Restless Pussy Syndrome

I didn't need any warm-up. I had waited for this too long. I grabbed him by his tie and pulled him on top of me as I spread my legs. His cock hit the mark on the first try and squeaked into me as I bellowed out a low "Ohhhh yesss!"

His hands were already mauling my tits by the time that I could wrap my thighs around him and pull him as deep into me as possible. We were like brawling jungle cats as we feverishly moved our pelvic regions every way possible. I orgasmed more quickly than at any other time in my life, and uniquely in my experience I barely missed a beat as I continued to writhe and buck even while I was overcome with endorphins coursing through my brain at the same time that an electric charge flashed from my head to my toes. When Justin started squirting into me another orgasm hit - this one completely debilitating - causing my body to go limp as a scream emanated from my lips.

Justin rolled to the side, his cock still ensconced in my restless pussy, as we reflexively planted kisses on whatever part of each other's bodies that we could reach.

By eight the next morning, my pussy and nipples were raw, Justin's cock and testicles were throbbing, neither of us could walk properly, and we had never before been close to that sexually fulfilled in our lives.

"Shit, that was like a different experience than any other sex I've ever had," Justin muttered between bites of toast, the only food he had consumed since lunch the previous day.

After reflection, between my mouthfuls, I responded "Sex with Brett was like going to an excellent play or movie; fun and entertaining. The sex last night and this morning was like going to an amusement park and going on every thrilling ride there; over-the-top!"

Justin smiled, gave me a quick kiss, and then chuckled "Well said - you should write promotional brochures."

I laughed and squeezed his balls through his pants.

"Careful, Jezebel," he moaned, "I'm really hurting this morning."

"I'm not surprised," I giggled, "you put a month's worth of cum into me." I had no sooner said that then I felt something oozing out of my pussy. I wiped the goo off of my right thigh with my right index finger and held it up. "Shit, I'm still leaking your goop even after a shower," I said in mock anger - then I brazenly sucked it off of my finger.

"Don't," Justin moaned, "when I laugh my balls hurt."

The next three months while Justin and I lived together in a small apartment were like a roller coaster - not just the thrills associated with it, but the ups and downs. The sex with Justin was off-the-charts. I do believe that my pussy was molded to fit his cock perfectly, and our libidos were perfectly in sync. If someone really could be fucked blind I would have had a cane and seeing-eye dog after the first night. What wasn't so fun, however, was the obvious hurt we had caused our spouses.

Brett wanted nothing to do with me - I couldn't really blame him, but I was saddened by the venom that he spewed the few times that we had to interact. I had been close to Brett's sister, and at her suggestion met with her in the park at lunchtime one day. We didn't attempt to eat since neither of us had an appetite; she just used the occasion to rail at me and make clear in no uncertain terms how badly that I had hurt Brett, and how everyone in her family wished me a slow death from a venereal disease.

Meanwhile, Justin's wife Cecil was clinically depressed.

It was just after my divorce had become final when Cecil's depression overflowed. She attempted suicide. Not surprisingly, after that Justin changed. He was wracked with guilt. His libido went in the toilet and sex with him became more like Labor Day than the Independence Day fireworks that it had always been. It was then when I had to admit to myself that as infatuated that I had been with Justin, and as fulfilling the sex with him had been, I didn't love him.

It was easy to counsel Justin to go back to Cecil. It made me feel good to do it, especially since with just ordinary sex I wasn't going to stay with Justin anyway. It allowed him to break free of me without another messy scene. I went so far as to write Cecil a seemingly heart-felt note telling her that Justin had always loved her and that the memory or her was something that I couldn't compete with, and that they were truly destined to stay together. It was mostly bullshit, but it was the least that I could do after causing her so much grief.

The suit that Justin and I were working on settled shortly after he returned to Cecil, and except for a few chance and fleeting encounters we never saw each other again. I did occasionally check with a paralegal friend of mine who worked in the same firm as Justin, and believe that he and Cecil did truly commit to each other again, which to some degree assuaged my guilt.

* * * * *

When I got infatuated with two other guys within the five months after my divorce came through - both married and because of that with great difficulty I refrained from fucking them, even though one did finger me - I decided that I had a problem that required professional help. One Tuesday, right after work, I went to see a psychologist who specialized in "relationship abnormalities," a nice way of saying that she dealt with sexually dysfunctional people.

Dr. Mary Stearns was a well-put-together woman in her early fifties. She had silky jet-black hair populated with random strands of grey that added character to it. Her face was pleasant, if not beautiful, and her wardrobe - which accentuated her large chest - seemed to be right out of a designer magazine, culminating in a pair of red-soled Christian Louboutin shoes. Her steel-rimmed designer glasses accentuated her erudite demeanor, as did the Harvard degrees hanging on the wall behind her.

After a modicum of initial pleasantries, just enough to set me at ease and let me know that I had come to the correct person, she got right to the point. "You don't want to spend $400 an hour chit-chatting, Amy. Tell me what brings you to see me."

"Well, Dr. Stearns, I'm worried that I have some sort of personality or sexual disorder. I too often and easily become infatuated with men that I meet - it seems almost every tall, blond, handsome guy - and I develop an overwhelming urge to have sex with them."

I spent the next forty minutes giving her all of the details of the urges I had when I was single, my butterflies before marrying Brett, how after roughly four years with Brett I became infatuated with Justin yet was able to refrain from cheating on Brett, the incredible sex and the sorrowful ending associated with the Justin period, and my recent fixation on two married men.

She asked few questions, took copious notes on what seemed to be a court reporter's stenotype machine, and expressed almost no emotion. At one point my curiosity overcame me and I had to ask about the stenotype machine.

"In my previous life, both before and during graduate school in psychology, I had many other professions including court reporter, stripper, and certified sex therapist," she nonchalantly replied.

She was nonchalant, but that almost knocked my socks off. When I reflected on it I came to the conclusion that she definitely was the right person to be talking too. She sat silently with a wane smile on her face until I regained my composure and finished my soliloquy. Her first reaction was even more surprising than the "stripper, certified sex therapist" revelation.

"Let me take a swab from the inside of your cheek to have a DNA test done; also, take this pamphlet home with you and take the test that comprises the last five pages of it. Do not spend more than one hour to complete the test otherwise the results might be skewed, and fax or email the completed test to me at least twenty four hours before our next session," she said, handing me what looked like a college test booklet, and pulling out a cased cotton swab just like on TV crime scene investigator shows.

She took a swab of the inside of my cheek, I picked up the booklet, I scheduled an appointment for the next Tuesday at 5:30 p. m., I wrote her a check for $400 for the session, and I promised to email the completed written test to her by the next Monday at the latest.

I followed the instructions and recorded my first reaction to each of the test questions - almost all of which seemed bizarre to me - and took only fifty minutes to complete it. I wondered what in the hell my DNA profile could have to do with my situation, but after a couple of days of contemplation decided to just see what happened at my next session, and not worry about it.

Dr. Stearns had quite a remarkable start to the next session. She didn't mince words.

"Amy, your genome and test results are classic. They, combined with human history, provide a perfect explanation for your situation."

I wanted to say "No shit," but instead I blandly said "Really?" disguising the turmoil her comment caused in my innards.

"You have a fairly uncommon, but classic, mutation on your oxytocin receptor gene."

"What's 'oxytocin,' and what's a 'receptor gene?'"

"Oxytocin is a mammalian neurohypophysial hormone produced in the supraoptic and paraventricular nuclei of the hypothalamus by nerve axons, and stored in the posterior pituitary gland, and acts primarily as a neuromodulator in the brain."

I laughed. "Sorry, Dr. Stearns, I was an English major in college. I have no idea what that means."

She smiled then clarified. "In simple terms, oxytocin is a chemical that when released to the brain makes one feel content. It is commonly released when you hug someone you love, or when a mother nurses her infant."

"OK; now I understand," I replied with a smile. "And a 'receptor gene?'"

"The oxytocin receptor, also known as OXTR, is a protein which functions as receptor for the hormone and neurotransmitter oxytocin. In humans, the oxytocin receptor is encoded by the OXTR gene which has been localized to human chromosome 3p25," she postulated while peering over her glasses. Before I could ask the obvious question of "What the hell does that mean in English?" she chuckled and continued. "Now don't get your panties in a bunch. What that means is that there is a particular chromosome which handles oxytocin in your body. If there is a mutation of that chromosome it can affect your behavior."

"What behavior?" I inquired now perched on the edge of my seat.

"Frankly, your particular mutation means that there is an 80% higher probability, compared to the average woman without that mutation, that you have a propensity for sexual infidelity. This is a matter of chemistry, not morality. While many people with your genome are able to avoid cheating on a spouse it is a constant fight to do so, and the majority of people cannot resist. So this partially explains your situation," Dr. Stearns said with a real air of authority.

"Partially?" I probed.

"The results of the written test that I gave you provide the rest of the explanation. You were besieged with so much negative data related to cheating, and so much positive information related to fidelity, beginning at an early age, that you had what we psychologists call a 'contrary repercussion or backlash.' In your subconscious you developed a fascination with the concept of infidelity which combined with your chemical makeup provided a strong compulsion to have sex with whoever caught your fancy regardless of your relationship circumstances. Given your situation I find it incredible that you were able to refrain from cheating with Justin. It showed strength of character, regardless of how you view it."

I nodded my head, although with a perplexed look on my face.

"Then there is human history, which also plays a part," she continued before I could ask any questions.

"OK," I said.

"According to anthropologists - with most informed psychologists in agreement - human history suggests that relationships in ancient times broke up after four years because that is approximately how long it takes to raise a child through infancy. Your case fit exactly into that model - roughly four years with Brett."

"WOW! Can I have a few minutes to digest that before we talk some more?" I queried, overwhelmed with what Dr. Stearns had just told me.

She nodded her head "yes."

After three or four minutes of silence, with a firestorm raging in my brain, I asked "Is there a name for my condition?"

"Not one recognized by the American Psychologists Association, but there are two other women that I know of who have your condition and I call it 'Restless Pussy Syndrome,'" Dr. Stearns replied with a straight face.

"Does that mean that I should never marry again?" I asked, starting to choke up.

"Are you interested in having kids?" she asked.

"Yes - eventually, and if I find someone who I fall in love with who I think would be a good father, I would really, really like to have two or three kids," I earnestly replied.

"Then you shouldn't give up on marriage. Every psychologist worth his or her salt will tell you that child development is greatly facilitated if there are two committed parents, and the ultimate demonstration of commitment in our society is marriage. Kids are much better adjusted, and much more likely to achieve their potential, if they have the stable mindset that the marriage of their parents provides, especially when relating to their peers. Each of the other women that I am aware of with Restless Pussy Syndrome has two well-adjusted kids."

"Wow, again!" was my astute reaction.

Over the remainder of that session, and over the next two sessions, Dr. Stearns and I explored almost every detail of my situation, and expanded greatly on the three things she told me at the start of the second session. She never provided me with a "cop out" for my actions, but she was completely realistic in her analysis. However, it was not until after our last session was concluded that I finally got the straightforward advice that I needed; what would work for me.

After I wrote Dr. Stearns my last check, and my last hourly session was over, she motioned for me to sit down again, and she sat next to me rather than behind her desk. "Now that our professional relationship is concluded, would you like to know how someone I know well who has Restless Pussy Syndrome deals with it? This is Mary speaking to you as a friend, NOT Dr. Stearns."

"I'd love that!" I enthusiastically replied.

"When she married she wrote her own vows. They included 'love and cherish' but not 'forsaking all others.' She loves her husband, makes sure to treat him well at all times, and has raised two extremely well-adjusted and successful kids with him. The kids are not only academically and economically successful, but they are good people and give back to the community, working on many charitable endeavors. During the years that she's been married she has very, very discretely had sexual relationships with six different men. All were married since she considered the potential of bad complications with single guys unacceptable."

"Did this woman ever work as a court reporter, stripper, and sex therapist?" I asked with a sly grin.

"Absolutely not!" Mary shot back, with a grin so wide that it was clear that the real answer was "Yes, I'm talking about myself."

"Anyway," Mary continued, "just like your observation of the difference between sex with Brett and Justin, my friend's sex with her husband is very comfortable and enjoyable, like going to a good Broadway play; the sex with her paramours was and is like patronizing an amusement park and going on every thrill ride there. My friend also found that when she occasionally had and has recreational sex that the sex with her husband got and gets even better."

"Does your friend have any guilt?" I pensively asked.

"Sure - but the guilt she has is infinitesimal to the guilt that you had when you broke it off with Brett and Justin's wife attempted suicide. Think back - if you had had clandestine recreational sex with Justin for a year or so how would your level of guilt been compared to what it ultimately turned out to be?" Mary replied.

Mary and I silently sat staring at each other for at least two or three minutes. I knew that she was right. With a big smile I stood up - and Mary followed suit. As I shook her hand I said "Thank you so much, Dr. Stearns, you've been very helpful." Then I hugged her tightly, hoping not to crease her designer suit, and whispered "And thank you so much, Mary, for putting things into perspective."

* * * * *

Within four months of my last session with Dr. Mary Stearns I met someone who I could love and would be a great father. Jim didn't fit the profile of all of the other guys I had dated (or married) in the past, but I had a good feeling about him and we married having written our own vows. We have three adorable, well-adjusted children. I have comfortable fine sex with Jim several times a week. I have visited an "amusement park" an average of about once a month in the nine years that I have been married, and I found that everything that Mary told me about "her friend" is also true for me.

For someone with Restless Pussy Syndrome, a small amount of guilt is better than destroying several lives.