From louvre@dido.fa.indiana.eduFri Nov 10 11:21:46 1995 Date: Fri, 10 Nov 1995 12:08:13 -0500 From: The Louvre To: orelious@ICSI.Net Subject: Re: request (auto response) TRANCES -- Part 5 Fall of my senior year was interesting. Loads of work, but interesting. All my coursework now was in psychology and pre-grad counseling and I was starting on my senior thesis -- the subject of which was (of course) the theoretical aspects of hypnosis. My advisor was Prof. Andrea DiMucci, a very attractive woman in a Mediterranean sort of way. About forty, I guessed, probably under 120 pounds, perhaps five-foot-three in her stocking feet -- which probably none of her students had ever seen, since she favored heels of significant height. The heels didn't seem to go with her dresses and suits, which were of conservative cut though they concealed what I estimated was a very nice, almost voluptuous figure. Her gleaming black hair was always up in a restrictive knot atop her head. Dr. DiMucci was a very knowledgeable and very professional instructor, but that didn't keep her male students from exchanging speculative looks when she came out from behind her desk to pace back and forth across the front of the classroom as she lectured. She didn't wear a wedding ring, either, and the scuttlebutt was that she'd gone through a messy divorce a few years before and simply had no interest in dating -- or so a couple of the younger single male profs had confided. Dr. DiMucci was also rather conservative in her attitude toward the therapeutic uses of hypnosis -- not that she'd had any personal experience with putting people under, but the dogma of whatever school of psychology she subscribed to had a low opinion of it (so there). This meant that I was forced to spend several afternoons in her office, perched on an uncomfortable wooden chair in front of her obsessively tidy desk, trying to explain my interest in hypnosis and the possibilities my reading and experience had suggested -- and without giving away my personal experiments. Late one Friday afternoon in September I was leaning against the wall in the hall outside her office, waiting for the good professor to show up. I'd received a letter from little Sharon, telling me how much fun she'd had with her friend Marilyn. "She put two fingers up inside me and it really felt nice!" she'd written -- and all the I's were dotted with tiny hearts. I was imagining the scene and smiling when Dr. DiMucci arrived and murmured an apology for being late. I watched from behind as she tried to get her key to work in the door lock; this involved shifting her compact weight from foot to foot and jiggling her hips just enough to keep my attention focused. Sharon... DiMucci... Why hadn't it occurred to me before? Would it be possible to prove the validity of my graduation thesis by putting my advisor into a trance? "Professor," I began as I settled into the familiar hard chair, "how would it be if you allowed me to perform a little demonstration to prove my point about hypnotism?" She raised her eyebrows and shot me a calculating look. I knew she had a pretty good opinion of my academic abilities and she generally considered seriously anything I had to say. "What did you have in mind?" "Well,... if I were to hypnotize you, for instance...." She stared at me and then broke into a musical laugh. "Me? You think you can 'abracadabra' me into a hypnotic state? Not a chance, sir!" "Then you shouldn't object if I at least attempt it, right? If I'm wrong, I'm the one embarrassed by failure. You have nothing to lose, have you?" Her smile became more serious. "Look -- you're an excellent student, you're very people-savvy, and I have no doubt you'll become a first-rate psychological counselor. I have no interest in causing you embarrassment, really." I took a deep breath and jumped in. "Dr. DiMucci, I have the greatest respect for your knowledge and abilities,... but I have to say that hypnosis is one subject in which I'm pretty sure I have more practical experience than you have." If you're going to hang yourself, you might as well tie the noose good and tight, I always say. I could practically see the thought process spinning around in her head. If I failed, I'd have to drop the subject of hypnosis in favor of a topic she approved of. And she was an experienced professional psychologist: As far as she was concerned, there was no way she was going to be affected by some musical hall mumbo-jumbo. And she was genuinely sympathetic to my enthusiasm -- she just hated to see it misdirected. "If I let you attempt this ... experiment,... where and when are we talking about? Here and now?" Well, it was getting late and the halls were quiet. Most of the other faculty offices were dark and locked. Prof. DiMucci seemed tired from the long week, so her defenses were probably low. And, of course, she was absolutely confident of her own resistance to my "powers," which gave me an additional edge. "Yes, here and now would be fine, I think. Professor,... are you willing to trust me in this? I mean, I *will* need your cooperation, whether you buy the idea or not." "Sure, I promise, I'll cooperate. Besides, I'm your senior advisor -- and that gives me a certain amount of authority where you're concerned, and I know you're not stupid." I wouldn't do anything I ethically shouldn't if I ever wanted to receive *any* degree from *any* university, was what she meant. She smiled again and I decided not to worry about it. I stood and looked around the small office. There was an unused desk lamp on a bookcase in the corner and I retrieved it. I switched it on and turned off the overhead, aiming the lamp off to one side to provide only a dim background illumination. Moving around in front of her, I could see her pale face highlighted by her glossy black hair. She was a much greater challenge than the kids I had worked with; I had to make her feel relaxed. "Would you mind taking off your earrings and your wristwatch?" She complied as I contemplated the neatly buttoned high collar of her blouse. "Umm, could you also undo that top button? Also the buttons on your cuffs?" She looked at me for a moment, then nodded agreeably and did as I asked. One last thing. "And would you slip off your shoes, please?" Off they came, no questions or complaints. I considered asking her to take out her contact lenses -- being a little out of focus would help her concentrate on my voice -- but I decided that would be pushing it. "Now, professor, just look off in that direction; don't focus on anything in particular." I gestured toward the far side of the dim office. "In fact, you won't think about what you're seeing,... you'll only pay attention to my voice. You're thinking this is all a bit silly though you're willing to be tolerant of it. But that's not necessary, because you're already allowing yourself to slide off into that comfortable, warm, relaxed place in your mind where you have nothing to worry about, nothing that has to be done right away, no phones ringing, no student papers to read,... just you in your favorite chair at home, lights turned down to a comfortable level, sipping a glass of your favorite wine--" (I was taking a chance there, but not much of one, not with a woman named "DiMucci") "-- listening to your favorite music playing softly in the background...." I edged around in front of her again so I could see her face. Her posture had dissolved and she slouched in her desk chair, eyes half-closed, a peaceful, serene expression on her face. "Professor, I imagine your friends call you 'Andrea,' don't they?" She murmured her assent and the expression on her face never changed. "Has anyone ever called you 'Andy'?" "Not since I was a little girl; my uncles used to call me that, to tease me. When I got older, I insisted on being called 'Andrea' because it was more grown-up." Her tone was calm and unsurprised that I would ask such a question. The Eagle had landed, as someone once said. Twenty minutes later, I was the only person in Dr. DiMucci's adult life with permission to call her "Andy," at least when we were alone. She would always be absolutely candid and honest with me. And I had established a back door and given her certain instructions. Then I told her to forget she'd been hypnotized, but to remember what she'd been told, and I brought her out of it. When she blinked and took a breath, I was again sitting in the chair across the desk from her. She gave me a small, sympathetic smile. "I guess it didn't work, did it? Well, I told you it wouldn't. I'm sorry you had to find out the hard way." "That's all right, Andy. But would you write out a little statement on your pad there?" She didn't even blink at the name. "Please write 'Hypnotism doesn't work.' And if that's a true statement, sign your name below." She scooted up to the blotter and wrote out the three words. But when her pen moved to add her signature she paused and looked blankly at the paper. "That's odd. How the hell do you spell 'DiMucci'...?" She looked up sharply and the machinery in her head cranked up again. Carefully, she scratched out "doesn't" and printed "DOES" above it, then signed her name: "Andy DiMucci." As she reread what she'd written, her eyebrows popped up into her hairline and she shook her head slowly. "Well, I will be dipped!" That got a smothered laugh from me. "I beg your pardon, professor?" "You did it, didn't you? You put me under! Damn -- I don't believe this, I just don't believe you did it. No pendulum, no drugs or anything, just your voice; you really did it!" She leaned back in her chair and eyed me with new respect. "Well, what can I say? You go ahead and write that senior thesis, mister, and if it's as impressive as this little demonstration, I'll guarantee you a very high grade." She smiled and shook her head again. "I just realized: You called me 'Andy,' didn't you? Let's keep that between ourselves, shall we...?" "Of course, professor. I was just making my point, you know. Oh -- one other thing..." She gave me her attention. "Dive, Andy, dive." And she was under again. "Andy, did you know the guys in your classes think you're a very attractive woman? Especially for someone twice their age? You do know how pretty you are, don't you?" "I guess so.... Walter always told me how beautiful I was, and I loved hearing him say that -- but then he treated me like shit. How you look has nothing to do with who you are, I found *that* out all right." "That's a sad thing to hear, Andy. Your students and the younger male faculty members have a lot of respect for you as a teacher and as a psychologist -- but they also think you're a lovely woman. They believe it's possible to be both. So do I. I think you should begin to change your mind about that, don't you?" I rose and strolled around the office, noting the squash racket in a worn case in one corner and the running shoes peeking out from under one side of her desk. "You keep in good shape physically, don't you? You get plenty of exercise?" "Sure. I play tennis and squash, I jog when the weather's nice, I swim a couple times a week. And I have an exercycle in my bedroom that I ride while I'm watching recorded soaps on my VCR. It's good for you, especially when you're in the classroom most of the day." "Oh, I agree entirely. But regular exercise also means you've kept your body looking young. I think you should show off some of the results of all that exercise, don't you? I think you should begin wearing fewer drab suits and more flattering dresses and skirts. Stand in front of a full-length mirror naked, Andy, and look closely at what you see. You look very good, especially for a woman of nearly forty, and that will give you pleasure and satisfaction. You should share that pleasure with the men around you. You don't have to come on to them, or strut in front of class, or behave in an unprofessional manner -- just let people share the pleasure of looking at you. Take it as the compliment it is, okay?" "Maybe you're right.... I *am* in good shape. And 'nearly forty' isn't quite accurate, I'm afraid, though it's nice to hear. I'm really forty-two. Yes, I should dress a little more frilly, the way I did when I was a teenager. I have good legs -- that's why I wear heels so often -- but shorter skirts wouldn't hurt, either.... You're right: Why should I give a damn about Walter?" I assumed Walter was her ex-husband, but she was on a roll and I didn't want to inquire just then. "One other thing, Andy. You have beautiful, thick, dark hair that goes with your dark eyes. Why don't you try wearing it down? Let it swing freely, let it bounce when you walk." Her hand moved up to the "Gibson Girl" topknot and she got that thoughtful look. In fact, she was so agreeable about my suggestions, I took a bit of a chance. "Have you ever gone out in public without a bra, Andy? When you were younger?" She chuckled sexily. "You bet I did! When I was in college, I used to wear tee-shirts and sweaters with no bra, and the boys noticed, too! But I haven't done that in twenty years. You think I still could?" She seemed almost hopeful. "Well, take a look in your mirror. I'll bet you don't have much sag, not with all the exercise you get. What the hell -- take a chance, Andy!" Dr. DiMucci's first class on Monday morning caused quite a stir. I took my usual seat at the window-end of the first row and observed both the professor and her effect on her students. She was turned out in a rich forest-green wool skirt that ended four inches above the knee and she wore the sheerest dark gray hose I'd ever seen. Silver-gray heels showed off her lovely legs and a wide belt emphasized the narrowness of her waist. Above that was a snugly-fitted burgundy cashmere sweater with long, tight sleeves -- and it was obvious from the way her bustline shifted in several directions at once that there was nothing between her nipples and the wool. She'd had her hair done and it cascaded over her neck and curled around her ears, glossily reflecting the light from the windows. Large silver hoops shimmered at her ears and her lips shone a dark, luscious red. Her dark eyes were already large and riveting but she'd even improved on that by thickening her long lashes even further. More than one undergraduate sat with his mouth open, mesmerized by Andrea DiMucci's re-invention of herself, and even several of the girls stared in fascination and envy. She was obviously aware of the class's electrified reaction and basked in the attention even as she took up the day's lecture. There was a clatter of pens and a rustle of paper as students unfroze and hurried to get their notebooks open, but many of them continued to steal glances at their instructor. Dr. DiMucci stayed out in front of the desk for the entire lecture period, strolling up and down, consciously posing with one leg stretched out, and occasionally leaning back against her desk with her back slightly arched. The longer I watched her subtle performance, the more I began to consider the possibilities, and the hornier I got. The other guys in the class could fantasize, but I might be able to fulfill my growing fantasies. Two days later, I stopped by Dr. DiMucci's office -- "Andy," as I now thought of her to myself -- to drop off my revised thesis outline. She was conferring with another student and I waited discretely for my turn, leaning against the outside of the doorframe. When the other guy left, she motioned me in and shut the office door behind me. "Did you see me in class the other day?!" she squealed under her breath and grinned broadly. I could only grin back. "I wasn't sure I could go through with it, but I *loved* it! I haven't had boys look at me like that in a long, long time. You're responsible because you made the suggestion - - and I can't tell you how grateful I am for that!" She was wearing a thin red silk blouse with a short, straight black skirt, and I was extremely aware of her swaying nipples beneath the fabric and the shifting of the flat muscles in her thighs. She did a slow pirouette, arms raised above her head. "How do you think I look? Seriously? Not too young-ish, not trying too hard?" Was she kidding? "Andy, I think you look absolutely gorgeous. You sure don't look forty-two anymore, but not too young, either. You look like you've rediscovered yourself." "Maybe I have. The self I've tried to bury for too long. Well, that's over: Andrea DiMucci's back!" She giggled -- a sound I wasn't used to hearing from mature women, but she did it very well. I sat and handed her my outline. She scanned it for a few minutes, made a couple of notes, and then began asking questions. *Lots* of questions. Having discovered that hypnosis wasn't just a joke, she was suddenly and intensely interested in everything she could learn -- and I apparently was the only practitioner she was acquainted with at the moment. When she asked about my previous hypnotic subjects, however, I became cautious. And I reminded myself that I still hadn't proved to my satisfaction that I could convince someone to do something they were dead- set against. Now-or-never time. "Professor, how would it be if I came over to your house some evening this week? We could discuss my thesis in more comfortable surroundings...." Dr. DiMucci had been relaxed and friendly -- "mentor mode" -- but at my unexpected suggestion she shifted instantly to cool, steely academic superiority. Her back stiffened, her gaze narrowed, and she radiated disapproval. "Certainly not! That would be unproductive, not to mention quite unprofessional; it would also be a very bad idea personally, for both of us. In fact, you're being rather presumptuous." Her frown made me uncomfortable. She looked away and I scrambled to recover my wits. I hadn't really expected such a strong reaction! "Dr. DiMucci..." She glanced back. "Dive, Andy, dive." It took perhaps thirty unnerving seconds longer than the last time, but finally she was under. "Andy, I sincerely apologize for making such a suggestion; am I forgiven?" She looked at me thoughtfully, apparently deciding to go with youthful stupidity, and smiled slightly as she nodded. "Very well," I continued, "since it *was* such a bad suggestion, you will now forget completely that I ever made it, won't you?" She nodded agreeably and, from the change in her expression, I could practically see the incident disappear from her mind. Now, I would need to probe a little. "Andy, when you were in your early 20s, say, recently out of college,... was there some one guy you absolutely had the hots for? Someone you practically dragged into bed, or tried to?" I was interested in mature female lust, not adolescent passion. "C'mon, now, Andy; you know you can tell me absolutely anything and it won't go any farther. In fact, you *want* to tell me, don't you? You *need* to tell me all about the one guy you were really, uncontrollably horny over. If there was ever such a guy. Was there?" I thought I already knew the answer to that one: Dr. DiMucci had begun turning bright pink around the ears and she seemed to be gazing hungrily at someone who wasn't in the office with us. "Yes, there was someone like that -- Dr. Evans. Sam Evans, who was in charge of us residents at the clinic. I was twenty-four and he was thirty, I think. God, just listening to him talk nearly made me wet my pants." She licked her lips and squirmed a little. "It's funny, too: He wasn't really a hunk or anything, though he was good-looking. Only a little above average height, wore glasses, had ordinary sandy brown hair -- not very different from a dozen other guys I'd known and sometimes dated. But there was something indefinable about Dr. Evans...." Andy sighed deeply and gave me a rather shaky smile. "The very first time we were introduced, I fell all over my tongue because this... this big cannonball of lust hit me square between the eyes. I wanted to rape him right there in the office. 'Course, I didn't know yet that he was married." She paused, apparently replaying old memories. But I wanted to share those memories. "Tell me what you're thinking about, Andy. Tell me about Sam Evans. Did you have an affair with him?" "An affair? No, never. But not for lack of trying. Every other married man I've ever been physically attracted to, I've been careful to avoid that sort of thing. I'm simply not capable of deliberately throwing a monkey wrench into someone's marriage. I couldn't sleep nights if I did that, I really couldn't. But Dr. Evans was the exception. I would have fucked him breathless in the middle of the dining hall if that's what he'd wanted." She shrugged helplessly. "I met his wife a few weeks after I first met him. A very nice woman named Cheryl, only two or three years older than me. He obviously loved her, and vice versa. But that wouldn't have stopped me, not with him. She was a nurse supervisor, sometimes had to work Saturday evenings. After about six months, Dr. Evans and I had gotten acquainted well enough that I took a chance one of those Saturdays and invited him to a chamber music performance at the university -- just for the company, I said, and since his wife was tied up with work. All a lie;... God, I wanted him! So we went and we enjoyed the music, and that was all. I tried every way I could think of -- subtly, of course, because I didn't want to repel him entirely -- to let him know that I was available. Either he didn't catch on or he was being diplomatic. I probably should have just grabbed his cock in the car and climbed onto his lap! I ended up going back to my quarters in a state of sweating frustration and I masturbated and cried for several hours...." I was fascinated by the good doctor's revelations. I'd been privy to assorted adolescent female fantasies under hypnosis but this was the first "older" woman who had divulged such things to me. Her nipples were invitingly stiff and elongated beneath her blouse, and from the way she moved restlessly in her desk chair, it seemed likely she was flexing her thighs below an increasingly damp crotch. But there were still people about out in the hall and I couldn't risk taking a peek. "So you were never able to satisfy your desire for Dr. Evans?" "No. My residency was up in January and at the Christmas party, I got desperate and brought my own mistletoe." She smiled at the memory. "No kidding, I really did. Dr. Evans was the person who really galvanized me, who convinced me I could really *make* it in this profession; a marvelous and inspirational teacher. And then I cornered poor Sam in a stairwell and dangled that little green sprig over his head. He kinda laughed -- we'd gotten to be good friends and colleagues as well that year -- and he gave me a friendly sort of peck on the cheek. Then I grabbed his face and kissed him on the mouth, and... well, all that pent-up sex boiled up and I pushed myself against him -- I think I was moaning by then -- and he reacted,... but only for a few seconds. God, it was so great while it lasted. I was hanging around his neck and he finally pulled me off, almost roughly, and whispered 'Andrea, this is not a good idea!' I literally wanted to haul up my skirt and make him screw me right there, standing up against the wall on the landing. I can imagine what my face looked like. The poor man took one look and practically flew back up the stairs to the party...! I sat on the stairs and felt miserable. "I was sure he'd denounce me, unprofessional conduct or something, but he seemed to take the blame himself. He avoided me for a couple days, and then he tried to apologize to *me* -- as if it was him doing the coming-on. I'm ashamed to say I let him go on thinking that; it sort of guaranteed my own safety. And then I finished my residency -- with an outstanding report from Dr. Evans, I might add -- and went off to a good counseling position. I had several brief affairs in the next year or two, and every time I was fucking some guy, Sam Evans's face would appear in my mind and I'd go into unbelievable orgasms. Then I'd feel guilty about the guy who actually had his cock in me, but I couldn't help the fantasizing. Then I met Walter and after a few months we were married." I wasn't concerned with Walter right now. "Andy, if you were to meet Dr. Evans again tomorrow, and he was divorced and free for the taking,... how would you feel? Would you still be interested in him? Would you still want to fuck him? He's only about five years older than you, remember." Her expression went blank for a moment and then she answered slowly and thoughtfully. "They say you can't ever go back -- but I think I'd want to find out if he still affected me as strongly as he did when I was younger. God, that would be fantastic, wouldn't it?" She shivered a little and smiled. "I could make him sorry he didn't take his chance when he had it, back at the clinic. Not revenge--" Her eyes sparkled. "But he'd sure regret missing that opportunity if I fucked him good and proper now. I know a lot more about sex than I did then. Wow...." It startled me a little that her "wow" sounded so much like Sharon's, but that was just what I wanted to hear. "Andy, during the remainder of this week, you will think about Dr. Sam Evans at random intervals when you're awake, and you'll dream about him when you're asleep. It won't interfere with your teaching or driving or anything like that, but your memories of that year in his company will drift back at unexpected moments and you'll think of all the things you might have done together -- especially with the knowledge and experience you have now and the youth and enthusiasm you had then." Her face had brightened. "This Friday night, you will dress very sexy indeed. You won't wonder why you're doing it -- you simply will want to. You won't make any dates, obviously, and you will avoid visits by anyone -- except me. I'll knock at your door about 9:00 and you'll invite me in. It won't seem unusual or unprofessional to you. It will just be a friendly visit. But when you close the door behind me, Andy, and lock it, you will look back at me again and you will see Dr. Sam Evans as he was when you were a resident. And you will be twenty-four again. And you will be even hornier for him than you were originally -- but this time you'll be absolutely convinced that he's equally aroused by you. Do you understand, Andy?" Her respiration had increased and she was visibly excited. "Yes, yes, I understand. Oh, Sam...." I admit to being a little nervous as I walked up Andrea DiMucci's front walk that Friday night. This wasn't like putting the make on a high school or college girl. If I got this one wrong, it would basically be the end of my career before I'd even got started. I rang the bell and Dr. DiMucci must have been waiting with her hand on the knob because it opened instantly. "How nice! You know, I had a feeling you might stop by this evening. C'mon in!" She smiled broadly and stood aside as I entered. She was wearing a blue jersey micro-mini that barely concealed her crotch and instead of hose, I saw sky-blue, lace- topped thigh-highs above silver heels so high I was amazed she could stand upright. Her white, off-the-shoulder chiffon blouse was cropped short, shimmering above her bare midriff. On top of everything else, Prof. DiMucci had a very sexy navel. "I've looked over your thesis outline." She looked away as she closed and latched the door, and then turned back to me. "I believe the only area that needs work is perhaps more source material for the historical practice section; you need to beef that up a little, but--" She stood frozen, staring at my face. Her pupils dilated like stereo camera lenses and she sucked in a deep, shaky breath. "Dr. Evans,... you came after all. I waited and I kept trying to get you to notice me, but you never did." Her voice was fifteen years younger, throatier, hungrier, but less sure of herself. "I noticed," I said softly. "I just couldn't do anything about it. But Cheryl and I broke up a while back and I can do as I please now; there's no guilt involved. I wanted you all along, you know. I still do, Andrea." She blinked and moved closer. In those high, high heels, she was only two inches shorter than me. I set my hands carefully on her bare waist and she pressed up against me with a long sigh. Her arms slipped around my neck and she shifted slightly into the classic silver screen kissing position. I accepted the invitation and lowered my mouth to hers. At the first touch of our lips, she moaned and pressed harder, grinding her body against me, clutching at my neck, pushing her knee between my legs. My cock was already climbing the inside of my chinos. This woman's touch -- even as her younger self -- was much more practiced and assured than I was used to and she already had me breathing hard. I realized I was gasping and took a long, slow breath for stability. "Tell me what you want, Andrea. I want to hear you say it." "Are you kidding?" she purred. (I'd always thought a woman "purring" was just a rather cliched metaphor ... until I heard Andy DiMucci doing it.) One hand unfastened itself from my neck and glided between our bodies to stroke my cock through my slacks. "I can tell you *exactly* what I want, Sam. I want you to put your hands and your mouth on my breasts. I want to suck your cock, cram it completely into my mouth. I want to feel your fingers in my pussy and on my clit. I want to feel -- oh, God! -- I want to feel your lovely cock sliding into me, far, far in, filling me up. I want you to fuck me in every position ever invented, slow and gentle, hard and fast. I want thunderous orgasms until we both pass out. I want enough of your semen in me to last me a year. And, Sam -- I want it now!" She growled her last demand softly in my ear. Jesus God. My hands were trembling. What could I do against such insistence? Not that I had any intention of resisting, of course. My hands moved from her hips down over the swell of her ass and cupped her firm cheeks through her tiny skirt. She plastered herself against my front, moving up and down against me as she nibbled at my neck. When I slipped my hands up under the back hem of her skirt, I was surprised to find only smooth, warm flesh; she chuckled throatily as I realized she was wearing only a very slender thong. I squeezed her ass and she flexed her muscles in response. It was a little astonishing -- or perhaps I was just more naive than I realized. I'd expected an unavoidable bit of flab here and there on Dr. DiMucci's body, no matter how well she maintained it, but throughout that evening I never found a square inch on her frame that might not have belonged to someone my own age. It might have been partly because she'd never had children -- I don't know. But with the throttle wide open and the governor off, that steaming body ran like Casey Jones's express train. All I had to do was hang on. During the two or three seconds it took me to think those thoughts, Andy had yanked her chiffon top off over her head and stood half-naked, back arched and nipples extended. My hands went to those earth-mother tits like magnets and when I cupped them and squeezed she let her head loll back and closed her eyes. I led her over to the sofa and sat with her straddling my lap, her breasts pushing into my face, and I feasted, sucking and nibbling one tit and then the other. Andrea clutched at my hair and murmured "Sam, Sam,..." and I felt no guilt at all. After an infinite few minutes, my own shirt was gone and she was lying sprawled across my lap, licking and sucking at *my* nipples. That was a new experience -- at least they way she did it, slurping and tugging with her teeth -- and small electrical jolts ricocheted across my ribcage. Her miniskirt was a rolled-up band around her waist and I kept one hand busy stroking her thighs and caressing that smooth, silky ass. She hunched her pussy at me but I was trying to take my time getting around to that. She finally abandoned my chest and nearly broke my zipper getting my pants open and pushed down. My cock bounced up and she grabbed it like she was piloting a Spad XIII. Then her face was burrowing in my lap and my cock was disappearing down her throat. I hoped I'd get it back; the combination of enthusiasm and expertise was almost more than I could take. The very last thing I wanted to do around this tigress was to climax too quickly so I finally wrestled my penis away from her clutches and more or less fought my way to my feet. Andy grinned and adjusted herself on her back on the sofa while I pushed my slacks and shorts off. I walked around to the front of the sofa, though, staying just out of reach. She gave me a puzzled look ... until I grasped her ankles and hauled her down the sofa toward me. She got the idea almost immediately and draped her legs over the sofa arm, her bare ass jutting up over the edge. When she spread her knees, the dividing strap of the shimmering blue thong nearly vanished between the lips of her pussy. She still wore the sky-blue hose and the silver heel, and the image from my point of view was much sexier than if she had been completely naked. I squatted and buried my face in her crotch, licking her labia on both sides of the crotch strap as I eased the thong down her thighs and off her legs. Then I spread her pussy with my fingers, her creamy skin set off by the inky curls of her thatch, and dived in, sucking at her twitching clit and poking my nose far down into her fragrant depths. Hooking my arms around her thighs, I scooted her up even farther until her glistening cunt pointed straight up -- the only full professor I'd ever seen in that position. Spreading Andrea's legs wide, silver heels waving in the air, I crouched over her crotch and resumed my feast. She was almost sobbing and I wondered if she was capable of tearing the sofa cushion in two behind her head. My cock was straining so hard it was beginning to ache, but I still wasn't ready yet to fuck Dr. DiMucci. Instead, I moved into a more-or-less sixty-nine position, kneeling on the sofa behind her head. When I leaned forward, she tilted her head back and again stuffed my penis into her eager mouth while I went back to sucking on her clit. Her hands roamed over my butt as I thrust down her waiting throat and felt my balls jiggle against her nose and eyelids. In fact, Andy turned out to be such a talented cocksucker that I was soon fucking her esophagus as vigorously as I would have her cunt. Finally, she made a kind of tossing motion with her head and I was hazily aware that she had engulfed the entire Trinity within her lips. Her mouth clamped down just a little and I experienced a jerking spasm while her nails dug into my rigid ass muscles. I was half afraid she was going to choke but she didn't struggle to escape -- quite the opposite. And when I came a half-second later and shot what felt like a quart of cream down her throat, I also sucked in her clit and bit down a little harder than I had intended. Andrea went as rigid as I was -- she had no way of producing a sound but I knew she would have moaned rather than shrieked -- and we lay like joined marble statues for several long seconds. Then I took a deep breath and levered myself up, and my penis and balls slithered from her mouth as she gasped for her own breath. She lay panting while I milked my cock and dripped sticky white threads across her face in artistic patterns. "Oh, Sam," she whispered hoarsely, "that was wonderful. God, I've wanted you for so long...." That brought me around in a hurry. I'd nearly forgotten I was supposed to be someone else. "Raise up, Andrea." She curled up out of the way so I could sit down (before I fell down) and then snaked her way around so her upper body was draped across my lap. Her dark eyes gazed up at me adoringly and we both ignored the drying semen in her lashes and eyebrows. "Andrea, tell me what it was that happened between you and your husband. Would you confide in me?" She sighed and grimaced. "I guess I need to tell someone, don't I? And who better than you, Sam?" She shifted to a more comfortable position and I lightly traced my fingertips across her breasts and around her nipples. She smiled and cuddled closer, and sighed again. Walter seemed like a good catch at the time," she said. "Or maybe I was just getting desperate. God only knows why I thought I had to 'catch' someone in the first place. But he was really nice-looking and he flattered me with attention. I couldn't have you, Sam, and he was available, so I took second-best. But he wasn't even that, of course, and I lived to regret it...." She shifted uneasily and I stroked her hair. "Things went okay, I guess, for maybe a year. But Walter was in sales, not an especially educated man. He got annoyed because the books I read at home were generally beyond his comprehension. He began to feel threatened by me, unable to compete intellectually. So he got even in the traditional, 'acceptable' ways." She laughed rather bitterly. "He complained if supper wasn't ready when he got home -- even though I'd been teaching all day. Or if his laundry wasn't done. Eventually, he went from complaining to pure ugliness. Especially when it came to sex. He demanded that I accommodate him whenever he happened to feel horny -- like at 3:00 in the morning, with him drunk and me exhausted. Or it might be just as I had finished getting ready for work in the morning, so he could mess up my clothing and makeup. Finally, he became ... physically abusive. A couple of times -- well, basically, he raped me." Her voice was so low now I had to strain to understand her. "But, Andrea, you're a psychologist! Didn't you see what was happening?" "Not for quite awhile, no. That sounds odd, perhaps, but a psychologist is seldom the best person to analyze her own problems." She gave me a quizzical look and smiled slightly. "You know that, Sam: That's why shrinks go to other shrinks." I reminded myself to stay in character more carefully. "So? What happened? You finally just had enough, I hope." "Oh, yeah.... I had more than enough -- but I was unwilling to accept that my marriage was a failure, afraid to admit I'd married the wrong person entirely, and for the wrong reasons. I've never handled personal failure very well, Sam." And she gave me another Significant Look. Dr. DiMucci was beginning to depress me. I'd had no idea her marriage had been so traumatic. Moreover, I was beginning to feel guilty for having rejected her all those years ago -- and I wasn't even who she thought I was. "Andy," I said, "it's time to stop beating yourself up about Walter. You were the victim, not the abuser; it wasn't your fault that it happened and it's not your fault that the marriage fell apart as a result. I know you understand that intellectually." I remembered her acid tone when she talked about her ex in her faculty office. "Emotionally, though, it sounds like you're still blaming yourself. Pay attention now, Andy: The only mistake you made was in not getting out of a bad marriage sooner. But you're out of it now, so just put it behind you. A 'learning experience', as they say." She gave a ladylike snort and patted my chest. "That's the line I use on my students when they groan about a research assignment. But I understand what you're saying, Sam, and I know you're right. I have to stop being bitter and just get my life back." She leaned her head back against my shoulder and gave me a very searching look. "Are you going to be part of that life, Sam...?" If I wasn't careful, this was going to get too complicated. I felt sorry for my professor's unhappiness in her marriage, and I understood (now) her desire to reclaim the one man she had really desired in her life, but still.... Well, there was always an escape hatch: "Dive, Andy, dive." She twisted around on my lap and gave me her full attention. I took a deep breath while I thought quickly through what I wanted to say. This lovely naked woman who had sucked my cock and swallowed my semen was nevertheless a fully-tenured professor and a major factor in my life just then. One false step and my life as I knew it was over. "Andrea, listen to me carefully. Your ex-husband, Walter, is still too great an influence in your life. Rationally, you already know you have nothing to feel guilty about regarding Walter. Little by little, over the next year or so, every time you think about Walter, your feelings of guilt will give way to professional comprehension. After awhile, Walter will no longer seem especially important in your life, do you understand? The time you spent with him will lose its trauma and you will come to regard your marriage to him simply as a mistake, Andrea, a mistake you've since corrected. "Your marriage did not *fail*; it ought never to have taken place at all. You and Walter should never have married to begin with, you understand that now, don't you? Day by day, month by month, your natural common sense will take over when it comes to the subject of Walter. It will be a natural healing process -- your own training will tell you that - - and you'll not only accept it, you'll welcome it, won't you, Andrea? Within a year, Walter will be a fading memory who means very little to you. You'll have difficulty remembering his face or the sound of his voice. And you won't care. Right?" She smiled in relief. "Right.... What do I care about Walter -- the bastard...." It would take awhile, obviously, but I was sure I could rid Prof. DiMucci of at least the memory of her bad experiences with her ex-hubby. I wanted to do that much for her, in exchange for being her "Sam" for the evening. Speaking of which.... "Andy, what sexual act have you always speculated about but never performed? Maybe something 'kinky' that embarrassed you or made you uneasy, but that you were still curious about?" She licked her lips. "Anal sex, I think. All kinds." "All kinds?" (How many kinds could there be?) "Well,... ass-fucking, of course. I've seen that in, ah, porno films -- you know. It looks like a real turn-on ... but it also seems unhygienic. Probably painful, too -- at first, anyway. There's also 'rimming', which looks like it could be exciting to have done to you,... but I don't know if I could de it to someone else." This sounded promising. "You've never done any of those things, then?" "Uh,... no -- not really. Sometimes, when I masturbate, I put one finger up in, uh, up my ass. I wiggle it and it feels really sexy, but it's kind of awkward." "Wal-- Your ex-husband never tried any of this with you?" "Sure, he tried -- several times. But to him, anal sex was just another way to try to degrade me, Sam. I didn't like it because he was about as gentle as an alley cat and I always pushed him away...." She glanced at my face surreptitiously and a bit hopefully, I thought. "Do you think you'd like to try some of those things with me, Andy? You'd trust me to do it properly and gently, wouldn't you?" "Of course, Sam -- I'd always trust you." She was still deep in her trance. I thought about continuing out fuckfest right there on the sofa but screwing my professor in her own bed suddenly seemed a lot more interesting. "Andy, what color sheets do you like?" Her eyes lit up and a moment later I was being led by the cock toward the back of the house. The sheets were zebra-striped. And she began to remove those sexy heels and blue hose, but I insisted she leave them on. Besides, from her hip- swinging gait, I was sure she felt more wanton in them. I whispered quiet encouragement to her all the while we were arranging ourselves in another 69 on our sides. Andy sucked lustily on the head of my revived penis and then licked it like a lollipop. Her labia had become extended from her arousal and I sucked the soft, damp flaps into my mouth and teased them with my front teeth. Then I buried my nose in her fragrant cunt and sucked hard on her rigid clit, which was protruding like a tiny red cock. She moaned and squirmed and began to lick my balls. After a few minutes I upped the ante, getting my middle finger nice and slick in the depths of her pussy and then rubbing it across the tight pucker of her asshole. She shivered and when I eased my finger into the snug opening she squeezed my cock and poked her butt out a little more. She sucked at her lower lip and continued to moan throatily while her rectal muscles tugged at my finger. I wiggled it about and she jerked slightly and croaked "Gawd...!" She was still entranced so I began making suggestions. "Andy, your anus is very sensitive now; it feels like it has ten times as many nerve endings as usual, doesn't it? Now, you'll copy everything I do until I tell you to stop, do you understand? You won't worry about it and you'll feel extremely sexy. You'll follow my suggestions because they'll seem so obvious and so erotic. Start with your finger in *my* asshole -- gently, though!" She did as she was instructed, working her slender middle finger up into my ass and licking at the head of my cock at the same time. When I wiggled my finger again, she wiggled hers, and we both shivered. "I think you're ready to try rimming, Andy, but I don't think we can both do this at the same time, so I'll go first." I nudged her hips around and buried my face in the cleft of her ass but it was too awkward in that position. Finally, we untangled ourselves and I got Andy up on her knees, her lovely bottom jutting upward at an interesting angle. I spread her cheeks to expose the puckered brown target, took a deep breath, and began running my tongue round and round the ridged muscle. Andy quivered and sobbed and made fists in the sheets. When I stabbed into her waiting anus, she jerked and smothered a cry. A half-dozen additional incursions and her hips were shaking, her knees bouncing spasmodically on the bed. Without warning, I shoved two fingers into her dripping pussy and she jerked wildly and went rigid for a moment. Andy finally rolled loosely onto her back and stared at me for a moment with glowing eyes. "I've *never* like that," she whispered hoarsely. "Now, get up on your knees, Sam! I'm gonna get even...." It was a strange and highly vulnerable position for a heterosexual male to find himself in, but I got up on my knees with my ass in the air. Andy smiled and licked her lips as she moved around behind me, out of sight. First, I felt her hands, fingers spread, moving lightly over my butt. Then her fingertips traced a vertical path across my asshole, as I had done to her. She teased the opening a bit and I felt my rectal muscles flutter. That was followed my her soft breasts; she breathed more rapidly as she rubbed her erect nipples against the opening. Then there was a pause of a few seconds and I suddenly became aware of a soft, warm, wet something mopping and swabbing my anus. An exquisite sensation. Andy's increased respiration suggested she was getting off on this, too. As her tongue explored, her hands crept between my parted thighs, one grasping my rigid penis and the other lightly squeezing my balls. Her tongue finally began poking into my asshole while she tugged my cock back between my legs. I found myself balling up the sheet in my fists, just as she had. Perhaps her tongue was longer and stronger than mine, but she seemed able to drill much deeper than I had,... or maybe it just *felt* deeper. She stroked my cock and squeezed my testicles alternately and I could feel the internal pressure building. I was pretty sure that if I climaxed again so soon, I'd never be able to manage what I was beginning to think of as "The Test": Fucking Dr. Andrea DiMucci in her professorial ass. "Andy, whoa!" I fell on my stomach on the bed to escape that electric tongue. "I think we're ready for the next step. And you're really looking forward to having your ass plowed, aren't you?" (Reinforcement of hypnotic instruction never hurts and the crudity was calculated.) She looked a little less certain as she nodded her head, but she evidently was still willing. I got her up on her knees again and moved around behind her. I slipped my rigid cock into her overheated pussy, stroking in and out a few times for lubrication. Then I told her to relax her muscles and began pressing the head of my cock against her sphincter. She kept tensing and then self- consciously relaxing; she was trying hard to go through with this -- partly for herself and partly for "Sam." And that uneasy situation, in fact, was exactly what I wanted. I was convinced that Prof. DiMucci, her curiosity not withstanding, almost certainly would not submit to being ass-fucked by anyone other than her beloved and trusted Sam. This was, I thought, the ultimate test of my control over a hypnotic subject. Could I convince Andy to do something she ordinarily would be loath to do -- especially with one of her students -- by doing an "end run" around her conscious self? I'd never been sure about my previous subjects; I'd always felt I'd merely loosened social and psychological inhibitions that kept them from doing what they really *wanted* to do. I hadn't made them go against their fundamental grain. But my earlier subjects had all been more or less my own age, or a good deal younger, like little Sharon. At that age, they probably could be expected to open themselves up to sexual adventure with very little prodding. Dr. DiMucci was another story altogether. I realized I was holding my breath. Andy whimpered and bit her lower lip as I slowly but relentlessly eased myself into her rectum. "Think of this as losing your *other* virginity," I said softly. "It may hurt a little the first time but it'll feel so good afterward, you won't mind...." (Of course, I wanted this fuck to hurt a *little*, since I was deliberately "pushing the envelope.") Her ass wasn't as tight as those of the very few younger women I'd done this with, but it was tight enough, and smooth and warm besides. It took several minutes, but I eventually was buried in her completely. My balls pressed against her crotch and my pubic hair seemed to sprout directly from her anus. "How does it feel?" I asked. "Big. God, it feels huge. And very strange." She took a shuddering breath. "Please be careful, Sam...." "Tell me what you want me to do, Andy?" "I... I want you to fuck me, now, Sam. Go ahead, I can do it, I'm sure I can...." I withdrew a couple of inches and pushed back into her. She groaned but held her position. My pre-ejaculate helped moisten the passage and I increased the tempo a bit, fucking harder and deeper. She made mewing sounds in counterpoint but she didn't protest. I had to exert enormous self-control to keep from coming before I was ready. A dozen strokes, then twenty, and I was pistoning nearly all the way in and out of her, clutching her hips to keep from losing my balance. She was breathing loudly through her mouth and gulping air every few seconds. This was the crucial moment. "Andy, I want you to imagine that it's not Sam fucking your ass but one of your undergrad students. Tell me how that makes you feel!" "No! God, no! I'd *never* do that, Sam! Don't ask me to believe that!" "It's important, Andy -- tell me how you would react if you knew this penis belonged to a twenty-one-year-old student whose senior thesis you were supervising. His cock is slamming into your asshole, Andy! What's your reaction?" "God, I feel so ashamed! I'm so embarrassed -- no, I'm mortified! It's not only completely unprofessional, Sam, it's disgusting! Why are you saying these things?" she wailed as she tried to pull away from me. "No, Andy, listen to me! Dive, Andy, dive! Dive, do you understand? It's me, Sam! That was just a little psychological experiment, Andy. I'm sorry, and you will forget I asked you to imagine those things, won't you? You'll forget all about them and concentrate on the enormously sexy sensation of feeling my penis in your asshole. Just think about that, Andy, okay?" She stopped pulling away and her tears ceased. Her breathing became heavier and she began thrusting back against me. That was all I could stand and I geysered deep into her. I doubted she could feel my semen but she could certainly register my pelvis jerking and contracting, and that set off her own orgasm. We ended up stacked two-deep on the bed, my cock still buried in her ass, both of us gasping for breath. I was done for the evening, in every sense, and now I had to make as unobtrusive an exit as I could manage. "Andy," I whispered close to her ear, "I want you to doze off now. You're exhausted and you'll sleep for a few minutes until you hear my voice again, do you understand?" "Yes, Sam,... g'night...." And her eyes were closed. I pulled out of that lovely ass without awakening her and padded into the master bathroom to wash off my sticky cock. Then I went downstairs and dressed, making sure I had everything I'd come in with. I gathered up Andy's scattered outfit from around the sofa, took it back upstairs, and laid it out on the end of the bed. Her shoes had come off during our last pounding encounter and I set them neatly side by side on the shoe rack in her closet. I unrolled the blue stockings down her sweaty legs and stuffed them the net washing bag in the bathroom, which already had several sets of underwear and hose in it. Back at her bedside, I stood for a minute and thought carefully about what still needed doing. Kneeling beside her, I spoke softly in her ear again. "Andy, you came home very tired and rather edgy today and you stripped down and lay on your bed for a nap. Do you hear me, Andy?" She mumbled an affirmative. "In a few minutes, you'll wake up, look at the clock, and realize you've slept much longer than you intended. But that doesn't matter, does it? You were tired and you obviously needed the rest. But you will remember *nothing* about my being here this evening, will you? It will all be just a wonderful, romantic, nostalgic dream you had during your nap, do you understand? You know better than to think Sam was really here, don't you, Andy? You're a professional psychologist and you recognize an unfulfilled dream fantasy when you have one. It will amuse you and you won't feel sad about it. You have only nice thoughts about Sam, even though you regret you were never able to make him understand your feelings about him. But he was never here -- no one was here this evening. That's impossible, isn't it? "You will get up from your nap and go into the bathroom and you will sit on the toilet and take a long, satisfying shit." (I didn't want my semen oozing out into her underwear on onto the sheets.) "Then you will take a hot, soothing shower and that will relax your tense muscles. When you get out of the shower, you'll feel much, much better -- in fact, you'll feel kind of hungry. You'll put on whatever you ordinarily wear around the house, you'll go downstairs, and you'll fix yourself a little something to eat,... whatever sounds good, okay?" "'Kay," she muttered and smacked her lips. "Then, you'll relax with the TV or a book or something for an hour or two. You'll get really sleepy while you do that and you'll decide to go to bed for good. When you come back up here, you'll hang up the outfit that's lying on the bed -- and you won't wonder why you got it out, will you? You'll sleep soundly and undisturbed tonight, won't you, Andy? Maybe you'll dream about Sam again. But you'll awake in the morning feeling much better, very refreshed, and you'll continue with whatever you had planned for the weekend. Do you understand all that, Andy?" My sexy professor, who had done with me what she was convinced she would never do -- and certainly not with a student! -- rolled over on her side and sighed. "Sure,..." she murmured under her breath. I left the bathroom light on and pulled the door halfway closed so she wouldn't wake up in the dark wondering where she was. Then I slipped quietly out of the bedroom and down the stairs and out the front door, making sure it was locked behind me. I hadn't even taken a souvenir polaroid. Ordinarily, I had complete confidence in my ability to plant posthypnotic suggestions, but this was a very different situation. I spent Saturday and Sunday anxiously wondering if I had tempted the fates one time too many. On Monday morning, the male psych professor who taught my first-period class passed me a sealed envelope with my name typed on it. My stomach started to churn. I went to the last row of the room, sat down, and took several deep breaths before I could make myself open the flap. It read: "Would you please come by my office this afternoon at the usual time? There's a little matter I'd like to ask you about. Andrea DiMucci" It was a very long day. I went through three Alka-Seltzers and half a bottle of Pepto-Bismal. Dr. DiMucci's last class was over at 3:30, so at 4:00 that afternoon I tapped on her office door, wondering what the academic equivalent of a court martial would be like. She opened the door personally instead of just telling me to come in, and went behind her desk again while I felt as wooden as the chair I sat down in. She cleared her throat and said, rather seriously, "First things first. Your senior thesis outline is not only acceptable--" (She broke into a broad smile) "--it's bloody excellent! I have every confidence your full research and writing will live up to it. It better -- I expect perfection, you know!" My intestines were unknotting with relief and I discovered I'd been holding my breath. She continued, "There's something else I'd like to discuss with you, though. I've looked at your full transcript and it doesn't surprise me that you will probably graduate next spring with honors. If you don't already have plans for next year, I'd like to offer you a Research Assistantship in this department next fall, contingent on you beginning a master's degree in psychological counseling. What do you think?" She looked at me expectantly and then laughed musically and added, "Don't you think you'd better pick up your jaw? I think this is the first time I've ever seen you at a loss for words, sir!" "Yes, ma'am! I'd like an R.A. position very much! Uh, can I ask what brought all this on so suddenly? I mean, the research and teaching jobs aren't usually offered until summer, are they?" "Yes, that's true,... but I just have a feeling about you. You remind me of an excellent psychologist under whom I did my clinical residency -- about the time you were getting out of diapers, I imagine! I had rather a special relationship with him--" She stopped and looked away and I was sure I detected a blush around her earlobes. "In any case," she went on, "he did me a good turn and I've been thinking about him a lot lately. I think I owe him a return favor,... by giving you the kind of boost he gave me. Simple as that. But don't think I won't work you till you drop, sir! I promise you, you'll earn that measly stipend the department pays." She smiled again and I couldn't help smiling back. It was going to be a good year after all -- a *really* good year. In the event, it took me a year and a half to complete my M.A. and another six months to pass the state exams and be licensed. The following fall, two things happened: First, I joined the staff of the university's student psychological counseling center and began thinking seriously about doing my Ph.D. after all. Second, little Sharon, recently turned eighteen, entered the university as a freshman. I'd kept in touch with Sharon irregularly but carefully. She wrote me periodic affectionate letters and included lengthy, steamily detailed accounts of her sexual maturation. She had even called me at school a couple of times for advice about one thing or another -- and I'd always had the feeling that it wasn't my advice she wanted so much as just to hear my voice. I certainly enjoyed listening to her. And we were careful not to let her brother, Jeff, discover our long-distance relationship that had previously been very close-distance indeed. But I hadn't actually seen Sharon for nearly three years when she came knocking at my cubicle door in the Counseling Center office. I looked up to see a tall, graceful girl with long, wavy blonde hair and large violet eyes. She was wearing tight chinos and a sleeveless knit shirt that emphasized her long limbs and small waist, and she was watching my face with a solemnly mischievous expression. She was such a knockout, I actually didn't realize who she was for several seconds. I just stared. Then she lost it and had to smother a giggle. "You should see your face!" I stood up so fast I almost knocked over my chair. "Sharon? My god, I don't believe it! I used to think you were the cutest thing around, and now you've gone and turned beautiful on me...! I mean,... wow!" She had intended to make an impression on me, of course, but I'm sure I exceeded her expectations. There was a subtle shift in her expression. She glanced behind her to make sure no one was watching and then took two quick steps forward and flung her arms around my neck. "Oh, I've missed being with you so much!" she breathed in my ear. "Did you think I'd forget that evening we spent in your friend's townhouse?" I hugged her tightly, both delighted to see her and bedazzled by the radiant young woman she'd become. I think that hug relieved her of any doubts about her re-entry into my life because she placed her nose an inch away from mine and licked her lips before continuing. "Do you remember what I said just before I got out of the car at Marilyn's house? I said I thought I'd always love you. Turns out I was right. I don't care if you have a girlfriend or a fiance or what: I *do* love you. And I'm eighteen now, so we don't have to worry about Jeff or my folks or anyone interfering, either." She hesitated, then added, "I'm here if you want me; do you?" That was six years ago. Sharon's married now and teaching elementary school. She's also four months pregnant. I see her every afternoon, actually,... except when she has to stay late for a teachers' meeting, in which case *I* have supper waiting when *she* gets home. The frame on my doctoral diploma is still shiny but I have excellent prospects in the private practice I share with Dr. DiMucci (whom Sharon and I have asked to be godmother to our firstborn). We use hypnosis quite a lot in dealing with the problems of troubled teenagers. Andy also found herself a new love interest a couple years ago -- a law professor who moved here from California -- and though she's still resisting a second marriage, they have a close and loving relationship. Funny how things work out.... THE END (whew....!) ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Copyright 1994 by Michael K. Smith. Copies may be made and posted elsewhere for personal enjoyment, but all commercial rights are reserved.