You Can Call Me Daddy - Chapter 2 (gsolo MF/g g/g ped masturbation voy inc)

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Chapter 2

My next appointment was three days later. I wondered if it was normal to schedule a second session so soon after the first, but I figured one of two things had played into that. Perhaps it was good to have a followup soon after the initial session so that everything is fresh and the therapist-client relationship has a chance to quickly form. Or, perhaps Dr. Green was so excited by what I'd told him that he couldn't bear to wait a minute longer to see what I'd confess next.

Either way, he greeted me warmly at his door and I was quickly seated in the same chair with the man sitting down opposite me, notebook in hand.

“I assume, Miranda, that you would like to continue from where we stopped last time, but I feel I need to understand why you're here soon. Your past is. . . relevant, I understand. But I can't start down the road to helping you if I don't know what you want out of our sessions.”

I smiled patiently. “I'll get there, Martin. I promise. But I have a lot more to tell you first. You'll see why when I've told you more. Much more.”

He nodded once and said, “we ended with your experience with the doctor. Did your Mom talk to you about what happened?”

I grinned. “She did. . . ”

- - -

“Dr. Schneider told me that you are healthy and normal,” my mom said matter-of-factly during our drive home after long moments of silence. I felt relaxed like never before, the grin on my face not going away. I couldn't wait to get home to see if I could make whatever had happened at the doctor's office happen to me once more.

“Okay,” I said, my normal response when barely engaged in a conversation.

“And she said that she sees signs that you are about to go through some changes, like the ones we've talked about. You're a bit younger than most for that, but she said it was still normal.” I knew my mom was referring to the sex talks she and my dad had had with me a couple of times. I knew where babies came from. I understood that, at some point, my breasts would grow and hair would show up under my arms and between my legs. I knew the cartoonish explanation of what would occur, but no one at my age could really understand what puberty meant until it happened.

When I didn't respond, Mom asked, “do you want to talk about what took place back there?”

“What do you mean?”

My mom pulled into our driveway and parked the car. “Well. . . the 'reaction' you had during the examination.”

I shrugged, still grinning.

“Let's get inside and get dinner going. We can talk while you help me chop up some potatoes.”

My mind was still focused on my orgasm, though I didn't know what to call it then. I just knew I wanted it again and again. I excused myself to the bathroom while Mom went into the kitchen.

I reached under my skirt pulled down my panties and noticed the dark wet spot in the fabric crotch of my light-yellow underwear. I suppose I'd seen that before, but that day, it held a special significance. I understood it had come from my body, from an experience which had left me relaxed and full of pleasure. It was a visible sign of what I'd just discovered about my body.

I pissed strongly for a moment, letting out a sigh, my vulva still sensitive to the slightest sensation. My hand drifted down as my flow slowed to a trickle, and my fingers brushed across the hard little nub I'd only begun to notice was there. The touch filled my body with excitement, so I touched it again and again. I leaned back against the commode and parted my thighs further. I knew I was on the right track, my muscles straining like they had when Dr. Schneider had touched me.

Even at eight, I was able to cum easily. Sure, I was just finding that out that day, but it took only a minute or so before I felt my body tremble and shake, the toilet creaking slightly under me but I cared nothing for the noise I was making. I moaned without a thought, then brought my fingers to my nose, inhaling my rich odors, then drew wetness up from my hole, rubbing it against my clit.

Pleasure rushed in and I came for the second time in my life. I rocked in small circles to the motions of my fingers, letting my hand press lightly against my pubic mound, remembering how Dr. Schneider's touch there had triggered me just an hour before.

I came to rest slumped down on the seat, my legs like jelly as I tried to right myself. I slowly leaned over and tried to look at my vulva, noticing how it was slightly swollen, the dark-pink flesh now a dark red, slick from my wetness. I stared at my genitals with wonder, so full of euphoria I didn't want to get up.

My Mom's voice called from the kitchen and I broke away from my wonderful moment. I sniffed my fingers one more time, then pulled my panties back up to my crotch. For just a moment, the damp spot in the fabric felt cool against my hairless vulva. I didn't wash my hands, unwilling to remove that arousing scent from my flesh.

Mom glanced at me and the look I saw there was not clear. I think now that she must have known I had just masturbated. I was certainly flushed, and I bet she could smell the excitement on my body. I could only grin at her as she handed me the bowl of potatoes.

“Do you know what happened with Dr. Schneider, Miranda?”

I shrugged but didn't say anything, fidgeting a bit like any kid talking about sex with a parent. I wasn't embarrassed, to be clear, but I recalled being a bit uncomfortable when Mom and Dad had talked about intercourse and masturbation and such over a year earlier, and I was just starting to put together what I'd done in the bathroom with the words they'd used to describe more mature feelings I'd yet to experience when I was seven.

Mom stopped whatever she was doing at the counter and sat down at the table with me, leaning back, her arms crossed over her breasts. “Do you remember what your father and I told you about masturbation and sex?”

Of course I did. Those very thoughts were racing through my mind since I'd cum in the bathroom. I shrugged again.

“Well. . . ,” Mom went on, “when boys and girls get sexually excited, and their bodies are mature enough, they can experience what you did today. It's called an orgasm. It usually happens when you are masturbating or being intimately touched by someone, but, like today, it can happen rather spontaneously, too. It's not really something you should do in front of people you aren't being intimate with, Miranda.”

I got defensive, my brows furrowing as I've seen myself do in the mirror a thousand times when I've been angry. “I didn't mean to, Mom! It just happened! I didn't plan it or anything!”

Mom smiled warmly and reached to take my hand in hers. “Miranda, dear, I'm not mad at you. I'm just explaining about time and place. Remember time and place?”

'Time and place' had been the way Mom and Dad had talked to me about touching myself. They wanted me to know that there was a time and a place for doing so, and there were lots of times and many places where I shouldn't have my hand in my panties. “Yeah,” I replied quickly, not wholly mollified by her caring touch.

“I know you didn't try to have an orgasm today. I saw you. Your body was just wound up like a spring, ready to go, so to speak. I don't blame you, Miranda, please don't take that away from what I'm telling you.”

“Okay. . . ” I granted her. “I know. I just. . . I didn't mean to. . . it just happened,” I repeated.

“Had you experienced an orgasm before today?” She asked lightly, still holding my hand.

I shook my head. “No. . . never. . . ”

Mom stared at my face a moment, “and you had a second one. . . when we got home?”

I nodded, looking away. Again, I wasn't embarrassed, but I felt the deep instinct to shy away from such frank admissions of sexuality in front of my Mom. It was an unconscious reaction, one I hated even then.

“That's good,” Mom said before she pulled back, quickly adding, “I mean. . . that's the time and place for such things.” I watched her closely as she glanced to where the a key was jiggling in the front door lock. “Well, there's your father. Let's get on with dinner. We can talk about this more later. . . just know that it's okay and I love you, Miranda.”

She stood as the front door opened and Mom greeted Dad as he stepped through. I was awash in a mix of confusing thoughts and emotions, and as I shifted in my chair, I noticed a vague raw sensation between my legs.

After dinner, during which we did not discuss my orgasm, I waited for my parents to do their normal thing and retire to their bedroom. I bathed quicky and went back into the living room wearing nothing at all.

I was excited again, and sat on the couch touching myself. I was sore, a sensation I'd never known before, and I stroked my flesh very gently. It wasn't enough to orgasm again, but it still felt amazing. My slit was slippery against my fingers.

My mom came out of the room a moment and glanced to where I was slowly masturbating. I paused briefly, so used to doing such things openly that it was only the newness of the sexual awareness that made me stop. Mom looked on a moment, her body nude except for her slippers. She stepped into the bathroom I used and came out seconds later, telling me, “Goodnight, Miranda,” as she disappeared into the master bedroom.

Curiosity got the better of me and I crept closer to their door, carefully pressing my ear against the wood softly, not firm enough to cause it to clack against the frame.

“So what happened, then?” I always loved hearing my dad's voice. His deep baritone made me feel warm and safe whatever he said. “Is she okay?”

“She's fine,” Mom replied, her tones soft and melodic. “Medically, she's fine. She just had. . . an unusual moment.”

“Tell me,” Dad said.

“Well, while Dr. Schneider was examining her. . . she had an orgasm.”

“Dr. Schneider?”

“No, Dan, don't be silly.” Mom's voice took on that familiar tone of impatience masked by politeness. “Miranda.”

My heart was in my throat as I listened at the door. Mom was telling about my orgasm, and, for some reason, I was really nervous about how Dad might react. He always called me his 'Princess,' and at eight, I knew enough about princesses to know they didn't get sexually excited at the doctor's office.

There was silence for a long time. I wasn't sure if they were speaking too quietly for me to hear, so I pushed my ear closer to the doorframe, hoping their words would come through clearer.

Finally, Dad's response rumbled into my ear, “Tell me what you saw. What you heard. Tell me everything.”

I heard the bed squeak once, then twice. I'd heard that sound many times. It was the background to the curious noises which usually featured my parent's groans and grunts and moans. They were having sex.

“It just sort of. . . happened. Dan, ohhhh. . . ohhh. . . ” Squeak. Squeak. “She yanked down her. . . panties so fast. . . I knew she was horny. Ohhh. . . fuck me, Dan. . . ”

“Did she have. . . ungh. . . ungh. . . her legs spread wide like usual?” My dad asked, my mind racing to picture what was going on inside the room.

“You know she did. Wide open. Wide. . . open, ohhhmmmmm. . . ”

Dad grunted louder, saying, “and you couldn't look away. . . ”

“How could I? Miranda's. . . pussy was wet. . . more than usual. . . ohhhhh. . . ohhhh.”

I heard Mom cry out then the squeaking changed rhythm, slowing down.

“I smell it,” my Dad's voice again. Only months later would I understand that Mom had retrieved my moist panties from the bathroom. “Her scent is changing. . . ohh, god, Angela. . . our. . . daughter's. . . panties smell. . . so. . . good. . . Tell me. . . how she. . . uhnggg. . . came. . . ”

“Dr. Schneider. . . uhhnn. . . was just. . . examining her. . . just lightly opening her and. . . looking. . . uhnnn. . . ” Mom's voice got higher pitched, more strained, tight staccato phrasing. “She. . . just. . . came. . . Ohhh, Dan. . . our daughter came. . . and. . . uhn. . . I saw her. . . oh, God, I'm cumming. . . uhnnn. . . uhnnn. . . uhhhhhnnnnnn. . . ohhhhh. . . ”

“Me too. . . uhnggg. . . ” Dad's words became a low growl as the springs changed rhythm again. My eight-year old mind couldn't envision it, but I know now that my dad was pumping his seed into Mom's pussy, all while sniffing my panties and thinking about me orgasming.

It grew quiet in the bedroom. It was only after several minutes of silence that I realized that my fingers had returned to my privates and I was rocking against my hand. I was still too sore to bring myself to orgasm again, but it felt amazing. I knew even then that listening to my parents had added to my excitement.

- - -

“T-Tell me. . . about. . . your parents,” Dr. Green said haltingly, still staring down at his feet a minute or two after I'd stopped speaking. He'd thought ahead and worn a pair of slacks which didn't show his bulge, but I knew it was there. As before, the man was flushed and aroused by my experiences.

“What do you want to know?” I replied, selfishly enjoying seeing the effects of my story on him.

He cleared his throat and tilted his head, “what did they do for a living? What were they like as people? What did they look like?”

That last query felt out of place in the therapist-client relationship we were developing, and I knew it was a curiosity born more out of arousal than scholarship.

I pursed my lips like I do when I'm forming responses to complex questions. It was a complex question. What were my parents like as people? How do I answer that? I was eight at the time, my parents lives were largely a mystery to me then.

“Well,” I began, “Dad was an administrator at City Hall. I think he worked for the mayor at the time. He was a good dad. He doted on me, but nothing too confining. He loved Mom fiercely, I knew that even then. At that time, Mom worked from home as a copywriter, and she wrote novels, too. Dad was the teddy bear with me, letting me get away with most anything. Mom was the one who reined me in. I don't think I was a bad kid, but I was a kid. I did stupid things sometimes. Dad was a hugger regardless of what had happened. Mom wasn't cold or anything, she just tended to feel to me as a bit more. . . hmm. . . hesitant, maybe. I dunno. I was a kid.”

“You said your mom wrote novels?” Dr. Green asked, “anything I'd have read?”

I shook my head. “Not. . . likely. They were. . . erotic novels. Under a pseudonym.”

“Oh. . . that's. . . interesting.” His reply sounded anything but disappointed.

I decided to indulge his personal request.

“Dad was about your height I think, maybe five-eleven.” When Dr. Green nodded that I'd hit the mark, I continued, “Good looking man. Dirty-blonde hair that he tended to keep really closely-cropped. Fit, but with a dad pooch. He liked to drink beer a lot. Not to get drunk, but it was his go-to after work. Hairy. He was sorta hairy all over. I loved when I was little trying to get all his stomach hairs going in the same direction. I loved to touch his hairy arms and legs and back. . . Dad was pretty patient with me about such things.”

Dr. Green interrupted me. “Did he ever—”

I knew where he was going and jumped into his question. “No. Never. Not before what would come eventually. He never touched my pussy or breasts or butt or anything. He never made me look at him naked. I mean,” I paused, remembering the special sights I'd had, “I saw him naked a lot, but around the house, that was pretty normal. He and Mom were as comfortable naked as I was. It was just. . . normal. But no,” I said, returning to his implication, “he had never done anything sexual with me at that point. Neither had Mom.”

“Okay.” He scribbled on his notepad.

I continued with my descriptions. “Mom, well. . . she was beautiful, too. Hair like mine, dark reddish-brown, only straight instead of curly. She wore it in two or three braids and that sometimes made me really mad since my hair didn't braid easily or neatly. She was my height, maybe five-seven or so. She had these really cute freckles across her nose and over her breasts. . . well. . . we'll get to that, I suppose.” I shivered, missing them both terribly in that moment. “You get the idea. . . ” I said quieter, trailing off.

Martin caught that my mood had shifted and like a good counselor, tried to halt the slide and redirect my thoughts. “It sounds like. . . so far. . . you had a wonderful childhood.”

“I did.”

“And any brothers, or sisters?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Neither. Mom got pregnant with me right out of college, and though they tried for several years to have another, it just never happened. They didn't want to go through fertility treatments, and they were content to spend their lives centered on their only child: me. I found that out much later, of course. When I was little, I sometimes asked them if I would ever have a brother or sister. They'd just smile and tell me 'some day' as if it was the surest thing in the world.”

“My wife and I tried to have children for years. Never did. And like your parents, we decided against treatments.” Dr. Green closed his eyes as he spoke. “We just didn't feel right forcing it. If it happened, it happened.” His eyes opened and he seemed to remember which side of the therapist-client relationship he was supposed to be on. “Anyway,” he continued, checking the clock on the wall, ”we've still got a half-hour. Would you like to continue?”

“I would. I think I should tell you about Margaret. . . ”

- - -

After that first wonderful, eye-opening day of being able to orgasm, I wanted to make it happen frequently. The soreness in my clit which prevented me from cumming a third time that day gave way to a sensitive, receptive nub by the next morning, and before I went off to school, I brought myself to orgasm on the toilet. My panties were soaked all day just thinking about rushing home to have another.

The conversation I'd overheard the night before had rattled around my head for a time during my classes, but like many kids, I found it whisked away rather quickly. I have never dwelled long on most concerns, and what my parents discussed while they made love was swept aside by more immediate thoughts and experiences. Even though I knew there was something odd about Mom and Dad having sex while talking about me, it didn't feel wrong or of great concern to me, so I didn't think long about it and soon largely forgot it had happened.

I still wasn't wholly connecting what I was doing with sex itself. It just felt great and I wanted to do it over and over. Even listening to my parents have sex didn't quite make it clear what masturbation had to do with intimacy with another person. It wasn't long before I found out.

Like most eight-year old girls, many of my best moments, my happiest memories, come from time spent with my closest friends. I had a couple that I just adored. One of them was Margaret. Everyone called her Maggie. Her grandmother called her Margie and she hated that. Maggie was my best friend in the whole world. She was tall for her age, like me, and even though she was not yet into her years of puberty, she was just overweight enough for it to look like she had budding breasts under her shirts. I'd not really noticed it myself at that age, but I'd heard a couple of older boys laughing at her during lunch, saying things like 'Maggie's got milk in there' and 'I bet babies really like her,' stuff like that. They were really mean, and one day I got sent home and suspended three days for punching one of those twerps in the mouth. I never told Maggie why I'd done it, but she seemed really impressed that I had the guts to slug a ten-year old boy in the lunchroom.

Anyway, I had a few interests in those years. I was in the latter half of second grade at that point, taller than most of my classmates, and I was the key player on the volleyball team sponsored by the parks department in our area. Maggie played, too, and we did well enough in our rec league to go to the state championships in Indianapolis. Mom chaperoned our trip along with a few other adults, and we were put up in a hotel room for the weekend.

Four of us girls got a room to ourselves, sharing two queen beds. Naturally, Maggie and I got one of them together. We'd had many sleepovers and slept beside each other dozens of times at my house or hers. Usually, when it was at my house, we'd wear only panties, but sometimes I got naked, and once or twice, she did too. I'd only once played with myself in front of her, having learned that lesson when I was six and Mom made it clear that I shouldn't do that when someone outside of the family was around. I'm sure I still managed to sneak a touch or two between my legs when Maggie wasn't looking, and at that young age, it wasn't something she noticed.

This trip was different, though. I'd learned to do more than just touch myself. I could orgasm now, and the excitement of the trip had made me horny. I doubt I understood what that really meant at eight, but there it was.

The first night, all four of us sat up late telling jokes and playing games, Mom and one of the other female chaperones in the room next to us. Mom checked in once to ensure we were all in for the night, and otherwise, we were left alone to be little girls, giggling and having a most enjoyable time.

When we finally decided to go to sleep, Maggie and I changed into our nightshirts. She wore panties under hers, and I did watch her get naked for a the few seconds it lasted. I didn't really see her sexually at that time, more of a curiosity than anything else. I had seen Maggie's nude body before, but this time I felt a stirring for her that I didn't understand but which made my clitty very hard.

I didn't put on panties, more comfortable sleeping without them. No one noticed or cared, and soon the dark stillness in the room had everyone but me asleep. I could just feel the heat of my best friend beside me as I slowly drew down my hands and carefully brought the hem of my nightshirt up to my waist. I was very wet down there.

Within moments, I was nearing orgasm, trying to be quiet and still, but I know I was less of each than it seemed at the time. My leg brushed Maggie's once or twice, and my young body tensed with each wave of pleasure that rushed through me. It was naughty, perhaps really naughty for the first time. It was my first awareness of such things, that my sexual explorations had, even if just barely, included someone else.

I rested with my hand between my legs, idly sliding my fingers around my wet vulva, knowing I was on my way towards a second orgasm. Maggie shifted and I froze. On her back at first, she turned over on her side to face me. Then she whispered, “Miranda? What are you doing?”

I didn't really know what to say. I wasn't embarrassed or ashamed, but instinctively I knew it was an awkward moment. “Uh. . . just. . . uh. . . you know. . . trying to go to sleep,” I finally stammered quietly.

“No, I mean. . . are you okay? You made a noise. . . ” she said just loudly enough for me to hear.

“Oh,” I raced to find an explanation that made sense and was believable. The only one I found was the truth and for some reason, I told her. “I was just touching myself. . . ”

Maggie was quiet a moment, and there was just enough light leaking in through the heavy curtains over the hotel room window to see that her eyes were watching mine. She asked me such a simple yet complex question I almost laughed. “Why?”

After what felt like several minutes, but was probably only a few seconds, the truth continued to be my reply. “It feels good. . . ”

Maggie rose onto an elbow and scooted just a few inches closer, her face close to mine. She whispered, “really? Like. . . what do you mean?”

My eight-year old mind had few filters to begin with, but the way I'd unexpectedly revealed my special play to my best friend compelled me to bring her into my secret world. “I touch it down there. . . you know. . . ”

I cast a quick glance over her shoulder to see if the other girls were awake. From what I could tell, they were not, so I slowly pushed the covers down my body. My nightshirt was still up over my waist, and my fingers had not left my hairless cunny. “Like this. . . ” I proceeded to show her the motions I made, brushing down one side of my slit and up the other, wetness trailing along my tender flesh as I began to circle my clit. Maggie's eyes watched my movements with curiosity, but there was no fear or distress as she saw what I was doing.

I moaned very, very quietly, and I saw Maggie look towards my eyes again. I was getting turned on with her watching, and I was nearing a second orgasm. “And then. . . ” I explained between light sighs, “it kinda. . . builds. . . and I feel. . . great. . . really great. . . mmm. . . mmm. . . ”

My hips rose slightly to meet my fingers. I dipped just inside my slit and felt how wet I'd become, my vagina drooling light slickness down over my anus. I started to tremble and it was a struggle to stop from moaning loudly. I barely kept myself quiet as my body pulsed with energy, full of pleasure, my fingers slipping in quick circles around my nub. I came as silently as I could, but I'm sure I made sounds which fascinated my best friend.

I washed in pleasure and closed my eyes, letting the sensation consume me. I could feel the cool air in the room clashing with the heat between my legs. In another way, I could feel Maggie's eyes as they swept from my face down to where my fingers rested on my hairless vulva.

Without thinking, I brought my hand to my face and inhaled my scent. It was light and musky, just wonderful. I opened my eyes to see Maggie staring at me with curiosity. I couldn't believe it when she leaned closer and put her nose just over my fingers, sniffing along my flesh. Her nose wrinkled slightly, but she didn't pull away for long seconds. Finally, she leaned back onto her elbow and said quietly, “interesting. . . ”

There were several moments of silence. I was still enjoying my orgasm, my silly grin perhaps hard to see in the dark, but I knew it was there. I continued to sniff my fingers.

Maggie rolled onto her back and I watched as she turned her head to look at the other bed. I saw no signs that our teammates were stirring or awake, and apparently, neither did Maggie. She pushed the blankets down her body and quickly yanked her shirt up like mine. Maggie glanced at me a moment, and started to giggle. I couldn't help joining her, and for a while we sat there like that, my legs splayed open, the scent of my immature pussy filling the room, and Maggie with her panty-covered crotch just barely in view in the dim light, the two of us trying to laugh quietly at our shared secrets.

At some point, she pushed her hand into her panties and started to move her hand around. I couldn't see much, but it was definitely a turn on to see her exploring her privates. She turned to me after a few minutes, “It does feel kinda good. . . ”

I wasn't really at a point to start offering her help or advice, so I leaned up on my elbow and just watched, excited by what I was witnessing. My eight-year old best friend was touching her most secret places with me right there, just a foot or two away.

She didn't get close to orgasm, as far as I could tell, probably still not mature enough or not certain enough in her movements to bring it on, but she really enjoyed what she was doing, regularly sighing quietly and giggling, sometimes covering her mouth in shyness when she laughed. Her hand stayed down between her legs for almost thirty minutes.

We both began to grow really tired, and eventually, Maggie's fingers stopped moving down there. She paused briefly, then brought her hand to her face and sniffed her fingers. She giggled again and looked at me. Of course, I moved my head close and inhaled her scents.

I can't fairly describe what I experienced in those moments. I smelled Maggie's most private flesh on her fingers. Her odors were different than mine in ways I don't think I can explain. After a few sniffs, I could have picked out Maggie's distinct scents anywhere. It was like warm cotton candy mixed with rose petals and white wine. That's what I tell myself now, at least. Then, it was just Maggie. It was her intimate fragrance. I loved it immediately. I even took her wrist and pressed her fingers against my nose, not wanting to lose that scent.

I don't remember much else that night. I suppose we slept at some point, but I remember waking the next morning with Maggie's scents still on my face. Inhaling her again brought a big smile to my face and though I had no time to masturbate, my clit was hard as a result.

- - -

“I need to pee,” I said, causing Dr. Green to jump in his seat. I'd broken the moment he was clearly caught up in. “Excuse me.”

“Oh, of course.” He glanced at the clock. “We've got five minutes left. . . ”

“Be right back,” I said as I rose and went into the bathroom outside his office. I didn't really need to pee. It had taken a lot of effort to stop myself from openly masturbating in front of the man, and I really needed to get off.

I stepped inside, standing in front of the sink, looking at myself in the mirror as I pulled a small photo book from my purse. I opened it to the team picture we'd taken after we'd won the volleyball tournament. I stared into Maggie's bright blue eyes as I thrust my fingers into my pants and quickly twirled my clit to a rushing orgasm, biting my lip to ensure I made no audible signs of my pleasure.

I soaked my panties, as if they weren't already wet from my arousal. I recalled Maggie's scent as I came, smiling at the photo of my eight-year old best friend as I remembered our special first time together.

I returned to the office without washing my hands. It was a habit of sorts. A fetish, I suppose. I loved knowing my body's fragrance was on my fingers, that someone else might smell me that way. Dr. Green's eyes showed he knew what I'd just done in the bathroom, but he didn't comment and appeared to have collected himself before I returned.

“Would you like to see a picture of us?” I asked standing next to him, wondering if the scent on my hand was strong enough for the man to inhale my special odors.

“What's that?” he said, his chin rising.

“Maggie and me, from the tournament. Here,” I said, passing him the photo album with the pages opened to the picture of the team. “That's me,” I told him, pointing to my eight-year old self. “And that's Maggie,” I told him, pointing at my best friend, her long, straight blond hair pulled back into a pony tail, her smiling face delightful next to mine. We both wore the tight black athletic shorts that were popular in those days, and I wondered if Dr. Green's eyes took in the way our immature crotches were marked with Vs between our legs.

“Lovely,” he said after a moment. “You were both very cute girls.”

“Thanks,” I said as he passed me back the album. “I think so, too.”

The timer on his desk sounded and I knew our session was over. I waited for him to speak, staring at his face a little too long.

He looked away from me, adjusting himself before standing. He opened his calendar pad. “I should schedule you for a followup. Say. . . Wednesday at three?”

I nodded. “Sounds good.” It was a Friday, and again, Dr. Green clearly wanted me back as soon as possible. “Thanks, Martin.”

He smiled. “You are welcome, Miranda. I look forward to our next session.”

I gave him a grin somewhere between friendly and devious. “As do I.”