Petronella and I married in the late 1970s. She was just 18 and a shy former convent girl and a virgin. I was eight years older than she was, but my time at public school had confused me about my sexuality and so I was a late starter. Though I was popular with girls, my youthful appearance, slight build and height, meant bordered on girlish and I was never confident chatting girls up. We met at a wedding reception organised by my parents, for my younger sister, at their country home in Surrey. Our class of people make a fine show at weddings, top hat and tails for the men, silk, satin and taffeta confining the exquisitely spoiled and understated eroticism of the females. It is a style of dress that in spite of being conservative and demure with its tailored and rustling skirt suits or fine dresses, is highly arousing to most men and made even young Petronella look very grown up. Her pale skin was made up perfectly, with bright red lipstick making highlighting her pouting lips, blue eye shadow, mascara and eye liner making the most of big baby blue eyes. To cap it all se wore a prim little hat- matching her tailored yellow satin skirt suit, on top of her French pleated gleaming blonde hair. Balanced on five-inch heels, she walked with a very feminine sway of her hips. Through the tightness of her knee length skirt, I saw the tell tale bulge of suspenders. As a matter of fact, most upper class women taught their daughters that stockings were healthier than the heat traps of modern tights. I guess they also knew that if they wanted to get a good husband to keep them in style, looking traditionally feminine also helped. When mummy introduced me to Petronella, as a distant cousin of my new brother in law, I was almost bowled over by the smell of expensive perfume. All doubts about my sexuality faded fast. Looking back, we hit it off because we were both shy and innocent. This led to problems in the bedroom. She had such a pretty pussy, with no hair. I had never seen such a skinny and beautiful milky white young woman before. Her 32c breasts had lovely pert nipples. They just needed to be sucked. I took a job with a London accountant, making a good living and with the benefit of a generous allowance from my family trust. We lived in a rather opulent flat in Marylebone. The problem was that I am not well endowed and had a tendency to premature ejaculation. The mere sight of Petronella undressing in the bedroom could make me cum. Our parents were keen to see grandchildren, and by a miracle I managed to get Petronella pregnant within the first year of marriage. Sadly, Elizabeth miscarried at six months. I got very aroused when two male doctors took turns in examining my wife in hospital. Her tin feet were held up in stirrups and her legs held apart. The doctors viewed inside her tight pussy, using a speculum, before they began the process of inducing the pregnancy. By this time her breasts were heavy with milk. She had learned, at finishing school, the importance of breast feeding to ward of breast cancer. So after the miscarriage, she refused to take pills to dry up her milk. I found her milky heavy breasts very sexy, but still struggled with premature ejaculation. Worse still, Elizabeth had never experienced an orgasm with me inside her, because it was all over too quickly. She was far too shy to talk about it. I was too inhibited to make much of a business of fingering her to a climax. Obviously I had cause to worry about keeping Elizabeth happy. She was always turning men’s heads tripping along the pavement in her little tailored skirts suits. She often wore fully-fashioned silk seamed stockings, which really drew attention to her slender legs. In high heels, her legs looked even longer and her breasts looked too inviting under a see through blouse. With her little jackets open, it was easy to see the exquisite lingerie encasing her firm bosoms. Other men would have had no trouble fucking her to satisfaction; I was sure and very insecure. One night returning from the office, I had too much to drink and got talking about my problem to a bald headed man who sat opposite me in the bar. He wore an ill-fitting suit, but I guessed he was some sort of professional. His beer gut bulging against his white shirt was well visible through an open suit jacket. His choice of drink was Guineas, a fattening food if you drink too much Licking his lips, he opened up the conversation: ‘don’t look so worried young man. It might not happen.’ I smiled, replying ‘You work locally? I inquired. ‘Yes, my office is just off this road, in a little back street.’ ‘What do you do?’ ‘Bit o’ this and bit o’ that.’ He replied, smacking his lips as he took another hefty sip, from a cold glass held in a hefty right hand. From his big rough looking hands, it looked as if he had some experience of manual labour. ‘What do you get up to?’ he asked, eyeing me with interest. ‘Something in the city by the looks of you.’ ‘Yes, something like that. I am an accountant.’ I thought you had a bit of money from that suit. Saville Row isn’t it.’ ‘Yes.’ I replied, feeling guilty about my wealth. ‘Married I see’ He had his small beady eyes focused on my wedding ring. ‘Yes, I am.’ ‘Must be a bit of posh for a man like you.’ I should have been offended, but I said, very softly, ‘Yes.’ ‘I used to be married. Nice to have the company of a good woman. Bet you have to keep her happy, but then it’s fun when your young.’ My hand started to tremble as I sensed I was going to be frank with him. I needed to talk about my little problem, which was really a big one. As run down as he looked like a man of the world, he seemed genuinely interested in talking to me. I didn’t know him from Adam, so if I embarrassed myself it would not matter. So I started telling him about my premature ejaculation. He watched me with much scrutiny, occasionally sipping his beer, but now finding my story more interesting than his beer. For some odd reason, I felt my little dick getting harder inside my briefs. ‘Have you got a picture of your young lady.’ He looked at me rather hopefully, then smiled as he saw me go for my wallet. The photo was head and shoulders, but showed her pretty translucent blouse, the expensive and very feminine bra showing clearly and her nipples proud against her garments. He studied my smiling wife’s aristocratic high cheekbone and well made up face. It was a good and clear image, revealing her taste for heavy make up, including bright red lipstick to show off her full lips. ‘She certainly has the monied look. Those earrings and necklace must have cost a bit, Yes; I can see why you’d cum quick if you were up her. Is she shaven?’’ I looked puzzled. So he added, ‘You know, down below, round her pussy slit.’ I nodded shyly. So he said: ‘yes it must be a job to hold back if you are about to put your dick up that little lot. ‘So what do I do. I am afraid she’ll go off with another man. She’s just had a late miscarriage. Her breasts are full of milk, which makes me cum all the quicker. I have never given her an orgasm. I can’t satisfy her. I’d like to make her pregnant again. I don’t think I’ll get the chance. I am afraid she'll go looking elsewhere. I don’t know what to do. I’ll be devastated if I lose her. I think I will want to kill myself.’ ‘No need for that’ he said in a fatherly way, lea. forward, putting his empty glass on the table and stroking his triple chins. ‘But what can I do to satisfy her?’ He smiled, taking out his business card and handing it across the table. I looked at it. Big letters spelled out the name ‘Ace services’. While I was looking at the card, he said: ‘it’s simple. You need a sex therapist.’ ‘Where do I find one of those?’ I asked innocently. The fat man smiled broadly: ‘you have found one. I am Dr Gerald Smith, a fully qualified psychologist. ‘Oh,’ said, breathing hard. Then I said: ‘what does a sex therapist do? ‘You’ve got my card Just tells me your name, then when you phone me at my office. I will make a note in my diary- he took a small diary out of his pocket and took down my details. ‘Go and talk to your wife. Tell her I am going to help you with your problem and that she will need to come along to the appointment with you. I can do anytime on a Saturday if that is more convenient. You’ll see what I can do when you come to see me.’ ‘OK, I may well take you up on that’ I said sheepishly, at last taking a moment to sip more pint, before leaving the bar on shaky legs, wondering what I had let myself and Elizabeth in for if I chose to make the appointment.