The Wings of Ilium

The Wings of Ilium

—

Special thanks to KenjiSato for editorial services.

—

This is a combination Group Sex and Loving Wives story. A truly loving relationship that gets briefly side-tracked by unanticipated events.

A bit of character development up front, and plenty of sex in the rear, so to speak. (Actually – vanilla and oral group-sex – no anal in this story.)

The main character is a doctor, but this author is not. So, for MD’s out there, please forgive any medical/anatomical errors I may have incorporated. I had a lot of fun researching this story and have tried to make it ‘anatomically correct’, so if anything piques your interest, then I suggest you search for more information about it online.

—

Thursday, 22nd June, 2023.

~ ~ ~ Room 1402, Affinity Executive Suites. 4:16pm ~ ~ ~

I’m reclined on the hotel bed reviewing a clinical trial on my tablet, occasionally glancing up at the muted television showing the twenty-four-hour news channel. The Boston headlines are the usual fare – house fire, scaffolding collapse, burst water main. I saw all these fifteen minutes ago at the top of the hour.

My wife, Katherine, is wearing a hotel robe and focused on her laptop, set up upon the small writing desk in the room. If her work is interesting enough, she can concentrate for hours on end, doing coding, data manipulation, report formatting, or specialist tasks I don’t fully comprehend. She freelances as a geographic information analyst. Today’s job is creating a mailing list for a chain of pool-supply stores in Tucson; using a filter to automatically recognize backyard pools in survey photographs, converting these to street addresses, then filtering on some exclusions like travel times from their store locations. Normally, she would be working at home on her big desktop computer but it’s our twenty-seventh wedding anniversary today and this job is ‘just scripting, not hyper-spectral processing’, so she took the train into Boston this morning, so we can have dinner together later.

I’ve been here in the Chinatown District all week, inspecting the nearby Essex Hospital which is affiliated with my employer, the Boston University Medical Campus. My name is Doctor Jason Barlow. I’m fifty-two years old and a Doctor of Pharmacy. I’m not so much a pharmacist now, more of an educator, a certification inspector, an ‘adverse outcome’ investigator (for when we screw up), and an accreditation specialist. Essex Hospital is undergoing a rolling refurbishment, so I’m on loan to them this week to verify compliance with various medical codes for the recently completed third floor. I’ll be checking things like call systems, corridor width, staff stations, floor coverings, lighting, and so on. I’m basically a technical advisor to the Essex administrators.

In my work functions, I just listed educator first, not because I do a lot of it anymore, but probably because I have an appointment tonight with students in our EMT Fast Track program. I helped kick off this initiative during ‘peak COVID-19’ when we were struggling to staff our emergency room at the campus hospital. The intent of the program is to mentor selected EMT staff for accelerated development, bringing their experience levels up quickly, so we can promote them into ER roles. We currently have seven students in this group with whom I deal with regularly, albeit remotely from home, which is over an hour away in Plymouth. The students are typically keen to see me whenever I’m in town, not because of my teaching excellence (although I’m not bad), but because I’m a great facilitator. I have excellent relations with the specialists and support staff in our system, so I can place students in the best shifts for their development, rather than just exploit them to meet night-shift head counts.

Katherine looks up from her laptop to the window. I realize she is more looking at the window, rather than through it when she gets up to adjust the blind. It’s mid-afternoon and the sun is still high at this time of year. As she reaches across the bedside lamp, the top of her robe gapes open, revealing a luscious white breast with prominent, pink nipple beautifully lit by the white robe aglow in the sunlight. Despite twenty-seven years of marriage and countless hours of nudity, Kath’s breasts still captivate me whenever they make an appearance.

I’ll tell you more about Katherine – and her breasts – because I’m sure you’d like to hear. I call her Kath or Katherine interchangeably, as I like both forms.

We met when I was twenty-one and Kath was nineteen. The location was next to a dumpster behind a strip mall (romantic, I know). We were both working in retail to support our university studies, Kath in a pet store and I in a drug store. Juniors quickly learn not to take their break in view of their boss or customers, otherwise you don’t get a break.

So the loading dock area was where we would hang out in our downtime, normally just sitting on empty pallets and talking as this was the pre-smartphone era. Back then, she had B-cup breasts on her slim five-foot-nine-inch frame. Her uniform was a long sleeve, button-up, linen shirt, with a logo above the pocket. This sky-blue shirt was coupled with either black pants or a long, black skirt (strictly no jeans). She was annoyed by all the ironing the shirts required, but I think they looked spectacular on her, especially that one shirt that was a size smaller and taut across her breasts. It was lust at first sight.

Our first show of affection was standing next to that dumpster. Katherine was upset that a puppy she adored had just been sold to an ‘awful’ family. Earlier I had seen her walking past the pharmacy window, while I was restocking shelves; she slowed her stride briefly at the window to look directly at me, I saw tears in her eyes. I immediately took my own break early to see what was wrong.

Katherine explained, “The little brats were running around the store, tapping the fish tanks, yelling at the canaries… the mother wasn’t controlling them at all. She was just buying them a dog as a distraction… Poor Sampson.”

Katherine was fully crying now, so I opened my arms to offer a hug and she immediately leaned into me to sob with her hands against my chest. I didn’t know what to say; her thick, wavy hair was tickling my nose, she had a foot placed between mine and a thigh pressed against my knee. I didn’t even know which dog was ‘Sampson’, and I was quickly growing an inappropriate erection.

“There, there,” I said, before immediately wincing at my inept words of comfort.

I couldn’t have messed up too badly because a week later, she invited me to a party where we had our first kiss, plus a few dozen more.

A few weeks after the party, Katherine became my second sexual partner and I her first.

I won’t dwell on those early days, sex was beautiful and loving but we were both young and inexperienced. Privately, Katherine has a running joke that I’m the ‘sexually experienced one’ because I’d lost my virginity earlier that year in a one-off encounter (no, not my prom date – it was a quirky older woman I met at a concert). I think back to those early days with Katherine for the love we started, but if I’m seeking erotic recollections, there are later memories I go to. Like hiking in Colorado in the spring; spontaneous outdoor sex in the flowering prairie, surrounded by nature on a perfect day; even the insects left us alone, only butterflies would land on us (I like to believe Jodie, our first child, was conceived that day).

It sounds preposterous in 2023, but a few years of savings from our modest jobs allowed us to mortgage a house together and get married soon after Kath’s graduation (I still had a year more of university). Remember we are both early Generation X, so close enough to the Baby Boomers to reap their benefits, like cheap education and affordable housing.

Our daughter Jodie was was born in 1999 and our son Kyle in 2001. Jodie lives with her fiancé and Kyle is currently living back at home after his group house separated upon lease expiry.

Currently, it is Thursday afternoon and I’ve been in Boston since Monday. I was at Essex Hospital this morning when Kath’s train arrived. After collecting a second key from reception, she worked out in the hotel gym and showered before getting her laptop out to finish the Tucson job. This is why I’m now enjoying some side-boob from the white robe.

Kath turned fifty two months ago. Her breasts are no longer B-cups, they became small A-cups after breastfeeding our daughter, plus she was fortunate her family’s genetics kept her slim, almost irrespective of what she ate. What body fat she did carry was below her waist, on her hips and thighs. Clothing-wise she is a size-four top and size-six bottom and has been that way since I met her, even straight after each pregnancy. As I said, lucky genetics.

A few days after Jodie’s birth, Katherine’s milk came in strong – medically described as Stage 2 lactogenesis – and her breasts swelled to a D-cup size. Although very impressive, they were sore and looked ‘overinflated’ like an excessive breast augmentation, plus breastfeeding was frustrating because the nipples were too stretched for Jodie to latch on properly. Standard advice for this situation is to express in the shower by manually squeezing around the nipple, but we found my mouth worked better, so I was often called upon to drain any painful excesses of milk. I felt especially loved when Kath would let down (trigger her milk ejection reflex), which is just like what an infant feels, I guess. Frequently, she would fall asleep while I suckled, sort of leaving me ‘alone with her breasts’. I guess this reinforced the strange duality men can have with a woman’s breasts; they are part of the woman, but at times, we attribute a separate personality to them, a separate relationship. Or maybe I’m just guilty of ‘objectification’?

As an aside, sorry about the medical terminology I use. I try to use common terms, but years of medicine makes that unnatural.