my kidneys could no longer control themselves. My bladder was full to the bursting point, arousing the rest of my body like some newly discovered sex organ.
'Pee on me, mom,' Robyn moaned between my legs. 'Pee in my mouth like I did yours.'
It was a pleasure. My bladder collapsed, sending a torrent of hot piss from my cunt. It flooded into my daughter's sucking mouth. Below me, I could hear her gulp it down. The sizzling streams that escaped the seal of her lips against my pussy trickled hotly down my inner thighs, puddling beneath my bare ass. It was fantastic.
Now I was going crazy, moving out from her crotch and licking her whole body. I writhed on top of her, my cunt still to her mouth, her lips sucking every last drop of hot yellow piss from my pussy cavity. Peeing in Robyn's mouth was giving me the greatest orgasm I'd ever experienced.
I was just getting ready to unleash a new ocean of urine when the phone rang. I wanted to just forget about it and let it ring, but Robyn brought me back to reality. 'You better answer it, it might be daddy.'
I reluctantly got up and staggered into the living room to answer the phone. She'd been right, it was George. He'd had a flat tire at the freeway exit and wanted me to come over there with the station wagon because he didn't have a spare.
'Thanks, Robyn,' I sighed when I hung up. 'It's a good thing you made me answer that.'
Robyn was standing framed in the kitchen door, her cunt an angry red splotch from my licking and tongue- fucking. Gouged ceaselessly by my pussy, her face was just as red, glistening from fresh pee.
CHAPTER NINE
The summer was coming to a close. Soon Robyn and Bobby would be back in school, not to mention Ron. Within weeks fall would be doing its work, making it impossible to hide behind the facade of gardening to get my kicks.
As far as my pocketbook was concerned, maybe the end of summer was just as well. Not only was I having to pay off Ron and sometimes Ginny. By the first of September my household budget was wearing so thin that I was putting dinners like peanut butter on toast and Fritos on the table two or three times a week.
Finally, George blew up. Throwing aside a shingle of creamed tuna one night, he screamed at me, 'What's the point of busting my ass in the insurance business if I have to eat slop like this? I might as well go on welfare if this is all working for a living gets a man.'
One thing led to another and soon we were yelling at each other, my fear of him finding out how I'd been blowing the household budget forcing me to stand up to him more than I usually would have. But despite my belligerence he was not thrown off the track. Even George was smart enough to figure out that the money he'd been giving me had been going someplace besides into the house. Eventually there was no way I could put him off from demanding to know why. It was either come up with an answer or have his fist down my throat.
'I gamble,' I blurted, astonished at my own inventiveness.
'You what?'
'I gamble, George, I just can't help myself. It started with playing bridge around the neighborhood, but it's long past that now. I get in the station wagon and go into the city. George, I have an honest-to-God bookie there.'
'Aw, shit, I don't know whether to believe this,' he groaned, obviously thrown completely for a loop.
'But it's true… true,' I cried, pressing my advantage. 'I'll bet on anything. Any odds that are available. Anything. You know the Chicago Cubs?'
'Yes,' he gasped.
'I bet on them to win the pennant because I thought their name was cute,' I miraculously improvised, hoping I'd guessed right.
'Shit!' he exploded. 'Those turkeys haven't won the pennant since 1945. You gotta get some help.'
'What do you mean?' I said, so caught up in my elaborate lie that I couldn't imagine what he was getting at.
'Therapy,' he snapped. 'Your mental health is shot to hell.'
'George,' I blurted, 'you sound like you care.'
'I care about not having a neurotic wife to come home to after I'm out slaving out there all day in the jungle making money for this family,' he said grimly. 'It's a dog-eat-dog world out there, sister, and it's tough enough without having to worry about some crazy slit at home pissing away all my hard-earned dough… And on gambling for chrissakes. On the Chicago Cubs. Why, at least, couldn't you have bet on pro football?'
'Please… please,' I begged him, falling to my knees. I would have gladly done anything for him at that moment for his forgiveness. I would have unzipped his pants and taken his cock in my mouth if I'd thought it would have helped.
But reality was staring me in the face. There was no bulge at George's crotch. He wasn't interested in me as a person. No, he wanted me to be more like a piece of all-purpose furniture, handy and uncomplaining. Efficient and portable. Emotionless and with no feelings. He didn't want a hot-blooded passionate woman in the prime of her life. He wanted a stainless steel stepladder. A human vacuum cleaner. A super dustmop.
What was the use? I stopped begging and waited for my fate.
'You're going to a shrink,' he decreed. 'I know they're expensive, but at least a psychiatrist is cheaper than a bookie.'
George was so adamant there was no way I could do anything but silently go along with him. He arranged the appointment himself, with a Dr. Bruce.
On Tuesday, halfway to the psychiatrist's, I realized that carrying out George's command had at least one positive aspect. It sprung me from the house. George's insistence that I see a shrink had freed me for at least a day from my existence in suburbia, and that couldn't be all bad. Gee, I thought, the shrink was helping me before I even talked to him.
My sense of freedom continued to grow and had me feeling relaxed and loose by the time I arrived at Dr. Bruce's office. By the time I got there I wasn't afraid at all of confronting a shrink, where, previously, I'd been terrified by the prospect.
The truth of the matter was that the more I thought about it the more I realized that I was looking forward to Dr. Bruce. I was looking forward to someone to talk to… someone who would understand my problems of joy and sorrows.
I decided just before his receptionist showed me into his office that I would tell Dr. Bruce the truth. Why waste my time and his with that phony gambling story? George would never find out what was going on if I went ahead and told the truth – a doctor couldn't betray the confidences of his patients. My secrets would never go beyond this room.
Dr. Bruce was sitting behind his desk. He was younger than I'd expected and a lot better looking. Immediately I perceived him as a sexy-looking man as much as I did a psychiatrist. Something about his appearance and demeanor told me that he was going to be very interesting to talk to.
'Mrs. Fredericks?' he said with a dazzling smile.
I nodded.
'Have a seat.'
'Don't you have a couch?' I said, smiling. 'I thought all psychiatrists made their patients lie down on couches.'
'Perhaps we'll get to that later,' he grinned. I didn't know how good a shrink he was, but there was certainly no doubt he was a very good-looking guy. 'Now if you'll have a seat, Mrs. Fredericks.'
I slid into the leather chair situated before his desk. The cool leather kissed my thighs as I positioned myself to get comfortable, the hem of my skirt wiggling well past my knees. I tugged some at it to get it back down, but when I saw the doctor's frowning expression I stopped.
'You don't need to be nervous,' he said. 'Just sit any way in which you're comfortable.'
'But my dress… it…' I tried to explain.
'I know, Mrs. Fredericks. I have eyes. It rode up around the tops of your legs and you feel you should be embarrassed. However, your embarrassment is merely a function of your own neuroses, probably brought about
