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3 months earlier, I was your daily homemaker and mother of 3-- 2 young boys, Phil, 15 Joey, 13 and a girl 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 believe about, and no perversion turns me off.
In fantasy, I wanted everybody to know 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 junkie that understands where the addiction will lead, however doesn't desire aid. The risks outweighed the repercussions since the sex was that great. I like Staci for what she's done. 8 months of patient prodding has actually paid off for both me and Staci. Staci loved me from our very first meeting. Her hubby is a cops detective, so Max and Joe have the law in common. Staci and I had nothing in common.
I 'd never ever heard such stunning and revolting things in my life: S&M piss-freak orgies, mother's fucking kids, daddies raping young children, females having sex with animals, mothers viewing dirty old men molest their children and getting off on it, better halves handling troops of randy males, blacks on whites, old with young, pets on little girls. She had my head swimming in a swamp of perverse sex. Max and Joe got along like siblings, so I was stuck with Staci. I felt like I had 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 ever about anything she had any direct knowledge of. I seemed like she was just thinking aloud, and I thought she was a very sick lady. What I discovered especially troubling was that her vile fantasies worked their way into my tame dreams like an getting into infection, pressing my basic, fairly clean musings of romantic love out changing them with fuck and suck orgy marathons, frequently with me as the featured performer. I stopped my monthly practice of masturbating in the shower using a water wand, and began a daily session of self-abuse, sticking anything phallic up my cunt or ass, anywhere in your home. After 6 months of Staci's stories, I learned how to lick my own pussy. Staci planted that idea in my head too. She informed 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 provide it a try. I practically broke my back in the attempt, however a simple self-fuck with cucumbers or my child's hair brush manage was no longer enough.
We didn't always sit for stories. Most of our time together was spent with Staci doting over me, doing my hair and makeup, giving me pedicures, massaging me, dressing and undressing me continuously. We shopped for clothes a great deal, with Staci making the choices as though she were my closet 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 set of trousers I owned. I wore only brief dresses at Staci's insistence. I ended up being Staci's live Barbie Doll. My dull life ended when I came to accept my function 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 considered myself as being too brief, too slim, too hippy, and too top-heavy. I thought of the female genitalia as a nasty fracture next to a shit hole. She encouraged me I was stunning to the extreme, specifically between my legs. This took some convincing, however she soon had me comfortable even when languishing prior to her with my legs large apart for a vaginal shave or the vaginal area version of a pedicure-- a cunniecure as she called it. A cannelure began with a scented douche and involved a close shave, a clitty suck to orgasm, a extensive hot oil massage, and ended with a dab of fragrance. I liked her manicures, however concealing the result from my hubby was difficult. My 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 simple idea. This time, I listened attentively as he stated, Theresa, I'm not the type of male that lives in fear of his other half cheating on him. I will not have you followed. I won't question your activities or the method you dress. I won't sleuth or ask questions. You can come and go as you please. , if I ever find out that you cheated on me.. If I ever get proof favorable or catch you in the act, I'll make you wish you had actually never been born. That was it. I just 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 woman. He had never ever threatened me with divorce. I might just imagine what wanting I 'd never been born required. Max is a big male, a man of John Wayne stature who might snap my back with one hand. I seriously doubted he would physically hurt 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 great laugh at the possibilities, but it was Max's threatening lecture, oddly enough, that released Staci's crusade to start me down the roadway of adulterous affairs.
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