Heather Brown - Wife turned on

Paving the way for the eruption I craved, my fist bashed into his colon. Then I abruptly retracted it, sliding out with a deafening pop from his bunghole. The sensation must have been five times greater for him than when I had pulled merely one finger out of his ass before when we'd been fucking.

Dr. Higgins yowled like a wounded animal as my fist came ripping out of his crap-chute; and then spilled his load at last into my mouth. The cum flowed down my throat like hot lava – I felt like I was sucking on a miniature volcano.

I threw my hands to my face. My fingers pressed to my mouth, trying to hold in the streaming jizz that was already oozing out.

My cheeks were taut with the constantly expanding volume of cream inside. My face felt like a balloon.

I gagged and choked and sputtered. Because of his constant spurting there was no way I could swallow fast enough.

Finally the pressure was too great for me to endure. My mouth erupted as though I were vomiting. The doctor's prick came out first in the rush, followed by a mouthful and a throatful of steaming sperm. It splattered all over both of us, soaking through my blouse and drenching my tits, and swamping crotch.

I scooped up the spunk by the handful and rubbed it all over my face and hair. By the time I was finished, I was a sticky mess. I looked like I had fallen into a vat of marshmallow.

It was only when his cum had cooled off and started to congeal that I noticed the doctor's cock had finally collapsed. Not only that, so had the rest of him. The poor dear was finished for the afternoon, practically unconscious from carnal exhaustion. I couldn't help but wonder what he'd do about his next appointment.

Over at his desk I found a prescription pad and wrote him a note. "Dear Bob," it said. "See you same time next week. I think you can really help me with my problems."

My weekly sessions with Dr. Higgins did wonders for my spirit. His brand of therapy was just what I needed. Even though Don was still as cold as ever; I was still convinced things were improving.

However, all along I was riding for a fall. In the psychological rebuilding process I had allowed myself to completely ignore the fact that I was still dependent on my husband. Don was paying the bills, and if he decided I had had enough psychiatry that was the end of it.

Looking back, I can see how naive I was. It was stupid of me to expect that Don would keep pouring money into my doctor bills, no matter how much I felt the psychiatrist helped me, when he couldn't see any direct benefits for himself.

It was certainly true enough that Don had been the one to insist that I see Dr. Higgins, however that hardly meant he was at all sophisticated about psychiatry.

Dr. Higgins charged $75 an hour. Considering the low esteem in which my husband held me since I'd been tarnished in his eyes by rape, there was no way he was going to think I was worth that kind of money.

Perhaps if Don had just come flat-out and told me the news, I might have been able to accept the end to my therapy without an extreme reaction. However, such was not the case, and the way in which I learned the news was devastating.

"It's as simple as this, Mrs. Randall," I was told when I reported for my weekly session. "I'm not running a charity clinic here."

"But, Bob," I protested, shaken by the fact that he hadn't called me Mary as much as anything.

"Dr. Higgins," he sternly corrected me, bringing me down even more so I felt about the size of an ant. "I can only be on a first-name basis when I'm getting paid. Otherwise, I'm afraid a more formal approach is necessary – that way the former patient won't get any incorrect ideas about our status."

It was chilling the way he pronounced the word "former". He made it sound like he was not a psychiatrist talking to a patient, but a judge passing sentence on a criminal.

For several moments I was speechless with shock. During that time I mentally reviewed everything that had happened in the office in which I suddenly felt like such an intruder.

"But the love-making…" I blurted when I could no longer stand the pressure in my skull. "How can you just throw it all aside?"

"You're forgetting that any intimacies we've shared are merely part of the treatment," he replied coldly. "Obviously, there's no way such therapy can continue without proper payment."

I reeled from the impact of his words. The only way I would steady myself was to get angry and blurt: "In other words, no money, no fucking!"

"My professional ethics prevent me from putting it that way, Mrs. Randall," he answered smugly, not in the least affected by my ire. "But you have hit the nail on the head."

"Then you're saying I've meant nothing to you except $75 an hour." I dared to speak the ugly truth.

"I am the doctor and you are the patient," he said, starting to sound like a cash register instead of a person to me. "Like it or not, psychiatry is just a business like anything else. You wouldn't expect your plumber to give you service without proper payment, so there's no reason why, you should expect the same from your psychiatrist. Good afternoon, Mrs. Randall."

There was no point in arguing with him. It was over between us. In fact, I suspected that had I continued to protest he would have signaled to his receptionist to call the police.

Somehow I managed to hold my tears until I hit the street. However, once I was outside the tears flowed uncontrollably. Passers-by were looking at me like I was some kind of freak. Needless to say, nobody bothered to stop and ask if they could help.

Embarrassed by my breakdown, I ducked into a mid-town alley so I could escape all the cruelly prying eyes. The environment in which I found myself perfectly matched the way I felt – crummy, bleak and uncared for.

Leaning with my back against one brick wall, I looked through tear-tilled eyes at the graffiti streaked on the wall opposite from me. Trying to compose myself, I forced myself to concentrate on the crudely scrawled messages.

They were all obscene, of course, further proof of what a down-at-the-heels, sleazy place the inner city had become. It seemed like everybody with a piece of chalk in their pocket or a can of spray paint had a dirty mind.

For some reason the item that eventually caught my attention was not a worded construction, but a drawing. Some amateur pornographer had recorded his impression of two people fucking. Needless to say, there were no faces – just a huge cock buried two-thirds of the way within a spread-legged pussy.

Considering my devastated state, I was abnormally attracted by the obscene drawing before me. Even after I'd stopped crying, I couldn't take my eyes off of it, and couldn't stop thinking about it.

The drawing seemed not just chalk lines but practically a reflection of the real thing. In fact, the cock actually seemed to be moving up and down in the cunt. I watched it and watched it as though I eventually expected cum to fly before my eyes, the way it had when I had watched myself in the mirror being fucked by the psychiatrist I had so depended upon to make me feel like something more than a piece of shit.

I was so absorbed that I didn't even hear the voice from the street until its owner walked into the alley. It was only when I heard the scuffling of footsteps through the rubble in the alley that I turned to my right and realized that I was not alone.

"Hey, lady," a young sailor said, "what're you hanging around here for?" The way he said it I suspected he had already drawn his own conclusions.

I didn't know what to say. I thought of just leaving, pushing past him and getting out on the street where there were a lot of other people and he wouldn't dare try anything funny with me.

However, when I took a step I abruptly froze. The wetness I felt when my thighs scraped together was so shocking that my determination dissolved. Like it or not, the dirty drawing on the wall had made my pussy soaking wet.