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Dr. Mboku’s office is located in a luxury highrise across from the old stadium. The dust of the diehard fans that blew across town to the shiny new stadium was replaced by the regality of today’s overpriced clubs and self-important digital tycoons. The maze of cobblestone streets are littered with the indulgence of electric powered radiance that would dwarf any futuristic movie set. Those that choose to walk the neighborhood do so in $400 sneakers. The money here is excessive and repressive.

That somewhat describes my wife, Gwynn, and myself.

From Dr. Mboku’s 7th Floor window you forget the sea of delinquency and beauty for an hour. The ocean is to the left. The other recently developed highrises to the right. This oasis within the debauchery was our healing place. The African vibe that resonated on the 32nd floor could be felt by the modern rhythm of everyone that got off the elevator. Our troubles had been resolved years ago, but we remained clients for the occasional tune-up.

The early days of our marriage were filled with angst and fear because we hadn’t really explored the world as individuals before we became a couple. Money and fame had brought us together but we were young. Our families were so happy to see us together that our friends thought that the marriage was arranged.

We were happy together but something was missing. We weren’t looking for anything outside of what we had. We just had little clue as to what to expect from one another as husband and wife. From the dishes to the dildos, we weren’t sure where responsibility and reality made sense.

My boss at the time recommended Dr. Mboku after Gwynn ran away for three months – home to Brazil. Her mother promised me that she was on the beach everyday but I feared the worst. When she returned, we opened up on Dr. Mboku’s white leather couch for an hour every week for three years. I found out that she was faithful to me on that beach, just as I was faithful to her at our house. But Gwynn had desires she was afraid to share.

I did, too.

Dr. Mboku got us to work together as a team. She was our coach, our referee and our biggest fan.

Along the way she prescribed an offbeat concoction of meditations, exercises, foods and tantric play that taught us how to trust and enjoy each other in ways that we would have never tried otherwise. Our backgrounds of repression and religion had closed us from experiences we desperately needed to help us evolve.

In that first year with Dr. Mboku we ventured wildly. We visited 12 religious ceremonies of joy in one month. We ate every meal naked for a week. We read each other’s email for a day. We watched homemade videos of each other climaxing.

We learned new things about each other, our selves and the world around us.

Dr. Mboku taught us that the experiential component of our relationship was the part that embodied trust and captured happiness. We did anything her office recommended for us to try because we always knew we were better for it in the end.

While I call her advice ‘recommendations’, Gwynn refers to these whimsical approaches to life as ‘prescriptions’ – as though the medicinal value is lessened if the title is not respected.

These ‘prescriptions’ are loosely thrown about during our formal sessions as well as around the office by her staff of trusted researchers and assistants. The vibe from Ghana was disconcerting in the beginning because my family is Nigerian – direct, but I soon learned to accept the subtle ways in which they gave us direction. As Gayle, the receptionist, would schedule our next appointment she’d enquire what our next ‘adventure’ would be. If we were unsure, she would just happen to recommend a place that synched with Dr. Mboku’s ‘prescription’. Everyone was always on the same page, the same rhythm, the same note.

The rest of the staff was equally knowledgeable and curious with all aspects of our life. You assumed that they were all listening in on our sessions and getting a commission on each client they bagged, because they were never wrong. Carl was great for his bookstore recommendations. Liam knew the best restaurants in the city. Angela specialized in clubs and parties. Tonya knew where to get a workout and a massage. Gayle was into religions of every kind. In seven years our relationship went from hungry caterpillar to brilliant butterfly in every way. From renewing our vows at a Thai monastery to sex in a helicopter over the city, we found life through their network.

When we’d return for another appointment we’d offer an acceptable amount of embarrassment for each adventure, before discussing where we were in the moment. Dr. Mboku knew we weren’t really shy about talking about the anal plug Gwynn wore to the ballet that her fundraiser had supported, but looking uncomfortable before sharing every moment was our foreplay.

So we eased into our last session with trepidation as we explained the fear we had about exploring our fantasy of a threesome.

During previous sessions we had dropped crumbs along the trail of our mutual gaziantep escortlar interest in Gwynn fucking me and another guy at same time. Though the internal fantasy was an easy

on our list of adventures to experience, our lives had too much to risk by sharing that much with an outsider. We agreed that having one unresolved fantasy was something we would keep as dirty-sweet talk. Dr. Mboku trusted our judgment and didn’t push or pull in any way.

Her staff, however, all seemed to have points-of-view on the matter. Liam did not condone any act of more than two people, while Gayle surprised us with an unsolicited ‘spitroast’ comment and wink when we innocently asked her about her upcoming weekend.

While thoughts on the topic were abundant, the usual ‘recommendation’ on how to fall into such a scenario never materialized in the two years that it was discussed in our home and in our sessions.

But after our previous session, the front desk was being manned by Dr. Mboku’s nephew visiting from London. Gwynn was busy booking our appointment while Angela was giving me a scoop on a dinner party that we might enjoy in a couple of weeks. As I began to place the information in my phone, Gwynn grabbed me by the arm and pulled me out of the office as though she had just stolen the company safe.

Given our history of embarrassing antics, I knew the signals and moved quickly into the elevator. I sensed that she was about to burst.

“I have something for us to try,” Gwynn blurted as soon as the elevator door shut. “A threesome!”

I was caught off-guard as I tried to remember the nephew at the front desk. I didn’t get a good look at him going into the office or leaving, but my mind was trying to assemble what little information I had to imagine him fucking Gwynn.

“Not her fucking nephew, you idiot!” she yelled as she gave me a not so subtle punch in the arm, realizing that my brain took an understandable leap.

“Then what are you talking about?” I asked as I reached for my bruised arm.

“I don’t know yet,” Gwynn answered, realizing she wasn’t certain how to explain what she had just learned. “He said that he’d just had some weed that that gave him and his girlfriend an out-of-body experience that felt like threesome.”

“What in the fuck are you talking about?” I asked in the calmest way possible as the elevator reached the garage.

As an Asian couple replaced us in the elevator we rushed to our car as I sensed our getaway wasn’t quite over.

If I was the calm and collected type, Gwynn was a bundle of nerves. While I lived by ‘what’s the worst that could happen?’, she thrived in only imagining ‘the worst that could happen’.

When Gwynn was 7 years old her parents were kidnapped by a gang in Rio after they had finished a family brunch. The episode occurred without incident as the young kidnappers were quickly paid before nightfall, but the fact that her Afro-Brazilian family treated it as an expected hazard of daily life kept her on her toes. The guns, the swearing, the force, the hostility – all scarred her for life. She won’t watch action movies. She hates all forms of violence.

The bruise on my arm begged to differ.

But the adrenaline rush of any act that might get her swept up is like foreplay to Gwynn . Every public act of indecency was followed by loud and violent orgasms that ranged from exhilarating to exorcism.

For example…

After the anal plug ballet three years ago, she unconsciously reached under her dress and pulled off her panties in the parking lot. By the time my tires hit the street she was rubbing her clit and grabbing my arm to hold onto. I raced to a backroad and turned the music up to cover up the song she was about to sing. As her writhing became too aggressive, I pulled over so she wouldn’t accidentally kill us both.

I’d watched her masturbate before, but the speed and veracity at which she worked her clit that night made me question if I had been too delicate with her over the years. As she arched her back and rubbed herself she moaned so loud that the occasional car that passed by had to hear us.

As I waited patiently for her to explode, I checked the rear view mirrors to make certain we’d be able to safely get back on the road. I was planning to get her home after she finished.

That’s not what Gwynn was thinking.

While I looked over my shoulder, I felt her hand unzip my tuxedo pants. Within seconds my dick went from quietly asleep in my boxers to hard and dripping in Gwynn’s mouth. She was rubbing and sucking so aggressively that I gave up caring about the lights that passed us by.

Getting head on the side of the road was not a turn-on for me.

But the intensity and sloppiness with which Gwynn was orchestrating both of our orgasms put me over the edge. She greedily sucked on me as though she owned me. The repression she had in our early years was replaced by an animalistic urge to make me come. She held me by my tie as closed my eyes and tried come quickly. The sooner I came, the sooner she’d come.

This was not a loving blowjob. There was nothing sensual about the way her head rose and sank in concert with the music like a porn star. The vibe was not hypnotic like the yoga sex we had been practicing. Her movements were like the boxing class we took on Wednesday nights in the hot, sweaty gym. All jabs and thrusts. I couldn’t take it.

I exploded.

As I came in her mouth, she began to tremble from the waist down, as though my dick were the pacifier that settled her from the waist up. Her now gentle sucking was countered by the quiver that caused her to put a size 10 high heel into our glove compartment door.

We were a mess.

Once we realized where we were, we noticed the two flashlights outside of each door.

A police car had pulled up behind us. I moved slowly. Even though I was in a $200,000 car, I was still black.

I turned off the music from the steering wheel and rolled the window down while Gwynn’s curly head stayed buried on my crotch.

I kept looking forward and prayed that my wallet was somewhere I could reach for it without displacing Gwynn beautiful head.

“You okay, ma’am,” the officer asked politely.

With her panties on the dashboard, one hand on my tie and her other hand on the steering wheel, Gwynn gave the most audible gulp you could imagine before giving the officer two thumbs up.

I kept staring forward and hoped I would blink normally so as not to be seen as a threat.

“You two have a safe drive home,” the officer said as he and his partner lowered their flashlights and headed back to their squadcar.

We headed home in shock.

She still quivers when I whisper the word ‘ballet’ in her ear in public.

And here we were again.

I pulled out of Dr. Mboku’s garage and Gwynn pulled out a bottle.

“What’s that?” I asked as I contemplated taking the back road home again.

“It’s honey with cannabis,” she said as she inspected the bottle. Gwynn stared intently at the small amber container that looked as though it came from the Saturday market.

“Mirror?” I read as I waited for the light to change.

“I guess that’s what it’s called,” Gwynn said before I pulled into the heavy traffic.

The ride home was quiet as a heavy rain cloud engulfed the city.

I waited for a sense of nervousness to fill our car on the ride home but it never emerged. Drugs were far from our thing. We had two bottles of wine in our house – a wedding gift and a house warming gift. We didn’t drink or smoke, yet here she carried a small bottle of cannabis infused honey. I was a little nervous because she wasn’t nervous at all.

We pulled into our garage and Gwynn smoothly escaped into the house. I watched her hips and waist move. She always had a sexy sway to her. But sometimes that sway was more of a dance, like a stripper on a pole. I licked my lips unconsciously.

We settled into our house as the storm outside grew stronger. We’d planned to have an early dinner and go for a long run in the morning, but I couldn’t take my mind off of the bottle that was inside my wife’s purse. I set the alarm to the house, threw on some sweats and t-shirt before helping Gwynn in the kitchen.

Halfway through chopping asparagus she asked if I was okay trying the bottle that night. I could see from in her eyes that she was beyond ready, but I wasn’t certain what she was ready for.

The cannabis was a big leap for us, but the seriousness of her question was grounded in the idea that we would be having a threesome in her mind. I struggled with question because it was just the two of us.

But I simply answered with a smile and a kiss.

After a light meal we made some tea and added our new honey. We slowly sipped from our cups and stared at each other as though something magical would happen.

Nothing happened.

We finished our cups, threw the amber bottle in the trash and headed upstairs to watch a movie.

As we sat quietly on the couch in our entertainment room, I played in her hair before feeling overwhelmed with a tired feeling. I reached over to see if she was awake and realized she was fast asleep. I thought about waking her up but I fell asleep thinking about how I would keep myself awake.

Somewhere in my sleep I was awakened by Gwynn’s hands on my naked thighs. Then I heard a subtle slapping sound. The hands were on my balls when I realized that the slapping sound I was hearing was my wife being fucked from behind. While my dick hardened my senses slowly caught up.

Gwynn moaned as she rocked back and forth from the fucking she was getting from behind. Her breasts hung over my dick as they bounced with every thrust. As I came to my senses I had an awkward expectation of seeing Dr. Mboku’s nephew behind my wife, but the tattoo on his arm covered a lighter shade of skin that all looked too familiar. The hips smacking against her ass cheeks got louder as the fog began to lift in my head.

Thwap. Thwap. Thwap.

As my wife tried to focus on sucking my dick, she couldn’t sustain a rhythm because she was thoroughly enjoying the pounding.

I kept trying to look up at the gentleman that was fucking my beautiful bride.

But I kept looking at her beautiful mane of curly hair and her powerful shoulders and the curve from her back to her ass.

Thwap. Thwap. Thwap.

His hand crept up her waist and I noticed the tattoo from earlier. It was connected to a wedding ring. I started to realize a familiarity about the man who was by now thoroughly fucking the joy into my wife.

Thwap. Thwap. Thwap.

I was about to look up when I was distracted by my wife’s uncontrollable orgasm that put all three of into a chaotic thrust. My dick was deep into her mouth as she clawed my chest with her white French tip nails.

As her climax descended I expected her to collapse on top of me, but she surprised me spinning herself around positioning herself into reverse cowgirl on top of me. While I was thoroughly enjoying my dick in her dripping wet pussy, I couldn’t help but notice her holding this man’s dick while sucked her own juices from his balls.

And then I saw the wedding ring and tattoo holding my wife’s head and had a mind clearing realization. The other man my wife was licking clean was me.

The wedding ring and the tattoo were mine. The dick that was now in her mouth was mine. The man standing above my wife while she straddled my dick was somehow me.

As I began to try to make sense of what my eyes were telling me, Gwynn’s gyrations gained speed and depth. The pounding she was receiving from behind was now happening to me.

Thwap. Thwap. Thwap.

Her ass cheeks against my thighs was a mesmerizing sound that was matched by the bobbing her head was doing to the dick that was in her mouth – the dick that somehow belonged to me.

Thwap. Thwap. Thwap.

I wanted to focus on the other me, but I was too distracted by how thoroughly my wife was fucking me and sucking him … or me … with such a rhythm that I couldn’t imagine this being her first rodeo. Her pussy was dripping all over me with every clap of her ass onto me.

Thwap. Thwap. Thwap.

I was starting to feel the pressure within me. Her pussy was pounding me hard and another orgasm was close. As I held her waist she began to quiver uncontrollably.

That’s when I heard me say, “Oh, fuck!”

Gwynn’s toes curled as she dug her nails into his thighs. She was being filled from both ends as her pussy and mouth overflowed with the come that she wanted. The tattoo and ring were buried in her curly hair as he held her head to make sure she swallowed every ounce.

Gwynn continued to quiver though she was practically limp.

I closed my eyes. Tightly at first, but then I couldn’t open them as I felt my entire collapse with a long exhale.

The next thing I remember was the sun hitting my face.

The morning sun was peering through the window as we lay naked. Gwynn was nuzzled into me. Her soft breasts and warm thighs were no longer sexy. They were comforting. She was glowing.

I began to remember the details of the evening’s activities but I assumed it was the cannabis that had caused some wild hallucinations. I was still in a daze as I rolled out from under Gwynn and our crusty mess.

As I stood in front the bedroom mirror I smirked at the scratches that were on my chest. But my grin dissolved when I felt the subtle sting on my thighs, too.

As I started to recapture moments from the night before in my head, I remembered fucking Gwynn from behind and then coming in her mouth while she rode another man.

The confusion started to kick in when Gwynn grabbed me from behind. She grabbed my limp dick and whispered, “I had the wildest dream or we had the wildest sex. You’re come is still fucking dripping down my leg!”

“A threesome?” I said aloud.

“That was the dream,” Gwynn said before she realized she hadn’t told me what her dream was about yet. I could feel her holding me tighter.

We stood there in silence as we tried to individually piece together what had really happened.

“No more drugs,” we said allowed before jumping into the shower.

Two months later in Dr, Mboku’s office, Gwynn and I replay that evening with every detail we can think of. We offer our theories on what might have happened.

Dr. Mboku sat patiently as we explained away the absurdity of Gwynn fucking two of me. We waited for the typical words of clarity that would put us at after sixty days of angst.

“You do realize that there is one part of your story that I cannot understand,” Dr. Mboku says from across the room standing next to a large, framed black and white photograph of a young man. Gwynn squeezed my arm as she saw something she recognized.

“This is my only nephew, Spieél,” Dr. Mboku quietly explained. “He could not have given you any such drugs two months ago. He was killed by a witch doctor because he got caught sleeping with three of his daughters. That was over 20 years ago. My staff must have put you up to such an elaborate story. Now get out of my office and I will see you in two months to hear about how you made love on the moon!”

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