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3 months earlier, I was your daily housewife and mother of 3-- 2 young boys, Phil, 15 Joey, 13 and a woman of twelve, Sandy. Cheating on Max never ever entered my mind, and probably 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 confess I am a sex addict, a slut, a slut. Sex is all I consider, and no perversion turns me off. I want my sex down and dirty, disgusting and dirty . In dream, I wanted everybody to understand the new me. In reality, I didn't wish 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, but doesn't want assistance. The threats exceeded the repercussions since the sex was that great. I like Staci for what she's done. Eight months of patient prodding has paid off for both me and Staci. Staci adored me from our first conference. Her partner is a authorities detective, so Max and Joe have the law in common. Staci and I had absolutely nothing in common. In fact, I discovered her rather dull and one dimensional. She's likewise rather plain and plump with short-cropped hair and a chubby face. She left of high school, whereas I am working on my masters in English. I discovered her childish fascination with sexual matters troubling and her language atrocious. In mixed company, I chuckled uneasily at her unrefined jokes, but the stories she told me when we were alone left me speechless.

I 'd never heard such stunning and disgusting things in my life: S&M piss-freak orgies, mom's fucking sons, dads raping young daughters, women having sex with animals, mothers watching dirty old men molest their daughters and getting off on it, spouses taking on soldiers of horny males, blacks on whites, old with young, pets on little women. She had my head swimming in a swamp of perverse sex. Max and Joe got along like siblings, so I was stuck with Staci. Her stories were constantly 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 way into my tame fantasies like an invading virus, pushing my basic, fairly clean visions of romantic love out replacing them with fuck and suck orgy marathons, typically with me as the featured performer. I stopped my month-to-month practice of masturbating in the shower utilizing a water wand, and began a daily session of self-abuse, sticking anything phallic up my cunt or ass, throughout your home. After six months of Staci's stories, I discovered how to lick my own pussy. Staci planted that idea in my head as well. 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 provide it a whirl. I almost broke my back in the attempt, however a easy self-fuck with cucumbers or my child's hair brush handle was no longer enough.

Most of our time together was spent with Staci doting over me, doing my hair and cosmetics, offering me pedicures, rubbing me, dressing and undressing me continuously. We shopped for clothes a terrific deal, with Staci making the choices as though she were my wardrobe manager. I wore just short gowns at Staci's insistence. Staci worshipped my body, every inch of it. According to Staci, I had the best female type. She convinced me I was beautiful to the severe, especially between my legs. This took some convincing, however she quickly had me comfortable even when languishing 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 involved a close shave, a clitty suck to orgasm, a thorough hot oil massage, and ended with a dab of fragrance. I liked her manicures, but hiding the result from my spouse was impossible. My very 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 simple suggestion. This time, I listened diligently as he said, Theresa, I'm not the kind of guy that lives in worry of his wife unfaithful on him. I won't have you followed. I won't question your activities or the way you dress. I will not sleuth or ask questions. You can come and go as you please. , if I ever discover out that you cheated on me.. I'll make you wish you had never been born if I ever get evidence positive or capture you in the act. That was it. I merely 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 strike a female. He had actually never ever threatened me with divorce. I could only picture what wanting I 'd never been born required. Max is a huge man, a male of John Wayne stature who could snap my back with one hand. I seriously questioned he would physically hurt me, but the idea never ever left my mind. I believed he may require me to go through 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 great make fun of the possibilities, but it was Max's threatening lecture, oddly enough, that introduced Staci's crusade to begin me down the road of adulterous affairs.

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