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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.

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