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3 months back, I was your daily housewife and mother of three-- two kids, Phil, 15 Joey, 13 and a woman of twelve, Sandy. Cheating on Max never ever entered my mind, and probably never would have had we not moved throughout the street from Staci and Joe. Staci ended my boredom and made me what I am today. Sex is all I believe about, and no perversion turns me off. In fantasy, I wanted everybody to know the new me. In reality, I didn't want to advertise that fact, but I had no desire to reverse the self-destructive course Staci had me on.

I was like the addict that understands where the dependency will lead, however doesn't want help. I feared my sexual addiction would essentially damage my marital relationship. I 'd lose my children and possibly wind up in prison. I couldn't help that. Because the sex was that excellent, the dangers exceeded the effects. I enjoy Staci for what she's done. 8 months of client prodding has paid off for both me and Staci. Staci adored me from our very first meeting. Her husband is a authorities detective, so Max and Joe have the law in common. Staci and I had nothing in common.

I 'd never heard such stunning and horrible things in my life: S&M piss-freak orgies, mom's fucking kids, dads raping young children, women having sex with animals, moms viewing dirty old men molest their daughters and getting off on it, other halves taking on troops of horny men, blacks on whites, old with young, canines on little girls. She had my head swimming in a overload of perverse sex. Max and Joe got along like brothers, so I was stuck to Staci. I seemed like I had to indulge her. I had to listen to her stories and make fun of her jokes. Her stories were constantly about someone she understood or found out about, never ever about anything she had any direct knowledge of. I seemed like she was just thinking out loud, and I believed she was a extremely ill woman. What I discovered especially troubling was that her repellent dreams worked their method into my tame dreams like an getting into infection, pushing my easy, relatively clean musings of romantic love out changing them with fuck and suck orgy marathons, often with me as the included performer. I stopped my regular monthly practice of masturbating in the shower using a water wand, and started 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 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 try. I nearly broke my back in the attempt, however a basic self-fuck with cucumbers or my daughter's hair brush manage was no longer enough.

We didn't always sit for stories. Most of our time together was invested with Staci doting over me, doing my hair and cosmetics, offering me pedicures, rubbing me, dressing and undressing me continuously. We purchased clothing a lot, with Staci making the choices as though she were my closet manager. I accepted her and wore what she chose. I let her clear out my closet of all my modest dresses, tossing out every set of trousers I owned. I wore only short dresses at Staci's insistence. I ended up being Staci's live Barbie Doll. My boring 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 kind. I have constantly considered myself as being too brief, too skinny, too hippy, and too top-heavy. Furthermore, I considered the female genitalia as a nasty fracture beside a shit hole. She encouraged me I was gorgeous to the severe, particularly between my legs. This took some convincing, however she soon had me comfortable even when languishing before her with my legs large 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 involved a close shave, a clitty suck to orgasm, a extensive hot oil massage, and ended with a dab of fragrance. I liked her manicures, however concealing the result from my husband was impossible. My first cunnicure prompted Max to sit me down for a stern lecture. In the early days of our marriage, Max alerted me not to cheat. I remember being incensed at the simple tip. This time, I listened attentively as he stated, Theresa, I'm not the kind of male that resides in fear of his other half cheating on him. I will not have you followed. I will not question your activities or the way you dress. I won't snoop or ask questions. You can come and go as you please. , if I ever find out that you cheated on me.. If I ever get evidence favorable or capture you in the act, I'll make you wish you had never ever been born. He had never threatened me with divorce. I could just imagine what wanting I 'd never ever been born required. I seriously doubted he would physically harm me, but the thought never left my mind. I believed he may require me to undergo a breast reduction or a cliterectomy. Possibly, 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, 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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