From maddabbler@hotmail.com Fri Mar 07 10:02:22 1997
     Self-Therapy
     Part 1

     "Come on, baby.  Tell me," Darren wheedled, toying with 
my clit in the way he knew drove me wild.
     I arched into his caress, already half wild with desire.  "Just 
do it, honey.  Put it in me."
     "Do what?  Put what in you?"
     It was a game we played a lot.  He thought I did it mainly to 
please him.  I couldn't admit how deeply it affected me, too.  
"Fuck me, you bastard," I gasped.  "Ream my pussy with your 
long, fat cock."
     "Look how wet you are, Janine.  Jesus.  Your cunt's 
already slimy.  Have you been fucking around behind my 
back?  Did you ball the mailman, you nasty little slut?"
     "There's nobody's cum in there but my own.  But unless 
you load me with yours and do a damned good job of it, that's 
a situation I can remedy.  Now fuck me, asshole!"
     And he did.  Righteously.  Royally.  Before he flooded me 
with delicious gouts of sperm, I came twice more.
     After lingering kisses, he rolled off me, found his cigarettes 
and lit one.  "You're sure you don't mind?"
     It was a ritualized question.  I'd given up tobacco a year 
and a half before, when I discovered I was pregnant with 
Timmy.
     "I'm sure.  It doesn't bother me at all.  I kind of like the 
smell."  It was my standard answer, but true.  Hypnosis 
doesn't help most people break the habit, but it had been 
effective for me.  I cuddled against him, my head on his 
shoulder, my fingers lazily toying with his chest hair.
     His voice rumbled through his ribs and into my ear.  "Have 
you thought any more about it?"
     "About what?"  I'm sure my sudden tension told him I 
already knew what he was getting at.
     "About sharing.  About another man.  You promised you'd 
consider it."
     "Oh, that again.  Same answer as always.  Sorry.  I just 
can't do it."  It was a scene we'd repeated dozens of times in 
the six years of marriage.  "You're all the man I can handle, 
Darren."
     "But -"
     "Honey, don't whine.  You promised you'd abide by my 
decision."
     He blew a sigh.  "So I did.  But someday?  Maybe?"
     "We'll see."

     I had a hard time getting to sleep that Saturday night.  
Long after he'd joined his dreams, I lay restlessly awake, 
wondering why I kept insisting that I wanted no one but him.  
He gave me every opportunity to live out my darkest 
fantasies, and yet I was incapable of admitting that I even had 
any.  But, damn, did I!
     I loved Darren - adored him, really.  He was so close to my 
image of the perfect man that it was sometimes scary.  He 
was a balanced blend of strong and sensitive.  He was 
equally adept at romancing me until I was woozy with love, 
and brutally fucking me blind.  He was intelligent - brilliant, 
really - and also knew how to listen.  He treated me with the 
respect due an equal partner in life and rode out my episodic 
fits of unhinged emotionality.
     Perhaps that was it.  He was *too* respectful, *too* 
tolerant.  Too good for me.  I was horrified that, if he ever 
discovered how badly I wanted what he so freely and 
frequently offered, he'd despise me.  I was horrified that, while 
he sometimes wanted me to act like a slut, in my heart I really 
*was* one.
     So I consistently lied to him.  I always had, in little, 
insignificant ways.  I'd told him that there'd only been one man 
before him, when in truth there'd been six.  That my fantasies 
were syrupy sweet romances, when in fact they were deeper 
and dirtier than any he'd ever confessed to me.
     That night while we'd made love, it'd been especially 
intense for me.  It'd been getting that way with increasing 
regularity over the past few months.  After I'd gotten back into 
shape following Timmy's birth, it seemed that I'd been 
receiving even more male attention than was the norm for me.  
Maybe it was my engorged breasts or some post-partum 
hormonal surge.  Or maybe it was some veiled need I was 
subconsciously projecting.  My wantonly erotic dreams 
enforced that idea nearly every night.  They inevitably 
depicted me as - shall we say - something other than a 
devoted wife and mother.
     It kept getting worse and worse.  It'd gotten to the point 
that I woke up almost nightly on the brink of orgasm, with my 
fingers squeezing my breasts, tweaking my clit.  My slit had 
become perpetually moist, like some of the juvenile creations 
of internet illiterati that Darren had downloaded on our 
computer.  I'd been taught that nymphomania didn't exist.  My 
psychology classes all insisted it was really no more than a 
symptom of other emotional disorders.  How was it, then, that I 
was afraid I was becoming just that thing?
     I wasn't insecure in my femininity, and never had been.  I 
wasn't schizophrenic, and not overly manic-depressive.  I was, 
in every other way, as sane as a twentieth century American 
can ever be.  So why was this impulse to get sleazy with 
strange men devouring me?  Why did I feel compelled to 
masturbate to shattering orgasms two or three times each 
day?  How could something as pure as nursing my baby ignite 
such soul shattering images in me?
     I had no answers.  More and more, even asking the 
questions was less important than feeling the feelings 
emanating from my pouting pussy and electrified nipples.  I 
was becoming obsessed, addicted to my sexuality more 
powerfully than any drug I ever tried.  Including tobacco.
     A dim little light switched on in my fevered mind in that 
darkened bedroom.  If it truly was an addiction to orgasm that 
was plaguing me, there was something I might be able to do 
about it.  It would take some thought.
     Reassured, I finally entrusted myself to sleep.

     It took me over a week to think things through and make all 
the preparations.  Monday morning, right after kissing Darren 
off to the office, I nervously settled down to put my plan into 
play.  Once more, I ran it through, mentally ticking off my list, 
making sure there weren't any hidden flaws.  God, what a 
disaster if I ended up making myself frigid!  I didn't want to 
give sex up altogether, just rein myself in a couple of gaits.
     Not without trepidation, I put Timmy down for a nap, drew 
the living room drapes, lit a couple of my favorite candles, and 
settled the lightweight headphones over my ears.  With a 
determined stab of the finger, I hit the remote and turned the 
tape player on.  After a few deep breaths, I tried to relax into 
the soothing rhapsody of my favorite Andreas Vollenweider 
CD.
     An hour later, feeling calm but otherwise unaffected, I 
headed upstairs to nurse my baby boy.  At first, I thought the 
session had helped.  But, by the time Timmy was full, my 
pussy was leaking a river.  Immediately after getting him 
settled, I flew to my bedroom for a thorough finger fucking.  I 
screamed two big wet cums into the pillow.  Momentarily 
sated, I shakily reasoned that Rome wasn't built in a day.  
Self-hypnosis for quitting smoking wasn't exactly like what I 
was trying.
     I kept at it diligently, though not without periodic despair.  
All week, I listened to my tape at least once a day.  By the 
weekend, I was convinced that my program was starting to 
work.  I noticed small changes.  I was able to sleep through 
three nights without having to tiptoe off to the bathroom to 
finish making myself cum.  While making love with Darren, I 
wasn't continuously dreaming about other cocks.  I was able 
to run most of my errands without surreptitiously scanning 
men's crotches.
     And, above all that, by Saturday, I realized that I wasn't 
nearly as frightened as I had been.  I seemed to have cut my 
anxiety level way back.  When my daydreams overcame me - 
as they still sometimes did - it was easier to go with the flow, 
relax and enjoy myself.  Instead of having to masturbate 
multiple times every day, once usually sufficed.  While in bed 
with my husband, I had fewer reservations about asking for 
what I wanted.  We both loved that.  His expression, when I 
begged him in the crude terms that got us both off, to take my 
cherry asshole, was priceless.  And he came through like a 
trooper, gently easing us both along at the beginning, and 
accelerating to a mutually crazed frenzy at the spectacular 
climax.

     So, the following Monday, I continued listening to my tape.  
That afternoon, obeying a sly impulse, I got into our supply of 
soft-core porn magazines, flipped to the back pages, and 
giddily made a short list of things I'd always wished we had in 
the bedroom but was too timid to ask for.  A couple of 
vibrating dildoes, some fragrant lubricant, a set of naughty his 
and hers thong underwear, and a pair of outrageous fantasy 
high heels devoured my mad money for the whole month.
     After phoning in my order, I sat back and waited until my 
heart quit pounding.  A glass of ice water washed the metallic 
taste of fear from my mouth.  While my rational side *knew* 
what I'd just done was perfectly sane and healthy, that old 
voice blathered on and on about what a sick and dangerous 
action I'd just taken.  The very rabidity of its tone was proof 
enough that it was nothing more than someone else's moral 
values speaking, not my own.  Whatever I did with my 
husband in the sanctity of our marriage bed was entirely up to 
us, not some corrupt television evangelist or well-intentioned 
though hypocritical parent.
     The rest of the week went much as the last had.  My earth-
shaking orgasms - self-induced and shared with Darren - 
continued to be less and less obsessive, and more and more 
enjoyable.  When men at the grocery store or mall snuck 
peeks at my tits or ass, I let the pleasure they inspired seep 
through me rather than bottle it up in shame.  I was a damned 
good looking woman.  Stares were every bit as natural as 
sunlight.  Why try to turn it into a bad thing when it felt so 
fucking *good* to all parties concerned?
     When I saw the FedX van pull into our driveway Saturday, 
I beat the driver to the front door.  When Darren wondered 
what the package was, I gave him my wettest, wildest kiss, 
and promised him he'd find out that night after Timmy was 
down for the count.  That inspired him to nosiness, just like I 
wanted.  He pestered me all day, giving me vast opportunity 
to keep him on an unrequited sexual high.
     My God, what a night that was!  I tantalized and teased us 
both through lingering foreplay.  Finally, I caved in to his plea 
for my surpise.  After making him wait a while longer, I made 
my appearance, and the most erotic experience of my life 
began.
     I successfully stunned my libertine and liberated hubby 
with my purchases and what I did with them.  He watched me 
with vast, hungry eyes as I spread myself on the floor at the 
foot of his chair, clad in only garters, black hose, and the six 
inch heels.  I thought he'd have a heart attack as I double 
fucked my holes for him on the carpet.  Then, when I lurched 
forward and took his ramrod stiff cock in my mouth, I was 
afraid *I* was the one having the coronary.  I went apoplectic.  
I went into a series of full body spasms and accidentally fell 
down onto his prick, unwittingly deep throating him for the first 
time.  Airtight, I thought crazily.  Three cocks in me.  Three 
men.  Three fountains of cum.  When Darren blew down my 
throat, I lost my last shred of awareness.
     He insisted, the next morning, that we'd fucked for another 
half hour before I'd passed out for good.  As absurd as it 
seemed to me, I'd continued sucking him until he was again 
erect, then impaled myself on his tool, screwing myself in both 
the cunt and ass before collapsing with a shrill, quick scream.  
     I was more amused than frightened.  I was sore between 
my legs, front and rear, my throat ached, and I was deliriously 
happy.  He pointed out my silly grin more than once as the 
day passed, and I rewarded his observation with close hugs 
and contented sighs.
     God, how obtuse I'd been!  My uptight bedroom attitudes 
had deprived us of years of this wonder!
     About sundown, I made another decision.  The next time 
he asked me to consider a threesome, I might come up with a 
new answer.


From maddabbler@hotmail.com Fri Mar 07 10:02:43 1997
     Self Therapy
     Part 2

     The entire weekend was like a second honeymoon.  We 
were moonstruck with one another.  We giggled and fondled 
and played like teenagers.  Even a colicky baby didn't spoil 
the fun.  And the glow endured.  Throughout the week, our 
house smelled like a florist's shop from the arrangements 
Darren brought home.  I found myself crying with sheer joy at 
unpredictable moments.  I'm afraid I spoiled both Timmy and 
Darren rotten with my cooing and cuddling.  Nothing rained on 
our parade.
     Little by little over the following weeks, the intensity of the 
magic wore off, but not the renewed infusion of love and 
lovingness.  We were an even better couple, and even better 
parents.
     I continued my routine jilling off, now with the added 
dimension of my two new lover-toys.  I was never without cock 
if I wanted it.  So what if my daily session sometimes lasted a 
couple of thrilling hours?  And, if my fantasies were still more 
vivid and realistic, what harm could that do?  If I secretly 
chose to pack a latex shaft in my purse for emergency road 
use, who was harmed by it?  Not my backseat baby.  Not my 
hardworking honey.  I was always judicious about rush hour 
and other road hazards, and never once came close to 
disaster.  The only possible fault was that I neglected to tell 
Darren about my newest games.  I didn't *avoid* telling him.  I 
was an all new, free-wheeling Janine when it came to our 
mutual sex life.  It's just that I'd given myself permission to 
have a sex life of my own, too.
     I guess it was about a month after my first little adult 
shopping spree that the urge for more new goodies struck.  
Darren often described a lewd vision of me while we fucked.  
Really, it was just an accessorized version of the begartered 
and stiletto heeled wanton I'd shown him that wonderful 
Saturday evening - and several times since.  In a catalogue, I 
found the perfect shelf bra to match the thong panties, mesh 
hose to accompany the heels, and a scandalous black 
cocktail gown to barely cover the lingerie.  The total tab put 
me more than a little over budget for the month, but there was 
no way Darren was going to regret my impulse buy.  I'd make 
*sure* of that.
     I'd prayed fervently for another Saturday delivery, and 
became a little frantic when it didn't happen my way.  For the 
first time in recent memory, I got bitchy, and my attitude 
carried over into the bedroom later that evening.  In my 
disappointment, I'd imbibed a little more of the vino than was 
usual for me, and mine and Darren's states of mind failed to 
mesh.  He was in a mood for tender and loving, long slow 
kisses and hours of foreplay.  I needed it kinky.  I wanted to 
give my first rim job and try poking my tongue up his sweet 
ass.  I wanted to fuck myself with the heel of my pump and lick 
my juice from it.  I wanted to be tit fucked and have my face 
sprayed with cum.
     But, instead of talking about it, I started an argument about 
something entirely unimportant and unrelated.  I don't even 
remember what it was anymore.  I *do* recall that for the first 
time in over three years, Darren stalked out and slammed the 
door of  the guest bedroom behind him.
     I'd worked myself into a black mood by then.  I blamed him 
for a failing marriage and more bullshit too insipid to mention.  
I decided that what I needed to feel better was more wine.  My 
hangover the next morning informed me just how bad that 
decision was.
     But, for the life of me, I couldn't get rid of my anger.  I 
*knew* I was being totally unfair.  I *knew* that sniping at 
Darren with incessant small-caliber fire was blatantly wrong.  
He tried walking on the proverbial eggs, going far out of his 
way to be inoffensive, and I nailed him anyway.  We ceased 
speaking to one another.  I drove him into the guest room for 
the next three nights running.
     On Wednesday, my package was waiting on the doorstep 
when I got back from having my mini-van serviced.  I almost 
left the baby on the front porch in my frenzy to rip it open.  
Somehow - and it wasn't gracefully - I managed to get Timmy 
to sleep.  Each second before that herculean task was 
accomplished was sheer torture.  I tiptoed from the nursery, 
terrified that he'd wake up, and tried to control my trembling 
until I got to my bedroom.
     My frenzy dissipated as the moment arrived.  I opened the 
package with some kind of strange calm that was almost 
numbness.  I was neat and tidy about it, using scissors 
instead of feral claws.  I carefully spread each item over the 
bed, then went to my closet and brought out the rest of the 
ensemble.  Without thinking about it - without thinking about 
*anything,* I stripped and slowly redressed from the skin out.
     My breath was shallow and quick.  The tightness of the tiny 
dress crushed my rigid nipples, forced my tits to swell over the 
plunging bodice.  The garters tickled my thighs.  The thong 
teased my asshole.  The fetish hosiery felt like a fine wire net 
squeezing my legs into the shape of their preference.  I turned 
to the full length mirror on the closet door.  My tits looked 
huge, my waist waspish.  The band topping the hose showed, 
even while standing.  The slope of the heels made me thrust 
my ass and chest out.  I looked like a whore on parade.
     There.  The word was out.  The "W" word.  Whore.  Not 
slut.  Not cunt.  Those were Darren's words, Darren's 
fantasies.  Whore - that was mine.
     The sight of myself alone was almost orgasmic.  I went and 
fetched the largest of my dildos and returned to the mirror.  I 
watched myself plant my legs apart, and stretch the skirt up to 
my waist.  I saw one hand pull the patch covering my wet cunt 
aside and the other slide the thick pink plastic shaft up and 
down the length of my slick slit.  After just the right amount of 
tantalization, I half closed my eyes and put the prick where it 
belonged.
     As I fucked myself, I watched my face like I'd never seen it 
before.  Hooded deep blue eyes.  Long brown hair, so dark it 
was nearly black.  High, redly flushed cheekbones.  Naturally 
dark lips, so bloated with passion that they couldn't close.  
Fuckable.  Entirely and totally fuckable.  Focused on fucking.  
Built for it.  Born for it.  A whore to pay dearly for.
     Timmy crying over the intercom startled me, stopped me 
after my third or fourth orgasm.  It took me a few sharp, 
ragged breaths to get back into the here-and-now.  I was 
halfway to the bedroom door when it registered that he wasn't 
making Mommy I'm Dying noises, but just letting me know he 
was ready to get out of the crib.  So I went back to the mirror, 
straightened my tousled hair, and picked the dildo up from 
where I'd dropped it.  I loved the wicked gleam in my eye as I 
lasciviously licked it clean.  On a wicked impulse, I got its 
smaller cousin from the closet and slipped it in me, letting the 
tight elastic panties keep it where I wanted it.  The only way I 
could move was in a sway-hipped glide.  I fucked myself with 
every stride.  Obeying another urge, I got Darren's cigarettes 
from his bedside drawer and lit one, breathing the smoke deeply 
into starving lungs.  I'd never heard of a whore who didn't 
smoke.  Then, I went to take care my baby.

     By the time my darling husband got home, I was all 
sweetness and light - and raging hormones, of course.  I was 
in the throes of an abject apology for my unholy bitchiness 
before he was totally inside the house.  My tears were utterly 
real, my sorrow sincere.  After cumming my brains out virtually 
all afternoon, sanity had returned.
     Darren, of course, held me close while I bawled it all out 
and murmured sussurrous forgivenesses interspersed with 
tender kisses.  Which grew in duration and intensity.  Which 
culminated in my eating his dick right there in the foyer.  
Which led to a lovemaking on the living room sofa which was 
better than losing my virginity all over again.  After housely 
chores, we ended the night in a wild, rolling, wrestling sixty-
nine that left us glowing, but exhausted.
     I never got around to mentioning the new package.

     Thursday was mellow and uneventful until Darren got 
home.  Then we continued the "making up" process.  I finally 
got to perform the rim job I'd been salivating for, and it was 
even nastier to do than to think about.  And Darren popped 
the question again.
     Even though I'd been waiting for it, even though I already 
knew what my answer was going to be, I kept him on 
tenterhooks.  But there was a definite tease in my voice when 
I delivered the, "We'll see," and my sharp hubby caught it.  
His surprise was all over his face.  His excitement at the 
possibility was reflected even more vividly elsewhere, which 
evidence I promptly stuffed up my ass.
     "So my baby really, really wants to see momma get fucked 
by somebody's else's big cock, does he?  He wants to watch 
her face while somebody else makes her cum like a cheap 
slut?  Maybe he wants her suck him off while the other guy 
pounds her pussy?  Does he?  Does he want to fuck her slutty 
face and have her take two big loads of hot cum at once?  Or 
does he want to be in her ass, like this, so he could feel the 
other big prick sliding deep into her slimy cunt?  Does he want 
to rub somebody else's dick with his while they're both inside 
me?  Does he want me to be a cock-happy slut for him?  
Humm?"
     I'm afraid I got less coherent after that.  Darren's 
monosyllabic replies pretty much boiled down to "Yes to all of 
the above."
     I'm not sure he really meant it, of course.  In fact, I'm 
almost positive he didn't.  Not all of it.  But *I* sure as hell did.

Every last luscious dirty word of it.

     And then came Friday.  To understate things, it was a 
strange day for me.  From the time I woke up that morning, I 
didn't feel like myself.  I told Darren unnecessary, unplanned 
lies that were out of my mouth before I chose to speak them.  I 
had a string of appointments, I explained, and needed 
Jenna from down the street to sit Timmy.  I might not be home 
until seven or eight.
     Darren was surprised enough to give me more than one 
searching look, but I guess he saw no sign of anything out of 
the ordinary.  No alarms sounded for him.  He shrugged it off 
and rolled with the punch.  My goodbye kiss was designed to 
turn his thoughts in other directions.
     The ever cooperative Jenna arrived minutes after Darren 
was gone.  She and Timmy always got along well, and this 
was no exception.  Within five more minutes, I was alone.
     I savored two cigarettes and sipped a glass of wine as I 
bathed.  I shaved myself sleek, cutting my public thatch back 
to a brief, dark exclamation point above my cunnie.  I applied 
a washable black hair tint that'd been laying around since last 
Halloween.  After the bath, I plucked my brows into a new, 
narrower arc above my eyes.  I glued tips to my nails, shaped 
them and enameled them a dark scarlet.  I smoked and 
worked on my makeover for over two and a half hours, then 
slipped into my clothes.  I emptied the box of seldom used 
condoms from my bedside table into a clasp purse.  I added 
cigarettes and the makeup I'd need.  I took no cash, no ID.
     I posed for the mirror, checking out the final product.  
Perfect.  Fucking perfect in every detail.  I wondered how 
much money I was going to make today.

     At six that evening, the door closed behind the last one.  I 
didn't stir on the hotel room bed.  I admired the lipstick scar on 
my cigarette filter.  Not letting any of them kiss me had been a 
bizarre rush.  Taking their money - all three hundred and fifty 
dollars of it - had been wilder still.  Best of all had been the 
raw, uninhibited, no holds barred fucking.  If it didn't leave 
marks, it was okay with me.  Visible marks, that is.
     I groaned and rolled off the stained sheets.  Time to clean 
this cum soaked whore up, repaint the hooker face and get 
home.  Act like all this was especially for him - a surprise gift 
from a cooperative wife.  Go home and fuck his wheels off.  
He'd go ape-shit.  He'd fuck me till his eyes rolled back in his 
head.  I'd teasingly show him just how nasty his sloppy slut 
could be.  I'd tell him about the four tricks I'd just turned from 
the hotel bar.
     He'd know it was a fantasy I made up just for him.  
     Then, bright and early Monday, I'd go buy some hot new 
whore's weeds.  Fuck-me red, this time, from toe to lips.  And 
maybe, with the money that outfit earned me, a blonde wig.  I 
knew that'd be a kick in the cunt.  And, after that, who knew?
     And, in the next week or so, I'd give Darren the great news.  
"Honey, I've been thinking about it.  If you really want me too,  
sometime maybe we could go to a club.  I could dress up in that 
new outfit.  You could sit at a table.  I'd go to the bar, and, well, 
we could see what happens."