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3 months back, I was your daily housewife and mom of three-- 2 boys, Phil, 15 Joey, 13 and a lady of twelve, Sandy. My husband, Maxwell Blake, is a big-shot attorney with the DA's office. Cheating on Max never ever entered my mind, and probably 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 dullness and made me what I am today. I easily confess I am a sex addict, a slut, a slut. Sex is all I consider, and no perversion turns me off. I want my sex down and dirty, disgusting and filthy . In fantasy, I wanted everybody to know the brand-new me. In reality, I didn't want to market that fact, but I had no desire to reverse the self-destructive course Staci had me on.

I resembled the junkie that knows where the addiction will lead, however does not want help. I feared my sexual addiction would practically destroy my marriage. I 'd lose my kids and potentially wind up in prison. I couldn't assist that. The risks outweighed the effects since the sex was that great. I enjoy 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 meeting. Her hubby is a cops investigator, so Max and Joe have the law in typical. Staci and I had nothing in common.

I 'd never heard such stunning and revolting things in my life: S&M piss-freak orgies, mom's fucking sons, fathers raping young children, women making love with animals, mothers watching dirty old men molest their daughters and getting off on it, wives handling troops of horny guys, blacks on whites, old with young, pets on little women. She had my head swimming in a swamp of perverse sex. Max and Joe got along like brothers, so I was stuck with Staci. Her stories were always about someone she understood or heard about, never ever about anything she had any direct understanding of. What I found particularly troubling was that her vile dreams worked their method into my tame fantasies like an getting into virus, pressing my basic, fairly tidy daydreams of romantic love out changing them with fuck and draw orgy marathons, often with me as the featured performer. I stopped my regular monthly 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, anywhere in your home. After six months of Staci's stories, I learned how to lick my own pussy. Staci planted that concept in my head also. 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 try. I almost broke my back in the effort, however a simple self-fuck with cucumbers or my child's hair brush handle was no longer enough.

We didn't always sit for stories. The majority of our time together was spent with Staci doting over me, doing my hair and cosmetics, giving me pedicures, rubbing me, dressing and undressing me constantly. We bought clothing a good deal, with Staci making the selections as though she were my closet supervisor. I deferred to her and wore 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 short gowns at Staci's persistence. I became Staci's live Barbie Doll. My uninteresting life ended when I concerned accept my function as a living Barbie Doll. Staci worshipped my body, every inch of it. According to Staci, I had the ideal female kind. She encouraged me I was gorgeous to the severe, especially between my legs. This took some convincing, but she soon had me comfy even when languishing before her with my legs broad 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 extensive hot oil massage, and ended with a dab of fragrance. I liked her manicures, however concealing the arise from my hubby was impossible. My 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 tip. This time, I listened attentively as he said, Theresa, I'm not the kind of man that lives in fear of his other half cheating on him. I will not have you followed. I will not question your activities or the method you dress. I will not sleuth or ask concerns. You can go and come as you please. , if I ever find out that you cheated on me.. I'll make you wish you had never ever been born if I ever get evidence positive or capture you in the act. That was it. I merely nodded my understanding, but I didn't quite understand. He didn't elaborate on what he 'd do precisely. Max wasn't the type to ever strike a lady. He had never ever threatened me with divorce. I could only picture what wanting I 'd never been born entailed. Max is a big male, a man of John Wayne stature who could snap my back with one hand. I seriously questioned he would physically harm me, however the thought never left my mind. I believed he might force me to undergo a breast reduction or a cliterectomy. Maybe, he 'd tattoo the word Whore on my forehead. He might fit me with a chastity belt. Staci and I had a excellent laugh at the possibilities, however it was Max's threatening lecture, unusually enough, that introduced Staci's crusade to start me down the road of adulterous affairs.

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