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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."
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