I guess my appreciation of women with lush, full bushes began with sneaking copies of my dad's porn magazines in the '70's when I was young. Photo after photo of strong, attractive women proudly displaying their nether tresses for all the world to see molded my sexual imagination at an early age. Those first impressions taught me that a woman's bush not only gave her pussy a unique personality, but functioned as a badge of her maturity and power as well.
And then came the dark times. When I was finally old enough to start dating and having sex with women, fashions had changed and shaved slits became all the rage. As excited as I was to finally be having sex and to no longer be merely beating my meat to a centerfold pull-out, the beardless clams I encountered left me utterly dissatisfied.
While the women I dated were all lovely in their own individual ways, their bare beavers all looked the same to me. With their incessant shaving and whatnot, women made what should have been their proudest treasure look as appetizing as the cold, plucked skin of supermarket chicken -- complete with the angry raised bumps of denuded follicles. Not only were they visually unappealing by being completely anonymous, the itchy inconvenience presented as the hair grew back made them physically unappealing as well.
So one night in despair I came home from yet another date with yet another woman who was otherwise lovely except for possessing yet another unfortunately shorn sheath, I sat down and wrote a 'Mission Statement' much in the style of Jerry Maguire, arguing the merits of naturally hairy pussies. I sent it out to every men's magazine I could think of, foolishly hoping that if the stroke mags could make big bushes popular again that fashions would change. All I wanted was to fulfill my boyhood dream and to finally, finally dine on an actual hair pie and slide my cock into a proper fully-tressed minge.
I never received a single response to any of my letters, and eventually resolved myself to a lifetime of unsatisfying sex with women devoted to their shorn and prickly cactus pussies.
And then one day a letter arrived at my dorm for a work/study position at the Sturm Center, one of the science buildings on campus. As a liberal arts student, I was mostly unfamiliar with that part of campus, but due to a recent tuition hike an on-campus job had suddenly become a necessity. I knew where the building was, and the next day went to my pre-scheduled appointment with the HR person at the facility, a Mrs. Andrews.
As I walked the welcoming and tastefully decorated halls of what felt not at all like a cold and sterile science building, I checked and re-checked the letter to ensure that I was indeed at the right place. I entered the office indicated in the letter and walked over to the student receptionist sitting at the front desk who was rapidly texting with a bored air about her.
She was a dark-haired beauty, with long flowing locks and deep, liquid eyes. Dressed in conservative attire, she looked me over rather blatantly. Her nametag read, 'Diana - Level Three.' I wondered briefly what that meant.
"So you're him, huh?" She asked in a jaded fashion.
Uncertain how to respond, I held out the letter and said, "I got this in the mail. There's some sort of job interview for a work/study? It said to come today at this time. I'm to ask for a Mrs. Andrews?"
Diana rolled her eyes and smirked. "Oh, they'll put you to work all right. I don't know how much studying you'll get done, though. Becky's office is down the hall and to the left, she's been making herself ready for you all morning." Dismissing me, the young woman returned to her cell phone and her texting.
Somewhat concerned as to what her cryptic statement might mean, I made my way down the hall and knocked on the door with the nameplate "Becky Andrews -- Human Resources." As I entered the room I was welcomed by an exceptionally friendly matron with bobbed brown hair and kind eyes. She was also dressed in typical conservative office garb consisting of a jacket and blouse, and remained seated as I entered, effectively preventing me from seeing the rest of her attire. "Well there hey, come in and sit down," she insisted as she waved me in from her seat behind her desk. "Boy howdy, we're all just tickled that you chose to take this here job, we sure are there. It includes a full medical, a dental, and a salary far beyond a typical college posting, you betcha!" Becky looked like a typical soccer mom and sounded like the people in that movie 'Fargo' and was instantly likeable.
Literally swept off my feet by her joyful exuberance, I did as I was told as she proceeded to cheerfully describe all of the financial benefits associated with this 'mystery job' without going into any specifics of what the job actually was. The more she talked, the more bouncy she became and I slowly became aware of a familiar odor wafting towards me. At first I could not place it, but as my cock distended and scratched against the material of my trousers and my mouth began to water I realized I was inhaling what could only be her vaginal excitement.
Although not typically aroused by older women, the bizarre nature of the entire situation had affected me. Pre-cum oozed from the tip of my shaft and I abruptly stood to break away from the spell cast by her pussy's perfume. "I'm sorry, but I'm totally confused. I don't even know what the job is and you've already hired me?"
