Bunsnub Another Love Story Ch 01

Sister of the well-known secret sorority

PI LOADA CUM

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Chapter One: Oh Woe is Me

I was born and raised with a mom-problem and it rendered me compulsively shy. No! It left me in the grips of a parasitic life form that bred fear and moved like an enveloping phobia. It became a really big problem for me, especially after mom died. I became so concerned I sought help and used the flip of a coin to decide fate. The toss sent me to a psychologist instead of a priest.

I took my meager inheritance, weighed it against my problem and decided to gamble it on the remedy chosen by lady luck. It was an effort by me to seek balance in my pitifully lonely existence, which seemed greatly out of kilter compared with the rest of the world, or at least my small part of it. I didn't want to spend my life cowering, I wanted to live, to love and party. I wanted to meet a woman, one would do... I'm not greedy. I wanted to settle down, have children and raise a large family, just like what's his name, on television.

Ms. Jane Monroe was the psychologist's name and after several remarkable sessions, she was telling me all about myself. During the second session she sat uncomfortably near to me, while she pried me open. She had every intention of splitting me wide and planting her seeds and like an excited clam, I fought a losing battle. Ms. Monroe thought it would be in my best interest if we shared a seat made for two, a tender milieu I endured with nerves on edge. It threw my morals off guard and yet I never grew comfortable with our bodies pressed together, stoking a hot spot.

Touching was a concept Ms. Monroe thought important, so we'd sit together during each and every meeting. For two to three hours a session, four days a week, we'd sit like a pair of sardines in a can. I'd sweat and squirm with a throbbing hard-on and she'd keep my head spinning like a top. Her lips lingered close and formed the words she blew at me, while her hands danced about me with suggestions I couldn't imagine. Without fail, the sessions ended with my trouser fronts stained. I couldn't help it, as the sensations continued my arousal increased and became ever more evident. Even through two pairs of underwear I succeeded in producing a big wet spot. Ms. Monroe never seemed concerned about my misgivings and seemed only to take a slight interest, though a belittling one.

The first day I met her, it hit me. I discovered Ms. Monroe to be everything my mom had not been. As weird as it seemed, she exuded the nurturing qualities I'd sought and never found in my mom. They were qualities I'd needed for support, while seeking to understand myself. The only similarity between this sensuous psychologist and my mom was in a single shared belief: they both believed males should always obey females. Both women believed obedience to be my strongest attribute, especially in relation to women. Mom exploited it mercilessly; Ms. Monroe made it a prisoner of love.

Ms. Monroe always acted professionally, even the days she had me disrobe for her. She'd made me undress in front of her while she sat on a chair with her legs crossed. Now Ms. Monroe is a gentle woman, thin, but not skinny. She's one hundred percent Italian and her face is the work of a Roman artisan. She has an olive complexion and dark, deep set eyes. She has a Roman nose and raven black hair. Her hands are those of a princess, strangers to manual labor. Her voice is quiet and even, but always clear, firm and crisp with its meanings. I found it awkward whenever she steered me into discussing my anatomy and admitting to my perversions.

I always found Ms. Monroe poured into the tiniest of light weight dresses. They were eye catchers and she addressed me every time I was caught admiring her. We'd spend the entire session like we had the others, sitting next to each other in the chair made for two. But now my penis stuck out in the air from between my legs and she forced me to tell her all about it. I told her all I could and more, as we watched it drool and ooze shamelessly. I kept my hands by my sides or palms up on my lap, obediently and without moving. By the time the sessions ended, my thighs were saturated in my secretions and I was dripping in sweat. Then, Ms. Monroe made me dress, without allowing me to wash or dry off.

She'd sit with her arms and legs folded, watching seriously as I struggled to fit my boner back in my pants. I tried hard not to touch it, prayed not to orgasm in front of her and as strange as it seems, I would never have thought to climax without permission. I also needed to be careful, because I didn't wish to catch my skin in the zipper, which happened more than twice. It was a messy job Ms. Monroe watched till I wiped my hands off on my trousers and then she'd smile. On the way home, I was sure everyone on the bus could see my discomfort and smell my afternoon diversions, as well as I could.

At first, I raced home every evening and played with myself, until I squirted into my favorite towel. But ejaculating became more difficult as the sessions with Ms. Monroe progressed. Sure the friendship between my hand and penis became cozy again, once I realized mom could no longer jump out from somewhere and catch me, but Ms. Monroe was seeing to that. She quickly filled my mind with knowledge of marriage, a wife's requirements and her loathing of masturbation. She referred to wives as ladies of the house, mistresses and explained to me what they expected and how I should proceed. I soon found masturbation all but impossible. Maybe it was the way Ms. Monroe explained things to me, or how well she understood my unstated idiosyncrasies. She had the most pleasant way of taking control, never demanded a thing, yet had me dancing from the ends of psychic wires.

I needed to succeed before my funds ran out, so I made every effort to learn what I could from Ms. Monroe. She knew of my problems and promised an answer.

During what would be our last formal session, my birthday, Ms. Monroe ended it with a suggestion. I should take the position as personal secretary to a very close friend of hers, the senior vice president of Biprods Incorporated. She convinced me it was the best way of conquering my fears, and then arranged the interview. She seemed truly happy for me and got me excited about the prospects of meeting and learning about women. With a tingle I followed Ms. Monroe's dictates: the practicality of anything else never entering my mind.

Ms. Monroe seemed almost as excited about the interview as I and although she told me not to be, I was very nervous and barely slept that night. Ms. Monroe felt confident my obedient nature would be pivotal in gaining employment at a company such as Biprods Incorporated. She told me to let my obedience speak for itself and took time to explain how I should dress. I would be meeting with Ms. Handlesmen first thing in the morning. The thought of an interview with a strange woman, or any woman, put me on edge even after three months with Ms. Monroe. Though I slept with my hard-on in my hand I could no longer find the dreams necessary for successful masturbation. I slept in a turbulence brought on by surging hormones and the desire to get a female pregnant. Ah, I am truly a father at heart.

I awoke early, showered, shaved and dressed as Ms. Monroe had suggested, then tried to relax until it was time to leave. It was my mom who had made me take typing and shorthand classes in high school. To her, those were the types of careers men should have. Looking back, I now realize that mom thought, or hoped, she was raising a daughter. That was one of Ms. Monroe's interpretations. It explained my mom's preoccupation with heavy handed discipline, ladled with verbal abuse, and the regular spankings I received up until the hour before she passed away. I remember looking into the coffin expecting her to jump up and apply one last whipping before she ascended to her heaven, and in a way, she did just that. I was aware enough to board the bus when it pulled up in front of me.

I stared from the window of the bus into the glow of orange morning sunlight reflecting back at me from everything. I noticed we were moving along at a rapid pace, in light morning traffic. I jumped when a pretty woman sat down beside me and flushed to her smile. I turned to the side in fearful bewilderment, as her look, fragrance and hands, called. I kept my eyes outside the bus and my outsides turned in. I noticed we were nearing my stop and excused myself while standing. It was then I discovered the bulge my hard-on produced, a rude protuberance. The pretty stranger smiled, and in a very bold way told me how interested she was in my condition. I turned my bright-red face away, shocked, embarrassed and ashamed. I realized my fears would be difficult to escape as I wiggled nervously past her intentionally erected barricades.

It was a beautiful day, the sky clear and bright blue. As I stepped from the bus, I remembered I'd forgotten to eat breakfast, or even gulp down a cup of coffee. I stood before the mountainous steel and glass building, attempting to work up enough nerve to enter. I felt my stomach growl and heard my heart pounding as I looked at my watch: eight forty-nine and my appointment's at nine. I had to be brave, take deep breaths and remember Ms. Monroe's instructions. "Promptness is very important", she'd said. Her words echoed about in my head like a tolling church bell. They banged against either side of my brain until drowning out every other sound, until I felt secure. I placed my hands over my ears and slowly caught myself, somewhat. I swallowed hard and walked up the steps, and through the revolving door.