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3 months ago, I was your daily housewife and mother of three-- two young boys, Phil, 15 Joey, 13 and a lady of twelve, Sandy. Cheating on Max never entered my mind, and most likely never ever 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 dullness and made me what I am today. I freely confess 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 dirty, filthy and horrible .
In fantasy, I wanted everybody to know 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 knows where the addiction will lead, but does not desire help. The risks outweighed the effects since the sex was that good. I enjoy Staci for what she's done. Eight months of client prodding has actually paid off for both me and Staci. Staci loved me from our first meeting. Her partner is a police investigator, so Max and Joe have the law in common. Staci and I had nothing in common. In fact, I found her rather dull and one dimensional. She's also rather plain and plump with short-cropped hair and a tubby face. She left of high school, whereas I am working on my masters in English. I found her childish fascination with sexual matters troubling and her language atrocious. In mixed company, I chuckled uncomfortably at her unrefined jokes, but the stories she told 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 kids, dads raping young children, females making love with animals, moms watching dirty old men molest their daughters and getting off on it, partners taking on troops of randy men, blacks on whites, old with young, pet dogs on little girls. 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 someone she knew or heard about, never about anything she had any direct understanding of. What I found particularly troubling was that her disgusting dreams worked their way into my tame fantasies like an getting into infection, pressing my easy, fairly clean daydreams of romantic love out replacing them with fuck and draw orgy marathons, frequently with me as the featured entertainer. I stopped my monthly practice of masturbating in the shower using 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 six months of Staci's stories, I learned how to lick my own pussy. Staci planted that concept 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 try. I practically broke my back in the effort, but a easy self-fuck with cucumbers or my child's hair brush deal with was no longer enough.
We didn't constantly sit for stories. The majority of our time together was spent with Staci doting over me, doing my hair and make-up, offering me pedicures, rubbing me, dressing and undressing me continuously. We bought clothes a good deal, with Staci making the choices as though she were my wardrobe supervisor. I deferred to her and used what she selected. I let her clear out my closet of all my modest gowns, throwing out every set of trousers I owned. I wore only short gowns at Staci's persistence. I became Staci's live Barbie Doll. When I came to accept my role as a living Barbie Doll, my boring life ended. Staci worshipped my body, every inch of it. According to Staci, I had the perfect female kind. I have constantly thought of myself as being too short, too skinny, too hippy, and too top-heavy. I thought of the female genitalia as a nasty fracture next to a shit hole. She encouraged me I was beautiful to the extreme, specifically between my legs. This took some convincing, however she soon had me comfy even when languishing 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 scented douche and included a close shave, a clitty suck to orgasm, a extensive hot oil massage, and ended with a dab of perfume. I liked her manicures, but hiding the result from my hubby was difficult. My first cunnicure triggered Max to sit me down for a stern lecture. In the early days of our marriage, Max cautioned me not to cheat. I keep in mind being incensed at the mere idea. This time, I listened diligently as he said, Theresa, I'm not the type of male that lives 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 snoop or ask questions. You can reoccur as you please. , if I ever discover out that you cheated on me.. If I ever get proof positive or capture you in the act, I'll make you want you had never ever been born. He had never ever threatened me with divorce. I might only picture what wanting I 'd never been born required. I seriously questioned he would physically damage me, but the idea never left my mind. I believed he may force me to undergo a breast reduction or a cliterectomy. Possibly, he 'd tattoo the word Whore on my forehead. He may fit me with a chastity belt. Staci and I had a good laugh at the possibilities, however it was Max's threatening lecture, unusually enough, that launched Staci's crusade to begin me down the road of adulterous affairs.
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