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3 months earlier, I was your everyday housewife and mother of 3-- two young boys, Phil, 15 Joey, 13 and a woman of twelve, Sandy. Cheating on Max never ever entered my mind, and most likely never ever would have had we not moved across the street from Staci and Joe. Staci ended my boredom 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 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 was like the junkie that understands where the dependency will lead, but does not want assistance. The threats exceeded the consequences because the sex was that good. I like Staci for what she's done. 8 months of patient prodding has paid off for both me and Staci. Staci loved me from our first meeting. Her other half is a cops detective, so Max and Joe have the law in typical. Staci and I had nothing in common.

I 'd never ever heard such stunning and revolting things in my life: S&M piss-freak orgies, mother's fucking kids, fathers raping young children, ladies making love with animals, mothers seeing dirty old men molest their daughters and getting off on it, spouses taking on soldiers of horny guys, 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 with Staci. Her stories were always about somebody she knew or heard about, never ever about anything she had any direct knowledge of. What I discovered particularly troubling was that her disgusting fantasies worked their method into my tame fantasies like an invading virus, pushing my easy, reasonably tidy visions of romantic love out replacing them with fuck and draw orgy marathons, often with me as the included performer. 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, anywhere in your house. After six months of Staci's stories, I learned how to lick my own pussy. Staci planted that idea in my head. 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 try. I nearly broke my back in the effort, however a easy self-fuck with cucumbers or my child's hair brush deal with 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 cosmetics, offering me pedicures, massaging me, dressing and undressing me continuously. We purchased clothes a lot, with Staci making the selections as though she were my closet supervisor. I accepted her and used what she chose. I let her clear out my closet of all my modest dresses, tossing out every pair of pants I owned. I wore only short dresses at Staci's insistence. I became Staci's live Barbie Doll. When I came to accept my function as a living Barbie Doll, my uninteresting life ended. Staci worshipped my body, every inch of it. According to Staci, I had the best female kind. I have always thought of myself as being too short, too skinny, too hippy, and too top-heavy. Furthermore, I considered the female genitalia as a nasty fracture next to a shit hole. She persuaded me I was gorgeous to the severe, specifically between my legs. This took some convincing, however she soon had me comfortable even when languishing before her with my legs broad apart for a vaginal shave or the vaginal area variation of a pedicure-- a cunniecure as she called it. A cannelure began with a aromatic douche and included a close shave, a clitty suck to orgasm, a comprehensive hot oil massage, and ended with a dab of fragrance. I liked her manicures, but hiding the arise from my spouse was impossible. My 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 keep in mind being incensed at the simple recommendation. This time, I listened diligently as he stated, Theresa, I'm not the type of male that resides in worry of his other half cheating on him. I will not have you followed. I will not question your activities or the method you dress. I won't snoop or ask questions. You can reoccur as you please. If I ever find out that you cheated on me. If I ever get evidence positive or capture you in the act, I'll make you want you had never been born. That was it. I just nodded my understanding, however I didn't quite understand. He didn't elaborate on what he 'd do exactly. Max wasn't the type to ever strike a female. He had never threatened me with divorce. I could only envision what wishing I 'd never ever been born required. Max is a big man, a man of John Wayne stature who might snap my back with one hand. I seriously questioned he would physically harm me, but the thought never left my mind. I believed he might force me to undergo 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 good make fun of the possibilities, however it was Max's threatening lecture, strangely enough, that launched Staci's crusade to start me down the road of adulterous affairs.

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