Lisa Finds Love at Sex Addicts Anon

Lisa was not really sure that she should continue the SAA meetings. They had not been effective at stopping her from looking at hardcore films on the Net, nor from indulging her dirty chatting and webcam sessions. So why go to them if they just made her feel guilty about doing what she would do anyway? It was partly because she was now able to tele-work from her office at home; her deep fear was that the hours spent indulging and masturbating might one day shoot out of control, her work would dry up (conversely to the state of her cunt), and she'd end up destitute instead of a smart 40-something woman with steady money and her own little house. And she felt a sense of kindred spirit with some of the others in SAA and a sense of liberation in being able to tell others about her secret life. So for the past 6 months, her Thursday nights had been her SAA nights, crossing town to the safety of other neighbourhoods where no-one knew her.

She had only gone to SAA because she had been made to feel so dirty. Perhaps after all her tastes were dirty, she told herself. She was attracted to men and to all subjects that were really out of the usual (illegal activities did not appeal to her though, so much the better thought she). She loved those who talked and chatted filth for her and told her all the things they were ready to do for and have done by her. She watched on cam while they masturbated and talked, and fingered and dildoed their holes, and pissed and shat for her and smeared themselves. She watched as they gave themselves enemas and dribbled down their latex fronts. She told them how they should obey her and be her toilet and sometimes she peed and pooed for them too, always masturbating. Anonymity was essential, however, and her leather helmet meant no-one knew what her face looked like -- just her voice, her body, her breasts, her hairy full-lipped cunt, her big bottom and thick sexual thighs. It was not just to protect her privacy that she wore the helmet now: just putting it on had an instant wetting effect on her.

The final straws pushing her to SAA came first from her previous boyfriend Jim -- a nice guy but ultimately boring -- and then from a therapy group she'd joined after her break-up with Jim. She'd sneaked downstairs at 5am one weekend when Jim seemed fast asleep and put on her hidden leather balaclava helmet and was naked watching one of her webcam 'friends' from the US shitting for her and masturbating with it while telling her about the smell and how much he wanted her to suck his foul shit-caked cock. Lisa was just nearing her own orgasm when Jim burst in and hit the roof. As if that hadn't been enough, and her guilt and depression after he'd left (calling her a 'filthy sex-obsessed weirdo, fit only for the gutter' and some more choice names), her therapy group only lasted two sessions. The therapist running it had made clear at the end of the second one, after Lisa had been pressed to specify exactly in what she indulged in front of her computer and had reluctantly given some basic facts, that this was not suitable stuff for her group. Taking her to one side: 'I'm sure Sex Addicts Anonymous would work better for you Lisa'. And that's how it began.

Her SAA 'family' fell into two main groups -- those she felt quite comfortable with (the majority thankfully) and those who gave her the creeps. Men outnumbered the women about 3 to 1, and she noticed that the men's life-stories that brought them to SAA often centred around the disasters that had befallen them because of indulging their addictions -- usually bankruptcy, divorce, criminal proceedings or some combination thereof. More of the women had come in the same way as she had, via guilt and sometimes therapy. Among those she felt quite comfortable with were the 3 or 4 flashers. She enjoyed listening to the thrill it gave them to show their cocks and, for two of them, to masturbate in front of women, young and old. They insisted that this was in the past, that their problem was under control, ('Thanks to coming here, friends'). But she knew better as one had flashed his cock to her in the shared toilet of the meeting room hall -- when she was going in and he was coming out -- and another sometimes followed her to her car and, if it was parked in a discreet-enough spot, would masturbate to ejaculation. So long as this second flasher -- Harry -- didn't try anything more aggressive she was only too happy to watch. It stayed their little secret.

There were those with highly-developed prostitute habits. For some it was the regular visits to the lower end of the market, for others it was the expensive kinks that she enjoyed imagining or watching the most -- whipping, pissing and shitting. She loved listening to all of them and it made her cunt juicy to imagine what they did. She had subtle little discussion strategies to make them indulge details, which she used especially if someone was describing the exquisite pleasures and pain of being tied and thrashed or lying underneath the opening anus to receive their dose of shit. Unfortunately, none of those of her SAA family with these expensive tastes appealed to her and anyway they had described how they needed the disinterest of the prostitute for the magic to work.

They all had stories to tell about their failed business or suffocating debts (otherwise they would not be there). These too were a mix of genuine recoverers and continual recidivists. She realized from the conversations that sometimes went on in her presence especially at the end of the organised sessions that a good deal of information was being exchanged. Which massage parlour had the best girls? Where to find the black ones or the Chinese, the young and the old, the big tits and the tiny ones? Which specialities cost what? She had gone one Saturday to see one massage parlour for herself and had positioned her car some way from it and had got juicy watching and timing the comings and goings, until an observant policeman had asked her whether she was in the Vice Squad and she decided that it was better to leave.

There were those, women and men, who collected the notches on the bed (or the car seat or woodland tree trunk) as others collect stamps. The woman obsessed by the husbands of her colleagues and acquaintances, who would not rest till she had drunk their sperm from source but then lost interest in them (she figured she'd had over 500 married men, no-one knew if this was exaggeration or fact, and no-one really cared). There was the husband with a taste for girls of college age, a taste which as he grew older was more difficult and expensive to satisfy. There were the dirty panty collectors and those who stole them out of back gardens. These were a mix of the harmless and the creeps. There were those who were ruinously into phone chatting, some who were kindred fellow sex addicts and others parasitic stalkers, subjecting the vulnerable to dirty phone campaigns and attending SAA as a condition of their sentence. She gave her phone number to no-one. And there were others with histories of abusing others -- all who insisted it was well in the past -- that she carefully avoided.

And then one Thursday something happened which would change her life. In walked Bob. She knew Bob: he was one of her webcam favourite 'friends'. She did not know where he lived and had never asked, just as she did not want anyone to know more about her. All she knew was that Bob was married (unhappily he hinted but no more than that) and rented his own office with a bathroom where he kept all his files, films, rubber wardrobe, enemas and dildos. Bob had been a regular on-line contact for a while, and then she calmed it during her period with Jim, and then until two months ago he had disappeared for some weeks, only to reappear dirtier than ever.

All this was before he walked in that night. She had enjoyed some of her most intense sessions ever with Bob, including those of recent weeks, and he was her favourite. He seemed to her a really nice guy, though she knew next to nothing about him: the sort she might be tempted to live with, perhaps even to marry. (Marry??? Did I say 'marry?', thought Lisa.) They had masturbated in front of each other and talked about pissing and shitting on each other. They had done it into buckets and bowls with the camera up close to cock, cunt and bum-holes. He was big into rubber, anal penetration and everything to do with urine and excrement. He loved fingering and dildoing his own full anus and she delighted in watching. He loved to watch her masturbating hard and spurting her fountain.

Bob turned up and of course did not recognise her for she always wore her leather helmet. [Bob called her 'Christine' in their webcam exchanges, and sometimes they talked about the famous German Christine dirty porn star and what they would do if they had a long afternoon together with her.] He told his story to the SAA group about how he had led a secret life and a sexless marriage -- but, noted Lisa, he did not go into much detail about what he was really into - and how his wife had finally found out by visiting his office using a key he'd left in his jacket. Now he was living in his little office, sleeping on a camp bed. All the recent intense sex between Bob and Lisa had gone on since his separation. He was facing a messy divorce, and risked losing the house, and he wondered whether SAA was the answer.

If Bob recognised Lisa's voice he did not say, (though a month later Lisa would own up to the fact that she was none other than 'Christine'). She approached him at the end of the meeting. She explained that she was at SAA for very similar reasons to his. She found herself saying 'Do you fancy a drink?'. He was captivated. She was captivated. It was to be his first and last SAA evening, and, of course, Lisa's last, too.