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Three months ago, I was your daily homemaker and mother of 3-- 2 young boys, Phil, 15 Joey, 13 and a girl of twelve, Sandy. Cheating on Max never entered my mind, and probably never would have had we not moved across 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 freely confess I am a sex junkie, a slut, a slut. Sex is all I consider, and no perversion turns me off. I want my sex down and filthy, disgusting and filthy . In fantasy, I wanted everyone to know the brand-new me. In reality, I didn't wish to promote that fact, however I had no desire to reverse the self-destructive course Staci had me on.

I resembled the addict that knows where the addiction will lead, but doesn't want assistance. I feared my sexual dependency would practically destroy my marriage. I 'd lose my kids and perhaps end up in prison. I couldn't assist that. Due to the fact that the sex was that good, the risks surpassed the effects. I like Staci for what she's done. 8 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 cops investigator, so Max and Joe have the law in typical. Staci and I had nothing in typical.

I 'd never ever heard such shocking and horrible things in my life: S&M piss-freak orgies, mother's fucking boys, daddies raping young children, ladies making love with animals, mothers viewing dirty old men molest their daughters and getting off on it, other halves taking on soldiers of randy men, blacks on whites, old with young, pet dogs on little women. She had my head swimming in a overload of perverse sex. Max and Joe got along like brothers, so I was stuck to Staci. I seemed like I had to indulge her. I needed to listen to her stories and laugh at her jokes. Her stories were always about somebody she knew or found out about, never ever about anything she had any direct knowledge of. I felt like she was just fantasizing out loud, and I believed she was a extremely ill female. What I discovered particularly disturbing was that her repellent dreams worked their method into my tame fantasies like an invading infection, pushing my easy, relatively tidy visions of romantic love out replacing them with fuck and draw orgy marathons, typically with me as the featured entertainer. I stopped my monthly practice of masturbating in the shower using a water wand, and began a day-to-day session of self-abuse, sticking anything phallic up my cunt or ass, throughout the house. After 6 months of Staci's stories, I found out how to lick my own pussy. Staci planted that concept in my head also. She informed 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 provide it a whirl. I almost broke my back in the effort, but a simple self-fuck with cucumbers or my child's hair brush handle was no longer enough.

We didn't always sit for stories. Most of our time together was spent with Staci doting over me, doing my hair and makeup, giving me pedicures, massaging me, dressing and undressing me constantly. We looked for clothing a good deal, with Staci making the choices as though she were my closet supervisor. I deferred to her and wore what she picked out. I let her clear out my closet of all my modest gowns, throwing out every pair of pants I owned. I used just brief gowns at Staci's insistence. I ended up being 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 type. I have constantly thought of myself as being too brief, 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 beautiful to the extreme, specifically in between my legs. This took some convincing, but she soon had me comfortable 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 started with a scented douche and involved a close shave, a clitty suck to orgasm, a comprehensive hot oil massage, and ended with a dab of perfume. I liked her manicures, however concealing the result from my spouse was difficult. My very first cunnicure prompted 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 tip. This time, I listened diligently as he said, Theresa, I'm not the type of male that lives in fear of his partner unfaithful on him. I will not have you followed. I won't question your activities or the way you dress. I won't sleuth or ask concerns. You can reoccur as you please. , if I ever find out that you cheated on me.. I'll make you want you had never ever been born if I ever get evidence favorable or catch you in the act. He had actually never threatened me with divorce. I could only imagine what wishing I 'd never ever been born entailed. I seriously questioned he would physically harm me, however the idea never ever left my mind. I thought he may force me to undergo a breast reduction or a cliterectomy. Staci and I had a great laugh at the possibilities, however it was Max's threatening lecture, strangely enough, that released Staci's crusade to start me down the roadway of adulterous affairs.

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