I wish I could write this letter to dr. Phil, and that he would take me to his show.
Heavens, no. I'd be millions too shy to go there, and I would hate for my 'problem' to become public knowledge. I could never face my neighbours, knowing that they knew what I have done, and I could never risk my teaching career. I am sure I would not have a career; I am sure I wouldn't even have a job. Yet, I should love an outspoken, matter-of-fact psychologist like dr. Phil to tell me, what is wrong with me. Why I have changed so much. Of course I know the mechanics of it, I just don't understand myself.
You see, up till three months ago I was your all-American typical housewife and mum. God, I was so typical it almost hurt. I was good-looking in that clean, suburban fashion: Blonde, curly hair (with the aid of my hairdresser), a fine figure formed in the gym and without much damage from a childbirth; always a kind smile on my face, be it in church or in school. Happily married to my high school sweetheart, the moment we both had finished our college educations. Oh, boy, was I in love. He was such a sweet, handsome, and romantic boy. Whenever I saw him I turned into jelly and bubbles, and all I wanted was to kiss him, hold him, and love him.
We got married, and those first 18 months were sheer Heaven. I could hardly wait for Jim to get home every day. My teaching job let me off 3 or 4 hours earlier than Jim, and when I finally heard his car in the driveway, I was tingling all over. If he had had a hard day, I would pamper him, caress him, serve him his tea and feed him cookies with my lips. If he had had a good day, his strong embrace would make me swoon and my pussy run. If I had had a hard day, he would cradle my head on his shoulder and tell me how I could outshine any of the pretty flowers in our garden, or he would point to a bird flying by, and whisper how he wanted to grow wings, so he could fly me to all the prettiest places in the world and make love to me there.
Our house was number 9 on the little road, and between us we would refer to it as 'cloud 9'. Then I got pregnant. We were ecstatic. The pregnancy was even better than the preceding 18 months. Jim made me feel beautiful and cherished, even when we came to the point where I felt more like an old elephant.
Giving birth to Ann-Marie was a shocking experience. I had never dreamed it would be so hard, hurt so much, and last that long. I am sorry to admit, that for the first three days of her life, I did not feel any of that heavenly, motherly love, I had read so much about. I hurt all over, I was tired to the bones, and I was still numbed by the shock. I fed her, when the nurses brought her to me, but I was just as happy when they took her away. On the fourth morning I more or less woke up, like out of a bad dream. I could see how pretty Ann-Marie was, and for the first time I felt love for the little creature clinging to my swollen breasts.
When we got back home from the hospital, I realised for the first time, what a time- and energy-consuming little thing she was. I had taken a one-year leave from my job, but still I was infinitely more exhausted, just taking care of Ann-Marie. My mind and my body were totally focused on that sweet, smiling, and lively baby. Gone were the bubbles when Jim came home, and the only jelly in my knees was, when Ann-Marie woke up at 3 in the morning, demanding to be fed. Poor Jim. He was so sweet and patient it almost hurt. "Take your time, love. Of course she's a strain on you."
When Ann-Marie was 4 months old, I felt so sorry for Jim that I initiated our first lovemaking since the little devil joined our family. I could not believe we were the same two people, in the same bed, who had painted heaven and happiness on the walls, only 5 months earlier. Where were the bubbles? Where was that all- consuming feeling of love and togetherness? It was by far our lousiest fuck, ever. He did not complain, but I knew Jim was disappointed, and I was ashamed and felt, I let him down.
I should have liked to get some advice from my mother, but she is not a woman to talk about sex. A couple of colleagues from school visited me to see Ann-Marie, and jokingly I brought up the subject.
"Yeah, my Stine cut off all my need for sex, too. I think she was more than a year old before I needed sex the first time."
"Would you believe it: I was so horny, I had to have Peter lick me out the night before Annie was born, and then: Slam, bang, not once over the next 9 months was my pussy any wetter than Sahara."
Well. At least it was a comfort to know, I was not the only one, and they advised me to bee good to Jim. A little acting was OK, they said, as long as I felt sure I still loved him. "For heavens sake, don't cut him off, Linda. He might be tempted out there, and you wouldn't want that, would you?"
Next afternoon Helga returned with a small gift. "Look, dear, this is a water-based exploration créme. You'll never convince him that you like it, if your pussy is dry. Go to the bathroom, just before you go to bed, and push a small squirt up your vagina. He'll never know it's not your own juice. Once it starts seeping out of you, it'll even taste a bit like it."
We actually survived the next 8 months this way. I became pretty good at acting the sexy wife, and Jim was pretty happy, although not ecstatic, with the sex he got.
When I finally felt the first tinges of lust, I was in for yet another surprise. I mean, it was only natural that I felt like a whore, as long as the sex I provided was only fake, but I had no idea how much this attitude had changed me. All I had ever tried, sexwise, was that supernatural, romantic, in love, good-girl, sex. And it had worked perfectly for me! I loved Jim beyond reason, and invariably I would have one or two orgasms, when we made love. And I did not have to 'work' for them.
Now the bubbles and the jelly had disappeared. Do not get me wrong: In just a week, I loved it. Jim was still my handsome high school sweet heart, and he was not at all a bad lover. My pussy would snap for his cock, and I would tingle all over, when it entered me. But my orgasms did not appear out of the blue. I guess I would have one for every 5 fucks.
I read a couple of manuals on marital sex, but in general I felt, that only the advice to be more active had any relevance to me. So I did become more active, and it worked very well for both of us. The first time I rubbed my clit while Jim fucked me, he got so horny that he was a millisecond from coming on me, before I was ready. It really excited him to watch me masturbate, and one night he grabbed my hand and held it to his cock. "Use this one, he'll love it." Jim took up position between my legs, at a right angle, and his fine cock was really handy as a masturbation tool. That made me very horny, and I rubbed myself through three orgasms on his cockhead. Poor Jim. His cock was so sore, he had the biggest trouble coming, when it became his turn, and next morning we had to cover him with Vaseline and gauze, trying to heal his sore and worn head.
All through this revitalisation of our sexlife, I still deeply and truly loved Jim, and I am absolutely sure that his feelings were the same. He was a lovely and devoted father and husband, and when the time came for me to return to teaching, he was promoted in his company, and he told me I could take another year's leave, if I wanted to. And sure, I wanted to stay at home with Ann-Marie and my Jim.
As our 3rd anniversary was approaching, we had started using fantasies in our lovemaking. Jim printed out different erotic (pornographic) stories from the net. Some of them we found repulsive, but others would ignite fires and desires. Jim's parents wanted to give us a splendid gift for our 3rd anniversary. One week in a luxury hotel in Jamaica, while they would take care of Ann-Marie. "Say yes," my mother in law whispered to me. "Believe me, I remember how it was, when Jim was that age. You two really need a little time all by yourselves to find, what you had when you were alone."
We discussed his parents' proposal. It took us a little less than five minutes to agree, it was a perfect idea. Ken and Lilly (Jim's parents) woke us up early on the day, handed us the tickets, kissed us good-bye, and drove off with a laughing Ann-Marie in the back seat. By ten o'clock we were in the air, by four o'clock we had been picked up in the airport and taken to our hotel, ten miles out of Kingston Town. We were installed in a wonderful two-room suite overlooking the sea, TV in both rooms, refrigerated bar, a huge bathroom with showers and a Jacuzzi, and muted reggae music from the loudspeakers, which the bellboy showed us how to turn up and down.
The bellboy had barely left us when there was a knock at the door. "Room service." He rolled in a butler's tray, carrying a bottle of champagne in a cooler, a bowl of freshly washed strawberries, and a card saying: "Have a good time. We will. Lilly, Ken, and Ann-Marie."
It was all very romantic, and posh beyond anything we had tried before. We turned off the air-con, opened the balcony doors, quickly stripped and had a cool shower. God how I enjoyed it. Nothing to disturb us for ages, sitting naked in the warm breeze, which made the curtains, flow like waves, sipping champagne and eating cooled strawberries. I felt pampered and pretty, and the way my husband ogled me, told me I was.
"Sorry, I didn't think about it. I should have brought some of the naughty stories. Right now would be a perfect moment for me to read one loud for you." Jim was one big, bright smile when I turned to look at him. Actually that big smile sent a flash of lust through my body, just as much as his words about a naughty story.
.... There is more of this story ...