I started to rub my hard on with longer, more intentional strokes. I was facing her sideways and about a foot away from the glass itself. I stopped fo... just a minute and turned to face the doorway and then stepped closer to the glass door. I was sure she now had a good view of me standing there naked and soaped up. She did not make a move. I ran the soap over my shoulders and chest, then behind me and down my legs. I knew she could see me now for sure but she still made no movement. I made sure. “So, honey,” she said nonchalantly, “I’m glad we had this talk.” A roguish smile on her lips, she released my chin, turned, and walked away. I was left, still panting, to watch her bare rear sway mockingly, elegantly voluptuous, as she sauntered unhurriedly out of the room. And so, after that episode, I more or less abandoned the idea of getting Carrie in for therapy. The thought nagged me, in fact, that maybe it was I that would actually benefit from having someone else to talk to, that maybe. More

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