Author: Carlos Malenkov

All right, so I'm a serviceman. What I service is women. Yeah, my business card reads "Sex Therapist," but I'm really nothing but a repair technician. What I fix is malfunctions in the female sexual response. I make women whole.

Ariella was an interesting case. A solid block of ice, that's what she was. A sensitive soul, but numb from the waist down. She had heard of how wonderful orgasms can be, but had never actually experienced it.

It wasn't as if she hated sex. She enjoyed the feeling of closeness, the warmth of cuddling up next to an affectionate male body. She was just afraid of giving up control, of *letting go*, even at the very height of passion. So, that glorious moment of release was denied her.

She called me on a Sunday afternoon.

"Is this Mr. Johnson?"

"Speaking."

Johnson isn't my real moniker, of course. I use it as a professional name because of the obvious phallic reference. You know, like in "getting your johnson up." I had tried "Mr. Goodwench" for a while, but that got me more laughs than professional respect.

"You come highly recommended, Mr. Johnson. I have this problem, and I hope you can . . ."

"Ma'am, are you aware that weekends are time-and-a half? And house calls run an extra fifty on top of that."

"Money's no object. I need help and I need it now. How soon can you get here?"

I went through my hurry-up drill. A quick shit and a shower and a shave. Squeaky clean both inside and out. I gargled with a proprietary brand of mouthwash for non-offensive breath. Then into traveling clothes -- silk shirt with ruffles, and skin-tight velour pants with quick-release buckles. Grabbed my toolkit on the way out. A scant hour later I was pulling into her driveway.

She was a tall brunette. Small breasts, but rather full in the hips and butt. A pear-shaped body configuration usually indicates a greater than normal estrogen level and above-average sex drive. The problem was likely a psychological block.

"The meter is running, ma'am, so we won't bother with the social niceties. Trust me -- I'm fully medically certified, so there's no need to be bashful or hold back. Remove your clothing please."

A quick but thorough physical exam confirmed my first impressions. (Yes, I'm fully qualified as a nurse-practitioner. It's a requirement for my trade.) Nothing wrong that would need medical attention, except maybe . . . So, on to the next step.

"Lay on the bed, please. On your back. That's right. Now raise the knees slightly and spread your legs. Thank you."

Visual inspection showed labia well-formed and normal in every respect. I gently probed with a finger. No problems discernible inside. Now, the first test. Her vagina remained dry even after clitoral manipulation. Aha!

"Are you able to masturbate to orgasm, ma'am?"

She blushed, then stammered, "Sometimes, well, maybe one time out of ten. But it's not really much of an orgasm. It's just so hard to . . ."

"To what, ma'am?"

"To let myself go. I guess to give myself permission to . . ."

"This is a common enough problem and I've treated quite a number of women for it. First we'll try -- "

A vibrator brought her to the brink of orgasm, but nothing I could do would push her over the top. She squealed when I tongued her clit, then held me tight and sobbed. "I just can't do it. There's something *wrong* with me!"

I'd had my doubts about whether this particular woman could be restored to normal function. During her preliminary testing, my portable EEG unit had given some highly anomalous readings. All the same, I pasted on my best professional smile and summoned up my bedside manner.

"No, ma'am. We haven't yet begun to fight. Turn over on your stomach, please."

I had rather suspected it would come to this. Some women require something a bit more fundamental. And there's nothing more fundamental than the fundament.

"Have you ever attempted anal sex, ma'am?"

"Well, yes, but -- "

"But?"

"I rather enjoyed the sensations, but it's . . . I don't know . . . it's dirty and perverted somehow."

"This is strictly a medical procedure, ma'am. I'm a fully board-certified technician, and you can be sure that any therapeutic methods I employ are approved and appropriate."

Don't for a moment think that I was going to ass-fuck her for my own pleasure. In fact, the rigorous self-control we're trained in focuses on clinical detachment and denying one's self pleasure. I can hold an erection for a full hour, even during vigorous intercourse, but my capacity to *enjoy it* is greatly diminished. The client's therapy always takes the top priority.

I applied a specially formulated preparation of lubricating electrolyte gel to my erect penis, then gently rubbed it around and into the client's anal sphincter.

"Ooh! That feels cold!"

"Lubrication, ma'am. I'm going to gently insert a finger into your anus, both to check the muscle tone and to lubricate the interior. This is a preliminary to . . . what is vulgarly known as ass-fucking. However, this is a strictly clinical procedure, you understand."

"Ah, if you must. It won't hurt, will it?"

"No, ma'am."

Hurt? Causing a client pain could cost me my professional license. Not to mention exposing the firm to a lawsuit. But with the techniques we employ, there's little danger of that.

"There. My finger is inside you. Now a second finger to stretch the opening a bit. How does that feel?" (I was simultaneously massaging her neck with my other hand.)

"Soothing. Relaxing. Yes, that's so good."

Her anal opening gradually loosened and the sphincter muscles became slack as I gently flexed and applied accupressure from within. It's a proprietary technique, of course, so I can't say anything more about it here.

She was aroused. Her pulse had speeded up and her pupils were dilated. Her vaginal opening was sopping wet with lubrication. She was gasping and involuntarily arching her back. Definitely pre-orgasmic, and now I had to decide how to send her over the edge.

"I'm going to insert myself, my penis that is, into your anus, ma'am. We'll take it slow and easy, and if you feel any discomfort, just holler."

Of course she didn't feel any discomfort. I'm a past master at back-door therapy, and I know just the right buttons to push to make it enjoyable for the receiver. As the head of my penis disappeared into her rear opening, she gasped, then a shudder rippled up her spine from the tailbone to the neck. Her body went slack, then began writhing as she let loose sharp yelps of pleasure. Her skin took on the radiance of a woman in the grip of forces she couldn't control.

Now was the crucial interval. She could still freeze up and block orgasmic release . . . unless I took that choice away from her. I began a slow rhythm of alternating deep and shallow thrusts. This would create low-level pressure waves from the air alternately compressed and distended in her lower intestine. It induced a thrumming vibration in her guts, similar to the overtones of a low-pitched oboe. Hypnotic mood-altering, resonating subsonics. I was playing her like a musical instrument, and the hole in her bottom was the echo chamber for our symphony. Thirty strokes per minute -- the heartbeat rhythm, the metronome beat of the pulse, the oceanic beat of the surf. An unearthly wail ripped through her intestines and a scream of ecstasy began to bubble up from her throat.

The electrolyte gel formed an airtight seal between my shaft and her opening. But it had one additional property. It was an excellent conduct of electric current. I reached behind me and pressed the button on the small device strapped between my buttocks.

A pulsating low-voltage AC current passed through my body and into hers. My penis acted as an electrode and her rectum was the receiver. Her body went rigid, and she gasped as her anal sphincter involuntarily clamped down on my penis. A powerful orgasm was eroding any remaining traces of her self-control. I had blasted loose her resistance to letting herself go and she was finally experiencing sensual release. But that wasn't all.

Something had gone wrong. Badly wrong. The floor was shaking and the walls were swaying. Windows shattered and plaster dust rained down on us. An earthquake?

Time to boogie. I quick-march disengaged from her sphincter. That let loose the inevitable liquid slurping sound of escaping air, which I would have taken measures to avoid under other circumstances. Didn't even have time to spray room deodorant to mask the faint shit-smell that sometimes accompanies anal sex. No time for anything but . . . "Out! Right now! No time to put anything on! Move it! Now!"

We got out just before the roof collapsed. I helped her walk toward my car, and I got an old blanket out of the trunk to drape around her bare butt. The earth movements had died down by then.

She had an idiot smile plastered on her face and couldn't keep from giggling. "Got my first real orgasm, I did, and a humdinger it was, too. Whooee! Made the house fall down. So what? I'm insured. And I'll never be the same again. Nope. I'm a complete woman now. And I love it. Love it! When can we do it again?"

I was starting to get a bad feeling about all this. Real bad. Her house just fell down around her, and all she thinks about is getting her rocks off. Nutty broad. But the firm needed the money, and pissing off a client would be bad form. I hesitated only a minute before setting an appointment for next week.

I knocked on the door of the hotel suite. Nice place. Well, I already knew Ariella had money out the kazoo if she could afford my services on an ongoing basis. And with her house trashed by the earthquake, she moved into the fanciest joint in town. I'd have to raise my rates, maybe.

We'd try for a second-order orgasm this time. That ought to put the finishing touches on her course of treatment and probably get me a nice bonus, too. I was starting to get antsy about this broad, though. That earthquake had to be a coincidence, didn't it?

Same modality as before. Anal insertion -- properly done, of course -- is the most effective method of breaking down inhibitions and other barriers to total sensual release. As I inserted my member into her, she let loose a raucous laugh. "So, what are we trying for *this* time, doc?"

What we were trying for was a level of intensity that few people are privileged to experience. Sometimes known as the Great Orgasm, it was a violent discharge of all the sexual energies accumulated over a lifetime of repression and frustration. It has been known to result in serious nerve damage or even death, but I'm trained to handle all that. Still . . .

The pressure inside her rectum was slowly building. My penis acted like the piston in a bicycle pump, inflating and contracting her lower intestine. Slow, even strokes in the recommended cadence created the proper harmonic rhythms, the Sakatu rhythms, the "musical" resonance that would unlock the discharge mechanism of the parasympathetic nervous system. With a stethoscope pressed against her lower belly, I monitored the low-pitched thrumming ascending the spiraling coils of her colon. Music. Sensual music. Dangerous vibrations.

She was beginning to lose control. Her sphincter loosened and a low growl escaped her lips. I toggled the electrical stimulation to high. A low moan --

Outside: a blinding flash! A deafening boom. Lightning strike! The window panes shattered and the walls rocked. Another flare of light, followed by a boom. I hurriedly pulled out of her anus. Once again, a natural disaster in the making. That was all I needed. This definitely *wasn't* in the treatment plan.

We made it down into the lobby of the hotel. Had to take twelve flights of stairs because the power was out and nothing was working. Several hundred people were milling around in the chaos, and we certainly weren't the only ones barefoot and in bathrobes. Ariella was bouncing up and down like a little kid. She was basking in the afterglow of the second orgasm of her life, and it was all a grand adventure for her. She was eager to set up another appointment. I told her that I'd let her know.

Thalia is my partner in the firm. The *senior* partner, as it happened. She handles the male clients, and also keeps the books. The cash flow has none too good lately, she was reminding me. Our bank balance would look much healthier if I could keep Ariella on the string just a while longer. I had a very bad feeling about all this, but I reluctantly agreed.

I had a dream that night. I was tightly enmeshed in the branches of a huge tree. Somehow I knew that it was Yggdrasil, the World Tree of Norse legend. And there was a face looking at me. The Face of the Tree. It was Ariella's face.

I woke up in a cold sweat. It was clear what the dream meant. Ariella was in some mysterious way connected with cosmic mysteries. And my professional therapy *had* been having major unforseen side-effects. I was tampering with Dark Forces.

All right, I'd give it one more shot. If there were any more forces of nature set loose, I'd cut Ariella loose and damn the consequences. The bills would stay unpaid, and Thalia would just have to deal with it.

The doorbell rang. It was Ariella. I'd reluctantly agreed to have the session take place at my house, considering that she was staying with relatives while her house was being repaired. She'd had enough of hotels, she said.

The session went surprisingly well. I was deep inside her ass, pumping, stoking the pressure waves and tuning the intestinal vibrations. When it came time for the electrical triggering jolt, I impulsively dialed the voltage all the way to the top, five notches past the recommended maximum. What the hell -- if it was going to bring down the wrath of Nature on us, I might as well give her the most powerful orgasm that a woman's body is capable of.

She gasped, and her body went into violent convulsions. Then all her muscles spasmed and went rigid, and she screamed. And lost consciousness. I was suddenly afraid. Very afraid.

It was all right, though. She opened those dark gray eyes and . . . smiled at me. Such a sweet smile it was. And she thanked me.

There was no earthquake this time. No lightning. Nothing at all. And Ariella's bonus check for $50,000 will keep the firm solvent for a while. So, everything turned out okay. Maybe.

I just saw the news report. Astronomers have been observing anomalous changes in the sun's corona. Most of the scientists don't think it means much. But one guy -- everybody thinks he's a crank, but still -- this one guy says the sun may be entering a pre-nova stage. That means it could blow up in a year of two. And that would be that. The end of the world.

I've come to realize that maybe some women are better off frigid. And maybe the world would be a safer place if everyone concerned came to terms with that. Maybe I should have stayed an appliance repairman, instead of getting uppity ideas about Helping People. Helping -- that's a laugh.

Holy shit, what . . . have . . . I . . . done?