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3 months ago, I was your daily homemaker and mom of 3-- 2 young boys, Phil, 15 Joey, 13 and a girl 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.
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 desired everyone to understand the new me. In reality, I didn't wish to advertise that fact, but I had no desire to reverse the self-destructive course Staci had me on.
I was like the junkie that understands where the dependency will lead, however doesn't want help. The dangers outweighed the effects due to the fact that 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 adored me from our very first meeting. Her husband is a police detective, so Max and Joe have the law in typical. Staci and I had absolutely nothing in typical.
I 'd never ever heard such shocking and horrible things in my life: S&M piss-freak orgies, mom's fucking kids, fathers raping young children, women making love with animals, moms enjoying dirty old men molest their daughters and getting off on it, better halves handling troops of randy males, blacks on whites, old with young, canines on little ladies. She had my head swimming in a swamp of perverse sex. Max and Joe got along like bros, so I was stuck with Staci. I felt like I had to indulge her. I had to listen to her stories and laugh at her jokes. Her stories were constantly about somebody she knew or found out about, never about anything she had any direct knowledge of. I seemed like she was just daydreaming aloud, and I believed she was a very ill lady. What I discovered particularly troubling was that her vile dreams worked their method into my tame dreams like an attacking virus, pushing my basic, fairly clean daydreams of romantic love out replacing them with fuck and draw orgy marathons, frequently with me as the featured entertainer. I stopped my monthly practice of masturbating in the shower using a water wand, and began a day-to-day session of self-abuse, sticking anything phallic up my cunt or ass, throughout your home. After six months of Staci's stories, I found out 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 give it a try. I practically broke my back in the attempt, but a basic self-fuck with cucumbers or my daughter'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, providing me pedicures, rubbing me, dressing and undressing me continuously. We bought clothes a good deal, with Staci making the choices as though she were my wardrobe manager. I deferred to her and used what she picked out. I let her clear out my closet of all my modest gowns, throwing out every pair of pants I owned. I used only short gowns 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 best female type. She convinced me I was beautiful to the severe, particularly in between my legs. This took some convincing, but she quickly had me comfy even when suffering prior to 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 scented 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 hubby was difficult. My very first cunnicure triggered Max to sit me down for a stern lecture. In the early days of our marital relationship, Max warned me not to cheat. If I ever find out that you cheated on me. If I ever get proof positive or catch you in the act, I'll make you want you had never been born. He had never threatened me with divorce. I could just picture what wishing I 'd never been born involved. I seriously doubted he would physically damage me, however the idea never left my mind. I believed he may require me to undergo a breast reduction or a cliterectomy. Perhaps, he 'd tattoo the word Whore on my forehead. He might fit me with a chastity belt. Staci and I had a great laugh at the possibilities, but it was Max's threatening lecture, unusually enough, that released Staci's crusade to start me down the road of adulterous affairs.
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