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3 months ago, I was your everyday housewife and mother of three-- 2 young boys, Phil, 15 Joey, 13 and a woman of twelve, Sandy. 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. The life of a housewife with all kids in school is tiring to the extreme. Staci ended my dullness and made me what I am today. I freely 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, revolting and filthy . In fantasy, I desired everybody to know the brand-new me. In reality, I didn't wish to market that fact, but I had no desire to reverse the self-destructive course Staci had me on.

I was like the addict that understands where the dependency will lead, however does not want aid. The threats outweighed the repercussions because the sex was that excellent. I like Staci for what she's done. She took her time with me, got to know me, inside and out, then started her specialist manipulations that led me to where I am now. The journey has been a hard and long one for me, but absolutely nothing beneficial comes easy as my daddy would say. 8 months of client prodding has settled for both me and Staci. Staci adored me from our first conference. Her other half is a police detective, 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 children, daddies raping young children, women having sex with animals, moms watching dirty old men molest their children and getting off on it, better halves taking on soldiers of horny guys, blacks on whites, old with young, pet dogs on little girls. She had my head swimming in a overload of perverse sex. Max and Joe got along like siblings, so I was stuck with Staci. I seemed like I needed to indulge her. I needed to listen to her stories and laugh at her jokes. Her stories were constantly about someone she understood or found out about, never ever about anything she had any direct understanding of. I felt like she was simply daydreaming out loud, and I believed she was a really ill lady. What I discovered especially disturbing was that her disgusting dreams worked their way into my tame fantasies like an invading infection, pressing my simple, relatively tidy visions of romantic love out changing them with fuck and draw orgy marathons, frequently with me as the featured entertainer. I stopped my 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, throughout the house. After six months of Staci's stories, I found out how to lick my own pussy. Staci planted that idea in my head.

We didn't always sit for stories. Most of our time together was invested with Staci doting over me, doing my hair and make-up, providing me pedicures, rubbing me, dressing and undressing me constantly. We shopped for clothing a good deal, with Staci making the selections as though she were my wardrobe supervisor. I deferred to her and wore what she picked out. I let her clear out my closet of all my modest gowns, tossing out every pair of pants I owned. I used only brief dresses at Staci's insistence. I became Staci's live Barbie Doll. My uninteresting life ended when I concerned accept my role as a living Barbie Doll. Staci worshipped my body, every inch of it. According to Staci, I had the perfect female type. She persuaded me I was beautiful to the severe, especially between my legs. This took some convincing, however she soon had me comfy even when languishing before 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 started with a fragrant douche and involved 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 arise from my hubby was difficult. My first cunnicure prompted Max to sit me down for a stern lecture. In the early days of our marriage, Max alerted me not to cheat. I keep in mind being incensed at the simple idea. This time, I listened attentively as he stated, Theresa, I'm not the kind of guy that resides in fear of his other half cheating on him. I won't have you followed. I will not question your activities or the method you dress. I won't sleuth or ask questions. You can go and come as you please. If I ever discover that you cheated on me. I'll make you wish you had never ever been born if I ever get proof positive or catch you in the act. That was it. I simply nodded my understanding, but I didn't quite understand. He didn't elaborate on what he 'd do exactly. Max wasn't the type to ever strike a female. He had never ever threatened me with divorce. I might only imagine what wanting I 'd never been born required. Max is a huge male, a guy of John Wayne stature who might snap my back with one hand. I seriously questioned he would physically damage me, but the thought never left my mind. I believed he may require me to go through a breast reduction or a cliterectomy. Maybe, 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 released Staci's crusade to begin me down the road of adulterous affairs.

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