Just the *one* ...

Once we are on the sidewalk, Amy pauses to look up at the skies. Still vibrantly blue and not dark, yet the sun is cresting to the horizon. Dinner is eaten early at my parents' house, and so I'll be expected to be home, stripped, and under the table.

I don't mind so much, not as much as I would have thought I would. Dinner last night was good, and I am looking forward to getting more. I don't know what my parents or the twins ate, but what was served for me to eat was entirely wonderful.

“So, slut,” Amy says, taking in a deep breath of the fresh afternoon air, looking at me, “Do you have any plans, tomorrow?” I have every intention to spend as much time as possible with Amy, but, in truth, that doesn't count as having had plans.

“Just that I wanted to spend it with you,” I answer, “I mean, aside from the fact I am your proof of hypnotic talent and also your first scientific research project, you're also my best friend. I do just authentically love you an' wanna be around you.”

“Aw, you sweet little whore,” Amy smiles at me, “Don't worry, I was going to ask if we could spend more time, too. I mean, there's not a lot else to do, during the summer, except relax and have fun, and recharge from a whole year at university.”

“True,” I say, and when Amy turns and starts to walk toward my parents' house, I fall into step beside her, walking with a contented smile on my face. “You know, though, I think this could be considered as therapeutic hypnosis. Potentially.”

“Oh? How should I phrase it to record it as that, for certification purposes?” she asks, looking over at me in earnest, and a small measure of hope, I would think. The therapeutic hypnosis patients are the ones that are the harder ones to acquire.

Someone looking for therapeutic hypnosis has this irritating tendency to seek out an older professional. Experience does not grow on trees, though, it comes from actually doing the thing. A hypnotist can only get experience by actual practise.

“You observed that, before you reprogrammed me, I had ... an unreasonable level of inhibitions in relation to my sex life,” I answer, “unreasonable being quantifiable by my lack of trauma, sexual or otherwise. I had no reason to behave in so ...”

I pause, thinking about what word would be the most accurate to describe the me that existed four days ago, before Amy brainwashed me. I hum thoughtfully, then continue, “Circumspect ... a manner, where it applies to my sexual interests.”

“Your hypnosis has provided a form of sexual behavioural therapy,” I reason, “You unlocked the door to the sex life that I wanted, but was unreasonably terrified of pursuing. I mean, that sounds like therapy to me. You made my life far better.”

“Huh. That's an excellent way of putting it!” Amy beams at me, throwing her arms around me and pinning me to a fence, hugging me tightly. Instead of just saying she could kiss me, she does, touching her lips to my cheekbone, squeezing me.

“Thank you!” she sounds bubbly and light, as she lets go and pulls me back onto the sidewalk, and we resume our walk to my parents' house. At about the halfway mark, we see Boris languidly roaming along, veering toward us when he sees us.

“Oh, gods, this motherfucker again,” Amy growls under her breath, then looks at me sternly, “Not one word, you faggot. Let me handle this. I'mma tear into him so hard he'll be able to gangbanged like a woman cause he'll have two assholes.”

At that, my lips twitch with amusement. I don't think Amy giving Boris a second asshole is physically possible, but I also would never bet against Amy. If there's a way in the universe to leave Boris having a second anus, she'd certainly find it.