You Can’t

The words cut to the core. You instantly feel dejected, lost in purpose. Processing the words at a snails pace. Your vision fogs over, your eyes glaze as Michelle’s do, your mind blanks.

“You heard her. Give her some space.” The man booms, not starting a conversation by demanding your obedience. The command reawakens you, to the delicious view of Michelle sliding his cockhead past her lips, past her mouth and finally into her throat, as fresh tears form and her nose burrows deep into his shaven flesh.

Automatically, you saunter backwards and crash limply into the corner chair. From this position, you are treated to the full view of Michelle’s treatment. But this takes time to register, as your consciousness is occupied with the train of thought that had been so rudely interrupted.

Almost humorously, the first connection you made as you slumped into into the cotton chair was the double entendre of Michelle’s request. The is no humour to be had, though. Your wife prioritised her session over you. You cannot comprehend beyond that inarguable fact. No other case you had studied, no other addict, had such a severe reaction as to ignore their lover. You strived away from the connection forming, but despite your herculean efforts, the uncomfortable truth began to surface. The dismissal by Michelle was no symptom of her disease. She meant it, deep within her psyche. It made no sense to discredit another potential source of treatment, other than a conscious rejection.

It hurt, deeply. Within your soul, a part of yourself withered that moment. During that moment of acceptance. During that truth. But a new part of yourself grew. Your consciousness crept into unconsciousness as you lost all sense of rationale. Instead, you began to form an almost grotesque, unrecognisable thought. It grew, and although it was impossible to classify, it caused something profound. It caused you to observe the sight ahead. It caused you process. To analyse. To see.

Michelle was undergoing a ritual that could begin to seem more than pornographic. She bounced at a steady pace, her torso rising up and falling down consistently. Each bounce synchronised her limbs, and the accompanying shaft it gripped to. The rise of her wet cunt and puckered arsehole informed the push of her throat and the fall of her tightly clenched hands. Her movements formed an orchestra of pleasure, a veritable symphony of truly sexual sounds. The *slap* of her ruby red ass. The *squelch* of her dripping vagina. The *schlock* of her rough throat. The release of taught skin gripped in her hands. The chorus of deep grunts and groans, mixed with the occasional sprinkling of satisfied mewling and high-pitched squeals.

Men would stand for eons, not-so-silently appreciating the labour of love each received. After whole eternities, the cock of each man would throb vigorously. The shaft would bulge, and bulge, and bulge, and one final thrust would cause a torrent of creamy white batter to spurt uncontrollably. Most men would finish inside the limb that had worked tirelessly to achieve this point of climax, before stepping backwards and admiring the view, just as you were. Unlikely you, however, each mans’ meat would eventually rise to the occasion once again, and resume their place in the orchestra. The staggered release of each mans’ coveted medicine meant that it was sometime during the witching hour before each man fed Michelle their final spurt.