Never try to out-ouzo a man who was born and brought up in the land of its source. I woke up the morning after I tried that, only to feel his hard cock pounding in the hole that was never meant to welcome a cock. I've always enjoyed being awoken by the wonderful foreplay of fingers or tongue on my nipples or on my clit. But my asshole had been cherry when I had fallen asleep in a drunken stupor. While I had allowed my husband – and all the other men who've enjoyed my body – every technique I could imagine, and some I still don't believe I allowed, yet my asshole was always off limits.
But the man to whom I had said 'I do' woke me with a pain such as I had never encountered, nor even imagined. I thought of things that I didn't know: was this like the pain of childbirth? Or of a kidney stone? Or of root canal without novocaine? I felt like a handsome young boy newly arrived in prison! I could feel the pulling of torn tissue as he thrust in and pulled out, could feel the blood oozing down toward my pussy – I was lying on my stomach – and toward the 1000 count sheets that I love so much.
Miklos' fat body was crushing my own, yet the discomfort was not enough to mask the pain being imposed by his cock. His distended stomach never was a problem when we fucked like most people, with him suspended above me, thrusting and grunting, with only the slightest bother of his traditional post-orgasmic collapse on me.
My screams did nothing to deter him, nor did they excite him enough to accelerate his spurting blast of cum and withdrawal. Could I get away with a defense of justifiable homicide or was this simply the price he was going to be making me pay for the splendor of our home, of my existence?
The double garage door grumbled as it slid up, the bright red emergency pull handle making me duck down as it swayed over my head, five foot six above the concrete floor. I slid into the black behemoth that I thought of as my 'surrey with the fringe on top'. The door swished softly as it clicked solidly, as befits the expenditure of eighty seven thousand, five hundred ninety eight dollars and twelve cents, tax and tags included. Miklos, stupid but rich prick that he is, had not even haggled over the price. We'd picked out the car on the three month anniversary of the night that I finally – drunk with ouzo – was so out of it that he had been able to fuck me in the ass. That was his gift to me for giving in and acting as though I was his toy to play with as he chose. For that and for letting him do me that way three times a week, at least.
What attracted me most to the car was the fact that it had heated seats, because my beloved husband has no interest in my comfort when it comes to getting his rocks off Greek style. The other thing I like, other than spending his fucking money, is the aroma of the butter-soft leather seating in a brand new car. I get wet when I inhale. The only scent I prefer more is that of a newly-shave, newly-sprayed pussy. But dear Miklos' type wouldn't understand that particular conduct. The very idea of trying to give a woman pleasure from sex was beyond his comprehension.
So it was that my bottom was still bothering me – Miklos loves matinees - as I backed out of the three car garage – actually two cars and a golf cart – onto the pebbled driveway. For all of his money, fucking Miklos was too cheap to lay down snow-melting piping and black-top over it. He's been here long enough to know that it snows in Bucks County. Fortunately, that day it was already springtime and asshole had driven his golf cart out to play with his balls. Flowers were blooming, the sun was shining and the heated seat had already begun to make the discomfort of my ass fade away.
I stopped to examine my face in the rear view mirror. Too much powder, I realized; it made me look ghostly. My purse held some blush, and I put it to good use. After all, it was a day to look cheerful for what lay ahead.
Down to the street, turn left, then right, then another right onto the boulevard. After that, it was a straight run to Dr. Frankenstein's office. OK, his name really is Dr. Franklin, and I never called him the other to his face. But as a dermatologist slash plastic surgeon – I don't know where the two diverge – his name just triggered the nasty pun in my mind. Not that he himself was nasty; quite the opposite.
Only traffic lights delayed my trip and that was no problem. His nurse, the lovely Donna, had promised me the last appointment of the morning. The sun was over my left shoulder and it warmed my face, shining past where the ragtop would have been on some other day. I watched hundreds of people rushing about like worker ants, carrying on their daily activities. None of them, I knew, gave a shit that I was going to see a doctor, nor did I give any thought to their plans. Such, I realized, is the way of this mortal coil on which we reside for the time being.
I did glimpse at people as they crossed in front of my car at those annoying red lights. My purpose was simply to wonder if I might like to share the comforts of my body with any of them, to fantasize what pleasures I might give them and what I might receive in return. As you may have guessed, I have no gender bias, and thus have the opportunity for more fantasies than the average person who only goes one way.
The doctor's office was in a large building, thus making the search for a parking space more of a challenge. When Miklos and I were first married, I had broken my ankle in a tumble on the slopes at Vail. Though it had quickly healed perfectly, my new husband had bribed my local orthopedist to do the paperwork needed for me to obtain Handicapped license plates. Whenever I use one of those wide spaces with the little wheelchair painted in the middle, I try to limp as I exit the car. Yes, if it wasn't for that little vice, I would be perfect.
He's part of a large organization. They have twelve dermatologists and/or plastic surgeons in eight offices covering three counties. The receptionist in this office was a plain older woman named Jane, overweight, pleasant, efficient. She gave me the usual smile, addressing me by name as though she remembered me – maybe she had – but possibly relying on the office's daily calendar of appointments, realizing that I was the last of the morning.
"Good morning, Mrs. Angelos," she said, commencing the usual pleasantries. She followed up my reply with the traditional mandatory "Same address and insurance?" Of course she needed to know that, for how else could a medical office operate except by filing insurance claims.
Poor Jane couldn't take her eyes off of my engagement ring. At three and a half carats, it always drew a lot of attention – and envy. If only those people knew what I had to put up with in bed once I got it on my finger.
I sat in the waiting room, crowded with chairs but with only a few people ahead of me. The walls were virtually papered with advertisements for their services, computer generated letter-sized paper notices about which insurance companies were not acceptable, where to sign in, office policies regarding referrals from primary physicians and the handling of prescription refills.
The tables were strewn with magazines, each of them with the address label sloppily torn off in order to prevent anyone from learning the home address of the employee who had brought it in – used! Each cover was defaced with the firm's initials, in bold black marker ink, lest any patient be presumptuous enough to try to take one home. Sure, for resale at some antique magazine booth at the local flea market. For each publication was dated sometime around the invention of the printing press. Certainly I exaggerate, but unfortunately not enough to make a significant difference to the waiting patients.
We all looked at the wall clock, marking the passage of time with slow clicks, each seeming to take one hundred eighty seconds per minute. Patients were called from time to time, entering the inner sanctum through the door on the left and exiting some time later through the door on the right, having been funneled part the sign that said 'appointments', ignoring the unsaid true reason for the stop, which was for collection of co-pays and uninsured visits.
Finally I was alone in the waiting room, and my boredom started to morph into anticipation. The door on the left opened. A smiling nurse, Donna, stood there. She wore sneakers with short white socks, and a white skirt. The name of the practice, as well as her first name, was stitched right over the left breast of the signature colored 'handicap parking space' blue blouse. Signature, that is, for the week, for there were similar garments for the entire staff, all eight offices, in pink, green and yellow.
"Good morning, Linda. Please come in." As long as I had been waiting, it never occurred to me to refuse. She stepped aside as I passed through the door. When I paused, she directed me to the scale. When I began to kick off my loafers, she pointed at the sign posted near the scale, something to the effect that OSHA, the Occupational Safety and Health Administration, required that patients keep the shoes on. Could someone please explain to me why OSHA gives a flying fuck about that? She then led me into an examining room, seating me on a large chair-table covered with a sheet of paper off a roll. The image it left me was that of a hot-sheet motel furnished with tear off sheets for quickie assignations. With some difficulty, I pushed those memories from my mind!
.... There is more of this story ...