Heather Brown: Wife turned on

"How did you know?"

"It's very common," he explained. "There's just something in most men that makes it difficult for them to accept that a woman could be an innocent victim of sexual assault. Most guys assume that any woman who's raped must have been asking for it."

"But I wasn't," I wailed.

"I know that," he gently supported me. "However, on the other hand, everybody's not a psychiatrist. For example, what does your husband do for a living?"

"He's the manager of a fast-food franchise."

"Well, there you have it. The clientele your husband serves is probably composed mostly of teenagers."

I nodded my head that he was right.

"In other words, your husband is probably exposed to a parade of young women all day long – scantily clad in the summer – who seem to be flaunting their firm, young bodies. They seem to be asking for it. You know, a lot of these girls nowadays don't wear any underwear. If a man catches them in the right position he can see everything."

"But what does that have to do with me?"

"It's simple," he said. "Day after day, through no fault of his own, your husband sees attractive young females apparently flaunting their bodies. Without the background to temper his judgment, it's only natural that he starts to believe that this is typical."

"You mean," I caught on, "that he assumes all women really are asking for sex."

"Precisely," he nodded. "And as a matter of fact, I'll bet he's broken up plenty of incidents in the parking lot that tend to confirm his impression even more."

"But I'm no teenager," I pointed out.

"But you probably were when you and your husband met."

I agreed that this was true.

"So it's not surprising that he still thinks of you in this way."

"In other words," I followed his line of thinking, "my husband thinks what happened to me was the same as what he sees every day."

"Yes, after you were raped, it just confirmed it to him – to use the slang of today – that you were just another horny chick on the make. A cheap tramp."

I'd never thought of it this way. For the first time I could understand Don's point of view. After all, I'd seen those teenage girls the doctor was talking about. Some of them had their cut-off jeans stuck right up in their tight cracks. I told the doctor this, and he was pleased with my insight.

"What's more," Bob continued, "I'll bet when you're around the house you are frequently as provocative as the girls your husband sees all day long."

I'd never thought about that, and expressed my apparent naivete.

"You won't deny that you have on occasion rim around the house scantily clad," Bob pressed the point.

"Well, yes, in my nightgown," I confessed, squirm mw on the couch from the anxiety caused by this revelation.

"And sometimes in short skirts with no panties underneath," he suggested. "Perhaps leaning over the kitchen sink with your dress hiked up in back so that plenty is showing."

"Yes," I admitted.

"Well, now we're getting someplace," he said, getting up front behind his desk. "I'm guessing that a look up your dress is not much different than looking up a cute teenagers."

"I… I wouldn't know about that," I stammered, suddenly feeling anxious as he came to the couch and loomed over me.

"I'll tell you what," he suggested. "Imagine I'm your husband. Roll over on the couch and throw up your skirt and act like you're reading a magazine or something. I'll pretend I'm your husband walking into the room and finding you this way. While I'm looking at you, I'll share my feelings with you, and perhaps you can understand where you're husband is ht."

"Do… do you want me to take off my panties first," I stammered, my skin feeling hot and prickly.

"It would be better," Bob said. "And in fact, to make the situation even more realistic, I'll go out of the room so you can prepare yourself to look as natural as possible. When I come back in, you'll be essentially nude from the waist down, and we'll get to the bottom of this."

It was only when I began to roll my panties down my thighs that I noticed the wetness. When I got the panties off and looked at their crotch, there was a fresh stain. Spreading my legs, I looked down into my cunt and saw that it was glistening with moisture.

I started to hesitate. But when Bob inquired through the door if I was ready, I lost my nerve to resist. I convinced myself that he had a lot more experience than I in these matters and that the only intelligent thing was to do as he said. If there was a logical reason for my pussy being wet, I was sure he had it.

Rolling over on my stomach, I bunched my skirt up around my waist and started to pretend I was reading a magazine. Then, just to make it more authentic, I languidly parted my thighs and flashed my pussy from the rear. Even though I had been nervous up until now about showing myself, once I was in the position Bob had suggested, I felt surprisingly comfortable. When he finally walked through the door, I didn't even flinch.

As I went through the charade of ignoring him, he came over to the couch and looked down at me. Even though I realized he was staring straight at my open pussy, I had so much confidence in him by now that I wasn't disturbed. In fact, my self-consciousness had abruptly dissolved to such an extent that I even wiggled my ass a little bit, pretending that I was reading something exciting in the non-existent magazine.

The doctor started talking after looking me over for several moments, giving me the benefit of what goes through a man's mind when he unexpectedly comes upon the hairy essence of a woman revealed.

"Look at her cunt," he rasped in a low, throaty voice. "It looks like she's ready to fuck any man who comes along. She's showing her pussy like a Goddamn whore."

His explicit comments immediately set the wheels spinning in my mind. The imaginary magazine I was reading became one filled with erotic content. While Bob was talking to himself about my twat, I supposed I was reading a detailed description of a sexual encounter.

When Bob rasped, "Her cunt is dripping. I know she wants a man's cock in it," I made myself believe those were the words before my eyes. Then, as his description of his thoughts became more and more frank, gradually the story became one of a psychiatrist seducing one of his female patients.

When he said that his prick was hard, the words changed to pictures. I could see an immense cock in a full state of erection before my eyes in vivid color. When I felt the wetness around the outside of my mouth, I realized I was licking my lips.

"I'd like to fuck that cunt," he said, "but I'm afraid it's dirty from other men. All women are really whores – if they get the chance they'll fuck anybody in pants. Who knows how many pricks she's taken between her legs? I might get the clap."

"No, you won't," I heard myself saying like I was a character in the imaginary story. "My pussy is clean. If you fuck me, you won't regret it."

"I don't believe you."

"I'll show you," I said, and rolled over on my back. As he looked down, I parted my legs as far as they would go and opened my twat to him from the front. It was so juicy, I could feel the goo leaking down into the crack of my ass.

For the first time since we had begun our role playing, I could see his face. The expression on it was one of pure lust. Playing to it, I flexed my crotch upward, spraying a fine mist of juice in the air.

But, to my surprise, he did not respond as I'd hoped he would. Instead of pulling out his stiff cock and ravishing me, he actually backed off a step.

"Why won't you fuck me?" I gasped. "You know you want to."

"I can't trust you. You'll have to show me you're not a cock-teaser by taking my prick out of my pants and sticking it in your cunt by yourself."