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Three months ago, I was your everyday housewife and mom of three-- 2 kids, 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 across the street from Staci and Joe. Staci ended my monotony and made me what I am today. Sex is all I think about, and no perversion turns me off. In fantasy, I wanted everybody to understand the new me. In reality, I didn't wish to advertise that fact, but I had no desire to reverse the self-destructive course Staci had me on.

I was like the junkie that understands where the dependency will lead, but doesn't want help. I feared my sexual dependency would virtually damage my marital relationship. I 'd lose my kids and possibly wind up in prison. I couldn't help that. Because the sex was that good, the dangers surpassed the effects. I like Staci for what she's done. She took her time with me, was familiar with me, inside and out, then began her specialist controls that led me to where I am now. The journey has been a tough and long one for me, but absolutely nothing worthwhile comes easy as my daddy would say. 8 months of client prodding has actually paid off for both me and Staci. Staci adored me from our very first conference. Her husband is a police detective, so Max and Joe have the law in common. Staci and I had nothing in common. I discovered her rather dull and one dimensional. She's likewise rather plain and plump with short-cropped hair and a pudgy face. She left of high school, whereas I am dealing with my masters in English. I found her childish fascination with sexual matters troubling and her language atrocious. In combined business, I laughed uneasily at her crude jokes, however the stories she told me when we were alone left me speechless.

I 'd never heard such shocking and revolting things in my life: S&M piss-freak orgies, mother's fucking sons, dads raping young daughters, ladies making love with animals, moms enjoying dirty old men molest their daughters and getting off on it, partners taking on troops of horny guys, blacks on whites, old with young, pets on little ladies. She had my head swimming in a overload of perverse sex. Max and Joe got along like bros, so I was stuck with Staci. Her stories were always about someone she knew or heard about, never ever about anything she had any direct knowledge of. What I discovered especially troubling was that her disgusting dreams worked their way into my tame dreams like an invading infection, pressing my simple, fairly clean daydreams of romantic love out replacing them with fuck and suck orgy marathons, typically with me as the included entertainer. I stopped my regular monthly practice of masturbating in the shower using a water wand, and began a everyday 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 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, massaging me, dressing and undressing me continuously. We looked for clothes a great deal, 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, throwing out every pair of trousers I owned. I wore only short dresses at Staci's insistence. I ended up being Staci's live Barbie Doll. My boring life ended when I concerned accept my role as a living Barbie Doll. Staci worshipped my body, every inch of it. According to Staci, I had the best female type. I have actually always thought about myself as being too short, too skinny, too hippy, and too top-heavy. I thought of the female genitalia as a nasty crack next to a shit hole. She encouraged me I was stunning to the extreme, particularly in between my legs. This took some convincing, but she quickly had me comfortable even when languishing before her with my legs wide apart for a vaginal shave or the vaginal area 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 fragrance. I liked her manicures, however concealing the result from my spouse was impossible. My very first cunnicure triggered Max to sit me down for a stern lecture. In the early days of our marital relationship, Max alerted me not to cheat. I keep in mind being incensed at the mere suggestion. This time, I listened diligently as he said, Theresa, I'm not the type of male that resides in fear of his other half cheating on him. I won't have you followed. I won't question your activities or the way you dress. I will not snoop or ask questions. You can come and go as you please. If I ever find out that you cheated on me. If I ever get evidence favorable or capture 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 comprehend. He didn't elaborate on what he 'd do exactly. Max wasn't the type to ever strike a woman. He had never ever threatened me with divorce. I might only envision what wanting I 'd never been born involved. 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 harm me, but the thought never ever left my mind. I believed he might force me to go through a breast reduction or a cliterectomy. Maybe, he 'd tattoo the word Whore on my forehead. He may fit me with a chastity belt. Staci and I had a excellent laugh at the possibilities, but it was Max's threatening lecture, oddly enough, that released Staci's crusade to start me down the road of adulterous affairs.

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