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Three months earlier, I was your daily homemaker and mom of three-- two boys, Phil, 15 Joey, 13 and a lady of twelve, Sandy. Cheating on Max never ever entered my mind, and probably never 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 monotony and made me what I am today. I easily confess I am a sex junkie, a whore, a slut. Sex is all I think of, and no perversion turns me off. I want my sex down and dirty, unclean and revolting .
In fantasy, I desired everyone to know the new me. In reality, I didn't want to promote 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 dependency will lead, however doesn't want help. I feared my sexual addiction would virtually damage my marriage. I 'd lose my kids and potentially wind up in prison. I could not assist that. Due to the fact that the sex was that great, the threats surpassed the effects. I enjoy Staci for what she's done. Eight months of client prodding has paid off for both me and Staci. Staci loved me from our very first conference. Her partner is a cops detective, so Max and Joe have the law in typical. Staci and I had nothing in typical.
I 'd never ever heard such stunning and horrible things in my life: S&M piss-freak orgies, mother's fucking kids, fathers raping young children, females having sex with animals, mothers enjoying dirty old men molest their children and getting off on it, other halves taking on soldiers of horny men, blacks on whites, old with young, pets on little ladies. She had my head swimming in a swamp of perverse sex. Max and Joe got along like siblings, so I was stuck with Staci. I felt like I needed to indulge her. I needed to listen to her stories and make fun of her jokes. Her stories were constantly about somebody she understood or became aware of, never about anything she had any direct understanding of. I felt like she was simply fantasizing out loud, and I believed she was a extremely sick female. What I found particularly disturbing was that her vile dreams worked their method into my tame fantasies like an invading infection, pushing my easy, fairly clean musings of romantic love out changing them with fuck and draw orgy marathons, often with me as the featured performer. 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, anywhere in your house. After 6 months of Staci's stories, I discovered 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 give it a whirl. I practically broke my back in the effort, however a basic self-fuck with cucumbers or my daughter's hair brush handle was no longer enough.
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, giving me pedicures, massaging me, dressing and undressing me constantly. We purchased clothing a good deal, with Staci making the choices as though she were my wardrobe supervisor. I accepted her and used what she selected. I let her clear out my closet of all my modest gowns, throwing out every pair of trousers I owned. I wore only short dresses 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 best female form. I have constantly considered myself as being too brief, too slim, too hippy, and too top-heavy. I believed of the female genitalia as a nasty fracture next to a shit hole. She persuaded me I was lovely to the severe, specifically between my legs. This took some convincing, however she quickly had me comfy even when suffering prior to 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 began with a scented douche and involved a close shave, a clitty suck to orgasm, a extensive hot oil massage, and ended with a dab of fragrance. I liked her manicures, however concealing the result from my other half was difficult. My very first cunnicure prompted 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 diligently as he said, Theresa, I'm not the type of man that lives in worry of his other half cheating on him. I will not have you followed. I will not question your activities or the way you dress. I won't sleuth or ask concerns. You can come and go as you please. , if I ever find out that you cheated on me.. I'll make you want you had never ever been born if I ever get proof positive or capture you in the act. He had actually never ever threatened me with divorce. I could only picture what wishing I 'd never been born required. I seriously doubted he would physically hurt me, but the idea never left my mind. I believed he might require me to undergo a breast reduction or a cliterectomy. Staci and I had a great laugh at the possibilities, but 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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