It’s obvious who the woman is as soon as she walks through the door. Still, I glance down at the sheet on Dr. Stein’s desk as though I’d somehow missed such a famous name among the usual suspects.
“Miss…Wayland?” I ask.
“Jolie,” she says, smiling. “Don’t like to advertise in advance, you know?”
“Right,” I say, returning the smile as though I too am so famous I have to use assumed names.
“Little young for this, aren’t you?” she says, looking around the office.
“Actually, I’m Dr. Stein’s assistant. He has flu, I’m afraid. I’ve been re-scheduling his appointments, but I couldn’t get in touch with you. I’m really sorry about this.”
“Fuck. I can’t re-schedule. I mean, I really don’t have the time.”
“That’s understandable, Miss Jolie. I mean…”
“What can you do?” she asks.
“This hypnosis thing. Can you do it?”
She turns from her perusal of Dr. Stein’s office and looks at me, really looks at me, for the first time, fixing me with those famous green eyes, smiling just a little with that famous mouth. I am, in that moment, utterly helpless.
“I…I’m not supposed to,” I say, and my voice sounds loud inside my head.
“But you know how.”
She’s holding that stare and I can feel the heat in my face, like she’s caught me doing something I shouldn’t, like she can read my thoughts.
“You have to have the appointment re-scheduled or give me back my money or something,” she says.
“Yeah, and I really can’t…”
She waves a hand at me. “Tell you what,” she says. “How about you do the refund thing and I’ll give it straight back to you in cash if you give it a shot?”
She’s standing like a shot from a movie, like it’s a casual proposition with just a hint of seduction, that slight smile inviting friendly conspiracy while her hands – halfway to the front of her jacket – say striptease.
I shrug, cool and collected and completely the opposite of how I’m feeling. “Why not?” I say.
“Awesome,” she says, grinning. She shrugs off the jacket and I try not to let my eyes crawl over the front of her tank-top; pristine white cotton hugging her flat belly, stretched tight across her chest, where I can see every line of her bra and how her breasts sit snugly in its cups.
“So…smoking, right?” I say.
“The demon nicotine.” She drops into the seat opposite me. “I’m doing Lara Croft, and they’ve got me on this health kick and it’s fuckin’ killing me. I’ve been told this shit works.”
“That depends on the subject and how open to the process and the suggestions they are, Miss Jolie. It’s not an exact science.”
“Cool with me. And let’s go with Angelina, huh? What’s your name?”
“Okay, Sophie. Lead the way.”
“Alright, Angelina,” I say. “How are you feeling right now? In general, I mean.”
She pushes her hair away from her face, leaning back in her chair while I find myself once again struggling to hold her eyes.
“Tired,” she says. “I’ve been really busy. I don’t get a lot of time to myself. It can be frustrating, you know?”
I nod, slipping into the authority figure role I’ve watched Dr. Stein assume so many times. “I see. So you don’t find much time to relax?”
“Christ, no. Relaxation is sleep. That’s it at the moment.”
“Okay. Well, it’s very important that you relax now, that you feel comfortable. I want you to close your eyes for me.”
Angelina does as she’s asked, visibly settling into the chair.
“That’s great,” I say, lowering my voice. “Think of a place where you feel relaxed, where you can be by yourself without distractions.”
“Home,” she says.
“Any particular place at home?”
“My bed. My own bed. Not a hotel. Just before I go to sleep.”
“I want you to breathe deeply and imagine you’re in your bedroom. You’ve had a long day and you’re tired. Not ready to sleep yet, but ready to be on your own for a while. What do you do when you’re on your own like that?”
She smiles. “Honestly?”
“I take a bath when I get in from a long day. Then I go to bed naked. I like to leave the windows open and just lie there listening to the cars in the distance, feeling the breeze on my body.”
“I want you to go to that place now, Angelina. I want you to be lying in bed, listening to the traffic and feeling the breeze.”
“Now, inside your head, count very slowly to ten. With each number, take a deep breath and then let it out. See each breath as a burden you’re exhaling, a problem pushed out of you.”
I watch her as she does as I ask, looking for signs that she’s going under, unable to stop myself from watching the slow rise and fall of her chest as she breathes.
“Are you empty, Angelina?” I ask, after a suitable amount of time has passed.
She frowns a little. “Hollow,” she says, in a dreamy voice.
“No, not hollow. Are you at ten?”
“Count back to one, Angelina. This time, inhale on each number. You’re breathing warmth and comfort. You’re home. Your stresses are far away. This is where you feel safe, where you can forget your problems.”
I can see it working. This is what Dr. Stein calls ‘easy money’ when he’s feeling particularly belligerent; a patient who goes under with the minimum of fuss. I’m not sure if she makes it all the way to one, but her eyelids flutter and her head falls sideways like she’s going to sleep.
“I’m so tired,” she says, slurring a little.
“But not tired enough to sleep yet, Angelina. Just relax awhile.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Heavy,” she says, and then: “Horny.” She arches her back a little, and her hands settle on her stomach.
I feel that warmth in my face again. God, she’s so beautiful. It’s easy to see why she’s such a fantasy. Her face is perfect, her body spectacular. It’s all too easy to imagine her kissing you, pressed up against you, demanding your touch.
“What are you thinking about?” I ask her.
“Pleasuring myself. Just taking my time. Enjoying my body.” One hand moves up over her stomach, coming to rest on her right breast.
I swallow. “Does that help you relieve stress?”
Smoking. She wants to quit smoking. How the fuck did we get here?
“Tell me how you pleasure yourself,” I hear myself say.
“When I get out of the bath, I put moisturizer on my body. I take my time. I explore.”
“What do you think about?”
“Lots of things.”
“What did you think about the last time?”
“A woman,” she says. “A woman’s hands.”
Christ. I think I’ve just broken pretty much every rule in the hypnotist’s handbook. I’m shaking. I’m all too aware of how my nipples are erect, my crotch warm. I can’t stop.
“What are they doing?”
She smiles. “Massage. Massaging my tits.” Both hands there now, squeezing her breasts through her clothes. “Warm, slippery hands.”
“Tell me where you are,” I say.
“Where I am? In bed, in my room. It’s nearly midnight.”
“And you can hear the traffic and feel the breeze…”
“…On my body.”
“And you’re alone.”
“You’re talking to me. Who are you?”
“I’m Sophie,” I say, at a loss.
“Dr. Sophie,” she says.
“Sexy voice, warm hands.”
And I should say no. I should stop this now and bring her out of it. I stand and I’m going to, I really am, but she’s so fucking beautiful it’s like I’m the one in the trance, walking round the desk and standing before her, between her denim-clad legs, watching her fingers digging into the pliant flesh of her breasts, the way her hips are moving, the smile on her face. I reach down and touch the warm skin of her cheek. She turns her head and her lips brush my palm.
“Warm hands,” she says, dreamily, and I’m lost.
“Warm hands,” I say, “the traffic, the breeze.”
“A woman’s hands.”
I straddle her, lowering myself gently into her lap, expecting her to come out of it, expecting outrage. Instead, her arms go around me, hands stroking my back, moving down to cup my buttocks and pull me into her. I bring my face to hers and we’re kissing, her tongue sliding delicately between my lips, exploring the inside of my mouth. She tastes of cigarettes.
I break away and reach down to lift the hem of her tank-top up to her shoulders, revealing first her belly, adorned with a tattoo of a cross and a Latin phrase I don’t recognize, then a white lace bra, through which I can make out the dark circles of her nipples. I unhook the clasp between her breasts and brush the cups away, let my hands settle on her soft skin. She sighs and smiles, her hands following the line of my belt as my fingers catch and squeeze her swollen nipples, my thumbs pushing at their hardened tips.
“I like that,” she whispers. “I like that, Dr. Sophie.”
She’s unbuttoning my blouse from the bottom up, parting it on my slim, pale torso, pushing it and the straps of my bra off my shoulders, reaching around me to release my breasts. I lean forward and feel her lips fasten on my left nipple, sucking just hard enough to hold me there, her tongue dancing over sensitive skin and making me gasp. Her hands go back down and she pulls at my skirt until I lift myself enough that she can hike it up around my hips and explore the terrain she has exposed; my lacy panties and my bare thighs and my stockings.
“Touch me,” she says, her breath cold on skin wet with her saliva.
I slip my arm between us, push down hard on the button of her jeans and grab at the material beneath until I get them open. Giggling a little, she starts to pull them down, wriggling beneath me until both they and her panties are around her thighs. I look down, almost desperate to see this most desired of views; her naked thighs, her shaven crotch, the pink, glistening flesh of her cunt.
“Touch me,” she says again, and then she bites my nipple, both hands suddenly up between my legs, one pulling my underwear aside, the other sliding a finger into me while a thumb traces a path to the junction of my labia, searching out my clit.
“Fuck,” I murmur, when her touch finds me, sending a ripple of heat up through my belly.
She bites a little harder, presses her thumb down firmly, describing tiny circles that match the rhythm of the finger sliding back and forth inside me. I stand, lifting one foot onto the arm of the chair, parting my thighs for her. She pushes a second finger into me, hand moving more quickly now, responding to my moans and the way I push my crotch towards her. Feeling my climax build, I grab at my tits, squeezing them hard, pinching and twisting my nipples, hearing myself crying out, hearing the liquid sound of her increasingly violent penetration. I’m riding her hand, the heel of her palm pressed hard against my clit, the muscles inside me grasping at her fingers, spasming against the friction they create as the heat inside me grows and centers in a tight little ball in the pit of my stomach that contracts and then explodes through my body, stealing my strength and my breath, leaving me sweating and shaking, bent over with my hands resting on the arms of the chair, my eyes closed, this retreating warmth my everything.
“Baby,” Angelina says, in that same, dreamy voice. “Baby.”
My legs want to fold and I let them have their way, dropping to my knees as if in worship of this goddess. I grab twin handfuls of denim and lace, pull jeans and panties down to her ankles and then off, leaving her naked save for her shoes and the bra and tank-top still wrapped around her shoulders. She spreads her legs for me, displays herself, head lolling back against the chair, fingers grabbing at my hair as I press my mouth to her cunt, tasting her, inhaling her scent, parting my lips for my tongue to press against her flesh, lapping at the uneven terrain of her labia and the hard little button of her clit, making her thighs twitch.
“Make me come,” she says, between gasps. “Make me come, you dirty little bitch.”
Angelina Jolie, movie star. Angelina Jolie, perhaps the most beautiful woman in the world. Angelina Jolie, with her legs hooked over the arms of the chair, with her head back and her mouth open, with sweat shining on her chest and the nipples that cap her large breasts swollen and erect, with her flat stomach tensing and relaxing, with her pussy hot and quivering beneath my tongue…
Angelina Jolie, at the moment of orgasm.
Her body tenses, held almost perfectly still for several seconds, a breath filling her lungs, hips lifted to meet my caresses, back arched, poised in perfection. Precious few moments and then she releases it all with a shuddering sigh, slumping bonelessly into the chair, breathless and exhausted.
When I look up, her eyes are open, her expression unreadable. I rise unsteadily to my feet, pulling my skirt down and gathering my blouse around me, waiting for her to scream at me, seeing my career go up in flames. I make my way back around to my side of the desk and lower myself into my chair. We stare at each other. The silence stretches, fills the room.
“How are you feeling?” I say, blushing at the sheer ridiculousness of the question.
“Like a cigarette,” Angelina replies, and smiles.© Nude Icons.