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3 months back, I was your everyday homemaker and mother of three-- two young boys, Phil, 15 Joey, 13 and a lady of twelve, Sandy. Cheating on Max never ever entered my mind, and probably never would have had we not moved across the street from Staci and Joe. The life of a housewife with all kids in school is tiring to the extreme. Staci ended my monotony and made me what I am today. I easily admit I am a sex junkie, a whore, a slut. Sex is all I think about, and no perversion turns me off. I want my sex down and dirty, unclean and disgusting . In dream, I wanted everyone to know the new me. In reality, I didn't want to advertise that fact, however 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 desire assistance. I feared my sexual dependency would practically damage my marriage. I 'd lose my children and possibly wind up in prison. I couldn't help that. Since the sex was that excellent, the dangers surpassed the repercussions. I like Staci for what she's done. Eight months of patient prodding has paid off for both me and Staci. Staci adored me from our very first meeting. Her partner is a cops detective, so Max and Joe have the law in typical. Staci and I had absolutely nothing in common.

I 'd never ever heard such stunning and horrible things in my life: S&M piss-freak orgies, mother's fucking children, dads raping young daughters, females having sex with animals, mothers watching dirty old men molest their daughters and getting off on it, better halves taking on soldiers of randy men, blacks on whites, old with young, dogs on little ladies. She had my head swimming in a overload of perverse sex. Max and Joe got along like siblings, 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 always about someone she understood or became aware of, never ever about anything she had any direct knowledge of. I felt like she was merely thinking aloud, and I thought she was a really ill female. What I found particularly troubling was that her disgusting dreams worked their way into my tame fantasies like an attacking infection, pressing my easy, relatively clean visions of romantic love out changing them with fuck and draw orgy marathons, typically with me as the included performer. 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, throughout your home. After 6 months of Staci's stories, I found out 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 spent with Staci doting over me, doing my hair and make-up, offering me pedicures, massaging me, dressing and undressing me constantly. We looked for clothes a good deal, with Staci making the selections as though she were my wardrobe supervisor. I accepted her and wore what she chose. I let her clear out my closet of all my modest gowns, throwing out every pair of trousers I owned. I wore only short gowns at Staci's insistence. I became Staci's live Barbie Doll. When I came to accept my function as a living Barbie Doll, my boring life ended. Staci worshipped my body, every inch of it. According to Staci, I had the ideal female kind. She encouraged me I was lovely to the extreme, specifically between my legs. This took some convincing, however she quickly had me comfortable even when languishing before her with my legs broad apart for a vaginal shave or the vagina variation of a pedicure-- a cunniecure as she called it. A cannelure started with a fragrant 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 result 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 cautioned me not to cheat. I keep in mind being incensed at the mere tip. This time, I listened diligently as he stated, Theresa, I'm not the type of guy that lives in worry of his spouse cheating 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 questions. You can reoccur as you please. If I ever learn that you cheated on me. If I ever get proof favorable or capture you in the act, I'll make you want you had actually never been born. That was it. I merely nodded my understanding, but I didn't rather comprehend. He didn't elaborate on what he 'd do precisely. Max wasn't the type to ever strike a female. He had never ever threatened me with divorce. I could just imagine what wanting I 'd never been born entailed. Max is a huge male, a guy of John Wayne stature who could snap my back with one hand. I seriously questioned he would physically damage me, but the idea never left my mind. I thought he might require me to undergo a breast reduction or a cliterectomy. Maybe, he 'd tattoo the word Whore on my forehead. He might fit me with a chastity belt. Staci and I had a excellent make fun of the possibilities, but it was Max's threatening lecture, strangely enough, that launched Staci's crusade to start me down the road of adulterous affairs.

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