Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
Merhaba aksamci.org erotik sex hikayeleri okuyucuları,derlediğimiz en büyük hikaye arşivini sizlerin beğenisine sunuyoruz.Neredeyse tüm google da bulabileceğiniz tüm hikayeleri bir arada..
Conservative… that’s how they describe me. Conservative in politics, conservative in my work, conservative in the way I raise my children, conservative in my respect for my marriage vows. So what transpired with you… well, I’m still processing it. It aroused something in me I did not think was possible. Something far from conservative.
I’m a counselor. I’ve spent my life helping people. It’s such a thrill to be invited into the secret parts of people’s lives to uncover their hidden motivations and fears. I do this well. But no counselor is without his own demons and fears. We are taught from early days of school to seek full awareness of these weaknesses, for if unexamined, they can twist and distort the counsel we provide, often without any conscious awareness of this fact.
I’m aware of these shortcomings. But it was one particular shortcoming that led me to you.
I am strongly attracted to the opposite sex. Most men do, I realize. But my ferocious appetite often goes unfulfilled. This can be troublesome, and often torturous, for women are usually the first to seek my counsel. A suffocating marriage or a neglectful husband… these are usually the circumstances that draw us into the counseling room. It’s not uncommon for these women to dress in a slightly more provocative way than they usually do. Their husbands have bruised their spirits, damaged their confidence, or driven them some level of sexual dysfunction.
Hence the problem. It’s called “projection.” The client projects either their bitterness and anger (on the negative side) or their hopes and dreams (on the positive side) upon their counselor. Many a time, I’ve been treated as if I’m the abusive father the woman once feared or “just another lousy man” like the man they married. That happens, but more often than that, the counselor – draped in the appearance of wisdom and the adornment of degrees – is treated as king, as the ideal man that the woman desires her husband to be. After all, they think, the counselor listens, but my husband does not. The counselor cares, but my husband does not. The counselor understands, but my husband does not.
Reverse projection happens too. The counselor can project onto the client something he wishes for himself. Such is what happened with you.
All of this is quite a rush. The attention and adoration paid to me by these women is intoxicating. In the office, with my white shirt and conservative tie, with legs crossed and a pose of concern on display, I become the man they always wanted.
But this can be dangerous. In a moment that first revealed this issue, I once bought into the manipulations of one woman who convinced me of some things about her marriage that, in hindsight, did not add up. Any decent counselor would have seen this. But she was incredibly beautiful. She had a short black skirt, perfectly toned legs that were crossed towards me in a way that makes me weak, and an amazing neckline that revealed enough to make me want so much more. Several times she spotted my gaze. The slight upward curve of her lips revealed her delight. She had me right where she wanted.
I was so disturbed by this failure… and even more disturbed wondering how many times I had fallen for this before… that I sought the counsel of my friend Jeff. Jeff and I had met in graduate school. We both had just married the summer before our first class together. Jeff and I were hardly the distinguished gentlemen we are now. Back then, we were immature after our time. We would skip class, cram for tests at the last minute, and party with our new brides on the weekend.
We had known each other on such an “unprofessional” level for all these years that the few times we had actually contacted each other for “professional” advice, it seemed quite awkward. We wondered if we could actually pull off a serious conversation, but we always did. We knew the seriousness of our profession, and we knew each other well enough that neither of us could bull shit the other. So why talk to anyone else?
Which is why I stopped by Jeff’s office several months ago. My failure to rise above the attraction of women to give objective and meaningful advice was threatening my calling as a counselor. I needed to get this straight.
Meeting in Jeff’s office was too formal for us, so we met over a couple of six inch subs and sandwiches at a local dive. We caught up quickly on our kids, our practices, and swapped a few client stories, as we often enjoyed trying to “one up” each other. After the small talk was over, Jeff entered into therapeutic conversation.
“Why did you want to see me?”
I spent several minutes skirting the issue, talking about how much I love my wife, how beautiful she is, and how I want to be with her the rest of my life. Jeff interrupted, not as a counselor, but as a friend.
“Are you fucking around on Kelly?”
“Hell no!” I said. I shook my head trying to collect my thoughts. “No, you’re getting the wrong idea. I’m just….”
“Just canlı bahis say it, Colin.”
“I’m losing my objectivity.”
“With women,” I say.
I begin telling Jeff the effect women have on my ability to give clear counsel, how a short skirt can melt my mind, how the scent of a women causes me to miss what the client is saying as fantasies replace the clear thoughts that once were there.
Jeff’s response is quick, “That’s easy. You masturbate.”
I laugh, thinking we’re back to the days of graduate school banter. But he’s not laughing.
“I’m serious, Colin,” Jeff says with a straight face. “You know how it is. We guys have two brains. It may not be in the psychology books that way, but you don’t have to be a licensed psychologist to know it’s true. When the downstairs brain is active, the upstairs brain is on hiatus! You know who you’re hot clients are. We all do. Just schedule a fifteen minute break before they arrive, drain that damn thing, and put him to rest.”
Jeff continues, “You know how it is when you have sex with Kelly. You’re horned up all day long waiting to get her alone, and then one look at her drives you insane. You fuck her good – sorry, you ‘make love’ to her – and then once you come, that thing goes into sleep mode. That’s you do your best thinking, right? Hell, I’ve solved many a client’s issues 30 seconds after I’ve cum! That’s your solution.”
I hesitate. I look down and stare right through my food.
“What?” Jeff says. “That wasn’t the greatest advice you ever heard?”
“Jeff.” I paused for a minute waiting to say what I never thought I would verbalize. “Kelly and I don’t have sex. Well, we haven’t had sex in a long time, that is.”
“What? What are you calling long time? Once a month? Once every six months?”
“Five years. We haven’t had sex in five years. Not since Elizabeth was born.”
Those words were so hard to say. A sexless marriage is a blow to a man’s worth. It’s a blow to his self-concept. How does a man call himself a man when the woman who claims to love him turns cold to his advances? How can one person chose to ignore this amazing, God given gift at the expense of the one she loves? How could she be content with having a sexless marriage? Didn’t that bruise her ego in the slightest? It did mine. And the more I had thought about it, the more troubled I became. The less I could live with doing nothing about it.
And it was taking its toll on the marriage. Bitterness had begun to creep in. Kelly and I were virgins when we married. I had saved this gift for her. We had only imagined the best, but on that first night, our wedding night, things went far from the direction we had planned. There was pain. Serious pain. I did not realize how large I was. I had heard men brag about size before, only to hear women snicker behind their backs. I had resisted such claims. But on this night, I knew my size was a detriment to the passion we hoped to ignite.
After a week of heavy foreplay, we concluded a sexless honeymoon in search of answers. A doctor concluded that her vagina simply needed to be “dilated.” With a few very expensive dilators (otherwise known as overpriced sex toys), Kelly began to prepare herself for sex. In the months ahead, we finally reached the point where I could enter her without her being in pain. But there was one barrier we never crossed. Sex had to be “delicate.” One wrong move, and the pain returned. Sex was as simple and as plain as it could be.
But even though her vagina began to meet comfortably with my cock, the psychological damage had been done. As unthinkable as it was, Kelly had come to link sex with pain and displeasure. Her brain had been rewired to live comfortably without sex.
But not for me. I began to tell Jeff the thoughts going through my mind. I was in my early 40’s and had begun to realize that after 18 years of marriage, the hope I carried of a robust and meaningful sex life with my wife was a false hope. Should I really expect that suddenly, Kelly should want to change this, when for 18 years, she had learned to live so comfortably without it? I began to despair. The waves of realization began sweeping over me. I may reach well beyond my prime without ever knowing what amazing sex feels like. I could die… without knowing what it was like to fuck for hours, to cum in a woman’s mouth or to feel my cock push violently against a woman’s wet pussy. The grief was serious.
“Man, Colin. Becca and I have had our occasional dry spells, but… what you describe is… unthinkable.” Jeff didn’t try to cover up the seriousness of this or throw out the statistics about the many happily married people living just fine without sex. He knew me well enough to know the depths of my pain.
“So, let me guess,” Jeff offered. “You’re thinking, ‘if not her, then who?’ You’re seriously thinking about an affair, aren’t you?”
Jeff’s concern was not the morality of breaking the marriage vows. I bahis siteleri knew Jeff well enough to know that he’d give me a pass if I strayed because of this. As a fellow counseling professional, I knew his true concern. The term is “dual relationship.” In the counseling profession, this was the great taboo. Once a therapist established a counseling relationship, no other relationship with the client was allowed to form. No “becoming friends.” No “let’s have lunch sometime.” And, most of all, no sexual contact whatsoever.
Rumors abound in the counseling profession about counselors crossing that line, but to get caught meant your license, your reputation, your business. Jeff knew I was on the edge. If not careful, my desire would overtake my sensibilities. I was flirting with danger.
“Colin, what I said about masturbation… that’s a must. You cannot under any circumstances be alone in the room with a confused woman while your sexual juices are raging. You have to remove the bullets from your weapon, or you’ll hurt someone.
“And Colin… you have to promise me something. You and Kelly must come see me or someone in my office about this problem. She needs counseling. She needs to know what landmines she’s dropping into your marriage. She needs to know what’s at stake.”
“Well,” I said, “Kelly and I are heading out on vacation next week… to the Caribbean. Her guard will be down. I’ll try to bring it up and see if she’s willing to get counseling.”
“You’ve gotta do this, Colin. And in the meantime, you have to promise me something.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Whatever you do, when that temptation pushes you to break a boundary, you call me immediately. Not when the session is over. Immediately. You hear me?”
“I do, Jeff. I promise.”
The vacation was exactly what I needed. I needed to clear my head, relax, and spend some time with my family. Kelly and I would talk. We would get this straight. Get our lives – our sex life – back on track. I was hopeful.
I love the beach. On the beach, I’m no longer “counselor.” I’m just dad. Carrying sun tan lotion, boogie boards, and oversized umbrella, I approached the Caribbean’s turquoise waters. The weather was perfect, and it was a perfect day for the beach. I finally got the family settled as everyone headed in their separate directions. Kelly was off to test the water temperature while the kids had boogie boards in hand. I wouldn’t see them for hours. I picked up my book, the latest legal thriller from the nearby beachfront bookstore, and I read the description on the back. I love to read, and more than anything, I love to read fiction while on vacation. I spend too much time reading journals and technical books at work. Now it’s time for something far less significant.
But before I opened the book, I checked my surroundings. After all, it’s the beach. Women everywhere. My sunglasses were set perfectly in place as I subtly spied out the land. I checked left and right. One woman suddenly moved by me, displaying an amazingly tight body. Man, I love the beach! Thank God I sprung for the darker sunglasses. I glanced down again at my book, but I was too concerned with the scenary. Another, much younger girl bent over. Was that the outline of her pussy showing through the fabric? Two women, probably lesbians, were untying their tops as they settled down for a nap in the sun. My mind was moving faster and faster as I took it all in.
That’s when I heard your voice, “Dr. Edwards! Is… that… YOU?”
I turned to see a familiar face, but not one I immediately recognized. I rushed quickly to figure out who you were, since I was quite fearful that you were someone important and you’ve just caught me gawking at the neighboring beauties. I knew your face, but it was out of context. You were someone I’ve counseled, but not for some time.
“Oh, I’m embarrassed. I shouldn’t expect you to remember me, but I’m Melissa Rykers.” By this time, you lowered your voice to a whisper. “You know, the one who suspected her husband was cheating on her.”
“Yes. Right. Of course I remember you!” And I did. It began coming back to me. You had come to see me three years earlier about some suspicious behavior on the part of your husband. I had given you a few signs to look for, a few tips for gauging his interest in you, and some encouragement not to contrive evidence out of paranoia, but to look for hard facts instead. The advice worked well. You called me a month or so later to tell me your suspicions were unwarranted.
This time it was my turn to speak in a low voice, “How are you guys doing?”
You belted out with a laugh, “Oh, gosh, we’re fine. Never better!”
We struck up some small talk, introduced a few family members, and you headed down towards the beach to set up your blanket. You stood directly between me and my children playing in the surf. I couldn’t help but notice how beautiful you were. Your shoulder length dark bahis şirketleri hair showed a hint of red in the sun. When you bent down to say hello, I took notice of your delicate breasts and smooth skin underneath the loose shirt. Your breasts were more than a handful, and were delightfully youthful. Your tall, narrow frame accentuated exactly the right features to draw me in.
I began thinking about when you first came to see me. I had not yet begun to entertain fantasies about being with another woman. So I had never thought of you in that way. You had dressed quite modestly, if I remember right. And as quickly as you entered my world, you were gone. I thought little of it at the time.
But now, I was in a different place. A weak place. And there you were, standing in front of me bent over, wrestling with your towel and bag. You were bent in exactly the right position. You stood and pulled your oversized shirt over your head and I saw fully for the first time what I had only glimpsed moments before. You stood there in an amazing two piece suit. Your top barely held things together. It’s obvious you were not at home anymore. You were out of the country, far away from colleagues, and were feeling liberated by the anonymity granted by the distance… except, I was there. You picked a bikini that tested the limits of your comfort zone. A turquoise floral print with white flowers, it covered nicely. The top was shaped so that your cleavage could not to be hidden. For a second, I couldn’t help but imagine what it would be like to run my tongue right down the middle of your glorious body. With that thought, a bulge appeared in my thin suit. I immediately set my book down to cover up the evidence of my growing lust. I take a second glance at you. And I see something that really stirs me. The profile of your breast is such that you are spilling out the side of the suit. From the front, from the side. What amazing luck to have such a beauty from my past land right in front of me.
Finally, I watched as you headed down to the beach. The tide was high, so it was not far away. You walked a normal pace, but in my mind, it was all in slow motion. The movement of your ass held by the thin material rides up enough for me to imagine what was underneath. As I stare and absorb your beauty, I was startled by Kelly’s voice. She says something to me, not sure what. I say, uh-huh, and that seems to satisfy. But my mind is on the unthinkable. It’s unthinkable for a reason. I am a counselor. You are a client. End of story.
I attempt to erase you from my mind and bury myself in my book when I hear you say, “What are you reading?”
My heart skips a beat. With a bit of nervousness rising in my voice, I watch as you dropped your beach chair down next to me in the sand.
“Reading? Oh, just a legal thriller.”
You said something about your favorite author, but I was too busy processing all of this to listen like I should. I quickly realized how long it’s been since I’ve chatted it up a woman in a social setting.
“So what are you reading?” I ask.
You chuckle lightly. Are you embarrassed?
“Oh, this!? Oh… well, it’s a romance novel.”
“Well, I can’t say I’ve ever read a romance novel. How is it?”
“Steamy,” you say.
“So what’s steamy about it?” You are still embarrassed. Yet, you don’t seem to mind forging on.
“It’s about sex, of course. They all are.” Now I’m embarrassed. And my book is pressing harder to cover my “friend’s” rabid salute.
I give you the chance to end the conversation when you say, “This one is very relevant though. It’s about two married people who meet in a tropical paradise, have a raging affair, and then… well, I’ve only read that far.”
By now, my face was flush red. What do I say to that? This was usually the point where I would say something really stupid… or trite… or conversation ending. Instead, the next words came out with suprising ease.
“Sounds like a real dream come true.”
“Oh it is,” you said. “I wish I had an experience like that. But you know how life can be.”
About that time, my kids run up to me. “Daddy, daddy, come get in! Come get in!”
My first worry was how I was going to get up with the big rise hanging in my pants. My oldest said the words that rescued me.
“Let’s go boogie boarding!” He handed me the boogie board, and I used it to shield the joy I was feeling at that moment.
“Nice talking to you,” I say.
The wave tossed me pretty good, and carried me almost completely to shore. My son tried it too with not nearly the luck. I felt bad that he wasn’t “catching the wave.” But he didn’t stop trying. He asked if he could have the boogie board all to himself. Sure. He needed the practice. I waded out in the deeper waters where I could escape the crashing waves. My oldest headed into shore to make sand castles with my other children. My wife was face down on her towel. At least I thought that’s where everyone was. I didn’t have my glasses on, and I couldn’t see that far away. Just fuzzy figures everywhere. That’s when I heard your voice again.
I turned, squinted a bit, and realized it was you.
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32