On the Couch

When L was here for a week around New Year’s, we snuggled on the couch one night, her soft ass tucked against me while we watched A Dangerous Method.  It was kind of a curious movie; much of its appeal was the intellectual interest of watching Freud and Jung invent psychoanalysis and play mind games and analyze each other’s dreams.  But then every twenty minutes or so, there would be a scene where Viggo Mortensen, as Carl Jung, would have to take a belt to Keira Knightley, his favorite patient.  And she was clearly on board for that.

Keira Knightly looked pretty, by the way:

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When the movie ended, L’s fingers were resting on my hand, which was unconsciously rubbing the mound of her breast while we watched the credits and my semi-hard cock nestled along the crack of her ass.

“How did you like it?” she asked, meaning the flick.

“I always like Viggo Mortensen,” I said.  “But there wasn’t as much sex as I was expecting.  I read that it was more shocking than that.”

“I thought it was pretty hot, myself,” she said.  “I wasn’t expecting the belt,” and she leaned her head back against me so I could run my tongue along her ear.

Shit we can be lazy, languid sluts sometimes.

I kissed the back of her neck and breathed in the sweet aroma of her hair as I slid my hand inside her shirt and prickled the bumpy skin around her nipple until it stood up, thick and sensitive, ready as always when plucked or tugged or rubbed, to pass on the delight to L’snucleus accumbens her brain’s pleasure center.

“I love your tits,” I told her, cupping a breast and tickling the nipple. “I just want to make sure you know that.”

Then I tugged her shirt up to expose her breast and take a slap at it.  She breathed in sharply, surprised, and then settled back and I slapped the pretty thing again, harder.  I could tell her nucleus accumbens liked that too, so I gave it to her a few more times before I cupped her breast again gently and comforted the sore spot.  Her hand rested lightly on mine.

* * *

In the movie, Keira Knightley’s character was keen on the belt because it helped her process the semi-nude beatings she had received from her father as a little girl.  Somehow, replaying that scenario with a man who represented sanity and compassion was good for her.

L received no such beatings from her father, but he did abandon the family when L was young, and she gave herself a rough time when she was in her twenties — did some irrational shit that even she shakes her head over now.

Recently, she’s developed an appreciation for a nip, a pinch or a well-aimed slap.  And she’s given some thought to it.  “I think you can play with pain,” she said, “and it’s almost like encountering it helps assimilate dark things you’re having trouble with.”

* * *

On the couch, I reached to touch L’s panties and push her thighs apart so I could tap her mound lightly with three fingers, then again.  She spread her legs a bit in response, so I tapped with four fingers, then slapped her mound hard, and she raised up a little to meet my hand.

I had a moment’s desire to make her lie face down on the couch and lift her ass for me to whip with a belt, like Viggo and Keira.  But I felt too lethargic for that–I discovered later that I was working up to the flu–so I took a lazier path instead, working L’s panties off her and stroking her mound tenderly for a minute before I slapped her pussy again, harder than before, then pounded her right over her clit a couple of times with my closed fist, then touched her and found that she was really, really wet.  “You are a shameful girl,” I muttered, “A shameful, tasty girl,” as I went to my knees and spread her legs so I could lick the puffy lips, drink in the taste of her cunt, roll my tongue around her clit until she came, panting, chanting, “Oh, oh, oh…”

Because it’s easier to wash than the couch, I slid the comforter under L’s ass and put my dick inside that exquisite cunt and we fucked joyfully while L’s fingers went from mauling her own nipples to mine, and back.

* * *

I’ve always liked Carl Jung.  He wanted to bring his patients’ souls into the equation when he treated them.  He had lots of interesting things to say about souls, and he tried to map out some of the subconscious archetypes that he believed live inside us and shape our lives.

Two of the big archetypes are the anima, the eternal Woman who lives inside each man, and the animus, the Man who lives inside each woman.  Part of being sane, he believed, is learning to let the two sides of our hermaphroditic souls work and play well together.

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So Jung would say that I’m having an endless relationship with my anima, eternally reaching for my mother, old lovers, every woman who has ever meant something me, the women who all intersect with the Woman inside me.  When I make L smile, I’m making the Woman smile.

And L, when she looks at me, also sees the ghosts of her father and every other man who made an impression on her, and in a certain way she is working out her relationships with them, as she shapes her relationship with me.

Besides that, Jung would say, the two of us are in a kind of foursome, as the Man inside L and the Woman inside me try to work out their own subterranean relationship outside the conscious awareness of either of us.

So every date is a double-date, he would say.

* * *

I believe that the animus in L is stronger than in most women.  L says she hasn’t been a woman for very many lifetimes yet, and is still learning to be comfortable with things like painting her nails.  She’s a really pretty girl in a dress, but I have to admit she looks just about right in jeans and a leather jacket.

I believe that the anima in me is stronger than in most men.  L says I’m the kindest man she’s been with.  Not the strongest.  That’s okay.

* * *

The next night L and I were in bed kissing, and I slapped L’s ass lightly and she pulled her lips free so she could roll on her belly and wait, face turned away and hands at her sides.  Motherfucker, that was beautiful.

I kissed her neck and rubbed her ass cheek softly for a minute before I slapped again, then rubbed again until she relaxed, then slapped again.  She made quiet sounds each time I hit her.  My desire for her becomes almost unbearable when she gives her body up like this.

After a minute I bent to look and I was surprised at the bright scarlet patch that covered most of one cheek.  “I didn’t really hit you that hard,” I said. “But your ass is all kinds of red.”

“You like that, don’t you?” she said.  She didn’t sound like she had a problem with that.

“Well it’s pretty in some strange way,” I said, petting the red place.  “You know I don’t want to hurt you really, but I love it when you let me.”  I rolled next to her and pressed my hardening dick against the red place, leaving a wet trail across her ass.  “If that makes any sense,” I said.

L twisted toward me and took my cock in her hand, speaking softly in my ear.  “I want this,” she said, spreading her legs so I could slide into her.

* * *

Jung also talks about the Shadow archetype, the dark, ugly side of ourselves that we don’t even want to admit exists.  He thought that we need to meet our own shadows, the killer, the lunatic inside.  If we don’t know the Shadow, it can sneak up on us and make our lives a nightmare.

His idea was that denying the dark side costs psychic energy and undermines us; recognizing it releases all manner of creative energy that can be channeled into taking care of the things and people we love.

I’ll stop with the book-learning now.  I’ll just say that my horror at the wild, senseless, self-destructive path L took herself on in her twenties is mingled with admiration that she survived to become the compassionate, creative, beautiful soul she is today.

* * *

In A Dangerous Method, by the way, Keira Knightley’s character got whatever she needed from the beatings and psychoanalysis, and became a successful therapist herself.  Based on a true story.

* * *

By New Year’s Eve I was in the serious throes of the flu, so we stayed in, celibate, sober, pathetic; I told L she should go to the party we were invited to, but she stayed in to nurse me.  On New Year’s Day, though, we invited Donna and Greg over, friends we’ve known for 30 years.  L fed them black beans and rice and something vegan to substitute for the ham-hock while we revived old stories of near-disasters back in the day when we were all drunks.

To avoid contamination I quarantined myself at the far end of the table and tried to breathe away from everyone, struggling to keep my eyes open because I wanted nothing more at that moment than sleep and liquids and Echinacea.  Greg and Donna laughed every time they looked at me sitting pathetically at the end of the table, and laughed again when L used a long fork to push a biscuit across the table to me.

Even in my fevered haze, I knew that was a piece of heaven.

* * *

When I see L again, I won’t be recovering from anything, so I should be up to my game.  When I see her again I may want to whip her more meticulously, if she’s willing.  A belt, maybe, so it leaves bright marks across her ass and legs, maybe a couple across her breasts or belly.  A belt that scares her a little when she sees it, because she can’t be sure how much it will hurt before I relent and turn the hurt into pleasure.  It would be a pleasant thing if she learned to get wet when she sees the belt coming, or even when I come home from work all dressed up and her eyes go to the buckle, and she thinks.

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