9 comments/ 9583 views/ 0 favorites The Secret Life of George Prufrock By: CAP811 The gorgeous redhead writhed in ecstasy beneath him. "Oh yes, George," she moaned, "give me more! Oh there's no cock like yours, honey! It's the biggest and manliest I've ever had! Give it to me!" George Prufrock was only too happy to please. Drawing his hands over her huge creamy breasts, he drove his manhood into Electra's steaming hot pussy, pounding her with piston-like thrusts. "I'm coming again!" the woman screamed, "oh I never imagined a man your age could be such a stud-muffin! This is heaven!" Just then the bedroom door flew open and slammed back against the wall. Standing in the doorway was Electra's husband Chad. His hair hung down over his bloodshot eyes, and in his right hand was a Smith & Barney 30.06 pistol. "Prufrock!" he growled, "I should have known it would be you!" Electra scrambled up to shield George with her naked body. Even then he couldn't resist squeezing her soft butt. "No, Chad, no!" she cried, "please don't shoot him! I couldn't bear to live without .." "George!" "Huh?" "George, the nurse is calling you!" His wife Janet peered at him through horn-rimmed glasses that sat on her too-large nose. "Don't you ever pay attention?" "I guess not," he murmured. George got up from his chair in the waiting room and followed the nurse through the door into the hallway. Here she recorded his weight and took his pulse. Then, saying, "Okay, Mr. Prufrock, we'll use this room," the young woman led him down the hall and into the examining room. George sat down and watched the nurse, on whose nametag was written Amber. He admired her blonde ponytail and ample bosom as she looked at his chart. Glancing at him, she said, "Now, let's get your blood pressure." As he rolled up his sleeve, Amber said, "Just let your right arm hang over the edge of the desk. That's good." She moved forward to apply the blood pressure cuff, and as she did so, George's right hand came to rest against the crotch of her nurse's scrubs. "Ooh!" she murmured, "that's turning me on!" Running his other hand through his thick wavy hair, George gave her a manly smile. "I thought it would," he chuckled, "I'll bet your nipples are getting hard, aren't they?" "If you must know, they are!" Amber gasped through pouty red lips. By now she had the stethoscope under the edge of the cuff and the ear pieces in place. "Then show me," George said, his warm blue eyes twinkling. Amber gave him a seductive look, her eyes half closed. With one hand she squeezed the bulb to inflate the blood pressure cuff, and with the other she unzipped the navy blue tunic she was wearing. Now she drew it back and with a quick motion unsnapped the bra beneath. She pulled it away, revealing a soft creamy breast. She began to move her hand over the firm pink nipple, breathing hard. "You're like a tiger," she said. "No woman can resist you!" As she glanced at the pressure gauge, she went on, "But I guess you already know that." "Of course," George replied in his baritone voice, a playful smile on his lips. Then the door opened and Dr. Murchison walked in. Amber quickly undid the cuff around George's arm and began to write on his chart. Somehow she had managed to zip up her tunic so that Dr. Murchison never saw what was going on. The sly minx was even able to hide the blush on her cheeks, the sultry glow in her eyes. As she got up, Amber said, "His blood pressure's still high, 160 over 95, Dr. Murchison." The doctor smiled, thanked her, and sat down in the chair that Amber had been in. She walked out of the room without a word. Poor girl, George mused, having to hide her animal impulses on the spur of the moment like that. But when you have the effect on women that I do, you soon get used to it. "Okay now, George, for .. George, are you listening to me?" Dr. Murchison spoke sharply. "Huh? Oh, sorry." "I said, for your blood pressure, I'm thinking we'll prescribe some ACE inhibitors to start with, but not a strong dosage. Now, any other problems we need to talk about?" George's yearly physical was soon completed. He settled up with the receptionist and returned to the waiting room, where waiting for him was Janet. She gazed at him, her arms crossed below her modest bosom. "Well?" "I'm in pretty good shape, he says, no major problems. Wants me to lose a little weight as usual, and take some prescription medicine for my blood pressure." He returned Janet's look, thinking, what color is her hair? I've never been able to decide. Is it really any color at all? "Might as well get the medicine now," Janet said. "I need to go to Wal-mart anyway." Once they were in their Toyota Camry, Janet continued, "I was just looking at your bald spot and thinking it's getting bigger have you noticed?" "Not really." "Let's see, we need some coffee spoons. And I want to get a pattern for this cute little outfit that I'm planning to make for Caitlyn did I tell you we're going to baby-sit her next Saturday watch that car in front of us while Jeff and Dawn go to the movies they want to see that new one Knocked Up can you believe the titles they're giving movies nowadays?" "But anyway the outfit I want to make has cap sleeves and forty-eight rows of vorpal buttons down the borogroves with flapdoodle stitching and a frumious heebie-jeebie design. I'm going to make whiffling googolplex pants and sew a row of Higgs boson particles around the slithy tove in either a puddingwife or frabjous color I can't decide George are you listening to me?" "Yes of course." By now the car was stopped for a red light. Across the side street, a woman in her late 20s was jogging. A bright blue sweatband covered her forehead, above which was a rich mass of dark auburn hair. "Look at her," Janet murmured, "barely wearing anything and it's not yet summer." The woman stopped at the corner and jogged in place for a second. Then she drew one leg up and back, holding the ankle with her left hand as she stretched her thigh muscles. After releasing the leg, she .. quickly pulled off her red jogging shorts, revealing cotton thong panties. Down they came, then her T-shirt and sports bra went flying. The woman was now naked. George stood in the hallway behind her, admiring her magnificent pear-shaped butt as rivulets of sweat trickled down her neck and onto her back. He had picked the lock of her back door with a paper clip and followed her upstairs, moving with the quickness and stealth of a big cat. The woman, her body glistening with sweat, walked to the bathroom and got into the shower without seeing George. As she bathed, he went back downstairs and made a pitcher of margaritas. He returned and was standing in the bathroom doorway as she finished the shower. He took a long sip and eyed her voluptuous figure, just visible through condensation on the glass front of the shower. The woman reached out, took a towel, and partly dried herself off; then, she got out of the shower. "Hello, Desiree," George said, a playful smile on his lips. Desiree saw him and gasped, letting the towel fall below her waist to reveal her honeydew-sized breasts that were soft and firm and bouncy all at once. Her juicy nipples, in the center of great dark areolae, were begging to be sucked. "You!" she cried. "You're George Prufrock! I've seen you around town, and heard all those stories about you! Are they true?" "Maybe none are, maybe all of them," laughed George, taking a sip of the margarita. "How did you get in here?" "That's not important. What matters is what happens now." And with that George threw the margarita aside and took Desiree in his arms, squeezing her soft butt. She gazed at him in rapt wonder, her green eyes agog at this manly creature who now held her. Her breath coming in short pants, Desiree drew her pink tongue across her crimson lips and whispered, "Yes, yes, just please be gentle!" With that George swept her up and carried her into the bedroom, tossing her onto the bed as if she were a toy. By the time she had landed and bounced once, George had removed his boots and clothes. Now on her knees, with her butt resting on her heels, Desiree looked at him in awe, saying, "My God you're an Adonis! And that juicy cock! I want to suck it!" "Be my guest," George grinned, his warm blue eyes twinkling as he stood before Desiree, his manhood just inches from her waiting lips. She grasped him and began to suck hungrily, sliding her lips up and down, taking him all and moaning with pleasure. "Oh jeez, you're so delicious," she whimpered, "I may come just by sucking your cock!" "Well, we can't have that," George said, pulling his cock from her wet mouth and roughly pushing the woman back on the bed. With cat-like quickness he mounted her and drove his cock the length of her soaking wet pussy. At once Desiree came, digging her nails into George's back, her piercing screams of euphoria rattling the windows. Afterwards she pushed him up with her arms, looking at him in amazement as she gasped, "My God, what a man you are! I've had dozens and dozens of men, but you're the first man who ever .." "..walked through my bed of pansies. I mean, just tramped right across!" said Janet. "Who?" "The man who comes to read our gas meter, George! I want you to call and complain about it. I mean, really!" "Okay, I'll do it tomorrow," he said. He parked near the entrance of Wal-mart. They began shopping, filling a basket with goods for Janet's sewing project. In the fabric section a woman smiled and waved at them. It was Lisa, their 40ish neighbor who lived down the street. "Hi, you guys!" she said, "Hello George. Oh Janet, do you have that recipe for raspberry cream parfait, the dessert you brought to the potluck supper? Scott and I thought it was so scrumptious!" "Of course, dear," Janet replied, "I'll write it down for you, but the secret you know is to browbeat the heavy cream and remember to gyre and gimble when you burble the raspberries." George looked at Lisa's reddish blonde curls, noticing that she was beginning to eye him hungrily, giving him that come-hither look he was so familiar with. With cat-like quickness he moved behind the woman and began to nibble on her scrumptious neck. "George, please!" she murmured, "your wife is right here in front of us!" "Don't mind her," he smiled, "she never notices me anyway." With one hand he deftly unsnapped the bra beneath the sun blouse Lisa was wearing. Then George slid his hands down below the blouse and up under the bra, cupping and squeezing her soft ripe breasts, savoring the heft of her bosom. "Oh jeez, that's making me hot!" the woman cried, twisting her torso. "Don't stop!" Several moments passed. George kissed Lisa's neck and fondled her breasts while she chatted with Janet about that dessert and then began to tell her about her rose garden. Soon heat was coming off her body in waves. Lisa turned her head sideways and whispered, "George, I thought I might run into you today, so I didn't wear any panties! My warm pussy is just aching for your touch, darling!" "You minx," he chuckled as his manly hand slid down and under her skirt where Lisa's scrumptious pussy waited. As she talked to Janet about patio furniture, he caressed Lisa's thick bush and her soaking wet lips with his hand. Each time the woman paused to listen to Janet, she moaned with pleasure. "Get your damn hands off my wife!" George suddenly heard. He whirled around and saw Lisa's husband Scott looking at him furiously. George pushed the woman from his arms as she cried, "No, Scott, don't start a fight with him! I'm not worth it!" But Scott was too angry to be sensible now. "No man fondles my wife's pussy right out in public!" he snarled, "not even you, George!" With that he swung a haymaker right. George ducked it with cat-like quickness, then landed a solid counterpunch on Scott's chin, sending him reeling and then to the floor. He got up but George decked him again with another left. Now dazed, Scott managed to get up again. "Okay, George, okay," he gasped. "I've just got one request!" "And what is that?" "... you want t' get in a round of golf next Sunday? I could get us a tee time, say, 1:30?" George, hands in his pockets, smiled at his friend Scott. "Sure, that sounds great." After they had bid goodbye to their two neighbors, he and Janet made their way through the check-out lane; then, he pushed the cart out to the store entrance. Faint rumbles of thunder sounded in the northern sky as great drops of rain began to fall. "Oh will you look at this!" cried Janet. "I'll get my dress soaked! George, can you get the car and bring it up here there's a good boy." He hurried across the parking lot, slowing as he saw two girls who appeared to be college students walking through the parking lot near his car. They were talking of Michelangelo. One of them, a cigarette dangling from her red lips, was wearing a dark wool beret set at a rakish angle. George paused, a breeze from the river Seine now ruffling his wavy hair. He took another puff from his Gauloises cigarette and glanced at the Eiffel Tower, silhouetted in the distance through the yellow fog. Then he gave the two girls his irresistible George Prufrock smile. Their eyes lit up at once; the girl that he somehow knew was named Amelie blushed and drew her hand through her short dark hair. She whispered something in French to her companion, and both laughed nervously as they walked on. But several times they paused and glanced back at him. They'll be back, George thought confidently. I've still got it, the old Prufrock charisma. The bed in my Left Bank appartement will be filled tonight with the prime of French womanhood. I'll play their bodies like a violin, satisfying their every carnal need. A bold and debonair figure, he stood there in the rain: Prufrock the seducer, the envy of every man and the object of every woman's desire. Somehow he knew that he would always be that kind of man. The Secret Life of George Prufrock Ch. 02 As usual, it may help to read the first chapter: The Secret Life of George Prufrock * It was a perfect autumn day when George Prufrock and his wife Janet attended Myra Lennon's outdoor potluck supper. As Janet chatted with her friends, George wandered across the flagstone patio and into the living room: a man ignored, virtually invisible. He was the sort that others, especially women, look past without seeing. If they spoke with him, the conversation was forgotten at once. Ambling into the kitchen with its granite countertops and center island, he saw Della Jenkins making another batch of her mushroom canapés. The woman was in her early forties, a stout hausfrau possessed of lively brown eyes and a magnificent bosom. "Need some help, Della?" George ventured. The woman looked up. "What? Oh, it's you, George." She seemed to hardly recognize this man who had lived on her street for decades. "As a matter of fact," she went on, "you could open the oven door so I can put in these canapés to heat up." George did so, stealing a peek at the generous cleavage revealed by Della's low-cut knit sweater. The woman inserted the tray of appetizers; then, said, "Hand me those dirty dishes and I'll put them in the sink." He did as he was told. Settling onto a breakfast bar stool, he sat quietly for a moment; then, said, "Anything else?" "No, you can go now. I just need ... a ..." Della paused as a blush came to her cheeks; she gazed intently at the man, her brown eyes now beginning to glow with a smoldering passion, "... a man like you, George! Oh, kiss me! Just kiss me!" Chuckling in his baritone voice, George murmured, "I was hoping you'd say that." He rose and put one arm around Della's waist and roughly drew her to him; then, planted a passionate kiss on her lips. The woman moaned in pleasure, wrapping her arms around him, melding her body into his. She brazenly thrust her tongue into his mouth and let it roam like a snake. Meanwhile George's hands slid down to Della's wide hips that were covered by tight sateen pants. He began to squeeze her soft butt. "You don't know what it's like, George," she murmured between raw, sensual kisses, "to see you everyday; to ache for someone as manly as you to hold me, to take me!" "Oh, you are a sexy minx, Della," he whispered as he slid a hand up under the back of her sweater and with a quick motion unsnapped her bra. Della's huge breasts sagged a bit as she quickly pulled up the sweater and bra and offered her bosom to George. With his lips still locked to hers in a savage kiss, his hands roamed over her breasts, kneading the warm supple flesh there; now gliding over her thick hardening nipples. "Ah, ah, I'm on fire!" Della gasped. Placing her hands on his shoulders, she pushed George down to her breasts, crying, "Kiss them, George, love them the way I've dreamed so many times!" George sat on the breakfast bar stool as he pressed his lips deep into the flesh of Della's bosom, savoring the rich perfumed essence of her body. Then, still gently squeezing her breasts, he took a long nipple into his mouth and sucked like an infant. Della, running her hands over his thick wavy hair, sighed in ecstasy, saying, "Mm, yes, this is heaven!" "Oh my word!" George heard a familiar voice cry. "What in the hell is going on here!" Still holding Della's nipple in his mouth, George looked over to see his wife Janet standing in the doorway, her hands on her hips. Her mouth agape, she had a look of complete and utter astonishment on her pasty face. George stood up as Della stepped back. Her eyes flashing with anger, Janet cried, "Della Sue Jenkins, oh you shameless hussy! I always did think you were a man-hungry slut!" The outcry attracted the other party guests, who now crowded the doorway to see what had happened. When Della noticed that the men's eyes were directed about a foot below her face, she hastily pulled down her bra and sweater to cover her bosom that was still damp with George's kisses. Her face aflame, Della said defiantly, "I couldn't help it! It just hit me all at once, what a fine sexy hunk George is!" She gestured to the man, who stood there in his wire-rim glasses and worn cardigan sweater; his light brown hair becoming thin and gray; a paunch at his midsection. "What woman could resist him?" Della cried passionately. "Can't you see that beneath it all he's a sexual tiger? A strong, virile love machine?" For a few seconds, Janet and the others looked at her in stunned silence. "No, it's only George," they all cried in unison. "George, you've embarrassed me enough!" hissed Janet, her face dark with fury. "Come, we're leaving at once. And Della, I'll never speak to you again!" George took a step, then held up his hands as at last he began to realize what was unfolding. "Wait now, wait. Just hold on! You mean, this actually happened? Della and I really were kissing!" "Oh yes, George," Della sighed. "Your kisses are as sweet as sugar plums." Glaring again at Della, Janet said to him in a steely voice, "Of course it happened, you nitwit! I saw it with my own eyes. You should both be ashamed of yourselves. Oh, I'll never live this down!" A bewildered look on his face, George moved toward Janet and the door. He glanced back to Della, who made kissing motions with her lips, whispering, "Call me, hon. Any time." Still thoroughly mystified, George followed his wife out the front door, past Myra's rose trellis and down the brick walkway to the street. Janet continued to rant nonstop. "George I've never been so humiliated that slithy tove Della must have been drunk to put her arms around you and let you kiss her and good grief to fondle those huge Tumtums of hers George what on earth were you thinking!" "That's just it, Janet! I was only thinking about what it would be like to kiss her, honest! It never really happened ... did it?" "Hah! What kind of beamish fool do you take me for! The way that frumious bandersnatch threw herself at you George it makes my blood burble what she sees in you I'll never know!" Janet's voice, which after a while became a constant monotonous drone, could not distract George from the shock of it all. There could be no question. What had seemed another of his harmless sex fantasies was in fact reality. The faint aroma of Della's perfume lingered on his clothing; he could taste her lipstick on his own lips. It was a complete and inexplicable mystery. Janet's icy glares the next morning confirmed that he had indeed played kissy-face with Della Jenkins. It truly happened. As baffled as ever, George left the house and went to his office at Prufrock Bookmarks, his own firm which manufactured quality bookmarks featuring great images from literature printed on them. Unable to afford a permanent secretary, his temp this month was Anita Lovejoy, a pert blonde in her late twenties. Just after his morning coffee, she brought him several letters to sign, each a solicitation for new orders of bookmarks. George glanced through them as he signed, noticing several typographical errors that the woman had failed to correct. He marked them with a red pen; then, said, "Miss Lovejoy, two of these need to be corrected and printed again. See the errors?" The woman glanced at them, saying, "Yes sir, anything else?" "Well, while we're at it," said George, "I'd like for you to ........ bend over my desk so I can spank your soft butt." Miss Lovejoy's eyebrows arched in surprise. "Oh, have I been bad, Mr. Prufrock?" "Yes," George smiled, giving her his patented Prufrock smile that would melt the coldest spinster's heart. "Very careless, Miss Lovejoy. And I consider it a boss's duty to remind his secretary to do her work correctly. Bend over, my dear." Swallowing hard, the woman approached his desk. With a nervous smile, she reluctantly pulled up her A-line skirt and grasped the top of her nude pantyhose. She drew them down to her knees, then bent forward and placed her elbows on George's roll top desk. Miss Lovejoy looked back at George, saying in a tremulous voice, "Are you going to spank me really hard, Mr. Prufrock?" "Oh yes, Miss Lovejoy. A man must be firm with his secretary." He pushed her skirt up to her waist, now baring the woman's great round derriere. Her glorious cream-colored mounds seemed to glow in the office light. "Oh my. Will it sting and turn my bottom a cherry red color, sir?" "I'm afraid so, you little minx." With that George drew his arm back and gave Miss Lovejoy a sound smack on her right butt cheek. He followed this at once with an equally harsh whack on the left cheek. "Oh! Aah!" gasped Miss Lovejoy, as she twisted her torso, yet arched her butt forward, awaiting the next smack. "Yes, I really am a naughty girl!" she cried. For the next few moments the walls of the little office resounded with the sound of George's firm hand spanking Miss Lovejoy's soft butt. Soon her entire bottom was blushing red, heat radiating from it. George ran his hand over her warm flesh, squeezing and massaging her nether cheeks as he said, "Well, dear girl, have we learned our lesson?" She looked back at him, gasping for breath, her eyes now aflame with passion. "I think so, Mr. Prufrock, but ..." "Yes?" "Maybe a few more smacks, just to be sure?" "If you insist, Miss Lovejoy," he laughed in his rich baritone voice. What followed was another series of thorough whacks covering her butt; some hard, others light and stinging. From time to time came cries of "Oh, don't stop!" from the woman. Finally George patted her rosy bottom, saying, "Now, shall we have those letters done properly, Miss Lovejoy?" Breathing hard, her face as red as her butt cheeks, she turned and drew her pantyhose up over her hips. "Yes sir, of course sir." She gave him a warm smile, saying "It's nice to work for someone who knows what a secretary needs now and then. Especially a rugged handsome guy like you, Mr. Prufrock." George held her shoulders and gave her a quick friendly kiss on her forehead, saying, "The affection is mutual. But remember, any more errors, and you'll be bent over my desk again." The woman giggled as she picked up the letters, saying, "Oh, now don't tempt me, Mr. Prufrock! When you look at me with those big bedroom eyes, I just want to ..." "... put some more toner in the copy machine and order another ream of letterhead stationery." "Uh, yes, do that," George said as Miss Lovejoy gazed at him in her usual detached, businesslike manner. "Just be sure to get those letters in today's mail." "Of course," she replied as she turned and left his office. George sat down at his desk, pleased that he and Miss Lovejoy were getting along so well. He finished his morning's work and had lunch, soup de jour and mushroom canapés, at a nearby café. After he returned he saw that the woman was working diligently at her computer. An odd thought crossed his mind. Did I imagine spanking the girl, or actually do it? Yesterday I thought that kissing Della's big boobs was a fantasy, but it really happened. Is it possible that Miss Lovejoy did in fact bend over my desk for a good paddling? My memory of it seems so real. He decided that there was only one way to find out. Thinking, do I dare, George wandered back out to his secretary's desk. "Yes, Mr. Prufrock?" she smiled as she looked up and brushed her blonde curls from her face. "Miss Lovejoy," he said hesitantly. "I'm curious. Did I give you a good spanking this morning?" The woman's jaw dropped; her face went pale. "A spanking! What are you talking about, Mr. Prufrock? Oh, no, never!" "Are you sure? You said you were a naughty girl and deserved a good paddling." Miss Lovejoy's blue eyes became as cold as a glacier. "Now listen to me," she said through gritted teeth. "I'd never let any man do that, least of all a little worm like you! So keep your, your stupid male fantasies to yourself!" The temperature in the room had dropped at least ten degrees, maybe more. Growing more angry by the moment, Miss Lovejoy cried, "Oh, you men!" and flung a bottle of White Out at George. It bounced off his shoulder. He retreated to his office and dared not come out as long as he could hear the faint clickity-click of Miss Lovejoy at her computer. But it got worse. Just before five in the afternoon, there came a knock on his door. "Yes?" said George nervously. Miss Lovejoy opened the door part way. She gave him a warm playful smile, saying, "I'm leaving for the day, Mr. Prufrock." "Th ... That's fine, Miss Lovejoy." Her eyes twinkled merrily. "Have a nice evening sir. And I'll see you in the morning, bright eyed and bushy tailed," she giggled. "Thank you. Yes, see you tomorrow." "I'll try not to be naughty again, sir," she said with an affectionate wink, "but I can't make any promises!" With that, she closed the door and left. George put his hands to his temples in utter bafflement. What's going on, he asked himself. Did she give me a wink and a smile just now, or did I only imagine it? Am I going crazy? I need help! The next day, George was granted an emergency session with Dr. Gettis Wellman, the most respected psychologist in the city. Now in his late thirties, Wellman was one of those men who grow more distinguished with age. His dark hair had a dusting of gray along the side. Combined with his sleeveless cashmere sweater and horn-rimmed glasses, he was the very image of a calm, insightful professional. George sat on one end of his tan microfiber sofa. Dr. Wellman sat nearby in a comfortable padded chair, looking down at the questionnaire in his lap. "Well, George," he said, "you do have an especially vivid imagination. In this standard first-visit survey form, you marked every single item in our checklist of fantasies, and added five more that I'd never heard of." "I guess I do," said George glumly. "So, you say that some of your fantasies are upsetting you? Tell me more." "Well, I'm just like any guy, I suppose. When I see a pretty girl, a stranger or perhaps an attractive neighbor, I begin to fantasize about her. The usual ones, you know. I think about how I'd like to fondle and kiss her breasts, maybe spank her butt. Or ride her like a pony; pound her like a jackhammer. Aren't those the kind of thoughts that every man has when he sees a nice-looking woman?" "Hmm. Not as a rule, but go on." "Dr. Wellman," George said in a low voice, as if he were revealing a secret, "the problem is that now I'm having trouble separating fantasy from reality. Things have happened the past two days, and I'm not sure if I imagined them, or if they really occurred." George related how he had fantasized about Della Jenkins' superb bosom, only to find himself making out with her like a sex-starved teenager. And how he may, or may not, have given his secretary a good spanking. "I'm just so confused, Doctor," he sighed. "I seem to be losing control of my fantasies." "I see your concern, George. But first things first. Let's talk about how you got along with your mother." Over the next half hour, Dr. Wellman guided George through a discussion of his experiences with woman, from childhood to the present. Then, after brushing some dust from his patent leather Italian loafers, the doctor rose and began to pace back and forth in front of his patient. "Well, George," he said, "I think part of the problem is that you have latent hostility issues with women. This is because you've been humiliated and rejected so many times in life by women: your mother, every female teacher you ever had, and the first nine girls you asked for a date. This has happened, what, dozens of times?" "Oh at least. Maybe hundreds." "Now, we'll start with a Jungian approach to your analysis. We should perhaps ... " " ... continue this in a more intimate setting. Say, my condo, tonight at eight?" Now Dr. Wellman was sitting close to George on the sofa, one arm on its back and the other patting his hand. The doctor smiled affectionately at him. "Huh?" said George. Moving closer, Dr. Wellman purred, "I'll make some of my special mushroom canapés to go with our wine, George. Ooh, and I have this darling red satin robe I've been dying to wear! We can listen to an Edith Piaf CD for a while, then .. " He paused, now taking George's hand and squeezing it. With a sly wink Dr. Wellman said, "George, tonight I'll give you a nice massage. You'll feel as relaxed as a patient etherised upon a table. Then, with my analytical tool, I'll probe deep into your ... psyche. What do you say, cowboy? Just the two of us, curled up before a cozy fire?" Not again, thought George. Is this really happening? Sliding away as far as he could, he said, "Uh, no, Dr. Wellman, that is not it! That is not what I meant, at all." He looked around like a cornered rabbit, then said, "I just remembered I need to get my tires rotated at Wal-mart. I'll talk to you later." He bolted up and hurried to the door. He glanced back, seeing Dr. Wellman reclined on the sofa. The man made kissing motions with his lips, murmuring, "Call me, hon. Any time." His eyes wide with confusion, George shut the door and walked past Dr. Wellman's secretary, a distinguished-looking woman with pure white hair, sixty if she was a day. She was wearing an off-shoulder black tube mini-dress, trimmed in lace. Looking at her, he said with some asperity, "You might have mentioned that Dr. Wellman is gay!" "Gay! What do you mean? He's a happily married man with two mistresses." George reached for the outer door knob, and then paused. "Two mistresses? How do you know?" "Because I'm one of them," the lady replied, a tone of womanly pride in her voice. "But my Thursdays are free, sugar buns ..." Shaking his head, now more bewildered than ever, George practically ran from the building and out into the half-deserted streets, now engulfed in the dim yellow fog. If one looked closely at the man who sat on a park bench a little while later, they would have seen a most piteous sight. He was middle-aged, balding, and now trembling slightly. His eyes darted left and right, as if he were struggling to hold on to his sanity. What's happening to me, George thought desperately. Did that little old lady, walking with a cane, wink at me and sway her hips as she went by? Or did I imagine it? And that young brunette leading some kindergarteners on a walk in the park. Did she really smile at me, raise her T-shirt, and flash her breasts? George sat back on the bench. Just before he closed his eyes, he noticed that the blue sky had begun to turn to a lime green color. Why did I dare disturb the universe, he thought. Is this the end of George Prufrock? It must be. Soon the eternal Footman will hold my coat and snicker. He sat there in the very depths of despair, his eyes closed, a man battered and defeated by life. Shortly he heard footsteps rapidly approaching. He looked up to see a young woman jogger. She wore a bright blue sweatband on her forehead, above which was a rich mass of dark auburn hair. As she drew near, George spoke. "Hello, Desiree." The girl stopped when she saw him. "George Prufrock!" she grinned. "Oh, I was hoping I'd run into you today." She raised her left leg up and held the ankle with her hand, stretching her thigh muscles. "How are you doing?" the girl asked. "Oh, just awful, Desiree. I'm so unhappy; at the end of my tether." "Then it's a good thing I came along," she laughed. With that, she settled into George's lap, placed her arms around his shoulders, and offered him a comforting smile. She snuggled close; now George sensed the heat and aroma of Desiree's body. He savored the rich fragrance of the perspiration that covered her face and the front of her T-shirt. It was pungent, yet with a fresh, tangy, feminine bouquet that he found quite pleasing. The Secret Life of George Prufrock Ch. 02 Without thinking, George began to caress Desiree's tanned silken thighs. He moved his hand up under her T-shirt, now fondling her honeydew-sized breasts enclosed within a sports bra. At once her long nipples became hard. "Mm, that feels nice," she sighed. "Desiree?" "Yes, darling?" "Tell me. Does it ever bother you that I've put on a little weight? That my arms and legs are thin; that my hairline is receding? I grow old, you know. I grow old." "What are you saying!" she laughed. "You'll always be a gorgeous hunk of a man to me, George!" The man gave her a sad, melancholy smile. "Desiree, I don't even know your name; I only saw you that one day. You were jogging, and Janet and I were driving to Wal-mart. But you mean more to me than people I've known for years. Hardly a day goes by when I don't think about you and your beautiful, firm young body. You've given me so much pleasure in life. My sexy, perfect Desiree." "And I'll always be that," she smiled, her green eyes twinkling. "Always there when you want me, George; never tired, never too busy for my dream guy." She gave him a kiss on his cheek, and then said, "What say we go to my place? We can be there in the blink of an eye." "You can watch me take a shower," she continued, "and then I'll suck that big juicy cock of yours. And you can mount me, ride me, give me those fantastic orgasms where I lose all control; the kind I can only have with you, George." "It does sound tempting." "Then, afterwards, I'll make us a snack, iced tea and mushroom canapés, and we can do it all over again. Stay with me tonight, my love, and when the first rays of the sun come through my window in the morning, you'll ... " " ... Wake up, George!" The voice seemed far away, but when George opened his eyes, he saw that Della Jenkins was standing only a foot or two away. He glanced at her bosom, then back to her face. "Yes, George," she said with icy sarcasm, "they're still down there, same as when you were staring at them before you fell asleep." Della chuckled, and then went on, "What will Myra say, a guest falling asleep at her party? Tsk. You just leaned back on that breakfast bar stool, closed your eyes, and nodded off." "I've been asleep all this time! Really? Didn't anyone miss me?" "No, don't be silly." She eyed him closely as George looked around Myra Lennon's kitchen in wonderment, letting reality wash over him like a fresh shower, washing away the gossamer remnants of the most intense, vivid dream of his life. He shook his head. "Here," said Della, "try one of my mushroom canapés, fresh out of the oven. Do they have enough Parmesan cheese in them?" George took the canapé, bit off half, and began to chew. "Uh huh. Very tasty." He gazed pensively at the woman. The scent of her perfume aroused sensual thoughts of Della: her wild, passionate kisses; the texture of her nipples; the heat of her body; the heft of her great breasts in his hands. But only in my mind, George thought. Only in a fantasy, a dream within a dream. No, not reality. But still, a fantasy that has left me with warm memories; vivid images of the pleasures a woman like Della can give the special man in her life. Does it really matter whether or not I actually experienced those pleasures? "What are you smiling about?" asked Della with a wry grin. "Oh, I was just thinking what a nice lady you are, Della; such a good cook, and pretty too." "Well, thank you, George. A woman likes to know that a man appreciates her."