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Three months earlier, I was your daily housewife and mom of three-- 2 young boys, Phil, 15 Joey, 13 and a girl of twelve, Sandy. My husband, Maxwell Blake, is a big-shot lawyer with the DA's workplace. Cheating on Max never ever entered my mind, and probably never ever would have had we stagnated across the street from Staci and Joe. I was so straight if I masturbated more than as soon as a month, I felt guilty.
The life of a housewife with all kids in school is boring 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 want my sex down and unclean, unclean and horrible .
In dream, I wanted everybody to know the new me. In reality, I didn't wish to promote 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 addiction will lead, but does not desire aid. The risks exceeded the consequences due to the fact that the sex was that good. I like Staci for what she's done. 8 months of client prodding has paid off for both me and Staci. Staci adored me from our first meeting. Her partner is a cops investigator, so Max and Joe have the law in common. Staci and I had absolutely nothing in common. In fact, I discovered her rather dull and one dimensional. She's likewise rather plain and plump with short-cropped hair and a tubby face. She left of high school, whereas I am dealing with my masters in English. I found her childish fascination with sexual matters disturbing and her language atrocious. In mixed company, I laughed uneasily at her crude jokes, but the stories she informed me when we were alone left me speechless.
I 'd never heard such stunning and horrible things in my life: S&M piss-freak orgies, mother's fucking children, daddies raping young daughters, females making love with animals, mothers watching dirty old men molest their children and getting off on it, spouses handling soldiers of randy men, blacks on whites, old with young, pets on little women. 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 somebody she understood or heard about, never ever about anything she had any direct understanding of. What I found especially troubling was that her disgusting fantasies worked their way into my tame fantasies like an invading infection, pushing my simple, fairly clean visions of romantic love out changing them with fuck and suck orgy marathons, frequently with me as the included entertainer. I stopped my 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 learned how to lick my own pussy. Staci planted that idea in my head. 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 offer it a try. I almost broke my back in the attempt, but a simple self-fuck with cucumbers or my child's hair brush handle was no longer enough.
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, massaging me, dressing and undressing me constantly. We purchased clothing a lot, with Staci making the selections as though she were my wardrobe manager. I deferred to her and used what she chose. I let her clear out my closet of all my modest dresses, throwing out every pair of trousers I owned. I wore just brief gowns at Staci's insistence. I became Staci's live Barbie Doll. When I came to accept my role as a living Barbie Doll, my dull life ended. Staci worshipped my body, every inch of it. According to Staci, I had the ideal female type. She persuaded me I was beautiful to the severe, specifically between my legs. This took some convincing, but she soon had me comfy even when languishing prior to 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 began with a fragrant 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, but hiding the arise from my partner was impossible. My first cunnicure triggered Max to sit me down for a stern lecture. In the early days of our marital relationship, Max warned me not to cheat. I remember being incensed at the mere recommendation. This time, I listened attentively as he said, Theresa, I'm not the type of man that resides 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 concerns. You can go and come as you please. , 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 want you had never ever been born. He had actually never threatened me with divorce. I might only picture what wanting I 'd never been born entailed. I seriously questioned he would physically hurt me, however the idea never ever left my mind. I believed he might require me to undergo a breast decrease or a cliterectomy. Staci and I had a good laugh at the possibilities, but it was Max's threatening lecture, unusually enough, that launched Staci's crusade to start me down the roadway of adulterous affairs.
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