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Three months back, I was your daily homemaker and mom of 3-- two kids, 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 across the street from Staci and Joe.
Staci ended my dullness and made me what I am today. Sex is all I think about, and no perversion turns me off.
In dream, I wanted everybody to understand the brand-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 was like the junkie that knows where the addiction will lead, however does not want help. I feared my sexual dependency would essentially destroy my marriage. I 'd lose my kids and possibly end up in prison. I couldn't assist that. The dangers exceeded the effects since the sex was that great. I enjoy Staci for what she's done. 8 months of patient prodding has paid off for both me and Staci. Staci adored me from our very first conference. Her husband is a authorities investigator, so Max and Joe have the law in common. Staci and I had absolutely nothing in common. I found her rather dull and one dimensional. She's also rather plain and plump with short-cropped hair and a chubby face. She dropped out of high school, whereas I am dealing with my masters in English. I found her childish fascination with sexual matters disturbing and her language atrocious. In blended company, I chuckled uneasily at her crude jokes, but the stories she informed 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, dads raping young daughters, ladies having sex with animals, moms enjoying dirty old men molest their daughters and getting off on it, partners handling troops of horny men, blacks on whites, old with young, canines on little women. She had my head swimming in a overload of perverse sex. Max and Joe got along like bros, so I was stuck to Staci. I felt 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 knew or became aware of, never ever about anything she had any direct understanding of. I felt like she was merely thinking out loud, and I thought she was a very sick lady. What I discovered particularly disturbing was that her repellent fantasies worked their way into my tame fantasies like an invading infection, pressing my simple, reasonably tidy musings of romantic love out changing them with fuck and suck orgy marathons, frequently with me as the included entertainer. I stopped my 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, throughout the house. After 6 months of Staci's stories, I discovered how to lick my own pussy. Staci planted that idea in my head.
We didn't always sit for stories. The majority of our time together was invested with Staci doting over me, doing my hair and makeup, offering me pedicures, massaging me, dressing and undressing me continuously. We looked for clothes a lot, with Staci making the selections as though she were my wardrobe supervisor. I accepted her and used what she chose. I let her clear out my closet of all my modest gowns, tossing out every set of trousers I owned. I wore only brief gowns at Staci's persistence. I became Staci's live Barbie Doll. My uninteresting life ended when I came to accept my role as a living Barbie Doll. Staci worshipped my body, every inch of it. According to Staci, I had the best female kind. She persuaded me I was beautiful to the severe, especially in between my legs. This took some convincing, but she quickly had me comfy even when languishing prior to her with my legs large apart for a vaginal shave or the vagina variation of a pedicure-- a cunniecure as she called it. A cannelure began with a scented 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 result from my partner was difficult. 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 keep in mind being incensed at the simple recommendation. This time, I listened attentively as he stated, Theresa, I'm not the kind of male that lives in worry of his partner cheating on him. I will not have you followed. I will not question your activities or the way you dress. I won't snoop or ask questions. You can go and come as you please. If I ever find out 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. That was it. I merely nodded my understanding, but I didn't quite understand. He didn't elaborate on what he 'd do precisely. Max wasn't the type to ever hit a woman. He had never ever threatened me with divorce. I might only envision what wishing I 'd never ever 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 harm me, but the idea never left my mind. I thought he might force me to undergo a breast reduction or a cliterectomy. Maybe, he 'd tattoo the word Whore on my forehead. He might fit me with a chastity belt. Staci and I had a good laugh at the possibilities, but 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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