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3 months back, I was your daily housewife and mother of 3-- two young boys, Phil, 15 Joey, 13 and a lady 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.
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 easily confess I am a sex addict, a whore, a slut. Sex is all I think about, and no perversion turns me off. I desire my sex down and unclean, horrible and filthy .
In fantasy, I wanted everybody to know the new me. In reality, I didn't wish to market that fact, however I had no desire to reverse the self-destructive course Staci had me on.
I resembled the addict that understands where the dependency will lead, but doesn't want help. I feared my sexual dependency would essentially ruin my marital relationship. I 'd lose my kids and potentially wind up in prison. I could not help that. Due to the fact that the sex was that great, the threats outweighed the effects. I like Staci for what she's done. She took her time with me, got to know me, inside and out, then began her expert 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 daddy would state. Eight months of client prodding has actually settled for both me and Staci. Staci adored me from our first meeting. Her partner is a police detective, so Max and Joe have the law in common. Staci and I had nothing in common.
I 'd never heard such stunning and horrible things in my life: S&M piss-freak orgies, mother's fucking kids, daddies raping young daughters, ladies having sex with animals, moms seeing dirty old men molest their children and getting off on it, spouses handling soldiers of randy men, 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 brothers, so I was stuck with Staci. Her stories were constantly about someone she understood or heard about, never about anything she had any direct knowledge of. What I found especially troubling was that her vile fantasies worked their way into my tame fantasies like an invading infection, pushing my easy, reasonably clean visions of romantic love out changing them with fuck and draw orgy marathons, frequently with me as the included entertainer. I stopped my regular monthly practice of masturbating in the shower using a water wand, and started a everyday session of self-abuse, sticking anything phallic up my cunt or ass, throughout 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 give it a whirl. I almost broke my back in the attempt, but a easy self-fuck with cucumbers or my child's hair brush manage 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, providing me pedicures, rubbing me, dressing and undressing me continuously. We looked for clothing a good deal, with Staci making the choices as though she were my closet manager. I accepted her and used what she selected. I let her clear out my closet of all my modest gowns, tossing out every set of pants I owned. I wore only brief dresses at Staci's persistence. I became Staci's live Barbie Doll. When I came to accept my role as a living Barbie Doll, my boring life ended. Staci worshipped my body, every inch of it. According to Staci, I had the ideal female form. I have actually always thought of myself as being too short, too skinny, too hippy, and too top-heavy. I thought of the female genitalia as a nasty fracture next to a shit hole. She persuaded me I was lovely to the extreme, specifically in between my legs. This took some convincing, but she quickly had me comfy even when suffering prior to her with my legs broad apart for a vaginal shave or the vagina version of a pedicure-- a cunniecure as she called it. A cannelure started with a scented 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, however hiding the arise from my hubby was impossible. My first cunnicure triggered Max to sit me down for a stern lecture. In the early days of our marriage, Max alerted me not to cheat. If I ever discover out that you cheated on me. If I ever get evidence positive or catch you in the act, I'll make you want you had never ever 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 female. He had actually never threatened me with divorce. I could just picture what wishing I 'd never been born entailed. Max is a big male, a male of John Wayne stature who might 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 undergo a breast reduction or a cliterectomy. Staci and I had a great laugh at the possibilities, but it was Max's threatening lecture, oddly enough, that released Staci's crusade to begin me down the road of adulterous affairs.
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