Chapter 1

Not having a family doctor, because neither of us had ever been sick, my wife had merely gone down the alphabet in the telephone book until she found one who could give me an appointment. I didn't like the idea of going to one, but I had to agree with her that my problem was becoming a real problem. With increasing frequency, no matter what we tried together or what she tried on her own, I had been unable to get an erection. I could get it up halfway, but never fully enough to bring satisfactory results. It had been getting more and more frustrating for both of us.

The gold letters on the door read: P. H. Moulter, M.D. I went in like a man going to the gallows, ready to run, but the nurse looked up and didn't give me a chance. She was a redheaded, full-bosomed woman (I wasn't too sick to notice that), one who took command immediately. Within a matter of moments, she had literally shoved me into a small, almost sterile room, snapped out, "All right, take your clothes off," and closed the door behind her.

I took my clothes off, hanging them on a clothes tree in a corner, and sat naked on the foot of the paper covered examination table. To say that I was uncomfortable would be putting it mildly; I'm not particularly modest, but neither am I an exhibitionist!

I wasn't looking forward to having some doctor maul any parts of my body.

The door opened and I grabbed for my crotch, doing my best to hide what was there. But the blonde, attractive woman wearing a white lab coat over her street clothes merely laughed and said, "Relax, I'm Dr. Moulter."

"But...! But...?"

"And as a doctor," she went on, "there is nothing about the human body-male or female-that I don't know or that interests me in anything other than a professional way." She spoke professionally, but she was a damned attractive woman, and there was the faint odor of her perfume. The lab coat hid her figure, but enough showed to indicate that it would be a nice one-the coat couldn't completely obscure the outline of ample and shapely breasts.

"Now, then," she said, moving up to me, "what seems to be your problem?"

I gulped. Now, how the hell did you tell a woman, even if she was a doctor, that you couldn't get a hard-on? I mumbled, "I ... I've got a sore throat."

The good doctor laughed, showing white, even teeth. Her brown eyes twinkled. "That isn't what your wife told my nurse when she called. Now, move up on that table, would you please?"

"I ... I can't."

"Move up on the table," she said firmly, face hardening for a moment, and I moved up on the table. She moved up beside it and leaned over me. I was convinced later that it was just a game-a technique for getting me to relax-but she put the ends of the stethoscope to her ears and started moving the other end across my chest, pausing now and then to listen. She moved it down to my stomach, then raised up and smiled down at me. I was sporting the hard-on of the century. "It looks like rigor mortis has set in, doesn't it?" she half laughed.

"Spread your legs," she ordered. She put the end of the stethoscope between my legs, first on one side and then the other, her hands brushing against my balls as she did so. She moved it slowly and pausingly up the length of my cock, back down. "I want a specimen," she said, raising up. "Masturbate, would you please?"

"You're kidding!" I gasped out, my face still burning from the attention she had showed my equipment.

"Not at all. By the way, how old are you?"

"Twenty-four," I answered. "Your wife?"

"Twenty-three."

"How frequently do you copulate?" Seeing my frown, she rephrased it, "How frequently do you make out with her?"

"Oh. Well ... maybe ... before this happened ... maybe two or three times a week. Sometimes ... sometimes a little more often."

"How old were you when you got married?"

"I was eighteen, she was seventeen."

"I suppose you screwed before you got married?"

I gulped. "Well ... well, yes."

"How old were you when you started? Any method," she added, "masturbation, playing with the boys, any method."

My face was burning. "I can't remember. I ... I've done ... things as long as ... as long as I can remember."

"I guess so, with a tool like that," she said matter-of-f actly. "Well, get busy, I want that specimen."

"I ... I can't."

"Oh, god!" she almost groaned, then she reached out, circled my cock with her fingers and started stroking it. "It's as simple as that," she said brusquely, removing her hand. "Now, finish it off!"

It was an order, and whether I liked it or not (and I didn't), I obeyed. She was at least kind enough to turn away when I started getting results, when my breathing grew heavier, my legs stiffened and my lips started quivering. I dumped the specimen she wanted all over my stomach and crotch and she turned back.

"That's fine," she said, and taking a slide from a tray, scooped up a glob of it. Then she dampened a towel and threw it onto my belly.

"Wait here," she ordered. Taking the slide, she left the room, calling back over her shoulder, "and don't dress!"

Time seemed to have stopped. I knew it hadn't, but I had no way of knowing how much of it had slipped away-it seemed like an eternity had gone by. And it seemed as if I had just lived through a dream. This couldn't possibly have happened! But then the door opened and she was back, and I knew that it had happened.

"Well," she smiled, "things are looking extremely encouraging." She chuckled, "In case you were worried, I don't think that your well has run dry! It just needs a little repriming."

"Then, I ... can I dress?"

"No, not just yet. I want to check it further." She was standing at the foot of the examining table, looking up across my business, my chest, and into my face. There was no way of telling from the expression on her face what she was thinking or feeling, if she was feeling anything. "Right now," she said, "I want you to play with yourself a little. I want to see if it can get hard again."

"But ... I. But ... I"

"Oh, come now, must you be so difficult? I'm merely trying to get medical facts." When I still hesitated, she shook her head in something like disgust. "Well, if you're unwilling to cooperate, I'll just have to handle things myself."

She moved so quickly that I didn't realize what was happening. She had been standing there looking down at me, a moment later she had my balls in one hand, my cock in the other, and she had slid her lips over it. She ran her tongue around the head, tickling the slit on top; then she started moving her head up and down. I was taken totally by surprise, but it didn't keep my prick from stretching out, swelling and hardening. She gave a couple of extra thrusts, licked the head and then raised up. Looking down at it, a hint of a smile touched the comers of her lips. "Success, n'est-ce pas?" her eyes twinkled. "Two hard-ons in a short time when you haven't been able to get one in weeks!"

She reached down and stroked it again. "There's nothing physically wrong with this, Mr. Sheffield. You may dress now, then come to my office. I want to talk to you."

With that, leaving me with a hard dick, she turned and left the room. Perhaps it had been a purely professional gesture! I wasn't sure. It had certainly been the most impersonal cocksucking I'd ever had, brief as it had been.

Mumbling to myself, I got my clothes and started to dress. "P. H. Moulter, ED," I fumed. That P. H. stands for Prick-Hardener, goddamnit, and she's no doctor, she's a sex fiend!" But I wasn't convincing. Ridiculous, even embarrassing as the whole thing had been, I couldn't honestly say that she had done anything unprofessional. As a matter-of-fact, she hadn't seemed to enjoy it, to care one way or the other. It didn't occur to me at the time that that was the problem; she was a damned good-looking woman, and if a good-looking woman messes around with a man she ought to show pleasure!

Having gotten it (having her mouth it as she had!) I couldn't get rid of my erection. I did everything from begging it to go down to going to the wash basin and pouring cold water over it, but there it was and there it was going to stay. I finally just tucked it in, forced my fly closed, and left my shirttail hanging out. Carrying my jacket, I went back to the reception room.

"Dr. Moulter will see you in a few moments," Miss Redhead-with-the-big-tits told me, and looking over the top of a magazine at her while I waited didn't help my condition. She, like the good doctor herself, was in her late twenties or early thirties; she had a smooth, attractive face, and the way her tits jiggled when she moved was almost maddening. I found myself thinking, as I had on other occasions, that a nature woman like that would probably really be something in bed. I found myself feeling guilty as I ad on other occasions; since our marriage six years fore, I had been totally faithful to my wife, as I new that she was to me. "Go away, you damn thing!" I grumbled silently to my hard-on, and it finally began to soften.

There was a sound, a buzzer. The nurse picked up' a telephone and answered it. She looked across at me. "Dr. Moulter will see you now, Mr. Sheffield."

The doctors office was across the hall from the examination room. She was sitting at her desk, her back to the window, as I entered; she looked up from the papers she was studying and smiled.

"Close the door, please, and be seated," she said, and I couldn't help now but notice the melodiousness of her voice. It was really quite nice.

Once I'd closed the door and lowered myself to the chair in front of her desk, she leaned back in her swivel chair, parted her lips slightly and stuck just the eraser end of a pencil in her mouth. She swung it back and forth, hitting upper and then lower teeth; she did that for several moments, then tossed it onto the desk. "Mr. Sheffield, I want you to understand that what I am going to ask you is purely professional. I couldn't care less, personally, about your sex life, your private life, but I need to know professionally."

Her voice was all business, but it would have been easier to believe-and to accept-had she been a man. As a matter-of-fact, I found myself wishing that female doctors had had to use their "other" titles so that I could have known, without asking, whether she were married or not. At any rate, she continued in her even, business-like voice. "Now, then, forget about all the trivia, the playing with yourself and all that most children grow through. Tell me ... think back until you find it and tell me about your first orgasm with another person."

I felt my face reddening again. I wanted to revolt and/or bolt! I wanted to say, "Look, you got the damned thing hard, that's what I came in here for, so let me go!"

The merest hint of a smile slid across her lips and through her eyes; and then, as if she had read my mind, she said, "Oh, I know, you feel confident that you've been cured, but let me tell you. I'd be willing to bet that if you went home now and had the wildest love scene ever, with your wife, you'd be unable to get an erection! Now, let's stop this foolishness of feeling embarrassed and answer my questions!"

It was silly. I was a grown man, I didn't owe her a thing, all I had to do was to get up and leave-but I couldn't. She seemed to have a strange, indefinable power over me. I had to obey her. So I thought back, and finally I told her about it.

I had been fourteen. I was tall for my age and hadn't filled out yet, but I wasn't actually skinny. In retrospect (and because of what had happened then and later) I knew that I was above average in the basket department. I must have been more aware of it-and possible consequences-than I even realized then, because I had worn tight trousers and no shorts. It pleased me that people stared, that they seemed compelled to lower their eyes to my crotch and then widen them in what had to be admiration. In gym class, especially in the showers, I was the envy of all my classmates. (Had Dr. Moulter not already labeled it as "trivia," I might have told her at that point how much of that led to masturbation-with all that concentration on my equipment, I frequently sneaked into the restroom during the day and almost nightly relieved my own tensions.)

I had done some diddling. Spending a night with buddies, we had messed around some; on dates with girls there had been quite a bit of mutual groping. One thirteen-year-old had even gone as far as to let me rub my stiffened meat up and down her just-getting-hairy mound, but she hadn't let me enter her (mostly, she insisted, from fear that anything that big would hurt her). Then Celia came along.

The new semester had only been about two weeks along when our regular teacher got sick. Celia Bentley came in as her substitute, fresh out of college and all aglow. She was about twenty-two, blonde and beautiful and really stacked. She created quite a stir, both among the boys and the male members of the faculty. "Oh, man!" the boys would say, "think what it would be like to get into those panties!" And the male teachers, young and old, said it with their eyes. It was rumored that most of them ran around half the time with hard-ons just from getting a glimpse of her; one of the boys said once that he had seen the principal in a stall in the boys' John, beating his meat after a brief talk with her. But Celia Bentley was all business, and part of her business was to shape up a debating team for school.

I wasn't particularly interested in debating, but I was interested in Celia ... in Miss Bentley, that is!

Many a night I saw visions of her after I'd gone to bed, created wonderful stories, and ended up having to relieve the tension. Just to be near her was reason enough to develop an interest in debating and that I did. I willingly-along with the others-spent afternoon after afternoon staying after school for special coaching. I sneaked flowers onto her desk in the morning before school. I almost went out of my mind with my first love; god, the pages of paper I wasted writing incomplete and futile poems! (And, I might add, I blackened a couple of eyes of other would-be poets, a couple who dared to come up with, "Oh, just look at that luscious Celia; baby, how I'd like to feel'ya!" and the like.)

My team won the school competition. We went on to win the regional, and finally we were heading for State competition in a town some three hundred miles away. There were three boys, two girls, and Miss Bentley. We got there the night before and checked into the hotel. The other two boys shared one room, the girls shared another, at one end of a hallway; Miss Bentley and I had single rooms at the other end. It didn't seem odd at the time-later I was to find out that Miss Bentley had made such arrangements deliberately.

Later ... I had just taken a shower and crawled into bed when there was a knock on the door. Thinking that it was one of the other boys (or maybe both), I went across the room and practically threw the door open. There I stood, stark naked, staring at a Miss Bentley, who was even more beautiful than she had ever been. She had fluffed her blonde hair out and put on a housecoat that was form-fitting. It showed her pear-shaped tits and her curved hips as if it wasn't even there. Her exposed throat was all creamy and smooth. She was holding a glass and seemed to be just a little tipsy. "Oh, my gosh!" I stammered, stumbling back.

She smiled. "Don't be embarrassed, Mark, don't be embarrassed at all," she said, and she moved into the room, closing the door behind her. She leaned against it and smiled again, letting her eyes move up and down my body. "Heavens, no, with a body like that you shouldn't be embarrassed!"

I stumbled back and fell onto the bed, my legs hanging over the end of it. She took a long swig from the glass, looked away a moment, then looked back at me. She pushed herself straight, moved almost awkwardly toward me and sat down on the edge of the bed. Her free hand moved out and landed on my stomach, the skin almost searing my flesh. "I know I shouldn't do this, but I can't help myself," she almost whispered, and her hand moved lower. I couldn't help myself; when it got there a big hard-on was waiting for it. She wrapped her fingers around it. She stroked it gently. "We've both been wanting this for a long time, haven't we, Mark? This is going to be our secret, isn't it?"

I gulped.

She continued to stroke my hard prong gently, slowly. "Have you ever ... have you ever stuck this in a woman, Mark?"

"Na-na-no!"

She turned her head and smiled down at me. "You like to, wouldn't you?" Like to! God, how many times in the past weeks have I told myself stories about it-and the woman was her. "I ... I ... I guess so," I half mumbled.

She leaned over and kissed me full on the lips; her tits, through the material of her housecoat, brushed against my flat, hairless chest. Her hand squeezed my cock. I almost died. My face was burning.

Letting go of my cock, she got to her feet; for just a moment she wavered, enough that I could tell that she was a little tipsy; then she set her glass on the dresser and turned around. She looked straight into my eyes for a moment, smiling again; then a hand (went to her throat. She unzipped the housecoat, shrugging it off her shoulders. It fell in a puddle around her feet and she was standing there naked. My eyes almost bulged out; my cock did a sort of Saint Fitus dance. She was all peaches and cream, the most beautiful skin in the world. Her tits, like I said, were pear-shaped, standing firmly away from her body with the nipples already hard. She had a narrow waist, her hips flared out, and where her legs met her body there was a mass of blonde hair over a beautifully puffed out mound. It was the first time I had seen a female completely naked, and definitely the first time I had seen a mature female. She was so beautiful that my mouth fell open and my prick throbbed again.

She moved to the foot of the bed, between my legs. As she bent over her breasts fell forward a little, brushing against my legs, and they, like her hand on my stomach, almost seared my skin. Then I felt her hand on the inner side of my leg; it moved up and she had gathered my balls into it. She wrapped the fingers of her other hand around the base of my rod; then I felt her mouth on it. As she slid her tongue around the head I almost turned inside out; when she slid her lips down over it I almost died. She sucked on it, taking it all; I felt the head hit the back of her throat and then go deeper. She worked on it lustily, pulling her mouth back until just the head was between her lips, flicking her tongue around it, then sliding her lips back down over it. I fell back on the bed, almost going out of my mind. God, much more of that and I'd be dumping a load! But I didn't know how to stop her.

I didn't have to. She pulled her mouth up again until just the head was in it, sloshed her tongue around it, then pulled her mouth away. She kissed it right on the very top, kissed her way down it, kissed my balls and then took them into her mouth. Keerist! I pushed my buttocks clear off the bed, almost turning inside out again. She tongued my balls, driving me out of my mind. Finally she pulled away.

She was standing at the foot of the bed looking down at me, another smile on her lips. "That was nice," she said. "Young meat is so terribly, terribly nice. So tender and sweet. I'd love to taste your come, but I don't want to. Move up on the bed, Mark. Move up and get comfortable."

I made my way up onto the bed, afraid to really look at her; then I felt her coming up over me. Her tits scraped from my prick all the way up to my chest, squashed against it as I felt her lips come down on mine and her muff land on my hard-on. She kissed fervently, grinding her pussy down against me at the same time, and from that point on I couldn't help myself. I grasped her body, rubbing it while I kissed back, sending my tongue in and out of her mouth; I got hold of her tits and half mangled them, and I ground my cock against her. She ground back, and I could feel the warm lips of her cunt spread over my meat. Man, I was hot ... hotter than a firecracker!

She got her knees on the bed and pushed her lower body up; she groped down between us and I left her hand take hold of my prick, pushing it straight. She rubbed it up and down her cleft, burying the head a little, and it was maddening; our kisses grew more intense and I mauled her tits even more roughly. Then she pushed it straight up and held it there, and I felt her pussy lips opening up and accepting it as she lowered herself onto it. She groaned a little at first, right into my mouth, but she kept moving her hips a little and I felt it sinking into her inch by inch. Almost driving me wild as she rode up and down on it, she finally had it all.

"Roll us over, Mark," she whispered, pulling her mouth away from mine. "Roll me over and go to town, lover."

It didn't take a second invitation, and once I had rolled us over I got the answer to a question I had occasionally asked myself. When it came to screwing you didn't have to be taught; when you got in the right position nature took its course! I started kissing her hard again as I drove my wedge in and out of her, stroking so determinedly that as I buried it each time my balls crashed between her legs. I'd pull it out until just the head was still caught, then drive it in again, and after a few such strokes she began working with me. It was a tight fit, a warm, tight fit, warm and nice. We were perfectly synchronized, parting and joining, parting and joining; then we stepped up the tempo. We both began breathing heavily, panting into each others mouth. Then I drove it home while she lunged upward.

"Oh, Crist!" she cried out. "Oh, Chriissst, I'm coooming!"

I didn't cry out. I just drove it in and felt the juices spurting out, my buttocks quivering with each spurt It felt like the top of my head was going to blow off; then I folded. I fell forward, on top of her, and our bodies heaved together. Finally I went soft in her.

When I tried to roll away she threw her arms around my back and her legs around mine.

"No," she cried out softly, "don't move. Just lie here like this a little while. Oh, I love the feel of it up in me.

A few minutes later she brushed my cheek with her lips. "Will it get hard again, Mark?"

"Probably," I answered.

"Did it?" Dr. Mouter asked, bringing me back to the moment.

I looked into her brown eyes. "Yes," I finally answered, "it did."

"And that was the beginning," she said-a statement, not a question. "After that you started chasing girls."

"Well ... well, the truth is, for the rest of that semester I went up to Celia's apartment fairly regularly."

"Oh? Tell me about that."

"Well ... well, there isn't much to tell. When she got home from school she always stripped down. She was always naked when I got there. I'd strip down and ... and one thing would lead to another."

"I see." Then she looked up and smiled. "By the way, how did your debate team do?"

I laughed. "We won."

"And this ... this affair. How did it end?"

Wham! A fake and then a jab to the gut! It was a memory that I would rather have left forgotten, but the doctor gently but firmly persisted. I closed my eyes....

It had been a nice evening. When I first got there. I always had a drink with her, but I quit after one and she kept sipping throughout the evening. She had put a couple of records on the stereo and we had danced; holding her that way, feeling her beautiful body in my arms, against my own body, I always got a hard-on. The first record hadn't finished before we had adjourned to the bedroom. It was just as good then as it had been that first night, the only difference being that I had become the aggressor. More often than not it was I who got her down onto the bed, burying my face in her crotch for a few minutes of fun there-fun that caused her to clasp my head in her hands and writhe, that warmed her up until she was hot and juicy and literally begging to be screwed. That night, feeling playful, I had flopped her over onto her stomach and moved up between her legs; I had grabbed her by the hips and pulled her up off the bed, sliding my throbbing pecker down her ass to the warmth of her inner legs, found the target and started putting it to her. Once it was in, once I could give it the thrill giving, slip-slide motion, I bent over her and got a pear-shaped tit in each hand, fondling them with rough lovingness. I banged my bell against her buttocks with each thrust, balls swinging forward to bang against the upper reaches of her well-filled pussy. Slow and easy, pouring it to her and taking it away, pouring it to her again, slow and easy, the feeling growing, increasing the speed, and finally both of us gasping and groaning and her crying out as I gave a final shove and buried it deep in her, the thick come flooding her innards, my face crushed into the smoothness of her back. I rode her to the bed, gave a couple of final jerks, then fell.

"Ummmm," she fairly purred, contracting her muscles lovingly around my softening rod, "you've become a real cocksman, Mark! You really know how to use that thing!"

Back in the living room she mixed herself another drink. We were both too contented-and two exhausted-to dance, so we just sat there on the sofa and listened to the records. I had my arm around her, my fingers against her tit, and she had her hand resting sleepily in my crotch, fingers curled over my wilted tool. Her head rested against my chest, her other tit against mine, and I could bury my face in her clean-smelling, soft blonde hair when I wanted to. I daydreamed, as I often did, about how nice it would be if this could be forever-if I wouldn't have to eventually get up, get dressed and go home. We had yet to spend an entire night together. For me that would have been the epitome. One time she had half-humorously, half-seriously asked me how many times I could do it without stopping; I would have liked to give it a try, to find out for myself.

The music stopped but we didn't move. A few minutes later her fingers started getting active, playing with my tool. They drew it to half-mast; then she suddenly slid out of my hold and was on the floor between my legs. Taking my balls in one hand, as she always did, she leaned over and took my dick into her mouth; in a matter of moments she had it standing hard again. I leaned back, letting myself thoroughly enjoy it-and with her educated mouth it was enjoyable. She had the best way of taking it to the root, sliding her mouth up and giving the head a quick working over, then sliding back down on it. A beautiful, thrill giving motion. Her mouth wasn't as tight as her pussy, but it could give and get the same results. After a few minutes of that I was moving my hips with her, giving it to her when she moved down for it, pulling away as she did, giving it to her again. My hands moved of their own volition to her head, grasping it gently but firmly. As she had herself said, it wasn't so much her giving me a blow job as me screwing her in the mouth.

But I didn't get to climax. Just moments before it was to happened the door swung open, and there was my dad framed in the doorway. There was no surprise on his face; he had obviously expected something like what he was seeing. Nor did he get angry. In a controlled voice he told me to get dressed, to go down to the car and wait for him. Scared silly, I obeyed. Later, after I had had time to think about it, I would have bet my last dollar that he had screwed her before he left her (he was in there long enough), but all I could do that night was to sit in the car and wait for him.

"You're grounded, you know that," he said as he drove toward home, and that was all that he said. The next day Celia Bentley was gone.