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3 months back, I was your daily homemaker and mom of three-- two boys, Phil, 15 Joey, 13 and a woman of twelve, Sandy. Cheating on Max never ever entered my mind, and most likely never would have had we not moved throughout the street from Staci and Joe.
The life of a homemaker 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 junkie, a slut, a slut. Sex is all I think about, and no perversion turns me off. I desire my sex down and filthy, revolting and unclean .
In fantasy, I wanted everybody to understand 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 was like the junkie that knows where the dependency will lead, but doesn't want assistance. The risks surpassed the consequences because the sex was that excellent. I love Staci for what she's done. Eight months of patient prodding has paid off for both me and Staci. Staci adored me from our very first meeting. Her hubby is a cops detective, so Max and Joe have the law in common. Staci and I had absolutely nothing in common. In fact, I discovered her rather dull and one dimensional. She's also rather plain and plump with short-cropped hair and a tubby face. She left of high school, whereas I am dealing with my masters in English. I discovered her childish fascination with sexual matters troubling and her language godawful. In blended business, I chuckled uncomfortably at her crude jokes, however the stories she told me when we were alone left me speechless.
I 'd never heard such shocking and horrible things in my life: S&M piss-freak orgies, mom's fucking children, fathers raping young daughters, ladies making love with animals, moms watching dirty old men molest their children and getting off on it, spouses taking on troops of horny males, blacks on whites, old with young, dogs on little women. She had my head swimming in a swamp of perverse sex. Max and Joe got along like siblings, so I was stuck to Staci. I seemed like I had to indulge her. I had to listen to her stories and make fun of her jokes. Her stories were constantly about someone she understood or became aware of, never ever about anything she had any direct understanding of. I felt like she was simply thinking aloud, and I believed she was a really sick woman. What I discovered especially disturbing was that her vile dreams worked their way into my tame dreams like an invading virus, pressing my easy, relatively clean musings of romantic love out changing them with fuck and draw orgy marathons, often with me as the featured entertainer. I stopped my month-to-month 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, anywhere in the house. After six months of Staci's stories, I learned how to lick my own pussy. Staci planted that concept in my head also. She told 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 whirl. I almost broke my back in the attempt, but a basic self-fuck with cucumbers or my daughter's hair brush deal with was no longer enough.
Most of our time together was spent with Staci doting over me, doing my hair and cosmetics, offering me pedicures, rubbing me, dressing and undressing me constantly. We shopped for clothing a fantastic offer, with Staci making the selections as though she were my wardrobe manager. I wore just brief dresses at Staci's insistence. Staci worshipped my body, every inch of it. According to Staci, I had the ideal female form. I have constantly thought about myself as being too short, too slim, too hippy, and too top-heavy. I believed of the female genitalia as a nasty fracture next to a shit hole. She persuaded me I was gorgeous to the extreme, especially in between my legs. This took some convincing, however she quickly had me comfy even when languishing before her with my legs large apart for a vaginal shave or the vaginal area variation 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 thorough hot oil massage, and ended with a dab of fragrance. I liked her manicures, but 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 marital relationship, Max alerted me not to cheat. I remember being incensed at the mere idea. This time, I listened attentively as he said, Theresa, I'm not the type of man that resides in fear of his other half unfaithful on him. I will not have you followed. I will not question your activities or the way you dress. I will not sleuth or ask questions. You can reoccur as you please. If I ever discover that you cheated on me. If I ever get proof positive or catch you in the act, I'll make you wish you had never been born. He had actually never threatened me with divorce. I could just envision what wanting I 'd never ever been born required. I seriously doubted he would physically harm me, however the thought never left my mind. I thought he might force me to go through a breast reduction or a cliterectomy. Staci and I had a excellent laugh at the possibilities, however it was Max's threatening lecture, unusually enough, that released Staci's crusade to begin me down the road of adulterous affairs.
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