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Three months ago, I was your daily housewife and mother of three-- two young boys, Phil, 15 Joey, 13 and a woman of twelve, Sandy. Cheating on Max never ever entered my mind, and most likely never would have had we not moved across the street from Staci and Joe.
The life of a homemaker with all kids in school is tiring to the extreme. Staci ended my dullness and made me what I am today. I freely confess I am a sex junkie, a whore, a slut. Sex is all I think about, and no perversion turns me off. I desire my sex down and dirty, disgusting and unclean .
In fantasy, I desired everybody 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 junkie that understands where the dependency will lead, but doesn't desire aid. I feared my sexual addiction would essentially ruin my marital relationship. I 'd lose my children and perhaps wind up in prison. I couldn't assist that. Due to the fact that the sex was that good, the dangers surpassed the effects. I love Staci for what she's done. Eight months of client prodding has paid off for both me and Staci. Staci adored me from our very first meeting. Her spouse is a police investigator, so Max and Joe have the law in common. Staci and I had nothing in common.
I 'd never heard such stunning and disgusting things in my life: S&M piss-freak orgies, mom's fucking children, dads raping young children, women having sex with animals, moms watching dirty old men molest their daughters and getting off on it, spouses taking on troops of randy guys, 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 siblings, so I was stuck with Staci. I seemed like I needed to indulge her. I had to listen to her stories and make fun of her jokes. Her stories were constantly about somebody she understood or heard about, never ever about anything she had any direct knowledge of. I felt like she was simply daydreaming out loud, and I thought she was a really ill woman. What I found particularly disturbing was that her disgusting fantasies worked their way into my tame fantasies like an attacking virus, pressing my easy, fairly tidy daydreams of romantic love out changing them with fuck and suck orgy marathons, frequently with me as the included entertainer. I stopped my month-to-month practice of masturbating in the shower utilizing a water wand, and began a day-to-day session of self-abuse, sticking anything phallic up my cunt or ass, throughout your home. After 6 months of Staci's stories, I learned how to lick my own pussy. Staci planted that idea in my head.
We didn't always sit for stories. Most of our time together was invested with Staci doting over me, doing my hair and makeup, providing me pedicures, rubbing me, dressing and undressing me constantly. We bought clothing a lot, with Staci making the choices as though she were my wardrobe supervisor. I accepted her and wore what she chose. I let her clear out my closet of all my modest gowns, tossing out every pair of trousers I owned. I used only short dresses at Staci's insistence. I ended up being 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 always thought of myself as being too short, too slim, too hippy, and too top-heavy. I thought of the female genitalia as a nasty crack next to a shit hole. She convinced me I was stunning to the extreme, especially in 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 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 perfume. I liked her manicures, however hiding the result from my spouse was difficult. My first cunnicure triggered 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 find out that you cheated on me. If I ever get proof positive or catch you in the act, I'll make you wish you had never ever been born. That was it. I just nodded my understanding, but I didn't rather comprehend. He didn't elaborate on what he 'd do exactly. Max wasn't the type to ever hit a lady. He had never ever threatened me with divorce. I could just picture what wishing I 'd never ever been born involved. Max is a big male, a male of John Wayne stature who might snap my back with one hand. I seriously questioned he would physically damage me, however the thought never ever left my mind. I thought he might force me to undergo a breast reduction or a cliterectomy. Maybe, he 'd tattoo the word Whore on my forehead. He might fit me with a chastity belt. Staci and I had a good make fun of 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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