I pulled her unzippered top over her arms and again she took it from me, then guided my hands to the bra-straps on her shoulders. ‘Don’t take it o...f, just explore … and imagine.’ I ran my fingers along and through a fascinating, complex maze of narrow, interwoven, criss-crossing smooth satin straps that made up what could only loosely be described as a bra. Across her narrow back, over her shoulders, under her arms, then tentatively brushing only the smallest of crescents of fabric that seemed. I could not keep my mind from reliving my recent experiences. I kept remembering what I had done, and what had been done to me.But that wasn't the worst part. What made me feel so bad was that whenever I caught myself thinking about it, I noticed that I was getting aroused. I didn't want to be. I knew I should be disgusted, traumatized.I could honestly say that I dreaded the next trip my husband would take, and what I would be put through after he left. I did not look forward to my next session. More

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