Ravaging Fantasy

Hi, Amy here. The following is either virtually entirely fiction, or 75% true. I’ll let you decide. I am vain enough to describe myself in the first paragraph in what I consider to be an accurate manner; I hope that I’m not delusional.

***********

I’m a mid-40s white female, 126 pounds virtually every morning when I step on the bathroom scale naked after my shower, with an oversized ass, and snug pussy, both of which I’m really proud of, one solely nature’s doing, the other the result of daily Kegel exercises. All the details of my life and appearance are unimportant; suffice it to say that I had fairly average experiences in my youth and in school, have a fairly prestigious job, have been married over twenty years to Jim, a really great and sexy guy, and have two children.

There was one “feature,” for lack of a better word, of my late teenage years (until I was getting sex from Jim on a regular basis) that I never revealed to anyone. I had what I called a persistent “rape fantasy.” I called it that even before I knew that was something that apparently was a known term when I came across it in a psychology textbook my freshman year in college. The term was used without explanation just twice in the entire 600+ page textbook, leading me to believe – which I always had since it first popped into my brain shortly after my eighteenth birthday – that it was a disorder.

The fantasy was not like a real rape – which is a violent act, not an act of sexual lust – but a “sanitized” version. In my fantasy I was never harmed, and never got an STD. The majority of times it was pleasurable while I experienced it, but sometimes disturbing while experiencing it. It was always disturbing when I snapped out of the fantasy.

The fantasy rarely appeared after I met Jim, and certainly no more than a handful of times during my married life. I don’t know why that is – maybe I was fulfilled and had no need for it, maybe it was being too busy with a husband, kids, and a challenging job; who knows? It starkly returned on Thursday, January 15, 2015. How do I remember that date? It could be because it was the last day for filing estimated tax for 2014, or because I had a doctor’s appointment with a new physician; but it wasn’t. It was because while waiting for my appointment I picked up the November, 2014 issue of Psychology Today that was in the doctor’s waiting room.

I had a fairly long wait for the doctor, so I actually read a couple of articles. I was starting to get bored and look at my watch when I turned the page to an article entitled “Don’t Call Them Rape Fantasies” by Leon Seltzer, PhD

The article was the first text I had seen on the subject – I never went looking for it before since I didn’t want to find out how much of a pervert I was. However, now having it thrown in my face I couldn’t possibly ignore it; I had to read it.

I only got through the first half of the article before I was called to see the doctor. Looking around the busy waiting room I didn’t want to take the chance that someone else would be reading the magazine when my appointment was over, so I took it with me. Fortunately I have a big purse so it wasn’t easily visible. The doctor came into the room almost immediately after I sat down so I didn’t have a further chance to read it in the examination room.

When I was done with my appointment I thought it would be silly to sit in the waiting room and read the rest of the article – plus I really wanted to look it over carefully, and I had a meeting in a half an hour; so I did something that I had never done before in my adult life. I stole it. I guess I could have found it on line, but I didn’t want to take the chance that I wouldn’t be able to. My conscious bothered me a little bit, but considering what happened to me in the next few months I considered that sufficient punishment and stopped feeling guilty.

*************

Over the next few days I read the article four times. It made me feel better in some ways because I found out that having my rape fantasies in the past was not as unusual or freakish as I had believed as a late teens-early twenties woman. However, it started to have a significant adverse impact on my life when the fantasies started re-occurring, this time much more vividly and with significantly greater regularity than before.

When in March, 2015, I was so pre-occupied with a fantasy in a meeting that someone had to nudge me to awaken me from my stupor to answer a question that only I was knowledgeable about, and I had to endure the embarrassment of asking the question to be repeated, I decided that I needed professional help. I had never been to a psychologist or psychiatrist before so I didn’t know how to go about it.

Without boring you with the details, many of the possible professionals were out because they were too close geographically or socially; the first two that I actually went to were duds. The third time was the charm when I ended up with PhD Psychologist Mary Ross in a city sixty miles from my home, and seventy five miles from my office.

When I showed up bright and early on a Monday morning in March I remember Mary’s receptionist telling me that her methods were unusual and that I had to carefully read the engagement contract I was given, and needed to initial at three places and sign and date at the bottom. I started reading, but it was mostly what I considered legal mumbo-jumbo, and I was distracted by the décor in her office. I had never seen anything like it.

Only one wall was fairly normal – a large fish tank.

The other three walls could best be described as weird modern art, images of comic book and TV character versions of Wonder Woman (the 2017 movie had obviously not come out yet), and adhesively secured nuts, bolts, tools, and car parts.

The furniture was just as weird, and the waiting room was packed with it. The furniture included: a chair with simulated wings as armrests, another chair shaped like a King Cobra, a two-person couch with ballerina print fabric and ballerina shaped arms, a wobble stool, a saddle stool, and a coffee table comprising a naked woman in doggy position.

I was so distracted by the decorating scheme and what it could possibly mean about Mary Ross that I didn’t do as told – I did not read the engagement contract carefully, but just flashed through it – especially the “Privacy Notice” portion – and just initialed at the “Treatment Options,” “Privacy Notice,” and “Video and Audio Recording” sections, and signed and dated at the bottom.

I had in my mind that someone with the totally ordinary and conventional name of Mary Ross would herself be ordinary and conventional. I was disabused of that notion as soon as I walked into her office. While her office was as calm as the reception room was hectic, she was anything but ordinary and conventional. She had to be at least six feet tall (even without her obvious 4 inch heels on) and although ultra feminine had the handshake of a male weightlifter, large tits that were barely restrained by her halter top, and helter-skelter obviously dyed red hair. I was a little unsettled by her appearance, but once she started talking I could tell that she was highly intelligent (also attested to by her various degrees from Yale, Stanford, and Northwestern that were displayed on the wall behind her).

Our first half hour was spent just getting to know each other. She reiterated what her receptionist had said about her methods being unconventional, and she even chuckled “I trust that you read the engagement contract carefully,” which I nodded assent to even though I hadn’t. Looking back on it, her questioning was very skillful. She ended up knowing where I lived, about my summer cabin at a nearby lake, everything about my job and family, and my relationships with my parents, siblings, and kids, in a half hour without breaking a sweat or letting on how much information she was getting.

The last fifteen minutes of the 45 minute initial consultation I told her about my “issue,” its history, and its present revival and control of my life. While I had had a very hard time even broaching the subject – let alone effusively spilling the beans about it – with the first two psychologists that I consulted, it was no problem at all talking with Mary about it.

When forty five minutes was up – denoted by a chime – she said “I’ll be happy to take your case.”

I didn’t even know that it was a possibility that she would decline – I guess that was also in the sparsely reviewed contract.

“Make an appointment with my assistant Michelle for two or three days from now. Don’t try and address the problem in the meantime. Don’t think of it as controlling your life as much as enriching it until we meet again.”

Strange advice, but I took it to the extent that I could, although careful to make the second appointment on Wednesday, just two days after the first one.

*************

Mary didn’t waste any time at the start of the second, hour long, appointment.

“I want to first tell you that a ‘rape fantasy’ as you call it, although I prefer the term of ‘ravaged fantasy,’ which is similar to the term Seltzer coined in his Psychology Today article, is not unusual. The 18th and 19th century elegant and intelligent French woman of letters Madame de Staël, probably the first person to at least tangentially address the subject, had prescient words that I regard as seminal. ‘The desire of the man is for the woman, but the desire of the woman is for the desire of the man.’ Putting it in the terms of a contemporary UNLV professor, ‘being desired is the orgasm.'”

She paused and I thought about what she said. It obviously had many meanings, but it was clear that in the context of my ravaged fantasy that it meant that women want to be desired more than they actually want a man. I nodded, she continued.

“So tell me, how often do you have ravaged fantasies?”

“Since our last meeting, just two days ago, I had six full blown drawn out fantasies, and dozens of passing thoughts, too numerous to count.”

“Were all of your fantasies since January 15 this year pleasurable?”

I was impressed that she remembered the date that I read Seltzer’s article. “All except for one were – in none was I hurt in any way, physically or psychologically, and contracted no disease,” I responded, “not like a real rape would be – I like your term ‘ravaged fantasy.'”

“Did you consent in any of them?”

“No, I fought in each, but ultimately succumbed without getting hurt.”

“How many attackers were there?”

“In about half, one, the other half two; only one had multiple attackers, and that’s the one that I did not find pleasurable when I snapped out of it.”

“Were the attackers strangers or people that you knew?”

“Most of the time they were strangers, or I couldn’t see their faces to positively identify them,” I replied. Then I paused and thought hard – Mary patiently waited realizing that I was not finished with my response. “Actually, now that I think about it, probably a quarter of the time they were men that I knew.”

“Who were they?” Mary asked, leaning toward me in her chair. She could tell that I was hesitant, so she said, “Stand up and pace back and forth; that will not only help you remember, but it will lessen your anxiety about telling me.”

I had never heard of that technique before, but tried it. It really seemed to work as I started spouting off names, and relationships, as soon as they came to me.

“One of my husband’s single co-workers Blake Pearson…my best friend’s husband, Peter Boggle…a trainer – a real player – at the Planet Fitness facility I work out at named Austen; I don’t know his last name…one of my married co-workers Jonathan Allen…the manager of the Whole Foods that I go to, Thomas Simpson…;” at that point I thought that I had said enough names, so I started to sit down.

“That’s not all of them, is it?” Mary snapped more than asked.

“No…I thought that would be enough,” I stammered.

“I need all that you can remember – keep pacing,” she sneered, folding her arms over her chest – hard to do considering the size of her knockers.

“OK…” I hesitantly replied as I started pacing again. “Clayton Thorne, a single neighbor about four houses down who is a professional hockey player…Tim, a college kid who is mature for his age and works part time at lunch on Tuesdays and Thursdays at the Pot Belly Deli that I frequent on those days…” I’m sure that this last statement caused me to blush. I hadn’t previously consciously realized that I only went to the deli on days that he worked there. I sighed and continued: “Chance Adams, the bartender in the lounge of the Fairview Country Club where I’m a member…Bill Champion, the golf pro there…” I really wanted to stop there; there was one more name, but I didn’t want to give it. I guess that I could never work as a CIA agent, because when I turned toward Mary I’m sure that I gave it away.

“No…there’s one more; I can tell,” Mary snipped.

“Do you have to know?” I moaned.

“Look, just like anything else, in counselling you get as much out of it as you put into it. If you don’t want a whole solution, then give me only partial information; if you want a complete and all-encompassing resolution, honestly give me everything I ask for. I’ll wait sixty seconds and then assume that you don’t want an all-encompassing solution,” she said, this time not sternly, but again folding her arms over her prodigious bonkers.

After making eye contact with Mary for about thirty seconds I blurted out, sure that I was crimson red, “Brent Lebel, my daughter’s nineteen year old ex-boyfriend.”

“How long has he been her ex?”

“About…three…months,” I stuttered.

“Why did they break up?”

“I don’t know for sure…my daughter Sybil said that he liked older women more than he liked her and she got sick of it…but of course I have no way of knowing if that’s true, or even if she was the one who broke it off, not him.” Probably one of the most embarrassing revelations of my life, on a day I seemed to be making oodles of them.

“How does the two attacker scenario go,” Mary asked immediately after I got done with my last answer.

“It varies widely. The most common elements are that I’m in my house, either naked or scantily dressed – I hear a sound and walk toward it. The next thing I know someone from behind me or on the side of me grabs me and slaps a piece of duct tape over my mouth. Then as I struggle I see two guys – often they have hoods, sometimes they’re complete strangers, other times guys I know who for some reason don’t hide their faces. They rip off any vestiges of clothing that I have on, carry me to and then tie me spread eagle on my bed, the guestroom bed, or the bed in the lake house. Then they slowly disrobe and stick their rock hard dicks in my face. Usually the only words they say are ‘I’ve wanted to fuck you for years,’ and then they get to it.”

I paused, exhausted, almost like I was having a full blown drawn out ravaging fantasy right then. I took a couple of deep breaths and continued while Mary silently and patiently waited.

“If they have hoods or masks on they blindfold me, I assume so that they can remove their face coverings. When I’m blindfolded sometimes they tongue my pussy. Regardless, most of the time they take me one at a time, although one is usually stimulating my nipples or clit while the other one is fucking me. Other times they dp me. It usually ends with me having a final orgasm so debilitating that I pass out. When I wake up they’re gone. Cum is leaking onto my thighs and I’m exhausted, but I’m not hurt in any way, but sometimes my pussy is sore – maybe because I’m masturbating during the fantasy.”

Now I really was played-out, but Mary was undeterred.

“Do you feel guilt afterward?”

“No…I had no control over it, so I have no guilt.”

“Does your fantasy ever end by you telling your husband, or reporting it to the police?”

I thought for a second – something I hadn’t ever considered before. After searching my mind thoroughly I replied “No; I never tell anyone.”

“Do you long for it to be repeated?”

“No…while I’m not psychologically scarred, that once it enough. I never have a fantasy where it is a continuation of, or a sequel to, a first fantasy. Each one is a first time and independent of the others.”

After a pause where Mary first stared at me, then seemed to be counting ceiling tiles while leaning back in her desk chair, and then returned her gaze she said, “That’s enough information for now. I have enough to work with. When you next come in – make it a week – I’ll have some approaches that you can try to prevent the ravaging fantasies from consuming you even if you can’t get them to stop completely. Just like last time try to think of your fantasies as enriching experiences rather than debilitating ones until we meet again.”

Just then her chime pealed. Although it had been an hour in some ways it felt like ten minutes; however given how emotionally drained I was it also seemed like a full day. I had to sit in my car with my eyes closed for ten minutes before I had the energy to drive home.

***************

Over the next several months I met with Mary for an hour about every ten days One of the odd things she asked for was for me to get an STD test (which of course came back negative since I have never cheated on Jim and I know for sure that he doesn’t play around.) Some of the many techniques she tried – including hypnosis (which was one of the few that was a complete bust) – worked OK. None of them individually, or in combination, was completely successful, and I had a bad flare-up for two days where I was so preoccupied with my ravaging fantasies that I was ineffective at work and distracted enough at home that my husband and son (my daughter was away at college) both asked me if something was wrong. Only an extreme session with Mary and a day at the spa got me back to a tolerable level.

Once I was back at a tolerable level, but still unhappy with the situation and losing hope, in a Thursday session with Mary during July, 2015, she said “I’m going to be gone for the next two weeks on vacation. Where will you be and do I need to leave you with my emergency only cell phone number?”

“Well the weekend after this coming one my hubby Jim will be at a golf tournament and my son and daughter are both going to the beach, so I’ve decided to go to the lake house on Friday morning and stay until Sunday night.”

“As I recall it’s about a sixty to ninety minute drive from your house on Route 10, and then county road 621, isn’t it?” she strangely said/asked.

“Yes, that’s right.”

“It’s secluded enough so that you’ll have a relaxing time, right?”

“Yes. I have some work to bring with me, but it’s easier to do there than at home or the office – no interruptions and pleasant scenery.”

“I have a suggestion – allow yourself to have a full blown fantasy Friday night, complete with masturbation, even a dildo or vibrator if you have one; then if one ever occurs on Saturday and all the way through Saturday night laugh it off as best you can, and play the short video that I’m going to send to your smartphone now,” she cackled.

“OK,” I gulped.

We both got out our smartphones. She sent me a 90 second long video of a clown with a fake three feet long dick tripping over it and falling face first into a grossly obese woman’s crotch, among other slapstick antics. “This is what I want you to play on Saturday next at the lake house if you start to be overcome with a ravaging fantasy,” she chuckled.

“You’re sick,” I laughed.

For the first time she gave me a big hug. “I have a feeling that you’ll be fine once you and I get back from our vacations,” she smiled.

“What was that about?” I chortled to myself as I walked out to my car.

**************

Things went relatively smoothly until Jim’s golf weekend, the kids’ beach weekend, and my weekend at the lake house. We were all so busy that I had only a couple of full blown ravaging fantasies and fortunately they weren’t at completely inopportune times. I was far from cured, however, and felt things festering under the surface.

My three day weekend at the lake house finally arrived. I left early Friday and got there before noon. I snacked, cycled, swam, and kayaked. Since I was kinda played-out I made a simple dinner. I wasn’t tired enough not to do as Mary recommended however.

After my food digested, I got naked, got out a recently purchased small vibrator, lay on my bed with my legs splayed, and let a full blown ravaging fantasy overtake me. Two guys that I knew (but will not identify), who made no attempt to hide their faces, ravaged me for – in my mind – a good two hours. In real time I worked on my clit with my fingers with the vibrator energizing my pussy, and I tightly clamped my Kegel-exercise-strengthened pc muscles on the vibrator as I came as hard as I ever had masturbating. The real time passage turned out to be only twenty minutes, but I did get two plus hours of intense pleasure from it. Since it was hot outside, and in the house, I didn’t bother putting on a night gown, and naked fell into a blissful sleep.

The next day I again followed Mary’s advice, and laughed and played the slapstick video whenever a fantasy started to raise its ugly head. I was able to get the work done that I wanted to by early afternoon, without succumbing to a fantasy, but once the work was done the video didn’t seem to help. Something that always had worked, although I was rarely in a position to use it, was extreme exercise. I went for a 90 minute kayak ride, paddling at ¾ speed almost the entire time, then a half hour swim, then lifted some light weights. By then I was exhausted.

About 4:30 p. m. I dragged my ass into the bathroom, and after a quick shower to cool off more than get clean, flopped naked and face-first onto my bed. I’m sure that I was out like a light in less than a minute.

I awoke to a clicking sound near my right ear. When I opened my heavy eyelids it appeared that my right wrist had a fur lined handcuff on it, with the other end attached to my sturdy metal headboard. I didn’t react quickly and before I could a strong arm wrapped around my neck from behind while a strong hand slapped a piece of duct tape over my mouth.

I realized what was happening, but it was too late. Another pair of strong hands held my left arm while another fur lined handcuff was snapped onto my left wrist, and then to the headboard.

Screaming through the duct tape did no good, but I did it anyway, the muffled sounds of my screams somehow being comforting to me. I undulated my entire body and pulled at the handcuffs while wildly swinging my head from side-to-side once my neck was released. I caught a glimpse of a male figure dressed all in black, including a black hood, who looked to be about the same size as Jim, maybe a little taller and thinner; he was the one who handcuffed my left wrist.

I could only sense the second man, the one who had slapped the duct tape over my mouth. They let me undulate, futilely scream, and ineffectually yank on the handcuffs for about ten minutes. Combined with the fatigue from kayaking, weightlifting, and swimming, by then I was pretty well exhausted. Once my undulations and yanks had almost completely dissipated from behind a light-tight blindfold was placed over my eyes. The guy doing it mumbled “We’ve wanted to fuck you for years!”

I continued to try and fight, but it was pointless. They made sure that I was on my knees with my head and hands close to the headboard, so that I could support myself on the mattress with my hands, and then one of them started licking and fingering my cunt while the other one fondled my tits. I vowed not to have an orgasm, but that too turned out to be impossible. My double-crossing pussy started leaking in response to the tongue and finger stimulation that it was getting, and my traitorous nipples hardened and expanded as their sensitivity increased from the stroking, pawing, pinching, and licking of the second attacker.

I already was close to an orgasm when the ravager working on my pussy shinnied up behind me and completely buried his rock hard cock in my snug lubricated vagina. For the first time in my life I orgasmed from a simple penetration alone, although I had been expertly stimulated before the penetration.

Now, not only were my pussy and nipples traitorous, but my mind was as well since it commanded my pc muscles to contract and release the stiff appendage reciprocating in my pleasure channel.

The guy fucking me had a lot in common with Jim. His cock felt almost the same, and his passion was similar to Jim’s – that is way high! However, Jim likes to grab my tits when fucking me doggy, and this guy squeezed and slapped my bulbous large ass, while occasionally running a digit over my pucker hole.

I probably had three or four more orgasms courtesy of my over-stimulated pussy and nipples before I heard the grunts signaling an ejaculation. The fucker groaned like an old waterwheel as he pumped me full of jism, triggering yet another orgasm (the fourth or fifth? I wasn’t counting). My independently controlled wayward pc muscles squeezed until every last drop of seminal fluid was extracted from the fucking dick, and it started going flaccid.

With a very satisfied moan, the fucker pulled out of my ravaged pussy with a loud pop that sent an electric charge up my spine. The guy working on my tits cackled, and after he released them he appeared to stroke his cock over my face – either that or it was a piece of iron!

I was now completely exhausted; but I sensed that the activities were just starting. For good or bad I was right.

The two guys mumbled something to each other – my addled brain couldn’t recognize what was said – then the guys seemed to switch places. All I know is that slightly rougher hands, and a seemingly more muscular tongue, were now working on my tits. The guy now behind me didn’t seem to mind that his buddy had already deposited a full load. I figured out partly why after he fingered me a little and then started to stick his cock into my gaping hole.

His cock was thick. I mean it seemed Coke bottle thick. Thicker than any I had experienced before, and although I’m not much into porn so I haven’t seen a lot of cocks in magazines or videos, it seemed porn-star thick. I groaned as my tight little pussy tried to expand to accommodate his girth. It was several minutes of combined pleasure and pain before that monster was buried. The guy with the big cock was grunting; the guy working on my tits cackling between licks.

Getting reamed by that monster was both a terrifying and satisfying experience. It was lucky that I was fully lubricated with the first discharge of cum. In view of the girth, my still involuntary – I had not yet succumbed completely – pulsations of my pc muscles were much more effective than with any other partner I had ever had. Despite the ravagers’ obvious plan not to say anything – aside from the initial “We’ve wanted to fuck you for years” – probably because they didn’t want to take the chance of being identified, as I squeezed and released the horse cock the fucker groaned “Holy fucking cunt…so fucking tight…squeezing the cum out of me…” and other exclamations. I didn’t even try to recognize the voice because my mind was in turmoil with pleasure chemicals rampaging through it.

The discharge of the girthy cock into my pussy was truly epic. For sure I did black out, and then regained awareness, three or four times as he continued to leisurely reciprocate in my now surrendered cunt. When he pulled out I felt not only an electric charge up my spine, but there was a “pop” as loud as a firecracker, and my pussy immediately longed for further stimulation.

Now that my body had completely surrendered – my mind no longer had control over it – the two ravagers used and abused me time and again. There was no need to handcuff me any longer because there was no way that I could escape. I know that each of them fucked me in the missionary position with my heels on their shoulders, and that they found my vibrator and stimulated my clit with it while I was lying on my back with my hands held over my head by one of them as they were obviously recharging their cocks.

To help them recharge, they removed the duct tape over my mouth and replaced it with first the regular sized cock, then the girthy one. The regular sized cock was very much like Jim’s only the head seemed a little more bulbous, and it had a left-hand cant. The girthy one filled my mouth completely. It was accompanied by a pair of large testicles. I chastised myself for enjoying fondling those large orbs while sucking the girthy cock.

The coup de grace was administered by the regular-sized dick fucking my lubricated ass – a first for me, strangely pleasurable but not something that I would like to repeat – and then the big dick fucking me doggy while the guy with the regular-sized dick moved the vibrator in-and-out of my asshole and went through all of its speeds at one time or another.

The big cock exploding in my pussy at the same time that the vibrator was in my ass completely fried my pleasure sensors and caused me to black out completely.

When I awoke it was still light out, but dusk was falling. I looked at the bedside digital clock – it read 8:19. I had flopped down on the bed at 4:31, and while I slept before being ravaged and obviously had passed out afterward, I was still sure that I had been pillaged for at least two hours.

I had no handcuffs, tape, or blindfold on, and very few marks, although my pussy and asshole were red and sore, as were my nipples. The sheets were soaked with sweat and cum.

I dragged my ass out of bed, and stood under the shower for a long time. Cum almost continuously leaked onto my thighs. Despite the fact that I was truly physically and emotionally fatigued, I actually felt great. In fact, I probably had more endorphins residing or rampaging through my brain, with commensurate electrical discharges in my nervous system, than at any other time in my life.

I made myself a simple dinner, and drank two glasses of wine. I had to walk around bowlegged, and with a tissue in my hand to periodically wipe up the seminal fluid leaking onto my thighs. My ass hurt when I went to the bathroom – but it was a good, not debilitating, hurt.

I never even considered calling anyone and reporting what had happened. Exhausted I quickly changed the sheets then went to sleep about 10 o’clock. Except for two aftershock spontaneous mild orgasms I was completely relaxed and I’m sure that by 10:30 I was snoring like a sleeping walrus.

*************

When I finally awoke at about 11 a. m. on Sunday apparently my mind had completely digested what had happened the last afternoon and evening. My fantasy ravaging had become a reality. I wasn’t injured – even though my pussy, ass, and tits ached – and I assumed that the ravagers had been STD-free, although I was sure to get tested as soon as practical. A strange complacency came over me. I did my normal lake things, like kayaking, cycling (although that wasn’t for long since my ravaged pussy didn’t like contact with the bicycle saddle), and swimming. I left for home about 4 p. m., and arrived in time for Jim and I to have dinner together, with the later arriving kids consuming what was left of our Chinese takeout.

I prayed that Jim wouldn’t want sex that night, and thankfully that prayer was answered.

I was surprisingly efficient at work. Only during times when I consciously thought about it did I recall my ravaging, and I didn’t have any ravaging fantasies. I called Mary’s assistant and made an appointment for the day that she got back from her vacation. I knew that for my future sanity that I needed to confront Mary.

Thankfully, my STD test came back completely negative.

**************

By the time that I went to see Mary my mid-section orifices – with the help of some creams and Kegel exercises – had tightened up to their pre-ravaged condition. I had had two wonderful sexual experiences with Jim that were in the top 10% of my satisfaction level for the last ten years, and based on his reaction and words the same for him. Except for how I was going to approach things with Mary, I no longer thought about ravaging fantasies.

I strolled into Mary’s office with an air of confidence. I greeted her with a hug. When I sat down she asked “What’s new? You look great!”

“I feel great, Mary. However there is a question burning in my bosom. Aren’t you worried about getting your license pulled for setting up a ravaging experience for me?”

“Whatever do you mean, Amy dear?” she smiled.

“I mean the two plus hour ravaging that I received last Saturday, which almost exactly paralleled what I told you my fantasy was. It was way too close to be a coincidence and you knew exactly where I would be and that I would be alone. You also had the names of all of the guys that I had at one time or another seen in my fantasies. You set it up, Dr. Mary.” The last sentence was said with an edge to my voice.

“Hmmm…” Mary said as she stroked her chin. “Before we explore that further, what has been the effect of the ravaging? Firstly, did you enjoy it?”

“I…I…can’t really say that I fully enjoyed it,” I stammered. Then I regained my composure. “To be honest, it was physically very fulfilling, but emotionally draining, and it made me very anxious at the time. It was only once I figured out that it was a ravaging set up by you, rather than a violent rape that could get me killed or injured, that I succumbed.”

“Once you succumbed you did enjoy it, didn’t you?”

I decided not to lie. “Yes,” I replied.

“Secondly, have you been preoccupied with ravaging fantasies since then?”

Again I decided to tell the truth. “Not really; I’ve thought about confronting you, and when I got a twinge in my ass or pussy the three days after it I briefly reflected on what had happened…”

“But not a new ravaging fantasy, correct?” she rhetorically asked.

“No…not a new ravaging fantasy,” I conceded. “However, that doesn’t relieve you of your responsibility to me for confidentiality, and not to set up something like that without my permission,” I snarled.

“OK, Amy dear. Let’s hypothetically assume that I set it up. Let’s go over your retention contract to see if there is any violation. Here’s a copy for you,” she said with a smile as she reached into her desk top drawer and pulled out two signed copies of the contract I had with her.

“Let’s see,” she mused, “Paragraph 3 says that all sessions with you will be video and audio taped and that I have the right to disclose parts of them to others in order to effectuate the proper treatment of your condition. Do you see your initials there?”

“Yes,” I grumbled.

“So, if to convince one or two of the guys you identified to me as ones you have fantasized about to ravage you, I could have shown them parts of the videos that I had to entice them to participate, and not violate the contract – correct?” she snickered.

I gulped, but didn’t respond.

“Let’s move to paragraph 4; The Privacy Statement. It clearly says that if I feel that it is necessary to disclose to others information that you relate to me in confidence in order to effect what I consider to be proper treatment, that I can do that as long as I get a signed confidentiality agreement from those I disclose it to, and – if necessary – an STD-free certificate. See your initials there, Amy dear? So if I got two confidentiality agreements signed by two of the people you fantasized about – like the one here,” she said as she tossed a blank confidentiality agreement over to me – that is it didn’t have a name on it, but it did have “fulfilling ravaging fantasy” as the subject. Then she continued, “I would be in complete compliance with the contract, wouldn’t I?”

I read the confidentiality agreement over twice. Then “Yeah,” I snapped.

“Let’s now move to Paragraph 5, ‘Treatment Options.’ See there where I say that some of my treatment options are unusual, including setting up reality situations that correspond to fantasy ones, and that you will rely solely on my professional judgment? Also see your initials there Amy dear?”

“Fuck…” I mumbled under my breath.

“That means if I got two people you fantasized about to ravage your fucking ass off that I would be completely within the terms of our agreement, wouldn’t I – as long as I had their confidentiality agreements and I believed that it would help you?” again with that sickening self-satisfied smile.

I chose not to answer. I just huffed.

“Well can you at least tell me who the two guys were?” I snarled.

“Look at the confidentiality agreement again, Amy; it’s a two-way one, that I had to sign too. If I breach it could cost me $100,000 and jeopardize my license. I can’t tell you that – or even IF – I arranged a reality ravaging. Everything we talked about was hypothetical.” This time her smile was more than sickening.

I stomped my foot and crossed my arms.

“What I will tell you, however, Amy dear, is that if you continue to be pre-occupied with ravaging fantasies in the future, if you swear to the details under oath, I will refund all of the money that you paid me – which now is about,” at which point she consulted a paper on her desk, “$4,900.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” I snarled, as I got up and stormed out.

*************

Since I stormed out of Mary’s office at the end of July, 2015, in fact I have NOT had any ravaging fantasies. At least not any that provide a significant impediment to my normal activities. There are some times when I think back on my ravaging reality – but it is not an unpleasant memory. Quite the contrary, it is a pleasant one because there is no doubt that those two still unidentified virile men truly desired me, and I have come to fully embrace Madame de Staël’s observation “The desire of the man is for the woman, but the desire of the woman is for the desire of the man.”

The only thing that eats at me – although it is in a pleasant, playful way – is who the two guys were?

Since my ravaging reality either all of the guys I come in contact with have become more flirtatious, or I have just recognized their flirtatiousness more. Every one of the guys I identified to Mary smiles and has a hearty hug every time that I see them in a private or social situation.

Even though I have more information about the regular-sized dick guy since I got a glimpse of his height and build, that hasn’t really helped me in identifying him. I’ve primarily narrowed it down to neighbor and hockey player Clayton Thorne, my husband’s single co-worker Blake Pearson, and trainer Austen (whose last name I now know – Borden); but it could still possibly one or two others. In any event I get a strange slight tingle in my pussy whenever I see them, wondering if they were someone who fucked me three times.

As for the horse cock, I really didn’t have any idea.

That is I didn’t have any idea about who the horse cock’s owner was until my daughter Sybil and Brent Lebel started dating again, this time seriously. Brent has been very happy to see me each of the frequent times that he has come over to our house since they started dating again about three months ago. He always gives me a big hug and big smile; but since all of the guys do that, that itself doesn’t mean much. However, there are two other things that have made me suspicious.

The first is that on at least two occasions in my presence Brent has made comments like “If it’s true that a girl will look like her mother in twenty years, I’d be a fool not to doggedly purse Sybil!”