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3 months ago, I was your everyday housewife and mom of three-- two young boys, Phil, 15 Joey, 13 and a girl of twelve, Sandy. My other half, Maxwell Blake, is a big-shot lawyer with the DA's workplace. Cheating on Max never ever entered my mind, and probably never would have had we not moved across the street from Staci and Joe. I was so straight if I masturbated more than once a month, I felt guilty.
The life of a housewife with all kids in school is boring to the extreme. Staci ended my boredom and made me what I am today. I freely confess I am a sex addict, a slut, a slut. Sex is all I consider, and no perversion turns me off. I want my sex down and dirty, revolting and filthy .
In fantasy, I desired everyone to understand 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. The dangers surpassed the effects due to the fact that the sex was that great. I love Staci for what she's done. Eight months of client prodding has actually paid off for both me and Staci. Staci loved me from our very first meeting. Her spouse is a cops investigator, so Max and Joe have the law in common. Staci and I had absolutely nothing in common.
I 'd never heard such stunning and disgusting things in my life: S&M piss-freak orgies, mom's fucking sons, dads raping young children, females making love with animals, moms watching dirty old men molest their children and getting off on it, partners taking on troops of randy men, blacks on whites, old with young, pet dogs on little girls. She had my head swimming in a swamp of perverse sex. Max and Joe got along like bros, so I was stuck with Staci. Her stories were always about someone she understood or heard about, never about anything she had any direct knowledge of. What I found especially disturbing was that her disgusting dreams worked their method into my tame dreams like an attacking infection, pushing my basic, fairly clean visions of romantic love out changing them with fuck and suck orgy marathons, often with me as the featured entertainer. I stopped my regular monthly practice of masturbating in the shower utilizing a water wand, and began a daily session of self-abuse, sticking anything phallic up my cunt or ass, anywhere in the house. After six months of Staci's stories, I discovered how to lick my own pussy. Staci planted that concept in my head also. 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 offer it a whirl. I almost broke my back in the effort, but a easy self-fuck with cucumbers or my child's hair brush handle 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 make-up, giving 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 manager. I accepted her and used what she picked out. I let her clear out my closet of all my modest dresses, tossing out every set of pants I owned. I used only brief gowns 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 type. I have constantly considered myself as being too short, too slim, too hippy, and too top-heavy. I thought of the female genitalia as a nasty fracture next to a shit hole. She persuaded me I was gorgeous to the extreme, particularly between my legs. This took some convincing, but she soon had me comfy even when suffering before her with my legs large apart for a vaginal shave or the vagina version of a pedicure-- a cunniecure as she called it. A cannelure started with a aromatic douche and involved a close shave, a clitty suck to orgasm, a extensive hot oil massage, and ended with a dab of perfume. I liked her manicures, but hiding the arise from my husband was difficult. My very first cunnicure triggered Max to sit me down for a stern lecture. In the early days of our marital relationship, Max cautioned me not to cheat. I remember being incensed at the mere idea. This time, I listened attentively as he said, Theresa, I'm not the kind of guy that lives in fear of his other half cheating on him. I won't have you followed. I will not question your activities or the method you dress. I will not sleuth or ask questions. You can come and go as you please. If I ever learn that you cheated on me. If I ever get evidence positive or capture you in the act, I'll make you wish you had never been born. That was it. I merely nodded my understanding, however I didn't quite comprehend. He didn't elaborate on what he 'd do exactly. Max wasn't the type to ever strike a female. He had actually never threatened me with divorce. I could only envision what wishing I 'd never ever been born required. Max is a huge guy, a guy of John Wayne stature who could snap my back with one hand. I seriously doubted he would physically hurt me, but the thought never ever left my mind. I thought he may force me to undergo a breast decrease or a cliterectomy. Staci and I had a great laugh at the possibilities, but it was Max's threatening lecture, oddly enough, that launched Staci's crusade to start me down the roadway of adulterous affairs.
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