Sex Addict 22

Sex Addict

by Pan

Chapter 1

Saya's heart almost broke when she caught her son crying.

He'd been trying to hide it, but she'd been passing his room and noticed his room was closed. Always a bad sign, when your teenage son has his door closed, and so Saya had acted without thinking, bursting in, prepared to berate Adnan for whatever sinful thing he was doing behind closed doors.

But he wasn't doing pot or smoking cigarettes; he was on his bed, clutching a pillow, tears streaming down his face.

"Mom!" he cried out, turning away, but - ignoring her son's objections - Saya crossed the room and held her son tight. After a moment of resistance, he allowed himself to be hugged and comforted by his mother for the first time since puberty had struck.

His sobs eventually subsided as she stroked his hair, and gently asked: "What happened, sweetie?"

Adnan sniffled quietly. "Nothing."

Saya gripped her son tighter. He was proud, like his father, although he hadn't inherited any of his athleticism. Saya's husband was tall, with a thick beard and a naturally muscular frame. Adnan, meanwhile, had always been a little short and skinny.

If she was being honest, Saya would have admitted that he was more than a little spoiled; she'd never forced him into team sports, and even though he was still a teenager, he'd already developed the beginnings of a belly.

She probed further. "You can tell me, paşam. Is it a girl?"

Adnan didn't say anything, just shook his head. She kissed his forehead, before freezing.

"A...boy?"

Saya was only thirty-five; even in her own high school days, there had been gay students. She'd even been friends with some of them. But none of them had been Turkish, and she knew that if her son was...like that...he had a difficult path ahead of him.

"No," he spat, and Saya felt guilty at how relieved she was.

"What is it, bir tanim? Tell me."

Adnan pulled away, suddenly awkward. "It's Darren..."

Saya's entire body slumped. Of course. She should've known.

Darren was the school bully. He wasn't violent - he never hit anyone - but he had earned a reputation among the mothers of the school for his cutting words. Adnan's best friend was a boy called Jamie, and Saya was close with his mother. Kathryn had confided in her that Darren had tormented her son for a while, though she'd never shared exactly the exact subject of his harassment.

About a month ago, it had stopped, though Saya had never gotten the full story. She made a mental note to ask Kathryn exactly what she'd done to resolve it.

Her son's eyes were red. "I'm sorry..."

The words caught in Saya's throat. "It's not your fault, darling," she said softly. "We're outsiders here, and..."

Adnan threw her a look. "Mom, it's not the 90's. No one cares that my grandma is from Turkiye."

Saya's cheeks went slightly red at the admonishment. "So what is he saying?"

Her son's complexion matched her own. "I don't want to tell you."

With a sigh, she put her hand on Adnan's shoulder and looked him in the eye. "If I'm going to help you with this, I need to know what he's saying."

Adnan tried to shrug off her hand, but Saya refused to budge. She could see the shame in his eyes.

"Paşam, we can fix this. But I need to know everything."

When her son replied, it was in a strangled voice. "It was about you."

Saya's eyes widened, but she held firm. "What did he say?"

"He said...Mom, it's embarrassing."

"I need to know."

Adnan's gaze fell to the side, and his voice was small.

"He said you were a sex addict."

Saya's hand fell to her side. Her son's last two words hit her like a hammer, resonating through her body like an earthquake.

All the air left Saya's lungs; she felt her legs go weak, and it took several moments for the room to stop spinning.

"W-what?" she finally gasped, and her son looked at her, concerned.

"Your face is grey..."

She ignored his concern, grabbing his shoulders, tighter than before.

"What did Darren say about me?"

"I didn't want to tell you," her son replied, shifting uncomfortably under her gaze.

"Say it," she insisted, and he looked her in the eyes and said it again.

"He said you were a sex addict."

When Saya's husband got home that night, he was immediately accosted by his wife. She was shorter than him by almost two feet; her hair was long and brown, and she was slight in build, with a narrow nose and bright green eyes. Aside from her (lack of) height, her most prominent feature was her full chest, which she worked hard to hide beneath her clothes.

They'd met during his undergraduate years, when she was still in high-school, and they'd fallen in love quickly. As soon as Saya had graduated, they'd gotten married. They had two children together, and even though her husband was secular, he'd allowed his children to be raised in Islam, assuming - correctly - that it wouldn't stick.

He was a thoroughly Westernised Turk, but both their families had been overjoyed by their union. Her husband had never considered himself Muslim, but after meeting his wife, he'd been happy to compromise, and now went to mosque with the rest of the family, though he didn't pray five times a day or give zakat.

Saya, meanwhile, was still heavily religious. And so her husband was thoroughly surprised by the words that came out of her mouth.

"Sevgilim," she said, eyes wide, brow furrowed. "Do you think I'm a sex addict?"

He rubbed his forehead. "Of course not, my sun."

Saya stared at him, and he stared back.

Finally, she spoke, her voice shaky. "Are you sure?"

"Why would you ask such a thing? It doesn't make sense. You're not a sex addict."

Saya nodded, but something about her expression told him that she wasn't convinced. There was a long pause, and a smile crept across his face. "Is this your way of asking if I want to..."

She'd been lost in thought, but at his words her attention was back on her husband. "Do you want to?"

He cocked his head to the side. "I wouldn't say no. Are the kids home?"

Saya didn't answer, just took her husband's hand and led him the bedroom. It didn't matter if they were home or not. All that mattered was that they could. She could have sex.

She didn't remember ever wanting it so much.

After they were done, Saya's husband rolled to the side and disposed of the condom before pulling his wife in for a cuddle. She was naked, her large tits free and exposed; his hand moved down to cup them comfortably. After almost twenty years of marriage, he'd never gotten tired of his wife's body, and she felt the same way about his.

"Anything else happen today?"

She turned to face him and smiled. "No," she answered without hesitation.

Returning her smile, he pressed his lips against hers and kissed her deeply. He had no way of knowing that despite the fact that he'd just taken her, despite the fact that they'd cum in unison, she still felt empty. Unsatisfied.

That, given the chance, she could have gone again, and again, and again, and again...

Sex addict.

Sex

addict.

Sex

addict

.

Sex addict.

Over the next week, the two words ran through Saya's head again and again.

When she'd gotten married, Saya had been a virgin. Not due to lack of interest; she'd been an early bloomer, and though she'd always dressed modestly, it had taken her some time to learn how to completely hide her breasts. Now, if she stood side-by-side with someone like Kathryn, an observer would assume that her blonde friend had the largest chest - especially since she'd increasingly been dressing to show it off.

Only Saya (and her husband) knew that the small Turkish woman was at least two cup sizes larger.

But Saya's family were devoutly religious, and she knew that premarital sex was haram. Also, most of the interest she'd attracted had been from men that she had no interest in - leering older white men, or young Turks who were trying too hard to be cool and edgy.

When she'd finally met her husband, it had all been worth it. She'd been able to offer him her virginity on their wedding night, and they'd had sex often since then.

But now, those feelings of satisfaction she'd felt had been replaced by a deep, dark anxiety.

Was she a

sex addict

?

She couldn't be. She wasn't promiscuous. She was faithful, and never cheated on her husband. She'd never so much as looked at another man. And while she and her husband had an active sex life, it wasn't...unhealthy.

Was it?

There was something about the words that had felt so incredibly true. As soon as they'd fallen from her son's mouth, they'd resonated...sex addict.

Saya was a sex addict.

She tried to deny it. She tried to cast the words out of her mind, to push them away, to focus on the everyday tasks that came with being a mother and an active member of the local community.

But every time she passed a mirror, she stared at herself. Was she as she seemed, a chaste, respectful, conservatively-clad mother and wife?

Or was she a sex addict in disguise?

Once the idea was in her head, there was no shaking it. Since hearing the words of her son's bully...whenever her husband so much as glanced at her sideways, she all but pounced on him. They had more sex in the space of a week than they had in the previous month.

Her husband was a generous lover. She'd heard tales from other women about their experiences, how their men were quick to finish, wouldn't take care of their wives needs and only cared about their own.

But her husband was different. He ensured that she came, sometimes multiple times. He knew exactly how to touch her, how to please her, how to bring her to climax. Saya had never felt shame about their sex life: she'd waited until marriage, she'd only had sex with her husband, and it wasn't sinful to enjoy sex in the marital bedroom.

But now...now, it felt like her desire for him was wrong. She came so much, surely that wasn't normal. She came so easily.

Surely only sex addicts orgasmed the way she did, clutching the bed sheets as her entire body shook with pleasure. Surely only addicts craved a man's touch the way Saya craved her husband's, and came so intensely whenever he filled her.

Surely, there was something wrong with her.

Especially since once they were done, once she'd been brought to multiple body-quaking climaxes...she still wasn't satisfied.

After her husband came inside her, after her whole body ached from the pleasure he'd brought her, she still wanted more.

More.

By the end of the week, it was the only thing she could think about. When she was awake, when she was asleep. It was like she was possessed.

She was a sex addict. Her urges weren't normal, couldn't be normal. Every part of her body ached for her husband, for a man's touch...for a man's gaze.

That was when she knew something was truly wrong. Saya had always dressed modestly, wearing outfits that were entirely suitable for a devout Muslim woman: loose-fitting and concealing, with no cleavage, and no skin showing except her face, hands and feet.

Now, it felt unnatural. It felt wrong to be covered.

She wanted to show off the gifts that she'd been blessed with. Her husband was the only man who'd ever seen her chest, but while out shopping with Kathryn, she felt a sudden surge of jealousy. The blonde woman was dressed to draw attention: her cleavage was prominent, her top was tight and her jeans were so skinny that they clung to her legs, emphasizing the firmness of her ass...and not only was her behavior acceptable, it was rewarded.

Everywhere they went, heads turned. Men stopped in their tracks, staring at Kathryn's ample breasts. Saya watched their expressions and wished, wished, wished that she could experience what her friend was experiencing. She wanted nothing more than to dress so provocatively, to have every man's gaze turn to her, watch her body in the way they watched Kathryn's.

She'd never craved the attention of another man before, but suddenly it was all she could think about. Her desires weren't natural.

She was a sex addict.

The moment the thought crossed her mind, Saya felt intense guilt. She wanted to be a good wife. A good mother. A good Muslim. She knew that these urges were wrong, that she had to be faithful. To her husband, to her beliefs. Her entire body ached with the urge to show off her form, to dress in something that displayed her generous cleavage to the world, but she knew that she couldn't.

She

wouldn't

.

She was stronger than this.

That night, when her husband returned, Saya practically tore his clothes off. Their children were out, and the moment Saya saw him she was overcome by a desperate, primal urge.

They didn't even make it to the bedroom.

Her spouse had never been a man to deny her; he took her, right there on the sofa, her clothes pulled aside, her dress pushed up, exposing her. It was so easy to imagine others watching her, other men taking in her body, their gazes lingering on her exposed breasts.

"Saya, you feel incredible," he moaned, and Saya cried out as her body exploded. Her entire world went white, her muscles tensed as her body was rocked by an intense climax. In her mind's eye, she was dressed as Kathryn had been, everyone seeing that the small Muslim woman was even curvier, even bustier...

They all wanted her.

And she wanted them.

It wasn't until after his own orgasm that Saya's husband realized his wife was crying. "Sevgilim," he muttered, drawing her close. "What...what's wrong?"

She didn't have the words to explain. She was so filled with shame, so overwhelmed. There was something wrong with her.

She was a sex addict.

Sex addict.

Her husband's grip was tight, and she clutched at him as she sobbed. "Seni seviyorum," he said, his voice soft. She wanted to tell him what was on her mind, but she knew that he wouldn't understand. He wouldn't understand the wicked thoughts that had been running through her head. He wouldn't understand her sudden urges, the overwhelming need to expose herself. How much she craved sex, every day. All day.

And he especially wouldn't understand that even after their union, even after she'd gotten exactly what she wanted...she still wasn't satisfied.

"It's okay," he whispered, kissing her hair, her face. When his lips found her, she was unable to resist.

"Again," she moaned. He looked concerned at first, but she insisted. "Please," she begged, her voice low with need. "Please, my love, I need you..."

They made love again, and this time Saya was the aggressor, pushing her husband down and taking control. She'd never been so forceful before, never felt the urge, the compulsion, the need, to use her body to pleasure him. She could tell that he was surprised, but he didn't object - he just lay back as she rode him.

She came again and again, riding him until every muscle in her body ached. And when he finished inside her a second time, she just lay next to her husband, her breathing heavy, her body aching.

She felt empty. Even though - for the first time in years - they hadn't used a condom, and she could quite literally feel her husband inside her, she felt empty.

He kissed her gently, and asked her: "What is it, my sun?"

Saya forced a watery smile to her face and turned to him. "It's nothing," she lied, not wanting to explain her troubles. She'd already told him what the problem was, and he'd dismissed it. He would never believe her.

He would never understand.

After kissing her again, Saya's husband pulled her close. She wasn't satisfied, not even close, but she knew she couldn't seduce her husband for a third time without him getting suspicious.

And even if she had been able to, she knew it wouldn't help.

She was a sex addict.

Over the next week, Saya's guilt never left her. The urges were constant, persistent: she was talking to a neighbour, and her mind wandered to the idea of revealing herself to him, to showing off the body that she knew he had no idea she was concealing. She was shopping with her daughter, and her gaze was drawn to a display of lacy underwear. Her mind went to the gutter as she imagined herself in the garments, and what her husband would think if he could see her in them.

But the worst moment was when - for the first time in her marriage - Saya found herself lusting after a man other than her husband.

She was driving past a construction site, and her eyes were drawn to the workers, all shirtless, sweating, muscles glistening. Saya almost lost control of the car, her gaze locked on their exposed chests, the way the sun highlighted their muscles. It was so easy to imagine herself pulling over, marching into the middle of them. She wanted to strip naked and dance in front of them, let them watch her, work them up until their desire overtook them, and they had to have her...not one at a time, not to make love with her as her husband did.

But all at once. For all of the men to use her, to fill her, to take her, again and again, until she was dripping with their cum...

As soon as the thought entered her mind, Saya's blood ran cold.

What was she thinking?

She was a married woman, a mother. She'd never cheated on her husband. The very idea that she'd suddenly want to engage in group sex was sheer insanity.

She was a sex addict.

She didn't want any of this. She just wanted to be a good wife. She just wanted to be a good Muslim.

The urges only increased in strength. Saya had never masturbated in her life; whenever she and her husband were alone, she was all over him, desperate for the kind of release that only he could provide.

But it wasn't enough. Even with her husband taking her every day, even with using his condom-clad erection (after the second time in the living-room, they'd been careful to always use protection) to get off as many times as she could, it wasn't enough.

Saya wanted more. She

needed

more.

Whenever she was alone, her hand kept straying. First to her breasts, then between her legs. She'd never touched herself before, and the first time she did, the sudden shock of pleasure was too much for her. She couldn't hold back, and she came hard, her fingers working her pussy while her free hand cupped her large breast, fingers playing with her erect nipples.

It was like a dam had been broken; the pleasure was so intense, so satisfying. After that first time, she couldn't stop. Every chance she got, she touched herself. When her husband was at work, when her kids were at school, every time she went to the bathroom...she'd lock the door and slip her hands beneath her modest clothes.

But still it wasn't enough.

No matter how hard she tried, no matter how often, she wasn't satisfied. No matter how much she rubbed herself, it wasn't enough.

"I'm an addict," she sobbed, even as she brought herself to her twelfth orgasm of the day. "I'm a sex addict."

She knew her husband suspected something was up, but she didn't know what to say. She felt completely and utterly alone; all she could think about was sex. Every time she touched herself, she pictured a different man, sometimes a woman. Sometimes a man

and

a woman.

Sometimes she imagined an entire group, taking turns with her, using her.

In her imagination she was completely naked, showing off her body for all of them, watching their expressions as they looked at her. Her breasts which had once filled her with such shame now felt like the best part of her, her best assets. She knew her husband was proud of them, but the thought of showing them off, of making a real man stare at them, made her wet.

She needed it.

She wanted it.

But she knew that she could never, ever have it.

Her urges continued to grow.

The more she touched herself, the more she wanted to touch herself. The more she thought about showing off her body, the harder it was to resist. Every day she desired the gaze of a stranger, she longed for it more and more.