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3 months ago, I was your everyday homemaker and mother of 3-- 2 boys, Phil, 15 Joey, 13 and a lady of twelve, Sandy. Cheating on Max never entered my mind, and probably 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 monotony and made me what I am today. I freely admit I am a sex addict, a slut, a slut. Sex is all I think about, and no perversion turns me off. I want my sex down and filthy, horrible and unclean . In dream, I wanted everyone to understand the new me. In reality, I didn't wish to advertise that fact, but I had no desire to reverse the self-destructive course Staci had me on.

I resembled the junkie that understands where the addiction will lead, however doesn't want help. I feared my sexual addiction would virtually damage my marriage. I 'd lose my children and potentially end up in prison. I couldn't assist that. Due to the fact that the sex was that great, the threats outweighed the repercussions. I enjoy Staci for what she's done. She took her time with me, got to know me, inside and out, then began her expert controls that led me to where I am now. The journey has actually been a hard and long one for me, however absolutely nothing rewarding comes easy as my dad would state. Eight months of patient prodding has paid off for both me and Staci. Staci loved me from our first conference. Her husband is a authorities investigator, so Max and Joe have the law in typical. Staci and I had absolutely nothing in typical.

I 'd never heard such shocking and revolting things in my life: S&M piss-freak orgies, mother's fucking sons, daddies raping young daughters, ladies making love with animals, mothers viewing dirty old men molest their children and getting off on it, spouses taking on soldiers of randy men, blacks on whites, old with young, pet dogs on little girls. She had my head swimming in a overload of perverse sex. Max and Joe got along like brothers, 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 constantly about someone she knew or became aware of, never about anything she had any direct understanding of. I felt like she was merely daydreaming aloud, and I thought she was a extremely ill female. What I discovered particularly disturbing was that her vile dreams worked their way into my tame dreams like an getting into virus, pressing my easy, reasonably clean daydreams of romantic love out changing them with fuck and draw orgy marathons, frequently with me as the included entertainer. I stopped my monthly practice of masturbating in the shower using a water wand, and started a day-to-day session of self-abuse, sticking anything phallic up my cunt or ass, throughout the house. After six months of Staci's stories, I discovered 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 offer it a try. I nearly broke my back in the attempt, but a basic self-fuck with cucumbers or my daughter's hair brush handle was no longer enough.

Most of our time together was invested with Staci doting over me, doing my hair and make-up, giving me pedicures, rubbing me, dressing and undressing me continuously. We shopped for clothes a fantastic deal, with Staci making the choices as though she were my closet supervisor. I wore only short gowns at Staci's persistence. Staci worshipped my body, every inch of it. According to Staci, I had the ideal female type. I have actually constantly thought of myself as being too short, too skinny, too hippy, and too top-heavy. Moreover, I thought about the female genitalia as a nasty crack next to a shit hole. She encouraged me I was beautiful to the extreme, especially between my legs. This took some convincing, but she quickly had me comfortable 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 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, however concealing the result from my other half was impossible. My very first cunnicure triggered Max to sit me down for a stern lecture. In the early days of our marital relationship, Max alerted me not to cheat. I keep in mind being incensed at the simple idea. This time, I listened diligently as he stated, Theresa, I'm not the kind of guy that resides in fear of his other half unfaithful 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 discover that you cheated on me. I'll make you want you had actually never been born if I ever get evidence positive or catch you in the act. He had never ever threatened me with divorce. I could only picture what wanting I 'd never ever been born involved. I seriously doubted he would physically harm me, but the thought never ever left my mind. I believed he may force me to undergo a breast reduction or a cliterectomy. Maybe, he 'd tattoo the word Whore on my forehead. He may fit me with a chastity belt. Staci and I had a good make fun of the possibilities, but it was Max's threatening lecture, unusually enough, that launched Staci's crusade to begin me down the road of adulterous affairs.

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