Addicted (2 page)

Stephen had
supplied me with dozens of photographs of Becky as she'd been too
busy to come for the sittings. I hated working from photographs,
but I had no choice. The light was wrong, the feel wrong and, more
often than not, I was appalled by the finished product. But I was
never satisfied with my work. I was an artist who couldn't
paint.

This
particular commission was important, however. Unless I finished the
painting, I'd not only be letting myself down, but Tony. I was
already past the deadline and the Blue Lady appeared as no more
than a misty apparition on the canvas. But now, with Tony home, I'd
be able to forge ahead with her, I thought optimistically.

Deciding to
distract Tony as he again asked me about the painting, turn his
thoughts away from my failing, I pushed the quilt back and rested
my head on his firm stomach. His pussy-wet penis swelled in my
hand, answering my call, responding to my intimate attention.
Pulling his foreskin back, I took his purple plum into my mouth and
gently sucked. Tony let out a long, low moan, his body becoming
rigid, his warm stomach rising and falling with his panting.
"Nice?" I murmured, slipping his swelling glans out of my hot
mouth.

"Mmm," he
moaned, his shaft twitching expectantly. "Very!"

Taking his
glistening globe to the back of my throat, I savoured the heady,
aphrodisiacal blend of my vaginal milk and his sperm. Kneading his
heavy balls, I moved my head up and down, repeatedly enveloping his
glans between my lips and then taking him deep into my wet mouth.
God, how I'd missed him!

His shaft
twitching, his balls rolling, I knew he was close to his climax as
I swept my tongue over his throbbing glans. Breathing deeply, he
gripped my head, thrusting his hips and driving his penis deep into
my mouth as he gasped in his pleasure. His body tensed, he came,
pumping his sperm over my tongue, filling my cheeks with his male
cream. Savouring his heady offering, I swallowed hard, not wasting
a drop of his love juice until I'd drained him, sucked the very
life out of him.

"God, that was
good!" he gasped, his entire body twitching uncontrollably as I ran
my tongue round his sensitive glans.

Provocatively
licking the sperm from my lips, I smiled. "You taste nice; I could
drink from your cock for hours on end."

"It's good to
be home, Helen," he murmured, running his fingertips over my naked
shoulders, sending delightful tingles down my spine.

As I lay with
my head on his fast pulsing stomach, fondling his flaccid penis,
retracting his foreskin, an all-embracing calm swept over me - a
strange, enveloping calm that completely engulfed me, brought me a
sense of relief that I'd never before known. John had definitely
been right, I thought happily. My symptoms had been psychosomatic -
I'd missed Tony far more than I'd realized! Somehow, my
subconscious must have reacted, causing tightening in my chest,
wild flutterings in my heart.

But what would
happen the next time Tony went away? I wondered to the drumming of
his easing pulse. My pride wouldn't let me tell him what had
happened to me. The last thing I wanted to become was the lonely
little wife who ruined her husband's career because she couldn't
stand to be parted from him! Perhaps, understanding what was
happening to me, I could somehow combat the anxiety, the panic.

Until Tony's
next trip, I was fine. Even though he worked long hours, I suppose
it was knowing that he'd be home each night that kept the
frightening symptoms at bay. After a day or two I began to forget
the way I'd felt, not only putting it all behind me but convincing
myself that it hadn't happened.

When Tony came
home on the Friday night and announced that he was flying to Paris
again first thing Monday morning, my stomach sank - churned. But I
tried to take a grip on myself, to think about my art - The Blue
Lady. Another couple of days, maybe three, and she'd be finished.
Yes, I'd concentrate solely on my work.

After a
weekend of glorious sex, Tony left in his taxi and I wandered back
into the house, this time with a different outlook - bright,
summery bright. In my studio, I looked at The Blue Lady. There was
an uncanny serenity about her, her expression, and I was pleased -
no, proud - that I'd managed to portray that important feature from
the photographs.

Switching the
stereo on, keen to get into my work, I made my way to the kitchen
and filled the kettle for coffee. It was going to be a good day, a
good week, I could sense it. I vowed that The Blue Lady would be
finished by the time Tony returned. It was important to me, not
only as an artist, but because I felt that I needed to pay my way.
I'd always dreaded the notion of the little housewife who cooked,
cleaned and was financially dependant on her husband. Ego? Yes, I
suppose you could say there was an element of egotism.

The first two
days following Tony's departure went well, with The Blue Lady
nearing completion and no sign of my weird symptoms surfacing from
the deep. Calm waters - mill pond waters. The calm before the
storm? It was Wednesday morning as I climbed out of bed and took a
shower that I sensed that something was wrong. I couldn't put my
finger on it, it was just a feeling, a knowing, that panic was
near, lurking - watching me. Rain clouds gathering.

I decided to
deny my feelings and carry on with my work. I wouldn't let them get
the better of me - destroy what I'd hoped to be completion day for
The Blue Lady. She looked out at me from the canvas as if she knew
how I really felt. I imagined that she did - better than me.
Returning her gaze, I noticed a strange glint in her eye, a
mysterious glint that began to annoy me. She was almost alive.

I worked all
day, not even stopping for lunch or a cup of coffee. By
mid-afternoon my hands were trembling and my heart palpitating
wildly. But I forged on regardless, determined to complete the
painting if it was the last thing I did.

By the
evening, I was a complete wreck - trembling, breathing unsteadily,
pacing the studio floor. I felt anger, aggression - not towards the
painting, but towards myself. Why was I allowing these alien
feelings my space? Why couldn't I just shake them off and take a
grip on myself? I rang John, babbling that I was climbing the
walls, that my mind was blowing away.

"Come and see
me tomorrow," he said cheerfully. "I'll give you a thorough check
up, blood test, the works."

"And if you
find nothing physically wrong?"

"Well, I...
let's wait and see."

"What if you
find nothing physically wrong?" I persisted, fear gripping me -
fear of going crazy.

"We'll take it
from there. Look at the symptoms from a different perspective."

"A psychiatric
perspective, you mean?"

He hesitated
before forcing a laugh. "No, not necessarily! Remember that you're
an artist, Helen. Artists, writers, musicians - they're all pretty
strange creatures at times."

"Strange?"

"Well,
different. They live in a world of their own; they have no concept
of time. You told me that you're under pressure to finish a
painting. Perhaps it's your artistic temperament coming out,
causing you to..."

In my anger, I
banged the phone down. Strange? Artistic temperament? My palms were
dripping with perspiration, my heart thumping ten to the dozen. All
right, I missed Tony, but not that much! Not enough to almost send
me over the edge! And it certainly had nothing to do with the
pressure of work.

At the surgery
the following morning I did my best not to appear neurotic. After
giving me a thorough examination, John reiterated that everything
appeared to be in perfect working order. But to make sure, he took
a blood test. By then, I was convinced that he put my condition
down to mental instability. But I didn't argue, keeping my cool
when he suggested that a holiday could work wonders for me.

Back home, I
sat in the garden beneath the lilac tree, trying to calm myself, to
relax, to deny the overwhelming waves of panic crashing over me. I
couldn't work - restless, fidgety, nervy, it was all I could do to
cling to sanity. When the phone rang, I dashed into the house,
hoping to hear Tony's comforting voice.

"The blood
test results are through already," John announced proudly.

"I should
think so, they cost me enough!" I snapped. I knew he didn't deserve
my nastiness.

"Er, yes. Anyway, there appears to be nothing wrong with
you..." He broke off, obviously deciding not to add the word
physically
.

"Oh, then
we'll put it down to the pressure of work and my weird mental
state, which is perfectly acceptable because I'm a strange artist!"
I returned with more than a hint of sarcasm.

"Helen, listen
to me," John sighed. "I knew what your reaction would be so I've
contacted a good friend of mine, Doctor Harvey. He's the
progressive type, somewhat unorthodox in his approach, and I
believe it might be worth your while chatting with him."

"He'd better
not be a shrink!"

"No, of course
he's not. I'll arrange for you to see him."

My heart began
palpitating again. "When?" I asked, rather too urgently -
neurotically.

"Tomorrow.
I'll ring and confirm your appointment after I've spoken to
him."

"If he's a
shrink, John, I'll..."

"I'll ring you
later, Helen."

Deciding to
take a look at The Blue Lady, I wandered into my studio. Lifting
the cloth, unveiling her face, I froze. What on earth had I done to
her? Gone was that menacing, mysterious glint in her eyes. In its
place was a new look - a demented one - in smudges of various hues.
What kind of state could I have been in the previous evening to
destroy my precious work?

Collapsing
onto my old Chesterfield, I shielded my eyes from the painting, the
tears running down my quivering fingers as I sobbed uncontrollably.
I'd eliminated The Blue Lady's disconcerting gaze - and destroyed
her in the process! I did need help - psychiatric help!

As the phone
rang, I took my hands away from my tear-streaked face and looked at
the receiver. Checking my watch, I knew it would be Tony - but I
couldn't speak to him. He'd realize instantly that something was
wrong. I didn't want to have to explain, to tell him that I'd lost
it, blown my mind.

The trill of
the phone continued, becoming torturous as the minutes passed. Tony
would be wondering where I was, what I was doing, but I couldn't
lift the receiver. Finally driving me wild, I leaped up and swung
my arm, knocking the phone to the floor with my clenched fist like
a woman possessed. I wondered whether I was possessed as I fled my
studio and ran out into the garden.

John had been
right - Doctor Harvey certainly was unorthodox! Wearing John Lennon
glasses, long, brown hair reminiscent of a pot-smoking sixties
hippy, and a beard, I'd have expected to see him with an electric
guitar hanging from his neck rather than a stethoscope. He
questioned me for an age, asking about my work, my tastes in music
and literature - my sex life. The intimate details about my sex
life were rather too intimate for my liking! It crossed my mind
that he was enjoying himself as he leaned forward, focusing on my
billowing blouse as he listened eagerly. Male thoughts of sex.

I suppose
there was no point in him examining me as John had done that, but I
didn't like his Freudian approach. I imagined that he was thinking
me mad, insane. He assured me that he wasn't a psychiatrist and,
for some inexplicable reason, I believed him.

"Sex!" Mrs
Hunter, he finally announced as if in way of a conclusion. "You're
addicted to sex."

I didn't know
whether to laugh or cry! I'd spent the best part of two hours with
him, and he says I'm addicted to sex! What could I say? There was
no answer to that ridiculous statement, apart from suggesting he
lay off the cannabis! I was about to leave him to what I imagined
to be his drug-induced dreams when he began opening the desk
drawers.

"I had it here
somewhere," he mumbled, rummaging through crumpled sheets of
paper.

"What?" I
asked, raising my eyebrows and counting to ten, wondering where he
was coming from.

"The paper I
wrote for... oh well, never mind." He slammed the drawers shut and
looked up at me. "Try it."

"Try
what?"

"My theory,
put it to the test. When your husband's home and you've had sex,
see how you feel. Trying denying yourself sex when he's home and
see what happens."

"See what
happens?" I echoed, ready to bonk him on his head with my clenched
fist.

That evening I
felt terrible, worse than ever. I was short of breath, anxious
beyond belief, my head ached, my eyes hurt from hours of
frowning... I was a mental disaster! Again, I didn't answer the
phone. Tony would have been going out of his mind with worry, but I
couldn't bring myself to speak to him. I'd call him later, I
decided, when I felt better. Although I knew in my heart of hearts
that I wouldn't feel better.

I finally went to bed, convinced that I needed psychiatric
help - and wondering how to tell Tony that I'd completely gone off
the rails, lost it, fallen out of my tree. As I lay on my pillow
with the curtains blowing in the breeze, the moon bathing me in its
silvery light, I pondered on Doctor Harvey's words.
Addicted to sex
. It did
fit in with my weird attacks, I reflected - the way I'd felt when
Tony was away, the amazing calm after the sex we'd
enjoyed.

Addicted to sex
. The words wouldn't
leave my mind. Words fluttering on the wind, floating, drifting.
But the notion was ludicrous! Tony and I had a good sex life,
frequent and varied, but I wasn't addicted to sex! What
was
sex? I began to
wonder. What was it about sex that I could possible have become
addicted to? Orgasm, I decided. There was nothing else about the
sexual act that could be described as addictive. So, I pondered, it
would be pretty easy to discover whether orgasm was the answer to
my problems.