Cuckold club

The Healer's Tale (after Chaucer)

by Ginger

08/20/2016 11:22 in hotwife


"Can you do one more thing for me?" my "customer" asked. I smiled down at him, kindly.

"Sure," I replied. I felt particularly willing, even though my time was up, since he was once again reaching for the envelope-sized leather wallet he kept tucked between his right hip and the vinyl side of his motorized wheelchair. Aside from a lavender garter (borrowed from my girlfriend) midway up my left thigh, my shaved body was completely naked. And the garter already bristled with four twenty dollar bills.

The original deal had been sixty—sixty dollars for three hours' housework, but he'd already exceeded that. And now he tucked another twenty, folded lengthwise, under my garter, and gave my balls and cock a gentle fondle with his cold hand. Since he'd been fondling and stroking me off and on all afternoon, I doubted this was what the extra cash was for. I only knew that my take-home was now up to $100! Want me to jack off for you? Cum in your mouth? Sure thing! Just don't tell Anais...

Money was tight these days and my girlfriend Anais and I hadn't been out for a proper meal in ages. Sitting around in front of the tube eating store-bought pizza and drinking beer was getting old. That's what I'll do, I thought, as I stood there getting fondled. I'll take Anais out to a nice restaurant. Italian maybe. And order a bottle of wine.

Many, if not most people, women and men alike, would find this "objectification" of themselves humiliating. Call me an exhibitionist but...I like it. I like walking around in the nude in a stranger's house or apartment. I like experiencing the swing of my "low-hangers" as I run the vacuum, or their dangle as I kneel on the tile and clean their toilets (Yes! I'll clean your toilet!) or scrub their tubs. I enjoy their eyes on me. I enjoy being ogled. And I like it when I'm doing the dishes and they put their hands on me to fondle, stroke, squeeze, caress or, even, spank my flesh and my vulnerable organs. And I particularly like it when one hand stretches open my garter while the other inserts a bill. Payday!

I've been going to strip clubs with my buddies since college. But while my friends are getting their rocks off I sit there filled with secret envy. I'd love to get up there and dance for other men, even though (just ask Anais) I'm not much of a dancer. I'd love for men to put their hands on my nearly naked body as they slip a dollar bill under my garter or buy me one of those sweet drinks dancers like. And for a much larger bill I'd love to take a man into the back room for a lap dance—and feel the squiggle of his cock, through several layers of clothing, against my pantied ass.

There's a gay bar near our apartment and one evening, when Anais was working, I decided to stop in. Off from the rectangular bar they had a little circular stage surrounded by mirrors, and a big hairy piece of beefcake in a thong was up there dancing on it. Well, moving. He looked bored; absurd in fact! After my third beer I worked up the nerve to ask the bartender:

"Do you guys ever hire new dancers?"

He shrugged. He was as indifferent as the dancer. "Don't know. You'd have to ask the manager." After delivering my fourth Bud he turned back. "You ever danced before?"

"Not me!" I blurted. "I have a friend..."

The supercilious little prick smiled knowingly. "Well, I can give you an application to fill out if you want. You'd probably have to audition..."

"That's OK," I shouted, over the jukebox chorus from "It's Raining Men."

So call me what you will, exhibitionist, wannabe exotic dancer, nude housecleaner for hire, bisexual...that's my dirty little secret. The ever-tolerant Anais being the only one who knows even a smidgen about it (well, aside from my handful of "customers," and a gay bartender). It was Anais who loaned me her garter that first time. I didn't even have to steal it!

"Well here's a pink one..."

"That'll do."

"It's kinda effeminate though, don't you think?"

"Darling, ALL garters are effeminate."

"Yes but some are more..." Anais stopped herself. "What is this for, anyway?"

"I'll tell you when I get back."

"Is it some kind of gig or something?"

"Something like that."

"Does it pay?"

"Hopefully." (Little did I know my doubt would prove prophetic.)

"Oh goody!" a gleeful Anais said. "You can buy me a present. How 'bout this one? It's, like, purple. And kinda plain."

It was lavender. "That'll do fine, honey," I said.

Anais put her arm around my back and gave it a pat. "This doesn't involve you coming, does it?"

"Say what?"

"Shooting your load?"

I shook my head vigorously as we crossed the apartment livingroom to the door. "No way, darling!"

She gave me another pat. "Cause I don't care what you do and who you do it with but...I don't want you, you know, ejaculating. I want you to always save your sperm for me."

"I will, darling."

"Promise?" another pat.

"I promise."

"OK then have fun!" Adding, before shutting the door, "And make some money while you're at it!"

"You're a doctor, isn't that correct?" my first-ever nude housecleaning customer asked me that afternoon. "Didn't you tell me over the phone...?"

"No sir. I'm a first-year medical student. I'm studying to be a doctor."

"But you have healing skills..." His cold fingers were fondling me again. In fact his fingers were going to great trouble to articulate the exact shape of each of my fragile testicles. It was not exactly unpleasant, but...

"Not yet, sir," my laughter bubbling over, partly owing to his examining fingers. "I know how to do CPR, that kind of thing."

"Oh but I don't need resuscitation, son," the man said. "I need to walk again."

More involuntary laughter bubbled out. I rose up off my heels. He was gently squeezing them now, my little ovoid testicles.

"You have nice balls," he declared, at last giving them a rest. He then turned his attention to my flaccid cock. After cradling it in one cold palm he began to stroke it. "But back to my paralysis. Can you heal me?"

"Sir, I..."

"Do you believe in miracles?"

I thrust my shoulders back. "I believe in sound medical science, sir."

His free hand sprouted an index finger. "Good answer," he said. "That will take you far." To my surprise he then leaned forward and kissed the slightly swollen pink head of my cock. "I can tell about people," he continued. "It's a gift I have, a sixth sense. And I can tell that you possess great healing powers."

"Sir, I..."

He held up a silencing hand. "Powers you're not even aware of yet, son. Trust me on this." The man rocked his frail weight onto his left buttock and removed his wallet from the chair. It was made of worn black leather and was the size of a #10 envelope. He opened it. Inside there must've been fifty more bills—many of them twenties, presumably. I practically drooled.

"I show you this because I feel I can trust you. You won't steal from me like some do and run out the door. They know I can't call the police. Call the police and tell them I paid a young man for sexual favors?"

"Sir, you've already been very generous," I said. "But we haven't engaged in any-"

"This," he replied, grasping both my balls in one hand, and tugging downward. "This is a sexual favor. This is why you're here isn't it?"

"Well, I just spent, like, three hours cleaning house for you..."

The man scoffed, waved a dismissive hand. "I can hire a redneck maid for that. Eight dollars an hour. I paid you to look at your beautiful young man's body. And to play with it. You have a boyfriend?"

"A girlfriend."

"Oh. I see. Well she's a very lucky girl, I think."

"Yessir, she's a great girl—woman. She's a RN. Or is studying to be one."

"Healers," he said, finger again in the air. "Thank you for returning me to our topic. Sometimes I..." The man looked up at me. I, personally, was looking down at my growing cock in his hand. Our eyes met. His were rheumy. Cataracts? We hadn't studied that yet.

"I have a proposition for you," the man said. "Since you have so little faith in your healing skills I think this will appeal to you." He paused for breath. "Heal me of this lifelong affliction, enable me to walk again."

"Sir-"

Another silencing free hand. "If you fail, which I think you believe you certainly will, you can take home every cent in my wallet, in addition to what I've already paid you."

"Sir, you've already been too generous..."

"Succeed...enable me to walk a few steps—my legs are weak and atrophied—enable me to walk again and I pay you nothing. I take everything back." The man cocked a hairy eyebrow. "A good bet for you, yes?"

"Sir...," I pleaded.

He let go of my now stiff cock and waved me forward with both hands. "Work your magic, son. Perform the miracle you don't believe in. Heal me. Help me to walk again. Lift this horrible burden, this disability from my shoulders. Let me live my last years in health and happiness. I beg you..."

His hands were still waving me closer. He was leaning forward.

"Sir, I wouldn't even know where to-"

"You'll know," he said, closing his eyes. "You'll know. I have absolute faith in your powers."

I was glad he'd shut his eyes. Because now I was free to shrug and crack a grin. What a bunch of bullshit! This was the most bizarre experience I'd ever had in my life. What should I do next? I had no fucking idea.

I got an idea. For whatever reason, his hand, the circumstances...I was now rock-hard. Twelve o'clock high, and throbbing.

Tentatively, I put my hands behind his oily—Yuck!—head and pulled him further forward. Until penis—mine—met face—his. I began to rub it against him. As I rubbed, silently saying some kind of meaningless little prayer, I became aware of his cool lips touching my balls. Kissing them. Attempting—unsuccessfully—to suction them up.

"Oh yes, my son...," he said between wet kisses.

Ask Anais. I am a quick-cummer. It's a testament to her, as a tolerant woman, that, for all my "issues" and failings, she continues to put up with me. She's a saint. She's the real healer in the family. She should be the doctor and I should be—

"OH!"

I exploded. Some of my cum shot straight in the air, landing back on its source, and on him, while the rest merely oozed and spooled all over his forehead, his eyelids, his cheeks and chin. He opened his mouth to the deluge, and some ran or dripped in. He swallowed and said, his face a runny mask of my several-day load: "The healing fluid! Bathe me in it! Thank you, my son! Thank you!"

I backed away, agape. The scene was disgusting. Cum was everywhere. Plus I'd betrayed my promise to Anais. She would feel my balls. She could tell when they were full and when they were not. She was a nurse! I could hear her now:

"Liar! Asshole! Prick! Why do I put up with you? I get hit on twenty times a day at the hospital. I could have anybody I want! Dr. Samson asked me out for a drink just yesterday! He's a surgeon! He drives a Porsche Carrera! Loser asshole! I ask you to [not] do one thing for me and what do you go out and do?"

"I'm sorry," I said.

The cum-faced man looked up. "About what, my son? I feel an enormous strength surging through my lower body. Catch me if I fall, will you?"

His hands gripped the arms of the wheelchair. His slippered feet were on the floor. He pushed. He began to rise...

Meanwhile my own explosion of cum was dripping from my tits and my belly and running down my abdomen to my shaved pubes, and from there, from my spent balls, dripping to the floor.

The man was standing, tentatively. Bent over. He let go of the chair arms. A slippered foot slid forward. Then another. He looked up. His cummy face blossomed a smile. His body straightened, more or less. Another forward slide of the left foot. Then the right.

"I can walk! You've healed me, my son! I knew you were the one!"

I felt like Morpheus. I had a sick, sinking feeling. Nevertheless, after another pair of sliding steps I held my arms out to catch the trickster's forward fall. I held him. His receiving arms circled my back. He patted it.

"I can walk again! I can walk! You're the miracle man!"

I'm the sucker, I thought, as my "customer" began plucking bills from my garter. He pulled his sticky face back from my equally sticky chest.

"Can you come back next week? I really want to give you the opportunity to make some money for all your hard work. Same time?"

"I need to rinse off," I said noncommittally. I could steal his wallet, run out the door and nobody would ever know. Of course, I'd be naked. And dripping cum...

"Sure. And clean up this mess you made before you go, all right?"

"Sure. Yessir."

What a sucker...

I set a twelve-pack of Mich Ultra on the kitchen counter, tore open the top and handed a slender can to Anais, who was seated on an apartment bar stool with bare, crossed thighs and flashing lots of cleavage.

"Oh good, you picked up beer. There's a pizza in the freezer if you're hungry."

"Great," I said, before slamming the refrigerator door.

"You're in a good mood."

"Not!"

"What happened? You've been gone for, like, five hours."

"It's a long story. I'll tell you tomorrow. I'd rather get drunk right now."

"That means you'll never tell me."

"Tomorrow," I repeated.

"How come your hair's wet?" (Fucking Anais...she never missed a trick!)

"No it's not."

"Yes it is. Why would you have to take a shower?"

"I was, like, all sweaty," I lied.

"You were working?"

"Yes."

"Did you get paid?"

"No."

"Why not?"

I sighed. "Like I said, Anais, it's a long fucking story."

"You don't have to get nasty."

"I'm not being nasty."

"Yes you are."

I went back to the fridge. This Mich Ultra shit went down like water.

"You didn't cum did you?"

I screwed my face up. "NO!"

"You swear?"

"I swear," I lied.

Anais smiled. "Come give me a kiss."

I kissed my girlfriend on the cheek, then on her cool painted lips.

"Why are you sitting here dressed like this?" I asked.

"Like what?"

"Slutty."

Anais reared back on her stool. "I'm not dressed slutty [sic]! It's MY house! I can dress any fucking way I want!"

"What have you been up to?"

"I'll tell you tomorrow," she parroted.

I rolled my eyes. "I'm just asking..."

"You don't tell me what you do," Anais said, taking a swig from the slender can. Then: "Dr. Samson came over."

I double-clutched. "WHAT? Why?"

"He called and said he wanted to discuss something. I told him I was home alone. My boyfriend was off doing god knows what..."

"I was healing the sick!" I protested.

"The sick? The horny is more like it. At any rate, he came over in his new Porsche," rubbing it in, "we had a drink, discussed my future..."

"Which is?" bristling at the Porsche reference. I drove a twelve-year-old Civic.

"He wants me to orient my career toward being an OR nurse."

"Oriental?"

"He thinks I'd make a great one," Anais said, with a conceited shake of the hair.

I frowned. The sudden rattle of the little double-stacked apartment washer/dryer my parents had bought for us. It was like five o'clock in the afternoon!

"You're doing laundry?" I asked.

"The bedsheets."

"The...?"

Anais forced an insincere smile. "Don't you want to be on clean bedsheets tonight when you fuck me? Or did you already shoot your load somewhere else...?"

"I didn't shoot my load," I protested, lamely.

"We'll see. Tonight. I can always tell. I'm a nurse don't forget."

How could I forget? "What about this Samsung asshole?"

"WHO?"

The beer was getting to me. On an empty stomach. I shook my head. "Dunghole...Samp-song. This...DOCTOR!"

"Samson. He's an immigrant surgeon," meaning eminent. "Get used to it. We'll be working closely together from now on. Do you have an appointment? Like, next Saturday?"

"I..." I opened a third beer. I felt like a deflating tire.

"Throw a pizza in the oven, darling. Let's watch a movie!""Can you do one more thing for me?" my "customer" asked. I smiled down at him, kindly.

"Sure," I replied. I felt particularly willing, even though my time was up, since he was once again reaching for the envelope-sized leather wallet he kept tucked between his right hip and the vinyl side of his motorized wheelchair. Aside from a lavender garter (borrowed from my girlfriend) midway up my left thigh, my shaved body was completely naked. And the garter already bristled with four twenty dollar bills.

The original deal had been sixty—sixty dollars for three hours' housework, but he'd already exceeded that. And now he tucked another twenty, folded lengthwise, under my garter, and gave my balls and cock a gentle fondle with his cold hand. Since he'd been fondling and stroking me off and on all afternoon, I doubted this was what the extra cash was for. I only knew that my take-home was now up to $100! Want me to jack off for you? Cum in your mouth? Sure thing! Just don't tell Anais...

Money was tight these days and my girlfriend Anais and I hadn't been out for a proper meal in ages. Sitting around in front of the tube eating store-bought pizza and drinking beer was getting old. That's what I'll do, I thought, as I stood there getting fondled. I'll take Anais out to a nice restaurant. Italian maybe. And order a bottle of wine.

Many, if not most people, women and men alike, would find this "objectification" of themselves humiliating. Call me an exhibitionist but...I like it. I like walking around in the nude in a stranger's house or apartment. I like experiencing the swing of my "low-hangers" as I run the vacuum, or their dangle as I kneel on the tile and clean their toilets (Yes! I'll clean your toilet!) or scrub their tubs. I enjoy their eyes on me. I enjoy being ogled. And I like it when I'm doing the dishes and they put their hands on me to fondle, stroke, squeeze, caress or, even, spank my flesh and my vulnerable organs. And I particularly like it when one hand stretches open my garter while the other inserts a bill. Payday!

I've been going to strip clubs with my buddies since college. But while my friends are getting their rocks off I sit there filled with secret envy. I'd love to get up there and dance for other men, even though (just ask Anais) I'm not much of a dancer. I'd love for men to put their hands on my nearly naked body as they slip a dollar bill under my garter or buy me one of those sweet drinks dancers like. And for a much larger bill I'd love to take a man into the back room for a lap dance—and feel the squiggle of his cock, through several layers of clothing, against my pantied ass.

There's a gay bar near our apartment and one evening, when Anais was working, I decided to stop in. Off from the rectangular bar they had a little circular stage surrounded by mirrors, and a big hairy piece of beefcake in a thong was up there dancing on it. Well, moving. He looked bored; absurd in fact! After my third beer I worked up the nerve to ask the bartender:

"Do you guys ever hire new dancers?"

He shrugged. He was as indifferent as the dancer. "Don't know. You'd have to ask the manager." After delivering my fourth Bud he turned back. "You ever danced before?"

"Not me!" I blurted. "I have a friend..."

The supercilious little prick smiled knowingly. "Well, I can give you an application to fill out if you want. You'd probably have to audition..."

"That's OK," I shouted, over the jukebox chorus from "It's Raining Men."

So call me what you will, exhibitionist, wannabe exotic dancer, nude housecleaner for hire, bisexual...that's my dirty little secret. The ever-tolerant Anais being the only one who knows even a smidgen about it (well, aside from my handful of "customers," and a gay bartender). It was Anais who loaned me her garter that first time. I didn't even have to steal it!

"Well here's a pink one..."

"That'll do."

"It's kinda effeminate though, don't you think?"

"Darling, ALL garters are effeminate."

"Yes but some are more..." Anais stopped herself. "What is this for, anyway?"

"I'll tell you when I get back."

"Is it some kind of gig or something?"

"Something like that."

"Does it pay?"

"Hopefully." (Little did I know my doubt would prove prophetic.)

"Oh goody!" a gleeful Anais said. "You can buy me a present. How 'bout this one? It's, like, purple. And kinda plain."

It was lavender. "That'll do fine, honey," I said.

Anais put her arm around my back and gave it a pat. "This doesn't involve you coming, does it?"

"Say what?"

"Shooting your load?"

I shook my head vigorously as we crossed the apartment livingroom to the door. "No way, darling!"

She gave me another pat. "Cause I don't care what you do and who you do it with but...I don't want you, you know, ejaculating. I want you to always save your sperm for me."

"I will, darling."

"Promise?" another pat.

"I promise."

"OK then have fun!" Adding, before shutting the door, "And make some money while you're at it!"

"You're a doctor, isn't that correct?" my first-ever nude housecleaning customer asked me that afternoon. "Didn't you tell me over the phone...?"

"No sir. I'm a first-year medical student. I'm studying to be a doctor."

"But you have healing skills..." His cold fingers were fondling me again. In fact his fingers were going to great trouble to articulate the exact shape of each of my fragile testicles. It was not exactly unpleasant, but...

"Not yet, sir," my laughter bubbling over, partly owing to his examining fingers. "I know how to do CPR, that kind of thing."

"Oh but I don't need resuscitation, son," the man said. "I need to walk again."

More involuntary laughter bubbled out. I rose up off my heels. He was gently squeezing them now, my little ovoid testicles.

"You have nice balls," he declared, at last giving them a rest. He then turned his attention to my flaccid cock. After cradling it in one cold palm he began to stroke it. "But back to my paralysis. Can you heal me?"

"Sir, I..."

"Do you believe in miracles?"

I thrust my shoulders back. "I believe in sound medical science, sir."

His free hand sprouted an index finger. "Good answer," he said. "That will take you far." To my surprise he then leaned forward and kissed the slightly swollen pink head of my cock. "I can tell about people," he continued. "It's a gift I have, a sixth sense. And I can tell that you possess great healing powers."

"Sir, I..."

He held up a silencing hand. "Powers you're not even aware of yet, son. Trust me on this." The man rocked his frail weight onto his left buttock and removed his wallet from the chair. It was made of worn black leather and was the size of a #10 envelope. He opened it. Inside there must've been fifty more bills—many of them twenties, presumably. I practically drooled.

"I show you this because I feel I can trust you. You won't steal from me like some do and run out the door. They know I can't call the police. Call the police and tell them I paid a young man for sexual favors?"

"Sir, you've already been very generous," I said. "But we haven't engaged in any-"

"This," he replied, grasping both my balls in one hand, and tugging downward. "This is a sexual favor. This is why you're here isn't it?"

"Well, I just spent, like, three hours cleaning house for you..."

The man scoffed, waved a dismissive hand. "I can hire a redneck maid for that. Eight dollars an hour. I paid you to look at your beautiful young man's body. And to play with it. You have a boyfriend?"

"A girlfriend."

"Oh. I see. Well she's a very lucky girl, I think."

"Yessir, she's a great girl—woman. She's a RN. Or is studying to be one."

"Healers," he said, finger again in the air. "Thank you for returning me to our topic. Sometimes I..." The man looked up at me. I, personally, was looking down at my growing cock in his hand. Our eyes met. His were rheumy. Cataracts? We hadn't studied that yet.

"I have a proposition for you," the man said. "Since you have so little faith in your healing skills I think this will appeal to you." He paused for breath. "Heal me of this lifelong affliction, enable me to walk again."

"Sir-"

Another silencing free hand. "If you fail, which I think you believe you certainly will, you can take home every cent in my wallet, in addition to what I've already paid you."

"Sir, you've already been too generous..."

"Succeed...enable me to walk a few steps—my legs are weak and atrophied—enable me to walk again and I pay you nothing. I take everything back." The man cocked a hairy eyebrow. "A good bet for you, yes?"

"Sir...," I pleaded.

He let go of my now stiff cock and waved me forward with both hands. "Work your magic, son. Perform the miracle you don't believe in. Heal me. Help me to walk again. Lift this horrible burden, this disability from my shoulders. Let me live my last years in health and happiness. I beg you..."

His hands were still waving me closer. He was leaning forward.

"Sir, I wouldn't even know where to-"

"You'll know," he said, closing his eyes. "You'll know. I have absolute faith in your powers."

I was glad he'd shut his eyes. Because now I was free to shrug and crack a grin. What a bunch of bullshit! This was the most bizarre experience I'd ever had in my life. What should I do next? I had no fucking idea.

I got an idea. For whatever reason, his hand, the circumstances...I was now rock-hard. Twelve o'clock high, and throbbing.

Tentatively, I put my hands behind his oily—Yuck!—head and pulled him further forward. Until penis—mine—met face—his. I began to rub it against him. As I rubbed, silently saying some kind of meaningless little prayer, I became aware of his cool lips touching my balls. Kissing them. Attempting—unsuccessfully—to suction them up.

"Oh yes, my son...," he said between wet kisses.

Ask Anais. I am a quick-cummer. It's a testament to her, as a tolerant woman, that, for all my "issues" and failings, she continues to put up with me. She's a saint. She's the real healer in the family. She should be the doctor and I should be—

"OH!"

I exploded. Some of my cum shot straight in the air, landing back on its source, and on him, while the rest merely oozed and spooled all over his forehead, his eyelids, his cheeks and chin. He opened his mouth to the deluge, and some ran or dripped in. He swallowed and said, his face a runny mask of my several-day load: "The healing fluid! Bathe me in it! Thank you, my son! Thank you!"

I backed away, agape. The scene was disgusting. Cum was everywhere. Plus I'd betrayed my promise to Anais. She would feel my balls. She could tell when they were full and when they were not. She was a nurse! I could hear her now:

"Liar! Asshole! Prick! Why do I put up with you? I get hit on twenty times a day at the hospital. I could have anybody I want! Dr. Samson asked me out for a drink just yesterday! He's a surgeon! He drives a Porsche Carrera! Loser asshole! I ask you to [not] do one thing for me and what do you go out and do?"

"I'm sorry," I said.

The cum-faced man looked up. "About what, my son? I feel an enormous strength surging through my lower body. Catch me if I fall, will you?"

His hands gripped the arms of the wheelchair. His slippered feet were on the floor. He pushed. He began to rise...

Meanwhile my own explosion of cum was dripping from my tits and my belly and running down my abdomen to my shaved pubes, and from there, from my spent balls, dripping to the floor.

The man was standing, tentatively. Bent over. He let go of the chair arms. A slippered foot slid forward. Then another. He looked up. His cummy face blossomed a smile. His body straightened, more or less. Another forward slide of the left foot. Then the right.

"I can walk! You've healed me, my son! I knew you were the one!"

I felt like Morpheus. I had a sick, sinking feeling. Nevertheless, after another pair of sliding steps I held my arms out to catch the trickster's forward fall. I held him. His receiving arms circled my back. He patted it.

"I can walk again! I can walk! You're the miracle man!"

I'm the sucker, I thought, as my "customer" began plucking bills from my garter. He pulled his sticky face back from my equally sticky chest.

"Can you come back next week? I really want to give you the opportunity to make some money for all your hard work. Same time?"

"I need to rinse off," I said noncommittally. I could steal his wallet, run out the door and nobody would ever know. Of course, I'd be naked. And dripping cum...

"Sure. And clean up this mess you made before you go, all right?"

"Sure. Yessir."

What a sucker...

I set a twelve-pack of Mich Ultra on the kitchen counter, tore open the top and handed a slender can to Anais, who was seated on an apartment bar stool with bare, crossed thighs and flashing lots of cleavage.

"Oh good, you picked up beer. There's a pizza in the freezer if you're hungry."

"Great," I said, before slamming the refrigerator door.

"You're in a good mood."

"Not!"

"What happened? You've been gone for, like, five hours."

"It's a long story. I'll tell you tomorrow. I'd rather get drunk right now."

"That means you'll never tell me."

"Tomorrow," I repeated.

"How come your hair's wet?" (Fucking Anais...she never missed a trick!)

"No it's not."

"Yes it is. Why would you have to take a shower?"

"I was, like, all sweaty," I lied.

"You were working?"

"Yes."

"Did you get paid?"

"No."

"Why not?"

I sighed. "Like I said, Anais, it's a long fucking story."

"You don't have to get nasty."

"I'm not being nasty."

"Yes you are."

I went back to the fridge. This Mich Ultra shit went down like water.

"You didn't cum did you?"

I screwed my face up. "NO!"

"You swear?"

"I swear," I lied.

Anais smiled. "Come give me a kiss."

I kissed my girlfriend on the cheek, then on her cool painted lips.

"Why are you sitting here dressed like this?" I asked.

"Like what?"

"Slutty."

Anais reared back on her stool. "I'm not dressed slutty [sic]! It's MY house! I can dress any fucking way I want!"

"What have you been up to?"

"I'll tell you tomorrow," she parroted.

I rolled my eyes. "I'm just asking..."

"You don't tell me what you do," Anais said, taking a swig from the slender can. Then: "Dr. Samson came over."

I double-clutched. "WHAT? Why?"

"He called and said he wanted to discuss something. I told him I was home alone. My boyfriend was off doing god knows what..."

"I was healing the sick!" I protested.

"The sick? The horny is more like it. At any rate, he came over in his new Porsche," rubbing it in, "we had a drink, discussed my future..."

"Which is?" bristling at the Porsche reference. I drove a twelve-year-old Civic.

"He wants me to orient my career toward being an OR nurse."

"Oriental?"

"He thinks I'd make a great one," Anais said, with a conceited shake of the hair.

I frowned. The sudden rattle of the little double-stacked apartment washer/dryer my parents had bought for us. It was like five o'clock in the afternoon!

"You're doing laundry?" I asked.

"The bedsheets."

"The...?"

Anais forced an insincere smile. "Don't you want to be on clean bedsheets tonight when you fuck me? Or did you already shoot your load somewhere else...?"

"I didn't shoot my load," I protested, lamely.

"We'll see. Tonight. I can always tell. I'm a nurse don't forget."

How could I forget? "What about this Samsung asshole?"

"WHO?"

The beer was getting to me. On an empty stomach. I shook my head. "Dunghole...Samp-song. This...DOCTOR!"

"Samson. He's an immigrant surgeon," meaning eminent. "Get used to it. We'll be working closely together from now on. Do you have an appointment? Like, next Saturday?"

"I..." I opened a third beer. I felt like a deflating tire.

"Throw a pizza in the oven, darling. Let's watch a movie!"


beaded jewellery healer's tale (after chaucer)