"Dr. Green, my husband hasn't had an orgasm in over a week and I know that he's climbing the wall. He needs some relief soon and I'd like to give him a hand job or suck his cock. Will it be safe?"
"Jill," he held his hand on my left shoulder and said after a brief pause to consider, "we need to keep his head and neck completely immobilized. The excitement of orgasm and ejaculation might very take a hopeful situation and turn it into permanent paralysis or even kill him. However," he continued after another pause, his voice dropping, "if you'd like to suck a cock..."
I'd heard it all before. So many, many times. The moment I heard him say 'however', I began to move my right hand and arm backward and after the word 'suck', I brought them forward with all my might, slapping his face with a loud sound, trying to rattle his teeth. The nearby nurse's face came up, startled at the sound, and after seeing the two of us, immediately turned aside, an ostrich hoping that we wouldn't notice her.
"In the future, Doctor, I'm not Jill, I'm Mrs. Wilson. And you will kindly keep your fucking hands off of me. From now on, I'll be consulting with Nurse..." I turned to look at the name tag resting atop her healthy left tit, "Carmela Rodriguez."
So what's the story, you ask. What happened to my husband and why did a simple crude remark get me so angry?
It's all my own fault. First, about Jack. Let me stop you right there. We've heard every possible joke about Jack and Jill and we're sick and tired of them, so don't bother. Anyway, we live in a rabid football town. We have season tickets for the local team and bet heavily, but only on our boys. Football Fever had set in. It was the first game of the playoffs and we had home team advantage right up through the Super Bowl.
The rain falling at the start of the game had turned into snow and ice by halftime. By the middle of the third quarter, Jack turned to me and said, "This game is over. Let's go home, put on a fire and fuck on the bear-skin rug."
"Not yet, lover. We've already won the over/under bet but I'd like to see us get another quick touchdown before I'm really comfortable about covering the spread."
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Call your local bookmaker for an explanation of those words.
Well, he bitched but he agreed to stay. It was another fifteen minutes of real time – playing time was a lot shorter - before our guys scored the touchdown that made me happy. By then, the ice had thickened and the temperature had dropped. We tip-toed down the parking aisle as departing cars inched beside us, all at respectably safe slowness. Just as we reached our car, more than fifteen minutes after Jack's original request would have gotten us there, an SUV moving at a safe five miles per hour hit an icy spot and jackknifed into us.
It knocked me into Jack. My ass hit the ground and I slid backward, cursing in several languages. But when I hit Jack, he fell straight, hitting his shoulder and back against the grille of a Hummer and then his head hit solid ice on the ground.
Bottom line, he broke more bones than I knew he had. As I indicated earlier, another half inch one way or the other and he would have been kaput. As it was, he had to be put into a head-neck brace to keep him immobile until everything knit together.
So that's what put him into Rehab, with his balls continually full of cum and no safe way to get rid of it.
But why did I get so angry at Dr. Green's disgusting mouth? Men talk like that all the time, and women of all shapes and sizes get used to it. But we don't like it and it festers. In my case, the story is worse.
I've been blessed. My face, tits, legs, hips all came in 'just right' and I knew early on that men and boys lusted after me and jerked off with my picture inside their closed eyes.
On the other hand, I was also cursed. My clit developed into a raging maniac, always desiring orgasmic relief. Masturbating fingers, nor were cucumbers and my mother's vibrators – with her knowledge. I could cum and be happy, but only for a short while.
In high school, I took advantage of all that the boys – and many of the teachers - had to offer. I sucked a lot of cock. My friends quickly taught me that insisting on the boys fingering me to orgasm before I took their cocks into my mouth was a small price for them to pay. I became the most popular girl in school, and happily it was not as a slut, but as 'one fine piece of ass.'
Once I learned that a cock or a tongue gives better orgasms than a finger, it was easy to impose the same rule: you make me cum first or your cock will never again see the inside of any part my body.
There was one other curse that I haven't mentioned. I love to spend money on myself, and my parents didn't have very much. So it wasn't much of a leap for me to start putting a price tag on doing what I loved so much to do. Blow job, straight fuck, sixty-nine, anal – yes, I took it up the ass, all-nighter, weekend, full week out of town. Of course, once I started to charge, I could no longer insist on the guy making me cum first. But what the fuck; I considered money more important than orgasms. And when necessary, I could always give a freebie to some young man in return for his tongue. Fortunately, that wasn't too often.
I rapidly matured in the fucking business. I no longer gave blow jobs as a single item, but coupled them with a straight fuck at a higher price. And I was no longer a cock sucker; I became a fellatrice. I no longer took it up the ass; instead, I accepted sodomy. I was no longer a whore; I became a paid companion. I outgrew my madam; she morphed into my social secretary.
And then I made the decision to expand my vistas. My social secretary was also a casting agent, and I soon became a movie star, fucking and sucking to the whirr of a camera. Or multiple cameras. And I don't mean to suggest that it was those late-night pay channels on televising. It was full-length hard core, with the camera just about up my cunt, clit visible, cock plunging in and out in full view, asshole ditto, cum-filled face-drenching money shots.
All in all, the money was great. I lived like a Queen and had all the orgasms that I ever wanted. And then I met Jack. He was just a customer, but a good one. He booked me for a week and we flew to Paradise Island and then to Las Vegas. He did everything to me that I'd ever heard about and then a few that were new. Those Vegas days included threesomes with Jack's son. At the end of the week, the two of them left me bow-legged.
Jack also left me his phone number.
And soon I was giving him freebies, and then we were lovers. We married, we moved into a gated golf club community. I gave up the life and he supported me in the style to which I had become accustomed. We lived happily ever after.
End of story? Oh, no; not by a long shot.
By chance, one of our neighbors was Doctor Green. He knew nothing of my history, nor that of Jack. For all he knew, for all that any of our neighbors and fellow golf-clubbers knew about us, we could have been there under the Witness Protection Program or newly retired gazillionaires just living off of clipping coupons.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Call your investment advisor to explain what that means.
None of our neighbors cared one whit about the mixed races.
Then one night, after we'd made love – we no longer just fucked – neither of us was tired. Our computer used the big tv screen in our bedroom and we often downloaded first run movies. He sat with his back against the headboard and I sat between his open legs. His cock, still cum-sticky from his ejaculation inside me, lay against my pussy.
"Let's watch some porn, Jill."
I agreed, and he clicked a few keys. Soon we were online to the raunchiest stuff I'd ever seen. I leaned back, idly stroking his cock. Suddenly he jumped forward, his forehead hitting the back of my neck.
"What was that all about?"
"That's you, Jill."
He hit the pause button and then slowly rewound the video. Sure enough, there I was, a cock in my ass and another one in my mouth, a look of ecstasy on my face. I couldn't remember the names of the two men, I'd made so many of that type video, though I certainly recognized the genre.
Jack and I looked at each other, our minds in total sync.
"Fuck it," he said. "What are the chances of anyone in the club recognizing you, and if they did, so what? You've done nothing illegal making those movies. But you do get me hot. Any suggestions?"
I twisted around and swallowed his cock. And soon thereafter, I swallowed his cum.
Do I have to tell you what happened?
A seventeen year old boy living four blocks away was about to fuck his girlfriend. They were using the computer as a lazy kid's foreplay.
"Holy shit, that's Jill Wilson."
"Who the fuck is Jill Wilson," she asked, staring at my face impaled on a raw cock.
He told her. And being a worldly kid, he also told his father the next morning. Who dutifully told the kid's mother. Who told the girls around the breakfast table in the clubhouse. And in those unforgettable words by Yul Brynner from "The King and I", et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. That was followed by someone's internet search which disclosed a long forgotten prostitution arrest in California, with all the gory details.
The first hint I had of all this was when I stopped at the communal mail box station at the clubhouse, when I noticed people of both genders looking sideways at me. After that, the men, when unencumbered by the presence of their wives, started making slightly suggestive comments, references to my tits and ass and what they'd like to do with them.
.... There is more of this story ...