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Three months earlier, I was your everyday homemaker and mom of three-- two young boys, Phil, 15 Joey, 13 and a girl of twelve, Sandy. Cheating on Max never ever entered my mind, and probably never would have had we not moved throughout the street from Staci and Joe.
The life of a housewife with all kids in school is tiring to the extreme. Staci ended my monotony and made me what I am today. I easily admit I am a sex addict, a slut, a slut. Sex is all I think about, and no perversion turns me off. I desire my sex down and filthy, disgusting and filthy .
In fantasy, I wanted everybody to know the 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 resembled the addict that understands where the addiction will lead, but does not desire aid. I feared my sexual dependency would essentially damage my marital relationship. I 'd lose my kids and perhaps wind up in prison. I couldn't assist that. Since the sex was that excellent, the risks 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 meeting. Her other half is a authorities detective, so Max and Joe have the law in typical. Staci and I had nothing in common.
I 'd never heard such shocking and revolting things in my life: S&M piss-freak orgies, mother's fucking boys, fathers raping young daughters, women having sex with animals, moms seeing dirty old men molest their children and getting off on it, spouses handling troops of horny males, blacks on whites, old with young, canines 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 someone she knew or heard about, never about anything she had any direct knowledge of. What I found particularly troubling was that her disgusting dreams worked their method into my tame dreams like an attacking infection, pressing my easy, relatively clean visions of romantic love out replacing them with fuck and draw orgy marathons, frequently with me as the included performer. 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 the house. After six months of Staci's stories, I discovered 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 nearly 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 continuously. We bought clothing a great deal, with Staci making the selections as though she were my wardrobe supervisor. I accepted her and used what she picked out. I let her clear out my closet of all my modest dresses, throwing out every set of trousers I owned. I used just brief gowns at Staci's persistence. I ended up being Staci's live Barbie Doll. My boring life ended when I pertained to accept my function as a living Barbie Doll. Staci worshipped my body, every inch of it. According to Staci, I had the perfect female kind. I have constantly thought about myself as being too brief, too slim, too hippy, and too top-heavy. I believed of the female genitalia as a nasty crack next to a shit hole. She convinced me I was gorgeous to the severe, specifically between my legs. This took some convincing, but she soon had me comfortable even when suffering before her with my legs broad apart for a vaginal shave or the vagina variation 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 thorough 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 idea. This time, I listened diligently as he said, Theresa, I'm not the kind of guy that resides in worry of his better half unfaithful on him. I will not have you followed. I will not question your activities or the way you dress. I will not snoop or ask questions. You can go and come 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 want you had actually never ever been born. That was it. I just nodded my understanding, but I didn't quite understand. He didn't elaborate on what he 'd do precisely. Max wasn't the type to ever hit a lady. He had never ever threatened me with divorce. I might only imagine what wanting I 'd never ever been born entailed. Max is a huge male, a man 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 believed he might require me to go through a breast reduction or a cliterectomy. Staci and I had a great laugh at the possibilities, but it was Max's threatening lecture, unusually enough, that released Staci's crusade to start me down the roadway of adulterous affairs.
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