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Kris Selenium closed her eyes, relying on her other senses. Her fingers traced the contours of the dildo, familiarising themselves with the implied strength reminiscent of masculine girth and length. As a psychologist, she knew the benefits of masturbation, even if as a woman she didn’t understand the ramifications of nurturing a polyurethane facsimile to life using an electrical cord or a set of highly charged batteries.
She cocked one eye open. This wasn’t doing it for her. The clock read one minute and thirty seconds past the last time she’d checked the time.
“Come on, Kris. Focus.” She set aside the sex toy and thought. Why was it that so many of her patients could come just thinking of one particular man? What was it about his music that enthralled them so?
She sighed. If only she could identify with them, but her personal affliction that no one could see and none knew about in this incarnation, other than her parents and her personal physician, kept her isolated. Which is probably one of the reasons you went into psychotherapy to begin with, twit.
She looked to her right at the photograph she’d clipped from the local newspaper’s celebrity section. He was truly handsome in a dark, swarthy, mysterious way—he looked more pirate than pin-up, more masochist than musician. What was it about the man that drew women to him?
Maybe it was his appearance. Now that she could understand. Had she dwelt on that face before picking up the dildo, she probably could have easily relieved the tension that had built since she’d lain down to contemplate ways to help her therapy group.
Pussy. She needed to bring anatomy into their discussions in order to guide her patients into relying on their own femininity rather than their male counterparts’ cocks and chests to bring them to climax and to empower them during the day when sexual relief wasn’t an option.
Pussy, cock, brain, muscles. The words tumbled about inside her head like gems waiting to be polished. The key to unlocking the women’s collective problem lay somewhere mingled with those words, but where? She had to keep searching for the answer.
Maybe it was his voice. If so, perhaps he’d allow her to do some recordings of him, to study the results and to measure the impact his voice had on women. The more she knew about men like him, the better she could probably help women such as the ones in her groups.
Kris flipped the knob on her bedside radio, knowing what she’d hear, realising how angry she’d soon become, but needing to hear the deep timbre anyway.