BUNSNUB: Another Love Story Ch. 14

Chapter Fourteen: Home, Bitter Home

Evenings were hell, a return to loneliness, a self-imposed solitary confinement. Returning home was the equivalent of lowering myself into a dark insect infested pit. It was a deep well with a dank and slimy interior. I had no interests or hobbies and now no appetite outside Biprods Incorporated. I existed solely for Ms. Handlesmen and no one, nor anything else mattered. I didn't want anything else to occupy my mind. I tried to leave my thoughts at the company whenever my body returned to this mausoleum, the coffin of Dracula. I left my mind kneeling at the feet of my new found lover where it could do no harm. Evenings were a purgatory the Catholic Church could not purge from existence, even by edict.

Every evening became a carbon copy of the last. I returned home about seven o'clock, or after midnight if I was lucky. I always undressed and stepped into an alternating hot and cold shower. I took long showers, bathing myself as best I could, and Ms. Handlesmen was always there with me, watching from over my shoulder. I couldn't look at myself in the mirror without seeing her. She had developed into my conscience, my superego, and thankfully ruled over me while we were separated.

Bathing was a challenge, a trial by fire. Controlling my hands as they soaped my body down was an ordeal in self-control, the troubled acceptance of denial and bouts with madness. Once I'd been rendered hairless the madness became an arduous free fall into insanity's vertigo, a never ending tail-spin.

Like the vision of an icon imprinted on a mystics mind, I was zeroing in on a clear and concise vision of Ms. Handlesmen. An ethereal representation of the one I adore, my guiding principle and regulator of my self-control. So clear became my thoughts of her I could see and feel her standing near me at almost all times, and the lapses, those quick moments of indiscretion were diminishing rapidly. I soon took to conversing with my icon, talking aloud, asking her permission before I acted.

My smooth hairless condition accented the awareness I had of myself and exaggerated my sensations. It was exhilarating, as if I were touching myself for the first time, but when it came to my behind the extreme discomfort slowed me down. Here the pain yet battered me with memories I wanted to forget, those intense preludes to perfect endings.

I turned so the water hit my back and cascaded down over my buttocks, but even that proved painful beyond measure. Being extremely gentle, I landed my palms on the burning cheeks of my sore behind. My hot buttocks sizzled and turned the water cold in comparison. Never had any part of me been so inflamed. I lathered my cheeks carefully, with tediously slow round motions, as tears welled in my eyes. Like the pounding of several wild rock drummers gone berserk, the memories of the spankings hammered away in my head.

I had to reset the temperature of the water a couple of times. I had to have colder and colder water washing over my cheeks. As they fizzed and hissed I looked down at my cock. It was as hard as ever and I dreaded having to bathe it. I feared the thought of touching it. In its presence, I was a doubtful unsure little boy. I barely had the courage to look at it, much less lather it without stroking it. Like a naughty satyr, it called me to play with the mystical tune of a Pied Piper. It demanded pleasure, screamed to be petted, yanked, whacked and brought to completion. Like a frightened child I looked down at it in awe and respect, a large pearl of arousal even now beading from its head.

Thank goodness Ms. Handlesmen was there to help, in my minds eye, with me, with her suggestions and warnings. She reminded me of the claim she had laid on me. How could I even consider upsetting things now and why? I was allowed to bathe and dry her toy, but nothing more. It was not my organ, but the toy of my lover. I simply carried it around for her, or should I say, it had me carry it around for her. Even it had more control over me then I did.

I lathered my hands while watching it twitch and vibrate in anticipation. Long strands of lubrication oozed from it's head and swung to the tub. 'This wasn't going to be easy' I thought. I placed the soap aside and bit on my lower lip nervously. With a vibrant mental picture of Ms. Handlesmen firmly established I moved my soaped hands down and caught my restive organ. I engulfed the machine, balls and all and stood still for a moment. I had the tavern bull by the horns and called to Ms. Handlesmen for help.

Even in my mind, Ms. Handlesmen proved a strong forceful mistress who took control. Under her tutelage, I gingerly soaped and lathered my entire hard-on. Everything seemed to be going fine until I accidentally felt what my hands were doing. It rapidly became so difficult to tell between scrubbing and stroking, I slipped mentally. But my mental mistress came roaring back like a tidal wave and reminded me about the rules, and about being careful. She reminded me that I carried something dear to her. Yes, I was to do a good job. I was to wash its head, around its neck, along its length and between every wrinkle of my scrotum. I was to think of her while I bathed, to think of what it was I held in my hands. I was not to play with her toy, and it was driving me crazy.

Her toy swelled with a surge of fresh blood while in my hands, bloated with an illicit excitement I knew better then to enjoy or even contemplate. I needed to work fast, before my mind found itself entrapped, before my mind surrendered to my libido and base instincts. I adjusted so the water hit my abdomen and I could rinse. Before I knew it, I was free of soap and I caught myself dawdling. 'Was I tuning an instrument?' I thought in a fit of whimsy. I pulled up and away, like a boy who'd just been caught with his hands in the cookie jar. I could see and feel Ms. Handlesmen's stern look and apologized to my minds rendition. I begged aloud, bringing my heart-felt meaning to life. My words echoed about the stall in recurring reinforcement, an energy-collecting mantra.

I finished rinsing the rest of my body, turned off the water and stepped from the shower. Stepping onto a towel I came face to face with my reflection. It starred back at me from a full length mirror tacked to my bathroom door. I stood starring with mouth open, bewildered by what I saw and completely unable to believe it. My reflection reminded me of a painting decorating the wall of Ms. Handlesmen's office.

I was nude and hairless, with tears yet seeping from the corners of my eyes and a hard-on jutting out from between my legs like a pole in need of a flag. It was the saddest of scenes, it was the most exciting of scenes. I saw myself as a fragile creature, an animal recently swept from the jungle. I had been freshly bagged and quickly tamed by a great white huntress, and now I belonged to her. She didn't keep me in a cage or spread on a floor before a fireplace, though I wished she had. My enslavement was even more inhibiting, a refined self-destruction.

I fetched a towel and commenced drying myself. I was careful to stay away from my penis, and went to pains insuring the towel ends didn't brush against it. Everything excited him, even looking at myself in the mirror. I lived balancing on a tight rope stretched taut over a deep chasm, the floor of which I imagined to be cluttered with the remains of dead lovers, those that failed Ms. Handlesmen.

I walked out into my living room, towel around my waist and stopped to look around. The home I'd grown up in seemed strangely alien. It was a place without meaning, where I no longer belonged. Spending time here, away from Ms. Handlesmen, had become distressing to say the least and after so few days. My home was a vestige of the past I wanted to forget. Looking around, scanning a room that had changed little since my mom's departure, was a stark reminder of sadder times. I was working frantically at erasing those memories. I needed to rid the dwelling of all her things, of all the sorrowful mementos. I needed to crate and carton it all, then throw it all in the trash, the lake, or an incinerator would be better.

Nothing in this house was of any interest to me now, I only cared for Ms. Handlesmen. I no longer enjoyed reading or watching television, which for years was my sole companion, my sole means of solace. I no longer cared for the radio, which also comforted me in my bleakest hours. I walked across the room and into my kitchen.

It was only ten o'clock, meaning it was eleven hours before I'd be seeing Ms. Handlesmen again, eleven hours in Gehenna. I went to the refrigerator and opened the door. There before me lay all the foods I had enjoyed for so many years, milk, peanut butter, strawberry jam, half a loaf of white bread, and a half eaten plate of canned Spaghetti-O's. An open can of freestone peaches, a pint of now shriveled blueberries, a stick of butter, and other delicacies. At one time I would have opened this door and began eating, but food could no longer satisfy my hunger, it could no longer fill my guts emptiness. The hunger that now gnawed at my body was beyond foods help. I suffered in the grips of a hunger that ripped at my heart and sucked on my manhood. It was an unquenchable thirst that kept me up at night, tossing and turning in a restless half sleep that no amount of cold water could pacify.

I slammed the door and stood wondering what to do next. I couldn't think of a thing, except begin tomorrow. I wished there was some way for me to bypass the nights, the hours between midnight and five a.m.. I moved out of the kitchen in thought and through my living room, turning out lights as I traveled. I entered my bedroom and collapsed onto the bed. My boner caused me to flip over onto my back.

I could reach my television and clicked it on. It's flickering light had always been a good friend. I didn't care what was on, whether it was Lie Witness News or an inane talk show, because I didn't turn the sound loud enough to hear anyway. I enjoyed the warmth of the flickering light, the sudden flashes, sudden darkness, the intervals that helped the shadows dance like frisky sheep all around me. These were old friends who stayed with me as I cried myself to sleep and they were often here when I awoke. Like with so many other things, they represented a habit I accepted without reason.

My bed was its comfortable mess, a nest shaped to hold me. I rolled under my covers and into its center, on my side, buried and ready to travel. I grabbed my worn torn down pillow in my arms, firmed it into a ball and sunk my head into it, while visions of Ms. Handlesmen bobbed around in my head.

I felt the bed move as she slipped into it, as she slid under the covers to be near me. I felt her warmth and breathed in her scent. I moaned in pleasure as she snuggled up to me, her chest and belly pressing to mine, our thighs and lips coming together. One arm slipped around me, her hand landing on my back, its fingers walking up and down my spine. Her other arm lay between us, its hand taking me, its fingers curling themselves around my organ. Both hands pulled me closer and our bodies melted together. I was in heaven, gripped by an angel.

Our lips united in a most luscious way, mouths open, tongues swirling together. I inhaled her breathes and drank down her saliva as our bodies played against each other. I slipped both my arms around her and grasped her tight. She rolled onto her back, taking me along with her.

She held my hard-on in a tight grip and pulled me over, on top of her. Her legs parted and I slipped between them as she guided my member to it's proper place. She moved the head of my cock up and down against her, between her sweet nether lips. I could feel their moisture as they parted in acceptance. I enjoyed the sensuous music our squishing union produced. Up and down deeper and deeper she drew my cock on and in. It was ecstasy, as her mouth sucked on my tongue, her sex suck on my cocks head.

I bucked in a wild involuntary way, but she stayed in control, allowing me little. I wallowed on top of her like a captured male butterfly seeking to mate. I was trying to take advantage, but unable to do little more then flutter in her grasp. Her breasts and belly were a soft bed I rolled upon, her lips a maddening duo cooing and chewing on me from both ends. I was lost in the mystery of our embrace, a willing student and eager pupil, ready... willing... able?

I flapped my tongue about in her mouth and fantasized about forcing it down her throat. I tried working my boner into her sex, pressing to enter the place I belonged. She wrapped her legs around my waist, her lips around my tongue and a hand around my manhood. I was on the brink of my first sexual union and Ms. Handlesmen began screaming. Louder and louder her screams became as I withered in her grip. Her screams became a loud bell, a high pitched ringing until my eyes snapped open to the sounds of my alarm clock.

I was lying on my pillow, a thumb from one hand in my mouth, my other hand wrapped around my hard-on. I was humping in my fist, but stopped the instant I realized my indiscretion. I reached for and hit the button of my alarm clock, then collapsed in a heaving delirious sweat. My dreams were exceeding reality and I no longer could distinguish one from the other.

I gripped my pillow with both my arms and called to Ms. Handlesmen for help. My desires were emotions so horrendous I was reduced to sobbing under their influence. My hard-on throbbed, my balls were swollen and ached for relief, but there was nothing I dared do. I took some deep breaths, caught my sobs and forced myself to rouse. I shook the slumber off and struggled up, swinging my legs from the bed. My feet hit the floor and I sat there looking around. I was still in the Bastille, still alone, still in heat.

I'd left another large wet spot on the sheets, under where my waist had rested. The spot had grown larger every day, but by evening it would be dry. I thought sure one day I would awaken in a river of lubrication, drowning because I couldn't swim. I stretched, with my arms in the air and my legs kicking. I yawned and shook myself in an attempt to chase my stupor. I survived another night and it looked like another beautiful morning, which was sure to equate into another wonderful day. With only two hours before seeing the woman I loved, things were looking brighter. I wondered if Ms. Handlesmen dreamt of me, if she was as eager to see me as I was to see her. I wondered what she had in store for me today.