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Three months ago, I was your everyday housewife and mother of three-- 2 young boys, Phil, 15 Joey, 13 and a lady of twelve, Sandy. My hubby, Maxwell Blake, is a big-shot lawyer with the DA's office. Cheating on Max never 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 as soon as a month, I felt guilty.
Staci ended my monotony and made me what I am today. Sex is all I think about, and no perversion turns me off.
In dream, I desired everybody to know 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 addiction will lead, however does not want assistance. I feared my sexual dependency would practically damage my marital relationship. I 'd lose my kids and potentially wind up in prison. I couldn't assist that. Because the sex was that excellent, the risks exceeded the repercussions. I like Staci for what she's done. 8 months of patient prodding has actually paid off for both me and Staci. Staci adored me from our first conference. Her partner is a police detective, so Max and Joe have the law in common. Staci and I had nothing in common.
I 'd never ever heard such shocking and horrible things in my life: S&M piss-freak orgies, mom's fucking boys, fathers raping young children, women making love with animals, mothers watching dirty old men molest their children and getting off on it, better halves handling troops of randy guys, blacks on whites, old with young, canines on little women. She had my head swimming in a overload of perverse sex. Max and Joe got along like brothers, so I was stuck to Staci. I seemed like I needed to indulge her. I needed to listen to her stories and make fun of her jokes. Her stories were always about someone she knew or found out about, never about anything she had any direct knowledge of. I seemed like she was just fantasizing out loud, and I thought she was a really ill lady. What I discovered especially disturbing was that her vile fantasies worked their way into my tame dreams like an getting into virus, pressing my basic, relatively clean visions of romantic love out replacing them with fuck and draw orgy marathons, often with me as the featured performer. I stopped my month-to-month practice of masturbating in the shower utilizing a water wand, and started a daily session of self-abuse, sticking anything phallic up my cunt or ass, throughout the house. After six months of Staci's stories, I discovered how to lick my own pussy. Staci planted that concept in my head too. 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 attempt, however a easy self-fuck with cucumbers or my daughter's hair brush handle was no longer enough.
We didn't always sit for stories. The majority of our time together was invested with Staci doting over me, doing my hair and cosmetics, giving me pedicures, massaging me, dressing and undressing me continuously. We bought clothes a great deal, with Staci making the choices as though she were my closet manager. I deferred to her and wore what she chose. I let her clear out my closet of all my modest dresses, tossing out every set of pants I owned. I wore only brief dresses at Staci's insistence. I became Staci's live Barbie Doll. When I came to accept my function as a living Barbie Doll, my uninteresting life ended. Staci worshipped my body, every inch of it. According to Staci, I had the ideal female kind. I have actually constantly thought of myself as being too short, too skinny, too hippy, and too top-heavy. Additionally, I thought of the female genitalia as a nasty fracture next to a shit hole. She encouraged me I was lovely to the severe, specifically between my legs. This took some convincing, however 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 aromatic douche and involved a close shave, a clitty suck to orgasm, a thorough hot oil massage, and ended with a dab of fragrance. I liked her manicures, but concealing the result from my husband was difficult. My first cunnicure triggered Max to sit me down for a stern lecture. In the early days of our marriage, Max alerted me not to cheat. If I ever find out that you cheated on me. If I ever get proof favorable or catch you in the act, I'll make you wish you had never been born. He had actually never threatened me with divorce. I could just picture what wanting I 'd never been born entailed. I seriously doubted he would physically hurt me, but the idea never ever left my mind. I thought he might force me to go through 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 excellent laugh at the possibilities, however it was Max's threatening lecture, oddly enough, that introduced Staci's crusade to start me down the road of adulterous affairs.
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