Samuel's Cure Ch. 01

Sam loved white asses, he dreamed about them every day. He wasn't obsessed or anything, he just loved them, that was all. He spent a lot of his time pursuing opportunities to look at them, to be nearer to them, closer, one day maybe he'd get close enough to touch one, and do the many things he wanted to do. He used to collect pictures of them from pornographic magazines, the whitest and prettiest of which he'd plastered the walls of his room with. He missed them, those glistening glossy pictures, spread legs and opened buttocks and glossy white thighs. Together the pictures had given his room an appealing light pastel hue that was actually quite bright and uplifting. He'd liked most the pictures showing the women's faces too, looking back over milky shoulders, knowing smiles and clear blue eyes. He'd even covered the ceilings of his room with double spread images. He'd had many images, and stacks of the magazines from which he cut them that he'd carefully built against the wall nearest the bed. When the police came they had seemed quite awed and impressed at his collection, speaking to each other in hushed voices after they'd searched the room. Now he lived in the hostel, and he wasn't allowed to decorate his new room in the same way.

Still, he loved white asses. That's why he saw his new doctor so regularly, why even now he half walked, half jogged towards the center, his rock-music blaring loud in his ears. He'd been instructed by the judge to see her once a week, she would ask him questions, how he was, how he felt, and he would answer her obediently. All the time of course his eyes would steal glimpses at her long white legs, always crossed, and obscured from the knees up by the neat tweed skirts she usually wore. She would speak to him, say something like "We are very pleased by the progress you've made Sam," and he would nod, and smile, and watch her mouth, the neat thin lips forming shapes. Then she would usually ask "Is there anything you want to tell me Sam? Any questions you have about the program for instance, or anything bothering you" and he would usually think of some question- often a question he had asked already in a previous session, like "Why is it so wrong for me to show myself?" just so he could gaze into her large steel-gray eyes, and lose himself in their cat-like clarity (they aroused him immensely) and she would answer "We've discussed this before Sam, showing yourself like you did is wrong, it makes people very uncomfortable, it made those girls very uncomfortable". Sometimes, as he watched her lips while she talked to him, he would unconsciously begin to rub his groin, and she would stop- put her pen down on the table and cross her arms, and he would remember himself and stop. He loved his doctor, and hated these silent reprimands. Once, he had reached for the long blonde/brown hair that fell like a drape behind her ears and over her shoulders, it was so beautiful he felt he had to touch it, to smell it- but she had moved deftly away, pressed a button on the desk, and the door had opened and the male nurse had come in.

This week however he had a plan, he could take it no more, he had to have what he wanted. Of course he told himself that every week. He had bought a small knife this time, he would move quicker then she could call for help and restrain her. He wouldn't harm her, he just needed to see her, and touch her pale white skin, run his fingers between her legs, smell her, taste her... He'd never done anything like this before, never, but sometimes in his yearning frustration he'd considered it.

He would often go to the local park during the summer, sit at his favorite spot amongst a copse of bushes and trees that grew at the foot of a small hill at one end of the park, and there he would watch the women amongst the sunbathers by the paddling pool. He disapproved of sun-bathing, he didn't like it when the white women tanned their skin from the milky hue he found so intoxicating. On one occasion however he'd found a young white girl reading a book near the bushes when he'd arrived. She'd not seen his approach from the other side, and so didn't know he was there. He'd sat only meters behind her for long moments considering what to do. She lay supine, on one side, supporting her head with one hand, the curve of her hip stretching against the fabric of the tight denim shorts she wore, and the sun glared off her pale skin. Her top was a white halter top, and his eyes followed the shaded groove of her spine became her anal cleft, and disappeared into the top of her denim shorts. His eyes had wondered lovingly over her body, over the bony protrusion of her cream-colored hip, the nape of her neck, her bare arms and shoulders, her short red hair, and most especially her round buttocks and long slender thighs. He'd considered molesting her, lying on top of her, prying her legs apart, nudging the crotch of her shorts aside to lap the soft white pussy and pink bum-hole within. And while he considered it he'd carefully unzipped his trousers and removed his rigidly erect penis. The smell of his groin was a little rancid and smelt of old sweat, and slightly of urine, he didn't wash enough. At the time he'd worried the smell would make the girl aware of him, but she continued to read her paperback. His penis was long and wide and very hard, its coal black surface was shiny, a thick pole of varnished wood with a veins, he held its hot girth in his hand and fixed his eyes on the white girl.

He quietly stroked and pulled at his cock for ten minutes, staring at the creamy alabaster skin of the girls thighs and lower back all the while, and muttered to himself "beautiful, white, pure..." as was his habit. He had almost convinced himself to jump on her when she looked around at him, and for one long instant he stared into the blue eyes staring back at him, quizzical and blank at the same time. In shock and fear he had suddenly cum, a strand of white fluid leaping into the air and falling across his right foot. Wretchedly, he grabbing his trousers from around his knees, got up and hobbled away as fast as he could.

"Pervert!" cried a high nasal voice behind him.

Now he walked up the main-street along which the center was located, he told himself this time he would not run away, that this time he would feel a beautiful blonde-lady's warm pearly cheeks around his hard erect cock. Other people passed him by, going about their business. Some of them where white women too of course, but he didn't notice them much (he never saw the ones he'd find ugly or unattractive) but some of them he did, and these he tended to avoid eye-contact with, snatching glances at only when he was sure they had passed. Most of the people avoided him, (he was wearing his favorite coat). Eventually he came to the entrance to the center, he glanced up at the sign above the door on his way up the three steps,

The Eastfield Psychotherapy Support Center

As usual 'the bad receptionist' was there, the one he didn't like (the Irish one didn't usually come in on Tuesdays). The 'bad receptionist' was a black woman, and she made him feel very nervous.

"Ah, Mr Bomobo, you're early, take a seat and Dr Evans will see you shortly" she smiled at him, she was actually very attractive and kind, but Sam saw only hostility. Sam sat down in the reception area and waited, avoiding eye contact with 'the bad receptionist'. He hated this part, the long minutes before he could see the only pretty white woman he could get to actually be in the same room with (sometimes on his days off, he rode the subway, which was kind of the same, but he never got to speak to the sexy executives, students, housewives, tourists and others he would find down there, and anyway they always grew visibly uncomfortable at his ogling).

The 'bad receptionist' watched him occasionally from the corner of her eye. She reminded him of his mother, of the harsh beatings he used to get, or of his Aunt Edith, and her merciless razor tongue, or the girls from the neighborhood and their gleefully rhymed taunts. He always felt defensive around the bad receptionist, and consoled himself with memories of Sarah, the girl who had lived next door when he was much younger. She would sometimes console him, Sarah, call to him from across the fence as he sobbed or played mirthlessly in the back garden, and he'd look around and there she'd be, her pale white arms bare, her gentle smile, her sparkling green eyes, often her mouth working the gum she liked to chew.

He glanced down at the waiting-areas magazines, the long blonde hair of the model on one of them reminded him of Sarah too, of how she'd let him touch her sometimes, and lick her special places clean after letting him watch her pee. Her 'little monkey' she used to call him fondly, and rub his kinky afro hair.

The other black people in that neighborhood hadn't liked Sarah and her family much, and neither had his uncle Joe (who Sam loved dearly but rarely saw). For Sam however, Sarah was an angel, she'd even looked just like the angels in Sam's Sunday-school book. She'd left eventually, when her family moved away, and he'd missed her ever since. After that he'd lost himself in television for most of his spare time, transfixed by the various sexual images of white females that he found there in delightful abundance. Then he'd become old enough to buy porno magazines, and after that his mother made him move out.

Now he waited and waited, thumbing through the women's magazines and looking at the pictures. Eventually a sad looking man came out of the doctors room and left, and the receptionist said he could go through.

"So, Sam, how are we today?" enquired Dr Evans.

"I'm fine Ma'am" replied Sam, starring at his hands.

"Sam, please, call me Dianne okay... I've told you many times I prefer my patients to call me Dianne, or just Doctor if you must, but never 'Ma'am'"

"Yes Ma'am".

The doctor sighed and remained silent for a little while, a slight smile playing on the corner of her lips. Sam's learning difficulties were easy to discern, but that was not specifically what she was trying to help him with. She pushed on. "Okay Sam, have there been any incidents you would like to talk about since our last session?"

"No Ma'am" a patient silence, and then

"How about the pornographic magazines, have you been keeping within the limits we agreed upon?"

"Yes Ma'am, I... I only bought one this week... a Playboy Ma'am... n- next week I wanna buy Hustler, n'after that I wanna buy the Analisse Special Edition-

"Okay Sam, okay. But remember what we discussed? about how soon you should begin to reduce the frequency with which you acquire pornographic material... Sam from next month I want you to start buying only one pornographic magazine every fortnight... as we agreed, are you ready for that Sam?"

A moments silence, and then reluctantly "y-Yes Ma'am... I- I'll try..."

"Good" said Dr Evans, silently thankful that Sam's hatred of computers made his porn habit that much easier to control. She picked up her pen, and made her first note of the session

Samuel Bomobo, Session 12

Patient continues attempts to control use of pornography as agreed, is willing to continue to observe guidelines as discussed earlier (see Session 2)

"Have you... watched any women recently Sam?" asked the doctor

"Yes Ma'am... but only from far away- not so as they'd be uncomfortable or nothin" replied Sam. The doctor creased her mouth a little in disappointment briefly, it would be unfair to expect him to stop being a man entirely she thought to herself, what she was aiming for was more a greater degree of sensitivity to the feelings of others, the kind of basic etiquette that most people without Sam's mental impairment took for granted. At least he had made significant progress since the incident at the swimming pool, an- 'unpleasantness' he was very unlikely to repeat. She wrote on her pad,

Patient persists in covert voyeuristic behavior, will continue to monitor.

"And how about... women-of-color Samuel, perhaps our previous discussion has affected a change in your attitude towards them?" at this there was a moody silence. It was a complicated issue, one which Dr Evans had considered writing a paper on, before she had met Sam she had never come across an instance of anyone actually being 'phobic' of opposite-sex members of their own racial group. It was mildly interesting that conversely he was sexually-obsessive about members of another racial group, however this was allot more common, they even had a vernacular term for it, 'jungle fever'. In Samuels case the 'jungle fever' was most likely a defense mechanism of sorts, undoubtedly influenced by this 'Sarah' character with whom he had had his first sexual experiences, juxtaposed with the abusive parenting of his cocaine addicted mother, and the intense bullying he'd suffered as a child for being mentally impaired. All these factors had no doubt been taken onboard by Sam's tendency towards 'dysfunctional hyper-learning', which was symptomatic of his condition.

She made another note,

Patients racial issues persist without change- Suggest hypnosis therapy? referral to Black Consciousness Outreach Group as per recommended by Dr Green?? Medication???

She noticed Samuel was staring at her legs again, which he did often. She was tolerant, perhaps even flattered by this, but she would have to show displeasure if he began to touch himself again. She carried on

"And how is your job at the supermarket Samuel, do they let you work checkout yet?"

At this Sam's eyes darted back to her face and he grinned broadly, he was actually quite pleased with what he had to reply

"Yes Ma'am! Because I like to add things up! I can press the cash machine buttons an count everything real fast! Mr. Simmons says I'm like three cash tills 'stead of one!" he laughed happily, and Dr Evans smiled. This was one of the quirks of Sam's condition, he had an amazing ability to follow very simple instructions involving objects and quantities, in sequence, and rapidly, he was almost like a computer. She and some of the colleagues with whom she had discussed Sam's case had immediately spotted the connection to his obsessive collection of pornography, both were manifestations of a love of archiving, processing, sorting and counting that later analysis of his behavior had revealed.

"Yes, I know Sam, I've spoken to Mr. Simmons already, he is indeed very glad he agreed to help in your rehabilitation. But I wanted to know how you feel Sam, how do you feel for instance- when customers you like come to use the store?" she asked, deciding to once again probe the delicate matter of controlling his sexual fixations.

At this Sam's eyes darted to the floor again "I- I just count the merchandise and add 'em all up, Ma'am concentrate on the merchandise, put em in the bag an say 'thank you ma'am', that's all doctor Ma'am Evens, that's all"

"Hmm" pondered the doctor thoughtfully. She made a note

Patients unique talents continue to benefit rehabilitation program, in the patients own efforts to avoid adopting sexually threatening profiles in social & Para social situations.

She looked up again, and noticed Sam had put one hand in his pocket, and there it was staying. She looked him in the eye-

Sam's heart was racing, when the Doctor asked about the customers he liked he had immediately become aroused again, powerfully aroused, and decided it was time to make his move. He put his hand in his pocket, grasped the plastic handle of the little knife he had bought with him, tried to build up his courage, remembering the strange woman that had come to the store during his night-shift a few days ago, to work himself up.

There he'd been, sitting at the till absently counting the chocolate bars on the aisle across from him (it was a slow shift). He'd gotten to two hundred and eighty six when she had walked up to him. She was quite tall, a very slender waist stretched between amble breasts and wide hips, and her skin was so smooth and white he'd almost cum in his pants. Encased in a black leather jacket and tight black leather and denim jeans, leather boots, a black tee-shirt tied up to show her belly, he starred dumbly for several seconds. Slowly he had looked up, to find a fine featured squareish face, concealed on one side by a long fringe of pale blonde hair. The other side of her head was close-cropped, showing one ear with a tiny silver snake. The woman's vividly green eyes regarded him impassively, blinked, dilated, and continued to regard him.

"Aren't you going to check me out Samuel?" she had asked in a soft thin voice. Sam had looked down at her basket, and the single packet of sugar that sat within it. He reached out, hand trembling, and took hold of the sugar. He looked again at the perfect smooth wax-like belly that seemed to glow from within, compelling him to touch the skin. Like a marble statue dressed for a biker-bar, she stood waiting as the moments dragged by, and he drew the bag of sugar across the glass panel of the tills laser, the till beeped. He had put the sugar in a bag, and her small perfect white hand had reached out, coins in its palm. He noticed the jet black diagram of a serpent tattooed into her snowy skin on the underside of her forearm. He picked up the coins, his fingers touched her palm briefly- and then he said

"Two hundred eighty seven" to himself.

Startled, he'd looked around, found himself sitting alone at the till, there was no woman. It was as if he had been dreaming, fallen asleep for a moment between two hundred and eighty six and two hundred and eighty seven. When he thought about it, that must have been what happened, how else could she have known his name? He must of fallen asleep and dreamt her. Puzzled, he started counting the beer bottles stacked over on aisle two, while freshly spoken words echoed in his ears

'I've always liked you Samuel, I'll see you soon little monkey.'

Since then he had been desperate for white asses, more desperate than usual, desperate to finally plunge his hard erect cock deep into soft round white flesh, put his black wooden-fireman's head against the juicy pink bum-hole, and push into the warm interior. He had actually started to drool visibly, and wiggle his fingers when he'd walked past the local swimming pool, but he was banned by law to go in, and didn't want to be caught (not after what happened last time). He shouldn't even have been within fifty yards of the swimming pool building.

"What are you holding in your pocket Sam?" asked Dr Evans carefully.

"Kn- knife" replied Sam hesitantly

"Let me see it?" asked the doctor curiously

Sam bought out the knife, and showed it to her.

The doctor almost scoffed out-loud, staring at the knife pointed towards her.

"And what do you have that for Sam?"

"Want... want to see your b- bum Ma'am, t- t- touch your sweet... s- sweet white buttocks Ma'am."

She made a note

Patient produced plastic knife! Questioning revealed his intention to force me to grant him sexual favors. I must stress I felt deeply un-threatened by the situation. Patients obsessive-fixation and sexual frustration leading him to subsumed measures deeply contrary to the innate non-violent nature of his mental condition. Aggressive-Impulse Self-Regulation???

She thought for a moment, staring into the wide earnest eyes of Sam's likable but unattractively large and lob-sided face. She added something more

-Re: Frustration, Suggest Prostitutes???

*

Sam walked home, he was utterly miserable. His attempt to rape the doctor had failed completely. She had started scribbling on her pad excitedly, and asking him all kinds of questions ranging from his choice of a plastic knife to threaten her with, to his 'unusually intense predilection for women exhibiting northern-European ethnic-type characteristics'.