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Three months ago, I was your daily housewife and mom of three-- two boys, Phil, 15 Joey, 13 and a girl of twelve, Sandy. My husband, Maxwell Blake, is a big-shot attorney with the DA's workplace. Cheating on Max never ever entered my mind, and most likely never ever would have had we not moved across the street from Staci and Joe. I was so straight if I masturbated more than when a month, I felt guilty. The life of a homemaker 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 junkie, a whore, a slut. Sex is all I think about, and no perversion turns me off. I want my sex down and unclean, horrible and filthy . In dream, I wanted everyone to understand the new me. In reality, I didn't wish to market that fact, but 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 help. I feared my sexual dependency would virtually destroy my marriage. I 'd lose my children and possibly end up in prison. I couldn't help that. Because the sex was that great, the dangers exceeded the effects. I enjoy 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 long and difficult one for me, but nothing worthwhile comes easy as my father would state. Eight months of patient prodding has settled for both me and Staci. Staci adored me from our first meeting. Her partner is a authorities investigator, so Max and Joe have the law in common. Staci and I had absolutely nothing in common. I discovered her rather dull and one dimensional. She's likewise rather plain and plump with short-cropped hair and a chubby 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 godawful. In mixed company, I chuckled uncomfortably at her unrefined jokes, however the stories she informed me when we were alone left me speechless.

I 'd never heard such shocking and revolting things in my life: S&M piss-freak orgies, mother's fucking boys, fathers raping young children, females making love with animals, mothers seeing dirty old men molest their children and getting off on it, better halves taking on troops of horny men, blacks on whites, old with young, dogs on little ladies. She had my head swimming in a overload of perverse sex. Max and Joe got along like siblings, so I was stuck with Staci. Her stories were constantly about somebody she understood or heard about, never ever about anything she had any direct knowledge of. What I found particularly disturbing was that her repellent dreams worked their method into my tame fantasies like an attacking virus, pushing my simple, reasonably tidy daydreams of romantic love out replacing them with fuck and suck orgy marathons, typically with me as the featured performer. I stopped my regular 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, anywhere in your house. After six months of Staci's stories, I learned how to lick my own pussy. Staci planted that idea in my head.

We didn't constantly sit for stories. The majority 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 continuously. We shopped for clothes a great deal, with Staci making the selections 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 pair of trousers I owned. I used only short gowns at Staci's insistence. I ended up being Staci's live Barbie Doll. When I came to accept my role as a living Barbie Doll, my uninteresting life ended. Staci worshipped my body, every inch of it. According to Staci, I had the perfect female type. She encouraged me I was lovely to the extreme, specifically in between my legs. This took some convincing, but she soon had me comfy even when languishing before her with my legs large 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 comprehensive hot oil massage, and ended with a dab of perfume. I liked her manicures, however concealing the result from my husband was impossible. My very 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. I remember being incensed at the mere tip. This time, I listened diligently as he said, Theresa, I'm not the kind of guy that lives in fear of his other half cheating on him. I won't have you followed. I will not 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.. I'll make you wish you had never ever been born if I ever get proof positive or catch you in the act. He had never threatened me with divorce. I could only imagine what wanting I 'd never ever been born entailed. I seriously doubted he would physically damage me, but the thought never left my mind. I thought he may require me to go through a breast reduction or a cliterectomy. Maybe, he 'd tattoo the word Whore on my forehead. He may 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 introduced Staci's crusade to start me down the road of adulterous affairs.

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