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3 months back, I was your everyday housewife and mother of 3-- two young boys, Phil, 15 Joey, 13 and a girl 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. The life of a housewife with all kids in school is tiring 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 think about, and no perversion turns me off. I desire my sex down and filthy, filthy and disgusting . In dream, I desired everybody to understand the brand-new me. In reality, I didn't want 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 knows where the addiction will lead, however does not desire assistance. I feared my sexual addiction would practically destroy my marital relationship. I 'd lose my kids and potentially end up in prison. I couldn't help that. Because the sex was that excellent, the dangers outweighed the consequences. I love Staci for what she's done. 8 months of patient prodding has paid off for both me and Staci. Staci adored me from our very first conference. Her husband is a police detective, so Max and Joe have the law in common. Staci and I had absolutely nothing in common.

I 'd never heard such stunning and disgusting 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 daughters and getting off on it, wives handling soldiers of randy males, blacks on whites, old with young, dogs on little ladies. She had my head swimming in a swamp of perverse sex. Max and Joe got along like brothers, so I was stuck with 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 always about someone she knew or heard about, never about anything she had any direct knowledge of. I seemed like she was merely thinking out loud, and I believed she was a extremely sick lady. What I found especially troubling was that her repellent dreams worked their way into my tame dreams like an invading infection, pressing my simple, fairly clean visions of romantic love out changing them with fuck and suck orgy marathons, often with me as the featured entertainer. I stopped my regular monthly practice of masturbating in the shower using a water wand, and began a daily session of self-abuse, sticking anything phallic up my cunt or ass, anywhere in the house. After six months of Staci's stories, I learned how to lick my own pussy. Staci planted that concept in my head as well. 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 nearly broke my back in the effort, but a easy self-fuck with cucumbers or my daughter'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 makeup, giving me pedicures, massaging me, dressing and undressing me continuously. We shopped for clothes a great deal, with Staci making the selections as though she were my closet supervisor. 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 just brief dresses at Staci's persistence. I ended up being 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 form. I have actually constantly considered myself as being too short, too skinny, too hippy, and too top-heavy. I believed of the female genitalia as a nasty fracture next to a shit hole. She encouraged me I was stunning to the extreme, specifically in between my legs. This took some convincing, but she quickly had me comfortable even when suffering before her with my legs wide 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 thorough hot oil massage, and ended with a dab of perfume. I liked her manicures, but concealing the arise from my other half was impossible. 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 positive or catch you in the act, I'll make you wish you had actually never been born. That was it. I merely nodded my understanding, however I didn't quite comprehend. He didn't elaborate on what he 'd do exactly. Max wasn't the type to ever hit a woman. He had never threatened me with divorce. I could only picture what wanting I 'd never ever been born entailed. Max is a big guy, a male of John Wayne stature who might snap my back with one hand. I seriously questioned he would physically harm me, however the thought never left my mind. I believed he may force me to go through a breast reduction or a cliterectomy. Perhaps, 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, however it was Max's threatening lecture, strangely enough, that launched Staci's crusade to start me down the road of adulterous affairs.

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