Chapter 2

The job went well. Bill was able to wrap it up and return to the city by three, but he returned in a sour mood. At the plant parking lot, someone had crumpled the fender of his Volkswagen. The culprit had left no note, and Bill had recently cancelled his collision insurance as an economy move. A traffic tie-up that immobilized him midway through the Holland Tunnel for an hour, coughing and gasping, didn't improve his disposition.

He had a strong urge to head uptown and plant himself firmly on a stool at his favorite neighborhood bar, but he resisted it. He could no longer postpone the resolution of his problems with Amy. They were drifting further apart each day, and the drift could eventually lead only to divorce.

He had a wide variety of marriage counselors to choose from. Some listed only their names, while others were represented in the phone book by little ads that purported to describe their services. The most subdued and business-like of these ads, Bill thought, was for an outfit called Life Adjustment Sciences, Inc. He got the impression that it was a large organization, where he would have more than one counselor to choose from, and the address in the east 50's seemed more plausible than some of the others.

The thirtieth-floor office was spacious and thickly carpeted. It featured spindly, understated furniture, modernistic contortions of glass and plastic. The receptionist was neither spindly nor understated. Bill found her disconcerting.

The first thing he noticed about her were her breasts, and he found it difficult to notice anything further about her for a long time. They were big, firm, and deliciously rounded, and they were completely accessible to his inspection. She wore a black mesh blouse with no bra beneath it. The whiteness of her breasts and the pinkness of her nipples were on open display. A short, tight, black leather skirt, black mesh stockings, and knee-high boots completed her unusual outfit.

Drawing closer to her glass and plastic desk, Bill got another surprise. Her amply displayed body suggested a tautly conditioned young girl, but the crinkles now visible at the corners of her eyes and at the edges of her wide, sensuous mouth indicated that she was probably over forty.

Her face couldn't have been called beautiful. It was a little too rounded and flat, and her mouth was a little too big for any conventional standard of beauty. Her bright blue eyes were slightly protuberant under dark brown bangs that covered her eyebrows. Those eyes, almost manic in their intensity, taken together with the hairstyle, suggested a dangerous and singularly unpredictable animal peering out of the undergrowth. The total effect was not beautiful, but it was striking-and incredibly sexy. Bill, always susceptible to the charms of younger women, now found himself flustered and half-aroused by an older one.

"It really would help if I had your name, and some idea of your business," she said. "Could you write them down, perhaps, or stamp your foot once for yes and twice for no?"

Bill's confusion increased as he realized that he must have been staring shamelessly, deaf to her previous questions. Her smile was dazzling though, and it seemed to draw the teeth from her sarcasm. He noted that the nameplate on her desk said "Ms. Julia Palmer."

"I ... that is, you're marriage counselors?" he said, annoyed at the croak he was using for a voice and wondering if it was due to Ms. Palmer or to his inhalations of tunnel vapors.

"That's a part of our service. We adjust men and women to life, to their own sexuality; Other adjustments follow as a matter of course. Or intercourse," she said, and she laughed a little too loudly at her own play on words.

Bill realized that her answer wasn't what he'd expected. If he hadn't been confused and slightly numbed by this woman's sexiness, he might have retreated and sought counseling elsewhere; but he didn't.

"It's customary to bring your wife to a marriage counselor," she observed.

"Yes. Well, I wanted to see ... sort of find out, you know, what it was like...."

"It's unimportant," she said, drawing what appeared to be a long questionnaire from her desk and proceeding to mark it rapidly. "You can enter into our course of therapy, and then bring her in whenever you choose. Or not. Some people change their minds."

"Therapy?" Bill asked, although this scarcely touched all the questions that her words gave rise to.

"Yes. Name?"

"Bill William Wilson. What do you mean, therapy?"

"Occupation?"

She was fast and efficient, and she managed to extract his vital statistics and a brief life history without giving away anything she might have told him about Life Adjustment Sciences, Inc., and the service it provided; nor could he determine how much it would cost.

"There are progressive degrees of adjustment," was all she would say to that question. "The therapist will discuss it with you. Would you please go into the examination room and remove your clothes."

"I beg your pardon!"

Ms. Palmer succeeded in looking more shocked than he felt: with her wide, staring blue eyes, she was perhaps better equipped for it. It disarmed him and made him feel apologetic.

"Life is not lived in the mind alone, Mr. WilBon," she said with a touch of smugness. "Among other things, I'm a registered nurse, fully qualified and accredited to give you a preliminary examination. Of course, we'll want certification of a complete physical checkup by a physician before you embark on the more advanced courses of adjustment."

"You will?"

"The examination room, please." Bill did meekly as he was told. Going through the door she indicated, he found a large room that was sumptuously furnished, in contrast to the reception office. The walls were covered alternately with crimson hangings and long mirrors. Plush divans and cushions were distributed around the room. It seemed more like a room from a fancy nineteenth-century whorehouse than anything else, and the sparse display of quasi-medical equipment was incongruous. He noted an examining table covered with a roll of paper, a blood pressure gauge, and an unfamiliar, complicated piece of gadgetry that might have been a prop from a low-budget science fiction movie.

He stripped to his shorts, acutely conscious of his repeated and many-angled reflection around the room. He noted uneasily that the ceiling, too, was a domed mirror of many large facets. Anyone in the room could view himself from almost every possible angle. He noted with approval that he seemed to be in pretty good shape. The beginning of a paunch on his long and somewhat gangly frame was nothing that a little exercise couldn't eliminate easily.

He chuckled as he tried to imagine what Amy would say about his adventure this afternoon. He didn't know exactly what he'd gotten into, whether it was some kind of screwball cult or out-and-out racket, but he surely intended to get himself out of it after this brief experience. Fortunately he hadn't signed anything yet, nor did he intend to. He thought about putting his clothes back on, but his curiosity got the better of him. He sat on the edge of the examining table.

He didn't have long to wait. Ms. Palmer bustled in and took his blood pressure and temperature, thumped him here and there, listened to his heart with a stethoscope, and made him say "ahh." She would have been the perfect picture of nursely efficiency if it hadn't been for her costume, the manic glint in her eyes, and the wicked little smile that kept struggling to form itself on her full lips. The experience was disconcerting. Bill was acutely conscious of her as a woman while she was examining him, and his cock began to swell.

When he thought she'd finished, she said: "Take off your shorts, please."

"My shorts?"

"Yes, please."

"Why?"

"So I can examine your penis," Ms. Palmer said patiently.

"Wait a minute. What do you want to examine my penis for?"

"Mr. Wilson, I presume your penis is what you use for sexual relations. You've come to us with a problem of sexual maladjustment. It's only reasonable-"

"Now, hold on! Hold it right there. There's nothing wrong with my penis. My problem is my crazy wife, and if you'd listen to me for one minute instead-"

"This is how we do things, Mr. Wilson," she interrupted, and she began tugging at his shorts. "It's essential to our course of therapy."

Short of using physical force, Bill didn't see how he could keep her from taking his pants off. She was both determined and energetic, and she had the element of surprise on her side. He gave up the struggle and let her do it.

Bill was slightly embarrassed to note that his cock was half-swollen. It was clear evidence that he hadn't been thinking of her in entirely professional terms. Well, he told himself, she can take it as a compliment.

She didn't, however. She said: "Don't you find me attractive, Mr. Wilson?"

"Huh? Yes. Urn. Yes, I do."

"And yet your penis isn't fully erect," she observed thoughtfully. "Do you often have this trouble?"

"What trouble? What are you talking about? I thought we were having a business-like thing here-professional, whatever-I mean, I've been trying to keep my mind off-you know, the fact that you're attractive."

"Oh, I see. Inhibitions. You'll be glad you came to us, Mr. Wilson. We'll be able to help you get rid of all these silly hang-ups-not silly, really, but destructive, life-destroying. When you see a beautiful woman, you'll no longer be plagued by such inhibitions."

Bill wasn't certain he liked the implications of that, nor that he understood them perfectly. While he was trying to sort out his attitudes, Ms. Palmer knocked him off balance with another question: "Would it help if I took my clothes off?"

"Help? Help what? What are you talking about?"

"Your erection, Mr. Wilson," she said, and he jumped as she reached out and tickled his half-hard cock. "I have to measure it in its fully erect state."

"No, you don't. What do you have to do that for? What kind of a place is this, anyway?"

Ms. Palmer was already tugging her way out of her mesh blouse. She paused to explain: "We have to know everything there is to know about our clients, otherwise we can't help them. Sometimes the cause of sexual maladjustment-often, in fact-is a feeling of inadequacy about the size of one's penis. We have to check and see if this couldn't be at the root of your problems."

"It isn't. Can't you take my word for it? And for the last time, I don't have any problems. It's my wife. We need to talk to somebody-a marriage counselor-not this-whatever it is."

Ms. Palmer smiled maternally, like someone humoring a lunatic, and finished taking off her blouse. Bill saw nothing he hadn't already seen, but he stared with renewed interest at the firm bareness of her tits. The flimsy wisp of mesh had given her breasts no shaping or support, for they were still as shapely and upthrusting as a girl's. Her pink nipples quivered provocatively as she began working at the fastening of her short leather skirt.

She shimmied out of the skirt. Not altogether surprisingly, she wore no panties, only a lacy wisp of a garterbelt to hold up her stockings. The suspenders framed the most copious abundance of pubic hair that Bill had ever seen on a woman. It began as a fine line at her navel, then rapidly thickened and spread to a forest of dark chestnut curls that swirled down between her thighs. He caught a glimpse of thick, pink lips in the dark curls.

She moved closer to him, between his knees as he sat on the edge of the examining table. An odor of cinnamon, mingled with a faint scent of womanly musk, filled his nostrils. He felt an overpowering urge to grab her, and he did. He pressed his fingers into the firm, taut texture of her big ass and pulled her closer, so close that his cock rubbed into the tickling swirl of her pubic hair.

"You're doing fine, Mr. Wilson," she murmured encouragingly. "Now just lie back on the table and relax, and I'll soon have you just as big and stiff as a flagpole." N

"I already am," Bill said, slipping one of his hands up to cup the smooth, cool weight of her breast.

"Now, now," she urged, pushing him back, "do it our way."

Bill complied. He no longer had any doubts about the nature of this place. It was obviously a high-class whorehouse protected by a legal fiction, a new wrinkle on the massage parlors and body-painting studios and health spas that normally cloaked such operations. The afternoon would be a waste, insofar as improving relations with Amy was concerned; but it wouldn't be a total waste, because he was going to get a nice, juicy piece of ass out of it. The only thing he had to worry about was the price. He was certain that the rates at a place like this would be steeper than any Times Square massage parlor.

His prick was now stiff and pulsing with lust. Contrary to Ms. Palmer's suggestion, it was bigger than average. She inspected it with open admiration for a moment. Then she bent over his supine body and slipped it into the red pucker of her full lips.

Bill gasped with pleasure. At first he thought that this pleasure derived entirely from the novelty of it, that it felt so good because he hadn't been given a blow job since he'd married Amy. Only gradually did it dawn on him that it felt so good because Ms. Palmer was an extraordinarily talented cocksucker. Her mouth was a swirling wet whirlpool of sexy suction as she pulled his prick deeper and deeper between her thirsty lips.

Just as he was relaxing completely, enjoying himself immensely, asking no further questions about what was happening here or why, Ms. Palmer pulled her mouth away with a wet plop of released suction.

"There!" she cried. "I think that's done it nicely."

Frustration, anger, and utter bafflement collided in him to short-circuit his centers of speech, producing a strangled cry of protest, when she took a tape-measure and began recording the dimensions of his prick on her questionnaire.

"Seven and a half inches," she said. "That's really quite remarkable, you know? The average is less than six. I once met a midget from a Cuban whorehouse, before the revolution, who had a twelve-inch phallus, but-"

"Hey!" Bill cried, sitting up as she began gathering her clothes. "What are you doing? What the hell is this?"

Ms. Palmer paused, apparently surprised by the vehemence of his outburst. "Why-that's all there is to it, to this part of it," she explained. "If you'll wait here, the therapist will see you in a few minutes."

"Fuck the therapist!" Bill exploded. "You can't, I mean you can't get me worked up like this, and just give me a little sample of the most terrific blow job I've ever had in my life, and then just walk off like that. I mean, I'm sold. How much do you want?"

"Do you think I'd do it for money!" she demanded, but she seemed more amused than offended.

"Well, I assumed ... naturally...." Bill choked, on the defensive once again.

"That was sweet, though, saying it was the most terrific blow job you ever had. Did you mean that?"

"Of course. I never even imagined it could be so good," he said, now consciously trying to butter her up.

"Well...." she glanced around as if she feared they were under observation. "It isn't usual-but I guess I can make an exception. Come on over to the couch. Don't tell the therapist, all right?"

"I wouldn't dream of it," Bill said, sliding off the table and guiding her toward one of the plush divans with his arm around her slim waist.

She lay back on the couch and spread her booted legs wide, making it obvious just what she wanted. Bill hesitated. He had screwed prostitutes on a few occasions, but he'd never been moved to eat one of them. The idea would have been repugnant to him. But Ms. Palmer had told him, or at least implied, that she wasn't a hooker. If she wasn't, then he had to find another explanation for his experiences in this madhouse; and that wouldn't be easy.

He decided to take her word for it. It was hard not to, while she was lying back on the crimson couch, her tongue flickering out provocatively to moisten her slightly pouted lips. He was fascinated, too, by her phenomenally furry cunt. He wanted to eat her, no matter what she was.

He lowered himself to the couch over her. It was a big, wide couch, and he could comfortably straddle her head with his knees as he leaned forward for a closer look at her hairy crotch, framed by the taut black suspenders of her garterbelt. He parted the chestnut curls with his fingers and revealed the outer lips of her cunt. They were plump and pink, firmly defined in outline and coloring.

His tongue tickled its way up and down the length of the warm, wet slit, tentatively at first, just a teasing exploration. Her pussy seemed juicier than most of those he'd eaten, and it took just the first touch of his mouth to make it even juicier. Syrup flowed as if he'd pierced it with the point of his tongue, as if it had been ready to burst with its oozy ripeness. He drank, guzzling, not wanting to waste a drop, but nevertheless feeling the excess trickling sluggishly down his chin.

She was matching his own actions, not sucking his prick yet, but licking it all over with her moist tongue. Her fingers tickled an intricate little rhythm up and down its hot length while her tongue swirled around the swollen head.

"Deeper, get it in-deeper!" she groaned, twitching her hips to rub her pussy more firmly against his mouth.

He did as he was told, slipping his tongue more firmly into the soft cleft, sliding it downward to explore the secrets of the hot hole that was the source of the wet, odorous ooze. The texture of her cunt became even softer under his tongue, slicker, and then it gave with an unmistakable squishiness. He made a stiff rapier of his tongue and slipped it deep inside.

He sucked, drawing the flaccid petals into his mouth and thrusting his tongue deeper, until almost its full length was sheathed in hot, quivering cunt-flesh. His nose, mouth, and chin were buried in the soft thickness of her pubic hair. He could neither see nor speak nor breathe, but he pressed forward, sliding his hands beneath her to hold the luscious globes of her fleshy ass while he drove his vibrating tongue in and out of her pussy.

She was matching his own efforts as she worked on his prick. She was no longer just licking it, but had sucked it deep inside her mouth. She couldn't seem to suck in enough of his cock. He could feel her sucking on it, dragging on it, pulling for more and ever more of it as her mouth made squishy noises of salivating greed around the hot pillar of flesh.

Now that the first impact of surprise and delight at her incredible talents had worn off slightly and Bill had regained some measure of control over his surging phallus, he began to move his hips to fuck her in the mouth. He slipped his prick partway out of the constriction of her lips, then slipped it inward again, tingling at the light touch of her teeth on his ultrasensitive flesh. He responded to that touch by giving her swollen clitoris the faintest possible nick with his own teeth. She squirmed beneath him, reveling as he was in an exquisite combination of apprehension and sensuality.

The faint reservations he'd felt earlier about kissing her pussy had been completely driven away now. He wallowed in it, smearing his face in the sweet, greasy juice of her cunt as he probed it with his tongue. He didn't resist when she gripped his head tight with her stockinged thighs and jammed him even deeper into the bubbling flow of her hairy crotch. She began bucking her hips against his face as if she were actually fucking.

Fucking-the word, crossing his mind, sent an electric tingle of renewed excitement straight down to the hard rod that filled her lovely mouth. He realized that he hungered to fuck her, that he wanted to thrust his prick deep into her delicious cunt and screw the stuffing out of her. But her blowjob had excited him so much that he was sure he couldn't have lasted more than a minute inside her pussy, and he wanted to make it last for a long time when he fucked her.

He thrust his prick deeper into her mouth, until he felt his balls pressing against her nose, but she didn't object, despite the unusual length of his cock. She took every inch of it, squirming with delight, raking his belly with the hot, hard nubs of her breasts. She bucked her oozing pussy even harder against his face.

He would have loved to reach down and grab her tits, to play with the hot spears of lust jabbing his belly, but it would have taken a wrenching effort of will to tear his hands away from the lush delights of her ass. The big, creamy swells were running with sweat and pussy-juice and saliva, their firm muscles coiling and straining under his fingers as he pulled the crease wider apart to open her cunt even more to the assault of his hungering mouth.

He slid one hand higher, through the taut elastic of the frilly suspender that held her stocking up, and caressed her pussy with his fingertips while his tongue moved up to work exclusively on her clitoris. Even though he wouldn't get a chance to put his cock in there, not this time around, he could at least explore the red gash that tantalized him so much with his fingers.

She moaned and sucked harder on his prick when he slid the tips of two fingers into the steaming mush of her slit. They slid in easily, until the first two joints were buried in warm flesh. She was wide open, receptive, and he kept shoving until both fingers were buried to the hand in her pussy.

Suddenly her cunt tightened around his fingers, constricting them from every side, molding its soft flesh perfectly to their shape. It strained and sucked against his fingers, and the thought flashed through his mind that they were trapped, that he couldn't have pulled them out if he'd tried.

That one squeeze would have been enough to demonstrate to him that her cunt was every bit i as talented as her mouth, but she didn't stop there. Now that her pussy was plastered to his fingers like a second skin, she began to move it and roll it and shake it in quivering waves. His fingers sank deeper, as if they were mired in a sexual quicksand that swallowed anything it seized.

"My God!" he grunted, and he felt her giggling around his cock at this spontaneous testimonial to her ability.

She eased the clasp of her educated pussy for a moment, and he slipped his fingers part of the way out. They glistened with her juice. He slipped them back in again, then slipped them out, slowly building up a rhythm that complemented her squeezing surges. She threw herself completely into the job of blowing him, sucking and pumping with her lips in a determined effort to make him come. Her tongue moved like a moth around a candle, flickering in constant motion around the shaft of pulsing meat in her mouth.

He no longer tried to restrain the orgasm that had been trembling at the edge of explosion for so long. He moved his hips faster, stroking his cock deeper and harder between her lips, pumping himself toward completion. He lashed his fingers in and out of her pussy and worked on her clit with his lapping tongue, striving to take her where he felt himself going.

Before he fully expected it, his climax broke Over him like a wave. It started as a glimmering tingle in his cock, then became a glow, then a conflagration that swept over his whole body. He writhed, groaning against her pussy, as hot pulses of jism jetted out of his prick while she struggled to swallow it all. She kept up the mouth-fucking rhythm with her lips, slipping them up and down the length of the shaft while she gulped and swallowed.

She relaxed the grip of her thighs and let him slide from her body. He tumbled from the couch to the thick rug, but he hardly noticed. He touched his fingers to his lips. They were sore from the clamping rubdown she'd given his mouth with her cunt. Almost immediately, the strong odor of her juice still lingering on his fingers brought back his hunger to probe the depths of that sweet hole with his cock.

He looked up and saw that she was putting her clothes back on. She favored him with a slow, lazy smile as she wiggled into her mesh blouse.

"Wait a minute," he said. "Why don't we-"

"Please, Mr. Wilson," she said firmly. "I don't normally do even this much for our clients on their first visit. You have a lot to do. You have to meet the therapist and learn all about our organization and your place in it. But I'm already sure you have a brilliant future ahead of you."

What the hell did that all mean? he thought. He could only stare at her, not knowing where to begin asking questions.

"Just make yourself at home now," said Ms.

Palmer. "The therapist will be along now at any moment."

Bill watched her go. It was only when she'd left the room that he realized she'd taken his clothes with her.