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Three months earlier, I was your daily housewife and mom of three-- two boys, Phil, 15 Joey, 13 and a girl of twelve, Sandy. Cheating on Max never entered my mind, and probably never would have had we not moved across the street from Staci and Joe. The life of a homemaker with all kids in school is boring to the extreme. Staci ended my boredom and made me what I am today. I freely admit 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 dream, I desired everyone to know the brand-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 understands where the dependency will lead, however does not want help. The risks exceeded the consequences since the sex was that excellent. I like Staci for what she's done. Eight months of patient prodding has paid off for both me and Staci. Staci loved me from our very first conference. Her husband is a authorities investigator, so Max and Joe have the law in common. Staci and I had absolutely nothing in common. In fact, I discovered her rather dull and one dimensional. She's likewise rather plain and plump with short-cropped hair and a tubby 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 blended company, I chuckled uncomfortably at her crude jokes, but the stories she informed me when we were alone left me speechless.

I 'd never heard such shocking and revolting things in my life: S&M piss-freak orgies, mom's fucking kids, daddies raping young children, ladies having sex with animals, moms viewing dirty old men molest their children and getting off on it, other halves handling troops of horny males, blacks on whites, old with young, dogs on little women. 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 seemed like I had to indulge her. I needed to listen to her stories and laugh at her jokes. Her stories were always about somebody she knew or found out about, never ever about anything she had any direct understanding of. I felt like she was simply fantasizing aloud, and I believed she was a very sick female. What I found especially disturbing was that her repellent dreams worked their method into my tame dreams like an attacking virus, pushing my simple, relatively tidy daydreams of romantic love out changing them with fuck and draw orgy marathons, frequently with me as the included entertainer. I stopped my regular monthly practice of masturbating in the shower using a water wand, and began a day-to-day session of self-abuse, sticking anything phallic up my cunt or ass, throughout your home. After 6 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 provide it a try. I almost broke my back in the effort, but a simple self-fuck with cucumbers or my daughter's hair brush deal with was no longer enough.

We didn't always sit for stories. The majority of our time together was invested with Staci doting over me, doing my hair and makeup, providing me pedicures, rubbing me, dressing and undressing me constantly. We purchased clothes a great deal, 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 gowns, throwing out every pair of pants I owned. I wore only brief dresses at Staci's persistence. I ended up being Staci's live Barbie Doll. When I came to accept my role 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 always thought about myself as being too brief, too skinny, too hippy, and too top-heavy. Furthermore, I considered the female genitalia as a nasty crack next to a shit hole. She encouraged me I was beautiful to the severe, specifically between my legs. This took some convincing, however she quickly had me comfy even when languishing 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 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 hiding the result from my husband was difficult. My very first cunnicure prompted Max to sit me down for a stern lecture. In the early days of our marital relationship, Max alerted me not to cheat. I remember being incensed at the simple idea. This time, I listened diligently as he said, Theresa, I'm not the type of man that lives in worry of his partner unfaithful on him. I will not have you followed. I will not question your activities or the method you dress. I will not sleuth or ask concerns. You can go and come as you please. , if I ever discover out that you cheated on me.. If I ever get evidence favorable or catch you in the act, I'll make you wish you had never been born. He had never ever threatened me with divorce. I might only envision what wanting I 'd never been born entailed. I seriously doubted he would physically damage me, however the thought never ever left my mind. I thought he may force me to undergo 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 excellent laugh at the possibilities, but it was Max's threatening lecture, strangely enough, that released Staci's crusade to start me down the road of adulterous affairs.

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