Miranda, Female, 24 (current), 10 (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, husband of Auburn

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

Dr. Auburn Green, Female, late-40s

	- Psychologist, wife of Martin

	- 5'10, light-olive skin, 140lbs, shoulder-length auburn hair

Angela, Female, early-30s (flashbacks)

	- Mother of Miranda, wife of Dan

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

Dan, Male, early-30s (flashbacks)

	- Father of Miranda, husband of Angela

	- 5'11, tanned beige skin, 175lbs, cropped dirty-blonde hair

I sat nervously while Auburn hooked up a laptop to the large television in their den. The room was spacious and sparsely decorated, simple white paint and wood panels on the walls, two large couches and a recliner, two small tables and a couple of lamps and not much else. Martin opened a bottle of wine, saying it might help my nerves after I'd admitted to being a bit anxious about watching the film in front of someone else. He and Auburn each offered me multiple chances to back out, but I stuck to my word and said I wished them to see it.

I really don't know what I was expecting. On one hand, they were professionals and I thought that, maybe, they'd psychoanalyze every movement, every moan, taking notes the whole time then asking me questions afterwards. On the other hand, I wondered if we'd all end up naked and covered in whipped cream. I know, it sounds crazy, but I really had no clue what to think would happen. I'm not sure which end of that spectrum I really wanted. Some of both, I suppose.

I tried to relax on the smaller couch. It was comfortable enough, but how is one supposed to feel when nervously waiting to watch a video of themselves at ten years old having sex with her parents, all while two others looked on. I felt a bit sick to my stomach, honestly. It was a line we were all crossing, and I had no idea if that put us on the right side of the tracks, or the wrong one.

Martin handed me a glass of chardonnay and I thanked him with a nod. The television screen flickered to life and I saw the laptop's screensaver there a moment before Auburn plugged in the thumb drive and queued up the video. She and Martin sat next to each other on the other couch. I was thankful it positioned them so that they could not easily watch me. I felt really vulnerable right then.

“Ready, Miranda?” Auburn asked lightly.

“Play it.”

I picked this video because it was one I'd re-watched three or four times since my parents' deaths. I suppose it was a favorite in that it captured the essence of the love between us, the pleasure, it showed how we so easily played together, how we shared our bodies and how we did so without harm or awkwardness or making any of the three of us feel left out. It was also one of the first high-definition videos Mom had recorded, so the details of our bodies, our voices, were exceedingly clear.

Auburn hit a button to full-screen the video player, and Martin used a remote to dim the lights in the den. The screen went dark a moment, and then the sound of my father's voice nearly brought me to tears.

- - -

“Princess, we're in here,” Dad called out. I had been in the bathroom bathing, and was just finishing drying when he let me know they, too, were ready for our nightly fun.

I was ten at the time, my breasts the size of large limes or maybe small mangoes, the fur between my legs more spread out and covered my slit in fine, silky hairs. Dad was sitting on the edge of the bed as I walked into the bedroom, Mom just putting her towel away inside the bathroom. I glanced at the dresser and smiled, asking, “Is that the new camera?”

Mom answered as she joined Dad on the bed, “You bet. Hope it makes a better film than the old one. This one's HD.”

I walked up to the camera and waved, smiling, “Hi!” I said to no one in particular. I'd done that often in the films we'd made. My parents said they didn't share them with anyone, but in case anyone ever saw them, I always greeted them in the beginning.

I turned back and looked at my parents. Mom and Dad were already kissing deeply, both lying back on the bed. Dad's penis was sticking straight up from where his lap and I moved in to take him into my mouth. I'd gotten rather good at sucking his cock, or so I imagined, and I let his fleshy head touch my lips a moment while I used my tongue to tickle the sensitive area around his tiny hole.

Dad moaned into Mom's mouth as I started to take him deeper. I still gagged sometimes if I let him go too deep, but that, too, had gotten better. I no longer had to pull back to catch my breath, and though I felt the tickle and strain which suggested I was at my limit, I started to hum and relax my jaw as I slathered my saliva on Dad's penis.

I remembered the camera behind me and swished my hips back and forth for the film. I spread my legs and did my best to push my ass up in the air. I wondered how much any future viewers might see of my privates, so for their benefit, I reached back and spread my buttocks with my hands. I thought it might be possible that the camera was picking up the thin trail of juices running down my inner thigh.

- - -

The way the couches were positioned, I could watch the Greens without them noticing my gaze. They were both staring at the screen where I was bent over, sucking Dad's penis, my small, hairy slit and anus in high-definition in the center of the view. Whatever the two doctors thought of what they saw, they gave nothing away. Both were sitting comfortably on their couch, Martin sipping his wine and Auburn with her legs crossed a foot or so from her husband.

I suppose this would be the time anyone else would feel their anxiety peak, but for me, it was actually a balm to watch my naked ten-year-old self enjoying herself, my parents moaning as Dad's penis slipped back into my mouth while his fingers slid down between Mom's hairy labia. I wasn't embarrassed or uncomfortable, nothing like my anxiousness suggested would happen. Instead, I found myself quite proud to share that wonderful moment with Martin and Auburn. I was aroused, to be sure, and I was certain, though they didn't show it, that the couple on the other couch had to be similarly turned on.

- - -

I moved to my right and slid between Mom's legs. Dad's fingers parted Mom's labia and I slid my tongue through her hairy slit, savoring her sweet, tangy juices and tickling her clit with each movement. I loved eating Mom's pussy, and the way she moaned into Dad's mouth said she loved it, too. I started to finger myself slowly as Dad slipped off the bed and positioned himself behind me. I leaned forward to ensure he had the best access, and the warm pressure on my labia said he was trying to penetrate my vagina.

Dad eased into my body with the same careful kindness he'd always shown. My hole was still very small, and it took a few moments of working in and out gently to open me enough to push all the way into my depths. I moaned into Mom's pussy as she climaxed, her hands running through my hair as her body trembled in pleasure.

I grunted each time Dad bottomed out, hitting my cervix. I felt so full when he was inside me, and I knew he wouldn't last long when I felt his penis swell and stretch my opening to its limits. Mom held my face against her hairy crotch and whispered, “fill her, Dan. Fill her. . . ”

Dad grunted and groaned, holding my waist as he stroked his penis in and out of my body. I braced myself and prepared to feel him let go. I loved that moment. The way Dad's hips rocked and moved against my ass and thighs, the way he moaned my name as he began to ejaculate in my vagina.

He filled me in short, powerful squirts, holding tight against my backside while he emptied his load into my tight little hole. “Oh, Miranda. . . ohhh, Princess. . . ”

- - -

I heard a small sigh and looked away from the screen to notice that Auburn's legs were no longer crossed, instead parted slightly, as much as the tight black dress would allow, and she was rocking slowly back and forth. She and Martin were now sitting together, his arm around her shoulder, his legs rocking with her. I knew if I wasn't there, they'd be having sex. I almost considered leaving so that they could enjoy each other while watching me make love with my parents.

Auburn whispered something to Martin and he nodded, then whispered back. I saw her slide a hand quickly along his thigh, lingering just a moment, then she glanced my way and pushed her hand back to her own leg. I smiled but she had looked away before she noticed.

The camera shifted slightly, and I remember that this was the part where Mom moved it to one of the night tables for what came next.

- - -

I was on my back on the bed, legs spread. The camera would have showed things from my left side, and made sure my puffy boobs stood proudly by arching my back slightly. Semen still dripped from my vagina, but not for long. Mom's tongue slid up and down my slit as she cleaned up the seed Dad had left inside me. I turned toward the camera, mind becoming hazy from her attention. I wanted the anonymous future viewers to watch as Mom made me feel so good.

I moaned and arched my back again. Mom was softly sucking my clit and I closed my eyes, no longer looking into the camera but still facing that direction. Dad slid onto the other side of the bed and began to kiss my cheek and neck, sucking gently on my ear and whispering lovely things in his light growl. His hands caressed my puffy nubs and I felt high with pleasure.

My legs rose and I squeezed Mom's head with my thighs. There was a moment of loss when Mom pulled away and cool air moved over my privates. Then I felt the firm tip of the strap-on against my swollen labia. I turned back to watch as Mom rose over me, parting my legs wider, then slowly pushed the rubber dong into my vagina. I gasped with each inch as she carefully began to hump me.

I watched Mom's eyes as she watched my face. She looked so lovely above me, and I began to fondle her heavy breasts as she sank the strap-on deeper into my body. Mom leaned down to kiss me, and she pressed her weight down onto me. I loved that feeling, and it got better as she wrapped an arm under my shoulder and began to fuck me a bit faster.

I hadn't noticed that Dad had moved off the bed, but moments later, as I neared another orgasm, I felt an additional weight on me as Mom was shifted forward. I looked past her to see that Dad was mounting her as she fucked me. “Oh, yes. . . Put it there right now, Dan. . . ”

Mom groaned and held still, spreading me wider as she spread her own legs to accommodate Dad. “God, Dan. . . I love it in my ass. . . ”

I realized only then that Dad was pressing his penis through Mom's anus. He began to hump her body and that caused Mom to push deeper into mine. The strap-on hit my cervix and I began to push my hips up to meet each movement. I started to cum, my vagina stretched, my body trembling with lovely, burning pleasure.

“Cum for me, Miranda. . . mmm. . . cum for Mommy. . . ” Mom pressed her lips to mine and twirled her tongue in my mouth as I moaned and climaxed around the penetration. Mom started to cum soon after and I felt slickness slide down the strap-on to leak onto my vagina and wet my thighs. She broke our kiss to shudder and call back, “fill my ass, Dan. Give me your cum. . . ”

- - -

Watching Dad fill Mom's ass nearly made me cream myself right there. I glanced at the Greens to see them staring deeply at the screen, caught up in the action there, and I snuck a hand into my jeans and soon was playing with myself as quietly as I could.

Dad grunted his release on the screen and I started to moan, barely holding back the sound. I was so turned on. I kept my eyes darting from the television to the Greens to make sure they weren't watching me, and when I thought the time was perfect, I let go, climaxing as slowly and as soundlessly as I possibly could. Neither seemed to notice and I felt wetness slide out of my vagina and dribble over my anus. Before I was done trembling, I yanked my hands out of my jeans and tried to slow my breathing. I was sweating lightly, and I quickly swept my arm across my forehead.

The Greens were back to showing no sign of their thoughts. They were again a foot apart, and Auburn was no longer rocking her legs. I was still buzzed from the wine and my orgasm as the screen went dark and the video finished playing.

The silence which followed was difficult to digest. I could hear the couple breathing lightly, my own heartbeat thumping in my ears. They didn't look my way at first, and I started to wonder if things had gone very badly. Had they been mortified instead of interested or aroused? Had my masturbation been noticed? Was it unwelcome? Were they thinking I was sick and considering whether it was too late to call the police? I tried to think of something to say to break the new ice between us, but nothing came forth.

The lights came up in the room and Martin finally turned towards me. “Thank you for sharing that with us. I think my wife and I have some things to discuss. I'd like to suggest we put off your next session for a few days. I've got a busy week ahead. Are you alright to drive?”

It felt like a dismissal. I felt like I'd been rejected in some way. I don't know what I expected, but I really thought there were be questions, reactions, either horror or delight or pity, something other than an obvious request for me to go home.

I stood mechanically, not willing to show my dismay, the emptiness Martin's words had formed in me so suddenly. I'd bared myself on the screen for them, opened up a part of my life that only I, of those who lived, had ever seen. I'd let myself be vulnerable before their eyes, and I received no validation of that vulnerability. I felt like I'd miscalculated terribly. Even as I stood on shaky legs, the pleasure of watching myself on screen, the euphoria of my orgasm already lost, I wondered just how bad things would get. Would it go so far as having the police pounding on my door while I tried to sleep in the night? My mind played out scenario after scenario, and none of them were pleasant.

Martin stood and nodded, his expression unreadable, a dismissal confirmed in the way he turned and disappeared down the hallway. Auburn watched me a moment, then offered a small smile, saying, “thank you, Miranda. Please. . . drive safely. We will be in touch.”

I didn't cry until I was home in my bed. I felt used, manipulated, and the rejection, the utter lack of acknowledgement of what I'd exposed of my private experiences left me feeling hollow. I felt sorry for myself in a way I had not since I'd lost my parents a year before, and I found myself hating Martin and Auburn with a bitterness that only made me feel worse.

Two difficult days later, I got a phone call in the morning as I sipped a cup of coffee in my apartment, trying my best to move on. I'd decided that I wouldn't suffer those emotions ever again, not with the Greens or anyone. I'd offered them an intimate glimpse into my life, and for that, I'd been hurt. I never wanted to feel that way again, and what I needed from my therapy, I accepted, was never to be realized. I made my best effort to find peace with that understanding, but I knew such peace would be a long time coming.

I didn't recognize the number, so I let it ring and go to my voicemail. Usually, it was just a scammer or some solicitor looking to sell me a subscription or ask me political questions. A moment later, a voice message was waiting for me, and I mechanically tapped my phone to listen.

It was Auburn.

Miranda, this is Auburn Green. I'm sorry that it has taken a couple of days to reach out to you, but there are things you don't know about me and my husband that make what you shared rather. . . complicated. I apologize. I feel we left you with the impression that we were upset or ungrateful for how you opened yourself to us. We never meant to do that. I think we were a bit. . . overwhelmed, to be frank.

Would you please join me for lunch today at noon? Or perhaps another time or day? I really wish to talk to you and explain what happened from our perspective. Let me know at your convenience. Thank you.

The message ended and I stared at my phone a moment, absorbing her words and trying to see if they made any difference to my emotional state.

I needed more coffee, and while the offer turned over in my head, I drank another cup and tried to find an answer. I recognized that Auburn was trying to offer an olive branch, and I suppose that mattered enough to find myself dialing her back.

“Hello?” Auburn's voice came through.

“It's Miranda,” I said, keeping my words short and without emotion.

“Oh, Miranda! Thank you for returning my call.”

“You want to do lunch today?”

“I would love that,” she replied, “if you are willing. . . ?”

I shrugged, as was my habit despite the fact that she couldn't have seen it, “I guess so.” I think it was probably obvious in my tone that I had my reservations.

“Wonderful. How about Charlie's, on Third, at noon?”

“Alright,” I replied. I knew the place, having eaten lunch at the bistro numerous times.

“Wonderful,” Auburn repeated, “I look forward to explaining things, Miranda. Thanks again.”

“Sure,” I muttered and the line went dead. I stared at the clock on the wall. I had a couple of hours to kill, so I did what I often do when stressed, masturbating in bed to memories of my parents until it was time to get dressed.

I didn't bother to shower or fix my hair, my dark strands tangled and hinted that I hadn't slept in days. They betrayed the truth and matched the way my face looked, so I figured it was reasonable to just not care. I slipped on a t-shirt and a pair of long slacks, grabbed my purse, and drove down to Charlie's.

I was a few minutes late and found Auburn sitting alone near the door to the kitchen, in a booth separated from the rest of the dining area by a waitress station and two stacks of chairs. I slid onto the bench seat, rested my hands on the table, and stared anywhere but at Auburn until she spoke.

“Miranda, I am so, so very sorry that we left you to feel so awful. I recognize it now. I heard it in your voice. I see it on your face. We've hurt you and I feel terrible that we caused this. I'm so, so sorry,” she repeated.

“It's fine,” I said in a tight voice. “I'll be fine.”

She watched me a moment, then glanced around us. Leaning forward, she folded her hands on the table and said quietly, “when I was twelve, an older cousin of mine abused me and stole my virginity. Two years later, my father came to my bed, drunk, and I didn't resist when he wanted to touch me and do more. For a year, he snuck out of the room he shared with my mom in order to slide between my legs and do things no parent should ever do with their child.”

I looked up at her, eyes narrowed, “why are you telling me this?”

“Because. . . I think that's why I reacted to your video the way I did. I couldn't help thinking how much it contrasted with the way I'd been treated. I was overwhelmed, perhaps in shock. I couldn't process the difference. I think I was jealous, angry, upset. I tried not to let you see that, but. . . I just couldn't bring myself to show kindness either. I let you go home that night thinking awful things about me, about us, and I regret that. I didn't know how to handle what I'd seen, what you'd experience, how your childhood was so different than mine.”

I realized I was holding my breath, trembling a bit with nervousness. I let her words sink in and found myself horrified at what she'd gone through. I said with sincerity, “I'm sorry, Auburn. . . I. . . I didn't know. . . ”

“Of course. How could you? It's not really something I talk about. Not in many years with anyone but Martin. I'd gotten past it, I believe, learned to have a pleasant and vibrant emotional and sexual life, but it took time. I never told my mother, never discussed it with boyfriends, and only a few times did I talk, around the edges of the truth, with a therapist. I still loved my dad, and my cousin is now a wonderful father, as far as I know. I felt guilty, as if it had been my fault, and even now, I wonder if I'd given a signal that I wanted what they did to me.”

“No!” I said more forcefully than I expected. “That's bullshit. No one should be responsible for something like that except the adult. Not you, for sure!”

Miranda shushed me gently as the waitress walked up with glasses of water. We ordered quickly, as if the dark matters we were discussing were nothing but fanciful gossip, and then waited until the woman had walked into the kitchen.

“I know, Miranda. I know it on many levels, but I cannot help that doubt from creeping in sometimes. I've hated myself, thought about suicide in my teen years. I'm thankful to have met Martin in graduate school. He has his own experiences which are no better than mine.”

I was silent, uncertain what to say.

“He was nine when an uncle began to touch him when no one was looking. By ten, he was persuaded to perform oral sex on the man, and soon after, was both giving and receiving anal sex. Like me, he felt guilty, ashamed, felt he was to blame. It took many years for him to learn otherwise, but also like me, he still struggles at times with how his childhood played out.”

I started to speak but found no words.

“He gave me permission to explain that to you. He wishes he could have been here to say it himself, but he really does have a full schedule this week.”

I found myself repeating my thought from earlier, “I never knew.”

“It wasn't for you to know, honestly, Miranda. My husband's burdens and my own are not your responsibility. We struggled with even laying them out for you this way but we felt you deserved an honest explanation for how we reacted the other night. I didn't expect to be so personally affected by your video. . . affected in many ways. I can only apologize to you, here, now, and try my best to convey that my husband offers the same. We never meant to hurt you, and I hope we can find a way to make this right between us.”

Our food arrived and I took a bite or two, letting the silence between us be filled with the noises in the busy bistro. Clanging glasses, forks on plates, a dozen voices holding conversations a light year away from the one held closely to Auburn and me.

“I want to suggest that my husband thinks he has an idea what you may be seeking, whether that is your known goal or not.”

“Oh?” I said, raising an eyebrow.

“You haven't told him, or me, what you wish to gain from your sessions with him, but there are some things I believe you know you want to see come about.”

I swallowed a mouthful of my sandwich and said, “go on. . . ”

Auburn shook her head, “I'm stepping outside of myself here. This is my husband's place to discuss things with you. It is important that he be the one to express his thoughts on this. I think you trust him, despite the other night, yes?”

I thought a moment and replied, “Yes.”

“Then trust him in what he tells you next. I think it might address your needs in a way you might not have expected.”

With that, Auburn seemed to have left the intimate conversation and started to ask me about my thoughts on poetry and art, on music, whether I liked to dance or to hike mountains. It was a surreal twist on the day that I wasn't prepared for, and I found myself answering automatically while trying to understand what had happened.

Martin called and suggested I come in for his appointment slot a few days later. I accepted his proposal and found myself in his office again on a Friday afternoon around four.

He greeted me as he always did and sat in his chair while I got comfortable in mine. I was nervous again, Auburn's words cautioning me to expect something new and perhaps unanticipated. I rocked my legs and waited for Martin to start speaking.

“I feel it is best to bring these sessions to a close, Miranda. I'm firing you as a client.”

I felt myself become disconnect and distant. Whatever I'd thought might happen, this wasn't a scenario I could have considered.”Whuu—what?”

“Hear me through.”

I sat in shock, mouth open, stunned.

“I've become too attached to what you tell me, too attached to remain objective, to fulfill my role as your therapist. I think you know this even if it surprises you to hear it from my mouth.”

I shook my head, unable to utter a response.

“My wife explained to you a bit about what happened to us, in our pasts, and why we were so distant the other night. I apologize, Miranda, I acted terribly cold towards you and I am very sorry. You did not deserve that.”

“But. . . but. . . ” I tried to form a coherent sentence. “Why are you firing me?”

Martin ignored my question and answered a different one. “I think I have an idea about what you want from these sessions, Miranda, what it is that might help you.” My eyes implored him to continue. “You're still living in the past, Miranda, and that is understandable. Watching you with your parents showed me how much you long for what you had, for what you've lost and still need. I wish I could return them to you. I would do so without hesitation if that was within my power.” His voice lowered and became smooth. “I cannot do so.”

He shifted in his chair and went on, “You are seeking someone in your life to allow you to regain those emotions, those raw experiences of your past, to move on from the loss within the safety of a new relationship, a new way of bringing context to your life. You're looking for someone to replace your parents.”

My eyes betrayed my silence, certainly making it clear that he'd been more accurate than I could have expected. I finally responded, “yes,” in a small voice. “Yes. . . that's what I want. . . what I need.”

“That's why we cannot continue our sessions, Miranda. I have become. . . too deeply involved with your memories, with you, to see past a solution I can never consider as your therapist.”

I suddenly realized where he was going, and before he said so, my mind raced through a million scenes which might take place.

“If what I suggest is wrong, or if I've misread you, or if I say something you cannot accept, please know that I do so both to bring you resolution, and for my own selfish desires.”

Martin looked into my eyes, leaning forward.

“You can call me Daddy, Miranda. Would you like that?”

“Yes,” escaped my lips without a second of hesitation. “Yes.”

“And Auburn would like you to call her Mommy. . . ”

“Yes. . . all this. . . Yes.”

I knew it was the right thing to do. I'd largely ignored my attractions to Martin and Auburn, but it was always there. The way I intentionally gave explicit descriptions. My showing Martin the photograph of me as a child. Sharing my secrets, showing them my young body on film, it was all a closely-held play to bring them deeper into my life. I wanted a new Mommy and Daddy, and Martin was suggesting they were willing to be those for me.

I took a deep breath and said, “so. . . what now?”

Martin eyed the clock and said, “since this was my last session of the day, and you are no longer my client, and I no longer your therapist, I suggest we go back to my house and join my wife to discuss things.”

“I'd like that.”

Martin pointed the way to the door, and I drove on towards his home, butterflies again circling in my stomach.