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Three months ago, I was your daily homemaker and mother of three-- 2 kids, Phil, 15 Joey, 13 and a woman of twelve, Sandy. Cheating on Max never ever entered my mind, and probably never ever would have had we not moved throughout the street from Staci and Joe.
Staci ended my dullness 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 know 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 addict that knows where the addiction will lead, however does not desire assistance. I feared my sexual addiction would essentially ruin my marriage. I 'd lose my kids and possibly wind up in prison. I could not assist that. The risks surpassed the repercussions since the sex was that good. I love Staci for what she's done. 8 months of client prodding has paid off for both me and Staci. Staci loved me from our very first conference. Her partner is a cops investigator, so Max and Joe have the law in common. Staci and I had nothing in common. I discovered her rather dull and one dimensional. She's also rather plain and plump with short-cropped hair and a chubby face. She left of high school, whereas I am dealing with my masters in English. I discovered her childish fascination with sexual matters disturbing and her language atrocious. In mixed company, I laughed uncomfortably 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, mother's fucking children, daddies raping young daughters, females having sex with animals, mothers viewing dirty old men molest their daughters and getting off on it, other halves taking on troops of randy males, blacks on whites, old with young, pet dogs on little girls. She had my head swimming in a swamp of perverse sex. Max and Joe got along like brothers, so I was stuck with Staci. Her stories were always about someone she knew or heard about, never about anything she had any direct knowledge of. What I found especially disturbing was that her disgusting fantasies worked their method into my tame fantasies like an invading infection, pressing my easy, reasonably tidy 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 daily session of self-abuse, sticking anything phallic up my cunt or ass, anywhere in your house. After 6 months of Staci's stories, I learned how to lick my own pussy. Staci planted that concept in my head.
We didn't always sit for stories. Most of our time together was invested with Staci doting over me, doing my hair and cosmetics, offering me pedicures, rubbing me, dressing and undressing me continuously. We shopped for clothing a great deal, with Staci making the choices as though she were my wardrobe manager. I accepted her and wore what she selected. I let her clear out my closet of all my modest dresses, throwing out every pair of trousers I owned. I used just brief gowns at Staci's insistence. I became Staci's live Barbie Doll. When I came to accept my role as a living Barbie Doll, my dull life ended. Staci worshipped my body, every inch of it. According to Staci, I had the best female form. I have constantly considered myself as being too brief, too slim, too hippy, and too top-heavy. Furthermore, I thought about the female genitalia as a nasty fracture beside a shit hole. She persuaded me I was gorgeous to the severe, especially in between my legs. This took some convincing, however she soon had me comfortable even when suffering before her with my legs broad apart for a vaginal shave or the vaginal area variation of a pedicure-- a cunniecure as she called it. A cannelure began with a aromatic douche and included a close shave, a clitty suck to orgasm, a comprehensive hot oil massage, and ended with a dab of perfume. I liked her manicures, however concealing the result from my husband was impossible. My first cunnicure prompted Max to sit me down for a stern lecture. In the early days of our marriage, Max warned me not to cheat. I keep in mind being incensed at the mere idea. This time, I listened attentively as he said, Theresa, I'm not the type of male that lives in worry of his wife cheating on him. I will not have you followed. I will not question your activities or the way you dress. I will not sleuth or ask questions. You can go and come as you please. If I ever learn that you cheated on me. If I ever get evidence favorable or catch you in the act, I'll make you wish you had actually never been born. He had actually never ever threatened me with divorce. I could just picture what wishing I 'd never been born required. I seriously doubted he would physically damage me, however the thought never left my mind. I believed he might force me to undergo 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 good laugh at the possibilities, however it was Max's threatening lecture, strangely enough, that launched Staci's crusade to begin me down the road of adulterous affairs.
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