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Three months ago, I was your everyday housewife and mom of 3-- 2 young boys, Phil, 15 Joey, 13 and a woman of twelve, Sandy. Cheating on Max never ever 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 boredom and made me what I am today. I freely confess I am a sex addict, a whore, a slut. Sex is all I think of, and no perversion turns me off. I desire my sex down and unclean, horrible and unclean . In fantasy, I desired everybody to understand the new me. In reality, I didn't wish 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, however does not want help. I feared my sexual dependency would virtually damage my marriage. I 'd lose my children and perhaps wind up in prison. I could not assist that. Due to the fact that the sex was that great, the risks surpassed the consequences. I enjoy Staci for what she's done. She took her time with me, got to know me, inside and out, then began her professional manipulations that led me to where I am now. The journey has been a challenging and long one for me, but absolutely nothing rewarding comes easy as my father would state. Eight months of patient prodding has actually settled for both me and Staci. Staci adored me from our very first meeting. Her partner is a cops detective, so Max and Joe have the law in common. Staci and I had nothing in typical.

I 'd never ever heard such shocking and revolting things in my life: S&M piss-freak orgies, mother's fucking children, fathers raping young daughters, ladies having sex with animals, moms enjoying dirty old men molest their daughters and getting off on it, wives handling troops of horny guys, 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 siblings, so I was stuck with Staci. I felt like I had to indulge her. I had to listen to her stories and laugh at her jokes. Her stories were constantly about somebody she knew or heard about, never ever about anything she had any direct understanding of. I seemed like she was merely fantasizing aloud, and I thought she was a extremely ill lady. What I discovered especially disturbing was that her repellent dreams worked their way into my tame fantasies like an attacking virus, pushing my basic, relatively clean visions of romantic love out changing them with fuck and draw orgy marathons, often with me as the included entertainer. I stopped my regular monthly practice of masturbating in the shower using a water wand, and began a daily session of self-abuse, sticking anything phallic up my cunt or ass, anywhere in your house. After six months of Staci's stories, I learned how to lick my own pussy. Staci planted that idea in my head.

We didn't constantly sit for stories. The majority of our time together was invested with Staci doting over me, doing my hair and cosmetics, providing me pedicures, rubbing me, dressing and undressing me constantly. We purchased clothes a good deal, with Staci making the choices as though she were my wardrobe manager. I accepted her and used what she picked out. I let her clear out my closet of all my modest dresses, throwing out every pair of pants I owned. I wore only brief dresses at Staci's insistence. I became Staci's live Barbie Doll. My uninteresting life ended when I concerned accept my function as a living Barbie Doll. Staci worshipped my body, every inch of it. According to Staci, I had the ideal female kind. She convinced me I was beautiful to the severe, particularly in between my legs. This took some convincing, but she quickly had me comfortable even when languishing prior to her with my legs wide apart for a vaginal shave or the vaginal area version of a pedicure-- a cunniecure as she called it. A cannelure began with a aromatic douche and included a close shave, a clitty suck to orgasm, a comprehensive hot oil massage, and ended with a dab of fragrance. I liked her manicures, however concealing 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 marriage, Max warned me not to cheat. I remember being incensed at the mere suggestion. This time, I listened attentively as he said, Theresa, I'm not the kind of male that lives in worry of his wife cheating on him. I won't have you followed. I won't question your activities or the method you dress. I will not sleuth or ask concerns. You can go and come as you please. If I ever find out that you cheated on me. If I ever get evidence positive or catch you in the act, I'll make you wish you had actually never been born. That was it. I simply nodded my understanding, but I didn't rather understand. He didn't elaborate on what he 'd do precisely. Max wasn't the type to ever strike a woman. He had actually never ever threatened me with divorce. I could only envision what wishing I 'd never ever been born entailed. Max is a big man, a guy 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 might force me to go through a breast decrease or a cliterectomy. Staci and I had a good laugh at the possibilities, but it was Max's threatening lecture, oddly enough, that released Staci's crusade to start me down the roadway of adulterous affairs.

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