“It started a year ago, Doctor…”
She leaned close to explain, even though they were alone in his Santa Monica clinic.
Her black hair was short-bobbed beneath a chic beret, and sunglasses covered about twenty percent of her very famous face.
Privately, Doctor Mark Odžakov thought his latest client looked a bit ludicrous, like when a superhero went undercover in one of the movies she acted in. Look, world! I’m inconspicuous!
“I did a stunt…missed a pillow…hit my head…and now…now I’m…”
He tried not to let his eyes fall to her chest.
The woman had breasts as big as nine-pounders. Her low-scooped neckline heaved, awesomely freighted with meat. Each breath she drew threatened to spill ice-white décolletage out through the cut.
“…what am I? Oh God…” She giggled suddenly. Hysterically. Her white-gloved hand slapped down on the table. The gesture set her heavy knockers wobbling ponderously. “Oh God…”
Mark Odžakov reached across, and folded the hand inside his. “I hear the pain this is causing you, and I want you to know that you are safe. You can talk in this room.”
Outwardly, he was a model of clinical patience.
Inwardly, he wished this beautiful, huge-breasted woman had a fast-forward button.
Hurry up. Tell me what’s wrong so I can fix you. Which I will, because I’m the best intimacy therapist in LA. That’s why you came, isn’t it? Do you imagine that your secret will shock me? That it will make me gasp and clutch at pearls? Hundreds of people have sat in this room, in your chair. Whatever it is, I’ve heard it. This act was terrifying and strange to her, boring and familiar to him. She had to understand this.
Her lips tightened. Her throat quivered above the knot of a fine pashmina cravat. “I broke my brain, doctor. Except…it doesn’t feel like it’s broken…”
Come on. Spit it out. This was torture. Like watching a rat pause at the start of a maze while he stood above it, already seeing the full path to the end.
He could treat her. But only if she told him what was wrong.
She lowered her head. She became just a beret and the soft flexure of a throat.
“Doctor…” Her chest rose and fell under a trenchcoat. “Do you have a TV? A video player?”
“Yes.”
He had a wall-mounted 75-inch OLED opposite his desk, hidden behind suede curtains that could be raised via a Matt Lauer-esque button. He had seen this sort of thing before—celebrities who were unable or unwilling to confront some inner demon, and who relied on the camera as a kind of character witness. Actresses in particular seemed prone to this.
Either way, he felt utterly, utterly prepared for Hayley Elizabeth Atwell. She could not shock him if she tried.
She rummaged inside her clutch for her phone.
“My terrace in Spitalfields is wired up with security cameras. It would be easier if you…saw the problem.”
* * *
Her hazel eyes stared at the boy with ravenous need.
She twisted a coil of hair around a finger, white teeth indenting her lip. She tracked his passage down the street from her narrow front doorway. Every doorway in London’s East End is narrow, but this one seemed particularly so, because Hayley Atwell stood inside it.
Her body was obscene. Kinetic. A bomb built of meat, exploding inside a flowing black dress of opulent charmeuse. It was almost bursting apart at bust and hip. If couture could speak, hers would scream.
She slanted her curvy body against a fluted Ionic column. She shifted her big meaty hips, triggering pops from the stitching on the charmeuse. Her thick body bulged against the dress in snowdrifts of white.
Her eyes had the unblinking algid ferocity of a corpse. She licked her lips, a lioness so sure of a kill she was already planning the next one.
The boy stumping up the footpath was an unpromising sort. Sloped shoulders, scoliotic spine, so fat that his walk was a waddle. He appeared to be about eighteen years old. He dragged a black trash bag behind him, which bounced and skipped off cracks in the crumbling London pavement.
His clothes—a hooded Primark jacket and gray cargo shorts—were so careless and casual that it was unbelievable he’d made a conscious choice to put them on. They might have grown on his body organically, like a coat of mold.
Her salon-fabulous hair was piled in victory rolls, like scoops of glossy black ice cream. Her clothes were haute couture.
But her face was a slavering mask of hunger. Little flushed dots appeared in her cheeks. Her large, transfixing hazel eyes had a Sadean singularity behind them. Her nostrils flared. Her breathing roughened. Her tongue flicked out, licked her lips, then retreated in a glistening red knife-strike. She clutched the Ionic column for support, as if it was the only thing stopping her from lunging at the boy.
She looked insane. A living reminder that although London had built its last lunatic asylum, it had not built its last Jack the Ripper.
The fat boy stood before the actress, grinning stupidly.
“Nice norks.” He stared at Hayley’s enormously jutting chest. “Can’t wait to get ’em out of that dress.”
Irritation twitched her crazy-hot face.
“Good morning, James!” She trilled loud enough for half the street to hear. “How nice of you to bring me another bag of your aunt’s aubergines!”
She turned and flashed a grin to her next-door neighbor, who was watching from the window.
“His aunt owns a greenhouse! She grows the most fabulous aubergines! They’re so firm you can actually shred them and make pasta!”
The elderly man turned his face from the teenaged boy—about eighteen, should have been in school but wasn’t—to the wild-eyed actress, forty-four years old and all but drooling over the boy.
He looked confused. Maybe suspicious.
Hayley returned her stare to the boy, who stood on her doorstep saying nothing. Her lips moved. Play. Along.
“Oh, right.” He flushed. “Aubergines, innit. Nice and fresh ones.” He hefted the bag awkwardly. “I’ll help you clean and prep ’em, ma’am, if you want.”
“Just the ticket!” Hayley giggled, sweeping an arm around the boy’s slope of a shoulder. “Come inside!”
She dragged him through the door, her panting desperate.
I need a fat cock! she hissed like a swan.
* * *
Slam! The restored Georgian door crashed shut.
Flup! His belt was ripped open, his pants flung down around his chubby ankles.
The black bag was carelessly tossed. Its contents flew out in a wild strew over the worn flagstones of the hallway. The bag had no aubergines. Just rolled-up balls of paper.
A heavy pink cock sprang out, slapping wetness onto his belly. It engorged massively with blood, twitching softly as it rose.
“I warn you…” Hayley smirked in the entrance hall, dropping her fat ass into a squat at his crotch. “I’m a perfect terror right now!”
Her fingers squeezed his heavy scrotum. Pungent mottled ballflesh bulged between her fingers.
His cock twitched, expelling a strand over the kneeling woman’s tits.
“I’ve been dreaming about this dick all day.”
Hayley clasped her fist around his erection, feeling it rise from his pubis, swelling to the width of a TV remote.
“That’s hard enough.” She groaned and she launched herself at his cock like a starving woman.
Swiveling her thick door-busting hips back and forth, she gripped his ass, pulled him onto her face, and started sucking him off.
Hard.
Schlurp-glorp-glup-plooshhh!
She smeared a crime scene’s worth of red lipstick across his groin as she deep-throated him, gurgling on his teenaged erection, letting it flex and swell against slick armature of her throat. Her fingernails tore half-moons into his flabby buttocks, tormenting him with pain.
The boy’s thick, fishlike lips barely moved when he spoke.
“That’s right. Suck me off, you goddamn tart. Look at you. What an absolute whore.”
Moist, raunchy slurps defiled the air as the cock-obsessed actress suck-started a barely legal teen. Nostalgic paintings by Gainsborough and Millais stared down in disapproval at the disgusting scene.
“Cumming,” the boy grunted, clutching her head in both hands
He gripped her skull like a melon, and plunged it up and down on his prick.
GLARKK! SLURRKKK! GLOORRPPP!
The bloated pink scrotum visibly squirmed like an alien facehugger as he orgasmed. It jerked and heaved like a set of bellows, blasting a massive bull load load through his ejaculatory duct.
SPLUUUUURRRRTTTT-SCHLUUUUPPP-GLUUUURRRGLE!
“Guhhh…take it all, you posh slut!” He groaned, streaming sickening quantities of cum down Hayley Atwell’s Royal Shakespeare Company-trained throat.
Her white neck bobbed frantically between the boy’s legs, struggling to swallow his cumshots. Again and again, his fat cock lurched against her constricting esophagus, cannoning out heavy, putrid blasts of thick, foul-tasting cockslop. She felt his discharges vent in heavy gouts into her guts. The noise was… vivid.
The boy finished, and carelessly yanked Hayley’s head off his cock with a SCHLURRRKK sound.
She gasped for air. Tears daggered makeup down her cheeks. A sperm-strand glued his penis to her panting lips, stretching like a suspension bridge made of cheese before snapping.
Hayley belched spectacularly, and laughed. “Holy shit, I think I feel them wriggling. Do you have more?” Her upper-class Received Pronunciation was degrading in step with the rest of her, attaining notes of Cockney. D’yer ’ave more?
The teenage boy smirked, gripped his hammer of a cock and slapped it onto her face.
CRACK!
“Take a guess, rich slut.” His prick engorged to slippery life across her face, dragging a trail of sperm and mucus across her extravagant beauty.
Rich slut. Anger crashed against lust in her eyes—or the part of them that wasn’t covered by his fattening prick.
This wasn’t right. Debased. Degraded. Insulted by a fat, insolent teenager, while kneeling in the hallway of a Georgian-period terrace that was spiritually, aesthetically, and monetarily more valuable than his entire life.
But inside she had a demon, and it wanted what every demon wants. More.
She stood slowly, with a strand of cum rolling down her chin and then her throat.
She closed a delicate hand over his vein-irrigated shaft and used it like a handle, dragging him from the entrance hallway through an open-plan kitchen-dining-living space. There, beneath some hideous de Gournay chinoiserie wallpaper, was an expensive linen sofa ready to be destroyed.
Hayley undressed with frantic need—all but rending her outfit to rags. Arms reached behind her back, shaking as she unhooked her bra. Big white breasts sloshed free, luging down her chest in pale white avalanches. They made clapping sounds as they dropped.
“Get on me,” she ordered, ripping off her knickers in a flash of black. She sprawled backward whorishly on the couch, spreading her legs. “Get in me.”
The boy grinned, just loving the chance to heap abuse on one of his social betters. “You’re such a slut, aren’t ya? A real whore. Can’t say no to anything with a cock.”
She closed her fists, but not her legs. “Don’t…talk! Please! Just put it in me! Oh my fucking gawwwd…I’ve been a bloody animal lately! Hurry! Hurry!”
“Hurry and do what?”
Spray misted from her shrieking mouth. “Hurry up and FUCK me!”
It sounded even dirtier when you said it in RP.
He climbed onto the couch, mounting her splayed body.
Hayley’s legs flashed like blades as they looped around his broad back, trying to heave him inside her squirt-streaming box.
With a grunt, he notched his prick to her slot. Eight inches quivered at her vestibule, ready to be slammed into her body.
With a greedy hiss, he scissored his hips straight down. Pounding his prick into the actress’s hot, churning cunt.
A loud, rude slap rang out as their crotches fucked together. She roared, feeling his thick cock burst her open like a fruit.
The boy drove and thrust, sending his turgid shaft scything through the actress’s body. It pulsed out a mucus-accelerated rasp as it curved, defiling her box. He adjusted the angle and kept fucking, feeling her pubococcygeus and iliococcygeus tighten around him like whipcords. Her cunt was pummeling and twisting him in a storm of pink.
He sucked in a lungful of air, then began jackhammering her from the top, roughly thrusting with his cock. Sweat dripped from his face to hers. The repetitive rolling of his hips summoned a storm of hot, wet noise of slippery, grinding genitals, merging with the creak of the couch.
Clutching her shoulders, he slammed hard. His disgusting ballsack bounced and clapped, pounding meaty notes against her asshole. Her gorgeous face shattered in screams.
“I’m cumming!” Muscles flexed up and down her neck.
“Thass right, rich cunt!” His bulging teenaged prick pulled out, throbbed once, then slammed back in. GLUUURK-SPLAT-SCHLOOOP! “Let’s see you squirt all over your fancy couch, miss posh!”
“Fucking brat!” Her voice was a squeal of pure delight. “You should be in school!”
“Yeah, well I’m not. I’m inside something else, though. Aren’t I?”
His fat cock burrowed like a worm into her.
“Aren’t I?” He roared, clutching her tits and hammering with his hips.
She screamed again. Louder.
The boy pounded Hayley’s orgasming cunt, his balls slinging strands of her squirt across the sofa like streamers.
Laughing uproariously, squeezing her breasts in sweaty double fistfuls, he rutted the rich and famous actress into another howling climax. The windowsills rattled with the force of her bellows.
“Please be quiet…!” She whimpered, as if it had been him making all the noise.. “My neighbor…he listens at the door!”
The boy planted his hips back onto hers with a brutal sucking sound.
“And you want that! Don’t you, you fat-jugged slutwhore? I bet you’re hoping he’ll join in.”
“Nuh…no! That’s disgusting!”
His cock was a blur as it freight-trained through her. Hayley’s squirt misted outward in a blizzard between her thrashing legs and his cunt-cleaving prick.
“I mean, you’re getting your clunge blown out by a kid half your age, so maybe banging a gaffer twice balances it out? Is that the logic, Miss Big Tits?”
“Shut up!”
“It’s either that, or you’re just a cock-crazy whore. Pick yer poison, I guess.”
“Shut up! Fuck you!”
“Shut up! Fuck you!” He cruelly imitated her, before lunging, rooting himself balls-deep inside hot slavering gash, and firing off his second load.
Again, Hayley wrapped her thick legs around his back, short harsh moans jerking out of her. His cock twisted in her socket, its thick central duct bulging and flexing as it shot out long slippery ribbons of sperm, pumping them out with firehose force.
The repulsive brat filled her with seed, then tore his genitals out of her sperm-flooded cunt. He jerked another two or three weak shots over her breasts, then let his erection droop. It curved like a banana, as if trying to decide between soft and hard.
Hayley didn’t give him even a minute to rest.
Keening, gibbering, frantic with lust, Hayley sat up from the sofa and began clawing at him.
She planted her mouth on his cock, and began sucking all indecisiveness away. Hard. Forever hard.
Shluckkk sklurppp! Glooppp sklichhh splorchhh!
The boy winced as her lips slobbered orgasm-raw nerves. He planted his pudgy hands on her shoulders, and violently shoved her off his cock.
“Get on all fours, rich slag, and start thinking doggy thoughts.”
He slid a fist up his enormous, spit-shiny erection. It flexed, a viper scenting prey, and he smacked it like a club onto her overfed buttocks.
“Spread your big posh arse for me. That’s where it’s going next.”
The CCTV video ended, and Mark felt strangeness churn inside him.
It doesn’t make sense. She’s shy, too shy to even say what’s wrong with her.
…so why had she allowed him to see that?
Hayley watched him cogitate, her face made of taut beveled lines. She placed her gloved hands in her lap, one folded on the other, waiting for his reaction. This had the air of an audition. Well, Mister DeMille?
“So…” she asked, smiling a bit. “What do you make of my problem?”
Playing for time, Mark did the fake yawn he practiced in the mirror every morning, between combing his hair and tapping on cologne.
Yawns were underutilized in clinical settings. While celebrities did not enjoy feeling dismissed, trivialized, or unheard, it made you look more competent if you could listen to their deepest fears, traumas, and insecurities, and react with boredom. Either that, or their problems looked smaller.
When Mark had first opened his Santa Monica practice, he’d had expensive business cards laminated and die-cut and bulk-dropped at rehab clinics. Intimacy Problems. Discretion guaranteed.
The cards hadn’t worked. No celebrity wants to think they have a problem.
Once he’d realized this, he’d rebranded his practice around lifestyle improvement. Better Sex. Discretion guaranteed. These days, he didn’t advertise at all. He was booked six months ahead on word of mouth alone.
“I think I get the idea,” Mark pretended to make notes on his clipboard. He tilted it to his chest, so Hayley couldn’t see the trees and flowers he was .. “Risky, impulsive sexual behavior, involving a much younger man.”
She nodded. Her sunglasses covered her eyes, but this did not disguise the clear arousal response flushing across her face. Spots of color had appeared on her cheekbones. A light coat of sweat made her face glisten, as if moisturized.
“That boy was quite abusive to you. You seemed frustrated by him.”
“I was frustrated because…” she laughed. “Because he was talking instead of fucking me. I just wish I could tape up men’s mouths and then just go to town on them.”
“Why a younger man?” he asked. “I am not asking for details. But is it…necessary for you that the act is taboo, or forbidden by society? Does this dynamic in particular excite you?”
“In part,” she said. “They expect less of you. They take direction more than older men. And they’re less likely to sell me to a Fleet Street tabloid—who would even believe that boy’s story, let alone print it?”
She shrugged, giggling.
“But it’s mostly the fact that young men have far more stamina.”
Mark nodded, still not able to make sense of this woman. There was not a stutter at all as she described her love of bonking men twenty-six years her junior. So much for being shy.
“I find teenaged boys really attractive,” she said. “They’re one of my main turn-ons…along with doctors.”
Oh no, he thought.
Suddenly her behavior made far more sense.
She brushed his ankle with hers, giggling and flirty. He was conscious that he was now under the same fuck-mad stare she’d fixed on the fat teenaged boy.
“Perhaps we should get off this subject,” he suggested, gentle but firm.
“Alright, I have more to show you.” She reached for her phone. “Another video.”
“I have gotten the point.”
“No, doctor.” Suddenly, steel beams and construction cables seemed to hum in her voice. Willful force and certainty. “You have not gotten the point. You have not even begun to get the point. Watch the video, so you understand how bad my problem is.”
As she re-paired the Bluetooth connection and hit play, he wondered what he’d gotten himself into with Hayley Atwell.
* * *
“Yo, this slut’s pad is dench, innit.”
Two boys—one black, one white—had Hayley Atwell’s thick-hipped, heavy-breasted body propped between them.
The actress was on her hands and knees, dripping sweat onto the carpet, getting carved apart by their swinging cocks. They fucked her luscious body from both ends, in the position known as the Eiffel Tower. The white boy thrust into her mouth. The black boy thumped his prick into her fat British arse.
She wore pearl necklaces and stockings and nothing else. Her luscious body shuddered. Big bare tits dangled beneath her torso, slapping back and forth like shopping bags full of stolen meat.
The boys whooped as they brutally punched their cocks into her.
Both looked comically out of place in Hayley Atwell’s terrace. They looked as far removed from East London as you could get without drowning in the Thames.
The white boy was chav trash. He had freckles, carrot-colored hair and an 18k grill for a smile. His mate had huge Elvis sunnies under a ratty barnet of tangled, knotted dreadlocks. As he rutted with his hips, gouging through her sloppy pussy, the dreads thumped and bounced like snakes around his shoulders.
They laughed and whooped, filling her posh Georgian terrace with raucous banter. They made a game of violently seesawing Hayley Atwell’s body between them—a tug of war, with a Hollywood A-lister for a rope.
Hayley gagged helplessly on fat teenaged cock at one end, while her meaty buttocks exploded and clapped from behind.
She was a mess of sweat and shudders. The evidence of several orgasms was hosed out between her legs on the carpet, which had absorbed multiple overlapping blasts of thick, viscous squirt.
“Watch me bring this bitch off again,” the lad in her cunt bragged. His hips rhythmically thrust into her, wrecking her squishing, squirting pussy.
Hayley orgasmed, her whole body flexing.
Her back whiplashed, flinging her breasts around like churchbells. Her scream died in her throat, but only because the chav’s enormous white cock fucked it dead.
“Mmmmmmfff!” Hot blasts of girlcum sluiced out between her quaking thighs, splattering all over the shag weave.
Skllllorrrrrrrt! Skllllorrrrrrrt! Skllllorrrrrrrt!
As she ejaculated, her midsection clenched with orgasmic lurches, each of which sent her enormous rack shuddering.
“That’s seven, innit?”
“At least.” The dreadlocked kid waited until her cunt had stopped blasting, then he resumed his rhythm. “On oath, she’s a fookin’ machine gun.”
Hayley gurgled, her body plunging in a declivitous arc. Gigantic breasts heaved below her, the enormous slippery fuck-tanks streaming with sweat. Her nipples swung so low that they’d visibly gathered dust from the carpet.
As the boys plundered her body, they gawped shamelessly at Hayley Atwell’s home.
“Fookin’ croime, how rich some people get,” the chav observed, marveling at her lavishly-appointed East End terrace.
Not that he or his mate were doing much to raise the value.
Or the tone.
Rude, disgusting spurts of sound exploded from their hard-clubbing crotches. Hard, driving impacts of flesh on flesh jarred the balustrades, and rattled the pendant bulbs in the Venetian chandeliers.
“Yer still doing that construction ’prentership at Aldershot, right, Mack?” the white chav said, eyeballing her costly decor.
“Second year.” His friend panted for breath, sagging over her cock-stuffed rear. “Why?”
“How much would it cost to outfit a terrace like this? From bare wood, let’s say?”
“Blimey,” Mack gazed around her living room, and its furnishings—the antique tri-fold dressing table mirror, the silver heirloom tray full of Jo Malone perfume bottles, the dark mahogany antique coffee table with legs barely visible under a cashmere quilt.
“Who the fook knows, mate. I couldn’t tell you the names of half this stuff, or how many notes it’s worth. But I recognize the island in her kitchen. Blanco Carrara marble slab. You could get a two hunner’d square for it, provided you didn’t scratch it up while yanking it.”
“Two hunner’d per yard?”
“Per foot. This slut’s just squirting money.”
Hayley’s fists balled in anger, but she couldn’t move. She just swung helplessly, impaled on their cocks.
Mack dragged his crotch back. A glistening pillar of black fuck meat unsheathed itself from her box, over seven inches long. It dripped, as wet and slippery as a deep sea monster.
“How ’bout the stereo?” the kid balls-deep in her throat said while reaching beneath her and clapping her tits together. “It’s got powered subs and everything.”
“What brand?”
“Bose. Reckon you could get twenty-five grand at pawn?”
“Easy, mate. Twenty-five K and a bag of chips. Why d’yer ask? Gonna rob the place?”
Hayley’s eyes flared open with excitement or horror, or maybe excitement and horror. Her red face grew even redder around the cock filling her mouth.
She made incomprehensible sounds in protest. She lifted a shuddering arm, gesturing upward.
“Relax, tart,” the black kid said. “We know about the cameras. We ain’t gonna burgle your gaff.”
“Right, if yer bang system was worth a million pounds we’d consider it. Fifty thousand? F’get it.”
“It’s just, like, a thought experiment, innit? Like, is Swingdonger’s cat dead or alive, or sumfin’.”
“This cat’s pretty alive,” the black kid grinned, socketing his cock in her quim. He gave her ass a big meaty wallop, exploding it with bowl-of-jelly quivers.
Hayley went MMMFFF!, her thick body thrashing. Massive boobs jolted upward, briefly flattening against her chest.
The white chav hawked and spat, still slugging his hips into her face.
“You ain’t saying no word of a lie, mate. Nyam my cock, bitch!”
Hayley choked as he pounded his cock down her gullet. His prick made noises halfway between a crunch and a squelch, like a half-ripe tomato squeezed until it bursts. Tears streamed from her eyes as her ripe, luscious body jiggled beneath his strokes, and that of the black kid’s. Ropes of saliva spewed from beneath her chin.
Another climax ripped through her.
“Gonna shoot off, man,” the dreadlocked kid snarled. “Oh, shit, this is peak.”
He groaned, his pelvis sinking between her ass cheeks and flexing as he ejaculated.
Seconds later, his mate exploded too, blowing thick splooge into her mouth until it overflowed, and white gunk slopped down her chin and onto the carpet.
* * *
The video ended with Hayley Atwell’s hand at rest on Mark’s leg. He saw it, and sighed.
Complications.
“So here is what I see…”
He gently removed her hand from his thigh.
“A pattern of risky, dangerous sex, with partners that society would judge as…inappropriate.”
“They’re all legal!” She said indignantly. “One had his eighteenth last week!”
Does she hang around kids’ birthday parties with a stopwatch in her hand? “Yes, of course. But they’re low-class. Commoners. I would suggest this exercises a certain appeal. Look, all of this is confidential and I’m not trying to get you in trouble. I’m just trying to understand what motivates you here.”
“It’s not about motivation!” She snapped, upset. “I banged my head. That’s what’s going on. I can’t control it.”
She got out her phone.
“I have more videos. Want to see the dog trainer on my dining room table? The friend’s nephew in the master bedroom? She thinks he comes over to my place for GCSE tutoring, the poor dear.”
“How many days of footage do you have on your phone?” He asked, amazed.
Hayley Atwell howled laughter. He flinched from the sound. It was a mad, ugly sound. It tickled awake some atavistic lizard reaction that evolution had laid just one thin layer of skin over.
This woman was a wrong thing. He felt her wrongness like an itch in his fucking teeth.
“One!” Hayley screeched. “The tapes get scrubbed every twenty-four hours. All these videos are from the same day!”
“So, over the course of a day, you had sex with…” He counted. Fat boy. Chav and construction apprentice. Dog trainer. Friend’s nephew. “…five boys? Men, I should say.”
“Six,” she said. “I sucked off a paperboy under the back awning, but it’s in the camera’s blind spot. You see the back end of my arse. Not illuminating.”
He made an actual, honest-to-God note this time. “Is six men a typical day for you?”
“A busy day,” she conceded. “But not ridiculously so.”
Hayley Atwell explained in her dignified East London accent that she had screwed over six hundred and fifty men since her on-set accident.
“What goes through your head when you commit these sex acts?” He steepled his hands.
She laughed like he was stupid. “I want dick? Is that enough? What, is there supposed to be some deep, comprehensible logic to why I’m doing this? I think of sex every moment I’m awake and I want to fuck every moment I’m awake and that’s it.”
But…she was smiling as she said this.She does not sound like she is here to be treated, Mark thought with some dismay.
“And these are urges you have zero control over.”
“Zero. None. Nada. A lucky deal for the male species, I have to say. All a bloke has to ask and I rip my knickers off for him.”
Her hand flashed out, slapping onto his.
“I would even have sex with you if you asked, doctor. That’s how out of control I am!”
She sold the compliment well, Mark reflected. You had to think about it for several seconds before it sounded backhanded.
But what was he supposed to say in response?
Hayley stared at him expectantly, hands folded. Her skin was flushed, her eyes wide. She was panting. Panting like a thirsty dog. He could see her tongue in her mouth, redness in a froth of white foam. Her pupils seemed to have been eyedroppered extra wide with belladonna.
When he didn’t respond, Hayley wriggled her sexy body closer to him on the couch.
“Just so I’m not misunderstood, I am a sex addict. You could literally fuck me right now if you asked. You could throw me on the floor and pull up my skirt and put your cock in me. Obviously, Doctor, an upstanding professional such as yourself would never take advantage of my…debilitating situation. I’m merely noting that you absolutely could if you wanted to!”
He winced. His cosy office was now a minefield.
Is she married?
Mark stayed apprised of celebrity gossip to the extent his sanity could endure it. But as huge gallon-jug breasts spilled warmly against his shoulder, he found himself unable to recall this woman’s marital status.
He didn’t need to, though. Hayley Elizabeth Atwell had a husband.
Or a fiance hoping to become a husband.
Or a boyfriend hoping to become a fiance.
It was inconceivable that such a fair flower was alone. When are they ever?
If he made a mistake with Hayley in this room, there would be consequences. To his bank account, to his licensure, to whatever bones lay in the path of a vengeful husband’s fists.
Don’t even think about it. This woman is the definition of ‘look but don’t touch’.”
Dr Mark Odžakov could resist temptation, but he disliked it when a simple case became a hard one.
He could help any patient except one: the patient who doesn’t want to be helped. And he now suspected—almost knew—that Hayley was in exactly this category. Her manner was wrong. She was giggly and excited and palpably aroused by her malady. Not once had she asked to be cured. Whatever behavioral protocols he prescribed would not be followed. Whatever prescriptions he gave her would be flushed down the toilet.
But if she didn’t want a cure, why had she come? To get laid? She had other lovers, surely—ones who didn’t bill $800 an hour.
He just didn’t know what to do.
Was this woman to be the first failure of his career? No. His pride would not allow it.
He snapped his fingers.
He’d had an idea. Not a good one, but an idea’s an idea.
“I need to conduct a physical examination of your body before I can treat you,” he said, staring into her hazel eyes. “It will be a very intense one. Do you consent?”
He made her repeat her answer.Louder, to ensure the microphone under his desk had picked it up.
* * *
Mark swung open the door to his private examination chamber, and waved her in.
The room was filled with bright and cold light. A draft of chilled air swept over them, raising goosebumps on her arms.
Hayley Atwell stepped through with little trotting steps that set her big arse wobbling. Her expression as she glanced around was volatile. Desire and fear, suspended on a triple beam.
She stood inside a room stocked and outfitted with everything he needed. Racks of powders, ointments, and compresses. Things Hayley’s mother no doubt called marital aids, racked on the wall like obscenely twisted turds of rubber and silicone. A hydraulic dentistry chair was bolted to the center of the floor, fitted with arm and leg restraints. A multi-stage mechanical arm zigzagged from the ceiling. It trailed patch cables and terminated in a studded vibrator.
All of the equipment was well cared for. Every surface and sex toy gleamed with poison-shiny light, trapping reflections of Hayley’s awe-struck face.
Hayley recognized the dildos. She sucked in a breath only to shudder on it.
“What are those for?” The bare, gleaming sex toys reflected her aghast face in their lube-dripping surfaces.
“Examination,” he yawned again as he followed her in and closed the door.
This wasn’t his first time doing something like this with a female client who seemed to need it.
“Ex…am…ination…” Hayley’s eyes fast-blinked, like a captured POW communicating in Morse. She glanced at the worn leather seat, which bore grooves from many pairs of womanly buttocks. A bin overflowed with crumpled facemasks, nitrile gloves, discarded ACE tape. Mark felt some annoyance. His secretary had neglected to empty it, again. Help was hard to find.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Nobody will know…?” she whispered, already unbuttoning her blouse.
“HIPAA protects your privacy in this case,” he said, draping his white shirt over a folded-up microscope.
Even though he’d started undressing first and she had far more to take off, she beat him easily to full nakedness. She stripped with the absurd speed of a magician’s trick. Undressing so many times a day made you fast, he supposed.
She was regal and white and absurdly well-fleshed. As she kicked away her panties with a flick of her heel, it took many seconds for the ensuing jiggles to stop.
His chest was bare, muscular and hairy. Her eyes roved across it, and she made an open-mouthed ohgod sound. One-handed, he unbuckled his belt and slid his pants down. They made a dry rustle, falling in folds.
As his huge penis exploded out, veiny and bulbous and as shiny as an Exocet, she made no sound at all. She clapped a hand over her mouth, astonished. A stormfront of color waltzed across the face under the hand.
As his erection bobbed, Mark gestured at the seat with his hand.
“Sit down, Miss Atwell.”
“I’m…married.”
“Mrs.” The hand did not move.
She nodded, but remained standing. He sighed, and did what she clearly wanted.
Striding forward, he clasped one hand to her overlarge rump, curled the arm around her narrow waist, and pulled her into an embrace.
He kissed her like a punch-press, kissed with hard, crushing force.
He drove her face back with his mouth. Her lipstick tasted faintly of rose and anise. A hot dryness burned in his throat. Right now, she seemed like water.
Hayley’s eyes exploded open, her gaze staring blind. Her stacked body began quivering against his chest, like a carbonated beverage shaken too hard.
“Ughhh…” The sex-berserk actress’s mouth twisted, making all sorts of shapes and sounds. “WowowowowowOWOWOW….”
Mark broke the kiss with contemptuous, easy suddenness. She looked disappointed.
He dragged her across the room, and forcibly pushed her onto the chair. She yelped as her ass hit cold upholstery. Her breasts bounced and dropped, slapping in hot pungent sacks against her stomach.
“Please…!” she whispered.
Her eyes were manic. Overstimulated. Her legs crossed and uncrossed and recrossed and uncrossed and would have likely kept going until he closed leg restraints over her ankles. Klink-klak. Her thighs still twitched, despite the steel bands.
He swung shut the clamps on her wrists, and tightened them with ratchet screws.
No movement from her hands.
No movement from her feet.
He stepped back, admiring the immobile woman like an art piece. She resembled a condemned prisoner. Strapped in, locked down, ready to ride the lightning.
He slid a hand up his shaft, milking out a heavy squirt of precum.
She whimpered in need, her body melting into a quivering pile of gooseflesh.
The examination seat had two foot rests, set far apart. These split her legs apart, exposing her shaven, wet cunt to the world. And to him, more specifically.
Her sex steamed softly in the cold air. Her clitoris jutted and throbbed. So did the nipples pebbled to hardness on her vast, pendulous tit-sacks.
Mark turned, and began rummaging through drawers. He was aware of Hayley’s ravenous stare on his back. Felt it like a diamond-tipped drill.
“This cream is to relax you,” he scooped out a fingerful of slippery white gel—an experimental chemical formula imported from China. He wasn’t sure of its name, because he couldn’t read the Mandarin on the label. It was not particularly legal. Luckily, Hayley had plenty of skin to help hide the evidence.
He applied the white paste to her labial lips. She hissed sharply as his fingers wove deeper within her shaven genitals, working the cold gel into the folds of her prepuce. With a butcher’s cruel anatomical awareness, he teased a sharp moan from her, dragging a rough thumb down her engorged clit.
“Mmmmmfff…!” She was dripping onto the leather upholstery.
“Let’s see…” Mark leaned into the space between her legs until she could feel his breath on her cunt. “Healthy. Anatomically normal. Some mild abrasion and irritation from excessive use. Fairly typical.”
Then he teased apart her labia minora, and began digging in deep—squelching his way into her hot gooey twat.
SQUERCH-sssquish-glorbb!
Her breathing grew heavy. Ragged.
Thhhluuuckkkk-gluurrrpp-blappff!
Ankles and wrists rattled the restraints.
Plap-plap-squorrshh!!!
He found her vaginal vestibule, and drove two blunt fingers into her sucking pussy channel. She released a deep howl of pleasure, ripped from the void and beyond.
SKLUUUURRRRCCHHH!
As his fingers tore her open, her pretty white feet spasmed and jerked uselessly. She blared sick, obsessed sound, delivered like a cow’s bray to the ceiling.
“AHHHHHHHH!!!!!”
“The key thing to understand, Miss Atwell…I’m sorry, Mrs…”
He plowed his hand into her, submerged multiple fingers in a hot squeezing vice of celebrity cuntflesh.
His fingers burrowed deep, past the first knuckle, then the second. She gibbered senselessly, thrashing her head. Her eyes rolled to the ceiling.
She began attempting to hump him, thrusting her pussy against his plunging, squelching fingers. Trying to grind herself to the rest of the way to orgasm.
Schlorp schlorp schlorp!
“…is that you are not broken. Have you heard of a man called Phineas Gage?”
Hayley shook her head for no. Probably. It was hard to distinguish conscious gestures from all of her other shaking and spasming she was doing while shackled in the chair.
“It’s a strange medical case from the 19th century. Mr Gage was a miner from New England. Perhaps Appalachia. An explosion flung a metal rod through his head, removing part of his brain. He survived, but his personality seemed markedly different after his recovery. He’d been a kind and pleasant man before the accident, but now he was foul-mouthed, profane, and irreverent. Those who knew him remarked that he seemed to have become a different person.”
Her skin flushed as his fingers curved in and out, lugging out rivers of thick viscous squirt. She made gurgling, choking sounds. She was timing her hip-strokes onto his hand.
“Uhhh. Uhhh… Uhhhh….Doctor, I can’t….!”
“But that is nonsense,” Mark talked smoothly, not even looking at the fingers reducing her to dripping meat. “No new person lived in Mr Gage’s body. The metal rod hadn’t performed a brain transplant. It had merely…removed a few parts of his existing one.”
He sunk two fingers with deep and slow force through her pussy, letting it knot and tighten against him.
Schlorp schlorp schlorp!
“OHH! UGHH! It’s too much! I can’t fucking STAND it!”
“This new, obnoxious Phineas Gage already existed inside him, as a kind of latent personality. What changed was his ability—or his willingness—to express a side of his character that was already there.”
Mark kept talking smoothly, as he masturbated her to the edge of insanity.
The chair jolted as she fucked her hips onto his hand. He made a mental note to check the weld-joins and the bolt torque. The nymphomaniac celebrity sprayed out copious release, and soon his arm was spattered up to the elbow with discharge. She rocked back and forth in a pool of slippery squirt, secreted from her Skene and Bartholin’s glands. Soon, her thick clapping arse had churned it into a froth.
“AHHH! AHHHHH! DOCTOR!”
She was howling.
Screaming.
Her head thrashed from side to side, her pussy convulsed, and her hips bucked frantically against him as he fingerbanged her.
PLORT PLOOT PLOOT PLOOT SKWORP SCHWORP SCHWORP SCHWORP SCHWORP
“This supposed ‘new’ Phineas Gage was in fact the old Phineas Gage. He’d always existed in that man’s head, locked away in the chains of learned social behavior. In fact, you’d almost wonder…”
Hayley Atwell was not almost wondering anything.
“DOCTOR! PLEASE!”
She screamed and convulsed. Frantic. Beyond desperate. Ready to murder for an orgasm. Her body rattled and shook as if demonically possessed, and the chair’s jolts were so violent that he felt them through the floor.
Her torso whiplashed back and forth as he sawed his fingers in and out. He listened to Hayley’s bulging tit-sacks going shlop shlop shlop, jolting up and down in a moist blur, spraying musky sweat as they clapped together.
“I’M…I’M…UGHHHH…”
Then she froze with his fingers inside her. She gasped, and her eyes gazed ahead with insane focus.
As if a freight train—one that only she could see—was barreling down on them, horn blaring, brakes screaming.
“…CUUUUHHH-MMINGGGG!”
She brayed it out in her posh British accent, jackhammering her hips forward.
The mess was considerable.
“UH! UH! UH!” Muscular spasms ripped through her like earthquakes. She flexed, relaxed, flexed, relaxed. Her cunt imploded on his fingers with the force of a crocodile’s mouth, detonating out squirt.
Mark continued finger-pumping her slot as her climax rolled through her in waves, breaking her apart.
After forty seconds of this, she sagged like baggage in the metal chair.
He slid his squirt-glistening fingers from her box with a pop, then traced his dripping fingers over her slack, stunned features.
“…You’d almost wonder if this new, ‘broken’ person was actually the real one, free to walk in the sunlight at last. When a mask we have worn all our lives breaks, do we not become our true selves? Do you understand what I’m saying, Mrs Atwell?”
“Mrs Atwell” looked like she’d have a hard time understanding that you cooked bacon and baked cookies, or that you parked on a driveway and drove on a parkway.
She sucked in heroic gasps of air, her chest rising and falling. Squirt was bubbling out from her slack pussy flaps, running onto the floor. She seemed dead to the world.
Too bad.
The examination had only begun.
Mark reached past her body to unfold some additional steel support beams from beneath the chair. He positioned them on the ground with identical clicks.
He had just doubled the chair’s maximum weight rating, so it could support the weight of two people. Strict OSH compliance was necessary to maintain his insurance.
He grasped his penis, feeling its awesome heft fill his hand, and stepped between her splayed legs.
Hayley’s Bambi-wide eyes stared at the brutal blunt erection aimed at her cunt. The slit rifting his bulbous glans seemed the size of a coin slot as he pressed it against her cooze.
She instinctively tried to cross her legs, which remained impossible.
“I don’t want to cure you, Hayley…”
He grasped her hips, and mounted her.
“…I want you to see this new, sex-addicted Hayley as your true self…”
Hauling his bulk onto the cradle of her hips, he finessed the angle to ensure his penis would slide inside her.
“…and to embrace its many wondrous possibilities.”
He let loose a sharp grunt, then dumped his crotch onto hers. SPLAT! The chair buckled as it absorbed the powerful drop of his hips.
SHLUUCKKK!
His cock buried itself deeply in her cunt, sliding inside with a rough but beautiful glissando of sound.
Hayley whispered a hoarse ohgodohmyfuckinggod as his cock burrowed deep, fucking her walls apart with its fat engorged spear. Her legs clenched, with muscles standing out, but the restraints defeated her yet again.
For long seconds, he held his shaft inside her quivering crotch, letting her feel his penis throb. And throb. And throb. Her slick cuntal tube tensed and flexed in counterpoint, fitting him as closely as a leotard does a floor gymnast’s thigh.
Then he began to fuck the beautiful, married actress.
Fuck her into space and beyond.
He thrust with bone-shaking force, rolling his hips into her. He sheathed his prick into her chasm with hard, rhythmic intensity, timing it around her gasps of pleasure.
She quivered as a massive cock invaded her sacred depths. A scream pierced out.
Mark gasped. His truncheon of a cock powered through her, pushing out excess squirt over the reclining chair, before pulling back with a yielding, glutinous suck.
Sklunchhh-blloorpp-glarrrgghhh…
Hayley roared and shuddered as he ground his thick pole into her, lunging and pumping and impaling. He cleaved his thick penis through her boiling, dripping depths, socketing his glans at the vestibule of her cervix.
Hayley exploded in orgasm, arching her back into his chest. Big quaking breasts ballooned out as she slithered her sweat-lubricated torso under him, a snake with 30H tits. She seethed and boiled, crying out in pleasure each time his massive penis cracked her open. Fast then slow then fast then slow.
Schlorp schlorp schlorp!
Mark wanted her to have at least one more orgasm.
He fucked with the precision of an atomic stopwatch, eviscerating her hard and deep, but with restraint. He wanted to see how much pressure she could survive.
He fucked Hayley to the edge, let her simmer back down, then fucked her straight back to the edge of the precipice again.
Or maybe an inch closer.
Against the fleshy rut of their bodies, the room stopped feeling cold. Every glass surface in the room had fogged up with sweat.
The wet hot slurping of genitals grinding together seeming to splatter across the walls like vomit.
SKLORTCHHH-SLAAUUUURGGHHH! SPRELURTCH-SPUHHHHHH!
He latched talon-like hands to her breasts, forced his stubbled face onto hers, and kissed her. He accelerated his tempo as he tongue-fucked her mouth, relentless, and inappropriate, deep-dicking Hayley until she was again at the edge of the abyss.
Except this time he flung her over.
His cock became a squirt-streaming blur, harpooning her gash as she thrashed and almost-kicked. SCHLOOOORRRPPP-GLUUURK-SPLAT! GLUUURK-SPLAT-SCHLOOOP! SCHLOOOOORRRKKKKK-GLUUUUURRRRPPP-SPLAAAAATTTT!
“OHMYGAAAAAAAWWW…”
Hayley climaxed with muscle-tearing intensity, her screams shattering off the walls like so many Ming Chinese vases. He extended her orgasmic contractions with wickedly timed pulls and drops of his shaft, stretching it out until it seemed endless.
Once her orgasm finally died away, he slammed and clubbed his hips into her and then let loose, ejaculating in powerful womb-clogging streams.
Glug-schlock-glurp-SCHLUUURRRP! GLURG GLORP SPLUT!
“Huh! Huh! Huh!”
He punctuated each spurt with a hot grunt into her sucking mouth.
splirrt…skllch…
Hayley’s steel-clamped legs twitched helplessly in their restraints, while thick splattery loads slammed into her unprotected cunt, slathering her eggs in a storm of wrigglers. Incredibly, a fourth brief orgasm waltzed through her, causing her cuntal wall to ripple over his thrusting, spraying cock.
His massive cumshot chugged out of him, then he lay atop her, still packed between her legs. His erection throbbed with aftershocks, slowly shrinking.
Time melted away. Their bodies seemed to unite in a dripping tangled octopus of knotted limbs and genitals and breath… then Mark grunted and heaved himself off her.
His cock sucked free of her creampied cunt with a disgusting noise, like roots being torn up from wet soil. Her slack-fucked lips partially closed. Disgusting white semen spewed out of her, splattering in heaped clumps.
“So…” Hayley’s voice was torn to rags by screams, but focused. “…I don’t need treatment?”
The high-strung actress seemed to be back on more familiar territory. Finding and finessing problems, one at a time.
“There’s no treatment I can ethically prescribe, because you do not have a disease,” Mark said. “Your problem is a lack of support and acceptance from those around you. That’s the problem we have to solve.”
He found his clipboard and pen, and made a show of writing notes. He was drawing so many spirals and circles today.
“On the evidence I have seen today,” he said, with his massive flaccid cock dripping between his thighs, “I can make a diagnosis of CSBD.”
“What does that mean?”
“Compulsive Sexual Behavior Disorder. In everyday parlance, you are a sex addict.”
Hayley wrinkled up her cute button nose. “But I thought I didn’t have a disorder.”
“This diagnosis is more for other people than yourself,” he said, wiping sweat off his brow. “You may wish to frame it in a public place.”
He unbuckled Hayley’s leg clamps, then held out his hand for her like a gentleman.
“You said you have a husband. Does this…issue complicate your married life?”
“It’s been awful, keeping the other men a secret,” she accepted. “He kind of knows already, to be honest.”
“Well,” he said. “Imagine if you didn’t have to hide. That’s what a CSBD diagnosis will do. You can just be yourself, and he will have no choice but to accept it. An addiction is beyond your control, so he can’t blame you for taking other men to bed.”
She nodded, catching on so fast he almost suspected there was nothing to catch. That this purpose—securing a diagnosis, to be wielded as a weapon—was the whole reason she’d come.
She wanted chains and she wanted freedom. With one stroke of his pen, he could give her both.
“I think you’ll be surprised at what you can get away with,” Mark said. “So long as there’s a reason.”
* * *
Later, in Spitalfields, London…
Hayley Atwell’s husband sat downstairs, stomach churning.
He sat with one leg crossed over another. His father had once mocked him for that—that’s how women sit, boy. You got a pair of balls between your legs?—but the posture now seemed highly natural to him.
The sound of hot, dirty fucking flooded down the stairwell.
She had another orgasm. Bellows quaked the walls.
He listened to piercing cries, guttural moans, threnodies to a marriage or a life, and clenched his teeth.
On a particularly long and nasty scream, he visualized a knife—curved, gleaming, hateful steel—sliding into his guts, riding the sound into him, going deeper, deeper, ever deeper. It was incredible how much death a man could take…you’d think the bleeding would end at a certain point.
His dry lips cracked in a lunatic grin as he heard hips slamming into his wife.
Hearing her get pounded into the mattress of a bed that he hadn’t slept in for weeks.
Crotches connected with wet, messy splats. The impacts shook the walls like artillery fire.
He heard sharp panted breath, and bedsprings ringing out in fast rhythm, as another man’s penis was thrust into his beautiful wife’s cunt.
As his wife’s bellows shook the walls—ohshitIloveyourcawwwwwkkkkk—his fingers curled.
She came again, while he stared at the diagnosis framed on the wall.
Compulsive Sexual Behavior Disorder
She has a diagnosis. Relax. Stay calm.
Three weeks ago, he’d learned the truth about the woman he’d married.
“Honey…can we talk? There’s something you need to know…”
She revealed that she had an addiction.
And then he’d folded his arms around her, a model husband, vowing to the sky and sea and sun and moon that he’d stay with her to the end, and they’d face this together. He’d once seen a horrifying statistic—men were seven times more likely than women to abandon a spouse with terminal cancer, or something like that. He vowed that he’d never be that husband.
In hindsight, maybe he should have checked what his wife was addicted to.
He’d imagined pills, imagined coke, imagined boutique Hermès purses.
Instead, she was addicted to something he had not considered, even in his worst nightmares.
He listened to his lovely wife get pummeled into a pile of squirting wreckage. Her orgasmic roars were so loud they rattled the balustrades like sabers.
He tried not to imagine her pale white throat tautening as she fired them out. Tried not to imagine what was happening below her waist to cause them.
How long had it been since he’d slept in that bed?
How long since she’d made those sounds for him? And with him?
The frantic fucking hit a brief lull. Through the silence, he heard giggling and pawing and hot, excited breath. He heard a male voice say does your husband…? but he couldn’t quite make out the rest, or the giggle-filled answer his wife gave.
Then the sex started again. Humping and screwing and screaming. The sound of his wife’s monstrous 30H tits going whap-crack-splat as a stranger’s cock slung them up and down on her chest.
He worked long hours, and would have worked longer, because it kept him out of the house.
He didn’t want to see the countless boytoys his wife brought into the Spitalfields terrace before dragging them upstairs and shagging their brains out.
“I can’t help it, honey,” she’d reminded him after yesterday’s brief blow-up.
“Yes, I know, it’s just—”
He glanced bitterly at the diagnosis she’d proudly framed on the wall, like it was the Victoria Cross.
“—do they have to come into our home? My home?”
“No, of course not!” Her eyes filled with tears. “You said you’d support me, but if it’s too much—”
“I will.” Shame quenched his anger. “I’m sorry, baby. I’ll sleep on the couch. Again.”
The door to the master bedroom swung open above his head. He listened to her soft white feet, tripping down the steps. As she descended, she hummed a tune that was lost in the stairwell’s creaks.
Hayley bounced into view before him, giggling and sweaty and basically naked. She’d cinched a bathtowel around her narrow waist, leaving her busty upper body exposed. Elephantine tits bounced and wobbled, gleaming with frantic fuck-sweat.
She leaned over her husband, gigantic breasts piling on him in an avalanche of hot dough-textured flesh.
“I forgot my special guy’s goodnight kiss! Mwah!”
She spoke to him like he was ten goddamn years old.
He grimaced as his wife’s heat folded over him. He smelled other men’s hands and breath all over her. She had a bite-mark on her neck. Who was she humping this time? Nosferatu?
“Goodnight, honey.” He rumbled pleasantly, waiting to hear the thing she’d really come down to say.
“Also…” She straightened, lifting her breasts off him, a coquettish finger twirling hair into a ringlet. “You’ll remake the bed after I’m done, won’t you?”
“Sure.”
“…And there will be another bloke after this one. You’ll have to stay up, and remake the bed a second time. A late night for you, I’m afraid, but will you do it? For me?”
She skipped off without waiting for a yes.
He heard her sweat-clammy tits go slap slap slap as she—and they—bounced up the stairs.
The relentless humping resumed. Louder now, because she’d forgotten—perhaps—to lock the door.
“Who was that?” The young man underneath her body gasped as she humped him.
“Nobody.” Hayley’s hips audibly rose and fell with loud, slurping friction. “Just my husband.”
He sighed, making himself the evening’s third vesper. Lillet Blanc, gin, vodka, and kina aromatised wine. He stared at quicksilver-hued liquid in hateful need. He’d die of alcohol-induced cirrhosis in a year if he was unlucky. Or in two years, if he was really unlucky.
He swallowed it, feeling it sink a hard burning line down into his roiling stomach. Anger vanished. It was replaced with a weird whiteness that he didn’t think had a name. It was the emotional equivalent of foam packing pellets or drywall batting. Empty and useless, aside from the fact that it wasn’t quite pain.
Nobody. Just my husband.
Horrific moans and pants and gibbers rose again, heightening to a crescendo above his head.
Hayley Atwell’s next orgasm shook the terrace harder than bombs had during the blitz.
Your wife has an addiction. It’s beyond her control.
He fixed his eyes on the diagnosis on the wall.
Support her.
Leave a Reply