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3 months ago, I was your daily housewife and mother of three-- 2 boys, Phil, 15 Joey, 13 and a woman of twelve, Sandy. My hubby, Maxwell Blake, is a big-shot lawyer with the DA's office. Cheating on Max never ever entered my mind, and most likely never ever would have had we not moved across the street from Staci and Joe. I was so straight if I masturbated more than when a month, I felt guilty. Staci ended my monotony and made me what I am today. Sex is all I believe about, and no perversion turns me off. In fantasy, I wanted everyone to know the brand-new me. In reality, I didn't want to market that fact, but I had no desire to reverse the self-destructive course Staci had me on.

I resembled the addict that understands where the addiction will lead, but doesn't desire assistance. I feared my sexual addiction would essentially damage my marriage. I 'd lose my kids and possibly end up in prison. I couldn't help that. Due to the fact that the sex was that great, the dangers surpassed the repercussions. I enjoy Staci for what she's done. Eight months of patient prodding has paid off for both me and Staci. Staci adored me from our very first meeting. Her spouse is a police detective, so Max and Joe have the law in common. Staci and I had absolutely nothing in typical.

I 'd never ever heard such shocking and revolting things in my life: S&M piss-freak orgies, mother's fucking boys, fathers raping young daughters, women having sex with animals, mothers viewing dirty old men molest their daughters and getting off on it, partners taking on soldiers of randy men, blacks on whites, old with young, pets on little women. 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 felt like I needed to indulge her. I needed to listen to her stories and make fun of her jokes. Her stories were constantly about someone she understood or found out about, never about anything she had any direct knowledge of. I felt like she was merely daydreaming aloud, and I thought she was a really sick lady. What I discovered particularly troubling was that her vile dreams worked their method into my tame fantasies like an attacking infection, pressing my easy, reasonably clean musings of romantic love out changing them with fuck and draw orgy marathons, frequently with me as the included entertainer. I stopped my regular 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 the house. After 6 months of Staci's stories, I learned how to lick my own pussy. Staci planted that concept 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 provide it a whirl. I almost broke my back in the attempt, but a simple self-fuck with cucumbers or my daughter's hair brush handle 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 make-up, offering me pedicures, massaging me, dressing and undressing me continuously. We bought clothing a great deal, with Staci making the selections as though she were my wardrobe manager. I deferred to her and wore what she chose. I let her clear out my closet of all my modest gowns, tossing out every set of pants I owned. I wore just short dresses at Staci's insistence. I became Staci's live Barbie Doll. When I came to accept my function as a living Barbie Doll, my dull life ended. Staci worshipped my body, every inch of it. According to Staci, I had the ideal female type. I have constantly considered myself as being too brief, too slim, too hippy, and too top-heavy. In addition, I thought of the female genitalia as a nasty crack beside a shit hole. She persuaded me I was stunning to the extreme, particularly between my legs. This took some convincing, however she soon had me comfy even when languishing before 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 scented 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, however concealing the arise from my other half was impossible. My first cunnicure prompted Max to sit me down for a stern lecture. In the early days of our marital relationship, Max cautioned me not to cheat. I remember being incensed at the mere idea. This time, I listened diligently as he stated, Theresa, I'm not the kind of male that lives in fear of his other half unfaithful on him. I won't have you followed. I won't question your activities or the method you dress. I won't sleuth or ask questions. You can reoccur as you please. If I ever find out that you cheated on me. I'll make you want you had never been born if I ever get proof favorable or catch you in the act. He had actually never threatened me with divorce. I might only picture what wanting I 'd never ever been born entailed. I seriously questioned he would physically damage me, however the idea never ever left my mind. I believed he may force me to go through a breast reduction or a cliterectomy. 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 begin me down the road of adulterous affairs.

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