Shepherd's Pie Ch. 04

The effect of watching her promptly led me to pull out my cock, especially once Katie began demonstrating the doctor's tips, flawless executing saucy hair flips, flirty shoe dangles, and drawn out, seductive leg crosses, all in front of her captive audience.

By Thursday, I couldn't wait to meet this astonishing woman. I showed up ten minutes early, legs twitching as I sat there in the waiting room. Her office was set up in an old white Victorian, right along Cambridge Street, near Harvard Square. Instead of the cold, white-walled office I'd expected, I was comforted by the warm, elegant décor, with lace curtains draped over large picture windows, tapestries hanging from the walls, and fresh brewed coffee making the whole place smell like home.

After waiting what felt like hours, I turned to the sound of her charming British accent, calling my name with authority.

"Mr. Shepherd," she said, making my jump from my seat.

"That's me," I answered, smiling more than I'd intended.

Expecting her to walk out, instead she stood there, holding the door slightly open, head leaning to the right.

I marched over, promptly extending my right hand, as she stood there oozing sophistication, in a black, sleeveless, V-neck sweater, pearls strung around her neck, legs covered in crisp, gray, straight legged pants, loose fitting, possibly twill, flattering nonetheless.

"Megan Sinclair, lovely to meet you," she said, with fingers that felt like satin as she gently folded them around my hand.

Like the waiting room, her office looked equally charming as well, with a large picture window behind her desk, lace curtains drawn, letting in just enough light, with a vast collection of old books lining the wooden shelves to my left, along with a ceiling high grandfather clock standing in one corner, a Ph. D from the University of South Florida hanging beside it, plus a red and brown Indian rug covering most of the dark, polished, hardwood floor.

To my immediate right was a round wooden antique table, oak, maple, something like that, with a pair of high-armed, brown leather chairs on one side, a single high-armed chair on the other.

"Please, have a seat," she said, leading me over toward the table. "Can I offer you a beverage? Leslie can bring you coffee, tea, perhaps a glass of red wine."

"Oh, no thank you," I said. "I'm actually not old enough to drink."

"Hmm," she said, sizing me up. "Very well," she added, taking her seat. "Though I must say, you certainly don't look your age."

Taking the seat across from her, I couldn't help thinking how gorgeous she was. Behind her glasses, she looked at me with these large, sultry, thoughtful brown eyes, with a full head of medium-length, dark brown hair, cut off above her shoulders, fluffed up, frozen with hair spray, purposely drawing attention to her high, flawless cheekbones, along with the ageless appearance of her smooth, pulled back, buttermilk skin, with a stunning set of perfectly even, gleaming white teeth.

The more I looked, the more I kept thinking how everything about her was artificial, even her made up name, with tits expanding from the front of her black sweater, clearly too high on her chest, and visibly bigger than necessary for her slender frame.

With a stoic expression, she quietly sat there listening as I then proceeded to explain why I'd chosen therapy.

"Interesting," she said, holding a plain manila folder. "Over the years, I've treated many patients with a variety of fetishes. But I must say yours is rather unique," she added, pausing, before asking me the million dollar question. "Tell me about your mother."

I could already feel myself blushing, instantly wishing I'd taken her offer on the wine.

"Well, um," I started slowly, answering with half-truths. "Her name is Lauren. She's 42. She has a degree in marketing from Providence College. Right now, she works as an event planner. Her and my father got divorced when I was ten..."

"What caused the divorce?" she asked, cutting me off.

"He cheated on her," I said. "At the time, he was managing a local rock band. They used to go on the road a lot. He ended up marrying another girl, half his age."

"I see," she said, barely nodding her head. "So when did you first discover that you fancied women in tights...or, umm, excuse me...pantyhose?"

By then, her accent had already given me a mean hard-on. In this country, most women didn't pronounce consonants when they spoke. Yet, Megan pronounced every consonant beautifully, taking a word which most women pronounced "pannyhose" and making it sound twice as sexy, extending each vowel, naturally emphasizing the T, giving me chills, each time enunciating, "pan-tee-hose."

"Honestly, I don't remember exactly when," I answered. "I just remember looking at my teachers a lot. Of course, my mother did wear them often too. Still does actually."

"And what's your relationship like now, since the divorce?"

"Oh, um, it's good," I said, nodding steadily. "We hang out all the time. She's like my best friend."

"So how does she feel about this new roommate?" she asked disturbingly. "Have they met?"

"No, not yet," I said. "We've all been kind of busy lately. I'm sure it'll happen soon."

"Fair enough," she said, holding the folder as she leaned forward, planting the heels of her black ankle boots down to the floor. "At this point, what I'd like to do now is see if we can scientifically determine the root cause of your obsession. The only rule is we cannot make physical contact in any way. Understood?"

"Yes, ma'am," I answered, nodding my head.

"Excellent," she replied, reaching inside the folder. "Now the first thing we need to do is take away one of your primary senses. So I'll need you to cover your eyes with this," she said, handing me what looked like a black sleeping mask.

Taking the mask, I then slid it over my head, drawing it down over my eyes, denying me the pleasure of seeing her, though fortunately I was still able to hear incredibly sexy voice.

"Now I'm going to ask you a series of intimate questions, to which I'll expect you to be completely honest."

"Okay," I answered, listening in darkness.

I then noted the sound of two zippers sliding down, then a dull thud, followed by another, then the sound of jangling metal, followed by rustling noises, then silence.

"Now I need you to focus carefully," she said, upon which my ears pricked from the sound of nylon rubbing together, forcing me to concentrate fully on that exhilarating swish, chillingly repeated over and over, eerily hypnotic, yet torturous, only because I couldn't see.

"How does this sound make you feel?" she asked, from a distance seemingly miles away.

"Mmm, very aroused," I answered. "Easily my favorite sound."

"I see. Go beyond that," Megan said. "Why does it turn you on so much? Describe your emotions."

The question forced me to think harder. It took me a moment, but finally I managed to come up with something.

"There's just something comforting about it...soothing, I guess...makes me feel warm inside."

"Good," she said. "Does it bring up any specific memories for you? If so, please share what you recall."

Her second question was much easier to answer. I had already starting picturing my mother long before she asked. Sitting there in the dark, shielded from judgment behind the mask, I openly began sharing things with Megan which until then I'd never shared with anyone.

"I remember sitting on the couch," I said. "Mom had her legs stretched out across my lap. She always kept her pantyhose on after work. I never asked why. Sometimes she'd asked me to rub her feet. But then there were other times when I'd just be sitting there watching TV. Then I'd look over and Mom would by lying there with her eyes closed, sliding her legs back and forth, driving me crazy with the sound of her thighs rubbing together in her pantyhose."

"Can you remember getting aroused?"

"Yes," I admitted, nodding my head. "But I learned how to tuck it so she wouldn't see, hide it with pillows, stuff like that."

"I see," said Megan. "Thank you for sharing that with me."

For a moment, I sat quietly again, straining to tell what Megan was actually doing, hearing more rustling, jumping when her voice suddenly returned, closer than I expected.

"Lean forward," she said, prompting me to dip my head, filling my nostrils with a bold, musky fragrance, not unlike the ocean. "Do you recognize that scent?"

"Yes, ma'am," I said, inhaling the pungent aroma.

"Do you like how the pantyhose trap in the smell of Mum's vagina?"

"Yes, very much," I said, nodding readily.

"Have you ever stolen Mum's pantyhose in order to smell them?"

"Yes," I confessed. "Many times."

"I see," Megan said. "And you've probably used Mummy's pantyhose to masturbate as well, haven't you?"

"Mm hmm, yes. Yes, I have."

"Are you ashamed of that? Are you ashamed of being a dirty little pantyhose thief?"

"Yes, ma'am," I whimpered. "I'm very ashamed."

"Good," she said. "Now here's how Mummy going to punish you. Put these over your hand," she said, grabbing me firmly by the wrist. She then lifted my right arm, placing a ball of pantyhose in my open palm. "Mummy's going to watch you masturbate. Now, do as I say and pull out that filthy cock of yours this instant," she ordered. "Whatever happens, do not take off that mask unless I say so. Understood?"

"Yes, ma'am," I said, nodding again.

"I'm sorry. What did you call me?"

"Oh, I mean...yes, Mummy."

"That's better," she said. "Now sit there and stroke your cock with Mum's pantyhose."

Heeding her instructions, I then unraveled the light, silky undergarment with both hands, lifting them over my lap, carefully feeding one leg with my right hand, slipping the hose all the way down to my right elbow.

For several seconds, the room fell silent as I sat there waiting in the dark, senses focused on the smooth, luscious fabric blanketing my pulsing erection. Softly, I took my penis in hand, soothed by the silky nylon shrouding my tightly curled fingers, thrilled by the wondrous texture of threads woven so exquisitely that I couldn't help drawing comparisons to the Wolford pantyhose Mom brought back from New York.

Just as I started wondering what Mom would think if she knew what I was doing, the voice of my guilty conscience was instantly overtaken by a loud buzzing only a few feet away. Training my ears, I noted the sound's origin coming from the chair directly in front of me. After a second, the buzz softened to a low, steady hum. Soon, joining this persistent hum, I then heard the sound of my new therapist urgently starting to moan. The combined chorus of humming and moaning led me to stroke my cock faster, spurred by the sound of her heavy breathing, quickly accompanied by my own.

"How does it feel having Mum's pantyhose around your cock?" she whispered breathlessly. "Are you enjoying how soft they are?"

"Mmm, very much," I answered. "They feel incredible."

"As well they should," she said. "I never wear more than eight denier. Mum only wears the best."

"Thank you," I said, flogging my dick. "I appreciate it very much."

"Oh, I can see you do," she said, gasping and moaning between sentences. "Your penis is rather hard...quite large too. You must be awfully aroused. I can see your pre-cum already. Tell me what's going through your mind," she insisted. "Mum desperately wants to know."

"Just thinking how badly I want to see you right now...using that vibrator on your pussy while I jerk off."

"Hmm," she answered, teasing me. "I'm not sure I should grant you that privilege, especially now that I've seen your huge cock...shame on you for keeping that all to yourself, holding out on me all this time. Apologize to your sweet, lovely Mum," she demanded. "Then, perhaps, we'll see about honoring your request."

"I'm sorry Mummy. It won't happen again," I said. "Please forgive me."

From across the room, Megan instantly scoffed. "Pathetic," she said. "You can do much better. Tell Mummy why you're sorry. Tell me exactly what you've done."

By then, my balls were so swollen I could barely take anymore. Still, she refused to let me off the hook.

"I'm sorry for stealing your pantyhose," I said, remembering all the numerous times when I'd actually done so growing up. "I shouldn't have taken them without asking."

"Good. Now what else are you sorry for?" she asked angrily. "What else have you done, aside from being a sneaky, disgusting, pantyhose pervert?"

Thinking quickly, I then answered, "Umm...I never showed you my cock. I'm sorry for that too. That was very selfish of me."

"Good," she said. "Now you're acting like a big boy. You would like to grow into a big boy, would you not?"

"Yes, Mummy," I said, nodding my head.

"Then it's high time for you to stop lying, stop keeping secrets," she said. "There's no need to hide who you really are...not with those big, giant balls of yours...not with all that wonderful cock between your legs."

"You're right," I answered. "No more lying, no more secrets. I'm not afraid anymore," I said, filled with a sense of relief.

"Now, stand up and take off that mask," she said, prompting me up from my seat.

Removing the mask, I looked over and saw Megan smiling in her dark-rimmed glasses, naked from the waist up, leaning back, spread eagle, legs hanging from the sides of her brown leather seat, beautifully veiled in a smoky pair of sheer, light gray, control top pantyhose, just like the pair she'd worn on TV, save for a giant wet spot, visibly staining the still intact gusset over her dark, thick, hairy bush.

"You'd thought I'd taken them off, didn't you?" she said, noting my surprise. "The ones in your hand came from my dirty laundry this morning. I wore them yesterday. Feel free to keep them if you like," she offered kindly. "Now, since time is nearly up, there's one thing we must determine before you go."

"What's that?" I asked blinking at her.

"How much you ejaculate?"

With that, she beckoned me with her crooked finger, as I walked over and stood by the edge of her chair.

"Now remember," she said warningly. "Mummy expects you to cum like a big boy. So stroke that cock nice and hard for me. Don't let Mummy down."

Not wanting to disappoint, I seized my erection firmly in hand, aiming the tip at her gorgeous face, staring down at her beautifully enhanced D-cups, round, full, sculpted to perfection, nipples throbbing from the tips of her pink areolas, eyes lured by the motion of Megan's hands, softly caressing the nylon encasing her luscious thighs.

"That's it. That's a good boy," she purred. "Wank that big cock for Mummy. Wank it nice and hard with Mum's pantyhose!"

"Ohhh fuck!" I moaned, fist pumping with nylon around my shaft. "Ohhh uhhh yesss yesss...ohh shit hmm yeahh yeahh oh god...here it comes...oh fuck...oh fuck...I'm gonna c-c-c-cuuummm!!!"

Suddenly, with no hesitation, Megan sat up and leaned forward, setting both feet flat on the floor, smiling with her face inches from my cock, softly imploring, "Yes, Chris, cum for me."

Spraying like buck shot, the first blast decimated everything in its path, snapping Megan's head back, eyes gaping, jaw dropping, cum sailing and landing in her mouth, riddling her face, one stream after another, dousing her glasses with an endless series of long, viscous, white ropes, stroking till the nylon felt like it had literally fused with my skin, which only incented me to continue beating off, four shots, five shots, groaning with pleasure so intense that I couldn't stop beating my meat, not until my balls had nothing left to release, and Megan's face was left whiter than a record New England snowfall.

"Good heavens," she said, sliding off her glasses. "That was a quite large sample. I've never seen so much cum. Is it always that much?"

"It's my diet," I said, nodding back, as Megan leaned forward, slid out her tongue, and eagerly started slurping my cum off her glasses.

"Mmmphh oohhwoww," she said, slobbering with her mouthful. "Andisshhweeetoo," she added, dribbling on herself.

As she put on her glasses, the lenses were so smeared that I had to imagine it must have been hard for her see, as she stood up and casually walked back over to her desk.

"This was an excellent start," she said, reaching for a pen, before leaning over and writing on the back of her business card. "In order to solve this problem for good, I'd strongly encourage you to continue seeing me no less than once a week," she added. "One thing though, I generally only work with couples. So I wonder if it's at all possible to have your roommate join us as well."

"Oh, umm, yeah, I can definitely ask her," I said. "Just depends on her work schedule."

"Is she free this weekend?" she said, stepping toward me.

"Um, sure, I don't see why not."

"Perfect," she said, handing me her card. "The two of you should come round for tea this weekend. I have a lovely cottage in Wellesley. Here's the address. Shall we say Sunday, around eleven?"

Taking the address, I nodded and smiled back politely, thankful for her generous offer.

"Please understand, I don't normally do this," Megan said, as I slowly stepped toward the door. "Still, something tells me there's more going on here. Yet, I can't help either one of you unless I know absolutely everything."

* * *

Later that evening, I nervously broached the subject of Mom and I driving out to Wellesley that weekend, trying to gauge her level of interest over the dinner table

"So how was your first session?" Mom asked, holding a glass of white zinfandel.

"Good," I said, staring at my plate. "I like her. She knows her stuff."

"Oh, yeah," she said, speaking between sips. "Is she cute?"

"Hmm, yeah," I answered reluctantly. "She's British, but yeah, I'd say she's attractive. We talked about you a lot."

"Oh, really," she said. "So you bitched about me the whole time...that's awesome."

"No, it wasn't like that. She actually wants to meet you. She invited us for tea on Sunday."

"This Sunday?" she said, frowning across from me. "Why?"

"Because," I explained. "She specializes in relationships. She probably gets better results when both people are there."

"Hmm," Mom said, thoughtfully leaning back. "I guess that makes sense," she answered, nodding her head. "You've probably got her convinced that I'm a total psycho," she added, smirking. "So I would like to meet her, if only to tell my side," she finally agreed.

"Cool," I said, smiling. "Don't worry about the dishes. I got 'em. Just remember we have to be there Sunday by eleven. Wear something nice..."

* * *

Sunday morning, I asked Mom to let my drive. It was 10:30 and we needed at least 20 minutes to get to Wellesley, as I sat there behind the wheel, checking my watch.

Finally, Mom came out with a scowl on her face, likely because her hair wasn't completely dry and she hated being rushed.

Hoping to make a good impression, she'd chosen an outfit most women would have considered far from conservative. Still, I empathized with her challenge of trying to dress like a lady, knowing her tendency to feel self-conscious whenever she felt pressured to cover up.

Thus, as she gracefully sauntered toward the car, in a satin, tie-front, rose-colored blouse, long sleeved, with a bow hanging down the front, tucked inside a tight, slinky, knee-length, black pencil skirt, with subtle, matte-finished, nude pantyhose, and five-inch burgundy peep-toes, as my eyes followed her from the front door down to the car, the whole time I couldn't help thinking, in her mind, she must have felt like a nun.

With assistance from GPS, the drive itself was uneventful. Still, we weren't prepared for the grandeur in front of us, arriving at a large, opulent sub-division, with several acres of open land bordered by a old stonewall, leading to a private driveway, blocked by a wrought iron gate, which Megan opened via remote, as we drove on another half mile or so, taking the winding road over a short hill.