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3 months back, I was your everyday housewife and mother of three-- two boys, 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 across the street from Staci and Joe.
Staci ended my monotony and made me what I am today. Sex is all I think about, and no perversion turns me off.
In dream, I desired everybody to know the new me. In reality, I didn't want to market that fact, but I had no desire to reverse the self-destructive course Staci had me on.
I was like the addict that knows where the dependency will lead, however doesn't want help. I feared my sexual dependency would practically damage my marriage. I 'd lose my kids and perhaps end up in prison. I couldn't assist that. Since the sex was that excellent, the dangers exceeded the effects. I enjoy Staci for what she's done. Eight months of patient prodding has paid off for both me and Staci. Staci adored me from our first conference. Her husband is a police detective, so Max and Joe have the law in common. Staci and I had nothing in common. In fact, I found her rather dull and one dimensional. She's likewise 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 discovered her childish fascination with sexual matters troubling and her language godawful. In mixed company, I laughed uncomfortably at her crude jokes, but the stories she informed me when we were alone left me speechless.
I 'd never heard such stunning and revolting things in my life: S&M piss-freak orgies, mom's fucking sons, fathers raping young daughters, ladies having sex with animals, mothers viewing dirty old men molest their children and getting off on it, other halves handling soldiers of randy guys, blacks on whites, old with young, pet dogs on little women. She had my head swimming in a swamp of perverse sex. Max and Joe got along like siblings, so I was stuck with Staci. Her stories were always about somebody she knew or heard about, never about anything she had any direct understanding of. What I found especially troubling was that her vile fantasies worked their way into my tame fantasies like an attacking virus, pushing my basic, reasonably tidy musings of romantic love out replacing them with fuck and draw orgy marathons, frequently with me as the featured performer. I stopped my regular monthly practice of masturbating in the shower using a water wand, and started a day-to-day session of self-abuse, sticking anything phallic up my cunt or ass, throughout your house. After six months of Staci's stories, I discovered how to lick my own pussy. Staci planted that concept in my head too. 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 practically broke my back in the effort, however a simple self-fuck with cucumbers or my child'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 make-up, offering me pedicures, rubbing me, dressing and undressing me constantly. We shopped for clothing a lot, with Staci making the selections as though she were my wardrobe manager. I deferred to her and wore what she picked out. I let her clear out my closet of all my modest gowns, throwing out every pair of pants I owned. I wore just brief dresses at Staci's persistence. I became Staci's live Barbie Doll. When I came to accept my role as a living Barbie Doll, my uninteresting life ended. Staci worshipped my body, every inch of it. According to Staci, I had the best female kind. I have actually constantly 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 beside a shit hole. She convinced me I was beautiful to the extreme, especially between my legs. This took some convincing, however she soon had me comfy even when suffering before her with my legs large 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, however hiding the result from my hubby was impossible. My very 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 remember being incensed at the mere suggestion. This time, I listened attentively as he said, Theresa, I'm not the kind of male that resides in fear of his wife unfaithful on him. I won't have you followed. I will not question your activities or the way you dress. I will not sleuth or ask questions. You can go and come as you please. , if I ever discover out that you cheated on me.. I'll make you want you had never ever been born if I ever get evidence favorable or capture you in the act. 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 actually never ever threatened me with divorce. I might just imagine what wanting I 'd never ever been born involved. Max is a huge guy, a guy of John Wayne stature who might snap my back with one hand. I seriously doubted he would physically damage me, but the thought never ever left my mind. I thought he may force me to go through 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 good laugh at the possibilities, but it was Max's threatening lecture, unusually enough, that released Staci's crusade to start me down the road of adulterous affairs.
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