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Three months earlier, I was your daily housewife and mom of 3-- two kids, Phil, 15 Joey, 13 and a girl of twelve, Sandy. My spouse, Maxwell Blake, is a big-shot lawyer with the DA's workplace. Cheating on Max never entered my mind, and probably never would have had we stagnated across the street from Staci and Joe. I was so straight if I masturbated more than when a month, I felt guilty. The life of a housewife with all kids in school is tiring to the extreme. Staci ended my monotony and made me what I am today. I freely confess I am a sex addict, a slut, a slut. Sex is all I consider, and no perversion turns me off. I want my sex down and filthy, revolting and dirty . In dream, I desired everyone to know the new me. In reality, I didn't wish 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 understands where the addiction will lead, but does not want help. The threats surpassed the consequences because the sex was that good. I like 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 first meeting. Her hubby is a cops detective, so Max and Joe have the law in common. Staci and I had nothing in common.

I 'd never heard such shocking and revolting things in my life: S&M piss-freak orgies, mom's fucking sons, fathers raping young daughters, women making love with animals, mothers watching dirty old men molest their children and getting off on it, partners taking on troops of horny guys, blacks on whites, old with young, pets on little girls. She had my head swimming in a swamp of perverse sex. Max and Joe got along like siblings, so I was stuck with Staci. I seemed like I needed to indulge her. I had to listen to her stories and laugh at her jokes. Her stories were always about somebody she knew or heard about, never about anything she had any direct knowledge of. I seemed like she was just daydreaming out loud, and I thought she was a very sick woman. What I found particularly disturbing was that her vile fantasies worked their method into my tame fantasies like an attacking infection, pressing my simple, reasonably tidy visions of romantic love out replacing them with fuck and suck orgy marathons, typically with me as the included entertainer. I stopped my month-to-month practice of masturbating in the shower using a water wand, and started a everyday session of self-abuse, sticking anything phallic up my cunt or ass, anywhere in your home. After 6 months of Staci's stories, I found out how to lick my own pussy. Staci planted that concept in my head.

We didn't always sit for stories. The majority of our time together was spent with Staci doting over me, doing my hair and makeup, offering me pedicures, massaging me, dressing and undressing me continuously. We bought clothes a good deal, with Staci making the selections as though she were my closet manager. I accepted her and wore what she selected. I let her clear out my closet of all my modest dresses, throwing out every set of pants I owned. I wore just short gowns at Staci's insistence. I ended up being Staci's live Barbie Doll. My dull 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 best female form. She convinced me I was beautiful to the severe, especially between my legs. This took some convincing, but she quickly had me comfortable 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 began with a scented douche and included a close shave, a clitty suck to orgasm, a extensive hot oil massage, and ended with a dab of perfume. I liked her manicures, but concealing the result from my hubby was impossible. My first cunnicure triggered Max to sit me down for a stern lecture. In the early days of our marriage, Max cautioned me not to cheat. I keep in mind being incensed at the mere tip. This time, I listened attentively as he said, Theresa, I'm not the type of man that lives in fear of his spouse cheating on him. I will not have you followed. I won't question your activities or the way you dress. I will not sleuth or ask concerns. You can reoccur as you please. , if I ever discover out that you cheated on me.. I'll make you wish you had never been born if I ever get proof positive or capture you in the act. That was it. I just nodded my understanding, but I didn't quite understand. He didn't elaborate on what he 'd do exactly. Max wasn't the type to ever hit a female. He had never threatened me with divorce. I might only envision what wishing I 'd never ever been born involved. Max is a big man, a male of John Wayne stature who might snap my back with one hand. I seriously questioned he would physically hurt me, but the idea never left my mind. I believed he might require 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 great make fun of the possibilities, however it was Max's threatening lecture, oddly enough, that released Staci's crusade to start me down the road of adulterous affairs.

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