Chapter 7

The waiting room was empty. Miss-Redhead-with-the-big-tits was sitting at her desk, a book opened in front of her. She looked up as I entered, blinked her eyes. "Oh, Mr. Sheffield. I tried to get you at home and at work, but you weren't either place. Doctor was called to the hospital and had to cancel all her afternoon appointments."

"Oh, great!" I said, no doubt sounding irritated. I guess I was. I hadn't really wanted to come; I had had to force myself. (Or was I actually disappointed, I had to ask myself later, not being given the opportunity to see if Moulter would have me strip and go through the jerking off routine?)

The nurse consulted a pad on the desk in front of her "We have you down for tomorrow at the same time. Meanwhile, Doctor wants you to follow the same instructions."

"Oh, Doctor does, does she!" I muttered to myself. "Well, tough tittie! Doctor doesn't have to worry. Goddamnit, if I could have something to do with my wife I wouldn't be here!" But I didn't take my irritation out on her; I merely nodded, turned around and left.

It was better, anyway, I told myself. I wouldn't have to explain my low sperm count! I wouldn't have to make up some lie.

But there I was in limbo again. No job to go back to, and not the slightest desire in the world to go home and face whatever would have to be faced there. Almost unthinkingly, I left the car in the parking lot and walked down the block to the neighborhood bar. It was almost deserted, only a couple of older men out for their afternoon beer, but I went directly to the stool at the back where I had sat the night before.

I hadn't really noticed the bartender the evening before; this afternoon I did. He was a medium-sized fellow, height-wise, with dark hair and a pleasant, friendly face. About thirty, thirty-two I judged. He had broad shoulders, a strong looking chest under a tightly-stretched T-shirt. He took my order with a smile, and as he turned and walked back down the bar I could see that he had tapered hips, then strong legs in tight-fitting trousers. I could imagine him working out every morning with bar-bells, doing push-ups, anything to keep his body in good condition. And as he turned I did something that I'd never been prone to do; I looked into his crotch. (Qualification: as a kid I had looked at everybody's crotch, comparing them with my own; as an adult I had given up the habit!) There was a definite mold in his, a slight roundness to one side that swayed as he j walked toward me. I'd lay dimes to doughnuts that he was really hung!

He made change, put it on the counter, then sat on a stool behind the bar and across from me. He looked at the old men at the other end of the bar, turned j back to me and smiled. "What'd you think of Trudi?" he asked conversationally.

I damn near fell off the bar stool!

"I guess you found it nice," he laughed, "to come back for seconds so soon!" I started to sputter and he laughed again. "Hell, buddy, don't apologize! There's nothin' the matter with being human, and a guy'd have to be at least half dead not to go for something like that."

Then, almost dreamily, he said, "I remember my first time. I'd only been here a couple of nights and Tim was being pretty friendly. When he kept staying later and later, 'til the bar emptied, I figured that he was on the make and I was trying to decide whether to go along with it or not. The bastard kept me in the dark, y'know?" He smiled a little, the word "bastard" merely an expression, not one of animosity.

"Well, I'm hot blooded, I'll have to admit that when nothing else is available I don't turn my nose up at a blow job if the guy's decent, so I went home with him, I don't know if he used the same routine with you or not, but the way he worked it that night, he said that it was pretty stuffy, why didn't we strip down and be comfortable with our drinks. Hell," he laughed again, "I was hard before I had my pants off, ready to go, but his was limp as a rag ... until he saw my hard-on. I sprawled out on the sofa, all ready for him, but he went to the phone instead. A couple of minutes later in comes Trudi, all smiles. The minute the door was closed, off went the housecoat she was wearing, and not a stitch under it! Um-um, if I hadn't already been hard, that would of done it! Have you ever seen a nicer set of knockers? Have you ever seen a more inviting pussy?" He shook his head in remembered admiration, reached down and rubbed between his legs. And he had me doing it, too; I was remembering all of her lusciousness, her uninhibited enjoyment of the human body and the sex act. And I was sporting another hard-onl

"Jesus!" he said. "She didn't even wait for an introduction, she just wiggle assed across the room and there she was, astraddle me on the sofa. Her hot tits burning my belly, her sweet mouth on my rod, and that hot box of hers right in my face! Let me tell you, in case you don't know, that baby knows how to suckl 'Nd she's sweet tastin', too!"

One of the old men yelled out, dragging him out of his revery.

"Okay, okay!" he yelled back, and pushed himself to his feet. He refilled the old man's glass. Coming back toward me, I could see his rod sticking out against his pants, and I had been right. It was a big one! Tim Handley obviously liked his men-and thus Trudi's men-heavy hung!

"Those guys," the bartender said, sitting on his stool again, "they could made a guy sad. You look at them and remember that poem about, 'what used to be my sex appeal is now my water spout!' Man, you look at them, getting old, 'nd you know you better do all the fuckin' you can while you still got the starch in it!"

Without realizing it, I was waiting for him to get back to Trudi-to continue his tale about what had happened on his visit to Tim's apartment. He didn't have a chance to. The front door swung open and two men came in, obviously the first of those who stopped by for a drink on their way home from work. He left me with the vision of Trudi lying on top of him, swinging on his dong as he worked her pussy over with his mouth. And he left me wondering if he had been right. Had I come back here hoping that Tim would come in and convince me to go back for a second helping?

I stared down into my drink. My dong was hot and hard against my leg-but then, that didn't have to mean anything. After all, any guy hearing someone talk as he had been talking would get a hard-on! It was ... well, like his last sentence, still hanging in the air. " ... you know you better do all the fuckin' you can while you still got the starch in it!"

But I was married, I had been getting all the fucking I wanted. Hell, all I had to do was put a hand on Laurie, rub my cock against her, and she was ready to flop on her back for me. Times when I wasn't even thinking about it, she did, she started it Night after night I woke up to find her swinging on my dong. Weekends we seldom dressed and they were often like honeymoons, the times between sex sessions merely resting periods so that we could start up again.

Maybe that was it. Maybe I was all fucked out! But that couldn't be! Hell, I'd had no real trouble gettin a hard-on for the dear Doctor, she'd gotten her "specimens"! Trudi had had no complaint last night, and the dumb little blonde this afternoon had been ecstatic, raving about the way I had poured it to her.

A feeling of coldness went through me. Maybe I was just tired of Laurie...! It wasn't a good thought; there was too much guilt in it. But it was there, and I was having a hell of a time trying to push it away.

The noise had grown. Other men had entered, the crowd grew thicker, and the juke box had been started. Now the babble of their voices and the music were one big noise, a hodge-podge of little sounds adding up to the one babbly one. The bartender, with a wink, refilled my glass as he went about his business. "On the house," his lips said, but I couldn't hear the words, then he was waiting on other customers. He had lost his hard-on; Trudi and all of that was forgotten. For him, not for me.

A thought started. Before it had really jelled I pushed myself to my feet and almost staggered to the phone booth in the corner. I opened the book, flipped through the pages, came to the M's, the Mo's. I ran my finger along until I came to it Moulter, P. H., MD, office ... Moulter, P. H., res. ... I put a dime in the slot and dialed.

The telephone rang several times, then it stopped and I heard an almost terse, "Yes?"

"Is this Dr. Moulter?"

"Yes, it is. Who's this, please?"

This's Mark Sheffield, doc, and I want to know just one thing. You been playin' with my dick for two days now, taking that goddamned test. I just wanna know, can a guy get tired of his wife and not be able to get a hard-on?"

There was a strange, momentary sound. I couldn't tell whether it was a gasp or a suppressed laugh Then I heard her say, "Mr. Sheffield, you sound like you're obviously disturbed, and rightfully so, but I don't think that this is the sort of thing to talk about over the telephone."

"I can't wait till tomorrow...." I started, but she interrupted me.

"I just got home from the hospital a little while ago. I was freshening up. But why don't you come over here and we'll talk about it. I'll be ready by the time you get here."

Very business-like. Very "professional." I wanted to tell her to go fuck herself, to just give me a simple answer and forget it, but something wouldn't let me. "Okay," I answered, and hung up. I wrote down the address and left the booth.

"Hey," the bartender yelled out, "aren't you going to wait for Tim to get here?"

'I'll see him later," I answered, and continued on to the door and out. Maybe I would see him later; at that point I wasn't at all sure!

Moulter, P. H., lived in a new high-rise apartment building in a good part of town. It reeked of wealth, but at the same time going into the foyer was almost like walking into a mausoleum. The walls were all shiny marble, the ceiling high. There was a water fountain in the center, very formal, and velvet-covered benches against the walls. A uniformed man stood near the elevators. "Your name, please?" he said. "And who you wish to visit?"

I told him and he picked up a telephone. Glancing around again, I saw the carefully pruned (carefully "shaped") shrubs in huge marble containers on short, squatty legs. The place was really too much! "You may go up," the man said, pressing a button so that the elevator door slid open. I thought almost bitterly, Boy, the rich sure have their privacy protected!

The elevator moved soundlessly and with no feeling of motion; I wouldn't have known it had stopped if the doors had not slid open again. The walls here were marble halfway up, an embossed wallpaper the rest of the way; the rugs were so thick you felt like you were walking on wet ground. Plush! I found my way to 8-C and pressed the button beside the door.

I wasn't prepared for the view when the door opened-I hadn't even thought about it. But it opened, and there was P. H. Moulter, and I must have let my mouth drop open. She was wearing a formfitting robe of some rich, shiny material; it showed her body to be even more shapely than I had thought Her smooth neck was exposed, her breast in a V that barely covered their lush slopes and gave just a hint of the dark valley between them. Her blonde hair had been brushed loosely away from her face, there was only a trace of make-up. She looked at once healthy and wholesome and like a temptress.

"Ah, Mr. Sheffield," she literally cried out, showing her perfectly shaped white teeth, "you didn't have any trouble finding the place. Come in, come in."

I stepped into a small hallway, waited until she had closed the door and then followed her into the living room. It, too, was an eye widener. It was a large room with one solid wall of glass; the whole world seemed to be just outside the window. It was ... well, it was strange, that's all I can say. The furniture was all low and comfortable looking, there were all sorts of strange nic nacs and carvings, but it seemed to be more a feeling than a physical place. It was probably the color; two walls and the ceiling were charcoal grey, the fourth wall was copper colored. The furniture, including toss pillows and other accessories were all in earth colors. It was, she was to tell me later, "primitive." It was supposed to give a person a subconscious feeling of returning to nature (or to the womb), and perhaps it did.

In somewhat of a daze, I found myself sitting in a low, comfortable chair, watching the good doctor at a portable bar mixing us drinks. I watched her move gracefully toward me, accepted the drink, then she was sitting on a divan across from me, one leg pulled up under her and a shapely ankle showing on the other. "Now, then, shall we enjoy the drink first, or shall we get right down to business?"

Oh, brother, under different circumstances those words would have been music to my ears. I found myself saying, "I ... I guess I ought to apologize for the way I talked to you on the phone."

"Not at all! You were disturbed, it was right that you called and let me know how you were feeling. You know, yours is an exceptional case...."

"Is it?" I interrupted. I had to ask her. "Tell me, doc, honestly. Do you ... do you really have to do all those things you've been doing?"

I thought I noticed a slight flush on her face and throat, but I couldn't be sure. She lowered her eyes, long lashes almost casting shadows on the skin below. Then she surprised me. She raised her eyes and said, "No, Mr. Sheffield, I did not have to do all those things. I did them because I wanted to, just as I asked you up here because I wanted to."

Even though I had asked the question, her frank, honest answer not only surprised me, it threw me for a loop. I had suspected it, of course-I mean, I had suspected her-but I don't think I ever once thought she would have admitted it even if I had been right And here she had admitted it!

She said, almost sadly, "You may not believe it, but I'm really rather shy around men. I worked so hard in the early days of my life, through medical school and all, that I had absolutely no social life. Since then ... well, I've found it difficult to break old habits. When you came in with your story, I was pretty sure from the beginning what the problem was. I struggled, I'll be frank to admit, but I gave in to human impulses that I generally defeat. I enjoyed your body, I enjoyed the stories of your sexual conquests."

A faint smile-not exactly the "same faint smile that she had sometimes used in her office-slid across her lips. "You asked on the telephone if a man can get tired of his wife and thus be unable to get an erection with or for her. I was convinced from the beginning that that was your problem; as you told me your stories I was more sure of it. I knew, then, that I should have sent you to a psychologist, a psychiatrist or a marriage counselor ... and I would have eventually, but I selfishly enjoyed you for that little while!"

I shook my head, then a thought formed, became words, and slipped out of my mouth before I knew it was happening. "You mean ... you mean you've never been fucked?"

She chuckled. "I love your crude phraseology. I've loved it from the start. It's so ... so almost animalistic, No, Mr. Sheffield, I have never been fucked."

"Well, I'll be damned!"

She smiled almost as if it were from a pleasant memory and said, "When I did that with my mouth

... that was the first time I'd done that, too. I just couldn't resist the temptation!"

I shook my head, and then the shock began to wear off and I was thinking more clearly. I looked across at her and thought, Jesus, there's a ripe, mature woman who's still got her cherry! Ye gods, what a roll in the hay she'd probably be! But I had to back up first. "Just lemmie get this clear, will you? You think that Laurie and I ... that we've just done it so much I'm tired of it ... of her ... and can't get a hard-on, is that right?"

"With your history, yes, I think that's right. I think that you tried to assume your responsibility and five accordingly, but that underneath you're still craving sexual excitement. Not only variety in sexual activity, but variety in sexual partners. This ... this inability to get an erection is merely your subconscious rebelling. It's telling you to ... to...."

"To go out and fuck whoever I want!" I filled in without thinking.

She laughed softly. "Yes, to go out and fuck whoever you want."

I bobbed my head, reached down and rubbed my cock. "Good! Why don't I begin right here?"

She looked directly into my eyes, a sort of pained expression in hers. Finally she almost whispered, "I'm afraid that if that were to happen it would take a much more subtle technique!"

I digested that, studying her; then I said, "Okay, look. I feel a little mangy, so how about letting me take a shower, then I'll show you I can use a subtle technique!" (What I meant, of course, was that I wanted to wash the little blonde off me so that I could start fresh!)

"I won't promise anything," she said, getting to her feet, "but come along."

She led me through a bedroom that looked as if it had come out of a movie and into a bathroom that was a real lulu. There were rugs on the floor so thick you almost disappeared into them, tile on the walls that looked almost like velvet. There was a pullman so big that she even had aquariums on it with tropical fish gurgling around. She took a huge, fluffy looking towel from the pullman, set it aside for me, then nodded and left the room. I stripped down and got into the shower.

I walked back into the living room naked, moving quietly not purposely but because the rugs were so thick. She was standing at the window, drink in hand, looking out. I moved up behind her, slid my arms around her waist and pressed my cock gently against her buttocks. I kissed her on the side of the

"Ummmm," she murmured, "you smell good."

I moved a hand up and found a breast, squeezed it gently. It was all that I had thought, a warm, firm mass of flesh that really felt good. The nipple responded immediately I could feel it through the material of her gown. Moving my hand a little, I slid it under the material and had her tit the way a man should have it. It was my turn to say, "Ummmmmm," against her neck, my cock saying it merely by getting hard and pressing against her firm buttocks. "Is this subtle enough for you?"

"I ... I'm not sure. Just ... just don't go too fast, Mark," she said softly, calling me by my first name for the first time.

I turned her around slowly, taking her into my arms. I found her lips with mine, kissing gently as I pressed my body to hers. I increased it a little at a time, finally getting my tongue into her mouth, and her arms slid around my neck. I rubbed her back, her buttocks, letting her feel my hands as she felt her body pressed against my hard-on. I pulled my mouth away from hers, touched it lightly to her cheek and said, "Why don't you take your robe off and we'll he down?"

But this woman who had feasted her eyes on my cock, who had played with it to get it hard, sucked on it, stroked it to get her "specimen," was still finding it hard to accept what should have been completely natural and normal. There was obviously a stumbling block that she had to kick out of the way before she could go all the way.

"Not yet, Mark," she half whispered, "not yet. Just ... just love me up some more."

I loved her up some more. I kissed her, sending my tongue into her mouth, rubbing my chest against her tits and my cock against her pussy while I rubbed my hands up and down her back. Every once in awhile I grasped a firm buttock in each hand and pulled her harder against my stiff rod, grinding it into her; she didn't resist, she was doing her best and I couldn't really complain about it, but she still wasn't there.

Finally, in desperation, I pulled away from her, but before she could react I dropped to my knees. I spread her robe open and went for her; my nose pressed against her belly, I started lapping through her pussy hair, getting my tongue into the cleavage and running it up and down. She seemed helpless; she couldn't move. But as I got my tongue going into her, as I lapped my way in and then stiffened it and poked it deeper, she groaned and spread her legs a little more, bringing her hands to my head. She couldn't control herself now. Holding my head, she moved her hips, riding up and down my tongue. I let her do it a bit, then I eased my tongue out. I gave it a last lick; then I looked up at her, and said, "A hard prick'd feel a hell of a lot better than that, honey!"

"Oh, yes," she half gasped. "Oh, yes, take me, Mark. Take me. I want to feel that big prick of yours where it belongs!"

It didn't take a second invitation; I didn't want her to come out of it. Moving quickly, I got her robe off. I could only take a few moments to drink in the beauty of her naked body; then I lifted her in my arms and carried her to one of the low sofas. I laid her down and in the same motion straddled her. Moving my mouth to hers again, kissing her furiously, I started pronging. I made a couple of false stabs; then I had the head of my cock in her pussy lips. I slid it a little until I found the right spot, then I started the hip movement. Her legs spread and she groaned; the head slid in, her pussy lips folded over the ridge, and I knew I was secure, ready for blast-off! I started fucking it in, being nice about it, sending only a bit at a time; it was stretching her tight pussy and I knew it, but I knew that the pleasures her tissue was giving mine had to be repeated in herself. But I couldn't treat her like a teen-ager; when I hit the membrane I hesitated only a second, backed off, then sent my plunger the full length into her. She didn't scream, as some do; she just gasped. Her gasp said it all; it was the shock of knowing that she had finally lost her cherry; then she gave herself over to the full pleasure of having a hunk of hard meat up her snatch. I started fucking in earnest, and in a few seconds she had joined in with me.

I was hot. Jesus, I wanted to romp my way to a finish, to hit that terrific sensation of shooting off a load, but at the same time I wanted it to last. Maybe I knew even then that depression could follow and wanted to avoid it. Whatever, when I had her humping like a jack rabbit I began to ease off; she'd rise up for it, but I wouldn't give her the full length. I'd give her just enough to tease her, to keep her happy-and in her condition getting just the head was enough for that! Finally, controlling things myself, I sent every inch into her and at the same time pushed her buttocks back against the cushion of the sofa. I stayed buried in her. while I kissed her hungrily, moving my chest so that her tits were highly excited. Her hips humped under me, but they couldn't be effective; all they could do was to tell me that she had found the answer, she wanted to fuck to a finish.

I pulled my lips away from hers again, touching her cheek with them. "Wouldn't you like to do a little sucking?"

"I ... I ... I want to fuck, Mark! God, it feels so good. Fuck me, Mark, please!"

What could I do? Hiding a smile, I started fucking again. I scrounged around a little so that I could get a tit in each hand while I kept kissing her, and I drove my prong down to receive her uplifting pussy. We separated for a moment until just the head was in her, then I drove it in and she rose to receive it until our bellies banged together and my balls flopped down between her legs, touching the hot spot of her ass. We withdrew, clashed, withdrew, clashed; then we started running up to the point of no return. She started clawing my back and shoulders, gasping and thrusting, and I fucked with full gusto. At the last moment I shoved it into her, clear to the balls, and we both let go of the throbbingest, spurtingest climax in history!

When I tried to roll off she tightened her cunt muscles around my limp cock, holding it. "Don't take it out," she whispered with eyes closed. "Don't ever take it out!"

I laughed, looking down into her beautiful face. "Baby, you learn fast!"

"Oh, god," she groaned, "all the years I've wasted! Why didn't you come along a long time ago?"

I pushed down so that our pubic hairs merged even more than they were. "You like that, huh? You really like getting fucked after all!"

She didn't answer. She just put her arms around my neck and pulled me down against her, and with our bodies merged like that, my cock still buried up her hot channel, there was no need for an answer. The good doctor, with all her knowledge of the male anatomy, had found out for sure what a hard male cock was for!

I don't know how long we laid there. I might even have dozed off. But all of a sudden I felt her lips on my cheek, on my earlobe, and she was saying, "Why don't we get up and have a drink, then maybe ... maybe we might want to do something else."

"Anything you say, baby," I whispered back, and I rolled off of her.

She rubbed herself between the legs for a moment; then she swung them around and pushed herself gracefully to her feet. I had a chance then to see exactly how perfectly stacked she was-and she was perfectly stacked! She was all woman now, the professional doctor left behind. Her tits were full and firm, her hips beautifully curved, her still damp pussy a thing of beauty. Her face was just as beautiful as it had been, framed in her blonde hair, but there was something added-something that I chose to see (and think I was right) as the look of a woman who had finally been fulfilled. A woman who had been fucked and loved it!

She didn't need to be coached (perhaps she remembered my telling her that Laurie and I never wore clothes around the apartment). Naked as the day she was born, but so much lovelier, she moved gracefully to the bar and made us new drinks. I had sprawled on the floor, back against the divan, and she lowered herself to sit beside me. Our shoulders touched, our legs touched, and as she raised her drink to her lips her hand slid into my crotch and took hold of y limp cock. I returned the silent compliment, sliding my free hand into her crotch and letting my fingers rest over her full-mounded pussy.

"How do you feel?" she finally asked.

I snorted; then I said, "I feel like I've just fucked a very beautiful and a very fuckable woman!"

"Come now," she rubbed my cock, "be serious!"

"I am," I answered, and I was being both serious and honest. "No regrets?"

"No regrets. How about you?"

"My only regret," she said, stroking my limp cock, "is that this didn't happen a long time ago."

I leaned over and kissed her lightly on the cheek. "Maybe we can make up for lost time, what do you say, doc?" And then, because it suddenly occurred to me, "By the way, what does the P. H. stand for?"

"That's all, just P. H." With a note of near sadness in her voice, as if she felt something was involved in it, she added, "My father wanted a boy. The boy would have been named Patrick Henry Moulter. When I was a girl he wouldn't allow me the dignity of a name; he just gave me initials."

I chuckled. "Well, I gave you a name a couple of days ago, and it holds up tonight! That P. H. stood for 'Prick Hardner.'"

She laughed softly, squeezing my cock, then said, 'We are going to do it again, aren't we, Mark?"

I looked over at her. I studied her attractive face for a few moments, then lowered my gaze to her luscious tits. They were relaxed, but they still stood firm and nice, the nipples just waiting for attention. I didn't look any lower, my hand being in the way there. And I realized in that moment that there was none of the let down, the depression.

"Honey," I answered, giving her cunt a loving squeeze, "you've heard the song, 'I could have danced. all night'? Well, if you wanna, I could fuck all night!"

She giggled, then said, "Let's do!"