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Three months earlier, I was your everyday housewife and mother of 3-- two young boys, Phil, 15 Joey, 13 and a girl of twelve, Sandy. My other half, Maxwell Blake, is a big-shot attorney with the DA's workplace. 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. I was so straight if I masturbated more than once a month, I felt guilty.
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 think of, and no perversion turns me off. I want my sex down and dirty, unclean and horrible .
In fantasy, I wanted everyone to understand the new me. In reality, I didn't want to promote that fact, but I had no desire to reverse the self-destructive course Staci had me on.
I was like the junkie that knows where the dependency will lead, but doesn't want aid. I feared my sexual addiction would practically damage my marital relationship. I 'd lose my kids and potentially wind up in prison. I could not help that. The threats outweighed the repercussions because the sex was that good. I like 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 hubby is a cops detective, so Max and Joe have the law in common. Staci and I had absolutely nothing in common. I found her rather dull and one dimensional. She's likewise rather plain and plump with short-cropped hair and a chubby face. She left of high school, whereas I am working on my masters in English. I discovered her childish fascination with sexual matters disturbing and her language atrocious. In mixed business, I laughed uncomfortably at her crude jokes, but the stories she informed me when we were alone left me speechless.
I 'd never ever heard such stunning and horrible things in my life: S&M piss-freak orgies, mom's fucking children, fathers raping young daughters, women having sex with animals, mothers enjoying dirty old men molest their children and getting off on it, spouses handling troops of randy guys, blacks on whites, old with young, dogs 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 to Staci. I felt like I had to indulge her. I needed to listen to her stories and laugh at her jokes. Her stories were constantly about someone she understood or heard about, never ever about anything she had any direct understanding of. I felt like she was simply fantasizing out loud, and I thought she was a really sick woman. What I found particularly disturbing was that her repellent fantasies worked their method into my tame fantasies like an attacking virus, pushing my basic, reasonably tidy daydreams of romantic love out changing them with fuck and suck orgy marathons, often with me as the featured performer. I stopped my monthly practice of masturbating in the shower using a water wand, and started a everyday session of self-abuse, sticking anything phallic up my cunt or ass, throughout your home. After 6 months of Staci's stories, I learned how to lick my own pussy. Staci planted that idea in my head.
Many of our time together was invested with Staci doting over me, doing my hair and make-up, offering me pedicures, massaging me, dressing and undressing me constantly. We went shopping for clothing a excellent offer, with Staci making the selections as though she were my closet manager. I wore just brief dresses at Staci's insistence. Staci worshipped my body, every inch of it. According to Staci, I had the perfect female kind. I have actually constantly thought of myself as being too brief, too slim, too hippy, and too top-heavy. I thought of the female genitalia as a nasty crack next to a shit hole. She persuaded me I was lovely to the extreme, 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 vagina version of a pedicure-- a cunniecure as she called it. A cannelure began with a aromatic douche and involved a close shave, a clitty suck to orgasm, a thorough hot oil massage, and ended with a dab of perfume. I liked her manicures, but concealing the arise from my partner was impossible. 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 recommendation. This time, I listened attentively as he said, Theresa, I'm not the kind of male that resides in fear of his other half cheating on him. I won't have you followed. I will not question your activities or the way you dress. I won't snoop or ask questions. You can come and go as you please. If I ever discover that you cheated on me. If I ever get proof positive or catch you in the act, I'll make you want you had never been born. He had actually never threatened me with divorce. I might just imagine what wishing I 'd never been born entailed. 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. Perhaps, he 'd tattoo the word Whore on my forehead. He may fit me with a chastity belt. Staci and I had a great make fun of the possibilities, but it was Max's threatening lecture, unusually enough, that launched Staci's crusade to start me down the road of adulterous affairs.
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