New York City, 1963

Stella approached the perfume counter with calculated nonchalance. It wasn’t the same shop girl today, thank heavens. She could simply breeze past the trays of colognes and take her ritual sniff of Chanel Pour Monsieur, and no one would be the wiser.

She consulted her watch. Her palms started to sweat a little. How ridiculous. Why did she have to get so nervous week after week? And why did she insist on visiting the perfume counter every Tuesday afternoon? The scent of him only made her more nervous.

She located the Chanel Pour Monsieur, removed the cap, and took a deep, reverent breath. She could see him as she inhaled the unmistakable blend of citrus and oak-moss. His long, elegant fingers were twirling his fountain pen; his dark eyes were inscrutable behind his browline glasses.

“Are you shopping for your husband?” chirped the shop girl.

Stella jumped and replaced the cap so quickly she nearly dropped the bottle. “I—no. No, I’m just—I just like the way it smells.”

“It’s popular.” The girl regarded her thoughtfully. “A little old, though.” She appeared to be scanning Stella’s left hand for a ring.

What did “old” mean? Dr. London couldn’t be more than 35, Stella mused as she smiled woodenly at the shop girl and fled.

Her appointment was in fifteen minutes. She headed mechanically up Fifth Avenue as the doors of Bonwit Teller closed heavily behind her.

What would Dr. London ask her this week? If her appointments had taught her anything, it was that she could never anticipate his questions. She glanced down at her pristine Hermès Kelly handbag—a gift from Charles—and sighed. He would somehow know that she had had a fight with Charles. She’d wind up telling him everything—even that Charles had called her a frigid bitch.

That’s why she was seeing Dr. London, right? Wasn’t it because she was a frigid bitch? Stella caught sight of Dr. London’s office window and felt a flutter in her stomach. Was he watching her from his fourth-floor office? Could he pick her out of the hoards of late-afternoon shoppers, the haphazard parade of unhappy young housewives looking for expensive distractions?

She thought again of Dr. London’s five o’clock shadow. The previous afternoon she’d spent a good half hour touching herself and imaging how Dr. London—Oliver—would look after a fierce night of lovemaking. Would his thick, scrupulously groomed hair go this way and that? Would she be able to see where her fingers had clutched and pulled at his hair as he tasted her pussy? Would he pull her warm, sleepy body against his and kiss her until she felt his erection nudge her impatiently? Would she wince a little as he plunged yet again into her? Surely the insatiable desire for his cock would make her forget how sore her pussy was.

Stella shook her head and silently chastised herself. Dear Lord, she’d actually gotten a bit wet as she daydreamed her way into Dr. London’s building. She stepped gingerly into the elevator and nodded to the operator, who was well acquainted with her routine.

The waiting area smelled of coffee and furniture polish. She waved shyly at Dr. London’s receptionist as she approached the desk.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Cassidy! Dr. London is ready for you. Shall I bring you your tea?”

“Oh, no, thank you, Lois.” She smiled warmly at the receptionist, who had never been anything but motherly to her. If Lois knew that she’d just worked herself into a state while fantasizing about Dr. London, she’d positively die of embarrassment.

“Stella! How are you?”

She actually jumped at the smooth rumble of his voice behind her. The blood was rushing to her cheeks. She could feel it.

“Dr. London, you scared her half to death!” Lois clicked her tongue at him.

“I’m sorry.”

He was smiling at Lois. His smile was so rare and so beautiful that it made her heart lurch.

“Hi, Dr. London,” she managed to choke out as he ushered her into the sunny office. His suit was as pristine as ever. It was all she could do not to run her hand along the wool crepe of his jacket and feel the hard muscle of his back underneath. She caught a hint of Chanel Pour Monsieur as she passed him.

“How have you been since our last conversation?” He waited for her to take her usual position on the nail-head leather sofa before taking a seat in his wingchair. The leather had been warmed by the afternoon sun. She watched him cross his legs and place her file on his lap. The grace of his movements mesmerized her.

“I’ve been all right.”

“I don’t believe you.”

She snapped to attention. He wasn’t smiling, exactly, but there was amusement in his eyes. He’d never joked with her before.

“You’re right.” She grinned at him. To her amazement, he smiled back. “Charles—” She swallowed hard. “I’d rather not talk about Charles, if that’s all right.”

“What would you like to talk about?”

Stella closed her eyes. She wanted to tell him that Charles had it all wrong: she was neither frigid nor insane. She wanted to tell him about the fantasies that left her half-breathless at night. She wanted to tell him that she dreamed of clawing lightly at his arms and back as he plunged his cock into her hot wetness and whispered lewdly at her ear. She wanted to tell him that she would beg to be committed to an asylum if it meant that he would come to her bed and fuck her daily.


Oh, God, had he guessed her thoughts? She blushed and plucked an imaginary piece of lint off her dress.

“Why don’t I ask a few questions?” He was smiling again. Two smiles in the space of five minutes! She wondered what she’d done to deserve such bounty. “May I speak frankly? I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”

Stella stared. This session was growing stranger by the minute. Never before had Dr. London expressed especial concern for her comfort. Really, though, he’d never gone out of his way to make her uncomfortable. His questions had been unpredictable, but they’d always been innocuous enough: Had she had a happy childhood? How many friends had she had in primary school? How did she feel about her father? Had she ever regretted being an only child? He strung one question after another as if he were threading beads. The rhythm of his interrogations had always been almost soporific. His posture was quite different today, though. He was looking at her. It thrilled and unnerved her. She nodded and smiled shyly.

“I need to know,” he said, his low voice a shade quieter now, “how often you touch yourself.”

She inhaled sharply and sat up on the sofa.

“You—you don’t have to answer right now.” He made a conciliatory gesture. “I realize we haven’t really—”

“Every day.”

“Every day,” he repeated mechanically. His pen remained motionless in his hand.

Stella felt half sick. There had been no stopping the words. The part of her that wanted Dr. London to imagine her touching herself had silenced any sense of shame or propriety. She fixed her gaze on the oriental rug at her feet.

“How do you feel when you touch yourself?” His composure appeared to have returned.

“What do you mean?”

“Do you enjoy it?”

“Yes.” She met his gaze at last. His expression, ordinarily so stoic, had taken on a certain tautness. She felt compelled to provoke him. “I almost always experience a climax.”

He uncrossed and crossed his legs. “And what about afterwards? Do you feel anything?”

“Feel anything?”

“Like guilt.”

“Not exactly,” she said, coloring a little. “I don’t feel guilty about actually doing it, but I do feel guilty about the thoughts I have while doing it.”

Dr. London’s pen had yet to touch the paper. He looked at her until she dropped her gaze to the floor again. The air had grown a bit thick; it seemed to buzz around her ears.

“Tell me.”

His voice was flat, dispassionate, and strangely authoritarian. Stella cleared her throat and furrowed her brows as she heard him light a cigarette. He had never smoked during any of their sessions.

She bit her lip. If she somehow managed to choke out the words, Dr. London would never want to see her again. Her nymphomaniacal fantasies—for surely that’s what they were—would disgust him. Or perhaps—and this would be far worse—perhaps he would pity her.

“Stella,” he rumbled. “Tell me.”

“Dr. London, I—I just don’t think—”

“I won’t ask again.” He turned to exhale a long stream of smoke.

Stella looked at him and blinked. His entire demeanor had changed: he still moved with spare grace, but his presence felt suddenly imposing, his gaze cool and demanding. He looked as if he could spring from his chair at any moment, and it was impossible to say what would happen at that point if he did. She was no longer in charge of the way the session progressed. Perhaps she had never been.

“I…I—I want…” her voice sounded thin and almost alien to her ears. “I want to be held down.” She shut her eyes tightly and licked her lips. “I want to be overpowered and…and hidden away and kept and pushed against a wall and kissed and used and….” She finally opened her eyes.

His chair was empty. Her heart leapt up into her throat. But it was too late; the words kept spilling out.

“I want to be fucked! I just want to be fucked. I want to be ordered to come and—”

“By whom, Stella?” His voice was behind her. She watched small curls of cigarette smoke drift into her view, but she didn’t dare turn around.

Her mind screamed the answer: You, Dr. London. I want you to do all those things to me. Her lips would not form the words. Her heart was pounding too hard.

“Tell me.”

Stella willed herself to turn around. When her body finally obeyed, she found herself mere inches away from Dr. London’s face. Before she could take another breath, his lips were on hers.


She thought often of that day, of the very first time that Oliver fucked her on the leather sofa and then held her in reverent silence. He had stroked her hair, traced the soft planes of her face with his long fingers. She had lain against him, her heart beating like a rabbit’s, and waited in vain for him to say something. He had finally nudged her gently, and she had taken it as her cue to get dressed. Then she had finally walked home and wondered when her feet would register contact with the pavement. She hadn’t even said a word to Oliver’s receptionist on her way out.

The words came later. For all his refined reserve, Oliver was, as it turned out, quite a demanding man. He had laid out his conditions at her very next appointment: she was, first and foremost, forbidden to have sex with Charles under any circumstances. She assured him that such a thing would not be difficult; her husband rarely touched her. Still, if Charles did happen to corner as she brushed her teeth or sat reading McCall’s, she quickly discovered that she couldn’t hide it from Oliver. He could sense it—could smell Charles’s touch on her as if he were a dog and a rival had left a mark on his territory.

Stella became unspeakably aroused if she gave too much thought to the afternoon she spent trying to lure Oliver into fucking her. She’d sat languidly in his wingchair, her skirt hiked up around her waist and one knee hooked over an armrest. He had sat on the sofa, his generous erection patently visible through his neatly pressed trousers, and watched her hand trail lewdly between her spread thighs.

“I thought only of you,” she said, smiling as his eyes went smoky with lust. “I only want you.”

“He touched you.” He watched her hand as if hypnotized. “He fucked you.”

“I only want you to fuck me,” she whimpered.


“Then I’m leaving.” She began to swing her leg off the armrest.

“No, you’re not.” He paused and fished another cigarette out of his jacket pocket. “Keep those legs spread.”

“You’re punishing me.”

“Yes.” His eyes remained fixed on her as he lit up. “But this hurts me more than it hurts you.”

She had begged, threatened, and attempted to barter. It was no good. And whenever her fingers began moving too purposefully between her thighs, Oliver promptly stopped her. Did she really, he wondered, need another reminder that she was not to come without his express permission? Stella had left his office so wet that she could smell her arousal on the cab ride home.

There were other conditions: the moment Stella stepped inside his office, she was his to command. Any request was to be met with happy and immediate compliance. She had so far found it quite easy to oblige him: in the past month, none of his requests had even given her pause, perhaps because she had been quite certain that they would all result in almost violent climaxes. She dearly loved climaxing for him, loved feeling his hand clasp over her mouth, quieting her moans.

At night, after Charles was asleep, she grew impatient and wet as she wondered what Oliver would command next. She imagined him ordering her to kneel under his desk and take his cock in her mouth as he made follow-up calls to patients. She squirmed in bed and imagined him forbidding her to let go of the leather chair back as his tongue brought her to the sort of orgasm that left her legs trembling.

He consumed her thoughts utterly. She conjured the low, controlled evenness of his voice every time Charles chastised her. She dreamed of the hardness of his arms, the smooth breadth of his back, every time Charles shot her disdainful looks across the dining table. Oliver’s hunger for her, his passion for dominating her in precisely the way she wanted to be dominated, was the only thing keeping her sane. It was quite likely that she was in love with him.


“Going up, Mrs. Cassidy?” The elevator operator smiled warmly at her.

This was it. She was minutes away from seeing Oliver again. Her stomach became a riot of butterflies every time she rode the elevator up to his office. She had found it necessary to stop visiting the cologne counter at Bonwit’s before her appointments; the smell of Chanel Pour Monsieur now made her alarmingly wet in seconds. She was like one of Pavlov’s dogs.

“Hello, dear!” Oliver’s receptionist held her hands out to take Stella’s coat. If Lois suspected anything, she certainly didn’t let on. Although Oliver made concerted efforts to keep their sessions quiet—he had once threatened to shove her stockings into her mouth if she continued to moan so loudly—Stella had to assume that Lois had her suspicions.

“Hello, Lois.” She beamed as she handed over her coat.

“Dr. London would like you to go right in.”

“Certainly. Thank you, Lois.”

Stella could hear the clack-clack of Oliver’s typewriter as she stepped through his open office door with as much grace as her nerves would allow. Her breath caught in her throat as he looked up at her. A cigarette perched between his finely wrought fingers. He had loosened his tie and undone the top button of his tailored dress shirt. Lord, he was handsome; it was sure to be her undoing. She mutely watched him rise from his desk and come to her.

He shut the door and looked her up and down. His eyes traveled with such sensual slowness that she felt herself go slightly limp. And he hadn’t even touched her yet.

“Take everything off,” he said composedly.

“Kiss me first?” Her hands slid eagerly up his chest. He caught them up in his own and pushed them away.

“You’re not listening. Take everything off.” He began hastily unbuttoning her jacket, a tweed Yves Saint Laurent she had bought in the lonely days when she did nothing but shop. Stella watched his mouth as he spoke. “When you’re naked, face the window.”

She looked at the floor-to-ceiling windows and then gaped at him. “What if somebody sees?”

“Now, please.”

“You want someone to see me?” She gawked indignantly at him.

“Stop asking questions. Take your dress off.” He strode back over to his desk, sat down, and resumed taking long drags from his cigarette. His eyes never left her body.

Stella’s cheeks burned as she unzipped her shift dress and stepped out of it. Her slip and girdle soon followed. By the time her bra fell to the floor, his eyes had taken on that opaque darkness that always filled her with a perverse urge to provoke him further. He blew out a cloud of smoke and nodded as she placed her hands submissively behind her back.

“To the window.” He extinguished his cigarette. “Hands on the glass, above your head.”

Stella squinted against the brightness as she approached the tall window. The carpet under her bare feet warmed as she stepped into the square of sunlight. She stopped right at the glass and looked down at the Fifth Avenue traffic. How long before someone caught sight of the pale, naked woman standing brazenly in the fourth-floor window? She put her hands on the glass and closed her eyes. It was what Oliver wanted.

She waited several minutes but didn’t dare turn around. Her eyes acclimated to the brightness. It was astonishing: the scene below her—the bright blur of cabs, the endless parade of businessmen and afternoon shoppers and harried shop girls and delivery men and buses—whooshed on as it would any other day. No one had thought to take in the peep show she was staging under duress.

The scent of Chanel Pour Monsieur signaled his nearness and sent a tingle down her body. “Stella,” he whispered, his hot breath tickling her ear, “spread your legs.”

She feared the movement would attract attention. “Oliver, it’s—”

“Spread your legs.” His hot hand cupped her ass; she started at his touch.

“What are you going—”

“Stella, I will take you over my knee the next time you open your mouth. Now open your legs.”

Her breath caught again. He had never spanked her, but the thought sent pleasurable spasms through her pussy. As she stepped out to spread her legs for him, she tried to imagine what her ass would look like with his red hand-prints all over it.

But suddenly his fingers were thrusting into her pussy, and all other thoughts fled.

“You’re so wet for me. Always so wet,” he murmured as he fingered her from behind.

Stella bit her lip to quiet her moans. Her hands moved restively, leaving a jumble of smears on the glass above her head. She arched her back to give his fingers better access. When she felt his other hand glide up her flat stomach and cup her breast, she sighed. When he pinched her nipple, she accidentally smacked her forehead against the window and smiled as she heard him chuckle.

“Be careful, baby,” he said soothingly. His fingers continued to pump wetly in and out of her as his other hand wandered greedily, groping one breast and then the other. Stella suspected that he could make her come with just a few more minutes’ effort. She pressed her moans against her arm to muffle them.

“Stella, look at me,” he ordered. She whimpered in protest as she felt his fingers withdraw and finally turned to meet his gaze. She watched dazedly as he lifted his fingers to his lips and licked off the thick glaze of her juices. He smirked at her. “Step back a little. Keep your legs spread. Palms stay on the glass.”

Stella got into position without another word. She was beyond remonstration, beyond indignity; nothing mattered except the pleasure Oliver was intent on giving her. He knelt before her, his back to the window. She gasped as his hands reached around to knead the curves of her ass.

“I can smell how much you want me to fuck you.” His hot breath tickled the fuzzy curls between her legs as he spoke. His long fingers spread her gently as they massaged her ass. “But you’re not going to get fucked until I’ve tasted you.” He abruptly licked the top of her slit, making her squeal. “Be quiet this time. I’d rather not waste time taping your mouth.”

Stella bit her lip hard as his tongue slid adroitly between the wet folds of her pussy. She imagined the obscene tableau she and Oliver made—a lean, well-dressed man kneeling down to pleasure a naked woman, her palms planted on the window—and only became more aroused. His hands had left her ass and begun to roam freely over her body. Stella desperately hoped that he would reach up to maul her tits, which now felt heavy and hypersensitive. She knew better than to plead with him or direct his hands to her breasts, though: the first time she had done such a thing, Oliver had reminded her that he did as he pleased by stopping altogether and ordering her to watch him finish himself off.

“Her legs look like a road map! Their cover in veins.” He tells me angrily.

“You use to say it was a road map to paradise.” She says hotly.

“Yea then I followed that map and ended up in Death Valley. There are places there you could get out of with a GPS and a four wheel drive!” He screams back at her.

If you can imagine this is the kind of things I listen to for a living. I get paid to help people get through their marital troubles.

Take Mr. and Mrs. Williams here. They hate the ground each other walks on. They can’t stand each other. To be in the same room is to be arguing. They have been screaming at each other for more than three decades!

And my job is to make them not get a divorce when I think it would probably be the best thing for the both of them. Hell they should have been divorced when I was ten!

I’ve seen it all. Husbands cheating on wives. Wives cheating on husbands. And every flavor in between.

I’ve had both try to even get with me. They said in school that it would happen. People always fall for their therapist.

“He couldn’t get his dick hard with four Viagra and a can of fix a flat!” I listen with out comment as Mrs. Williams yells

“Last time I fucked her I had to go get a tetanus shot her pussy is so rusty!” he counters.

So I listen and I get paid to try to make people look past their problems to the real causes of their marital troubles.

“I’m on a low sodium diet. Every thing she cooks tastes like a salt lick! I think the bitch is trying to kill me!” I look at him with a raised eyebrow.

“He puts ketchup on everything he eats. He never even tastes it first just buries it under damn ketchup!”

Thank you both for coming, same time next week.

I sigh in the silence after they leave. I look at my appointment book. Just one left then home to my own wife and our problems.

It the old saying about a plumber’s toilet being clogged, a carpenter’s deck falling apart, and mechanic’s car doesn’t run. Well a marital therapist having marital troubles it the same joke.

The sick part is I know ‘Our’ problem. We like so may of my clients got married too young, then stayed together for the good of our children. Now those children are gone off to live their own lives and we have discover that we have nothing in common. That the two people that fell madly in love with one another are long dead and buried in the past.

Reaching into the drawer of my desk I take out a bottle of hand lotion and wipe down my dry arms. My wife calls it an obsessive habit.

I look up as my receptionist let in my last patient for the day.

“Thank you Jane, that will be all for the day.”

I watch Mrs. Tompson make her way over to the chair in front of my desk. She’s alone like always. Her husband refused to come to counseling says it’s a stupid waste of money. He would rather spend his hard-earned money on new golf clubs.

Least that’s what she says.

Having done a profile on him I would say he’s spending his money on an affair. I haven’t mentioned it to her yet in case I’m mistaken.

I smile my professional smile and get to my feet. Going to the door I look out at the empty lobby. I lock the door.

“So Susan how was this week?’ I ask her as I watch her put her purse down in one of the chairs.

“Not too much of an improvement. He bought a set of fifty-year-old golf clubs off Ebay. Paid five hundred dollars for them then chewed me out for buying a hundred dollars in clothes. It was one blouse and a skirt!”

I watch her slowly strip off a pair of lacy gloves from her delicate hands.

I move over to stand behind her. She’s looking across my desk to the view of the lake outside. The view like the lake are man made, but they still cost a fortune. My colleagues envy me the office though. Says that the view must have a calming affect on my patients.

I haven’t noticed.

“This skirt?’ I ask her softly.

“Yes.” She whispers.

I run my hand down her hip.

“What do you have on under it?”

I hear the intake of breathe, the excited gasp at my touch.

“I’m not wearing anything under it Doctor.” She tells me as she places her hands on my desk.

I move my hand to the middle of her back and roughly push her face down onto my desk. My hand pulls her skirt up out the way.

I look down at the beautiful curves of her full figured body. Mrs. Tompson is what they politely call a large waisted woman.

To me that’s always ment they had a spectacular ass!

Her skin is warm and soft under my hand as I caress her cheeks. I grip a hand full of her ass then in a rush I drop to my knees behind her.

Leaning I place hard kisses on the soft skin, bringing them ever closer to the center. The warm, inviting place of pleasure forbidden me by my wife.

But not by Mrs. Tompson.

She confessed to me, in one of our first sessions, that her husbands ignoring her ass was one of her primary reasons for their marital difficulties.

To him a woman’s ass is a one way street, a no-man’s land to be crossed only in the most desperate time usually under fire.

A dirty place. A sinful place even.

Spreading her ass cheeks slowly I take in the inward swirl of her little rose bud. In a way I guess it a good thing her husband doesn’t pay more attention to her here. He might have come to notice that she is by far more open now than in years past.

My kisses go down into the dark valley between her cheeks. The warm heat of her pushes against my face as I bury my lips against her.

I listen to her moan as I lick, first softly then with a growing aggression. Finally I’m driving my tongue into her as deep as her ass cheeks will let my face get.

She opens under my mouth first a little, then the muscles relax till I’m meeting little resistance as I push inside.

I stand up and reach down to my pants. I open the zipper and the snap and let them fall to my knees. I lean across her, feeling the hot heat of her ass against my cock. I grab the lotion bottle and stepping back I pour a large squeeze onto my fingers. With a brutal force that I would never use with any other woman I push the lotion up inside her.

“Oh dear god! Gently Doctor please!” she begs me. “You hurt me something fierce last time.”

“You loved it though didn’t you?” I ask as I move my two fingers around inside her. She whimpers then I slowly feel her relax, even pushing back against my hand a little.

“Yes.” She says in a whisper.

“Then do you really want me to be gentle?” I ask as I pull my fingers from her. I look down to see the creamy hole slowly close back. I know it will take very little to open it back up.

And I’m not very little.

I see her fingers grip the far edge of my desk. I watch her slowly shake her head.

I smile. She has always shown a reluctance to beg for what she really wants. I think it might be part of the problem’s she’s having with her husband.

Stepping closer to her I place the head of my cock against her tight ring. It clinches shut as I give it a slight push.

“You know better than that.” I tell her in warning.

She leans her head down on my desk and slowly nods. I feel the opening relax as I give a slight push.

The low guttural moan from her as I slide first the head, then inch after inch into her is primitive and arousing.

As I feel my flat stomach press hard into the cheeks of her ass, trying to get even deeper I hear her whimper.

“Oh please.” She says clawing at my desk.

“Please what?’ I ask as I pull out of her till just the head is inside.


The whole length of me goes back into her in a long quick thrust. I focus on her hands. The knuckles turning white as she clutches the wooden edging.

Grabbing her hips I start up a steady rhythm in and out the tight warmth. I look down seeing myself compress to fit into her she’s so very tight.

I feel myself starting to sweat a little. Reaching up I loosen my tie and open the top button of my shirt. It helps.

My eyes come to focus on the view outside as I settle into a hard pounding pace. I listen with a half smile to the animal like sounds coming from her. Driven by the force of my thrusts she’s grunting out each breath, sucking in air as I pull back to the now very open ring.

I feel the warm heat of her down the whole length, as thrust after thrust makes her wetter and wetter. Her body responding to this invasion.

“Oh god yes!” I hear her scream out. I feel her legs trembling against the front of mine.

I smile to myself knowing I’ve made her cum without ever touching her clit. She confessed to me once, after I had done this to her the first time, that she had never really had this powerful an orgasm with her husband. Since then I’ve given her several more to compare it to.

I think they’re getting stronger, but what do I know. I’m just being paid to help her keep her marriage together.

I lean forward as I feel myself starting to get close. I slide my hands under her blouse and across her warm stomach. My fingers go under her bra and holding onto both her tits, I begin to truly pound into her.

I listen with pleasure to the sounds of her whimpering under me. I find her nipples in all that warm flesh and pinch them hard. It brings a screech of pain, but she’s position in such a way that she couldn’t stop me now no matter what.

Not that she really wants me to stop.

I bring one hand around from under her and catch the back of her long hair. I pull on it as I ram the last few strokes into her ass with all my need to cum. The sounds coming from her. Moans of pleasure, whimpers of pain, guttural gasps for breath are all lost under the deeper throated cry from me as I feel myself release into the dark depths of her ass.

I collapse onto her panting for breath. I only half listen to her under me. She’s crying lightly. I know from asking her it’s from a mixture of pain at the invasion and pleasure at the intensity of the orgasm she feels when I cum in her ass.

Slowly my head feeling kind of disconnected I lift myself up off her back and stumble back to one of the chairs behind me.

I watch her slowly slide to her knees, then to the floor leaned into the front of my desk. Her hands hold weekly on the wood as she pants for breath. I see shivers run through her.

Slowly she turns to look at me and I beckon her to come to me.

I feel like the king of the world as I watch her crawl to where I’m sitting. She presses her face into the lightly tanned skin by my knee.

I smile down at her as she looks up at me with tear filled eyes.

“I love you Doctor.” She whispers to me.

I smile down at her. Like they said in school every one falls for their therapist.

As I watch she slowly kisses her way up my thigh. I shiver as I feel the tip of her tongue lightly lick me. I watch her as she cleans me with her mouth something no woman before her has ever done, not even after regular sex let alone what we just did.

Leaning back I just enjoy the powerful sensations she’s giving me.

After the fury of taking her from behind the soft feeling of her lips is a relaxing pleasure. I harden slowly and come to orgasm even more slowly. I just lean in the chair watching her head bob on my cock till I feel the release. It leaves me spent and panting for breath.

I recover slowly no need to rush. I watch her put her clothes to right, then with a compact from her purse, put her face back together. The black lines of mascara down her cheeks disappear, the smears of lipstick around her mouth vanish.

With my cock still hanging limply on my thigh she leans down and gives me a long kiss, her tongue deposits a taste of my own cum into my mouth. The knowledge that she had been saving it in her mouth the whole time she got cleaned up sends a surge of lust back through my cock.

“Same time next week?” she asks me pleasantly.

“You still think you and your husband are going to be having problems?” I ask blinking up at her face.

“O hell yes. He mentioned last night going on a golf trip to the golf resorts in Hawaii. Just him. Saves I would be bored to death there with nothing to do while he went to play golf.” She gives me a little peck of a kiss. Then leans down to beside my ear. “Your cum is running down my inner thigh.”

I just sit and shudder till after I hear her go out the door.

Slowly I get up and pull up my pants. I pull my tie down till it’s lose enough to come off. I toss it into my brief case with the files I need to review for tomorrow.

I shut off the lights then stop by the door and just breath in the smell we have left behind us. It’s a deep primal musky smell.

The cleaning crew that comes in at night have even made note of it for the building janitor to check into.

On worn out legs I ride down the elevator to the front lobby. Normally since it’s only two floors I take the stairs, but I feel like I’ve gotten my exercise for the afternoon.

I stumble on the landing as I go through the automatic doors. I head over to my car in it’s reserved parking place.

“Hey Dr Tompson?”

I look over to the building security guard that watches the parking lot.

“Hey George. How’s the wife?” I ask.

He smiles at me. I gave him some free advice one after noon a few weeks back.

“Were doing a lot better. Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” I tell him and start for my car again.

“Dr Tompson your wife dropped this a few minutes ago when she left. I was about to bring it up to your office when I saw you coming down.

I take the small lacy gloves he’s holding out to me.

“I think it fell out her pocket when she got into the car.”

“I’ll tell her you found them. She would have hated to have lost these.”

George smiles at me.

“She sure is a looker. Your one lucky man Doc.”

“Oh don’t put money on that. We have our problems just like every couple.”

“Yea, but doing what you do for a living you know how to fix them right?” he asks grinning.

I nod

“Yea I can usually come up with a way to get us back on the same page. Well goodnight George.”

“Good night Dr Tompson.”

I pull my car out the parking lot slowly. No need to rush. It’s just my bitch of a wife waiting at home.

Syd lay on the massage table face down butt naked. Frieda, a statuesque Nordic woman, expertly kneaded his back muscles. Her clasps of his skin and subdural flesh seemed agonizingly harsh. But whenever Syd reached the point of complaint, she sensed him flinch and pulled back just at the brink of pain, maintaining suitable compression.

“You are very tense today, Syd. I will try not to hurt you but I feel many knots deep in your muscles. That often happens because our program is demanding. We maintain a pace that gets you through the complete program in one week. Deep muscle massages balance the program’s robustness with the available time.”

Syd accepted Frieda’s explanation and endured the process with élan. He had no reason to question the results achieved so far this week. The exercises had done more good in a few days than other therapies had achieved all last year. And they were sure as hell more satiating.

Frieda turned him over. She performed the same muscle wrenching compression on his front as she had on his back. Syd still felt near pain as Frieda worked him over. Her large hands were driven by the large muscles in her forearms rippling as she rubbed and pressed over Syd’s body. She finally stopped and stood back. Syd forced himself to relax into the towels atop the massage table and closed his eyes.

Frieda smiled and fingered the hem of her tee-shirt. She knew the routine and approached Syd. Frieda coughed his attention. Syd opened his eyes. She slowly drew the tee-shirt up and off. Her large, no…massive, breasts hung with a little sag and jiggled mildly. Syd watched Frieda’s large, no…massive, hands approach his cock. Syd remembered the near painful muscle compressions and thought of the sensations Frieda’s hands might give him.

Syd quickly covered his flaccid cock with his hands and said “I not really feeling it. The massage was great but has left me tired and drained. I would prefer to skip any more activity. I need to get to my room and rest.” Frieda took it all in stride. He wasn’t the first to react as such and she was a professional. Manipulation sex of her clients didn’t give her any relief so she wasn’t missing anything.

Syd climbed off the table. Frieda gave him a towel to wrap his waist and escorted him to the elevator. Syd rode to his floor and went to his room. The walk got his blood moving to the right places and despite the rough treatment of his muscles he now felt quite relaxed and energetic. After a quick shower, he ordered a light room service supper. The doorbell rang and Syd answered it wrapped in the waist towel. He was surprised to see the receptionist from the first day pushing the food service cart.

“Hello, we meet again. My name is Fergie. The kitchen staff member called in sick so I am covering her evening shift. You’re the only resident tonight, so it’s not too bad.” She took the dishes from the cart and placed his meal on the eating area table. Each time she bent to the tasks, Syd was re-introduced to the cameltoe in her shorts. Syd sat in his towel while Fergie put a napkin in his lap. She poured a glass of wine and Syd invited her to pour one for herself and sit awhile. They chatted while Syd ate.

Fergie explained that she was a graduate of a progressive college called the Total Woman Academy, was attending physical therapy graduate school and interning at the Total Woman Clinic. The clinic combined her study of physical therapy with her previous exposure to sexual therapy. Syd listened attentively but Fergie could see him eyeing her breasts with the translucent nipples under her uniform tee-shirt. She accepted his gaze with poise, subtly laughing harder than necessary which put her boobs in wiggle mode whenever she did.

Syd finished his coffee and dessert. He pushed back his chair but Fergie popped up and laid a hand on his lap to remove the napkin, brushing his groin. Syd remained seated. Fergie cleared the table, again bending into as many tasks as possible, offering Syd many closeups of her cameltoed shorts. Table cleared and cart repacked, she parked it just inside the door.

Returning to the seated Syd, she stood close and said “Is there anything more I can do for you tonight?” Syd looked straight ahead at the eye level cameltoe. “Anything?” Fergie repeated. Syd continued to mutely stare and then looked up at Fergie’s face. She said “It’s okay, go ahead.” Syd raised his hands to her inner thighs, rubbing the soft skin. Recalling the mechanics of the uniform shorts, he explored the outsides near the waist band and discovered the closures. Accompanied by the familiar tearing sound of Velcro strips, Syd pulled the shorts open and down Fergie’s legs.

Syd no longer faced a cameltoe but a full lipped vagina with all its colors, smells and evident dampness. His hands returned to the center of his focal attention and spread the outer lips to view the pink inner folds. He used his thumbs to rub little circles around the opening. The inner lips swelled and became a darker pink as the blood engorged them. He could smell Fergie’s arousal and noted the increased dampness escaping the vaginal tube.

Syd leaned in and nuzzled the moist flesh with his nose, then lifted his chin to touch his protruding tongue to the wetness. He experimented with tender swipes. Syd considered Fergie’s flavor to be salty sweet with musky overtones.

Syd broke off his taste test to stand. He cupped Fergie’s cheeks in his hands and kissed her. Fergie responded invitingly, protruding her own tongue to taste a lingering hint of herself in Syd’s mouth. She stepped back and gracefully lifted the hem of her uniform tee-shirt, pulling it over her head, swishing her ponytail before it settled again down her back.

Syd did not take time to examine the exposed breasts. He scooped Fergie into his arms and carried her to the bed. Laying her face up, he hovered over her as she search inside his waist towel for the hardening cock. Syd aided the efforts by removing the inhibiting garment. Fergie lay gazing up at Syd’s face as she stroked the cock’s length.

Syd examined his newest discoveries. He placed his hands around each of Fergie’s boobs and squeezed, not hard like Frieda might, but a kneading action that was both firm and gentle. He ran his index fingers across the nipple’s top rose and ivory boundary. The center nubs obediently hardened and he captured them between thumb and finger, twisting and pulling just enough to make the jellied supporting mounds ripple. Putting fingers down the sides, he fluttered them making larger ripples bounce around in the playful flesh.

His hand swept down her abdomen, going all the way to cup her vulva. He inserted his middle finger in the moist opening, rooting around, seeking her G spot. A quick breath from Fergie announced that he had found his target. He lightly caressed it with his finger pad until Fergie’s breath sharpened and her face flushed. Indecisive, Syd wondered whether to quit or continue. He continued and Fergie arched her back and cried out. Syd kept his hand tight against her vulva and his finger embedded, waiting until Fergie relaxed her back and regained her breath. Although Fergie still gripped Syd’s cock, she had somehow managed to maintain hand control and not injure him.

Syd removed her hand from his cock. He moved himself to between her legs and lifted her knees up and out with two fingers under each one. He dipped down and ran his coarse tongue once, slowly up the entire length of her gash. He continued the upward move, stretching his body above hers. Coming face to face, he dipped his head and kissed deeply, letting her again taste herself on his lips.

Holding the lip lock, Fergie reached between their groins and placed Syd for insertion. Syd lifted his face just above hers and they locked eyes. Syd pushed the head halfway in leaving the rim still exposed outside her. He jabbed small taps, massaging her outer lips. Fergie suppressed a moan. Syd pushed further, far enough to get the rim just inside. He push-pulled, stimulating the lips with his corona. Fergie didn’t suppress this moan as she had the one before but it was subtle none the less. Syd pushed further still. His shaft was half in and the crown found her G spot. Push-pulls garnered a louder moan from Fergie and her eyes dilated.

Syd reared back before springing in and burying his cock as deep as it would go into Fergie. He felt her flesh covered pubis bone meet his flesh covered pubis bone and he squiggled around to massage her upper vaginal nerves. Simultaneously, the tip of Syd’s dick massaged Fergie’s cervix and they both felt the sensations of the contact. Syd made one, two, three butts against her cervix and bone, then a long full stroke almost withdrawing the swollen shaft completely. Buried again, he gave it one, two, three more bumps and another withdrawal. Each long stroke massaged Fergie’s G spot twice, once coming out and once again travelling in.

Fergie’s wasn’t moaning any more, or at least ‘moan’ didn’t describe the staccato bursts of breath she was making. Syd liked the sound and it encouraged him onward. Finally, as he tried to withdraw a long stroke, something happened and he stayed buried despite his movement. Fergie’s back arched and her hips joined his upswing as she screamed out in ecstasy, eyes screwed shut. Syd simply hung on, suspended, supported by her.

Fergie came down from the ecstatic peak. Syd laid still, his cock still swollen and buried. His cock tingled but he was not ready to ejaculate just yet. He began the three count and stroke rhythm again. Before long, the deep massages had Fergie peaking again and Syd paused again and waited her out. But his cock now tingled more and he felt ready. The rhythm was repeated yet again but this time, as Fergie lifted her hips in ecstasy, Syd joined her, stayed buried and pulsed his sperm deep into her snatch. The partners collapsed in a heap on the mattress, too drained to immediately decouple. They dozed.

Syd awoke in the night hours to find himself spooned into Fergie’s back. One hand cupped her breasts and the other her vulva. His nose was covered by her hair which smelled of an indistinct fruity fragrance. His flaccid cock was lodged between her ass cheeks. Becoming aware of his naked position against her naked back, Syd’s cock responded with new growth. The stirring of Syd’s cock stirred Fergie awake in turn. She reached down under his hand, lifted her top leg and drew Syd’s extended cock head along her pussy lips, lowering her leg and trapping the shaft in her warm crevasse. Syd gave a few pushes and the tip and shaft massaged her lips and high thigh inside flesh. Neither partner expected this to gain much but it felt good. After some time, the movement stopped as they dozed off again.

Dawn broke its soft light into Syd’s room. He awoke alone. The food cart was gone and he sensed a faint smell of fruity fragrance on his pillow. Another day at the Total Woman Clinic was about to begin.

June 2018
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