Page 28 Vets Are Docs to

                                VETS ARE DOCTORS TOO!                               3 29 10

                                                              ROY GARDE.

I first met my husband, Alan, when we were at a party and we were both there with someone else.

I was immediately attracted to him and that was enhanced tenfold when it became obvious that he felt the same way about me. It was easy for us to get to spend a lot of time talking because my boyfriend had, as usual, left my side to talk football with a bunch of guys in the kitchen – where, not a bit coincidentally, there was a refrigerator full of his favorite beer – and his girlfriend had met up with a clique of women in the conversation pit who talked of – well, I don’t know what because I don’t do that kind of thing well and so I stay away from it when possible.

His very presence affected me so much, and so quickly, that the thought of having my body touched by anyone else became unthinkable and after the party my then boyfriend was extremely put-out when instead of inviting him up ‘for coffee’ when we got to my place, as was usual, I told him, “Sorry, but this has to be goodbye. It’s been nice knowing you but I don’t want to see you again and please don’t call me.” and I got out of his car and left him there without giving him so much as a kiss on the cheek.

 It was obvious that Alan had done some tracking-down work in the morning of the next day because he called me at my office at around eleven o’clock and we talked basics and were surprised to find that we lived just three blocks from each other. We agreed on a date for that night at a pub/restaurant that was about a halfway between our apartments.

We got on very well indeed and we left the place only when the manager told us that he was closing. We did the self-same thing the next night and the kiss that he gave me in front of my place sealed the deal and I asked him up for coffee.

We found that we were not just compatible in bed but spectacular there – also on the carpet and on and around the sofa and with me bent over several different things – and, well, we probably set records in several categories those first few weeks.

 We both had similar sized one-bedroom apartments and we decided to live together in mine because the furniture was much better. My king-sized cherry-wood sleigh bed with Egyptian cotton six-hundred-count-thread sheets swung the decision in my favor although my electronic equipment was a non-starter compared to his. We didn’t have to step back very far to look at the big picture – all of his stuff that hadn’t been ‘rescued’ from the curb had been bought on one visit to Ikea – and when we did so my place won hands down.

He brought his electronic gear over to my place, piece-meal, and then his personal stuff and a few choice items and then he did a deal with the owner, via the super, to break his lease by foregoing his deposit and by donating all of the apartment’s remaining contents to him which meant, we guessed, that he could rent the place out ‘furnished.’

We weren’t all that surprised when we found, after he’d moved-in with me in September, that we’d both made reservations for the Quebec Festival that year and, from having fond memories more than anything else, we decided to go to it even though we were still in the ‘pull up the drawbridge’ mode. I cancelled my hotel reservation and we flew up there late on the Thursday of the Festival weekend.

We went skiing in the morning and again in the afternoon and then, at around eight, we went over to the most popular gathering place which was packed with attractive, leggy girls who were showing a lot of skin along with a bumper crop of studs with some genuine hunks in amongst them.

As I was checking them out I realized, with a start, that I wasn’t experiencing even one serious twinge of interest in any of them. Alan evidently felt the same way about the girls because before we’d even ordered drinks he touched my hand and then rolled his eyes towards the exit.

We treated ourselves to a horrendously expensive dinner at the Chateau as a form of compensation for having to – no, for wanting to – give up on the free-to-go-wild life.

We learned to like our radically changed life style very much and over the years we did things that we’d long wanted to do and we went to the places that had lodged in our minds, as it were, for a visit in the future. Being together meant that the motivation to get things done was at least doubled.

I don’t know how it happened – well, what I mean is, I don’t know how I could have let it happen – but after four years of our living together I found that I was pregnant with our first daughter.

We got married and we moved to a house in a nice area of northern New Jersey where Alan had been brought up and I quit work when I was six months gone.

I happened to get a look at the hospital records, while I was recovering there, and they said that my baby was delivered ‘conventionally with no trauma and with minimum discomfort’ – ha! – We both love her very much but boy, what a change she’s made in our lives. ‘Demanding’ is the correct word for it.

She was just over eight pounds when she was born and she developed normally but – I’m sorry to say and so was Alan – I myself didn’t get back to normal. Not nearly.

Around six weeks after giving birth I felt it best to lie to Alan about having healed enough – the need in him was patently obvious all through his waking hours – and so one night I took his hand and placed it strategically as I was telling him that most of the pain had gone and that we could therefore resume – uh – relations. I’d followed the doctor’s and the nurses’ advice and had read various pamphlets on how to best tighten up my birth canal and change it back into being a snug love canal and had religiously done all of the recommended exercises but in spite of all that we both knew that something was very wrong an instant after he’d offered his member up to it. He’d come close to falling in there!

Let me put it this way: I wound up having to cross my legs at the ankles and squeezing myself closed to give him enough friction to get the job done and because of that, as must be obvious, neither of us got much out of the eagerly waited for event.

As I’ve already mentioned, we both love our daughter and we didn’t ever even think of blaming her for taking the motivation and the spark out of our love life and we tried to get around the unwelcome change by being inventive. We’d always enjoyed indulging in the various oral outlets but we’d felt that they should remain in the foreplay category, as a lead-up only, because, whenever I went at it too enthusiastically and had inadvertently brought on his climax, he felt let down and, on my part, I hated having to spend all that time in the bathroom trying to get rid of the taste. So, what we’d always thought of being an unsatisfactory way to finish up became an accepted practice for us although I did try to stretch the intervals between the times that we fell back to doing it that way.

Most of the more exotic methods that we tried worked once or twice but then weakened to the point of outright failure and so, finally – and with desperation – we both realized that that left only the big alternative – anal.

We’d tried it once, back in the days, and I remembered that all that I’d gotten out of it was pain but Alan was thrilled to total incoherence while it was going on, and to gasped-out superlatives afterwards, but was horrified to find that for days afterwards he remained flaccid and I can still remember him coming home, when his libido had flooded back in during the day, with THE look on his face and it was straight to bed for both of us. After that, neither of us gave a single thought to ever doing it that way again.

But that was then, so, back to our predicament.

As sure as eggs, he kept getting erections and we doubled our efforts to deal with them but never really satisfactorily although I saw to it that he didn’t have to try to go to sleep with one of them – uh – still at hand.

Throughout that time, no matter how clever we were at figuring out new ways to get it done, it was crystal clear to us both that what he needed, badly, was a good old-fashioned fuck in which he could be the one in charge all the way through and after which he could wallow – ‘let it soak,’ as he called it – for as long as he wished seeing that he’d then be fully drained and would want to do nothing but loll on and in me.

Even when we’d resigned ourselves to accepting that it was our only real hope he was reluctant to ask me to turn over because he could still remember the amount of pain that I’d had to go through and the anguish of his being rendered impotent for days on end afterwards and, added to that, it didn’t help us to know that doing it that way might have to become our regular standard method.

One night, when we’d run out of alternatives except for That one and after maybe an hour of my trying everything that I knew, he was still the proud but frustrated owner of an erection that just wouldn’t quit. When I couldn’t put up with his frequent insertions and withdrawals – “Can we try again, please dear? One more time? Sorry but I’ll never be able to sleep if I stay like this.” – and his sighs and his muttered whining and his intermittent frottage-ing of my belly and breasts anymore I told him that I was going to bring the Vaseline and that, like it or not, he was going to have to ‘corn-pone’ me, as the guy in that poet’s movie put it.

Again, he clearly enjoyed the intensity of the experience – from the tentative beginning to the wild, punishing end – and when he pulled out of me he fell off to one side and I hurried to turn him onto his back so that he wouldn’t mess up the sheets. After cleaning myself in the bathroom and after doing the same for him – mostly without looking at what I was at – he thanked me for everything and then went fast sleep in about a half of a minute.

The lubrication had seen to it that I didn’t feel all that much pain that time and I knew that I could get some sleep then too but it took time because I couldn’t stop worrying for him, and for me, about what doing it frequently that way might – uh – entail.

  Sure enough, our fears were realized and he took zero interest in my body for a full week and he went as far as not even look at me when I was toweling after taking a shower as he was shaving, or whatever, and that was a definite first.

Overall, we didn’t fall apart but we both missed the wonder of hard, satisfying, uninhibited copulation and the concomitant full body contact and with the kissing and touching that it calls for. We managed to get by but life wasn’t the same. Not by a long shot.

We’d always agreed on having a boy and a girl and so when the baby was two years old I stopped taking the pill again and we worked hard to get me pregnant. No matter what we got up to, to get him really excited, we’d see to it that he always ejaculated well up into the cavern that was my vagina.

About a year later our second daughter came to full-term but, wouldn’t you know it, it got to be more than a week past her due date and she was still showing no sign of wanting to come out and meet up with us so the doctor had to resort to inducing her delivery.

  She weighed well over eight pounds by then and she had a big head but even so I didn’t suffer nearly as much pain as I had with her sister.

However, you can probably guess what that did for my, and Alan’s, problem.

When I let him get at me again, a month or so later, it would have been laughable if it hadn’t been pathetic. His member went all the way in without a pause and he was brought to a stop only when our pubic bones met. On top of that, I could hardly feel him in me and I couldn’t successfully do any of the things that I’d diligently practiced to try to add to the meager amount of pleasure that he could get.

He was so unhappy with his lot that he was cruel to me, for the first time ever, and he said something nasty about “having to bang it against the fucking sides, for crisakes.” And that was no less hurtful for being true. Later, I found that I could easily put all four fingers and my thumb in there up to my palm knuckles.

Luckily the detente had gone on so long for him – long that is when you take into account that, in descending order, blow-jobs and hand-jobs and between-the-legs-from-behind-jobs and between-the-breasts-jobs and armpit-jobs and knee-jobs and elbow-jobs had never counted for much as far as he was concerned – that he did manage to get off in me that first time but I wouldn’t have taken bets on his ever doing so again while trying to use the entrance of the Lincoln Tunnel which had taken the place of my vagina.

What to do?

Well. It continued to be very difficult for him and he often got so overwhelmed with lust, and so frustrated, that he’d go and get the Vaseline himself some nights and then have to endure being without any libido at all for a week or so because of it. He became very aware that he had only two choices: endure the curse of built-up frustration or the curse of temporary impotence.

At around a year after our second daughter was born he got caught up in a big project at work and his company asked him to attend a conference in London that was pertinent to it. He knew that the trip would keep him away from home for about ten days and we both realized, with poignant élan, as we went to bed the night before his trip, that for once, my physical inadequacy and the only way open to him to circumvent it would give him the perfect way of coping with his coming enforced abstinence.

I could tell from his tone of voice when he called me every night from London that although he truly missed the children he didn’t really miss being in bed with me until the last two or three days.

Our unhappy state continued for several more years and then Alan was promoted to Manager and it turned out that his company has a policy in which their senior staff spend a year doing tours – two weeks on the ‘road’ and then two weeks at home, etc. – and then they can spend the following five years, or so, back at their desks in the main office.

Obviously, being the junior manager, Alan had to start doing the touring phase the following January.

When it got underway we were again able to exploit our unhappy love making method by using Vaseline the night before he left on a trip and after a few months we began to get good at it although I never managed to get much out of doing it that way physically and not mentally either which had something to do with the fact – without a doubt a silly and irrational one – that it wasn’t ‘sharing’ – not even close – because I could never forget that he had an anus too and yet it was always mine that was utilized and punished.

Ominously, on top of all that, I gradually became aware that he had started to treat my bottom as my primary sexual characteristic – instead of the secondary one that it is supposed to be, of course – and that he’d begun to spend more time smoothing it and kissing it than my breasts and belly and also that he rarely wanted to go down on my actual primary sexual characteristic even though he’d always loved doing a good deal of that.

It seemed to me that that change in him could, possibly, lead to really deep trouble and so I decided to do some serious Googling to find help.

I went it at rather reluctantly, because I don’t find anything to do with my computer to be user friendly, and I didn’t get very far until something happened that put me on the right road and that eventually solved our problem in a spectacular way.

This is how it came about: On a night before he was to going to leave home on a trip I’d applied the Vaseline as usual and was lying on my side for him which wasn’t the norm for us and I don’t remember why he’d made me take up that position – probably just a whim – but, fortuitously as it turned out, it meant that I could reach between my legs to try to give myself some pleasure because, God knows, as usual there was precious little of it coming my way from his efforts back there.

When my own manipulations had made my clitoris begin to get sore I gave it a rest by pushing my fingers into my vagina, in an effort to keep up some sort of stimulation, and I was puzzled to find that I could only get my middle finger in there and even that only with some effort.

 Just then he wanted to roll with me to free up his hips to let him use his weight to savage me uninhibitedly – which meant that he was well on the way to ejaculating – and so I had to put my revelation on hold for a while as I strived mightily to open myself up to his onslaught because although my sphincter had adjusted to being penetrated by then my anus hadn’t and it always felt as if it might tear so I always tried to aid it in every way that I could.

After I’d cleaned us both up I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow – having to deal with two young, energetic children left me exhausted every night – but no way did I forget what had happened when he was going at me while we were both lying on our sides.

The next morning, after he’d left and the kids had climbed onto their school bus, I did some more Googling, this time regarding female reproduction passages and although by then I had a better idea of what I was looking for I still had to plough through reams of useless information and I got nowhere quickly and I finally weakened enough to go and find our copy of the ‘Window’s XP For Idiots’ manual.

I was astonished at how easy it is, once you really get down to it, to understand the art of bracketing and back slashing and ‘nots’ and ‘plus’s’ and where to put exclusionary quotation marks and so I was soon able to go back and bother Mr. Google with much more confidence and purpose than before.

I was able to narrow all of my searches down to around thirty or forty sites that were worth checking out but even then it took dogged determination to keep on keeping on. I was helped a good deal by the window that dropped down, now and then, to say – ‘We have analyzed your last ten rejections and so we’re now able to reduce your search to these 17 addresses.’ Or some-such.

Then, hallelujah! On one of the reports there was a side reference to a type of sheep that are congenitally prone to becoming physically constipated at around the time that they get to change from lambs into sheep and that triggered me into wanting to find out if farmers can buy something that deals with that ailment and that doesn’t involve medication. I clicked on the link to follow up and – voila – there was my answer.

It seems that that breed of sheep are prone to having their colons close up when they’re around one year old and the symptoms are, as you’d expect, that they stop eating and are lethargic at first but later they get to be so tired and slothful that they’ll even ignore dogs and if they’re out in the open and happen to be lying down in the road they’ll watch a truck or a car approach and won’t so much as attempt to get out of the way to save themselves.

I kept on narrowing the search down and it turned out there is indeed a mechanical device on the market called, ‘DCSD’ (Davis’s Colon Stretching Device) – a drawing of which, along with instructions, I was able to bring up on the screen – and I saw that it is something very like a tampon in that it has an insert – which is a six-inch long inflatable tube – sitting inside a holder but this holder is an intricate, cleverly shaped plastic one. The device has to be pushed into the colon of ‘a pinioned sheep’ until it is ‘in and up to the mark’, which is, of course, well past the sphincter, and then a lever has to be activated and that opens up the front, cone-shaped part of the holder which allows it to be eased out on its own after a separate rod has been employed to keep the insert where it is. The insert has a thin plastic tube that trails behind it and a small hand-bellows is then connected to the tube and when it is pumped the insert is inflated and, at that same time, so is a circular flange on it that effectively stops the insert from being ‘voided.’

The kit comes with a little rounded screw-down clamp that is used to keep the air in the insert when the pump has done its job and has been detached. The tube is then cut off at the edge of the clamp and then the clamp is taped and tied to the base of the animal’s or, failing that, to one of its hind legs to ‘preclude damage from being rubbed against something.’ The instructions went on to say that the insert has to be left in the sheep for ‘between four hours and overnight, as called for’ and that extraction is rarely a problem while adding, helpfully, that the ‘attendant’ should be careful to stand aside immediately after releasing the air, ‘to avoid the rapid expulsion of the insert along with a rush of fecal matter.’ Then it said, ‘Also supplied with the kit is a small extraction tool, with a handle to one side, for use in retrieving the re-usable insert in the event of noncompliance via natural ejection by the recipient’ – which I took to mean: if the animal has died in the mean-time from sickness or, perhaps, from shock! – ‘and it is to be positioned so as to open up the sphincter which will allow the insert to be pulled out by its tube without straining the connection unduly.’

After reading it and knowing that it might be just what I needed I felt proud of myself but anxious at the same time and, of course, very, very hopeful.

I was happy to find that there is a warehouse on Route 14 in Paramus that sells the devices and so I called up to find out if they had any in stock. I’d worked out a cover story beforehand – it was quite unnecessary, as it turned out – and so I was able to tell the warehouse guy who answered the phone that I’d recently bought ten of the constipation-prone sheep for the beginning of a flock and then I trotted out their distressing symptoms and I told him that I’d been advised that a ‘Davis’ Colon Stretching Device’ would solve the problem.

He showed not the slightest interest in me nor in my sheep but he told me that the DCSDs were indeed in stock and then he gave me directions to get to his warehouse.

When I got there I found that it was well behind busy Route 14 and was a big dirty, dusty shed with no amenities for visitors, including, surprisingly, no parking, but that explained itself when I found out later that just about all of their trade came from the internet and the completed orders were simply handed over to a UPS guy.

When I got up to the counter I told the guy who answered my shout of ‘Hello. Is anybody here?’ that I was the one who had just called about the DCSD’s and he nodded and then punched it up onto a monitor and he told me that they come in boxes of one hundred; and fifties; and twenty fives and that the ‘hand-bellows’ were sold separately. “The units cost twenty-four-ninety-nine each and so how many do you want, Miss?”

“Oh, my God,” says I with alarm. “Twenty five at twenty-four-ninety-nine comes to – let’s see, that’s the square of twenty five plus 8% tax – that would be – uh – just under six-hundred-and seventy-five dollars.”

Without comment but with a raised eyebrow in acknowledgement of my prowess at math he punched some keys and then he turned the monitor around and showed me the total – $674.73.

“My word, I’ve only got ten sheep and only two of them have the symptoms so I only want one or two of them, thank you.”

“Can’t be done, sorry. We don’t open the boxes. Do you want twenty-five or not?”

“But mister . . . ”

“Sorry.” And with that he began to walk away.

Just then a head popped up from behind a screened desk and its owner said, “Danny, I opened a box of 25 of those things for a customer on the boss’s orders a couple of weeks ago and there’s still ten of them left so maybe the lady wants to buy that there ten?”

  The lady in question said that she would indeed like to buy that there ten and so the head told Danny where they were located and ten short minutes later the lady walked out with them, along with one of them there hand-bellows, when the paper work had been done and my credit card had been swiped.

 When I got home I put nine of the devices up in the attic – I hid them in a suitcase of mine that my husband won’t touch no matter about use – then I wrestled open the plastic packaging of the other one and took it with me into the bathroom.

I read the instructions again and then I slipped my skirt and my panties off and I sat on the toilet and I applied some Vaseline. I tentatively offered up the applicator, aka ‘the holder’, to my anus but it was too difficult to push it in when I was sitting like that so I took everything with me to the bedroom and I positioned a floor-length mirror just so at the foot of the bed and then I knelt on the bed and used another mirror to be able to see what I was doing.

I doubt if I could have succeeded at it if it hadn’t been my most popular orifice for years by then but, because it had been, I was able accomplish the mission without too much trouble and, although it was very uncomfortable, I found that it wasn’t much more disorientating than Alan’s member was in there. When the holder was all the way in I moved the little lever and then used the rod to hold the insert where it was as I pulled the holder out and free.

I then attached the bellows to the end of the tube and I tentatively pumped it once and then again and then, with new found assurance, two more times for a total of four. The inflated insert made me feel as if I was about to have a huge bowel movement and when that feeling had lessened, with trepidation that was countered by tremendous hope, I inserted my middle finger into my vagina and found – what?

I found, to my delight, that it felt just about as tight as it had been before I’d given birth to my first daughter!

I whooped with pleasure at my cleverness and then I decided to give the bellows another squeeze and when I’d done so, and had quelled an even bigger urge to defecate, I tried the finger test again and that time I had to use some force to get just the middle knuckle of my finger in and a whole lot more of it to get the whole length of it in.

Then, elated with my success, I followed the routine for extraction that entailed letting the air out and then using the extraction tool to – well, we can skip the somewhat unpleasant details, right?

I took time to practice the procedure from beginning to end several times until I’d gotten it all down pat and, when I was sure of myself, I inserted it one more time and pumped the device up again and I fitted the little clamp so that I could disconnect the bellows without losing all the air and then, before cutting the surplus tubing away, I experimented with it – having a tail would have been helpful – until I figured out that the best way to keep it clear of the action was to use double sided tape and tuck it away – invisibly – deep in the crack of my buttocks not to ‘preclude damage to the device’ but to stop it from injuring anything vulnerable that came, trustingly and unsuspectingly, within rubbing range of it. When I’d found the ideal length I cut the tube and – Bob’s your uncle.

 Alan wasn’t due home for several days so I had plenty of time to practice with the device, the kids were in school every day, and I got to be both good and fast at fitting it and, as is usual with our resilient bodies, the nasty urge to defecate gradually faded to an acceptable level after only a few seconds and I learned to deal with that smoothly too.

I idly decided to give Alan four pumps for everyday use and five on his birthday and at Christmas and New Year’s.

 When he called to give me his plane’s ETA at the airport I told him that he could expect a very pleasant surprise when he got home and I added that he’d enjoy it immensely and, as with all men, he immediately assumed it was to do with his getting laid although it could well have been a favorite meal of his or even something innocuous like: I’d managed to find a CD, or a book or whatever, that he’d been looking for. I really would like to know how men know these things or is it simply because it is the only thing that’s on their minds most of the time?

When Alan came in the front door he had THE look on his face but there was also some apprehension there and a good deal of doubt because he couldn’t hardly believe that, if my ‘very pleasant surprise’ was what he hoped it was, I could have possibly found a way to let him have a satisfactory, old fashioned fuck and then, in the wake of complete satisfaction, be able to do a whole lot of the wallowing that he missed badly and needed to have back in his love life.

I kissed him welcome-home and when his hand had, inevitably, shown me that it was about to go further than fondling my bottom I whispered that he was to wait for a moment and then I’d show him what the surprise was.

I went upstairs and fitted the device, and carefully tucked away and secured the tube’s end, and then I called him up and I kissed him at the top of the stairs and then I whispered again, even though we had the house to ourselves, that he was to come with me to the bedroom “right this minute” and he insisted on crossing to my right side so as to be able to employ his right hand gainfully as we walked along the passage. We got into the bedroom and as he was reluctantly giving up contact with me, so that I could take my clothes off, I saw that he hadn’t used both hands because his briefcase was still in his left hand because he’d forgotten to put it down! Men!

When I was naked I avoided his reaching hands and I sashayed around for him, like old times, as I drew the curtains and then switched the overhead light on and both bedside lamps too.

By the time I’d finished doing that, and had taken my position on the bed, he was naked too but when he was laying next to me he hesitated – quite understandably – before closing with me and so I encouraged him by opening my legs as far apart as they’d go and then I bent my knees to blatantly show him all that I have and when that had drawn him to me – complete with the needy eyes of old – I formed a semi-restrictive cradle for him with my legs and reached out with my arms in welcome and he climbed aboard but he couldn’t keep from letting out an apprehensive moan as he did so that said, “Jeee-suss! I shouldn’t get my hopes up because I know all too well that I’m going to be truly disappointed.”

He hovered and waited to give me time to guide it in, as he’d always done before our daughter was born, and I well knew that it was mostly macho-man and only partly for direction-finding, but I obliged him appropriately and when he was pushing at me I was looking at his face and what I saw was something that will live with me forever. It will be cherished.

 The night before I left home for college my mother had taken me aside and she gave me the only bit of advice on sexual matters that ever left her mouth. She said, “I have to tell you something before you leave, dear. Uh, well, it’s this. Having – uh – relations with a man is always very difficult for all women but the first time is especially so, as you no doubt expect it to be, so try to find a caring, considerate one to be your husband. Will you promise to keep that in mind?”

She meant, of course, on my wedding night but a scant month later I found myself eager to give up my virginity to the very attractive TA of my English Lit class and, it so happened, he was a caring, considerate man. Mother would have been at least partially pleased.

After a glass of cheap wine in his studio apartment he’d moved in on me and had felt me up for a minute or two and then, after getting zero resistance from me, he told me to get undressed and I’d meekly obeyed.

I laid myself down, naked and afraid, on grubby sheets in the center of his bed as he got undressed and he both ogled and gloated as he did so. When he was ready to join me he paused to open up a condom package and I tried to gain points by telling him that he was going to be the first one and he replied, “Ah! Splendid” and then he put the condom down on the bedside table as he said, “I’m glad you told me before I found out for myself because you’ve saved us both a lot of time. With that important bit of information I can get straight into the special technique that I can practice only with Virgo Intactos. Ha! D’you want to know something? Easily the biggest perk of this job is bedding willing young women and a surprising number of them – surprising when you take into account how permissive this era is – are still virgins.

“Well, this is how we’re going to do this. Straight off I’m going to put into practice what I call my ‘cruel to be kind’ method to break through your hymen but once that’s done I won’t move again until you tell me that the pain has diminished enough for us to continue. I do that because there are tough hymens and nearly non-existent ones so only you can know how much pain you’re in once it’s broken. Agreed? . . . Yes. Good. Well then, because it’ll be very tight in there, stands to reason, it will be best for us both if I go really slowly with you – after you’ve given me the go-ahead, that is – because that way you’ll get to feel the walls of your vagina give way, ever so reluctantly, to let my penis go on through – it’ll be magical for you and you’ll experience it fully only this one time in your entire lifetime so be sure to stay aware and relish the feeling. D’you hear me? . . . Good. Well, besides that, by going slowly I’ll be able to practice what I call the FEF, that’s the ‘Foreskin Employment Factor,’ which is magical for me too and it’s one that I can do properly only in – uh – hitherto unexplored territory, as you might say. Uh, you should know beforehand that to do the FEF properly I have to gain just a half of an inch by pushing in and then lose most of it by pulling out a bit and that continues until I’m all the way in and our pubic bones get to grind together. So, stay aware and relish the feeling but, if you’re incapable of doing that for some reason, please don’t get impatient because I won’t hurry up even a little bit. OK?

“Well then, when that’s been done I’ll pull out and then roll on this condom and we can fuck in the normal, ordinary way and then you’ll find out what it’s like, which is why you’re here right now, true? . . . Yes. Well then, let’s get on with it . . . open your legs some more . . . more . . there . . . . . . Now . . . aaaah, yes . . . . . . .

That TA might have been an exploitive, over-bearing, conceited, over-erudite, despicable despoiling clown of a man but I’m grateful to him for being efficient and for getting me to pay attention to what was about to happen which meant that I didn’t miss any of the nuances, pleasurable or otherwise.

He was right, as far as he could know, about the fact that after some of the pain had abated and I’d given him the go ahead to proceed, and he’d done so and my vagina was taking on one of its two primary roles in life, it was indeed a magical experience for me. Like him, I too thought that it would never be repeated in my entire life and that stayed true until I wore the wonderful ‘DCSD’ for Alan.

He couldn’t believe what was happening for him because in his heart and brain he’d long given up on hoping but here he was with his fondest dreams being realized and he kept stopping in bewilderment to ask me, “How on earth?” After the third or fourth time that he asked me that I held his hips still and I told him to enjoy what he was getting and that I’d tell him about it afterwards but in the meantime he was to go slowly but, most importantly, he was to keep on keeping on.

I didn’t want to have to talk, nor to think even, because here it was – it was happening to me again! It was exactly as if I was giving it up to a man for the very first time and, as if that wasn’t enough on its own, it was even better for me because the man who was doing it this second time was the one who I love and, also, I knew a whole lot more about how to maximize the pleasure I was getting. And, to paint the lily, over and above all that was the fact that I knew that I’d be able to ‘set it up’ for us both again many times in the future simply by adjusting the air pressure in the blessed Device.

I’d completely forgotten about the ‘FEF’ until then and I toyed with the idea of telling Alan about it before it got to be too late for him but I decided that it could wait until the next time that he ‘deflowered’ me – I mentally hugged myself as I registered the hardly believable fact that that could and would be repeated over and over in future – and in the meantime he was in seventh heaven anyway.

He reveled in what he was getting so much that he couldn’t do anything else but move very slowly and consequently there was little danger of his coming, and thus spoiling everything, because while friction is an important part of the mix – and he was sure getting plenty of that – the equation gets to be completed, for seasoned adults, only when mileage is added and he was taking minutes on end to experience the wonder of gaining each precious part of an inch and so the exquisite, for both of us, action seemed to go on and on.

He took so long getting all of the way into me that Mother Nature eventually got to be impatient and so She took over and made him give up all control to Her and so he had to pump his hips as hard and as fast as he could and every incoming stroke hurt me but I wouldn’t have stopped him, or even asked him to slow down, for the world.

As he was delivering the last few strokes I think they must have heard our combined groans and shouts and, yes, screams clear over in the next county but we were way past caring.

 Afterwards he collapsed on top of me and he wallowed for so long that he got hard again while still in me and so we could, and did, do it again but by that time his previous effort was lubricating me over-efficiently and so it wasn’t exquisite, it was only marvelous.

As I was staying still for him, so that he could enjoy more wallowing, the archaic but pleasing descriptive phrase ‘de-flower a maiden’ came back to my mind which led me to wonder if I could paint the lily again by somehow re-constructing a hymen for him to break through every time. I figured that I could design something similar to the diaphragm that I’d had to start using after my gynecologist recommended that I stop taking the pill. I realized that I’d have to modify it so that it could sit over my entire vulva and be anchored by a line to the air clamp maybe or perhaps by ties around my thighs. I figured out that its supporting and positioning rim would have to be made of soft material so that it wouldn’t bother Alan after he’d busted the membrane, and the membrane itself would have to be shaped so that a bulb at the end of it would sit nicely just inside my vagina so as to line itself up automatically. Of course, the membrane itself would have to be made of something that would give way slowly and without much stretching before splitting and it would, obviously, have to be made of material that my body could readily absorb in case I had some shreds or shards of it driven into me. I warmed to my task and conjectured that the membranes could be made so as to have several different rupture levels, to suit the guy’s mood and/or the hardness of his erection, and if the membranes could be easily and quickly fitted onto the rim he could opt to ‘de-flower’ its wearer several times, and could choose the degree of difficulty each time, by pulling out and giving her a moment to – uh – reload appropriately.

I decided to use the next free time that I got to do some intensive Googling again to see what components were already on the market and you can see from that how much I love Alan and how I’ll do absolutely anything to keep him contented and, I hope you’ll understand, I’m going through all of this hard work and all of this research solely in his best interests and totally unselfishly. Ha!

 Having all of that well-remembered, and much missed, lovely full-body skin contact that only comes when your partner is exhausted and satiated and happy with his lot was wonderful but just then the clock told me that the kids would be coming home in fifteen minutes or so and I made him get off me and then, when he’d done so, I had to be very firm with him to get him to stop paying his respects to my magically-restored pleasure-giving center. When he was getting dressed I was extra pleased when it came to me that he hadn’t so much as touched my bottom no matter about wanting to frottage it or kiss it.

 I was still in the bathroom, carefully washing and drying the marriage-saving equipment, when I heard a rush of feet and, “Daddy, Daddy, you’re home,” followed by, of course, “Daddy, Daddy, what did you bring me?” and as I was putting all the pieces back into their container I thought, “Ha! It cost less than three hundred dollars for ten of these? Ho boy! Each one is worth more than three hundr – no, wait, scrub that. What am I saying? Each one is worth . . . well now, let’s face it, they’re priceless.”

And then, still in my state of near euphoria, it came to me that because of this huge change in circumstances I could and would give Alan the son that he wanted because it wouldn’t matter much to me anymore if it took a half dozen pregnancies to get it done and that even if, God forbid, all of the babies wanted to stay inside me for a full year, and consequently had big heads and weighed twenty-odd pounds when they were finally being tugged out, I knew that I’d be able to deliver them all relatively easily and then, after each one, what would it matter to anyone if, a few weeks later, I’d have to squeeze the bellows a few extra times before going into our bedroom to do some sashaying around, proudly flaunting my womanhood for Alan, knowing that what had been lost has been returned yet again and has made me ready and eager for some lovely-languid-love-play beforehand and (if Mr. Google has come through for me by then) for some as-brutal-as-you-like-breaching when we get started and some highly-satisfying-to-both-parties FEF while it’s getting done and some prolonged-and-marvelous wallowing afterwards.

Don’t think for a minute that I won’t offer up fond and sincere thanks every day and every night for the rest of my life to clever – Nobel prize worthy in several categories if this was a just world – Mr. Davis for inventing and marketing his wonderful Device.

And I’ve got no doubt at all that whole flocks of sheep would join me in thanking him if they could communicate with us.