“Do you think these shorts are too short?”

I stared at her smooth bare thighs, and how I could nearly see the curve of an ass-cheek easing out from the cotton. Suppressing the urge to lick my lips, I answered, “Confucius say: ‘No shorts can be to short, as no dong can be too long.’”

Coral lifted an eyebrow. “You know what I mean. I’m looking for an honest opinion, not the workings of an early-morning dirty mind.”

It was probably tragic, that what she sought was so far beyond what I could deliver. As she stood at the kitchen counter pouring a cup of coffee, it occurred to me that there were three reasons why I didn’t kneel on the floor and bow before my wife’s shapely legs every day of my life. Two reasons were up above, stretching a red halter-top to the edge of its intended design limits. The last reason involved the memories of Mira’s legs, recently experienced and never fully absent.

I’d received a DVD from “The Guys” the day I returned to work, with a card that read: “As brothers in witnessing a true miracle, we are sworn to silence. This footage must never fall into the hands of your wife. We’ll certainly enjoy our copies!”

I had an idea of what it might be, and I was right. Someone had set up a camera to film the shadow play of Mira fucking with me behind the white screen, all of which I’d previously needed to picture in my mind. It was incendiary, seeing her legs and torso turned into shapes that toyed with my two-dimensional penis. It was all there — the blowjob, the “haircut”… And that body, that absolutely magnificent body, always angled just right, and stretching just right, and fucking just right to create cock-stiffening shapes, giving the audience — which now meant me — the show of a lifetime.

In the privacy of my third floor home office, I played the disc through to the end the first time, my mouth hanging open and my cock ready to burst. I beat off to Mira’s games the second viewing, hitting the pause button countless times to marvel at Mira’s 2-D physique. Every time I looked at that DVD, I had this horrible/wonderful feeling, quite strong, that it — this very moment — had all been arranged. She knew about the filming. She might even have insisted on the events behind the curtain being filmed. And Mira knew my cock would spurt when watching it, just as it had spurted in fluid tones of grey on that white screen.

I kept masturbating to the films I received from Rosita as well. It felt a little bit like a holiday every time I checked my private e-mail account and found a few sexy words and an even sexier link, taking me straight to Rosita’s monster rack. Her newest video went more hardcore than anything she had done before, including the presence of another big bust model giving it to her with a plastic dildo. They were both great-looking women, but it was stunning, the differences in their expressions. The other model was largely faking it — underneath her moans of pleasure, she seemed largely disinterested, as though this was just another girl-on-girl encounter, a job that paid the bills. She moved as though unaware of the camera’s presence, whereas Rosita engaged it with her eyes, right into my cock through the filter of the lens. I knew with every gesture, every moan and cry of pleasure that the phallus squeezed between Rosita’s boobs or lips or slippery pussy was my cock. She faked nothing, and came with guttural force, surprising the other model. The video ended with a close-up of Rosita’s face, mouthing the words “I fucking love you” right into my throbbing dick. She was still my long-distance huge-titted sex instrument, playing the exact hypnotic tunes I’d written for her all those months ago.

“Michael? Hello? Too short?” Coral stretched one leg forward a bit, arching a bare foot.

God fucking damn my wife was a hot dish from head to toe. There wasn’t even a hint of seduction in her lips, or her eyes, yet it was as though the air around her was beginning to shimmer with cock-hardening supercharged particles. And here I was, hard already from thinking about the Mira tape and Rosita’s latest present. “Just right,” I answered, my pulse quickening. “It’s supposed to be a scorcher today.”

And though Coral looked even hotter than the weather, there were still more reasons for my cock to swell under the kitchen table. Those white shorts were brand new. The revealing fire engine-red top, too. It wouldn’t be a stretch to say that my lovely wife was dressing rather adventurously these days.

I tried hard to keep the search for signs from being the focus of my life in the days and weeks after our wedding, but the truth was that I had become quietly obsessed with studying Coral’s behavior. I was hyper-aware of every little gesture or action, hearing the words, “I wish I could be more adventurous” in her relaxed voice, replaying in my mind. It was nearly driving me crazy, seeking the first irrefutable signal that the immersion suggestions had taken hold, altering or intensifying her natural tendencies.

This morning, for instance. The shorts were definitely too short, unless she intended to turn dicks hard all day long. The halter-top, too — not only had she lost the breast-obscuring vests or little jackets, but she was going in the opposite direction, flaunting her bosom while baring her tiny, taut waist. I could choose to believe that Coral had become unnaturally exhibitionistic, but there might be other reasons for my wife showing so much flesh. The mercury was going to soar into the nineties by mid-afternoon, for one. Plus she had the summer off, and no longer needed to perform in front of dozens of students. Couldn’t it be that what I had already observed — her warring wishes to show off her sexy curves while simultaneously concealing them — stemmed from the need to appear “professional”, especially with so many eighteen and nineteen year old males in her art classes?

So the teenie-weenie shorts might have meaning, or they might not. If I probed further and thought of our bed as a Petri dish, the results so far were not particularly encouraging. I had nothing to complain about — my wife was stunning, and frisky, and there were very few times when fucking that the walls of our bedroom did not reverberate with her passionate cries of deliverance. As with her looks, our sex together was way up there on any conceivable scale. She still didn’t swallow my cum, though. And she didn’t ambush me the second I walked in the door after a long hard day, her fine legs shimmering in form-enhancing nylons, her big breasts surging out of a playful babydoll. And though the warm weather had pushed her into trading in a big T-shirt for a tight tank top as sleepwear, a man could wish for more, especially when every inch of his wife had been designed by the gods for maximum lingerie effect.

As I’ve admitted before, I’m a greedy bastard. And as has been evident since the very beginning of this narrative, I feel a unique cock-straining thrill whenever the object of my affections is helpless against the tides of manipulated unconscious desires.

It wasn’t that I can’t get enough of hypnotizing people — I placed an average of eleven men and women in the immersion state every day of the week at work. With so much practice on so many types of people, I was quickly becoming something of a master of the immersion arts, if there is such a thing. All of our data showed that my patients were succumbing to the immersion technique more quickly, and more deeply, the effects of the suggestions showing up as bright splotches of activity on brain scans. We could claim no miracle cures for cancer, but we could claim a forty percent reduction in the use of morphine for late stage cancer patients. And the healing rate for varying sports injuries was significantly faster when Dr. Chui and I combined our talents, combining the immersion suggestions with acupuncture and other non-Western forms of bodywork.

By every measure we had set to determine success, the program was exceeding our expectations. I was a hypnotic healer. A pioneer. I had every reason to be thanking my lucky stars for every right thing in my life, including my loving and beautiful wife.

Why then, did I keep asking this question: Why the fuck hadn’t I made every effort to turn my vulnerable hypnotized bride into a quivering cum-slurping lingerie-addicted fuck bunny when I had the chance?

I didn’t really want to think that thought, not with the driving controlling pushing energy with which I thought it. I struggled against thinking it. I even pretended, silently, that I wasn’t thinking it, even when I was.

Every fucking day I thought that thought. And every fucking day I watched, and waited, studying Coral’s every move. Hoping to interpret correctly. Hoping to see what I wanted to see.

The weeks before our wedding had been rather chaotic, but we established something of a summer rhythm by early July. We walked Scarlet together most mornings, before I left for the hospital at seven-thirty. Coral worked in her studio at home, drawing and painting. I rarely visited her studio unless invited — it was her private creative space, much as my upstairs office served as my own sheltered island within our home. We slept and ate and did all number of things together, but we didn’t cling, and gave each other some room to breathe in solitude when the need was there.

As advertised, Coral had begun to draw nude models as preparation for the class she would have to teach in the fall. I modeled nude in her studio a few evenings, fulfilling the promise I’d made the first time I visited her apartment. It was fascinating to see how Coral transcribed my anatomy into charcoal, remaining true to the observed information while adding an indefinable “something” that made me look a little bit like a bird of prey. She had talent, definitely. Insight, too, whether she knew it or not.

“I’m going to start hiring professional models to draw,” she informed me in bed one night, as a way of telling me that my modeling duties were over. “Don’t be surprised sometime if you find a semi-clothed stranger in the house when you come home.”

“Are we talking about nubile hardbody types, or something a little less… you know…”

“People come in all shapes and sizes, Michael,” she replied, in a voice she might use to explain the alphabet to a child. “They’ll probably vary.”

“Male or female models?” I asked, not deterred.

“Does it matter?”

“It might.”

“Wait a minute. Don’t tell me that yours is the only penis I’m allowed to draw. You know perfectly well that I’ll be working with both sexes at school.”

“This is our home, not the university. And frankly, I’d rather be shocked to see a nude girl’s tits hanging out of her robe in my kitchen, not some kid’s thing.”

“Sexist.”

“There’s also the question of which penis is your Muse. I don’t believe an artist can have more than one Muse.

“Now you’re an egotist!” she laughed, reaching under the covers to grasp my dick. “Why would you assume that this little thing would be my Muse?” I felt a fingertip begin to stroke, followed by a second finger.

“Little?” I demanded. “It’s growing by the second and you can feel it. You’re the one who’s little. Squirt.”

“Squirt?” Coral fumed, her eyes widening in blue defiance. ”No woman with these can be called a squirt!” she shot back, yanking her tank top over her head to brandish her full breasts just inches from my eyes. I saw a hand reach for the bottle of lotion we kept on the bedside table, just before Coral’s tits pressed in, molding themselves to my face. “Nobody calls me a squirt!” she shouted, grasping my dick hard with two greased hands.

“Youch!” I cried into her tits. It was the good kind of "youch" though. The kind where your meat is being forced into the probability of a rapid uncontrollable orgasm.

“I’ll fucking squirt you, you big cock smart-ass!” she urged, vigorously working the shaft with one hand so that the tip of my cock banged into the bottom of her left tit over and over. “Come for me, you sexist hard meat fucker! Come for me! Come! Come! Fucking come on my tits!”

I groaned, and shuddered, just before my cock let loose ropy gobs that painted the undersides of her boobs.

“Fucking squirt,” she faux-fumed. “Look at this mess and tell me who’s the squirt in this family.”

This sounded like the beginnings of a real bedroom fight. It was time to give as good as I got, and I did, until my squirt of a wife was squirting, too.

“I know you wish I’d keep going,” Coral whispered one Sunday night, as we cuddled after sex.

“If you went any longer, I’d have to struggle to keep up,” I panted. “Your timing is exquisite.”

“That’s not what I meant. You want… I can’t…”

“What? What’s the matter?”

“You’re so sweet in that you don’t complain, but I know you want me to finish you in my mouth. I really suck at giving blowjobs.”

I was tempted to laugh at her unintended pun, but didn’t want to spoil whatever had put her in this mood. She wanted to talk about this, or explore it. So did I.

“We have great sex regardless,” I offered, starting with the positive.

“I know that. It’s almost perfect.”

“So let’s work on making it perfectly perfect. We’re so close to being there.”

“I’d like to. I really would. But my mouth is so small, and you’re… It’s a proportion issue. A physical size issue.”

“Not a psychological one?”

“No. Definitely. I want to. I really do. It’s just that I’m so petite, which unfortunately includes my mouth.”

“Then just focus on what fits. Your tongue and lips are amazing, Coral. I know you can bring me off by just concentrating on the tip. You’ve come so close so many times. If you’d just let me stay there a few seconds longer…”

She wrinkled her nose as she nodded her head affirmatively, probably without knowing she had. Only a physical issue, my ass.

We made love again, and she worked my cock dutifully with her tongue. She was sooooo sexy, but something seemed to go stiff in the way she looked and moved when it came to sucking my dick. She kept at it though, and she was going to succeed.

I didn’t want it, though. Not like this. Not like sucking my cock was some sort of school assignment that she prayed she could pass. Taking her chin in my hands, I lifted her head up, and guided her into a doggie position where I could ream her pussy from behind while reaching around to knead her big bouncing breasts.

It wasn’t a plan, but I couldn’t help imagining a different look in Coral’s eyes as she sucked my cock. A lost, desperate look. The look of a woman dying of cum-thirst, with my towering phallus as the fountain of life. No duty, no doubt. No hope. Only rampaging thought-wiping immersion-controlled immediate need.

I pinched Coral’s nipples hard, pulled at them and smashed her boobs against one another as I jackhammered her tight pussy from behind, smacking her ass with my abdomen at high speed. She groaned, gasping repeatedly as though astonished, and screamed in a kind of pre-orgasmic fury. I grasped her tits tighter, squeezing and jiggling them forcefully. I felt Coral pussy clench me in a viselike grip, vibrating like crazy just before her entire body spasmed. She’d always been a screamer, but this time it was enough to make my ears ring. The dog, always calm or disinterested when we had sex, ran out of the room as Coral went all vocal and trembly, shuddering the cum right out of me.

She flopped onto her belly after the sex, head to the side with her mouth gaping open and her lungs seeming to gasp for breath. She looked almost broken, and in shock.

“Was it too rough?” I asked, my heart pounding. My every muscle shook, and I feared that I’d gone too far.

She didn’t answer, or couldn’t. Minutes later, with her upper body still heaving, she asked: “Good God, what got into you? Is this what I can look forward to whenever I try to suck you off just right?”

No, I thought. This is what you can look forward to when I imagine turning you into a rabid cum-slurper through my ever-growing hypnotic expertise.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have…” I began.

“My tits still feel like they’re shaking!”

“I won’t…”

“We really need to talk about something,” she said, turning over to face me.

I tensed up. Obviously, these were words I did not like to hear.

Breathing raggedly, Coral fixed me with her bright blue eyes. “I want to come with you to work some mornings.”

“What?” It was easily the last thing I thought she would say.

“I want to sketch the patients you work with. With their permission, of course.”

I tried to read her expression, and the universe it might belong to. “Where on earth did this idea come from? We were just talking about rough sex. I thought… I don’t understand.&#