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 (2/2) 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." -- Story Submission: Moderator Contact: Newsgroup FAQ: Archive site (could be better):