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Three months ago, I was your everyday homemaker and mother of three-- two boys, Phil, 15 Joey, 13 and a girl of twelve, Sandy. My husband, Maxwell Blake, is a big-shot lawyer with the DA's office. Cheating on Max never entered my mind, and most likely never ever would have had we not moved across the street from Staci and Joe. I was so straight if I masturbated more than once a month, I felt guilty.
The life of a housewife with all kids in school is tiring 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 of, and no perversion turns me off. I want my sex down and dirty, revolting and unclean .
In dream, I desired everyone to understand the brand-new me. In reality, I didn't want to promote 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 assistance. The dangers outweighed the effects due to the fact that the sex was that good. I enjoy Staci for what she's done. 8 months of client prodding has paid off for both me and Staci. Staci loved me from our first conference. Her partner is a authorities investigator, so Max and Joe have the law in common. Staci and I had nothing in common. I found 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 working on my masters in English. I found her childish fascination with sexual matters troubling and her language atrocious. In blended business, I laughed uneasily at her unrefined jokes, however the stories she told me when we were alone left me speechless.
I 'd never ever heard such stunning and revolting things in my life: S&M piss-freak orgies, mother's fucking boys, fathers raping young daughters, women making love with animals, mothers seeing dirty old men molest their children and getting off on it, partners taking on soldiers of randy guys, blacks on whites, old with young, canines on little girls. 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 always about somebody she knew or heard about, never about anything she had any direct knowledge of. What I discovered especially troubling was that her repellent fantasies worked their way into my tame fantasies like an attacking infection, pushing my easy, fairly tidy daydreams of romantic love out replacing them with fuck and draw orgy marathons, typically with me as the included entertainer. I stopped my month-to-month practice of masturbating in the shower utilizing a water wand, and started a daily session of self-abuse, sticking anything phallic up my cunt or ass, anywhere in your home. After 6 months of Staci's stories, I discovered how to lick my own pussy. Staci planted that idea in my head. 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 give it a whirl. I practically broke my back in the effort, but a easy self-fuck with cucumbers or my daughter's hair brush manage was no longer enough.
We didn't always sit for stories. The majority of our time together was spent with Staci doting over me, doing my hair and make-up, giving me pedicures, rubbing me, dressing and undressing me continuously. We looked for clothes a great deal, with Staci making the choices as though she were my wardrobe manager. I deferred to her and wore what she selected. I let her clear out my closet of all my modest gowns, throwing out every pair of pants I owned. I wore only brief dresses at Staci's insistence. I became Staci's live Barbie Doll. My uninteresting life ended when I pertained to accept my function as a living Barbie Doll. Staci worshipped my body, every inch of it. According to Staci, I had the perfect female form. I have always considered myself as being too short, too slim, too hippy, and too top-heavy. I believed of the female genitalia as a nasty crack next to a shit hole. She encouraged me I was beautiful to the severe, especially in between my legs. This took some convincing, but she soon had me comfortable even when suffering prior to her with my legs wide apart for a vaginal shave or the vagina version 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, but hiding the result from my hubby was difficult. My first cunnicure triggered Max to sit me down for a stern lecture. In the early days of our marital relationship, Max warned me not to cheat. I remember being incensed at the mere tip. This time, I listened attentively as he stated, Theresa, I'm not the kind of male that resides in worry of his other half unfaithful on him. I won't have you followed. I won't question your activities or the method you dress. I won't snoop or ask questions. You can come and go as you please. If I ever discover that you cheated on me. If I ever get evidence favorable or catch you in the act, I'll make you want you had never ever been born. He had never ever threatened me with divorce. I might only envision what wishing I 'd never ever been born entailed. I seriously questioned he would physically hurt me, but the thought never ever left my mind. I believed he may require me to go through a breast reduction or a cliterectomy. Perhaps, he 'd tattoo the word Whore on my forehead. He may fit me with a chastity belt. Staci and I had a excellent make fun of the possibilities, but it was Max's threatening lecture, unusually enough, that launched Staci's crusade to begin me down the road of adulterous affairs.
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