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Three months back, I was your daily homemaker and mom of 3-- two young boys, Phil, 15 Joey, 13 and a lady of twelve, Sandy. Cheating on Max never ever entered my mind, and probably never would have had we not moved across the street from Staci and Joe.
The life of a housewife with all kids in school is boring to the extreme. Staci ended my dullness and made me what I am today. I freely admit I am a sex junkie, a whore, a slut. Sex is all I think of, and no perversion turns me off. I want my sex down and dirty, disgusting and unclean .
In fantasy, I desired everyone to know the new me. In reality, I didn't wish 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 understands where the dependency will lead, however doesn't desire assistance. The dangers surpassed the effects since the sex was that great. I like Staci for what she's done. 8 months of patient prodding has paid off for both me and Staci. Staci loved me from our first meeting. Her partner is a cops detective, so Max and Joe have the law in common. Staci and I had nothing in common. In fact, I discovered her rather dull and one dimensional. She's also rather plain and plump with short-cropped hair and a chubby face. She left of high school, whereas I am working on my masters in English. I discovered her childish fascination with sexual matters troubling and her language atrocious. In mixed company, I chuckled uneasily at her unrefined jokes, but the stories she informed me when we were alone left me speechless.
I 'd never ever heard such shocking and horrible things in my life: S&M piss-freak orgies, mom's fucking children, daddies raping young children, ladies making love with animals, moms enjoying dirty old men molest their children and getting off on it, wives handling troops of horny guys, blacks on whites, old with young, pet dogs on little ladies. She had my head swimming in a swamp of perverse sex. Max and Joe got along like brothers, so I was stuck to Staci. I felt 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 became aware of, never ever about anything she had any direct knowledge of. I felt like she was merely fantasizing aloud, and I believed she was a really sick female. What I found especially disturbing was that her repellent fantasies worked their method into my tame dreams like an invading infection, pressing my simple, relatively tidy musings of romantic love out changing them with fuck and suck orgy marathons, frequently with me as the featured performer. I stopped my monthly practice of masturbating in the shower utilizing a water wand, and began a daily session of self-abuse, sticking anything phallic up my cunt or ass, throughout your home. After 6 months of Staci's stories, I found out how to lick my own pussy. Staci planted that idea in my head as well. 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 effort, but a basic self-fuck with cucumbers or my child's hair brush deal with was no longer enough.
We didn't always sit for stories. Most of our time together was spent with Staci doting over me, doing my hair and make-up, offering me pedicures, rubbing me, dressing and undressing me continuously. We looked for clothing a great deal, with Staci making the selections as though she were my wardrobe supervisor. I deferred to her and used what she chose. I let her clear out my closet of all my modest dresses, tossing out every pair of trousers I owned. I used just short dresses at Staci's persistence. I ended up being Staci's live Barbie Doll. My boring life ended when I pertained to accept my role as a living Barbie Doll. Staci worshipped my body, every inch of it. According to Staci, I had the best female form. I have actually constantly considered myself as being too brief, too slim, too hippy, and too top-heavy. Additionally, I thought about the female genitalia as a nasty crack next to a shit hole. She persuaded me I was beautiful to the severe, specifically in between my legs. This took some convincing, but she quickly had me comfy even when suffering prior to her with my legs large apart for a vaginal shave or the vaginal area variation 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 comprehensive hot oil massage, and ended with a dab of fragrance. I liked her manicures, however concealing the result from my hubby was impossible. My very first cunnicure prompted 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 suggestion. This time, I listened attentively as he said, Theresa, I'm not the type of guy that resides in worry of his partner cheating on him. I will not have you followed. I will not question your activities or the way you dress. I won't sleuth or ask concerns. You can reoccur as you please. If I ever learn that you cheated on me. If I ever get evidence positive or capture you in the act, I'll make you want you had never ever been born. That was it. I just nodded my understanding, however I didn't quite understand. He didn't elaborate on what he 'd do exactly. 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 huge man, a man of John Wayne stature who might snap my back with one hand. I seriously doubted he would physically damage me, but the thought never left my mind. I thought he may 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 great make fun of the possibilities, however it was Max's threatening lecture, unusually enough, that launched Staci's crusade to begin me down the road of adulterous affairs.
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