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3 months back, I was your daily housewife and mom of 3-- 2 boys, Phil, 15 Joey, 13 and a lady of twelve, Sandy. Cheating on Max never ever 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 boring 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 dirty, revolting and filthy . In fantasy, I desired everybody to understand the brand-new me. In reality, I didn't want 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, however doesn't want assistance. I feared my sexual dependency would essentially destroy my marital relationship. I 'd lose my kids and potentially wind up in prison. I couldn't help that. Because the sex was that great, the dangers exceeded the effects. I love Staci for what she's done. Eight months of client prodding has actually paid off for both me and Staci. Staci loved me from our first conference. Her hubby is a cops detective, so Max and Joe have the law in common. Staci and I had absolutely nothing in common.

I 'd never ever heard such stunning and disgusting things in my life: S&M piss-freak orgies, mother's fucking boys, dads raping young daughters, females making love with animals, mothers enjoying 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, canines on little ladies. She had my head swimming in a overload of perverse sex. Max and Joe got along like siblings, so I was stuck to Staci. I felt like I needed to indulge her. I had to listen to her stories and make fun of her jokes. Her stories were always about somebody she understood or found out about, never about anything she had any direct understanding of. I seemed like she was simply thinking aloud, and I believed she was a very ill woman. What I found especially troubling was that her vile dreams worked their way into my tame fantasies like an attacking virus, pushing my easy, fairly clean visions of romantic love out changing them with fuck and suck orgy marathons, often with me as the included entertainer. I stopped my regular monthly practice of masturbating in the shower utilizing a water wand, and began a day-to-day session of self-abuse, sticking anything phallic up my cunt or ass, anywhere in the house. After 6 months of Staci's stories, I discovered how to lick my own pussy. Staci planted that concept in my head also. 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 whirl. I practically broke my back in the effort, but a simple self-fuck with cucumbers or my daughter's hair brush deal with was no longer enough.

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 constantly. We shopped for clothes a great deal, with Staci making the choices as though she were my wardrobe manager. I used only brief gowns at Staci's persistence. Staci worshipped my body, every inch of it. According to Staci, I had the perfect female form. I have constantly thought about myself as being too brief, too skinny, too hippy, and too top-heavy. I thought of the female genitalia as a nasty fracture next to a shit hole. She encouraged me I was beautiful to the extreme, particularly in between my legs. This took some convincing, however she quickly had me comfortable even when languishing 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 aromatic douche and involved 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 hiding 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 marriage, Max cautioned me not to cheat. I remember being incensed at the mere idea. This time, I listened diligently as he said, Theresa, I'm not the type of man that lives in worry of his other half unfaithful on him. I will not have you followed. I won't question your activities or the method you dress. I won't sleuth or ask questions. You can come and go as you please. If I ever find out that you cheated on me. If I ever get proof favorable or capture you in the act, I'll make you wish you had actually never been born. That was it. I just nodded my understanding, however I didn't rather understand. He didn't elaborate on what he 'd do exactly. Max wasn't the type to ever strike a lady. He had never ever threatened me with divorce. I might only picture what wanting I 'd never ever been born entailed. Max is a big man, a guy of John Wayne stature who could snap my back with one hand. I seriously questioned he would physically damage me, however the idea never left my mind. I believed he may require me to undergo a breast reduction or a cliterectomy. Possibly, he 'd tattoo the word Whore on my forehead. He might fit me with a chastity belt. Staci and I had a excellent laugh at the possibilities, however it was Max's threatening lecture, unusually enough, that released Staci's crusade to start me down the road of adulterous affairs.

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