The summer was coming to a close. Soon Robyn and Bobby would be back in school, not to mention Ron. Within weeks fall would be doing its work, making it impossible to hide behind the facade of gardening to get my kicks.
As far as my pocketbook was concerned, maybe the end of summer was just as well. Not only was I having to pay off Ron and sometimes Ginny. By the first of September my household budget was wearing so thin that I was putting dinners like peanut butter on toast and Fritos on the table two or three times a week.
Finally, George blew up. Throwing aside a shingle of creamed tuna one night, he screamed at me, "What's the point of busting my ass in the insurance business if I have to eat slop like this? I might as well go on welfare if this is all working for a living gets a man."
One thing led to another and soon we were yelling at each other, my fear of him finding out how I'd been blowing the household budget forcing me to stand up to him more than I usually would have. But despite my belligerence he was not thrown off the track. Even George was smart enough to figure out that the money he'd been giving me had been going someplace besides into the house. Eventually there was no way I could put him off from demanding to know why. It was either come up with an answer or have his fist down my throat.
"I gamble," I blurted, astonished at my own inventiveness.
"You what?"
"I gamble, George, I just can't help myself. It started with playing bridge around the neighborhood, but it's long past that now. I get in the station wagon and go into the city. George, I have an honest-to-God bookie there."
"Aw, shit, I don't know whether to believe this," he groaned, obviously thrown completely for a loop.
"But it's true… true," I cried, pressing my advantage. "I'll bet on anything. Any odds that are available. Anything. You know the Chicago Cubs?"
"Yes," he gasped.
"I bet on them to win the pennant because I thought their name was cute," I miraculously improvised, hoping I'd guessed right.
"Shit!" he exploded. "Those turkeys haven't won the pennant since 1945. You gotta get some help."
"What do you mean?" I said, so caught up in my elaborate lie that I couldn't imagine what he was getting at.
"Therapy," he snapped. "Your mental health is shot to hell."
"George," I blurted, "you sound like you care."
"I care about not having a neurotic wife to come home to after I'm out slaving out there all day in the jungle making money for this family," he said grimly. "It's a dog-eat-dog world out there, sister, and it's tough enough without having to worry about some crazy slit at home pissing away all my hard-earned dough… And on gambling for chrissakes. On the Chicago Cubs. Why, at least, couldn't you have bet on pro football?"
"Please… please," I begged him, falling to my knees. I would have gladly done anything for him at that moment for his forgiveness. I would have unzipped his pants and taken his cock in my mouth if I'd thought it would have helped.
But reality was staring me in the face. There was no bulge at George's crotch. He wasn't interested in me as a person. No, he wanted me to be more like a piece of all-purpose furniture, handy and uncomplaining. Efficient and portable. Emotionless and with no feelings. He didn't want a hot-blooded passionate woman in the prime of her life. He wanted a stainless steel stepladder. A human vacuum cleaner. A super dustmop.
What was the use? I stopped begging and waited for my fate.
"You're going to a shrink," he decreed. "I know they're expensive, but at least a psychiatrist is cheaper than a bookie."
George was so adamant there was no way I could do anything but silently go along with him. He arranged the appointment himself, with a Dr. Bruce.
On Tuesday, halfway to the psychiatrist's, I realized that carrying out George's command had at least one positive aspect. It sprung me from the house. George's insistence that I see a shrink had freed me for at least a day from my existence in suburbia, and that couldn't be all bad. Gee, I thought, the shrink was helping me before I even talked to him.
My sense of freedom continued to grow and had me feeling relaxed and loose by the time I arrived at Dr. Bruce's office. By the time I got there I wasn't afraid at all of confronting a shrink, where, previously, I'd been terrified by the prospect.
The truth of the matter was that the more I thought about it the more I realized that I was looking forward to Dr. Bruce. I was looking forward to someone to talk to… someone who would understand my problems of joy and sorrows.
I decided just before his receptionist showed me into his office that I would tell Dr. Bruce the truth. Why waste my time and his with that phony gambling story? George would never find out what was going on if I went ahead and told the truth – a doctor couldn't betray the confidences of his patients. My secrets would never go beyond this room.
Dr. Bruce was sitting behind his desk. He was younger than I'd expected and a lot better looking. Immediately I perceived him as a sexy-looking man as much as I did a psychiatrist. Something about his appearance and demeanor told me that he was going to be very interesting to talk to.
"Mrs. Fredericks?" he said with a dazzling smile.
I nodded.
"Have a seat."
"Don't you have a couch?" I said, smiling. "I thought all psychiatrists made their patients lie down on couches."
"Perhaps we'll get to that later," he grinned. I didn't know how good a shrink he was, but there was certainly no doubt he was a very good-looking guy. "Now if you'll have a seat, Mrs. Fredericks."
I slid into the leather chair situated before his desk. The cool leather kissed my thighs as I positioned myself to get comfortable, the hem of my skirt wiggling well past my knees. I tugged some at it to get it back down, but when I saw the doctor's frowning expression I stopped.
"You don't need to be nervous," he said. "Just sit any way in which you're comfortable."
"But my dress… it…" I tried to explain.
"I know, Mrs. Fredericks. I have eyes. It rode up around the tops of your legs and you feel you should be embarrassed. However, your embarrassment is merely a function of your own neuroses, probably brought about by some childhood experience you've long since repressed," he patiently explained. "As far as my seeing your bare thighs, your embarrassment is unfounded. Force the rational part of your thinking to remember that I am just your doctor, and doctors, of course, are quite used to seeing the salient aspects of the human anatomy. For example, I'll bet your gynecologist has seen you completely nude several times. He's undoubtedly inspected your breasts and peered into your vagina, yet you probably felt no embarrassment about the situation at all. Just think of this circumstance in the same fashion."
What a brilliant man, I thought. It was magic the way he could explain away my uneasiness, just as though he knew exactly what made me tick. On his advice I forgot all about my skin, letting it rumple up around my hips as much as it wanted to while Dr. Bruce and I began our doctor-patient relationship.
Dr. Bruce turned out to be a practitioner in a relatively new school of psychiatry called Primalcy. It was a form of psychotherapy which emphasized the articulation of raw, basic feelings by the patients. As Dr. Bruce explained it to me, the primalist saw all these basic feelings as primary for life. However, sometimes feelings became so massive and entrenched – like overgrown roots – and needed to be dredged up from the soggy bottom of the unconscious. Only when the raw, untreated feelings had been yanked into the conscious could the offending emotions be expelled. And at that point the patient was supposed to spill out the primal feelings, getting them to the surface in the most direct way possible.
"But doctor," I said, "what if your feelings are so powerful, so shattering, that you can't bear to say the words that will describe them? What if you just can't make yourself talk about it to another person, even if he is a psychiatrist?"
"Then act it out – with your body," he said calmly. "Words are not the only force of communication. For example, I once had a patient whose underlying problem was that she wanted to be an infant again so everyone would love and take care of her. She had denied this to herself for years, and then when Primalcy Therapy forced it into her conscious, the truth of its existence stunned her into muteness lasting for three weeks. Finally, she was only able to gain her equilibrium by acting her feelings out instead of verbally articulating them. During one session she got down on the floor and actually crawled around my desk and then got into my lap, just like a baby. When she snuggled in my lap her dress came up and I noticed that she wasn't wearing any panties. Being a psychiatrist, I knew what was coming next, but before I could act it happened."
"What?" I asked, somehow strangely excited by his stow. I put my hands in my lap to keep them from fluttering.
"Well, she urinated on me, of course. Just like an infant," he said with a smile.
"Weren't you angry?" I gasped, my fingers fiddling with the hem of my skirt.
"Don't be silly," he said. "I was pleased. Infants only relieve themselves on those they trust. When it happened I knew we were making real progress."
By now my fingers were under my skirt, the tips touching my panties, tracing the line of the elastic. My pussy was uncontrollably throbbing between my thighs.
"Do… do a lot of your female patients take off their clothes?" I asked, my curiosity overcoming my inhibitions.
"First of all," he said, "women are the only kind of patients I treat. I prefer them because they're so much more sensitive than men, so much more human. And as for your question about the clothing. Certainly, many times my patients take off items of apparel. I encourage it if it will make them freer and more comfortable. For instance, I suspect right now that you'd like to be out of those panties… the way you're rubbing your fingers over them."
Suddenly, without warning, I could feel my cunt gushing into my panties. There must have been a spreading circle of dampness at the sheer crotch that he was looking at right now.
"My, my," he confirmed my suspicion, "they must be chafing against you for that to happen. Why don't you take them off. You'll feel more comfortable. The sense of freedom will help you to get more out of the therapy. Believe me, the doctor knows best."
Comfortable. Free. That's how I wanted to feel all right.
Deciding to do it, I started to get up, but he stopped me. "No need to be formal and stand up," he said, "just take them off while you're sitting in the chair. The patient is always right in this office. I like to think I practice what might be called Consumer Psychiatry."
Going along with him I pushed my fingers under the elastic, feeling my bare belly. The panties slid down my hips, their wetness causing a smacking sound when their sopping crotch was pulled from the moistness of my pussy. Within seconds they were over my knees and around my ankles. Then I froze, not being able to figure out what one does with a sopping pair of panties in a psychiatrist's office.
"Just kick them onto the floor," he said. "You can pick them up and put them in your purse on the way out."
I gave a big kick, sending the sopping missile all the way across the room where they landed in a heap. When I started to bring my leg down, I remembered Dr. Bruce's admonitions about being comfortable and hooked it over the armrest. I lolled back in my chair with my thighs apart, self-conscious about nothing.
"You have a beautiful cunt," he said, running his tongue over his lips.
"My gynecologist never told me that," I giggled.
"Well, you'll find that gynecologists and psychiatrists use somewhat different techniques," he said. "Especially those of us practicing Primalcy. Now, tell me what brings you here. I notice your card here says something about gambling."
"I guess that's what my husband told the nurse when he made the appointment for me," I explained. "He just thinks gambling is my problem because I told him that's what accounted for where all the household money's been going, and why everything's been in such a mess around the house lately."
"What really is the problem?" he asked, leaning forward across his desk with obvious anticipation.
"My husband," I said tersely. "George is the problem. He doesn't satisfy me."
"And…?" His mouth seemed to be watering.
"I have to play around behind his back to keep from going nuts. Although I guess that's a funny thing to say when your husband thinks you're so screwy already he makes an appointment for you to see a shrink."
"And the money," Dr. Bruce said. "Where does the money go?"
"This summer I've been paying a young man to… uh… uh…" Suddenly my candor failed me and I was at a loss for words. When I started to tell him about Ron, all of a sudden it struck me as absurd. Who would believe that a full-grown, attractive woman of thirty-eight would pay a young man ten dollars a throw to fuck her?
"What does the young man do to you?" Dr. Bruce asked, practically bridging the top of his desk now in his excitement. "Go ahead, you can say it. You can say anything in this office. I want to hear it."
"I've been paying him to… fuck me," I let it out. With my admission of my relationship with Ron, the psychic pendulum abruptly swung full tilt and all of a sudden I wanted to say everything explicitly. "He sticks his cock in my pussy and he fucks me."
"Are there others?" the doctor asked, staring right between my open legs.
"At first there weren't," I said, "but lately it seems like everyone I can get my hands on. I'm starting to wonder if I can even control it any more."
"Both sexes?" he asked.
"Yes," I admitted. "Even my daughter."
"How was it?"
"Oh, doctor, it was divine!" I gushed, totally unable to hold anything back. "Her pussy was sweeter than you can imagine. And so tight. I can't wait to eat her cunt again. Doctor, does that mean I'm sick?"
"It means you're a normal, healthy woman," he said, drawing back from the desk top and starting to get up.
"Really?" I asked hopefully. "Are you sure?"
"I'm a psychiatrist, aren't I? If you don't believe me, I can prove you're normal right now in this office," he said, walking towards me. Unless my erotic imagination made my eyes deceive me, there was a thick round bulge at the crotch of his expensively tailored pants.
"But how?"
"You're afraid you might be sexually abnormal, correct?" he said, coming up right in front of me. I stared not at his face, but at the apparent bulge in his pants, thirsting to know if it was real.
"Well… yes… yes…" I stammered.
"All right, then, I'm going to show you something. Something a sexually normal woman would respond to," he said, his hands dropping below his waist. "If you start to get shocked when you see it, just remember that I'm showing it to you for strictly medical purposes."
His fingers slid under the flap of his fly and grasped the zipper tab, pulling it down with a screech. Within seconds his hand was in his open fly and pulling out his cock, inch after inch of erect meat springing from his pants. When I saw it all unsheathed it looked as long as my end of Miranda's dildo, a swollen organ of incredible thickness.
"Now a sexually normal woman, seeing a cock like this, would immediately want to suck it," he explained. "Just be honest with yourself, Mrs. Fredericks, you'd like to wrap your lips around my prick, wouldn't you? You'd like to touch it and fondle it, and play with my balls. You'd like to take the head all the way down your throat. You'd like to run the foreskin over the head and the shaft with your tongue, now wouldn't you, Mrs. Fredericks?"
"Yes, yes!" I cried, lurching forward, grabbing for his twitching dick. "Please let me suck it. I can't stand not to suck your cock!"
My primal impulses completely dominated me as I threw my face forward, my mouth speeding toward his throbbing cock like there was a magnetic attraction between the two. Its head was instantly between my lips, as I bathed it with warm spit, lolling the heart-shaped flange over my tongue and teeth and gums.
"I see you really know how to suck a cock," he said, as I nibbled farther and farther down on his suspended rod. "AS a doctor, I'd like to remind you that sucking a cock like this is definitely something a sexually normal woman would do. Am I clear?"
"Mmmmmm," I slurped my reply, bearing down on the stalk of his cock so I was halfway to his hairy balls. While I was sucking, I ran my hands up to the top of his trousers, tugging to get them loose so they would fall to the floor. I wanted him naked so I could throw my arms around his waist and feel his smooth ass in my hands.
"This, too, is a normal reaction by a woman," he said, helping me to get his pants and shorts off.
When he was totally nude from the waist down, my arms encircled him, my fingertips winding up doing a dance in the downy furrow of his ass.
"Stick your finger in my ass while you're sucking my cock," he said from above me. "That's what a normal woman would do."
Desperate to have my actions sanctioned by normalcy, and eager to feel the sweet moistness of his asshole, I quickly complied. His anal ridges throbbed against my fingertip just before I slid it in his ass.
In my mouth his prick was gouging deeper and deeper. I took hold of the six inches of cock that still wasn't between my lips and slowly began to masturbate it. As I tugged at his foreskin his cock-head throbbed maddeningly in the vise of my throat. Incredible sweetness pervaded my senses.
I had my finger up his ass far enough now to begin fruitfully pumping it, reaming him out with miniature fucking motions. Through his membrane I could feel the bulging knot of his prostate gland bulging in excitement, as hard as a stone.
Every time my finger thrust up his asshole, Dr. Bruce's prostate throbbed and his pelvis bucked forward, crashing his dick down my throat. My fingers continued to work the exposed part of his prick, tracing his cock all the way down to its roots in the base of his balls. A come was already starting to dribble out of the end of his prick from fucking my mouth, and simultaneously having his ass pronged. I knew that when he finally came full-force it was going to be excruciating.
The thought of his impending come made me want to fuck. Suddenly I wanted nothing else in the world except his cock in my pussy.
I slid my mouth from around his prick and told him the way I felt. "Dr. Bruce I've got to have you inside of me," I said plaintively, tensing the finger still imbedded in his gooey asshole. "And I don't care if it's normal or not."
"Do you need it?" he said, looming formidably above me.
"Yes, yes, I need it," I cried hungrily.
"What do you need?"
"I need your cock in my cunt. I need you to fuck me. Please… please… fuck me!"
"Now I think it's time for you to lie down on the couch," he said, and held out his hand to me.
It was a long, gleaming expensive piece of furniture, more like an elegant reclining chair than a couch. It was upholstered with soft yellow leather. I tinged, imagining what it would feel like against my bare skin, as I peeled off the rest of my clothing, panting to fuck.
"Wow," I said, as I dropped my bra to the floor and felt my tits springing free, "this is the first time I've actually seen one of these. It looks just like a psychiatrist's couch does in the movies."
"Yes, it's a beauty, isn't it?" he said. "It has seven positions."
Yearning to try it out, I threw myself on it, rolling over on my back when my naked flesh hit the smooth leather. I was quickly in the perfect fucking position, propped up on my elbows so I could see everything that was going to happen, with my legs parted to the ultimate. My cunt flexed invitingly at him, begging him to plunge his stiff rod in my love hole. I'd never wanted to fuck more in my life.
He eased between my open legs, zeroing in with his hot lance. When the throbbing tip of his prick was but inches from my hungrily awaiting pussy, I seized it. My fingers wound around his shaft, guiding the head of his dick right to where I wanted it to go.
His cock-head brushed against the stiffness of my clit, piercing my slick pussy lips. When I had the tip of him inside me, I wiggled my ass, sending a tremor down the stalk of his cock that made his balls contract.
My cunt was so lubricated with horny arousal that he slid easily in. He had no trouble burying at least eight inches of his cock's foot-long length with a single push. The core of my being abruptly filled with hot, throbbing prick. I bucked my hips, my body rhythmically grinding in a classic fucking motion.
I snaked my arms around his waist, once again searching for the perfect pucker of his asshole. My experienced finger immediately found his glowing anus, shoving instantly inside to the third knuckle. His asshole was a gooey trough now, stimulated into oozing stickiness by having been finger-fucked before. And now I really reamed him out, aiming downward with my pumping thrusts so my fingertip would be sure to continually strike the throbbing rock of his prostate.
The fingerfucking I was giving his ass only made his cock work harder. It reached incredible depths within my pussy, surging at least ten inches inside.
There was only one thing left to make my rapture complete as Dr. Bruce fucked me. With my free hand I groped for his balls, squeezing them firmly. In my grip I could feel them tighten every time I jabbed his ass and tightened my cunt. His entire reproductive system knotted into an elongated fist of passion.
And then, just when I thought I couldn't take any more without coming so hard I'd shatter, both of us started to move together uncontrollably. It was incredible, as though we had been lifted into space and there were no restraints of gravity to inhibit our fucking. Like a waterbed, but a dozen times more fantastic.
"How do you like this position?" Dr. Bruce whispered in my ear as his prick surged further than ever before into my jack-knifed body.
I answered with a thrust of my impossibly contorted pelvis. The penetration was deeper than I had thought humanly possible. When I looked between my legs, I saw that at last he was in me to the hilt, an entire foot of thick cock imbedded in my pussy.
Then, suddenly, we started moving again, this time going the opposite way. And then, as the couch humped under my back and made my pussy the highest point of my body, I noticed the whirring.
"The couch, the couch!" I cried with delirious ecstasy. "You're making the couch move!"
"Which position would you like next?" he asked, sliding his dick greasily in and out of my humped cunt.
"All of them!" I screamed with joy. "All seven of them!"
"Well, not at once," he chuckled, reaching over the side and pushing a button.
The whirring couch suddenly started to fold up, compressing our bodies so that our loins seemed to melt together. Then it went backward… then forward… dipping… flattening.
How many positions were there? Only seven? It seemed impossible there could be that few. There seemed like dozens as Dr. Bruce's finger was constantly on the button now, our fucking rhythm dictated by the bizarre manipulations of the psychiatrist's couch.
It was back in the jack-knife position that I started to come, feeling the cream erupt from my pussy walls and swamp the doctor's engorging prick. I yearned for a simultaneous explosion, lusting for him to spill his juice at the same time I did. To make him come I pressed my finger deeper and deeper into his ass, gouging downward so his prostate would send the message to his balls to erupt.
His dick inside my pussy was my barometer as to the success of my efforts up his ass. When his cock thrust forth that last fraction of an inch just before he came, I started to slowly slide my finger out of his anus, scraping the tender lining with my nail.
Like I was pulling a cork from a champagne bottle, I painstakingly withdrew my finger from his ass, crooking the knuckle so it would be like a corkscrew up his anal canal. Licking my lips at the anticipated result, I finally withdrew all the way, my knuckle popping as it left his hole. Instantaneously his come shot from his cock into my pussy, bathing my thirsty fuck canal with a spurting ocean of sperm.
The flow of his come was more than the limit my pussy could take. As he kept spurting, I could feel the goo sliding out of my box, gazing my thighs and trickling onto the couch. The combination of fresh semen and leather against our flesh made us slide on the couch as we came and came. My body seemed to be going every which way, only my cunt anchored by Dr. Bruce's heavy, spearing, ejaculating prick.
"Let me lick the rest of it off," I panted to him, wanting to taste his come before my pussy swallowed it all. "Pull out and lay back so I can suck your prick."
His dangling hand pressed the button and within seconds we were stretched out as flat as boards. He pulled out of me as I'd asked, rolling over so his cock stood straight up in the air.
I was pleased to see that his prick was still oozing come as I sat up and gazed hungrily at his crotch. It was amazing that he was still so stiff after all the fucking he'd done, and even more astounding that there was still some come left to spill from his prick.
I started my licking at the base of his balls, knowing that I would immediately taste came no matter where I began. His crotch was just covered with the stuff, both male and female cream drenching his loins.
The exquisite taste of pussy juice mixed with sperm made my nostrils flare as I lapped his balls. I put one ball in my mouth and dissolved the stickiness, and then the other, taking both of them at once. When the come was finally gone, I released him, his scrotum as pink as the cheeks of a baby's ass.
My tongue worked around the well of his crotch, lapping the gobs of sperm and cunt juice from his thickly matted cock hair. Every crinkly strand of hair that caught in my mouth was like pure ambrosia as I sucked them from between my teeth and swallowed them along in the river of heavenly juice.
His prick stood up straighter and straighter as I finally started to scale it with my tongue, marveling anew at its length. It was hard work licking him clean, so enormous was his tool, the sperm and pussy juice having stuck to his prick like thick, rich honey.
The veins of his cock throbbed against my tongue and lips, telling me that the fires of excitement were raging near peak fury again with his tireless instrument. By the time I got to the head, his loins were propelling his prick in a renewed fucking motion. His hips started to buckle just as violently as they had when he had come in my pussy, and now I realized that if I kept sucking he would come a second time – this time in my mouth.
I licked the last of the old come off the head of his dick, eagerly wiping his cock as clean as a whistle so I could start anew. This time I didn't swallow the whole organ; I just kept the knotty end between my lips, while my excited fingers did the rest of the work.
Slowly I jerked his pliant foreskin back and forth along the expanse of his cock, jacking him off with all the inventiveness I could muster. I let my lips droop just lightly enough so there was enough room to push his loose dick skin inside my mouth, holding it there until I suddenly yanked it back, his whole body shuddering from the friction.
Even though it was already coated with fuck juice, my stomach grumbled in anticipation of the new load I was milking, craving the impending nourishment from his cock. To stimulate him I did wonders with my tongue, driving its tip into his slit and diminutively fucking the tip of his prick. The tissues of his urethra sucked against the tip like a tiny cunt, begging to be stimulated.
The longer I had to wait for his ejaculation, the more excited I got. Finally my arousal was so great that I had no choice but to abandon my slow, tantalizing ways. I really started whacking his meat, jacking him off the way a horny teenager would handle his dick while drooling over a Penthouse centerfold. I sucked madly at the head of his cock, trying, to suction the come out of it.
To hasten matters my finger plunged into his asshole. His anus was tight and gooey, throbbing from the oral laceration his dick was taking. I began slowly pumping, working up a froth inside his asshole. Kneading his enlarged prostate, I brought him closer to the brink of the second coming.
In my excitement I stuffed a second finger in his ass… and then a third. When there still seemed to be room, I added my pinkie and thumb, creating a tremendous knot at the core of his body. The distension forced his cock to shoot unbelievably into my throat, the frantic jerking of my fingers around his tool replaced by my wildly sucking lips.
I balled my fingers within his ass, gasping at the elasticity of his sweet shithole. As I began slowly pumping my wrist, my fist slid along his anus, making his prick pitch like falling timber in my mouth.
From the way he was shaking now I knew he was ready to come a second time. My mouth twitched as it waited to be inundated with fresh semen. Paving the way, my fist bashed into his colon and them abruptly retracted, sliding with a loud pop all the way out of his bunghole. The sensation must have been five times greater for him than when I had just pulled one finger out of his ass when we'd been fucking. He bayed like a wounded animal as my fist came ripping out of his ass, and them spilled his load into my mouth, the come flowing in a torrent.
I threw my hands to my face. My fingers pressed to my mouth, trying to hold in the streaming come that was already oozing out. My cheeks were taut with the excess of semen inside. My throat gagged. I couldn't swallow fast enough because of his constant spurting refills.
Finally the pressure was too great for me to endure. My mouth erupted as though I were vomiting. Dr. Bruce's cock came out first in the rush, followed by a mouthful and throatful of steaming sperm. It splattered all over both of us, bathing my neck and tits, and splattering all over the doctor's crotch.
My hands pounced on my tits, slurping up the come with my fingers and ferrying it to my mouth. I raised a breast and licked it, craning my head so I could swirl my tongue around the turgid nipple and lick the sperm off. Then I did the same with the other tit, glowing in the combined taste of my doctor's love juice and my own sweet breast.
I went for his groin now, licking off the come that matted his pubic bush. His balls were even sweeter than before. My tongue snaked all the way under to his ass. It was drooling with deliciousness.
I stuck my fingers in his ass again, lingering just long enough to capture a load of his anal drool. Then I eagerly brought it from between his thighs to my mouth, tasting his sweetness by greedily cramming my fingers in my mouth like a child snatching maple syrup on the sly.
His dick was finally wilting. Even growing limp it was still formidable though, greater when softening than most men's cocks when hard. Even limp it would beat one of George's so-called hard-ons by at least two inches on the coldest day of the year.
He was collapsed from exhaustion, comatose, with his eyes closed. Obviously the doctor was through for the afternoon. I couldn't help but wonder what he'd do about his next appointment.
I got up and gathered my clothes, putting them on as best I could, and stuffing my sopping panties in my purse. Over at the doctor's desk I found a prescription pad and wrote him a note.
"Dear Dr. Bruce: See you same time next week. I think you really can help me with my problems."
As I signed my name a sudden inspiration hit me. After placing the note right in the middle of his blotter, I reached inside my purse. Extracting my sodden panties, I balled them up and plopped them on top of the note. They were so wet with pussy juice they'd be sure and hold the note down until the doctor finally discovered it.
My weekly appointments with Dr. Bruce helped immeasurably. Not because of the usual psychiatric reasons, but because seeing him guaranteed a cock up my pussy at least once a week, and right now I needed that certainty.
Summer was over. Just like that the kids were back in school, gone all day. Ron was back in school too, of course, I'd been having such a ball that I'd never stopped to consider that some day it would be over. But it was.
And then, just when our "coffee breaks" were getting to be a regular thing, Miranda Fossgraves' husband made a new killing in the plastic business by exporting some life-like vinyl pussies from Hong Kong, and he used the profits to move them to a bigger house in a classier suburb.
Except for the hope of an occasional salesman, Dr. Bruce was all I had. And while his foot-long cock was overly generous, it wasn't enough. Not for me. My sessions with the shrink had guaranteed me a weekly fuck with the biggest prick I'd ever seen, but they had done nothing to curb my appetite for more and more sex. It seemed like the harder and longer the doctor and I fucked every Tuesday, the more I wanted when I left the office. Once or twice I might have pounced on his receptionist, except that she was about sixty years old and had warts.
Meanwhile, on Tuesdays I was still seeing the psychiatrist. It was expensive for George – but he went along with it because I seemed so happy.
I looked forward to seeing Dr. Bruce on Tuesday for the next long, hot summer.