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3 months back, I was your daily homemaker and mother of 3-- 2 kids, Phil, 15 Joey, 13 and a woman of twelve, Sandy. Cheating on Max never entered my mind, and probably never 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 dullness 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 unclean, filthy and horrible . In fantasy, I wanted everybody to know the new me. In reality, I didn't wish to promote that fact, however I had no desire to reverse the self-destructive course Staci had me on.

I resembled the addict that understands where the addiction will lead, but does not want assistance. I feared my sexual addiction would practically destroy my marriage. I 'd lose my children and possibly end up in prison. I couldn't assist that. Since the sex was that excellent, the risks surpassed the effects. I enjoy Staci for what she's done. 8 months of client prodding has actually paid off for both me and Staci. Staci loved me from our first conference. Her partner is a cops investigator, 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 also rather plain and plump with short-cropped hair and a pudgy face. She dropped out of high school, whereas I am dealing with my masters in English. I found her childish fascination with sexual matters disturbing and her language atrocious. In combined company, I chuckled uneasily at her crude jokes, but the stories she informed me when we were alone left me speechless.

I 'd never heard such stunning and horrible things in my life: S&M piss-freak orgies, mother's fucking boys, daddies raping young daughters, women making love with animals, moms enjoying dirty old men molest their children and getting off on it, spouses taking on soldiers of randy guys, blacks on whites, old with young, pets 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 with Staci. Her stories were always about someone she understood or heard about, never ever about anything she had any direct understanding of. What I discovered particularly disturbing was that her vile fantasies worked their method into my tame dreams like an invading infection, pressing my simple, reasonably tidy visions of romantic love out changing them with fuck and draw orgy marathons, often with me as the included entertainer. I stopped my regular 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, anywhere in your house. After 6 months of Staci's stories, I learned how to lick my own pussy. Staci planted that concept 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 nearly broke my back in the effort, however a easy self-fuck with cucumbers or my daughter's hair brush manage was no longer enough.

We didn't constantly sit for stories. The majority of our time together was spent with Staci doting over me, doing my hair and make-up, providing me pedicures, rubbing me, dressing and undressing me continuously. We bought clothes a lot, with Staci making the selections as though she were my wardrobe manager. I deferred to her and wore what she chose. I let her clear out my closet of all my modest dresses, tossing out every set of trousers I owned. I used just brief gowns at Staci's persistence. I became Staci's live Barbie Doll. My boring life ended when I concerned accept my function as a living Barbie Doll. Staci worshipped my body, every inch of it. According to Staci, I had the ideal female type. She encouraged me I was beautiful to the severe, specifically in between my legs. This took some convincing, but she soon had me comfortable even when languishing before her with my legs wide apart for a vaginal shave or the vagina variation 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 comprehensive hot oil massage, and ended with a dab of perfume. I liked her manicures, but concealing 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 alerted me not to cheat. I keep in mind being incensed at the mere idea. This time, I listened attentively as he said, Theresa, I'm not the type of man that lives in worry of his spouse cheating on him. I won't have you followed. I won't question your activities or the method you dress. I won't snoop or ask concerns. You can go and come 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 never been born. He had actually never ever threatened me with divorce. I might only envision what wishing I 'd never been born involved. I seriously doubted he would physically hurt me, but the idea never ever left my mind. I believed he might force me to go through a breast reduction or a cliterectomy. Staci and I had a good laugh at 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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