened his clothing and stood up to leave. "See you next week?"

"Same time."

The door closed behind him. Alone at last, she sank down on the couch. Pulli ng her skirt up over her thighs, she reached down into her panties to where her own damp flesh awaited. The room spun round as she gave in to her own release.

Copyright © 2001 Prima C. All rights reserved.

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