Camilles Investment

Dear Reader:

In this tale, a wife pays a therapist to warp her husband's mind and force him into a life of submissive homosexual prostitution.

If this floats your boat, give it a go. If it doesn't, move on.

Regards,

Adam Lily

*********

I woke to the sensation of something being removed from my face. My vision went from black to a brilliant, stain-glassed blurry. And then I heard, "Mister Ross? Mister Ross, are you back with us?"

Someone said

uuuuhhhhhhh

. After a moment, I realized it was me. "Yeah. I'm here. Awake, I mean." I pushed myself up, but only a little. It wasn't easy. My bones felt like warm, rainbow-colored cotton candy.

A face came into focus in front of me. Doctor F. The quack therapist my wife was making me see. Practitioner of neuro-opto-adjustment-thermopylae-something or other. Dark hair, long thin face. Severe, arched eyebrows. Handsome, I guess. Some 1950s-television idea of a scientist.

"I feel really . . . caramelly," I said. "Melty. Like fleshy maple avocado wax." I frowned.

F read my confusion and smiled. He set aside the visor I'd been wearing. "This is the phenomenon I described before your session began. Some language confusion. Only temporary. About 20 minutes and you'll be, well, yourself."

My lips loosely chewed themselves. My left leg twitched, then again. Then my right. "Numb," I said. "Warm."

"That's normal, too. We talked about all of this, remember? Everything you're feeling will pass. You'll be fine. Like new."

I nodded, my head wobbly on my happy neck. "Yup, like new. Soon."

F smiled. "Good. Just breathe deeply. In, and out. There's water on the table beside you. I need to step out and consult with your wife. We'll be back in, together."

"My wife," I said. A jab of anger. "It's been three hours already?"

He chuckled. "Yup. I'm sure she got plenty of shopping done in that time. Now, you rest. Again, there's the buzzer if you need anything." And the tall, handsome quack left.

My anger turned from a jab into a burn. Shopping. Three hours. The fucking cunt could bankrupt me in that time. And it was me she was bankrupting, not us, not "Us," that mystical, mythical nothing the stupid twat was always nattering on about, like "Us" made our money, instead of me—

I caught myself. I was angry as hell. At her. Still, and always.

Well, great. The treatment hadn't worked, hadn't helped me "process" anything. That was $10,000 of non-insurance-covered neuro-ophthalmic-revision-visor-spartasmic bullshit down the drain. In addition to whatever Camille had spent on her shopping spree while I was under.

An investment in our future, she'd called it. Money down a hole, I thought. But I went along with it, anyway. To save our marriage.

Two years. This shit had been going on for two years. I'd had an affair two years ago with a woman I liked at a business convention. I'd never done anything like it, and I wouldn't have done so, but just before I got onto the plane to the convention, Camille and I had fought, horribly, so I nursed a six-hour coach-class fury. And the woman, she had just left a marriage with a man who made her feel stupid and worthless. We both needed someone else to nourish us. And, so, we set our lives aside, just for a short time. She made me feel appreciated. I helped her feel smart and valued.

A month later, my conscience devouring me, I confessed to Camille. I did the right thing. Which was a horrible mistake. Because she lost her mind. Instead of trying to understand why I'd cheated, and instead of respecting why I was confessing to her now, she seemed to draw just one conclusion: I was a monster who had hurt her. And I deserved to be punished. Repeatedly. For as long as we both lived.

Well. Okay. Be reasonable. Maybe it's not quite that simple. If it were, she would have just left, right? Taking half my money. In more lucid times, when we weren't fighting, we tried to repair the relationship. We went to therapy. We talked about unconditional love and forgiveness and "repair gestures" and "protecting the relationship" and how our fights had induced in me a type of post-traumatic stress disorder, which is what this current treatment was trying to fix. Which was all bullshit, because fuck that stupid cunt—

And that's how it usually went. I started out calm and reasonable, but devolved into rage. Two years of this stuff. It had to stop. Which is why, a couple of weeks ago, I'd told Camille: I'm sorry. I'm out. I'm sorry that I cheated on you, and I'm sorry I did this to us. But I can't be in a relationship where these kinds of fights happen, anymore. I'm out.

That was when she'd found Doctor F and his experimental therapy. A last chance, for both of us.

I breathed deeply, exhaled. I sat up a little more, mind and body recovering. I still felt mostly like melted wax. But good. Weird. Keep breathing. I sipped the water. My mind and body reassembled themselves.

The door opened, and Doctor F and Camille walked in. She was carrying a black plastic bag. No name on it, suggesting it was from a store so famous that it didn't need to advertise. She must have driven a long way to whatever store it was, though. F charged a lot, and he had some super-fancy equipment, but his office didn't show it. He worked out of an ancient office building in a blighted warehouse district. Broken roads and empty buildings everywhere. Urban blight. When I pointed this out to him, he laughed. "Offers fewer interruptions," he'd said. "More privacy."

F and Camille stood in front of me. "Mister Ross. Robert. Camille is here. Can you see her?"

I sniggered. "Of course I can. Camille"—

you fucking cunt

—"Did you shop well?"

Camille smiled thinly. "I didn't break the bank, Rob. Only got a great mani-pedi. This bag"—and here she raised it—"is just part of the therapy. You'll see."

"Okay," I said. I pushed myself up a little more. "So, three hours of neuro-whatever work. Doctor. What now?"

"Now," said F, "We test a hypothesis." And he drew Camille close to him, held her tightly, and kissed her. Passionately, for maybe 15 seconds.

He released her, and they studied me. "Well?"

"Well, what?" I said.

"Well . . . how did that make you feel, Robert?"

I fished around inside myself. "Um," I said eventually. "I don't think I felt . . . oh. Wow. I didn't feel anything. About that." I stared at them both. "How did you do that? I know I should be feeling . . . ." But, actually, I didn't know what I should be feeling.

Doctor F smiled. "It's fine, Robert. You're doing fine. Let's move to the next test. Camille, if you please?"

Camille reached back and unzipped her dress, shimmied it down her body, and kicked it off to the side. She was great at getting undressed at the drop of a hat. And here she was, now, in heels and black matching bra-and-panties. With little red hearts on each. One of my favorite looks on her. She hadn't sported it for years.

Hands on hips, Camille stuck out her chest, waved her hair partly over her face, and gave me the come-hither sultry look she'd bestowed on me in better times. In the past, just that look would've inspired us into an hour-long round of fucking followed by bathtub laughter. But now. . . .

"Robert? Please focus on my voice, Robert. Seeing Camille like this, how does it make you feel?"

"Um," I said. "Nothing. At all."

"No anger? No embarrassment or dismay? No arousal?"

I shook my head. "No."

F, looking at Camille, motioned at me. "Camille, if you please—"

Camille stalked over in her heels, leaned over, and pressed her cleavage into my face. I breathed deeply of her perfume. I felt her hand fumbling at my crotch, pressing, searching, questing. "Nothing," she reported. "There's nothing here."

"Go a little farther," said F. "Inside."

Camille snaked her hand under the waist of my pants, then my waistband. My foreskin and flaccid cock rolled between her fingers. "Nope," she said. "Normally he'd be pawing at me and begging me to stick the filthy thing in my mouth." She released me, stood back up, and regarded me with satisfaction. "He's gelded."

Gelded, I thought. Balls lopped off. Anger flashed,

fuck you

. But then it ebbed. I couldn't sustain it. I couldn't keep up my anger.

F chuckled. "Not exactly. We need to keep testing. Keep going."

Camille said, "Do I have to? This is what I'm trying to get out of."

"We have to be certain. Just two more tests."

Camille sighed. "Fine." She took off her bra, straddled my lap, lifted her boobs, and smooshed them to either side of my face. I always liked her boobs. Not large, but round, and high. And I always liked it when she straddled me. And I liked it very, very much when she hefted her firm, well-shaped breasts in my face and rubbed her crotch on mine and gasped in my ear, just like she was doing now. The situation, the sensations, they never failed to get me going.

Except today. After maybe 30 seconds of this, Camille reached back and felt my balls, my penis, in the same probing way she had earlier. She turned back to the doctor. "Nothing," she said.

Of course there was nothing. I could have told her that. What else could she expect there be?

Okay. Wait. That was strange. Wasn't it?

"You're doing just great, Robert. Just what we were hoping. Right, Camille?"

"Right," said my wife. She dismounted me, then leaned over to stare in my eyes. "It's going perfectly," she said, caressing my face and smiling.

I liked Camille's smile. She hadn't smiled like that for a long time. Okay, I thought. I guess this is okay. I smiled back.

"Last test on your part," said Doctor F to Camille. "Then we can move on."

"Ugh. I always

hated

this." Camille planted herself in a loveseat opposite my sofa. Arching her hips, she removed her panties, tossed them aside, and rested her calves on the armrests, black pumps hanging off her feet, her sharply trimmed pussy splayed to the air.

"Okay, Robbie. Look at me. Watch me." My wife placed the index and middle fingers of her right hand against her clitoris began pressing in slow circles. Looking at me all the while and chewing her lower lip.

Camille had masturbated in front of me just twice before, and she'd been sheets-to-the-wind drunk each time. She hated doing this, saying she felt demeaned. But now, in front of not just me but also Doctor F, she was willingly jilling herself.

About a minute later, Camille spoke to Doctor F. "Well?"

"Robert. Eyes up to me, please. Very good. Tell me, what is Camille doing right now?"

"She's masturbating. In front of me. Of both of us."

"That's right. Now tell me. What are you feeling? What reaction is that producing in you?"

I considered. I knew what I should be feeling, but I couldn't square it with what I was actually feeling. So eventually I said, "Nothing. I don't feel anything. Is this because of the machine? The visor thingy?"

Doctor F smiled. "Yes, Robert. It is the 'visor thingy.' This is very encouraging. Don't you think so, Camille?"

"It's really splendid," said Camille, sounding annoyed. "Can I stop this now?"

"Certainly. We're ready for the next stage, now. Come over here."

I watched as my wife, clad only in black heels, clambered off the couch, crawled over to Doctor F, and knelt at his feet. With raised eyebrows, he glanced at her, then his midsection, then back at her. She took the point, unbuttoning and unzipping him and tugging at his slacks. In a moment, his cock sprang out, free.

Uh

, I said. I didn't mean to. But my own cock got so hard, so fast, that it jolted the sound right out of me.

"Robert," said Doctor F, his cock swaying by my wife's face. A long and thick and red cock. A little bend upward to it. Nice-looking. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah. I mean . . . yeah. I, uh. I'm not sure what's going on. I feel strange."

"Tell me, Robert. Go ahead, it's safe. You can tell us anything, here."

Safe. Okay, right. I squirmed a little. "Hard. That's what I feel."

Doctor F smiled kindly. At least, I think he did. I was staring at his big, thick dick. "I'm not sure what you mean, Robert. What's 'hard'? As in, therapy is hard? I agree, it can be difficult."

Camille snorted in the way she did when she was trying to suppress a giggle. Did she know? She must have known. She must have known what this sight was doing to me.

"No," I said. "Not therapy. Me. It's me, I'm hard."

"You're hard? I still don't understand what you mean, Robert. 'Hard' in what way?"

I didn't want to say. Something was wrong. I shouldn't say.

Doctor F looked at Camille. Camille reached up and took Doctor F's cock in her perfectly manicured hand. Sapphire ring on it. Manicure and jewelry costing me fortunes. Flash of anger.

But then I saw her pale, white hand gripping that thick meaty pounding club of cockflesh with its thick, veiny, powerful shaft and flaring purple mushroom head. . . .

Flashback. My father was a pharmacist and business owner. It's why I'm so wealthy. My father, he collected centuries-old mortar and pestle tools. The mortar is a durable ceramic bowl. The pestle is a thick ceramic club with a bulging and rounded end. Old pharmacists used pestles to grind and mix two or more unlike substances in the mortar to make something new. New solids. New fluids.

Doctor F's cock, with its strong shaft and flared-out mushroomy cockhead, looked just like the pestles I used to play with. I loved those pestles. Adored them, caressed them, fantasized about them. I think, anyway. That's what I remembered. So strange. I hadn't thought about those great big pounding pestles in what felt like forever.

"We're waiting, Robert," said Doctor F. Camille had brought her face next to his cock. "You say you feel 'hard,' but it's unclear to us in what way. Please tell us. I think it's important to your therapy."

"Um," I said. Then Camille, looking sidelong at me, opened her mouth wide and set F's cockhead between her lips. Doctor F's strong hand patted the black hair of my kneeling wife.

Something in me broke. "Cock," I said. "My cock is hard. Really hard." It felt so good to say it.

"Your cock is hard, Robert? Goodness, that is an admission. Thank you for sharing it with us. I think that might be important. But why is your cock hard?"

"Um. I dunno. It's hard to think."

"That's okay, Robert. It's the . . . 'visor-thingy,' as you say. Perfectly normal. Let me help. Is it your wife? Naked, except for those pumps? Is seeing her making you hard? It would certainly make most men hard. Most normal men, that is."

I considered. Thinking about my wife actually made my cock lose a little steam. "No. Not her."

"Hm. Well, what about what she's doing? On her knees, holding a cock on her lips. Looking at you. Do you imagine it's your cock she's holding? Your cock she's about to take into her mouth?"

I struggled. It was so hard to think. Eventually I said, "No. I don't care about that. I don't care if she sucks my cock."

"Hm," said Doctor F. "Interesting. Let's explore further." He tapped my wife's head. Still looking at me, she took his cock into her mouth and started bobbing up and down on it. "How about now? Do you care now?"

Something bad flashed in me. Some strong, horrible emotion. But I didn't know what it was. I couldn't find the word for it.

"Robert," said Doctor F. "How do you feel?"

"I'm not sure. Bad. Something bad."

"What kind of bad? Angry?"

I mulled that over. "No."

"Hm. Sad?"

Again, no.

He stroked my wife's hair. Gently, lovingly. Like she was a housepet. "Jealous?"

"Yes." I nearly shouted the word. Jealous. That's what I was feeling.

"Jealous. Are you jealous of me? Getting my cock sucked by your wife, who is naked and on her knees like some sort of trained animal?"

My heart raced. My hands and feet felt very cold. "N-no," I said. "Not jealous of you."

My wife drew her head off F's cock. Jacking his huge cock in one hand, she plopped her fat tongue on his balls. Big balls. Like golf balls. No, racquetballs. Big, blue racquetballs.

My cock. So big it ached, now.

"Then why are you jealous, Robert? Who are you jealous of?"

The blood pulsed so hard in my ears I could barely hear myself say, "Of her. I'm jealous of her. Doing that. To you."

Something about me saying that excited my wife. She made a happy noise, then bobbed up and down on F's cock more eagerly. F made a strangled noise but stayed composed.

"You want to do what your wife is doing? To me? Is that it, Robert? Is that who you're jealous of? Your wife, at my feet like some domesticated creature, fellating me?"

I must've said yes. Because F smiled and said, "Well then. I believe our therapy has uncovered something very interesting. What do you think, Camille?"

Mm-mmmph

, agreed my wife.

"Robert. Do you think you can move? Yes? Good. Why don't you come over here? Whoops, you look a little rocky, there. That's okay, it's normal. Maybe you shouldn't try standing. Why don't you. . . . oh, very good. You anticipated me. Yes, come on over. That's good."

I approached them on my hands and knees. Coming near, I detected two scents: my wife's pussy, and Doctor F's balls. One of those scents tingled my head in the most pleasurable fashion. I rose on two knees to be at eye level with my wife. I was close enough to her—and F's cock—that her breath tickled my face.

"Robert. Tell me. How do you feel?"

"Jealous," I said, my head tingling. The scent of Doctor F. "Of her. Sucking your cock. I don't understand—"

Ssssh

, said Doctor F. "It's okay, Robert. New beginnings don't start with understanding. They start with doing. Don't you agree, Camille?" F pushed on my wife's head off his cock. She whimpered as she went. I empathized. I would have whimpered, too.

Now Doctor F's cock, wet with my wife's saliva, bobbed in front of me. I was worried it was cold. A cock like his shouldn't be cold. It should be warm whenever possible.

"Robert. What would you like to do, now? What are you feeling?"

"I—." But I couldn't say it. I looked up at him, pleadingly, the ruckus of some dim conflict inside me.

Doctor F smiled kindly. He placed his hand on my head affectionately. "It's okay, Robert. Robbie. May I call you Robbie? Thank you. I understand. Moments like these, language fails. Only action will do. Why don't you act, Robbie? And show us both what you would like to do?"

I considered. And then I stopped considering and kissed the side of Doctor F's penis. Tenderly, tentatively, like the first kiss of your first romance. Blood left my brain like hot water from a squeezed sponge, racing to my cock. A transformative jolt raced through me, through my toes and pelvis and heart and skull. Bells rang in my ears.

My wife detected the transformation—my realization—and she smiled indulgently. It was obvious to all three of us, now, why our marriage was in such trouble. Why its problems were all my fault. Because, although I'd never been with a man before, had never thought about being with a man before, had never fantasized about anything other than women, women, women, and more women . . . . it was obvious why my wife was so unhappy. Why she spent all my money. She was using my money as a substitute for the love I could never provide to her.

"This is very good, Robert," said Doctor F. He took my wife's hand and helped her to her feet. Her toes were perfectly pedicured. "Please. Keep going."

Doctor F's cock was thick, meaty, bulbous. I had to open wide to get its head fully into my mouth. Mindful of my teeth, I slowly took it in further, until the blunt tip tickled the back of my throat. I held it there, looking up at F for approval. F smiled and stroked my head.

My wife giggled. She looked so happy. "Quite the pet, now, isn't he?" she said, stroking the other side of my head. "Such a good boy, now."