Miranda, Female, 24 (current), 6-8 (flashbacks)

	- Narrator, daughter of Angela and Dan

	- 5'7, beige skin, 125lbs, curly dark red-brown hair over shoulders

Dr. Martin Green, Male, late-40s

	- Sex therapist

	- 5'8, ruddy beige skin, 150lbs, short brown hair with grey streaks

Angela, Female, early-30s (flashbacks)

	- Mother of Miranda, wife of Dan

	- 5'7, beige skin, 140obs, dark-red brown hair over shoulders

Dr. Schneider, Female, 50s (flashbacks)

	- Family practitioner

	- 5'10, tan skin, 145lbs, long black hair in a braid

“So. . . what do you want to know?” I sat nervously in the chair across from the therapist as he opened a notebook and pressed his pen against the paper, his eyes slowly drawing towards my face. I thought his glance paused just briefly where my small breasts pressed out my light-blue blouse, and that added to my nervousness, though I admit I might have been imagining his attention to my assets.

“You can tell me as much or as little as you are comfortable disclosing,” Martin said. He'd asked me to call him by his first name when he greeted me at his office door. Before that, he'd been Dr. Green to me, nothing more than a name I'd been given when I'd asked a close friend to suggest someone I could see about sexual issues I'd been having. “But it helps me,” he continued, “to have a basic understanding of your background and why you're here today.”

I fidgeted in my chair, unsure where to start. I'd thrice cancelled this appointment, too uncertain I could talk about my issues with a complete stranger. At twenty-four, I was at a point where I needed to talk to someone about my past, and more importantly, about how it was affecting my life in the present.

He sensed my hesitation and leaned forward, setting his pen down on the notebook, watching me a moment with a friendly smile. “Miranda, the first time together is often difficult between a therapist and his client, I won't pretend otherwise. I won't pressure you for anything you don't want to say. Just use your best judgement and try to give me a sense of what it is you are dealing with and what in your past might be relevant. You can be as detailed as you wish, but I can only help you if you open up, at least a bit, about why you are here.”

The words slid from my lips before I could stop them. “I had sex with my dad. . . and my mom.”

He watched me carefully a moment, and when it was clear I wasn't saying more, he leaned back and asked, “recently?”

I shook my head. “No. . . no. They. . . they were both killed in France a year ago. . . the attack in Paris. . . ”

“Oh, my,” he said quietly, “I'm so sorry, Miranda.”

“It's okay. . . I've dealt with that. . . it's only part of what I'm having a hard time coping with, though. . . like I said. . . I. . . ”

He finished my thought. “You had sex with your parents. . . ”

“Yes. . . ”

He was quiet a moment, picking up his pen and scribbling notes before resuming. “How old were you. . . the first time?”

“Eight.” I said flatly.

Martin's pen paused just an instant. “Eight,” he replied, confirming my statement.

“Yes. I was eight.”

Martin stared at his notepad a long moment. I started to regret having come, shifting my feet to the floor in a way which ensured I could stand and walk out the minute I made the decision to do so. I was very uncomfortable.

“Miranda. . . I must admit. . . this isn't my area of expertise. I have long experience helping men and women deal with sexual issues, but whenever something like this comes up, I tend to refer that person to one of my colleagues.”

“'Something like this'?” I asked, pressing him on the meaning of that phrase. “Like what?”

“Parental sexual abuse,” he replied, suddenly looking less certain of himself.

“I didn't say it was abuse. . . ” I said honestly.

He stared at me a moment, then said carefully, “it may not seem that way to the victim—”

“I'm not a victim!” I barked at Martin. “Don't call me that.”

His eyes tried to hold steady as he attempted to reply. I was agitated by his assumption, and he knew our session was nearing a breaking point. “Miranda. . . I'm sorry, as I said. . . this isn't my area of expertise. . . I don't know that I ca—”

As it had so often in my life, my lips moved faster than I could consider my words, “does it make you uncomfortable. . . maybe you think you might like hearing about what I experienced? What I saw and did when I was eight? I wasn't a victim, Martin. I am not a victim.”

“Wh-what? No, no. . . ” Martin was tripping on his words. I knew enough to see the lie in his denial. “It's just that. . . Look. . . Let me get you a number for someone who can help you.”

I shook my head, exasperated, my body shifting forward, ready to rise to my feet. “Listen, Dr. Green. It took me a lot of courage to show up today. If you send me off, even if you think it is best for me, I'm done. You were referred to me as the best sex therapist in town. This isn't about abuse, I don't hate what I experienced with my parents, and I'm not interested in you or anyone else making my life into one of victimhood. If you aren't willing to listen and try to help me. . . I'm done.”

He let out a long breath and seemed to collect himself. “I should tell you, then,” he said quietly, “that I must disclose anything which the law considers illegal, even if you don't see it as harmful. I'm required—”

“They're dead, Martin. What exactly would you report?”

“I. . . ” He nodded slowly. “Okay. . . know that I am bound to follow up and confirm that is so. . . This is a protection, Miranda. You don't see yourself as a victim, I understand that and I'm not here to make you into one. But legally. . . ”

“Legally, my parents abused me and I should have turned them in and seen them spend their lives in jail. Fine,” I replied, “I also understand. But, as I said, they're dead. If they weren't dead. . . I wouldn't be here. I wouldn't need to see you or any therapist. I'd be. . . happy with them. . . ”

His eyes suggested he was having a very difficult time accepting most of my words, and looking back, I suppose it was a lot to take in, even for an experienced therapist. I'm sure he'd seen others make such strong statements about potentially traumatizing experiences, and most, if not all, of them had come to find themselves living in denial about the harm.

I knew better.

He let out another long breath and sank deeper into his cushioned chair. I did the same in mine. “So. . . this has been a rough start,” he said, “but that's okay. I'm ready to listen, Miranda. Tell me what you wish me to know.”

I nodded, accepting the truce for the moment. “I suppose. . . I suppose I should start at the beginning. . . I gotta tell you, Martin. This is going to take some time. Good thing my parents left me an inheritance to pay your hourly, eh?”

His head rose slightly, but no smile replaced the serious lines on his face.

“It started when I was eight, like I said. Before I tell you about my first time with Mom and Dad, I should tell you about what led up to it. . . ”

- - -

I suppose I'd been touching my private parts since I was an infant. It wasn't sexual until I got closer to puberty, and I wasn't even aware that I was doing it most of the time.

In kindergarten, I got sent home twice for playing with myself. I couldn't say what I was thinking. I was five or six, for God's sake. It never crossed my mind that I couldn't put my fingers wherever I wanted on my own body. It was an itch of sorts, a habit I had which made me feel good. I wasn't trying to orgasm, and I doubt I did much more than pass my fingers over my slit in small circles.

Some kids picked their noses. Some kids scratched their heads. I caressed my immature vulva.

My parents were pretty cool about it, really. They told me that what I was doing was normal and that I was allowed to touch myself wherever I wished, though they made it clear that it was something one should do in private, not in a classroom or on the playground. Or at lunch. Or while talking to a teacher.

Yeah, my fingers had a way of reaching down to provide some warm comfort pretty much wherever I was. After the second time being sent home, I found a way to be less obvious even as it was still not sexual. I started checking where others were looking before slipping my hand into my pants or under my skirt. I don't know why it was such a powerful urge, but it was, and I still did it frequently at school and in public, but I got good at not getting caught.

At home, I was free to explore myself. My parents made no comments when I was six or seven, and I often went about the house nude, as was my preference. If either of them did more than roll their eyes and laugh at me, I didn't notice. I was a free spirit, still am, and they accepted me for who I was.

It was obvious after the fact that I was nearing puberty when touching my secret places began to feel warm and more than just an idle caress. I found myself drawn to slip a finger into my slit, and at some point, I started to notice the wetness and the odors. I sniffed my fingers all the time after they'd slid through my pre-pubescent vulva. I enjoyed what I smelled, not really connecting it with anything sexual. It was an unusual scent, something I'd not noticed anywhere else in the world, and I would spend hours watching cartoons, my fingers playing between my legs, drawing out wetness as I brought my hand up to inhale again. I had just turned eight, and I was just on the edge of understanding what it meant to be horny. What it meant to be turned on.

And it wasn't just my own body which was bringing me to experience new sensations. I started to be attracted to the sounds I heard when my parents disappeared into their bedroom. I suppose I'd heard Mom's cries of pleasure, Dad's grunts, most of my life, but as my body began to rev up in preparation for puberty, those sounds began to draw me in. At eight, I listened at their door almost every night, wondering what made Mom sound so unusual when she said things like 'oh, Dan. . . that's it. . . right there. . . right there. . . ” And Dad, well he just hummed along with her, his deep baritone making a rich harmony with Mom's lighter tones. I didn't yet know what 'cumming' meant, but they both said it a lot.

Soon I discovered that my pussy got very wet when I listened at their door. I still didn't connect my wetness to sexual arousal, but I would often creep back to my room when they quieted down and spend an hour or two rubbing the slickness leaking from my genitals into my flesh, sniffing it on my fingers, soon tasting it and finding it sweet and light and wonderful. I didn't yet know to try to bring myself to orgasm, but by that time, I would say I was beginning to transition from touching myself to sexually masturbating.

- - -

“Miranda. . . ” Martin's words broke my spell. I opened my eyes, aware that my nipples and clit were throbbing. I had unconsciously been swaying my legs open and closed as I recounted my earliest memories of my body's most hidden delights. I glanced at Dr. Green and saw that he was rather flushed, unable to sit still himself. He looked away from me and sat his pen and notebook on his desk. “You are, of course, free to tell me what you feel I need to know, but you shouldn't feel obligated to go into such. . . vivid detail. I don't really think—”

I shrugged. “You want to help me, right?”

“I do,” he said, nodding, his voice a bit thin and uncertain. I knew from the way he shifted his thighs that he was trying to conceal a boner. I knew even then that what I was doing was a bit cruel, perhaps, aware that talking about my pre-pubescent sexual experiences was turning him on and leaving him in a state which had to be confusing and exciting and worrying to the man.

I wasn't really interested in concerning myself with his inability to keep from being aroused. I needed help, and to get it, I had to tell him everything.

“Then, for you to help me, you need to understand me, right?” He nodded again. “Then, I don't know how else to get to where you can, okay? This is my life, right or wrong, and all of it, all of it, plays into what I'm dealing with now, okay?”

He sighed and his shoulders drooped a moment. Then he picked up his pen and notebook and leaned back once more. “Please, continue,” he said with resignation.

- - -

My first orgasm came mostly by accident. A few weeks into doing more than habitually touching my vulva, I had an appointment with my doctor. Just a checkup that all kids get. My mom went with me into the room and we waited for Dr. Schneider to visit us after the nurse recorded my weight and height. I sat as patiently as I could on the examination table. I wasn't a terribly patient child. I hated sitting and doing nothing. Perhaps that's why I'd developed my habit of touching myself, nothing but boredom and dumb luck leading me to explore the hairless flesh between my legs. Waiting for the doctor seemed to take an eternity, and though at home I'd have had little hesitation slipping my hand under my skirt and testing my panties for wetness in front of my mother, I'd learned enough to not do so in a place where others might easily see me.

Mom and Dad had gotten used to seeing me like that, I suppose. Aside from a few cautions to avoid doing such things outside the home, they let me freely do as I wished when in our house. I still loved to be naked, and there were many times I was seen dipping a finger into my virgin hole by my parents. Again, if either did more than glance and move on, I didn't notice. Looking back, I'm not sure how either let me go on so long without either stopping me, or helping me explore. I was quite an exhibitionist about it, I just didn't understand that at the time.

Anyway, Dr. Schneider came in and greeted us. She was a tall, thin woman with glasses and long, dark hair that she always had braided behind her back. I always loved her hair and wished mine was so easy to braid. I had long, dark hair as well, but it was marginally curly and tended to become knotty if it was braided. I didn't mind frizzy, so I mostly let my curls hang over my shoulder and down my back.

The doctor asked me a few typical questions which I answered with as few words as possible, hoping to get somewhere I could touch myself more privately.

“We should do a genital examine today. Are you comfortable with that, Miranda?” she asked me.

I shrugged, having no embarrassment about my body and having been through the same examination several times in my life. Without prompting, I stood on the low step attached to the table, reached under my skirt, and quickly slid my panties to my ankles, dropping them off one leg and letting them dangle from the top of my tennis shoe. I hiked my skirt over my stomach and leaned back, spreading my legs wide, knees up slightly, my feet pulled up to the edge of the padded table.

Mom shook her head with a grin when Dr. Schneider glanced at her briefly. Whatever passed between them was largely lost on me at the time, but soon the doctor was washing her hands and putting on those thin disposable gloves which I hated to feel on my body. I'd have much preferred her skin, but I didn't understand at that time why she wore the protection.

I closed my eyes and soon felt her covered fingers draw apart my labia. I tingled with excitement suddenly. I didn't know why it felt different than before. Different than when I touched myself. But it did. I felt warm and slightly uncomfortable, but in a good way, like I was being exposed in a manner which was new, my secret places nervous and vulnerable. My hips rose ever-so-slightly to her touch, and a small sigh escaped my lips.

Dr. Schneider seemed not to notice as she parted me wider. Her thumb brushed the top of my slit and a small moan escaped my lips. I don't know if I'd ever moaned like that before. I probably had, but in the room with the doctor, it stood out. Looking back, I bet my little clit was hard and poking out at her.

I smelled myself then. A rich, wonderful scent of my immature but ripening sex hit my nose and I instinctively inhaled. My eyes parted just slightly, and I caught my mother staring directly between my legs, her eyes like warm velvet on my private flesh. It made me smile. My hips rose again when the doctor lightly probed my little hole, and I moaned once more.

She moved lower, her gloved fingers brushing against my anus, and as she did, her thumb went back and forth across my labia. I was growing wet, and even then I knew it. I felt my abdomen strain, my body hoping to feel her touch my little clit again. When she didn't, it made me feel empty, longing for what I didn't really understand. I was buzzing with anticipation, raw with the excitement of the moment.

Dr. Schneider pulled her fingers from my anus and slit, then patted my pubic mound lightly, saying, “okay, all done here. You can put your panties back on, Miranda.”

I barely heard her. My body felt her touching the skin just above my slit, and it was enough to send me spasming with pleasure. I felt a rush, a tightness, a wonderful strain in my body I'd never felt before. I moaned in a long, clenched whine. Euphoria like I'd never experienced flooded me completely. My hips rocked up on their own, my body flooding with warmth, wetness trickling down from my swollen, hairless vagina.

I hardly remember the rest of what happened. I seem to recall resting on my back a long time, my legs splayed open. I'm pretty sure my mom pulled my panties up and righted my skirt. I recall Mom talking to the Doctor but I remember no words. The smile on my face matched the way I felt between my legs. It had been unexpected, so unlike anything I'd known, and even as I drifted in that euphoric afterglow, I wanted to figure out how to make it happen again.

- - -

“Miranda, we're all out of time,” Martin's halting tones broke into my memory. I snapped back to the present. My body had pushed way down the chair, my jeans-covered ass hanging off the edge, my legs spread wide in much the manner I'd just described to the man. I looked up to see him wiping his brow with a grey handkerchief, his arousal obvious as he leaned forward to partially hide the bulge in his slacks. “I'm sorry, but we're already five minutes into my next scheduled appointment.”

He stared at me with a softness I hadn't seen earlier. I'm not really sure why that's how I read his expression. I don't know if it was arousal or some oddly-developed pity on display, but he had been unable to remain an impartial observer to the moments I'd just described. Dr. Green was flushed, the man likely in his late-40s, the ruddy coloring around his neckline redder than before, his cheeks, too, with beads of moisture clear on his forehead and around his temples where sparse grey hairs had started to bring distinction to his darker brown. I'd had quite an effect on the man, and it was a turn-on to see it so clearly.

“W-would you like to schedule your next appointment now?”

I smiled and nodded. “I would. When do you recommend that happen.”

He rose from his chair, and I barely heard him say under his breath, “as soon as possible.”