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3 months back, I was your everyday homemaker and mother of three-- two young boys, Phil, 15 Joey, 13 and a woman of twelve, Sandy. Cheating on Max never entered my mind, and most likely never ever would have had we not moved across the street from Staci and Joe. The life of a housewife with all kids in school is tiring to the extreme. Staci ended my boredom and made me what I am today. I easily confess I am a sex junkie, a slut, a slut. Sex is all I consider, and no perversion turns me off. I desire my sex down and unclean, revolting and unclean . In fantasy, I desired everybody to understand the 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 resembled the junkie that understands where the dependency will lead, but does not desire help. I feared my sexual addiction would practically destroy my marriage. I 'd lose my children and perhaps end up in prison. I couldn't help that. The threats surpassed the effects since the sex was that good. I like Staci for what she's done. She took her time with me, got to know me, inside and out, then began her professional manipulations that led me to where I am now. The journey has been a tough and long one for me, but nothing rewarding comes easy as my father would state. 8 months of client prodding has paid off for both me and Staci. Staci adored me from our first meeting. Her spouse is a police detective, so Max and Joe have the law in common. Staci and I had absolutely nothing in common. I discovered her rather dull and one dimensional. She's likewise rather plain and plump with short-cropped hair and a chubby face. She dropped out of high school, whereas I am working on my masters in English. I found her childish fascination with sexual matters disturbing and her language atrocious. In blended company, I laughed uneasily at her unrefined jokes, but the stories she informed me when we were alone left me speechless.

I 'd never heard such stunning and horrible things in my life: S&M piss-freak orgies, mom's fucking boys, daddies raping young children, ladies making love with animals, mothers watching dirty old men molest their daughters and getting off on it, wives taking on soldiers of horny males, blacks on whites, old with young, canines 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 to 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 somebody she knew or found out about, never ever about anything she had any direct understanding of. I felt like she was simply thinking out loud, and I believed she was a very ill female. What I discovered especially disturbing was that her repellent dreams worked their method into my tame fantasies like an getting into virus, pressing my easy, reasonably clean visions of romantic love out replacing them with fuck and suck orgy marathons, often with me as the included entertainer. I stopped my monthly practice of masturbating in the shower using a water wand, and began a everyday 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 concept in my head.

We didn't always sit for stories. The majority of our time together was invested with Staci doting over me, doing my hair and makeup, giving me pedicures, rubbing me, dressing and undressing me continuously. We bought clothes a great deal, with Staci making the selections as though she were my closet supervisor. I deferred to her and wore what she selected. I let her clear out my closet of all my modest gowns, throwing out every set of trousers I owned. I wore only brief dresses at Staci's persistence. 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 form. She persuaded me I was beautiful to the extreme, particularly between my legs. This took some convincing, but she quickly had me comfy even when suffering before 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 scented douche and involved 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 arise from my hubby 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 man that resides in fear of his wife unfaithful on him. I will not have you followed. I won't question your activities or the way you dress. I won't snoop or ask questions. You can reoccur as you please. If I ever discover that you cheated on me. If I ever get proof favorable or catch you in the act, I'll make you wish you had actually never been born. He had never ever threatened me with divorce. I could only envision what wanting I 'd never ever been born required. I seriously questioned he would physically damage me, but the thought never left my mind. I thought he might force me to go through a breast reduction or a cliterectomy. Possibly, he 'd tattoo the word Whore on my forehead. He may fit me with a chastity belt. Staci and I had a excellent laugh at 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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