Facets of Love Ch. 04

It wasn't long before I tasted the first drops of sweet milk on my tongue and heard her soft moan as she felt her milk letting down. This was usually the point where she justified our actions by explaining, for the umpteenth time, why it was okay for me to fondle and suck my mother-in-law's boobs. But, instead of her normal diatribe, she took off on a completely different tangent.

"You know that I'm a sex therapist."

It was a statement, not a question. So, I didn't answer.

"But I imagine you aren't completely familiar with what that entails."

Actually, I had no clue as to what a sex therapist did. Just like I didn't know what happened behind the closed doors of a marriage counselor or any other psychology professional. And I didn't care. Nobody in my family had ever gone to "therapy". We didn't need it and, if we did, we wouldn't have been able to afford it.

I obviously didn't tell Martha that I thought the whole "therapist" thing was nothing but a racket, a way for overly educated people to take money from the rich and lonely. But even if I wanted to argue the point, I couldn't. It's damn near impossible to carry on a conversation with a large lactating boob in your mouth.

So, I continued sucking while Martha continued talking.

"If I had my way, we would teach basic sex education in the schools. Not just the birds and the bees. I'm talking about a detailed anatomy lesson followed by step-by-step instructions on technique. Unfortunately, due to our puritan roots, both the public and private school systems are forbidden to broach the subject. They can teach algebra, philosophy, and ancient Greek history, none of which have a practical use later in life. But when it comes to sex, a subject 99.9% of the population passionately pursues, society forces young people to figure it out by themselves.

"Most men never get it. The sexual IQ of the average adult male is on par with that of a five-year-old baboon. They know that shoving their penis between a female's legs feels good but often stick it in the wrong hole. And, just like a baboon, a majority of men never completely satisfy their mate.

"That's what I do for a living. I save marriages by teaching couples the proper way to have sex. I charge two hundred dollars an hour and turn away more clients than I accept. You, however, get the family discount. Your lessons are free."

"What?" I spit out her tit and nearly choked on the last squirts of milk. "You want to give me sex lesson?"

"I don't want to. I have to. Your marriage and my daughter's happiness depend on it."

"There is absolutely nothing wrong with our marriage or our sex lives that a few good nights' sleep won't fix."

"So, you admit you're having issues."

"No. We're not having issues. We're concentrating on Robbie. As soon as he starts sleeping through the night, all will be back to normal."

"I've got some bad news for you, big boy. Your honeymoon is over. Real life started the day Robbie was born."

Martha took my hand and placed it between her legs.

"What do you feel?" she asked.

"Uh... your pussy?"

"Just as I suspected. You're no different from my other clients. What you crassly call 'my pussy' is made up of many parts, all with different roles to play. Now latch on to my other boob while I enlighten you."

I did as I was told and, for the ten minutes it took me to drain her second tit, she gave me a tactile tour of her mommy parts. Admittedly, I learned a few things, like the Latin names for her outer and inner lips. Not that I'd ever say, "hey Mary, do you like it when I lick your labia minora." But knowing the names and functions of her pussy was bound to help me in the future.

After Martha filled my belly with milk and completed her anatomy lesson, I was hoping she'd give me a quick blow job and then let me continue the day.

Not to be.

"Have you ever heard the term 'ladies first'?" she asked.

"All the time. It's a southern tradition."

"How about 'happy wife, happy life'?"

"Yep, heard that one as well."

"Excellent. They are words to live and love by. Which is why, starting today, I will not let you come until you make me come."

Which really wasn't all that hard. For the last ten minutes, my lips were attached to her nips, my left hand was fondling her right boob, and my right hand was getting a guided tour of the areas just south of her belly button. Martha's labia minora was already soaked in lady lube and when I used two fingers to provoke her Grafenberg spot (Yes. I knew the official name. I was paying attention to her lecture), while simultaneously stimulating her clitoris with my opposing thumb, she came.

It wasn't a significant event. She didn't scream out my name or thank God for creating me. But she did have an orgasm and, true to her word, dropped down on her knees, wrapped her lips around my cock, and blew me to the release I desperately needed.

-

October 2018

I didn't go to Oklas that September. I was supposed to spend the second week of each month in the God forsaken town but, due to Robbie's birth and Frank's death, I got a month's reprieve.

Manny had my room waiting for me when I arrived on the second Monday of October.

"Anything new and exciting going on in town?" I asked the old timer.

He laughed. "Nothing new or exciting ever happens in Oklas. Some damn fool set up a medical clinic next to the mercantile, but it won't last. Once their government grant runs out, they'll skedaddle out of here faster than a city slicker running from a rattler and we'll be back to a forty-minute drive to the nearest doctor."

When I got to the factory that afternoon, two of the new machines were down for maintenance and a third sounded like it was on its death bed. I worked most of that night and all of the next day getting the place fully functional and, as a result, got to the factory a little late the following morning.

As soon as I walked through the door on Wednesday, I knew something was wrong. The constant clattering of machinery was noticeably missing, replaced by the wails of a man obviously in pain.

The foreman met me at the door. "Come quick Mr. Ryan. One of the creasing machines you supposedly fixed tried to eat Pedro's hand."

We hustled down the line to where a circle of workers surrounded a short man whose left hand looked like it tried to take a bone away from a hungry pit bull. Having lived and worked on a farm my first eighteen years, I'd seen my share of man versus machinery incidents. While the combines, tractors, and threshing machines always won, I was fairly sure that, in this case, Pedro wasn't permanently maimed. Pulling a first aid kit off the wall, I cleaned his injured hand the best I could, wrapped it in gauze, and drove him to the new clinic Manny told me about.

"If you got a choice, ask for Dr. May," Manny told me when I called on the way to ensure they were open.

The Oklas Primary Care Clinic wasn't much to look at on the outside. The sign was new, but the building showed hints of being a hair salon, ice cream parlor, and Blockbuster at different times in the past. Pedro and I were met at the door by a woman in her mid to late twenties wearing jeans and a flannel shirt.

"I've got an injured man that probably needs some stitches," I told her. "Is Dr. May available?"

She gave me a once over, took a look at Pedro's hand - which was starting to bleed through my temporary patch job - and led him to a back room.

"You too," she said when I didn't immediately follow them.

I joined them in a small but clean examination room. The obligatory stethoscope, blood pressure collar, jar of ah sticks, and other required medical paraphernalia were readily available. What I didn't see was a framed diploma with the doctor's full name on the wall.

"Are you Doctor May?"

"No, I'm the janitor. I fill in for the doctor when he's on his lunch break."

If I had been anywhere else, I would have been sure she was pulling my leg. But we were in Oklas. She didn't look like a janitor - too confident and good looking - but she also wasn't wearing scrubs like most doctors wore. So, when she started to remove the dressing from Pedro's hand, I instinctively moved towards them.

"Relax," she said. "I'm kidding. I'm Doctor May and you, I presume, are the infamous Mr. Ryan."

"Only in Oklas. On the rest of the planet, I'm called -"

"Stop!" She interrupted me like I was about to swear in church. "We need to get something straight right here, right now. I don't want to know anything about you, except what I need to do my job. If Manny says you're Mr. Ryan, then that's who you are. Likewise, don't expect me to tell you anything personal about myself. All you need to know is that I'm a fully qualified general practitioner.

"Now make yourself useful and fetch me a suture kit. There's one on the top shelf of the blue cabinet."

Properly chastised, I opened the cabinet not really knowing what I was looking for.

"There's got to be two dozen boxes up here. How am I supposed to know which one you want?"

"Look for the plastic container that's cleverly labeled 'suture kit'. And wash your hands before you open it."

I found the correct box, pulled it off the shelf, dutifully washed my hands, and then opened up what looked a lot like a fancy sewing kit.

"Do you speak English," the doctor asked Pedro while she cleaned and disinfected his wound.

"No English," Pedro answered.

"How about you, Mr. Ryan? How's your Spanish?"

"Far from fluent, but good enough to usually get my point across."

"You'll have to do," she said. "Ask your friend what happened."

When I conveyed the question to Pedro he responded with rapid fire bursts of Spanish, most of which I couldn't decipher. After speaking over a hundred words of the language I falsely claimed to understand, I turned to the Doctor and said,

"He got his hand caught in a creasing machine."

"Really? He spoke for two minutes and that's all you got?"

"I was paraphrasing."

Giving me the same look my sixth-grade teacher used when I told her 'Dad fed my homework to the goat', the doc went back to her work, stitching up Pedro's wounded hand in complete silence.

"He's lucky," she said after inspecting her work. "No broken bones, no damaged tendons, and he didn't sever his radial artery. It will hurt for a day or two, but no permanent damage was done. I'm going to give him an antibiotic and another shot for the pain. If he gets too uncomfortable later today, tell him to use his favorite over-the-counter pain pill. He'll need to come back here in two weeks to have it checked and get the stitches out.

"Do I need to write all that down or can you remember it? I'd prefer you repeat what I said to somebody who is truly bilingual, so Pedro understands my instructions."

"Probably better if you wrote it all down," I said. "How about work? When can he get back to it?"

"Are you his boss?" she asked.

"Not directly. My father-in-law owns the company. I'm only here for a week to oversee the new equipment."

"I figured as much."

"You didn't think I was his boss?"

"No, I figured you were married."

"What does that have to do with Pedro going back to work?"

"Not a damn thing. It's just an observation. You're not wearing a wedding ring but the tan line on your finger indicates that you usually do. You just admitted you're only here for a week, so I can only assume that, as soon as you leave wherever home is, you take off your golden band of monogamy and try your luck with the local hotties. Unfortunately, there aren't any in Oklas, except for me, and I'm immune to whatever charms you might think you possess."

"Wow. What a fine job of deduction Miss Holmes. I casually mention my father-in-law, you notice I have a tan line, and immediately assume I'm a serial adulterer. But, during your investigation, did you happen to observe that Pedro's left ring finger also has a slight tan line? You just put two stitches in it so you must have. Does that mean he is also cheating on his wife or is it possible that there might be some other reason for his good fortune?"

"What good fortune would that be?" she asked. "He nearly lost full use of his hand."

"Nearly lost. But he didn't. Because my company has rules about jewelry in the workplace. It's not allowed. No bracelets, necklaces and, especially, no rings. We take them off before we enter the production line, put them in a locker, and don't put them back on until the workday is done. If Pedro had been wearing a ring when the creasing machine caught hold of him, it would have pulled the tendon out of his arm, and you'd be amputating his hand right now."

"So, your wedding ring...?" she asked.

"Is in my locker back at the factory. Forgive me for not retrieving it before bringing my injured employee to you."

Dr. May was speechless for several seconds while her eyes locked on mine in what appeared to be a stare down. When I refused to blink, she backed off from the argument and said,

"Pedro obviously shouldn't return to work today and I'd suggest he take tomorrow off as well. I'll write down the instructions and make sure they get to you."

That was it. No apology. No suggestion that she may have jumped to the wrong conclusion. Instead, she went back to doctor mode, gave Pedro a couple of injections, and sent us on our way.

"What do I owe you?" I asked before leaving.

"Nothing. This is a free clinic. The government grant covers all Oklas residents and those who work here."

Later that night, I was sitting in Manny's bar, nursing a beer, when Dr. May walked through on the way to her hotel room. We both saw each other but neither acknowledged the fact.

I felt sorry for her. She seemed to be a competent doctor, probably a straight A student in med school, except for her D in bedside manner. But her response to me not having my wedding ring on was completely over the top, maybe in the psycho range. And her refusal to discuss either her or my personal lives, that had to stem from some shitty events in her past. If anybody needed a therapist, Dr. May did.

Which steered my thought train towards my semi-sordid sexual affair with Mary's mom.

It was wrong. Yeah, Martha initiated it, but I didn't say no. At least not loud or often enough. I'm fairly sure what we were doing wasn't what Frank had in mind when he told me to "take care of Martha". Or was it? Maybe Frank knew she couldn't survive without some form of intimacy. Maybe that's why she chose her unusual field of study. For all I knew, she could be a closeted nymphomaniac.

Or maybe I was just looking for an excuse to justify fucking my mother-in-law. Which I hadn't yet. We'd done everything but the actual act, however, unless I found a way to stop, I knew that my dick would eventually end up in Martha's puss.

That's why I was so hard on Dr. May. She assumed I was cheating on my wife. And she was right.

-

Mary Spencer Jones

I can't say I wasn't warned. Mom and Dad told me. Both sets of my grandparents told me. Even my great grandmother told me.

"Your first baby will change your life."

Don't get me wrong. I absolutely adored Robbie. Who wouldn't? He was the cutest, most perfect baby ever born. I was shocked when, on the night of his birth, three highly educated men of middle eastern descent didn't ride their camels to the front door of the hospital and offer him gifts.

But he was still a baby, an infant, a tiny creature who needed near constant attention. Robert and I attended the Lamaze classes together. We knew Robbie would have to nurse every two to three hours for the first few weeks. We were told about diapers and baths and 2:00 am feedings. Yet, just like reading a romance novel doesn't adequately prepare you for falling in love, being told what to expect when baby number one arrives doesn't get you ready for the actual event.

I was lucky. I not only had the best baby on the face of the earth, and was married to the most patient, loving man in the entire state of Florida, I was also living with my mom.

Let's start with Robert. Before Robbie was born, Robert and I were having some form of sex at least twice a day. Even my nine-month pregnant belly didn't dissuade us from finding new and unique ways to bring each other pleasure. It all came to an abrupt halt the minute I went into labor. None of my parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, or Lamaze instructors told me that our sex life would be put on an indefinite hold when the baby was born.

We didn't stop loving each other. We still slept in the same bed, albeit in two to three hours spurts. He continued to hold me in his arms, but my pussy wasn't ready for his touch and my boobs changed from his favorite erogenous zone to Robbie's milk bottles. What really made me feel inadequate was my inability to continue our morning blow job tradition. As much as I wanted to, my body simply refused to wake up in the morning for anything except the sound of a crying baby.

Robert took it in stride. Not once did he complain about our lack of a sex life. Yes, he couldn't keep his eyes off my milk laden boobs, but after a week or two, he no longer joked about wanting to steal our son's breakfast and seemed content with the status quo vis a vis my breasts. But even though he eventually came to grips with the fact that my tits were temporarily off limits, he was still a virile young man.

During the few months we had been together, I learned to judge his level of sexual need. I can't tell you how, but when he craved a release, I could somehow sense it. After Robbie was first born, his desire was so great I thought his balls might explode. And then, he was okay. I don't know if he started masturbating in the shower or used pure will power to put his animalistic needs on hold, but three weeks after Robbie was born, Robert's "I gotta get laid" vibes decreased significantly.

They didn't go away completely. Every night, before we went to sleep, I could sense his desire to ravage my body, but he powered through it and, after he went on his morning run, ate breakfast, and took a shower, he was noticeably less needy. That's why I suspected he was masturbating in the shower. It made me feel guilty, but what other choice did we have?

Mom was an entirely different story. She'd always been a "take charge" kind of woman and that's what she wanted to do when Robbie was born. If I let her, she would have raised Robbie as if he was her own child and used me as nothing but a walking, talking set of milk jugs. But I didn't let her. I wanted the entire experience. Dirty diapers, puke on my shoulder, pee in my face... they were all part of being a mother and, since I didn't have anything else to do, I was determined to be the best damn mom I could.

Surprisingly, she didn't fight me. For the first month of Robbie's life, Mom was content to do all the cooking, cleaning, and laundry while I spent my days taking care of my baby. I didn't completely monopolize my child's time. I let Mom hold him whenever she wanted and give him the occasional bath. But she still respected our boundaries.

Whenever Robert was home, Mom made sure he had priority. Just like my dad, Robert was an avid football fan. His favorite fall weekend activity was sitting on the couch with a game on the television and Robbie asleep in his arms.

"This is all the therapy I'll ever need," he often said. And even though his words were a bit of a slight against Mom's chosen profession, she always ensured he never ran out of snacks and beer. It was actually a bit embarrassing, the way she doted on him.

"You know you don't have to wait on him hand and foot," I told her one Sunday afternoon. "He's perfectly capable of getting his own food."

"I'm sure he is," she said. "But they look so cute together and I wouldn't want him to wake Robbie."