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Three months ago, I was your daily housewife and mother of 3-- two young boys, Phil, 15 Joey, 13 and a girl of twelve, Sandy. Cheating on Max never 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 dullness and made me what I am today. I freely confess I am a sex addict, a whore, a slut. Sex is all I think about, and no perversion turns me off. I want my sex down and unclean, dirty and disgusting .
In fantasy, I desired everyone to know the brand-new me. In reality, I didn't wish 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 knows where the addiction will lead, however does not want help. The risks surpassed the repercussions because the sex was that good. I enjoy Staci for what she's done. Eight months of patient prodding has actually paid off for both me and Staci. Staci loved me from our very first conference. Her spouse is a police investigator, so Max and Joe have the law in common. Staci and I had nothing in common.
I 'd never ever heard such shocking and horrible things in my life: S&M piss-freak orgies, mom's fucking kids, daddies raping young children, ladies having sex with animals, moms watching dirty old men molest their children and getting off on it, wives handling soldiers of horny males, blacks on whites, old with young, canines on little ladies. She had my head swimming in a overload of perverse sex. Max and Joe got along like siblings, so I was stuck with Staci. Her stories were constantly about someone she knew or heard about, never about anything she had any direct understanding of. What I discovered particularly disturbing was that her repellent dreams worked their way into my tame fantasies like an invading infection, pushing my simple, fairly clean visions of romantic love out replacing them with fuck and suck orgy marathons, often with me as the included performer. I stopped my month-to-month practice of masturbating in the shower using a water wand, and began a daily session of self-abuse, sticking anything phallic up my cunt or ass, throughout your house. After six months of Staci's stories, I discovered how to lick my own pussy. Staci planted that concept 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 offer it a try. I nearly broke my back in the attempt, but a easy self-fuck with cucumbers or my child's hair brush handle was no longer enough.
We didn't constantly sit for stories. Most of our time together was spent with Staci doting over me, doing my hair and makeup, offering me pedicures, rubbing me, dressing and undressing me continuously. We bought clothing a good deal, with Staci making the choices as though she were my wardrobe supervisor. I accepted her and wore what she picked out. I let her clear out my closet of all my modest gowns, throwing out every pair of trousers I owned. I wore only short dresses at Staci's insistence. I became Staci's live Barbie Doll. My uninteresting life ended when I came to accept my role as a living Barbie Doll. Staci worshipped my body, every inch of it. According to Staci, I had the best female kind. I have constantly thought of myself as being too short, too skinny, too hippy, and too top-heavy. Moreover, I thought about the female genitalia as a nasty fracture next to a shit hole. She persuaded me I was beautiful to the extreme, especially between my legs. This took some convincing, however she quickly had me comfy even when suffering 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 aromatic douche and included a close shave, a clitty suck to orgasm, a extensive hot oil massage, and ended with a dab of perfume. I liked her manicures, however hiding the result from my other half was difficult. My 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. If I ever find out that you cheated on me. If I ever get evidence positive or catch you in the act, I'll make you wish you had never ever been born. That was it. I simply nodded my understanding, but I didn't quite comprehend. 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 wanting I 'd never ever been born involved. Max is a huge male, a man of John Wayne stature who could snap my back with one hand. I seriously questioned he would physically damage me, but the thought never left my mind. I believed he may force me to go through a breast reduction or a cliterectomy. Possibly, he 'd tattoo the word Whore on my forehead. He might fit me with a chastity belt. Staci and I had a excellent laugh at 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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