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3 months ago, I was your daily housewife and mom of 3-- two kids, Phil, 15 Joey, 13 and a woman of twelve, Sandy. Cheating on Max never entered my mind, and probably never 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 monotony and made me what I am today. I easily 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, revolting and dirty . In dream, I desired everyone to understand the brand-new me. In reality, I didn't want to market that fact, however I had no desire to reverse the self-destructive course Staci had me on.

I was like the addict that knows where the addiction will lead, but doesn't desire assistance. I feared my sexual dependency would virtually damage my marriage. I 'd lose my kids and potentially end up in prison. I could not assist that. Since the sex was that great, the risks exceeded the consequences. I like Staci for what she's done. She took her time with me, learnt more about me, inside and out, then began her specialist controls that led me to where I am now. The journey has actually been a long and tough one for me, but nothing rewarding comes easy as my dad would say. Eight months of client prodding has actually paid off for both me and Staci. Staci adored me from our first conference. Her partner is a cops investigator, so Max and Joe have the law in typical. Staci and I had absolutely nothing in common.

I 'd never ever heard such stunning and horrible things in my life: S&M piss-freak orgies, mom's fucking sons, fathers raping young daughters, women having sex with animals, moms seeing dirty old men molest their children and getting off on it, wives handling troops of horny men, blacks on whites, old with young, dogs 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 with Staci. Her stories were always about someone she knew or heard about, never ever about anything she had any direct understanding of. What I discovered especially disturbing was that her vile fantasies worked their way into my tame fantasies like an invading virus, pushing my simple, relatively clean musings of romantic love out replacing them with fuck and draw orgy marathons, often with me as the featured entertainer. I stopped my month-to-month 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, throughout your home. After 6 months of Staci's stories, I learned how to lick my own pussy. Staci planted that idea in my head also. 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 offer it a try. I practically 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 constantly sit for stories. The majority of our time together was invested with Staci doting over me, doing my hair and cosmetics, giving me pedicures, massaging me, dressing and undressing me continuously. We purchased clothes a good deal, with Staci making the selections as though she were my closet supervisor. I accepted her and used what she picked out. I let her clear out my closet of all my modest gowns, throwing out every set of pants I owned. I wore just brief gowns at Staci's persistence. I became Staci's live Barbie Doll. When I came to accept my role as a living Barbie Doll, my dull life ended. Staci worshipped my body, every inch of it. According to Staci, I had the perfect female type. I have actually constantly thought about myself as being too brief, too slim, too hippy, and too top-heavy. I thought of the female genitalia as a nasty fracture next to a shit hole. She convinced me I was beautiful to the extreme, particularly between my legs. This took some convincing, but she soon had me comfortable even when suffering prior to her with my legs broad apart for a vaginal shave or the vagina variation 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 thorough hot oil massage, and ended with a dab of perfume. I liked her manicures, but concealing the arise from my husband was difficult. My first cunnicure triggered Max to sit me down for a stern lecture. In the early days of our marital relationship, Max cautioned me not to cheat. 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 want you had never ever been born. He had never ever threatened me with divorce. I might just picture what wanting I 'd never been born involved. I seriously doubted he would physically harm me, but the thought never left my mind. I believed he might force me to go through a breast reduction or a cliterectomy. Maybe, he 'd tattoo the word Whore on my forehead. He might fit me with a chastity belt. Staci and I had a excellent make fun of the possibilities, but it was Max's threatening lecture, strangely enough, that released Staci's crusade to start me down the road of adulterous affairs.

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