High Velocity PSA Pt. 04

Bill displayed my naked body to Guy. "All cleaned up."

Guy gave me a chaste peck on the cheek. "I want a souvenir." He sat me down on the bed, my legs wide open, and instructed me to hold my labia apart. I obeyed, and Bill took a few pictures. His cock was at attention as he took them, but soon flopped back down.

We all got dressed and went to the bar for coffee. I was shocked that it was almost five in the morning. So much for the quick visit I mentioned to Allison when I had arrived. The Club was closed for the night; it was just the three of us there. Or should I say 'the four of us:' Guy, Bill, Guy and Bill's woman, and Ethan's woman. The latter was in a state of shock. Guy and Bill's woman was unwinding from an ecstatic sexual high. I had to get rid of her now. I had to go home.

"When will I see you again?" Guy kissed my hand, then closed my car door for me. I sighed.

"I don't know. It's hard."

"Yes, you certainly kept us hard. It was phenomenal."

"It was great for me too, but I don't know..."

They were both standing by my open car window. Guy reached in to caress my cheek. "Do what you're comfortable with. I want you to be happy. Don't just visit us when you're in trouble or need to get laid."

Bill picked up on that. "But if you, your husband or children are ever in trouble, come to us. We will deal with it."

"Yeah, we're your private superhero team." Guy put his hand under his belly, lifted and then let go. "Paunch Man to the rescue!" We all laughed. I started the engine and headed home.

July 9

I parked my car in the driveway, not wanting to wake Ethan in case he was sleeping in his office again. He wasn't. It was six-fifteen, and rather than going to bed now and risk disturbing him, I decided to wait up for everyone.

I didn't prepare breakfast for the family very often. Given my permanent evening shift, I was always asleep for it. I guessed who had which cereal, trying to recall if they ate toast, eggs, bacon, or anything else. It occurred to me that I was an absentee mother when it came to the day-to-day tasks. I was truly blessed to have a husband who happily took up my slack. My husband was truly cursed to have a wife who was busy having sex with other men while he raised their children.

This had to change.

I texted a friend who worked on the psych ward, asking who was the best psychiatrist for women. She soon texted back the name "Frieda Marson," along with contact information. My friend was discrete enough not to ask why I wanted to know.

I had gotten the cereals, and just about everything else all wrong. The part that I got right was that Elsie, Robert and especially Ethan were thrilled to have me with them when they got up, thrilled to have me talk to them as they got ready to start their day. Thrilled to have their mother and wife with them.

Ethan was in his office, the kids were on their way to school. I went to the bedroom, put on a nightgown, pulled out my phone and dialed Dr. Marson's office. I called her private practice rather than her office at the hospital; I didn't want this to somehow connect to my record at work. When her receptionist asked what the issue was, I started to sob uncontrollably. To my chagrin, the more I cried, the hornier I got. She gave me an appointment for ten the next morning. I called work, told them I wasn't well, and wouldn't be in that evening.

It wasn't a lie. As the kids had munched on their Cheerios, as Ethan sipped his coffee, as the three of them talked excitedly to me, I concluded that I had to be sick in the head. A sane person woman could not be emotionally and sexually knotted to so many men. I had criticized Ethan for refusing to see the doctor when he was potentially sick. I wouldn't make the same mistake. I wanted to be cured. I wanted to be well. I wanted to be faithful to my husband. I wanted to... That was the problem. I wasn't sure what else I wanted. I prayed that Dr. Marson would be able to help me figure it out.

July 10

Ethan said I was spoiling them when I joined my family for breakfast, a second day in a row. This time I knew what everybody liked to eat, and there was no shuffling around, no wasted food. Maybe a bit of wasted food; they're kids, after all.

At nine-thirty I told Ethan I had to go out for an hour or so. He trusted me, he didn't ask where. I took some of the cash I had earned as a stripper, so the payment wouldn't show up on any of our bank or credit card statements.

Dr. Marson offered me two alternative diagnoses. The first was that I had a dissociative personality disorder, combined with sex addiction. There were medications I could take to tame my libido, and help drive out the other women inside me. They would affect my entire personality, not just my sex drive. I would need regular sessions on Doctor Marson's couch ("clothes on," she joked).

The other diagnosis was that I was a selfish, out-of-control sex fiend, infatuated by my own beauty. I caught this affliction by having a body that makes men drool, and a smile that could levitate a freight train. The treatment would be to "get hold of yourself, bitch." No medications. I would have sessions on her couch only when I felt the need. It would be a harder regimen, more risky, but in the end far more rewarding. Dr. Marson said I was smart enough to make this work, though I might occasionally be an idiot and backslide. It wouldn't mean failure, but rather that I had to try harder.

I was Ethan's woman. I wanted to be only his. I had to make this work.