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3 months back, I was your daily homemaker and mother of 3-- 2 boys, Phil, 15 Joey, 13 and a girl of twelve, Sandy. My husband, Maxwell Blake, is a big-shot lawyer with the DA's office. 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 as soon as a month, I felt guilty. Staci ended my dullness and made me what I am today. Sex is all I think about, and no perversion turns me off. In dream, I wanted everybody to know 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 addict that knows where the addiction will lead, however doesn't want aid. The threats exceeded the consequences because the sex was that good. I like Staci for what she's done. 8 months of client prodding has paid off for both me and Staci. Staci adored me from our first meeting. Her hubby is a police detective, so Max and Joe have the law in common. Staci and I had nothing in common. I found her rather dull and one dimensional. She's also rather plain and plump with short-cropped hair and a pudgy face. She left of high school, whereas I am dealing with my masters in English. I discovered her childish fascination with sexual matters troubling and her language atrocious. In blended company, I chuckled uneasily at her unrefined jokes, but the stories she told me when we were alone left me speechless.

I 'd never ever heard such shocking and revolting things in my life: S&M piss-freak orgies, mom's fucking sons, dads raping young daughters, ladies having sex with animals, moms seeing dirty old men molest their daughters and getting off on it, other halves taking on soldiers of horny males, blacks on whites, old with young, pets 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. Her stories were always about someone she knew or heard about, never about anything she had any direct understanding of. What I discovered especially disturbing was that her vile fantasies worked their way into my tame fantasies like an invading infection, pressing my simple, fairly tidy musings of romantic love out changing them with fuck and draw orgy marathons, typically with me as the featured performer. I stopped my month-to-month practice of masturbating in the shower utilizing a water wand, and began a day-to-day session of self-abuse, sticking anything phallic up my cunt or ass, anywhere in the house. After 6 months of Staci's stories, I learned how to lick my own pussy. Staci planted that concept 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 offer it a whirl. I nearly broke my back in the attempt, however a simple self-fuck with cucumbers or my daughter's hair brush handle was no longer enough.

We didn't constantly sit for stories. Most of our time together was invested with Staci doting over me, doing my hair and cosmetics, offering me pedicures, rubbing me, dressing and undressing me constantly. We looked for clothes a lot, with Staci making the choices as though she were my wardrobe manager. I accepted her and used what she chose. I let her clear out my closet of all my modest gowns, tossing out every set of trousers I owned. I used just 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 ideal female form. I have always considered myself as being too brief, too slim, too hippy, and too top-heavy. Additionally, I considered the female genitalia as a nasty crack beside a shit hole. She convinced me I was gorgeous to the severe, particularly between my legs. This took some convincing, however she quickly had me comfortable even when suffering prior to her with my legs large 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 included a close shave, a clitty suck to orgasm, a thorough hot oil massage, and ended with a dab of perfume. I liked her manicures, but concealing the result from my spouse was impossible. My first cunnicure triggered 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 attentively as he said, Theresa, I'm not the kind of guy that resides in fear of his partner unfaithful on him. I won't have you followed. I won't question your activities or the way you dress. I will not snoop or ask concerns. You can come and go as you please. If I ever learn that you cheated on me. I'll make you wish you had never ever been born if I ever get evidence favorable or catch you in the act. That was it. I simply nodded my understanding, however I didn't rather understand. He didn't elaborate on what he 'd do precisely. Max wasn't the type to ever strike a woman. He had never ever threatened me with divorce. I could just envision what wishing I 'd never been born entailed. Max is a big guy, a guy of John Wayne stature who might snap my back with one hand. I seriously doubted he would physically hurt me, however the thought never left my mind. I thought he might require 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 great make fun of the possibilities, however it was Max's threatening lecture, strangely enough, that released Staci's crusade to begin me down the road of adulterous affairs.

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