It was not a quickie. Not anything like a quickie.
Ingrid Larsen, a sex therapist, was sitting in her Berkeley office watching Brenda and Larry Halversteen, have glorious sex. The session started with the patients flirting but progressed through stages to openly fucking on the couch in her office.
Getting her patients to a mental state which allowed them to engage in such sex was of course what she was being paid for, and she was pleased with their progress. However, Ingrid’s husband Scott had been away for three weeks. Watching her patients seduce each other in her office had aroused Ingrid. She couldn’t remember when she had been this horny. As they slowly disrobed each other, progressing from flirting to fucking on the couch before her, Ingrid couldn’t resist slowly following their lead, so that by the time they were reaching a climax she was nearly naked and openly masturbating as she watched them. Ingrid was just as horny as her patients.
When Brenda had recovered from her first climax of the day, she looked at Ingrid and asked if she wanted to replace her on her Larry’s still rigid prick.
Ingrid agonized. This was so wrong in so many ways, but eventually she relented saying, “Okay, but just a quickie,” as she stood and peeled off her skirt, leaving her naked. But it wasn’t a quickie, not anything like a quickie.
It was approaching 5:30 in the afternoon as Ingrid parked her Lexus in the driveway of her home in the Berkeley Hills. She had planned to be home from the one-hour appointment at least three hours earlier. The ‘quickie’ she had permitted herself with the Halversteens had lasted for several hours before the lustful couple finally ran out of energy and departed, leaving Ingrid sitting in her disheveled office, naked, a little dazed, but not yet satiated. She had quickly pulled on some clothes and headed home to her husband who had returned late the night before from a business trip to Norway.
She found Scott sitting at the kitchen table with a glass of wine and a lap top computer before him. He leaned back in his chair and looked her over from top to bottom. Ingrid did not look her usual professional self. Her hair was disheveled, as was her make-up, her mascara and lipstick smeared. Her clothing was wrinkled and consisted only of her skirt and the matching jacket that went with it. In her haste to dress she had left her bra, panties, and even her blouse on the floor of her office and improperly aligned the buttons on her jacket. And she was barefoot.
Scott said, “Hej min kära (‘hello my love,’ in Ingrid’s native Swedish).” He had been practicing that line all afternoon, awaiting her return.
Ingrid responded with something in Swedish that Scott didn’t understand. His attempt at trying to use Ingrid’s native language had failed again.
He laughed and then paused, appraising her disheveled state. “That was a rather lengthy counseling session you had today, wasn’t it?” he asked, changing the subject completely.
Even though she was expecting Scott’s question, Ingrid hadn’t prepared a good answer. “Uhm . . . Yes . . . yes, it was . . . and . . . Uhm . . . Oh, I could really use a drink,” she responded. Okay, step one, she thought. Complete honesty, even if it didn’t quite reach full disclosure. It had been a long session, and she did need a drink.
Scott smiled and pushed the open bottle of wine toward her saying, “Get yourself a glass and join me. I’m writing one of my Loving Wives stories for Literotica.” Scott occasionally dabbled in erotic short fiction as a hobby. He particularly enjoyed the Loving Wives category because of its focus on adulterous spouses and couples with open relationships, like his and Ingrid’s. He was also often amused by the angst filled comments generated by his straightforward tales of wifely adultery.
“Really? I would love to hear it,” she said, delaying her further explanation of what she had been doing all afternoon.
Scott watched in silence as she stretched to reach for a wine glass on the top shelf of the cupboard. He felt a surge of lust as her effort exposed more of her long legs. Ingrid took her time pushing her broad ass out towards Scott intending that it have its usual effect. Scott licked his lips. He loved her ass. As she walked back across the kitchen, he noticed the wobble of her unrestrained breasts. He could feel his cock starting to grow.
“Hmm, yes,” he said. “But the story is not ready yet.”
“Sure. Okay.”
Ingrid loved to read Scott’s erotica as a prelude to having sex with him. But she was in no need of that today. Her libido had been on a low boil during most of Scott’s three-week absence. Even with her afternoon’s debauchery with the Halversteens, her libido was in no need of encouragement. She walked across the kitchen, her big tits swinging beneath the barely buttoned jacket she wore. When she reached the table she leaned forward, giving Scott a good view of her braless tits and poured herself a generous glass of wine. She quickly tossed it down, before sitting in a chair alongside the table and holding her glass out for a refill.
“So, tell me more about your counseling session today,” Scott said. “It was for a pair of your sex therapy patients, wasn’t it? Those patients frequently provide great material for my stories.” As Scott leaned forward holding the bottle of wine to refill her glass, he smiled lewdly and asked, “Was this perhaps a ‘hands on’ session?”
Ingrid laughed, leaning forward to hold her glass out. “Very hands on. You know me too well.” More honesty she thought, as Scott refilled her glass. She released a button on her jacket revealing more of her breasts.
“Umm, yes,” Scott said, licking his lips. “You do have great tits my dear.” She released another button and a few moments later her tits fell out of her jacket as she reached forward for the wine bottle to refill her glass yet again.
“Oh, you think so?” she said, switching to her lilting Swedish accent. She did that on purpose knowing her accent would always arouse Scott.
“What a coincidence,” she said. “Snake likes them also.”
“Snake?”
“Oh yes, Snake. I forgot you wouldn’t know about him. Snake is a nickname that Brenda Halversteen uses for her husband Larry. His fraternity brothers came up with it because . . . well you know.”
“Well, no, I can’t say that I do know. Can I assume that Brenda and Snake were your patients in your extended counseling session this afternoon?”
“Yes, they were, and Snake refers to Larry’s appendage.”
“You mean his cock?”
“Yes . . . “Ingrid paused while she took another long pull on her wine. She was beginning to feel it now . . . “Hmm yes, Larry’s cock. It’s really quite something.” She drank more wine, her mind replaying an image of Snake’s lurid cock.
“I see.” Scott was toying with her now, drawing her story out a little at a time, pretending not to be interested when he really wanted to know: Just how big was this cock his wife had spent her afternoon with? He wasn’t feeling jealous–just aroused. After all he had his own tale to tell Ingrid about the accountant he had bedded while in Stavanger.