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."