So there I was, in the middle of aisle four in my grocery store, looking at my breakfast cereal options. Although I am normally a big fan of O’s…when I’m looking at cereal boxes, the kind that are made into circles are my least favorite. I like flakes, being one of them myself, so I’m comparing them, side by each in my hands.
“Well, well, well, nilla,” says an oh-so- familiar voice.
“uh…uh…Hi…Dr.” I manage to sputter out.
Remember how awkward it was when you were a kid and you saw your most hated/feared/dreaded teacher in some innocuous place? Like at a baseball game, or at the pizza joint? And there she was all smiles and blue jeans and you thought….what the fuck? with a mix of emotions, as if she didn’t belong there, fucking up your event by the very whiff of school that encircled her?
That’s how I felt just then, confronted in the grocery store by my sex therapist, Dr. Strangeguy. Now, don’t get me wrong…I don’t hate, fear, or dread seeing him. I mean, I’ve been to see him several times over the years, and each time to try to figure out why I am the deep and dirty slut I am.
Okay, well maybe I do dread it..a little bit.
Each time I find something new out about me, and about this guy –this infamous Dr. Strangeguy, who leads me down some path that I’d not thought about before.
All thoughts of fiber content versus protein flew out of my head as he approached, his trademark bandy-legged walk perhaps exaggerated a bit, as he moves into my personal space. Then again, anytime I see Dr. Strangeguy I feel like he’s in my personal bubble. Sometimes when he’s all the way across the room, even. He’s just that good at getting under my skin, I guess.
There is a genuine smile on his face, no fake white gleaming grin for him, but the normal smile of a man in his 60’s. It’s his eyes that get me, though. The smile isn’t there, exactly. He’s weighing me, digging into me already.
“Watching your cholesterol are you, nilla?” he asks, and I find myself wondering if he’s really asking about my blood numbers, or if there is more to that, some kind of euphemism that I’m clueless about.
“Ah…no…I…just looking at fiber?”
“You’re having trouble shitting?”
The gleam in his eye deepens and the words “involuntary enema” circle my head.
“No! Not at all, Doctor, really. I’m looking to boost my protein.”
His smile widens.
“Well nilla,” he says, the slick bite of his Maine drawl catching my attention, and bumping my heart rate up several notches. I have no idea what light just flicked on in him, but something sure lit him up.
He continues as if I hadn’t just had a momentary fight-or-flight response to that dangerous grin ‘n gleam.
“I have just the answer for that little problem. So easily resolved too. Come with me.”
His words don’t allow for a disingenuous excuse. Still holding the two boxes of cereal, I follow along.
“My sister’s husbands half-brother’s son-in-law is the manager here. He’ll let us go into the back room for a private session. You look a bit bemused, girl.” With a chuckle, he moves forward, his gait very quick for one who walks like he’s been on ships for most of his life, rather than picking through people’s brains.
He passes a young-ish man at the end of the meat aisle, nodding back towards me. The man gives me the once over, making me get goosebumps in my unmentionables, then one single, slow nod.
“Later,” says Dr. Strangeguy to the man, who I take to be his scrambled relative. These Maine people have some peculiar family trees; far be it from me to attempt to decipher their connection.
We pass through those metal doors with the half-moon glass on them. You know, the ones that are universal in every grocery store? Behind them is a cold room that makes me shiver in earnest, and move a bit faster. We pass through that outer room, and the Doc moves through another set of doors into a corridor. It’s all gun-metal gray walls, floor, doors, ceilings here, and I wonder that anyone can see any separation. It’s bland and boring as hell, but somehow the Doctor knows where he is. About three doors down he turns a knob and suddenly we’re in a verrrrry small office.
Okay, “office” is too grand a word for this place. There is a simple wooden chair, a diminutive wooden desk with 2 drawers on one side, and a center drawer, and a metal trash can filled with crumpled paper.
He gestures to the chair. He moves to sit on the desk. This puts his crotch at a level with my face.
“You know what to do, nilla,” he says. His voice is firm, and soft, and warm. It’s a caress and an order.
I’m still holding the frigging cereal. I’m trying to think. OH. Put boxes down. I put one on each side of his hips, then reach for his fly. I’m not sure how it always comes down to this, but somehow? It always leaves me feeling better.
In moments his cock is in my hand, almost at full staff, too. My thumb and forefinger can barely reach half-way ’round his shaft, so I use two hands to cradle him. His hands go to my head pushing me forward.
“Open and take it deep, slut, so that you can get your full allotment of protein…”
His thickness fills my mouth, the silken texture of his warm skin at odds to the absolute hardness of him. Hard, soft, salty, sweet–his cock is all these juxtaposed things. I slurp, covering him with my saliva, licking the length, lapping the head, sucking down and up his cock in a teasing manner. He likes this, but soon, his hands grab my hair firmly, and direct his penis into my mouth once more. He slides up over my tongue, pressing against the resistance at the back of my throat. He is unimpressed as I gag on the girth of him, holding me right there on the edge of puking, before pulling out.
“Next time, deeper, slut,” his growled words barely register now, as this thing we are doing is having that magic effect on me, calming me even as I fear the gagging gasping parts. My breath times to his thrusts, my lips suckle and suck at him each time he pulls away, and soon his thatch of graying short ‘n curly hairs are tickling my nose, making me want to sneeze.
Do you know how hard it is to sneeze when a man’s cock is halfway to your stomach? Impossible!
He grinds my face against his belly, I whine at the deep intrusion preventing breath, as he groans. In seconds he pulls back and my mouth fills with the salty tang of semen.
After a few moments to recover, he bids me to rise. His hand checks between my thighs, rubbing across my panties. I hump against his hand, making him chuckle.
“She’s ready,” he says, and I turn to see that man from the meat aisle behind me, his cock in his hand, rigid as a piece of lumber.
“Now, you wet and greedy slut, you take good care of my cousin, and he’ll take good care of that needy little pussy. You’ll get protein in both ends today. Then it will be off to finish your shopping. OH…and one more thing–no more dodging appointments with me, got it?”
He chucks me under the chin as if I were five. I nod. I have been avoiding him, that’s true. I mean, I have to live in my head all the time…having to spew these bits and pieces every few months is hard work…and who has time for it? Apparently I need to make more time.
He slides off the desk, and has me lay facedown on it, head braced on my folded arms. My ass juts up, and I can feel the crotch of my panties stuck to my swollen and wet pussy. My skirt is folded up to my waist, and my panties are just tugged to the side. A fantasy, a dirty girl fantasy, just as I’ve told Dr. Strangeguy about in the past. Getting fucked while not even being allowed to be naked is so slutty.
It also feels pretty damned good! He fucked me hard, as Dr. Strangeguy stands and watches. Being fucked from behind by a stranger is a bit embarrassing, being used as a fuckhole.
It’s also incredibly hot.
I had the best 6 orgasms I’d had all week. He took the cereal boxes with him when he went back to work, as Doc said I wouldn’t need more protein today. He walked me out to my car, a good thing since my knees were kind of wobbly from all those orgasms, and told me not to touch myself for the rest of the day, to let that cum leak onto my panties, and to only take them off tonight. I should save them, he said, to be a visual reminder of my purpose…to be a cum filled slut.
I never even noticed when he tucked a card for an appointment into my bra. I only found it when I got home and got naked, except for the panties.
I held the card in my hand as I fell into a deep, restful sleep, thinking, “thanks, Dr. Strangeguy, for knowing exactly what I need.”