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Three months ago, I was your everyday housewife and mom of three-- two boys, Phil, 15 Joey, 13 and a lady of twelve, Sandy. Cheating on Max never entered my mind, and probably never ever 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 boredom and made me what I am today. I freely admit I am a sex junkie, a slut, a slut. Sex is all I consider, and no perversion turns me off. I desire my sex down and dirty, horrible and dirty . In fantasy, I desired everybody to understand the new me. In reality, I didn't wish to promote 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 dependency will lead, but does not want assistance. I feared my sexual dependency would virtually ruin my marital relationship. I 'd lose my kids and perhaps wind up in prison. I couldn't assist that. Because the sex was that excellent, the dangers surpassed the repercussions. I love Staci for what she's done. She took her time with me, learnt more about me, inside and out, then began her specialist manipulations that led me to where I am now. The journey has actually been a challenging and long one for me, however nothing beneficial comes easy as my dad would say. Eight months of patient prodding has settled for both me and Staci. Staci adored me from our first meeting. Her spouse is a cops detective, so Max and Joe have the law in common. Staci and I had absolutely nothing in typical.

I 'd never ever heard such shocking and horrible things in my life: S&M piss-freak orgies, mom's fucking kids, fathers raping young children, women making love with animals, moms enjoying dirty old men molest their daughters and getting off on it, wives handling troops of randy guys, 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 understanding of. What I found particularly disturbing was that her vile dreams worked their way into my tame dreams like an getting into virus, pressing my simple, relatively clean musings of romantic love out changing them with fuck and draw orgy marathons, often with me as the included performer. I stopped my monthly 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 your home. After 6 months of Staci's stories, I learned how to lick my own pussy. Staci planted that idea in my head as well. 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 try. I almost broke my back in the effort, but a basic self-fuck with cucumbers or my daughter's hair brush handle 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 cosmetics, giving me pedicures, rubbing me, dressing and undressing me continuously. We bought clothes a great deal, with Staci making the choices as though she were my closet supervisor. I deferred to her and wore what she picked out. I let her clear out my closet of all my modest dresses, tossing out every set of pants I owned. I used just short dresses at Staci's insistence. I became Staci's live Barbie Doll. My uninteresting life ended when I pertained 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 form. I have always thought of myself as being too short, too slim, too hippy, and too top-heavy. Additionally, I thought of the female genitalia as a nasty crack next to a shit hole. She persuaded me I was beautiful to the severe, particularly in between my legs. This took some convincing, but she soon had me comfy even when suffering before her with my legs wide apart for a vaginal shave or the vagina version of a pedicure-- a cunniecure as she called it. A cannelure started with a fragrant douche and included a close shave, a clitty suck to orgasm, a extensive hot oil massage, and ended with a dab of fragrance. I liked her manicures, but hiding the arise from my partner was difficult. My very first cunnicure triggered Max to sit me down for a stern lecture. In the early days of our marital relationship, Max cautioned me not to cheat. I remember being incensed at the mere suggestion. This time, I listened attentively as he said, Theresa, I'm not the type of male that resides in fear of his partner cheating on him. I will not have you followed. I will not question your activities or the way you dress. I will not sleuth or ask concerns. You can come and go as you please. , if I ever discover out that you cheated on me.. I'll make you want you had never ever been born if I ever get proof favorable or catch you in the act. He had never threatened me with divorce. I could just envision what wishing I 'd never been born involved. I seriously questioned he would physically harm me, but the idea never left my mind. I thought he might require me to go through a breast reduction or a cliterectomy. Staci and I had a excellent laugh at the possibilities, but it was Max's threatening lecture, oddly enough, that launched Staci's crusade to start me down the road of adulterous affairs.

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