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3 months ago, I was your daily housewife and mom of three-- 2 boys, Phil, 15 Joey, 13 and a girl of twelve, Sandy. Cheating on Max never entered my mind, and most likely never ever 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 monotony and made me what I am today. I freely confess I am a sex junkie, a slut, a slut. Sex is all I think of, and no perversion turns me off. I want my sex down and unclean, disgusting and filthy .
In fantasy, I wanted everybody to know the brand-new me. In reality, I didn't wish to market 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, but doesn't desire help. I feared my sexual dependency would essentially destroy my marriage. I 'd lose my kids and perhaps end up in prison. I could not assist that. The dangers exceeded the effects due to the fact that the sex was that good. I love Staci for what she's done. She took her time with me, got to know me, inside and out, then began her specialist adjustments that led me to where I am now. The journey has actually been a tough and long one for me, however nothing rewarding comes easy as my dad would say. 8 months of client prodding has paid off for both me and Staci. Staci loved me from our very first conference. Her hubby is a authorities investigator, so Max and Joe have the law in typical. Staci and I had nothing in typical.
I 'd never heard such shocking and horrible things in my life: S&M piss-freak orgies, mom's fucking kids, dads raping young daughters, women making love with animals, mothers enjoying dirty old men molest their children and getting off on it, other halves taking on soldiers of horny males, blacks on whites, old with young, pets 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 needed to indulge her. I needed to listen to her stories and laugh at her jokes. Her stories were always about somebody she understood or became aware of, never about anything she had any direct knowledge of. I felt like she was simply daydreaming out loud, and I thought she was a extremely ill woman. What I found particularly troubling was that her vile fantasies worked their way into my tame fantasies like an attacking virus, pressing my easy, relatively tidy musings of romantic love out changing them with fuck and draw orgy marathons, frequently with me as the featured performer. 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 your home. After six months of Staci's stories, I found out how to lick my own pussy. Staci planted that idea 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 try. 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 constantly sit for stories. Most of our time together was spent with Staci doting over me, doing my hair and cosmetics, providing me pedicures, massaging me, dressing and undressing me continuously. We bought clothes a lot, with Staci making the choices as though she were my closet manager. I accepted her and used what she chose. I let her clear out my closet of all my modest gowns, tossing out every set of trousers I owned. I used just brief dresses at Staci's persistence. I ended up being Staci's live Barbie Doll. My uninteresting life ended when I came to accept my role as a living Barbie Doll. Staci worshipped my body, every inch of it. According to Staci, I had the perfect female kind. She persuaded me I was gorgeous to the severe, particularly in between my legs. This took some convincing, however she soon had me comfy even when languishing prior to 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 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 hiding the arise from my partner was difficult. My first cunnicure prompted Max to sit me down for a stern lecture. In the early days of our marital relationship, Max warned me not to cheat. I remember being incensed at the mere suggestion. This time, I listened diligently as he said, Theresa, I'm not the kind of guy that resides 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 won't sleuth or ask concerns. You can go and come as you please. , if I ever discover out that you cheated on me.. If I ever get proof positive or catch you in the act, I'll make you wish you had never ever been born. He had never threatened me with divorce. I might only envision what wishing I 'd never been born entailed. I seriously questioned he would physically damage me, but the idea never ever left my mind. I believed he might force me to go through a breast decrease or a cliterectomy. Staci and I had a great laugh at the possibilities, but it was Max's threatening lecture, strangely enough, that launched Staci's crusade to begin me down the roadway of adulterous affairs.
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