What Do You Do When A Girl Has Trouble Opening Up Unless You're Fucking Her Nice And Slow?

This is an issue I think many therapist and intimacy counselors struggle with; a patient who simply won't open up. It's often difficult to find the key. I'm not suggesting you should go to the lengths I went to to get my patient to open up. And some might cry foul. But to those, I say poo poo. On you. Poo. And I mean that both as a pioneer in the intimacy wellness field and a general person in general.

Isobel Sunday was angry. This is all I knew. She was so angry in fact, she wouldn't even come to my office for a session. So, her parents and I had to get a little creative.

We had Isobel, who was a senior in high school, called down to the guidance counselor's office, where I would be waiting. Her usual guidance counselor, a Mr. Chapney, I believe, was glad to free up his office, having given up on getting anywhere with Isobel a long time ago. Some, including members of the faculty, even joked that Isobel and other difficult students like her had driven him to drink. 

When Isobel knocked, I was standing behind the door. "Come in," I said, muffling my mouth a bit with my cupped hand.

The door opened and Isobel peeked inside. I grabbed her hand and pulled her the rest of the way in and shut and locked the door. As soon as I let Isobel go, she slapped me across the face. Once. Twice. Three times. I grabbed her wrists.

"Let go of me! I'll scream!" Isobel hissed.

"No you won't," I said, bluffing.

"Why won't I?"

"Because if you do, I'm not sure what will happen to you. You see, Isobel, this is the end of the line for you. Everyone is at a total loss. And the next stop for you might be a mental hospital. You ever see One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest? Did that look like a vacation paradise?"

"Hospitals aren't like that anymore."

"Aw, don't let anybody fool ya. They're more like that than anyone would care to admit."

"What do you want from me?"

"Not very much. First, I would like you to stop hitting me. I'm generally a good person and don't appreciate being hit for no good reason. Second, I would like you to sit or lie down on this nice comfy couch. Third, I would like you and I to have a nice, polite conversation. Okay? Can I let you go?"

"Yes."

I released Isobel. She immediately sat down on the couch and put her book bag on the couch next to her and folded her arms and proceeded to stare off. I turned a nice comfy chair toward her and sat down. I reached over for my tape recorder and pressed record and grabbed my notebook and pen. Isobel was still sitting the same way. Her expression was angry and cold.

"Hello. My name is Dr. Mosely Untreu. I would like it if you call me Dr. Mosely. Or just Mosely. Or Mo. Or M." I smiled, slightly.

Isobel remained unchanged.

"Okay. I think we're doing great. Now, where were you when we called you down to the office?"

"Math."

"Would you like to return and maybe continue this at my home office, say, Tuesday at 4pm?"

"Yes. Thank you." Isobel stood up.

I stood up. "Isobel?"

"Yes?" she said, annoyed.

"What sort of things would you like for our session? Any particular music? Incense? Lighting? It's no wonder you wouldn't want to open up in here. Despite your usual Mr. Chapney's efforts, I find it a little cramped and sterile in here. Don't you?"

"I don't know. I like it in here. I like that it's small. I like that much."

"Good. Would you like to maybe stay a little longer? I think you could survive one day without math."

"Okay." Isobel sat back down.

"Would you like me to do anything else? Anything to help relax you. Is there anything in here you could do without?"

"That." Isobel pointed at a big colorful ceramic frog on the desk.

"Done." I put the frog in the desk.

"I've always hated that thing. It always makes me think somebody ate a rainbow and threw up all over it."

"What else?" I asked.

"Those stupid posters." Isobel pointed at all the cheesy posters about teen suicide or pregnancy.

"Absolutely. Wise choice. But before I do that, look what I found in good ole Chapney's desk." I held up an open bottle of red wine and a wine glass. "How old are you again?"

"18."

"Well, that was old enough to drink in 1976. And what's good enough for 1976 is certainly good enough for 2003." I poured some out in the glass and handed it to Isobel. "We'll have to share the one glass. So don't snoz it all down." I looked up at the posters. "Now, for those idiotic posters." I took them down and rolled them up.

While I did that, Isobel set her glass of wine down and got up to shut the lights off and closed the curtains most of the way, cutting the light in the room down significantly. "I don't like so much light," she said.

"Okay." I sat down in my chair.

Isobel sat down on the couch. "I'm a little cold. Is there a blanket in here?"

Isobel's outfit was a bit on the skimpy side, mostly black with a black and pink top, which was partly see-through, showing a blue bikini top underneath. She was also wearing extremely small black shorts, which made her extremely smooth-looking legs seem to go on forever. Then little black sandals. It was summer attire. But it wasn't quite summer yet. Plus, the school was a little on the cold side.

"Blankets?" I glanced around. I looked in a few drawers. "Here, why don't you use my jacket" I slipped off my jacket and laid it over her bare legs.

"Thank you."

"No problem. Music?"

Isobel pulled her Ipod out. But she didn't have a dock for it. I looked around and found a small radio. I turned it on, turning it to public radio, which was playing classical. I lowered it.

"When we meet in my office, we'll have access to more music. And you can bring your Ipod. I'm sure my daughter has one of those dock things. If not, I'll buy one. I've been meaning to update my music technology."

Isobel nodded and took a sip of wine.

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What Do You Do When You Accidentally Titty Fuck The President's Daughter Twice?

Now, a lot of this is top secret stuff, so I'm gonna have to be a little discreet. I rather not disclose which president's daughter I accidentally titty fucked twice, so I'm gonna purposely be vague about the time period. I'll do my best not to give anything away. It's a matter of national security, maybe.

At some point during my career as a world renown clinical psychologist and intimacy expert, I was invited to have dinner at the white house. And let me tell you, it was quite a special occasion. My wife at the time, which I won't name, adhering to my need to be discreet about the time period, was very proud of me.

When I arrived in Washington, I went straight to the hotel. Compliments of the president, I  was given a room at one of the finest, most prestigious hotels in the area. There in the room, I discovered a tux hanging on my bedroom door. The dinner was to be that very night, so I got a shower and dressed and was ready to go. Also compliments of the president, I had my own personal limo, which picked me up at the airport and when it was time to leave, took me to the white house.

When I arrived at the white house I was amazed by all the elegance. And also by all the other people invited to dine with the president. I have to admit, I thought, perhaps romantically, that it would be a somewhat intimate affair. Unfortunately, I was wrong. It was grand. And I was a bit lost in the sea of shimmering dresses and sparkling jewelry and any other means of advertising ones wealth. Far too wealthy for my usual crowd.

It stood to reason, if I was invited to this gala than certainly there should be other members of the academia present. I didn't recognize one.

I really wasn't sure what to do or how to keep busy. I was starting to wish they'd just start dinner so I could be done with the whole thing.

Somewhat nervous, I eventually found refuge on the outskirts of the crowded hall. There, I could remain even more anonymous than I already felt and quietly sip my wine. While I stood there, however, I was approached by a young woman.

The young woman was extremely beautiful. She was dressed in a long black gown. Her hair and makeup were like a movie star's. And her breasts, which were quite enormous, dominated the shape of her upper frame and formed a long line of cleavage, which there didn't seem to be any way of hiding in such formal attire. If I had to guess, I would put her age around 20-25.

"Hello," she said, somewhat nervously.

"Hello," I said.

"Aren't you Dr. Mosely Untreu?"

"Yes."

"We've been reading some of your work at school. I find it fascinating."

"Thank you."

"I'm Chloe," she said, though it is an alias for the sake of this story. In actuality, she gave me her real name but I hadn't a clue it was the same name as the president's daughters, since I never knew the president's daughters' names.

In preparation for this event, it's true, I had planned to study the names and faces of those who most likely to attend the dinner: ie, the first family, prominent cabinet members, prominent politicians. However, such intentions were lost, in favor of doodling on the computer and last minute packing for the trip.

"Hello, Chloe," I said, as polite as could be.

"I'm sure you absolutely hate it when people do this," Chloe continued. "But I'd really like to pick your brain about a few things."

"All right."

"First, let's find a quiet place."

"All right."

The young woman led me through a series of doors and hallways until we ended up in a large bedroom. I looked around, a little curious as to whose room it was. However, after a few spinning glances, I saw nothing that might personalize the room. Regardless, I said nothing.

Chloe sat down on the bed.

I stood.

"Why don't you sit down?" she asked and smiled, a bit unsure.

"I rather stand," I said, still holding my glass of wine. I set it on the computer desk. I noticed there wasn't even anything on the desk to personalize it, as if it could easily pass for a hotel computer desk. I surmised this must be a guest room, though it seemed themed for a girl, with the large canopy bed and pink motif.

"Sit. Please," Chloe asked again, somewhere in the neighborhood of pleading.

"All right." I sat down a few feet away from her.

"Only because I feel awkward if you don't," she added. "With a bosom like mine, I'm always self-conscious when someone's head level is above mine. Just a quirk of mine."

"I understand."

"And I simply can't stand up for another second. Not with these shoes. Speaking of which, I'm sorry but I must insist I take them off," Chloe said as she peeled her shoes off and set them on the floor.

"That's fine. Now, what did you want to discuss?"

There was a short pause, as she rubbed her feet. "Well, as I'm sure you've noticed. How could you miss them? I'm certain they're the first thing everyone sees when they look at me. Of course I'm talking about my enormous bosom."

"Yes, I've noticed." I smiled. "And I'm sure they're lovely."

"Thank you."

"So, what is it about them that you would like to discuss?"

Then Chloe proceeded to slide her gown straps down her shoulders and let her gown slowly fall free, buckling on her lap. Now, she was in a strapless black bra. Her large, fluffy breasts were barely secured, as the bra hugged the young woman tightly and her breasts even tighter.

"Do you mind?" Chloe asked.

"No. Whatever makes you feel comfortable."

"Well, I would like it very much if you looked at them." Then she reached behind to unfasten her bra, struggling at first, but then freeing her huge avalanche of tits, which jiggled with her every movement, as her fully erect brown nipples, which were quite large in their own right, fluttered about.

"Just as I thought. They're very lovely," I said.

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