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Three months ago, I was your daily homemaker and mother of three-- 2 boys, Phil, 15 Joey, 13 and a girl of twelve, Sandy. Cheating on Max never ever entered my mind, and most likely never would have had we not moved throughout the street from Staci and Joe. The life of a homemaker with all kids in school is boring to the extreme. Staci ended my monotony and made me what I am today. I easily confess I am a sex addict, a whore, a slut. Sex is all I consider, and no perversion turns me off. I want my sex down and filthy, horrible and dirty . In fantasy, I wanted everyone to understand the brand-new me. In reality, I didn't wish 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 knows where the addiction will lead, but doesn't want help. The dangers exceeded the effects because the sex was that excellent. I love Staci for what she's done. She took her time with me, was familiar with me, inside and out, then began her expert controls that led me to where I am now. The journey has been a difficult and long one for me, however nothing worthwhile comes easy as my father would state. Eight months of patient prodding has settled for both me and Staci. Staci adored me from our first conference. Her spouse is a cops detective, so Max and Joe have the law in common. Staci and I had absolutely nothing in common. In fact, I found her rather dull and one dimensional. She's also 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 godawful. In mixed business, I laughed uneasily at her crude jokes, however the stories she told me when we were alone left me speechless.

I 'd never ever heard such shocking and revolting things in my life: S&M piss-freak orgies, mother's fucking sons, daddies raping young children, women having sex with animals, mothers watching dirty old men molest their children and getting off on it, better halves handling soldiers of horny men, blacks on whites, old with young, pets on little ladies. She had my head swimming in a swamp of perverse sex. Max and Joe got along like brothers, so I was stuck with Staci. Her stories were constantly about somebody she knew or heard about, never ever about anything she had any direct knowledge of. What I found especially troubling was that her repellent dreams worked their method into my tame fantasies like an attacking infection, pressing my simple, reasonably clean daydreams of romantic love out replacing them with fuck and draw orgy marathons, often with me as the included performer. I stopped my month-to-month practice of masturbating in the shower using a water wand, and started a daily session of self-abuse, sticking anything phallic up my cunt or ass, throughout the house. After six months of Staci's stories, I found out how to lick my own pussy. Staci planted that concept 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, providing me pedicures, massaging me, dressing and undressing me constantly. We bought clothing a great deal, with Staci making the selections as though she were my wardrobe manager. I deferred to her and used what she selected. I let her clear out my closet of all my modest gowns, throwing out every set of trousers I owned. I wore only short dresses at Staci's persistence. I became Staci's live Barbie Doll. My dull life ended when I concerned accept my role as a living Barbie Doll. Staci worshipped my body, every inch of it. According to Staci, I had the ideal female kind. I have always thought of myself as being too short, too skinny, too hippy, and too top-heavy. I thought of the female genitalia as a nasty fracture next to a shit hole. She convinced me I was gorgeous to the extreme, particularly in between my legs. This took some convincing, however she quickly had me comfy even when suffering before her with my legs wide apart for a vaginal shave or the vaginal area version of a pedicure-- a cunniecure as she called it. A cannelure started with a aromatic douche and included a close shave, a clitty suck to orgasm, a thorough hot oil massage, and ended with a dab of fragrance. I liked her manicures, but hiding the result from my spouse was difficult. My first cunnicure prompted Max to sit me down for a stern lecture. In the early days of our marriage, Max warned me not to cheat. If I ever discover out that you cheated on me. If I ever get evidence positive or catch you in the act, I'll make you wish you had actually never been born. That was it. I merely nodded my understanding, but I didn't quite understand. He didn't elaborate on what he 'd do exactly. Max wasn't the type to ever strike a woman. He had never ever threatened me with divorce. I could just picture what wishing I 'd never been born involved. Max is a big guy, a man of John Wayne stature who might snap my back with one hand. I seriously questioned he would physically damage me, but the thought never ever left my mind. I believed he might force me to undergo a breast reduction or a cliterectomy. Staci and I had a good laugh at the possibilities, however it was Max's threatening lecture, unusually enough, that released Staci's crusade to begin me down the road of adulterous affairs.

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