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3 months back, I was your daily housewife and mom of three-- two boys, Phil, 15 Joey, 13 and a woman of twelve, Sandy. 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. The life of a homemaker with all kids in school is tiring to the extreme. Staci ended my dullness and made me what I am today. I easily confess 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, unclean and horrible . In fantasy, I desired everyone to know 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 addict that understands where the addiction will lead, but does not want aid. I feared my sexual dependency would practically destroy my marriage. I 'd lose my kids and perhaps wind up in prison. I couldn't assist that. Since the sex was that good, the dangers outweighed the consequences. I love Staci for what she's done. She took her time with me, was familiar with me, inside and out, then started her professional controls that led me to where I am now. The journey has been a long and tough one for me, but absolutely nothing worthwhile comes easy as my daddy would state. Eight months of patient prodding has settled for both me and Staci. Staci adored me from our very first conference. Her spouse is a cops investigator, so Max and Joe have the law in common. Staci and I had absolutely nothing in typical.

I 'd never ever heard such stunning and disgusting things in my life: S&M piss-freak orgies, mom's fucking children, dads raping young daughters, women having sex with animals, mothers enjoying dirty old men molest their children and getting off on it, partners taking on soldiers of horny men, blacks on whites, old with young, pets on little ladies. She had my head swimming in a overload of perverse sex. Max and Joe got along like bros, so I was stuck to Staci. I felt like I needed to indulge her. I had to listen to her stories and laugh at her jokes. Her stories were constantly about somebody she knew or became aware of, never about anything she had any direct knowledge of. I seemed like she was simply thinking aloud, and I believed she was a really sick female. What I discovered particularly troubling was that her disgusting dreams worked their way into my tame dreams like an invading virus, pressing my easy, reasonably clean daydreams of romantic love out changing them with fuck and suck orgy marathons, frequently with me as the included entertainer. I stopped my month-to-month 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 six months of Staci's stories, I learned how to lick my own pussy. Staci planted that idea in my head.

We didn't constantly sit for stories. The majority of our time together was invested with Staci doting over me, doing my hair and makeup, offering me pedicures, rubbing me, dressing and undressing me constantly. We looked for clothing a lot, with Staci making the choices as though she were my closet manager. I deferred to her and used what she selected. I let her clear out my closet of all my modest gowns, tossing out every pair of pants I owned. I used only brief dresses at Staci's persistence. I became Staci's live Barbie Doll. My uninteresting life ended when I came to accept my role as a living Barbie Doll. Staci worshipped my body, every inch of it. According to Staci, I had the best female kind. I have constantly thought about myself as being too brief, too skinny, too hippy, and too top-heavy. In addition, I thought about the female genitalia as a nasty fracture next to a shit hole. She persuaded me I was stunning to the extreme, specifically between my legs. This took some convincing, but she soon had me comfy even when languishing prior to her with my legs large apart for a vaginal shave or the vaginal area variation of a pedicure-- a cunniecure as she called it. A cannelure began with a fragrant douche and involved a close shave, a clitty suck to orgasm, a thorough hot oil massage, and ended with a dab of fragrance. I liked her manicures, however concealing the result from my other half was impossible. My first cunnicure prompted Max to sit me down for a stern lecture. In the early days of our marriage, Max warned me not to cheat. I remember being incensed at the simple recommendation. This time, I listened attentively as he said, Theresa, I'm not the kind of man that lives in fear of his wife unfaithful on him. I will not have you followed. I won't question your activities or the way you dress. I will not sleuth or ask questions. You can come and go as you please. , if I ever discover out that you cheated on me.. If I ever get proof positive or catch you in the act, I'll make you wish you had actually never been born. He had actually never threatened me with divorce. I might only picture what wanting I 'd never been born involved. I seriously doubted he would physically damage me, but the idea never left my mind. I believed he might require 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 excellent make fun of the possibilities, but it was Max's threatening lecture, oddly enough, that launched Staci's crusade to begin me down the road of adulterous affairs.

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