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Three months ago, I was your daily housewife and mother of 3-- 2 kids, Phil, 15 Joey, 13 and a woman 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 would have had we not moved across the street from Staci and Joe. I was so straight if I masturbated more than once a month, I felt guilty. 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 easily confess I am a sex addict, a whore, a slut. Sex is all I think of, and no perversion turns me off. I want my sex down and dirty, disgusting and dirty . In fantasy, I desired everybody to understand the new me. In reality, I didn't want to market 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 doesn't want help. The threats outweighed the repercussions since the sex was that excellent. I like Staci for what she's done. 8 months of patient prodding has actually paid off for both me and Staci. Staci loved me from our first conference. Her partner is a cops detective, 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 also 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 discovered her childish fascination with sexual matters disturbing and her language atrocious. In mixed business, I chuckled uneasily at her unrefined jokes, but the stories she informed me when we were alone left me speechless.

I 'd never ever heard such stunning and horrible things in my life: S&M piss-freak orgies, mom's fucking sons, dads raping young daughters, ladies having sex with animals, mothers watching dirty old men molest their daughters and getting off on it, other halves taking on soldiers of randy men, blacks on whites, old with young, dogs on little girls. She had my head swimming in a overload of perverse sex. Max and Joe got along like bros, so I was stuck with Staci. I seemed like I had to indulge her. I had to listen to her stories and make fun of her jokes. Her stories were always about somebody she knew or found out about, never about anything she had any direct understanding of. I seemed like she was merely fantasizing out loud, and I believed she was a extremely sick woman. What I found particularly disturbing was that her vile dreams worked their method into my tame fantasies like an invading virus, pushing my simple, reasonably tidy visions of romantic love out changing them with fuck and suck orgy marathons, frequently with me as the featured entertainer. I stopped my regular monthly practice of masturbating in the shower using a water wand, and started 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 found out how to lick my own pussy. Staci planted that idea 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 whirl. I nearly broke my back in the attempt, but a simple self-fuck with cucumbers or my child's hair brush deal with 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 make-up, offering 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 wardrobe supervisor. I accepted her and used 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 wore only 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 perfect female type. I have always considered myself as being too brief, too skinny, too hippy, and too top-heavy. I thought of the female genitalia as a nasty fracture next to a shit hole. She convinced me I was lovely to the severe, particularly in between my legs. This took some convincing, but she quickly had me comfy even when languishing prior to 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 scented douche and involved a close shave, a clitty suck to orgasm, a comprehensive hot oil massage, and ended with a dab of fragrance. I liked her manicures, however hiding the result from my partner was impossible. My first cunnicure prompted Max to sit me down for a stern lecture. In the early days of our marital relationship, Max alerted me not to cheat. I keep in mind being incensed at the simple suggestion. This time, I listened diligently as he said, Theresa, I'm not the type of male that lives in worry 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 snoop or ask concerns. You can come and go as you please. If I ever learn that you cheated on me. If I ever get evidence favorable 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 envision what wishing I 'd never ever been born required. I seriously questioned he would physically harm me, but the thought never left my mind. I believed he may force me to undergo a breast reduction or a cliterectomy. Staci and I had a excellent laugh at the possibilities, however it was Max's threatening lecture, strangely enough, that launched Staci's crusade to begin me down the road of adulterous affairs.

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