Vincent Church - Degraded teenager

Doctor Bruce was next. She was so anxious to get there – but only to "talk" to him, she told herself she almost tripped while entering the office. He was slouched behind the desk, just as she'd seen him the first time. She grinned. Without having to be told, she quietly closed the door and moved to the deep leather chair opposite where he sat.

"Well now," said the doctor, eying her in that same horny way she remembered. "Another one of my girls come home for a visit? They always do, you know. Once they get a taste of our hospitality, they just can't seem to stay away." He sank into the chair, apparently expecting an explanation.

Wendy was beginning to wonder why men wasted time with innuendos, and then, after the clothes were shed, why they changed so much. It was fun talking about one thing and meaning another. Like the word taste! She knew what that meant; she knew that out of sight under the desk the doctor's ramrod was growing, that he was remembering how her lips had chopped down on his knob. But there were other things on her mind: psychiatry! He was the only one she knew of to ask about the mix-up inside her small, troubled head.

"I… I came back because – well, me 'n' Daddy 'n' Mummy… and then Lew and the whorehouse and Gus, and the others. What I mean is, I don't really know actually how it all happened." She looked helplessly into his thick glasses, where the two Wendys tugging her this way and that were reflected.

Sitting far forward, the doctor braced his forearms on the cluttered desktop. "What you're trying to say," he offered in a low, soothing voice, "is that you had to come back because of what was done to you here… in the dorms… in this office."

"No!" She frowned, trying to put her thoughts into words and coming up with nothing. "I… I don't want to, then I do, and it's simply awful, is what."

"Oh?" The doctor's glasses slipped low on the bridge of his nose. His watery eyes blinked at her.

"Sex!" she supplied, fidgeting. Even saying the word made her cunt wet. But that wasn't the bad part. The worst thing about it was the horrid acts men made her perform, and the agonizing fact that she loved it once a big, stiff cock was fucked up one of her hot, hairy holes. Tears of confusion flooded her eyes. She set her small jaw, and sat up tall. "How come I like it when I really don't?" she blurted.

The doctor extended a bony hand toward her. Hesitantly she reached, allowed the long fingers to close tight around hers. She didn't resist when he coaxed her out of the chair, and around the desk. She saw the bulge in his pants, the hungry look magnified by his glasses. He indicated his lap with a nod. She chewed her lip, stared for a moment, and sat.

For the next half-hour, Doctor Bruce filled her head with the technical explanations for perverted compulsions. Sex was for the female a basically masochistic act, he explained. And for a man, any man – even her wonderful daddy – a degree of sadism was as natural as feathers on a duck. She thought that was cute, and told him so. He replied by hiking her dress up, cupping his hand at her pussy, and saying that was cute too.

There were too many big words to remember, and some of it was confusing still. But she was beginning to understand that pain and shame – even shitting the bed, as she'd done with Lew – was to her, to her makeup, her psychology, as necessary to achieving an orgasm as was the need to have a man toy with her titties. Doctor Bruce demonstrated by pinching her nipple so hard it brought fresh tears to her eyes, and more juice to her cunthole. He then stroked her bush, as he might have done to a small pet. That was nice. But when he took firm hold of the hair, trying to pull it out by the roots, it seemed that the thrill which followed the pain was ten times more exquisite.

"D-Does that mean I… I'm sick?" she whispered, opening her legs for his fingers and sucking one, two, three bony lengths up her twat.

"Sick?"

"Ummmmmmm!" Her voice quivered almost as much as her clit. "Am… am I one of them whatyamacallits? You know!" She tapped the side of her head, wiggled, and pulled the last of the four bony darts up her smoking cunt. "D-Does it mean I'm one of those girls in high leather boots and like that?"

Doctor Bruce laughed. "It means whatever you want it to mean, young lady. Some dig whips. Do you?" He lifted her dress high, to her waist, gripped the tender flesh of her belly, and squeezed and squeezed.

Wendy's eyes opened wide and her jaw dropped. She squirmed in his lap, noting the degrees of sensation: first the unbearable agony, then the slight tingle, then the magnificent electric thrill flooding her loins. It was true! The other Wendy was a girl who demanded beatings and hurt, welts and red bruises, degradation that left her so sore and exhausted that the healing power of cum washed through every pore, every nerve ending. That fucking became more than a mere cock up her belly; and orgasm, she and a man cuming together, was a religious experience as sacred as the resurrection.

"Enough psychology," said Doctor Bruce. "Your mouth's been much, too busy talking. What it needs is something to suck on – a lolly! Remember?"

Did she ever remember! She remembered too that she didn't like doing a blowjob. But all that was different now. Now she knew that not liking something made the things she did like so much better. It made fucking that much more wonderful when the cock finally crept in. It made her cunthole sing, her ass chum and dance. Like a nimble ballerina she leaped from his lap, and knelt. She unzipped his fly, and her hand dove inside, captured his rod, and exposed the fat purple glans for her eager, wet kisses. "Lovely lolly," she cooed, forming a wide "O" with her lips, breathing moist warmth on the thing that resembled a ripe plum. "Make your big lollipop pop off in my mouth – dear, dear Doctor Bruce."

Moving to the edge of the chair, the doctor placed one hand at the back of her head, the other at the roots of the stiffness bobbing so close to her face. "This'll do you absolutely no good," he told her. "This time you'll have to serve the rest of your sentence. There's nothing I can do. Nothing!"

"Oh, but you're wrong," countered Wendy. "You've done so much already."

"Me?"

"Yes…" She swirled her wet tongue over the tip of his cock. She licked the stem – up and down. She circled the fat jacket of skin marking his circumcision, and eyed the speck of lint trapped in the tiny pisshole. One flick disposed of the intruder; the doctor's hips shot forcefully forward. "You made me stop feeling dirty about sex," she added. "Now I can do anything. Even this." Again she opened her mouth, forming the cocksucker's "O". She let it slowly down over the cockhead.

"Ohh! Hee! Oh!" Like a tall comical jack-in-the-box, Doctor Bruce went rapidly up and down in the seat. The hand at the back of her head pressed down. "Oh, my dear girl," he sighed. "Yes. Ah, yes, suck it in. My! Wonder of wonders – a self-educated lolly-licker, you are."

Wendy barely heard the words through the roar in her head. She was busy trying not to gag, trying to breathe through her nose and think only of the good fucking to follow. She didn't know why it had to be this way, why she was what she was. She supposed all that had happened, her introduction to sex, was the basis of her uncontrollable drives. She sucked noisily, from deep in her throat. She braced herself between his long, gaping legs, inhaled, and let the hand at the back of her head push her lips all the way down.

"Ahhlihhhh!" Doctor Bruce slumped in the chair, letting his prick soak. His fingers moved affectionately through her hair. "Play with my nuts," he whispered. "Take the poor things out of hiding, dear. Make them happy."

Wendy complied. Looking up, watching his face contort with the wonder of her sucking, she reached inside his fly and hefted his sacs. The pants were in the way. Holding him in one silky palm, she undid his belt, opened the pants wide, and freed the rest of his sex. The glans of his dick throbbed at the back of her throat. Still she went further down, her lower lip turned outward to wash the wrinkled flesh in her hand.