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Three months back, I was your everyday housewife and mom of three-- 2 young boys, Phil, 15 Joey, 13 and a lady of twelve, Sandy. My hubby, Maxwell Blake, is a big-shot lawyer with the DA's office. Cheating on Max never entered my mind, and probably never would have had we not moved across the street from Staci and Joe. I was so straight if I masturbated more than once a month, I felt guilty. The life of a homemaker with all kids in school is tiring to the extreme. Staci ended my boredom and made me what I am today. I easily confess I am a sex addict, a slut, a slut. Sex is all I think about, and no perversion turns me off. I want my sex down and dirty, filthy and horrible . In fantasy, I desired everyone to understand the new me. In reality, I didn't want to promote that fact, however I had no desire to reverse the self-destructive course Staci had me on.

I resembled the junkie that understands where the addiction will lead, but does not desire assistance. I feared my sexual addiction would virtually ruin my marriage. I 'd lose my children and perhaps wind up in prison. I couldn't help that. Because the sex was that great, the risks exceeded the effects. I love Staci for what she's done. Eight months of client prodding has actually paid off for both me and Staci. Staci loved me from our first meeting. Her husband is a police investigator, so Max and Joe have the law in common. Staci and I had nothing in typical.

I 'd never heard such shocking and horrible things in my life: S&M piss-freak orgies, mother's fucking children, dads raping young daughters, women making love with animals, mothers enjoying dirty old men molest their children and getting off on it, other halves handling troops of horny men, blacks on whites, old with young, canines on little ladies. She had my head swimming in a swamp of perverse sex. Max and Joe got along like brothers, so I was stuck with Staci. Her stories were always about somebody she understood or heard about, never about anything she had any direct understanding of. What I discovered especially disturbing was that her repellent fantasies worked their way into my tame fantasies like an attacking infection, pushing my easy, relatively clean daydreams of romantic love out replacing them with fuck and draw orgy marathons, typically with me as the included entertainer. I stopped my monthly practice of masturbating in the shower utilizing a water wand, and began a day-to-day session of self-abuse, sticking anything phallic up my cunt or ass, throughout the house. After six months of Staci's stories, I found out how to lick my own pussy. Staci planted that concept in my head also. She informed me a story about a female gymnast with a hunger for her own pussy. Being an ex-gymnast and volunteer cheerleading coach, I figured I 'd offer it a try. I almost broke my back in the attempt, but a simple self-fuck with cucumbers or my child's hair brush handle was no longer enough.

We didn't constantly sit for stories. The majority of our time together was invested with Staci doting over me, doing my hair and makeup, offering me pedicures, rubbing me, dressing and undressing me constantly. We purchased clothing a good deal, with Staci making the choices as though she were my closet supervisor. I deferred to her and used what she selected. I let her clear out my closet of all my modest dresses, tossing out every set of pants I owned. I wore only short dresses at Staci's persistence. I ended up being Staci's live Barbie Doll. My dull life ended when I came to accept my function as a living Barbie Doll. Staci worshipped my body, every inch of it. According to Staci, I had the perfect female kind. I have constantly thought of myself as being too brief, too skinny, too hippy, and too top-heavy. Moreover, I thought about the female genitalia as a nasty fracture next to a shit hole. She persuaded me I was lovely to the severe, specifically in between my legs. This took some convincing, but she quickly had me comfy even when languishing before her with my legs large apart for a vaginal shave or the vaginal area version of a pedicure-- a cunniecure as she called it. A cannelure started with a fragrant douche and included a close shave, a clitty suck to orgasm, a extensive hot oil massage, and ended with a dab of perfume. I liked her manicures, however concealing the arise from my hubby was impossible. My first cunnicure prompted Max to sit me down for a stern lecture. In the early days of our marriage, Max cautioned me not to cheat. If I ever find out that you cheated on me. If I ever get evidence favorable or catch you in the act, I'll make you wish you had never ever been born. That was it. I simply nodded my understanding, but I didn't rather comprehend. He didn't elaborate on what he 'd do precisely. Max wasn't the type to ever hit a woman. He had actually never ever threatened me with divorce. I could only picture what wanting I 'd never been born entailed. Max is a huge male, a man of John Wayne stature who might snap my back with one hand. I seriously questioned he would physically damage me, however the idea never left my mind. I believed he might force me to undergo a breast decrease or a cliterectomy. Staci and I had a great laugh at the possibilities, however it was Max's threatening lecture, unusually enough, that introduced Staci's crusade to start me down the road of adulterous affairs.

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