R & R Tantra Intimate Remedies

For those with fingers well worn from reading nasty erotica, consider a respite, instead experiencing the skillful digits of Dr. Rylie of R & R Tantra Intimate Remedies.

In the New York metropolitan area, see the link at the left. 

'The Clinic' VII

It’s Friday. Though there is no calendar to confirm and the days at the clinic tend to meld, there hangs in the courtyard the masturbation gloves. One of silky fur, the other of latex, two fingers missing.

A girl is masturbated on Friday... one girl.

So as we frolic naked there is sensed a degree of giddiness... yet with some apprehension. Only one of the dozen or so girls will be chosen, and in feeling the heat of our loins, the spicy lotion liberally applied, each must hope for selection. But in being publically masturbated, many observers in attendance, there comes reservation. Bad enough to have to prance about in the buff much less display one’s sex as it is manually penetrated and manipulated.

Yet, there is deep need. No one declines the opportunity to be placed on exhibit.

So in a weekly ritual the gloves hang in the courtyard and, as stated, such become the bell to which Pavlov’s dogs salivated in expecting a hearty meal. But with the girls of the clinic, there is no salivation, instead our cunnies begin to moisten, anticipating... strangely hoping... to be the one who will endure the intense pleasure.

Yes, though outdoors my nose detects the intense aroma, the excitement of genitalia ripened over time and strict denial. Assuming an organized masturbation schedule, a girl should not have to go longer then 12 weeks for the satiation of the gloves. But the longer I am at the clinic the more I realize some girls have been selected more than once while others remain in denial. I’d like to think my cunnie will at some point receive attention, but to date only the quick smearing fingers of the trusty have touched me there.

In time a matron comes to the door and the girls dash forth, hoping for selection. She reaches up and retrieves the gloves, snickering. It is apparent that her nose too detects the expectation, the fragrance of a herd of girls in heat.

The matron dons the gloves, fur on the left hand, latex on the right. The naked bevy gathers about and a ritual begins, the left hand reaching forth to ever so gently caress a nipple here... a nipple there.

There come shrieks of joy in believing a choice has been made. But it is a tease, the collective moisture turning to a deluge. Finally, the right hand lowers. The exposed index and middle fingers wriggle, gesturing to an exuberant little girl, breasts limited but firm, buttocks to be envied. She knows to instantly step forth and greet the upturned hand, the palm pressing against the clitoral hood.

"So eager," are the only words offered as I watch the uncovered fingers part the labia and slip inwards.

There comes a pause, a peculiar silent greeting... fingers and vaginal walls... the woman smiling wickedly, the girl sighing in delight.

"Are you going to put on a good show for us?"

Miss ‘cute buttocks’ nods with fervor, rocking her hips to enhance the penetration.

"Good. I’ll want my fingers to have a good fucking," the proclamation crass but apropos.

"Come girls, to the masturbation room," the hand withdrawing.

Only an institution such as the Clinic could conceive of such a depraved and demeaning chamber. For despite its moniker, the only purpose is to humiliate. After all, in our condition a girl can be brought to climax just about anywhere any time. Needed not is a special room for the ultimate gratification.

The matron leads, Miss Cute Buttocks follows as do the herd of bound and naked clients... into the hallway then to the end, opposite the door to the enema palace.

It is sparse but large, in the center a chair, really more of a school desk with a slim writing platform in place of the right arm. We gather about. Other matrons join, the weekly entertainment not to be missed.

The gloved matron sits. Her right arm extends and rests on the narrow platform, hand palm upwards, her moistened fingers inviting the return of the quim of Miss Cute Buttocks. With a sheepish smile the girl steps forth, parts her knees to straddle and mount the upturned hand and the platform.

As described she then begins to fuck the matron’s fingers, the fur covered gloved hand teasingly caressing the breasts, adding to the brisance of pleasure.

So degrading, yet so needed, the desire smoldering, the fire of spicy lotion finally to be extinguished after daily conflagration. In the closed room, the air fills with not only the scent of penetrated cunny, but with the moisture of some dozen others, pining to straddle and ride with equal fervor.

I know from my introduction in the infirmary, the unseen fingers hook, wriggle, knead and caress, the matrons all expert, all knowing to work the urethral sponge, the so termed female prostate.

"That little clit of yours is as hard as a pecker, I can feel it," comes one embarrassing observation after another.

Still the girl rides, the muscling of her buttocks rippling. She must work for her pleasure.

Then the fur glove withdraws. The matron commands cessation. In the height of arousal the girl knows to stop.

"Squeeze."

It’s Kegel time. In every Friday masturbation session there is a maddening pause, the rocking and thrusting of hips stilled, as the expectant girl must respond to commands.

"Good girl. Now two squeezes."

On the brink of ecstasy, the response to each directive is instant, hoping the fucking of the fingers will be permitted to resume.

"Now stay," the tone master to dog.

Miss Cute Buttocks closes her eyes... in expectation... in shame... in humility.

Finally the wicked matron offers the command.

"Finish yourself."

She does, the resulting squirt impressive.

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'The Clinic' VI

"For tomorrow’s session, I will have a matron table you. I think you’ll feel more comfortable, speak more freely in a more subservient position," Miss Ann announces in concluding my first ‘therapy’ session.

I cannot imagine being posed in a more demeaning manner than spread eagled in a chair.

"Did you have your enema today?"

"Yes, ma’am."

"Rather degrading yet rather relaxing, don’t you think."

I must agree. Time in the so termed ‘enema palace’ is not to be volunteered, yet in being thoroughly cleansed inside and out, there is a sense of comfort.

The vixen trusty works diligently, reveling in having some freedom of access. Still, with a matron supervising, she is somewhat limited in what she would ultimately desire.

Head down, tummy resting on a carved, curved well formed pedestal of marble, buttocks up, the design forcing the knees and thighs to part, she quickly lubricates the anus, inserts an inflatable nozzle and begins a flow, the colon steadily filling. While the soapiness seeps, she steps to an opposing pedestal, a second girl likewise filling. There she bathes... warm water, fragrant soap, soft chamois. We girls face each other, lowered head just inches apart, mandating that we share in each others odd combination of torment and joy.

Our cunny’s are off limits of course, never ever any douching, as stated.

So as one girl fills, another is washed. Then her nozzle is released, the bowel contents expelled to the well drained floor. There comes a rinse and then attention is diverted to the girl being filled as a third girl knows to enter and position herself tummy down over the low pedestal.

It’s an assembly line. And though the trusty appears to work rapidly, the flow of water seems to take an eternity, the only diversion... observing the girl across being subjected to equal humiliation, torment and ultimate joy in release.

"I’ll leave instructions for a particularly high and thorough cleansing each day. We’ll need to anally induce some special stuff. I’ll want your backside empty and receptive."

With that, Miss Ann goes to her bag and retrieves a leather pouch. It opens to reveal a hypodermic syringe.
A small bottle offers 50 milligrams of clear liquid.

"Domperidone. It’s best to begin with a good strong dose," bending to inject the side of my left buttock.

"We’ll begin dosage in tablet form tomorrow," offered as I lurch with the stab of the needle.

For some reason, she knows that I am aware of the drug.

I am indeed.

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

I am tabled!

After enduring extra time in the enema palace, the devilish trusty cleansing two girls while my bowels slowly filled, there came lunch, all obediently responding to the ringing of the bell, and then separation for therapy.

On all fours I kneel in the counseling room on the small table. Wrist, thigh and ankle loops attached to the many clasps and short cords, I am obscenely spread open as always.

The matron departs. In expecting Miss Ann, I am surprised when the door reopens and the trusty enters. She once again carries a tray with scissors and a bowl. I am disheartened to see it filled with water. I also spy a canister of shaving lotion and a razor.

What remains of my hair is clipped down to the very scalp. My head is lathered and I well up as the calloused girl shaves my head. Not a word of remorse offered, she remains stoically silent as my psyche plummets.

In finishing, the door opens again. Miss Ann enters, the women passing each other... not a word exchanged.

Tears freely flow. I can only imagine the alien look I now project.

"There, there... it is best for you. There’s no need for the pride of glamor now," placing her bag on the floor.

"Not with the transformation we’re undertaking."

The bag yields a bottle of water and some pills. As promised Domperidone is offered in tablet form, 20 milligrams.

Next comes a sealed plastic pouch filled with a thick whitish concoction, some tubing and an inflatable nozzle. I recognize the implement as similar to that in the enema palace.

"All cleaned out, your colon should be quite receptive to my special juice," Miss Ann offers as latex gloves are snapped in place.

Anus lubricated for the second time in hours, the nozzle slips inward with ease. I grimace when she rather gruffly inflates. What is to be induced is not to be rejected or expelled.

"Lot’s of good stuff. Lactose. Dairy cream. Everything a nursing mother is known to secret."

The plastic pouch is merely laid on my bare back. I, my body, is to serve as a stanchion as I feel the thickness flow and begin to ooze within.

In completing the task, Miss Ann’s fingers briefly graze my well exposed labia. With the chastity, no climactic release since the public masturbation by the infirmary nurse, I find her brief touch to feel disconcertingly good... especially as every morning our cunny’s are warmed ... smeared with the spicy lotion.

In fact, a degree of heat remains.

Miss Ann draws the chair to my front and sits. This puts her face at eye level with my freely swinging breasts. As stated, I am well endowed there and can only imagine the presentation of my pendulous mammary glands. She reaches to palm both. In attaining a level of comfort, having endured the trauma of the head shave, her touch feels good. It is welcomed.

"You’ll be letting down for me in a few weeks, if not sooner," her thumbs working to caress my nipples.

"So the teen years... let’s continue..."

I resume my life story. Miss Ann turns and once again reaches into her bag. As I speak, she retrieves two plastic cones, more tubing and a small pump. Viscous lotion is applied to my breasts, one cone is pressed to my right nipple. The pump is attached to the tubing and as a hand knowingly squeezes to create a vacuum, there comes the thrill of having my nipple suctioned into the cone. Completely enveloped, the tube is closed off and my left nipple is offered similar treatment. My words begin to jumble, my concentration diverted with the exquisite sensation. Though mechanical, there is still delight in being suctioned by a device... and by a woman so deft in using it.

Her hands retreat. Miss Ann grabs her pad and pen and sits back. Reciting, chronologically I am sixteen, spending a summer at a relative’s farm.

"Cows?" the question succinct.

I nod.

"Just a few. And I learned to milk."

"Telling."

"I suppose."

"Your thoughts in detail. You enjoyed the cows."

"Something about the tranquility, the lack of concern. If animals ever have concerns."

"They are well cared for," Miss Ann observes, rousing more thought.

"Yes. Watered. Fed. Bathed. Idling in pasture. The only responsibility, if such is the proper term... to produce... to offer that which comes naturally."

"You found attraction in this?"

The question comes as I feel myself filling, the slow flow much more agreeable then the trusty’s mammoth deluge of warm, cramping soapy water. Also the suction cones bring a most pleasant tingling. This spurs twinges... below. I am becoming aroused. Naked, in bondage, beginning medication, placed indeed in a most subservient pose before this fully clothed woman of authority and wisdom, it combines to bring odd stimulation.

I nod in reply, silently absorbing the many pleasant sensations.

The doctor senses, knowing to allow my psyche to momentarily revel.

"Your friend, the black girl from the courtyard, reported to have spoken to you... she’s been stabled. No longer in therapy."

I inadvertently moan. Something not only physical but emotional in capitulating like this. The woman is conquering. And I am succumbing... and enjoying.

"I’m not sure what that means," my words faltering.

The subject is dropped. I am amazed to watch in a strange stupor as the gloved hands reach to the suction device and squeeze. The pleasant tension on my left nipple increases. In my lower peripheral vision I am further amazed to see the pink flesh of my nipple elongated, completely filling the four inch long clear cone. Then Miss Ann adroitly shifts the pump to the tubing of the right cone and squeezes more. The right nipple likewise is forcefully elongated. My chin droops with the rushing flow of endorphins. I cannot speak.

"Good girl. Just kneel and let all my nice juice flow. Your empty colon will absorb it all quite efficiently... lots of nutrients for these growing plumping glands."

Missing is stimulation to my still heated quim. That is to be denied. Yet I feel my Kegel muscles contract in attempts to bring orgasm. Miss Ann the doctor is aware and smiles with the somatic reaction.

"You’ll need to be suckled as well."

With that the counseling ends... at least the verbal exchange.

Is it possible to pass out while kneeling on all fours?

'The Clinic' V

The chief therapist returns to her desk, her smug look seeming to radiate. One girl caged, another bound, well stressed, cunny well displayed, another mentally stressed, sinfully spread to exhibit feminine charms.

She is in her element.

A matron returns to the office to release me from the straight backed chair. It is lunchtime and in leading me to join the group I spy a number of horizontal lengths of padded wood, stanchions holding such at waist height. Numerous, there are short cords with clips, similar to that on my cot, suggesting that a girl can be instantly secured.

I am to later learn the position is assumed upon the command ‘belly to the board’, uttered whenever a tending matron has the whim to inspect a girl’s cunny.

As described, with belly resting on the padding, the ankle and thigh loops are secured to the stanchions, offering a good spread. The girl is bent over, face towards the floor and the wrist loops are then tied off above.

The pose exposes all a girl normally seeks to cloak, cheeks parted, labia splayed. Is a girl so restrained for punishment... or amusement? I suppose it does not matter.

With elbows again connected behind me, the matron leads to the dining hall where my compatriots sit at a long table in wait. All naked, all with arms and hands fettered in some manner, the naked trusty offers lunch. Before each girl is a small bowl. The trusty steps from client to client, spooning a large glop of mush into each bowl. Two matrons stand in watch, the duty of serving beneath their status.

I am seated at an empty chair and in seeing no one move, assume a similar pose, just silently staring down and forward.

Finally, with all bowls filled, I experience another form of clinic discipline. A bell rings. All heads collectively lower, face to the bowl. We’re fed like dogs, no hands or fingers to be used. I quickly join, my head lowering in kind not to delay.

Lips and tongue work. I am surprised to find that the mush is not objectionable, seeming to be nutritious food ground to facilitate the unorthodox method of ingestion. However acceptable the offering is, however, I find my nose is soon coated and certain morsels stick to unreachable parts of my upper lips and chin.

Within moments the bell rings twice. All heads rise... I follow suit. It is amusing to see the soiled faces, no girl able to neatly partake, I must assume mine is similarly decorated with glop. Yet in noting that all girls freeze I dare not move my head to further survey.

Such obedience! Not a word spoken. Not the slightest attempt to move. The trusty returns, wet cloth in left hand. She one by one tends to the faces, the fingers of the right hand scooping visible remnants of the meal and pushing such into receptive mouths. Then the wet cloth of the left hand cleanses.

The trusty works quickly, stepping from girl to girl. I see that as she leans she lets her breasts freely brush, rub and abrade the backs and shoulders of the clients. It would seem to be a reward, the matrons permitting the limited teasing contact, smiling in seeing the nipples harden, the tits firm in pressing warm skin.

Being last, I feel her glands firmly greet my right shoulder. There comes a subtle shake of her upper torso, her left nipple grazing to bring herself a brisance of joy. Then an index fingers instantly smooths about, collects excess sustenance from nose and lips and introduces such to my mouth. I ingest. As the wet towel cleanses, the bell rings three times. The girls rise and I again mimic and stand.

Afternoons are therapy time. Our group parts, each girl to receive individual ‘counseling’. I am led to a small room. Within is a straight backed chair. A matron quickly secures me, spread widely open, just as in the office of the chief therapist. Before me is a small table with a simple chair, more comfortable than mine. I cannot help gaping at the collection of short cords and clips about the perimeter of the table. A ‘client’ can easily be restrained on the surface.

I wait, several moments. The door opens. It is the trusty. She carries a tray, an empty bowl, scissors.

In silence, she cuts my hair. I dare not protest. I cannot move.

Caring not to conform to any known style, the long locks surrender quickly and in large clumps, summarily tossed into the waiting bowl. It takes not more than two minutes for my remaining head of hair to resemble that of every other client. Short... horridly short. Does she cut evenly... with a hint of decorum?

It matters not. She finishes, momentarily plays with my nipples, and quickly departs, smiling smugly in having stolen an unauthorized copping of my glands.

More waiting. The door again opens. In walks the woman who will change my life.

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

I am to find at the clinic that the psychological stress to be endured can greatly exceed the physical.

My new girl friend of color, for instance. Which is to challenge the most, having to stand, presumably for hours, on the toes of one foot? Or posed to so salaciously exhibit a very ripe and wet quim, oozing with evidence of stimulation, the scent of feminine arousal filling the room?

So the cutting... chopping actually... of my long prideful hair... concurrent with the introduction of my therapist is no coincidence.

As I sit in self pity, sensing the conflicting need to assess my new look versus the horror of discovery, Dr. Ann Roberts... Miss Ann... introduces herself. I am in the depths of despair, the timing superb. I so need to talk to someone.

"Welcome to the Clinic."

Voice smooth, I look to appraise. Relatively young for having an advanced degree, I judge her to be early thirties. Professionally attired. No starched blue uniform. Long hair dark, similar to mine, that now residing in the trusty’s bowl. Handsome, even features, confident, knowledgeable, in my state of vulnerability her demeanor brings a degree of comfort.

"When in this room you may speak... in response to my observations and inquiries of course."

She carries an over the shoulder bag, extracting a note pad with a fountain pen. Long since practicable, it appears to be a treasured gift... perhaps an heirloom.

"Lana Morehouse aged 21," she reads from her pad, leaning back against the table. "Shoplifting, first offense.

High school graduate. Dropped out of college after three semesters."
She looks up, judging my reaction. But also glancing down to where my shaven mons is so thoroughly displayed.

"The matrons here do tend to enjoy themselves do they not?" in apparent reference to my naked vulnerability.

She steps around the table, grasps the empty chair and slides it before me, sitting such that her knees brush mine.

"You’ll find that they like observing the pink flesh of young girls. It is best for you to be obedient and let them feast their eyes. When it’s time to be masturbated... just relax and enjoy. Within, girls such as you enjoy the humiliation. There is no point to resisting."

Her right hand extends to gently smooth along my inner left thigh, slowly approaching my ‘cunny’. I shiver... in fear... in delight?

She withdraws as my nipples firm in response. She sits back, apparently learning what she needed to know.

"So let’s begin. Start with your childhood... speak chronologically."

I do.

'The Clinic' IV

"Enema time girls," a matron calling out, standing at the only egress from the courtyard.

The girls obediently trot to reenter the building.

"Line up... tits to shoulder blades... cunny to buttocks... nice and tight for me."

Returning to the hallway, the naked girl, she who picked the bowls and smeared our labia and vaginas, beckons from a far door. She is unfettered, though with many loops in place, easily restrained should the need arise. I am to learn the girl is a trusty, offered relative freedom in order to perform tasks too lowly for a matron.

The lead girl knows to prance then humbly stand before her in wait. And sure enough the next girl presses against her...then the next and so on to form a chain. The girl of color, somewhat enthralled with my posterior, makes it a point to get behind me, now able to frottage against my globes without fear of discovery, pressing such that my mons in turn is thrust into the girl in front of me more then I’d like.

It feels good... and I am most chagrined. My heated ‘cunny’, as the matron terms my sex, attains a degree of satiation.

Yet I need more.

As we girls collectively squirm, absorbing the modest thrill, the matron smiles in squalid delight. I feel the rock hard breasts of my new friend, the nipples rubbing with enthusiasm against my back. The behavior is not only acceptable, but welcomed... the entertainment appears to be mandated... and no one disappoints.

Then the scent of women in need wafts through the hallway air. It is strong, so many wet love canals, and the matron begins to cackle depravedly.

Over the months of ‘therapy’ I am to find that douching is prohibited... totally denied. And whereas my relatively fresh, new arrived ‘cunny’ is not overly ripe, some of the girls are in need of hygiene... hygiene they shall not have.

"Enough," comes the matron’s command, the grinding hips and jiggling breasts instantly brought to stillness.

The naked trusty reaches to the neck loop of the first girl, slips her finger beneath and pulls, guiding her into the ‘enema palace’, the ironic name for the clinic’s chamber of concrete walls, well drained tile floor, plumbing and water... much water.

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

I sit in the office of the chief therapist. Elbows clipped together, a tending matron secured me to a straight back chair facing a large walnut desk. Restraining my thigh loops and ankle loops to the sides, she assured that I sit well spread, exposing the mass of feminine pink flesh between my thighs.

Despite the massive enema administered earlier, normally tending to induce torpor, I feel apprehension.

The chief therapist sits behind the desk doing paperwork. Being ignored, for now, I visually examine the large office. Most notably in one corner to my left sits a sizable steel cage. Within a naked girl rests on knees and elbows, her cable ties secured in such a manner that her legs and arms cannot straighten... ankles to the waist... wrists to the biceps. A slack leash is attached to her neck loop and is tied to the bars. Beneath her head is a bowl, presumably that intended for a dog, filled with water.

Opposite to the right, restrained to a vertical pole, is my new friend, the girl of color from the courtyard. She forcibly stands on the toes of her left foot. The right foot is raised, leg bent back, the ankle loop secured to her waist loop. Arms tethered behind her back, her neck loop is attached to the pole to assure she does not topple.

As with me, to assure she properly displays her feminine charms, the right thigh loop is tied from above in such a manner that she in turn much offer a spread shot. The pose is awkward and challenging. She perspires. I can see the glistening moist pink of her splayed inner labia, the slow torture seeming to bring arousal as vaginal juices slowly ooze to her left thigh. I am sure the matrons are to be greatly entertained.

"Your friend was talking this morning... in the courtyard. Against the rules. I trust you did not respond to
her?"

The therapist speaks for the first time, evidently noting the direction of my gaze.

I must assume my response to the girl was not noted on the camera. Otherwise I am sure I too would be placed in an unending stress position.

I prevaricate, shaking my head to deny.

"Good. You’ll note that we like to have naughty girls display themselves in such licentious ways. It’s good for the spirit, don’t you think? Makes a girl aware."

I nod. Whom am I to disagree. Yet... aware of what?

"And that one, over there. Therapy revealed a rather telling penchant. Makes for a cute little pup don’t you think?" the woman nodding to the cage.

I shrug my shoulders as best I can.

"She’ll forever either be caged or leashed. In time, I tire of my pets. So at some point she’s to be kenneled. But for now, leading a girl about on a leash can offer quite the thrill for a woman of my ilk. And it so placates her needs."

The woman stands. I begin to tremble, now more than ever understanding her power... and her enjoyment in exercising such.

"We all have fantasies... desires we prefer not to divulge. Held deep within, never to be shared... at least by the outer self."

She approaches as she speaks, something indiscernible held in her left hand.

"Here we delve into the inner self. And we discover such fascinatingly secret things. The curious desire to be leashed and fed from a bowl, for example... to be mated and forced to breed," gesturing to the cage.

She steps to my girl friend of color. The right hand extends and toys with a pinkish brown left nipple. Then her hand lowers and a finger dabs at the flowing vaginal juices.

"Well bound... yet aroused. Plus do you find anything distinctive about the muscling on this one? You may speak."

"She’s... she’s in good shape," my quaking voice stuttering, the extensive muscling indeed tending to ripple in the stress position.

"Oh, better than good. She runs and runs. Extremely strong legs, good endurance, the limited breasts those of an Olympic track star... or better perhaps, those of a girl who’d like to spend her life harnessed, bridled and responding to the crack of a riding crop."

The head of my new girl friend of color slumps to the degree the neck restraint permits. The downward cast of the eyes suggests the observation is appropriate.

"Yes, this one would like to serve me, the power of my psyche subduing hers, forcing her physical strength to yield to me. So physically potent, yet she so much desires to mentally capitulate, cede to a woman’s whip hand."

The woman approaches me to stand close, gazing downward at my pinkness, again offering the look of a fine chef planning a meal. She drys her wet finger on my upper lip, the scent of the juices quite strong.

"One cannot help comparing the glands," her right hand lowering.

She palms and cups my right breast. Soft yet firm, as stated I am well endowed there. Normally I ward off such advances, particularly from women. But I am helpless to resist and the woman plays without compunction, moving her hand to give equal credence to the left breast as well, smiling wickedly.

"Quite the set of mammary glands. Have you ever thought of lactating for us?"

"No, ma’am."

"Well we have our puppy girl... we have our pony girl. Why should we not have our cow girl? I think you would enjoy entertaining us."

I shake my head in denial.

Then comes, should our tete a tete be considered a duel, the coup de grace... finally presenting the contents of her left hand. My trembling transforms to outright shudders of concern.

"Caught shoplifting this. You had the money with you to pay for it, but you just did not want to be seen purchasing it."

It is the evidence of theft from my trial... a breast pump! And the chief therapist is correct. Before me is divulged the deep dark secret fantasy... my deep dark secret fantasy.

The woman leans. There comes again that look of Schadenfreude, her warm breath felt on my nakedness

"Your secret need to nurture. I think we know how to make your stay here... your therapy... very enjoyable."

Comment on Comments/Spam

Just found some appropiate comments in the 'spam' box which I released to be posted.

It seems the 'spam' detector has been turned up a notch, so I will be more diligent in making sure stuff gets through. If you find that a comment is delayed that is the reason.

As stated, I do not block or edit anything unless a comment is nothing more than a commercial attempt to advertise a product, site or service.

CB