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3 months earlier, I was your daily homemaker and mom of three-- 2 boys, Phil, 15 Joey, 13 and a woman 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 probably never ever would have had we not moved across the street from Staci and Joe. I was so straight if I masturbated more than when a month, I felt guilty. The life of a homemaker with all kids in school is boring to the extreme. Staci ended my monotony and made me what I am today. I freely admit I am a sex addict, a slut, a slut. Sex is all I think about, and no perversion turns me off. I want my sex down and dirty, disgusting and dirty . In fantasy, I wanted everyone to know the brand-new me. In reality, I didn't want to advertise 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, but doesn't want help. I feared my sexual addiction would virtually destroy my marital relationship. I 'd lose my kids and perhaps end up in prison. I couldn't help that. Due to the fact that the sex was that great, the threats exceeded the consequences. I like Staci for what she's done. Eight months of client prodding has actually paid off for both me and Staci. Staci adored me from our first conference. Her husband is a authorities detective, so Max and Joe have the law in common. 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 boys, daddies raping young daughters, ladies having sex with animals, moms viewing dirty old men molest their children and getting off on it, other halves handling soldiers of horny men, blacks on whites, old with young, dogs on little ladies. She had my head swimming in a swamp of perverse sex. Max and Joe got along like bros, so I was stuck with Staci. Her stories were constantly about someone she understood or heard about, never ever about anything she had any direct knowledge of. What I discovered especially disturbing was that her repellent dreams worked their method into my tame fantasies like an attacking infection, pressing my basic, relatively tidy daydreams 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 using a water wand, and started a daily session of self-abuse, sticking anything phallic up my cunt or ass, throughout your house. After six months of Staci's stories, I found out how to lick my own pussy. Staci planted that concept in my head.

We didn't always sit for stories. Most of our time together was spent with Staci doting over me, doing my hair and makeup, offering me pedicures, massaging me, dressing and undressing me continuously. We looked for clothes a lot, 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, tossing out every set of pants I owned. I wore just short dresses at Staci's persistence. 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 best female form. I have actually always thought of myself as being too short, too skinny, too hippy, and too top-heavy. Moreover, I thought of the female genitalia as a nasty crack beside a shit hole. She encouraged me I was gorgeous to the extreme, especially between my legs. This took some convincing, but she quickly had me comfortable even when suffering prior to her with my legs broad apart for a vaginal shave or the vaginal area version of a pedicure-- a cunniecure as she called it. A cannelure began with a fragrant 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, but hiding the arise from my hubby was impossible. My very 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 remember being incensed at the mere idea. This time, I listened attentively as he stated, Theresa, I'm not the type of male that resides in fear of his wife unfaithful on him. I will not have you followed. I will not question your activities or the way you dress. I won't snoop or ask questions. You can reoccur as you please. , if I ever find out that you cheated on me.. If I ever get evidence positive or capture you in the act, I'll make you wish you had actually never been born. He had actually never ever threatened me with divorce. I might just picture what wishing I 'd never been born involved. I seriously questioned he would physically hurt me, however the idea never ever left my mind. I thought he might force me to undergo a breast reduction or a cliterectomy. Perhaps, he 'd tattoo the word Whore on my forehead. He may fit me with a chastity belt. Staci and I had a excellent make fun of 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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