The Depravities of Marisa Bond

by Kitt Gerrard

Genres: Contemporary Romance; Erotic & Steamy Romance

Synopsis

Marisa suffers from the kind of problem no newly married woman should endure – especially one as carnally driven as she is. She has lost the ability to climax. It’s sending her so crazy she seeks professional help. In the therapist’s consulting room, she confesses her deepest, darkest erotic fantasies in an effort to free her sexual block. And fails. Now Marisa has no choice but to follow the most radical treatment her doctor can advise – to live out the acts of sensual depravity that torment her frustrated mind…

Release date: March 13, 2014

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 224

Sample

I stepped out of my panties and dropped the little bundle of warm silk on top of the rest of my clothes. Naked now, I left the small changing area and went through to the darkened room beyond. There was a black leather couch beside the far wall. Gathering my hair back loosely, I padded across the thickly carpeted floor and lay down full length on the high, firm bed. The familiar sensation of the cool hide against my bare skin sent a shudder of anticipation through me. Maybe this time it would happen at last.

Composing myself, I turned my head towards the wall and spoke into the intercom above my pillow. ‘I’m ready, Dr Harrison.’

A female voice answered immediately, its tone detached and professional.

‘Good evening, Marisa. We’ll begin straight away, shall we? Just relax and carry out the normal programme. Tell me your fantasy as it comes into your head, and don’t forget to warn me if you think you’re actually going to reach a climax this time.’

Moistening two fingers of my right hand on my tongue, I slid them down into the cleft between my legs. I took a deep breath, then I began to massage my clitoris steadily as I spoke out aloud into the empty room.

I’m in a foreign army that has women soldiers. I’m driving a huge tank in a desert somewhere. There’s been a battle, but it’s over now and we’ve won. I’m returning to base, rumbling across the parched, barren wasteland, sending up a plume of dry dust behind me. I’m the only person in the tank, but I’m giving a lift to another soldier. I’m standing inside the tank, looking out of the turret hatch to steer and he’s sitting behind me with his legs wrapped round the hatchway. He’s got his machine-gun at the ready, acting as my look-out.

I’m facing forward so I can’t see him, but as we rumble along I become aware that something is happening directly behind my head. When the soldier climbed up on the turret I noticed that he had caught his dusty camouflage fatigues on barbed wire during the fighting. He had a gaping tear right across the front of his trousers and sitting with his legs spread apart has split the rip wide open.

Now, the throbbing of the tank engine has started to vibrate him to rigid erection. His circumcised cock has become so stiff it’s burst out of his tattered underwear. His hard-on has broken free and it’s jutting out across the open hatchway like a miniature copy of the tank barrel. It grows so big and long, the swollen bare tip starts to touch against the back of my head. The velvet-skinned dome begins to rub to and fro across the sensitive area at the nape of my neck where my hair is shorn very short.

The soldier is incredibly fired up from fighting. I can smell the pure male musk of adrenaline and testosterone wafting off his hot virile cock. It makes me very excited, but I have to keep concentrating on driving the tank, even though it’s difficult.

Just when I can’t bear the sensation of the man’s cockhead brushing against me any longer, we come to a rocky, mountainous place and I notice a narrow ravine to one side of the track. I instantly swerve the tank into it and, as soon as we’re hidden from sight, I skid the tank to a halt and twist round in the hatchway.

As I turn, a drop of clear sap oozes from the slit in the soldier’s penis tip and smears a sticky trail across my cheek. Then the hot purple plum of his helmet flips between my lips and I swallow it into my mouth.

I purse my lips and begin to milk his shaft. It makes his olive-skinned cock extend out even further. It stretches so far across the hatchway, it pins my head against the metal rim behind me. I couldn’t get him out of my mouth now even if I wanted to. The only way I’m ever going to be able to get free is to make him come.

He’s lodged so deep in my throat, I can’t move on him. All I can do is suck on his shaft like a calf pulling on a teat. I feel him beginning to swell inside my mouth and I know he’s going to spurt soon. That turns me on so much, I slip my hand down inside my loose cotton drill tanksuit and begin to masturbate myself furiously.

It’s as hot as an oven inside the tank. I’m not wearing anything under my overalls, but even so, I’m still running with perspiration. I haven’t changed out of the uniform in three days. I wipe my fingertips across my drenched belly and use my own sweat to lubricate myself. I mix the salty wetness with the anchovy tang of my ripe, unwashed vulva and blend them into a pungent female essence that I’ll be able to smell on my fingers for days to come.

[My real hand was a blur in the darkness now. Just like in my fantasy, I was rubbing my clitoris frenziedly, straining hard to take myself into climax.]

The soldier is going to come. I feel his cock bending upwards, about to erupt and, and – Oh, yes, I’m nearly there, Doctor, right on the edge – suddenly he buckles forward and his enormous cock jerks in my mouth. He starts to gush spunk and as each spurt jets down my choking throat, he lets loose a burst of machine-gun fire into the sky. He shoots off bullets in time to his cock shooting off jism into my mouth.

It’s too much for me to stand. I want to come as well, now.

I’m really trying hard. I’m very close! But it’s not happening.

I can’t do it! It’s slipping away. I’m losing it!

My voice faltered into silence. For a while the only sound in the room was desperate beating of my fingers inside my sex lips as I squeezed my quim tightly between my thighs. I searched for the elusive moment of ecstasy until my strength gave out, then I collapsed back onto the couch wailing in frustration. Once again, my body had denied me sexual release. I felt so cheated, I hammered my fists on the couch and called out angrily,

‘Damn it! I was so near then, so bloody near.’

Dr Harrison’s voice was full of understanding. ‘Never mind, Marisa. Just remember, it might happen the next time you try. Go and get dressed now. Take your mind off today by working on a new fantasy. I’ll look forward to hearing it at your next appointment on Thursday afternoon.’

The irony of it was, I was probably one of the last people anyone would pick out as being in need of sexual therapy. And that wasn’t because I’m outgoing and, so I’ve been told, attractive. It wasn’t because my husband Richard’s good looks made me the envy of all my girl friends. What made it so unexpected was that the two of us ran a gallery in London that specialised in erotic artworks. There was a painful cruelty in having to spend my day surrounded by objects specifically designed to arouse the very same feelings I was unable to satisfy at night.

The idea for the place, Gallerotica, had been Richard’s. However, it had been my inheritance that financed the business – and paid for our house, our two cars and everything else we owned. Richard had been virtually penniless when we married three years ago, but that hadn’t mattered to me one bit. We were madly in love and everything was wonderful, including sex.

Up to a year ago, that’s the way it had remained. Then, slowly but surely, things started to go wrong between us in the bedroom. Even looking back, it was hard to know how it all became so serious, but the beginning of it was the night Richard got annoyed with me for spoiling his climax. He never did explain exactly what I’d done, so the next time we made love I was tense. The complaint then was that I wasn’t relaxed enough, but, perversely, when I did try harder, he accused me of faking my arousal.

There were rows and tears and before long things got so bad between us we didn’t make love for a whole month. When we did finally try again, I was so uptight I couldn’t get anywhere near to coming, even though I was absolutely dying for an orgasm.

The disaster was, that’s the way things stayed. From that night on, I wasn’t able to climax again, not even once. Somehow, I just seemed to lose the ability to do it.

I used everything from vibrators to showerjets trying to make it happen again. I even experimented with some really crazy ideas. One I got from a book involved squatting down over a facial sauna. The plastic mask you press your face against is also a surprisingly good fit between your legs if you sit on it sideways like a saddle. I had to stay on it until my pussy was so boiling hot that my whole quim was bright pink and steamed open like a giant clam. Then, whilst it was still tingling like mad, I had to run to the bathroom and pour a jug of iced water over my clit.

You can imagine what that felt like. The book suggested stuffing a towel in your mouth so you wouldn’t cry out too loudly. I thought I could handle it without, but the moment I splashed the water over myself, I nearly screamed the house down. The theory was that the violent temperature change would cause my clitoris to become so sensitive, orgasm was virtually guaranteed. Sadly, though it did swell up to the size of a grape, I still couldn’t bring myself off.

It wasn’t long before my sexual frustration started to spill over into my worklife. I began to snap at everyone and fly into rages at the slightest thing. I became so impossible to live with that Richard insisted on getting me some help.

He arranged for me to start seeing a specialist in orgasmic problems called Dr Harrison. Though ‘seeing’ isn’t really the right word for it because in all the time I’ve attended her clinic, I’ve never actually met her in person. Dr Harrison’s unconventional technique was to treat her patients’ sexual dysfunctions by analysing the erotic fantasies they used whilst masturbating. However, she also believed that any form of personal contact created inhibitions that prevented people from revealing their true desires. So, as a way of avoiding that she had developed her remote communication system.

The result was, for the past four months, I’d visited that darkened room twice a week and attempted to finger myself to climax as I confessed my most private erotic fantasies. And, whilst I’d spoken them into the intercom, the unseen Dr Harrison had taken notes in the next room.

I’d been horrified when I first read her introductory letter detailing exactly what I was going to be required to do during our sessions together. It was only because I was so desperate to make things right with Richard again that I went through with it. I imagined that disclosing my fantasies would be mortifying, but I have to admit that it turned out to be much more arousing than I’d expected. On my very first visit, I came closer to climaxing than I’d been in weeks.

Accepting that Dr Harrison offered me my best chance of becoming orgasmic again, I reluctantly conceded to her demand that Richard and I cease all sexual relations until my therapy was completed. To ensure we didn’t cheat, she also made us agree to start sleeping in separate bedrooms. There must have been many nights when Richard felt the need to relieve his own sexual urges, but by mutual consent, he never questioned me about my therapy sessions and in return, I refrained from quizzing him about his private night-time activities.

When we’d agreed to Dr Harrison’s arrangements, neither of us ever anticipated that her programme would go on for so long. I did make progress, but, even though I was getting closer all the time, I still couldn’t take the final step to orgasm and the passing weeks soon began to stretch out into months.

As usual, I felt very low when I returned to the changing room after this last failure. I needed something to cheer myself up and, luckily, I knew just the thing. There was a party being held at the offices of the PR company that had recently taken over the gallery’s publicity. Richard had gone to it and we’d originally arranged that I’d pick him up in my car around midnight. It was only ten now, but on the spur of the moment I decided to go over right away and forget my problems for a couple of hours.

When I arrived at the party, it was in full swing. But though I searched the room three or four times, I couldn’t see Richard anywhere. Eventually, I came across a corridor that led off to some empty offices and tried down there. Walking down the passageway, I heard Richard’s voice coming from one of the rooms. The door was pushed closed, but in my relief at finding him, I didn’t give that any thought. I burst straight in, exclaiming, ‘There you are! I’ve been looking for you every—’ Then the words dried up in my mouth as I saw Richard was with another woman.

She was sitting on the edge of an office desk with one foot raised up on a chair. Richard was standing very close to her, but the moment I disturbed them, he sprang away awkwardly. Also, though he tried very hard to hide it, I noticed him furtively wipe his fingers on his trousers.

He looked extremely guilty but the girl seemed to find the whole thing very amusing. She avoided looking directly at me, but I could see her smirking out of the side of her mouth as she began to wriggle her short skirt down over her thighs with patently false modesty. The way she tugged the hem straight was so careless, it was almost as if she wanted me to see the crotch of her flesh-toned panties.

For what seemed like an eternity, I stood in the doorway, staring at them both. Then rather than create a scene, I swallowed my pride and forced myself to announce sweetly, ‘Come along, darling. Time to go.’

I saved my anger until we were alone in the car. But before I could let fly at him, Richard got his excuse in first.

‘Marisa, I can explain everything. That woman was Cara Jameson. You must have met her before; she works on the Gallerotica account. I openly admit I’d been flirting with her, but what was going on in that office wasn’t what you think.

‘Both of us have had a lot to drink and, somehow, we ended up having this crazy bet. I’d asked her to dance with me four times but she kept refusing, and finally she told me not to bother asking again. She said she couldn’t dance because she wasn’t wearing any panties and she was scared her skirt might ride up and reveal to everyone that she had a shaven pussy.

‘I thought she was making it up, so I told her so. The long and short of it is, I ended up betting her fifty pounds she was lying. The only way we could settle the bet was to go off somewhere private and prove it one way or the other. I swear that’s all we were doing. She was just lifting up her skirt for a second to show me the truth.’

I can’t say I was happy to have found my husband looking between another woman’s legs, but his excuse seemed genuine enough. Then, I remembered something that made me blurt out, ‘My God! No wonder that Cara woman was looking so smug. When she was pulling her skirt down, I thought I saw that she was wearing beige knickers, but I was wrong. You lost your bet, didn’t you? That wasn’t her panty crotch I saw, it was her hairless quim!’

Richard jumped in excitedly. ‘I know. I couldn’t believe it. She actually did have a snatch with no thatch, a minge with no fringe. Her shaven haven really was as bald as a billiard ball!’

I laughed at his stupid puns, but to my surprise, I found I couldn’t get the memory of that glimpse I’d had of Cara’s plump, denuded sex out of my head. I kept on imagining what a risk she had been taking. It must have felt thrillingly dangerous to walk around amongst all those people with her bare-lipped vulva bulging out between her legs like a ripe peach and only that flimsy pelmet of fabric protecting her from scandalous exposure.

I was confused to discover that this vision disturbed me much more than I wanted it to. Especially as I had to admit to myself that the one emotion I felt more than any other was pure envy.

Cara’s sexy secret completely dominated my thoughts during the following days. It was a relief when Thursday afternoon arrived and I was able to return to the clinic and tell Dr Harrison all about it.

I’d known right from the start that what I’d seen was going to feature in the fantasy I used during my session. Occasionally, I even dared to hope that it might just be the trigger I needed to deliver me to the orgasm I craved.

Every waking moment since the party, a dozen different erotic storylines had been jostling in my imagination, presenting themselves to be selected. The one I eventually chose made me so excited, I wanted to touch myself whenever I thought about it. It went like this:

I’m lying on a wooden sunlounger in a country garden. It’s very hot so I’ve moved the recliner under an apple tree to shade myself from the sun. The garden has a high hedge all around it so, even if anyone did happen to be passing, they wouldn’t be able to see in. It’s so secluded, I’m safe to bask in the summer heat completely naked.

I’m lying on my front, drowsing with my head on a pillow. Then, without warning, a black shadow falls across me. I turn round in surprise to see a young man standing at the foot of the lounger. He’s wearing blue denim overalls and holding a canvas toolbag. In a thick country accent he stammers out, ‘Sorry, Mrs, I didn’t mean to startle you. You rang up yesterday wanting someone to see to your plumbing. They sent me round to have . . .’ His voice trails off as I twist round on the bed to face him. He can’t help his gaze dropping to the rounded softness of my delta. He can’t keep his eyes off the cleft of bare flesh he sees there.

My pussy is completely shaved, my labia lips as smooth and white as porcelain. I know I should make some effort to cover myself up, but it feels much nicer not to bother. Instead I turn onto my back and stretch out languidly, deliberately displaying the fissure of my ‘nudey’ to him in all its glory.

It turns me on to see the effect it has on him. He starts wetting his lips lasciviously and his eyes shine with lust. Behaving so brazenly makes my nipples go unbearably hard. I put my hands to them and my eyelids flutter closed as I gently massage the sensuous ache away, releasing the pressure by making them swell as big and red as cherries.

Suddenly I hear the young plumber drop his bag to the ground. I look to see him stoop to search inside, then straighten up again brandishing a strange tool. Through a dry throat, he croaks, ‘I reckon you’re the one that really needs a seeing-to, Mrs!’

I see now that the thing in his hands is a sink plunger – a black rubber cup fitted on the end of a long wooden handle. Before I can react, he thrusts the cup up between my legs and caps it over my nudey. He pushes hard as it makes contact, pressing the cup out flat. Then, when he releases it, all the juices inside my pussy are sucked out with a lewd slurping sound.

Now, when he jams the cup against me a second time, the slopes of my mound are covered in my own slippery wetness and it makes the edge of the cup slide over my quim differently this time. As it spreads out, it expels all the air underneath and forms a tight seal against my skin. When he pulls the handle away again, I groan as I feel the whole of my pussy being sucked into the bowl of the cup. I look down and discover that my quim has completely disappeared inside it so not a trace of it is showing. My vulva feels deliciously taut, throbbing as it rapidly engorges. It must be the same shape as the inside of the cap now – drawn out of me as big and round as a half grapefruit.

The plumber wipes his sweating palms whilst he changes his grip on the handle. For a second, the plunger is left gripping onto me by its own force and it sticks out of me like a huge sucker dart. Then, grasping the wooden shaft firmly again in both fists, he begins to pump the plunger against me as fast as he can. It massages my entire quim at once and forces wetness to flood out of me. I can feel it sloshing around inside the cup. It washes over my hot, rubber-rubbed lips like oil, keeping them bathed in lubrication as he compresses and distorts them to their extreme limits.

He’s fit and muscular. He carries on jerking the plunger, again and again, without tiring. It’s the most violent, savage form of masturbation that’s ever been inflicted on me. It drives me out of my mind, but it’s my own fault. I’ve brought all this on myself. He wouldn’t be able to do this to me if I hadn’t shaved myself so shamelessly. That sucker wouldn’t be able to seal on me if I still had pubic hair.

I’m having to pay for my licentiousness, now. The plumber is going . . .