X-Archived-At: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: From: maddabbler@hotmail.com (The Mad Dabbler) Subject: Self-Therapy (1/2) 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. -- Story Submission: Moderator Contact: Newsgroup FAQ: Archive site (could be better):