was.
And then, just when our 'coffee breaks' were getting to be a regular thing, Miranda Fossgraves' husband made a new killing in the plastic business by exporting some life-like vinyl pussies from Hong Kong, and he used the profits to move them to a bigger house in a classier suburb.
Except for the hope of an occasional salesman, Dr. Bruce was all I had. And while his foot-long cock was overly generous, it wasn't enough. Not for me. My sessions with the shrink had guaranteed me a weekly fuck with the biggest prick I'd ever seen, but they had done nothing to curb my appetite for more and more sex. It seemed like the harder and longer the doctor and I fucked every Tuesday, the more I wanted when I left the office. Once or twice I might have pounced on his receptionist, except that she was about sixty years old and had warts.
Meanwhile, on Tuesdays I was still seeing the psychiatrist. It was expensive for George – but he went along with it because I seemed so happy.
I looked forward to seeing Dr. Bruce on Tuesday for the next long, hot summer.
