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Three months ago, I was your everyday housewife and mother of 3-- two young boys, Phil, 15 Joey, 13 and a woman 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. Staci ended my boredom and made me what I am today. Sex is all I think about, and no perversion turns me off. In dream, I wanted everybody to know the new me. In reality, I didn't want to market that fact, but I had no desire to reverse the self-destructive course Staci had me on.

I was like the junkie that understands where the dependency will lead, however doesn't want help. I feared my sexual dependency would practically damage my marriage. I 'd lose my kids and possibly end up in prison. I could not help that. Since the sex was that great, the risks surpassed the repercussions. I enjoy Staci for what she's done. 8 months of patient prodding has paid off for both me and Staci. Staci loved me from our very first conference. Her husband is a cops detective, so Max and Joe have the law in common. Staci and I had absolutely nothing in common. In fact, I found her rather dull and one dimensional. She's also rather plain and plump with short-cropped hair and a tubby face. She left of high school, whereas I am dealing with my masters in English. I discovered her childish fascination with sexual matters troubling and her language atrocious. In combined business, I chuckled uncomfortably at her unrefined jokes, however the stories she informed me when we were alone left me speechless.

I 'd never heard such stunning and revolting things in my life: S&M piss-freak orgies, mom's fucking kids, fathers raping young daughters, women making love with animals, moms watching dirty old men molest their children and getting off on it, better halves taking on soldiers of randy men, blacks on whites, old with young, pet dogs on little women. She had my head swimming in a overload of perverse sex. Max and Joe got along like brothers, so I was stuck with Staci. Her stories were constantly about someone she understood or heard about, never about anything she had any direct knowledge of. What I found especially disturbing was that her vile fantasies worked their method into my tame dreams like an invading infection, pressing my basic, relatively tidy daydreams of romantic love out replacing them with fuck and suck 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 everyday session of self-abuse, sticking anything phallic up my cunt or ass, throughout your house. After 6 months of Staci's stories, I discovered how to lick my own pussy. Staci planted that idea in my head. She informed 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 give it a whirl. I almost broke my back in the attempt, but a simple self-fuck with cucumbers or my child's hair brush deal with was no longer enough.

We didn't always sit for stories. Most of our time together was invested with Staci doting over me, doing my hair and cosmetics, providing me pedicures, rubbing me, dressing and undressing me continuously. We looked for clothing a lot, with Staci making the choices as though she were my wardrobe supervisor. I accepted her and used what she picked out. I let her clear out my closet of all my modest dresses, throwing out every set of pants I owned. I wore just short dresses at Staci's persistence. I became Staci's live Barbie Doll. When I came to accept my function 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 kind. I have actually always thought of myself as being too brief, too skinny, too hippy, and too top-heavy. Additionally, I considered the female genitalia as a nasty fracture next to a shit hole. She persuaded me I was stunning to the extreme, particularly between my legs. This took some convincing, however she quickly had me comfortable even when languishing before her with my legs large 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 included a close shave, a clitty suck to orgasm, a comprehensive hot oil massage, and ended with a dab of fragrance. I liked her manicures, however hiding the result from my spouse 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 keep in mind being incensed at the mere recommendation. This time, I listened attentively as he said, Theresa, I'm not the kind of man that resides in fear of his spouse unfaithful on him. I won't have you followed. I will not 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 learn that you cheated on me. If I ever get evidence positive or catch you in the act, I'll make you want you had never been born. That was it. I merely 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 woman. He had actually never threatened me with divorce. I might only envision what wishing I 'd never ever been born involved. Max is a huge man, a male of John Wayne stature who might snap my back with one hand. I seriously questioned he would physically damage me, but the idea never ever left my mind. I believed he may 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 make fun of the possibilities, but it was Max's threatening lecture, unusually enough, that introduced Staci's crusade to start me down the road of adulterous affairs.

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