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3 months ago, I was your daily homemaker and mom of three-- two boys, Phil, 15 Joey, 13 and a lady of twelve, Sandy. Cheating on Max never ever entered my mind, and probably never ever would have had we not moved across the street from Staci and Joe. Staci ended my boredom and made me what I am today. Sex is all I believe about, and no perversion turns me off. In dream, I wanted everyone to know the brand-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 was like the addict that knows where the addiction will lead, but doesn't want aid. I feared my sexual addiction would virtually ruin my marital relationship. I 'd lose my children and possibly wind up in prison. I could not help that. Because the sex was that great, the dangers exceeded the effects. I enjoy Staci for what she's done. Eight months of patient prodding has actually paid off for both me and Staci. Staci adored me from our very first conference. Her spouse is a cops detective, so Max and Joe have the law in common. Staci and I had nothing in common. In fact, I discovered her rather dull and one dimensional. She's also rather plain and plump with short-cropped hair and a pudgy 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 combined company, I laughed uneasily at her crude jokes, but the stories she informed me when we were alone left me speechless.

I 'd never heard such shocking and horrible things in my life: S&M piss-freak orgies, mother's fucking kids, fathers raping young children, ladies having sex with animals, moms watching dirty old men molest their children and getting off on it, partners taking on soldiers of randy males, blacks on whites, old with young, dogs on little girls. She had my head swimming in a overload of perverse sex. Max and Joe got along like bros, so I was stuck with Staci. I felt like I needed to indulge her. I needed to listen to her stories and laugh at her jokes. Her stories were always about someone she knew or found out about, never about anything she had any direct knowledge of. I seemed like she was just fantasizing aloud, and I believed she was a really sick lady. What I found particularly disturbing was that her repellent fantasies worked their way into my tame fantasies like an invading infection, pushing my easy, reasonably clean daydreams of romantic love out changing them with fuck and draw orgy marathons, often with me as the included entertainer. I stopped my monthly practice of masturbating in the shower using a water wand, and started a everyday session of self-abuse, sticking anything phallic up my cunt or ass, throughout your house. After six months of Staci's stories, I learned 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 give it a whirl. I almost broke my back in the attempt, but a easy self-fuck with cucumbers or my child's hair brush manage was no longer enough.

We didn't constantly sit for stories. Most of our time together was invested with Staci doting over me, doing my hair and makeup, providing me pedicures, massaging me, dressing and undressing me constantly. We shopped for clothes a lot, with Staci making the choices as though she were my wardrobe supervisor. 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 trousers I owned. I used only short gowns at Staci's insistence. I ended up being Staci's live Barbie Doll. My boring 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 ideal female form. I have actually constantly thought about myself as being too short, too slim, too hippy, and too top-heavy. In addition, I considered the female genitalia as a nasty fracture next to a shit hole. She persuaded me I was beautiful to the severe, particularly between my legs. This took some convincing, but she soon had me comfy even when languishing prior to her with my legs broad 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 comprehensive hot oil massage, and ended with a dab of perfume. I liked her manicures, however concealing the result from my partner was impossible. My very first cunnicure triggered Max to sit me down for a stern lecture. In the early days of our marital relationship, Max alerted me not to cheat. If I ever find out 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. He had actually never ever threatened me with divorce. I might just picture what wanting I 'd never been born required. 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 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, strangely enough, that introduced Staci's crusade to start me down the road of adulterous affairs.

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