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Three months earlier, I was your everyday housewife and mother of three-- two boys, Phil, 15 Joey, 13 and a woman of twelve, Sandy. Cheating on Max never entered my mind, and probably never would have had we not moved throughout the street from Staci and Joe. The life of a housewife with all kids in school is boring to the extreme. Staci ended my dullness and made me what I am today. I easily admit I am a sex addict, a whore, a slut. Sex is all I think about, and no perversion turns me off. I desire my sex down and unclean, horrible and unclean . In fantasy, I wanted everybody to know the brand-new me. In reality, I didn't want to market that fact, but I had no desire to reverse the self-destructive course Staci had me on.

I resembled the addict that understands where the addiction will lead, but doesn't desire aid. I feared my sexual dependency would essentially ruin my marriage. I 'd lose my kids and potentially end up in prison. I could not help that. Since the sex was that excellent, the dangers exceeded the consequences. I love Staci for what she's done. She took her time with me, learnt more about me, inside and out, then started her specialist adjustments that led me to where I am now. The journey has actually been a difficult and long one for me, but absolutely nothing beneficial comes easy as my dad would state. Eight months of client prodding has actually paid off for both me and Staci. Staci adored me from our very first meeting. Her husband is a police detective, so Max and Joe have the law in typical. Staci and I had nothing in typical.

I 'd never heard such stunning and horrible things in my life: S&M piss-freak orgies, mother's fucking sons, daddies raping young children, ladies making love with animals, mothers viewing dirty old men molest their daughters and getting off on it, wives taking on soldiers of horny males, blacks on whites, old with young, canines on little girls. She had my head swimming in a overload of perverse sex. Max and Joe got along like siblings, so I was stuck with Staci. Her stories were constantly about somebody she knew or heard about, never ever about anything she had any direct understanding of. What I discovered particularly troubling was that her vile dreams worked their method into my tame fantasies like an attacking virus, pushing my easy, fairly clean daydreams of romantic love out replacing them with fuck and draw orgy marathons, often with me as the featured performer. I stopped my regular monthly practice of masturbating in the shower using a water wand, and started a daily session of self-abuse, sticking anything phallic up my cunt or ass, anywhere in your house. After 6 months of Staci's stories, I found out how to lick my own pussy. Staci planted that idea in my head.

We didn't constantly sit for stories. Most of our time together was spent with Staci doting over me, doing my hair and make-up, offering me pedicures, massaging me, dressing and undressing me constantly. We purchased clothes a lot, with Staci making the choices as though she were my closet manager. I deferred to her and wore what she chose. I let her clear out my closet of all my modest dresses, tossing out every pair of pants I owned. I used just short gowns at Staci's insistence. I became Staci's live Barbie Doll. When I came to accept my role as a living Barbie Doll, my uninteresting life ended. Staci worshipped my body, every inch of it. According to Staci, I had the perfect female kind. I have always considered myself as being too brief, too skinny, too hippy, and too top-heavy. Furthermore, I considered the female genitalia as a nasty crack next to a shit hole. She encouraged me I was stunning to the extreme, specifically between my legs. This took some convincing, however she soon had me comfortable even when languishing before her with my legs large apart for a vaginal shave or the vagina version of a pedicure-- a cunniecure as she called it. A cannelure began 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 fragrance. I liked her manicures, however hiding the arise from my husband was impossible. My first cunnicure triggered Max to sit me down for a stern lecture. In the early days of our marital relationship, Max warned me not to cheat. If I ever find out that you cheated on me. If I ever get proof positive or capture you in the act, I'll make you want you had never been born. That was it. I merely nodded my understanding, but I didn't quite comprehend. He didn't elaborate on what he 'd do precisely. Max wasn't the type to ever strike a lady. He had never ever threatened me with divorce. I might only imagine what wishing I 'd never ever been born entailed. Max is a big guy, a male of John Wayne stature who could snap my back with one hand. I seriously questioned he would physically hurt me, however the idea never left my mind. I believed he may require me to undergo a breast reduction or a cliterectomy. Possibly, he 'd tattoo the word Whore on my forehead. He may fit me with a chastity belt. Staci and I had a great laugh at the possibilities, but it was Max's threatening lecture, unusually enough, that released Staci's crusade to start me down the road of adulterous affairs.

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