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Three months back, I was your everyday housewife and mom of three-- 2 young boys, Phil, 15 Joey, 13 and a lady of twelve, Sandy. Cheating on Max never ever entered my mind, and most likely never ever would have had we not moved throughout 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 easily admit 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 dirty, filthy and revolting . In fantasy, I desired everybody to know the brand-new me. In reality, I didn't want to advertise 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 addiction will lead, however does not desire assistance. The risks exceeded the consequences since the sex was that good. I love Staci for what she's done. Eight months of client prodding has paid off for both me and Staci. Staci loved me from our very first meeting. Her husband is a police investigator, so Max and Joe have the law in common. Staci and I had nothing in typical.

I 'd never heard such shocking and disgusting things in my life: S&M piss-freak orgies, mom's fucking children, daddies raping young daughters, ladies having sex with animals, mothers viewing dirty old men molest their children and getting off on it, other halves handling soldiers of horny males, blacks on whites, old with young, canines on little women. 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 somebody she understood or heard about, never about anything she had any direct knowledge of. What I found especially troubling was that her disgusting dreams worked their method into my tame fantasies like an attacking infection, pressing my simple, relatively tidy musings of romantic love out changing them with fuck and draw orgy marathons, frequently with me as the included entertainer. I stopped my monthly practice of masturbating in the shower utilizing a water wand, and began a everyday session of self-abuse, sticking anything phallic up my cunt or ass, anywhere in your home. 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 basic self-fuck with cucumbers or my child's hair brush deal with was no longer enough.

We didn't always sit for stories. The majority of our time together was invested with Staci doting over me, doing my hair and makeup, providing me pedicures, rubbing me, dressing and undressing me continuously. We shopped for clothing a great deal, with Staci making the selections as though she were my wardrobe manager. I deferred to her and wore what she picked out. I let her clear out my closet of all my modest dresses, throwing out every pair of trousers I owned. I used only short dresses at Staci's persistence. 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 ideal female type. I have actually 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 persuaded me I was stunning to the extreme, particularly in between my legs. This took some convincing, but she soon had me comfy even when suffering before 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 fragrant 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, however hiding the result from my hubby was difficult. My first cunnicure prompted 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 suggestion. This time, I listened attentively as he stated, Theresa, I'm not the kind of guy that lives in fear of his spouse cheating on him. I won't have you followed. I will not question your activities or the way you dress. I will not sleuth or ask concerns. You can go and come as you please. If I ever discover that you cheated on me. I'll make you want you had never been born if I ever get proof positive or capture you in the act. That was it. I just nodded my understanding, however I didn't quite comprehend. He didn't elaborate on what he 'd do precisely. Max wasn't the type to ever strike a woman. He had actually never ever threatened me with divorce. I might only imagine what wishing I 'd never ever been born involved. Max is a huge guy, a male of John Wayne stature who could snap my back with one hand. I seriously doubted he would physically harm me, but the idea never ever left my mind. I thought 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 great make fun of the possibilities, but it was Max's threatening lecture, unusually enough, that introduced Staci's crusade to start me down the road of adulterous affairs.

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