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3 months ago, I was your everyday housewife and mother of three-- 2 boys, Phil, 15 Joey, 13 and a woman of twelve, Sandy. Cheating on Max never entered my mind, and probably never would have had we not moved throughout the street from Staci and Joe. The life of a housewife 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 whore, a slut. Sex is all I think about, and no perversion turns me off. I want my sex down and unclean, revolting and unclean . In fantasy, I desired everyone to understand the new me. In reality, I didn't wish to promote 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 doesn't want assistance. I feared my sexual dependency would virtually destroy my marital relationship. I 'd lose my kids and potentially end up in prison. I could not help that. Due to the fact that the sex was that excellent, the dangers outweighed the effects. I like Staci for what she's done. She took her time with me, was familiar with me, inside and out, then began her professional controls that led me to where I am now. The journey has been a long and challenging one for me, however absolutely nothing rewarding comes easy as my father would state. 8 months of patient prodding has actually paid off for both me and Staci. Staci loved me from our very first meeting. Her partner is a cops investigator, so Max and Joe have the law in common. Staci and I had nothing in common.

I 'd never ever heard such shocking and disgusting things in my life: S&M piss-freak orgies, mother's fucking kids, fathers raping young children, women making love with animals, mothers watching dirty old men molest their daughters and getting off on it, wives taking on troops of horny males, blacks on whites, old with young, 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 always about somebody she understood or became aware of, never about anything she had any direct knowledge of. I felt like she was just fantasizing out loud, and I believed she was a extremely sick lady. What I discovered particularly disturbing was that her disgusting fantasies worked their way into my tame fantasies like an attacking infection, pressing my basic, fairly tidy musings of romantic love out changing them with fuck and suck orgy marathons, often with me as the featured entertainer. I stopped my month-to-month 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, anywhere in the house. After six months of Staci's stories, I discovered how to lick my own pussy. Staci planted that concept in my head. 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 offer it a whirl. I practically broke my back in the attempt, but a basic self-fuck with cucumbers or my child's hair brush manage was no longer enough.

Many of our time together was spent with Staci doting over me, doing my hair and make-up, providing me pedicures, massaging me, dressing and undressing me constantly. We shopped for clothing a excellent deal, with Staci making the selections as though she were my wardrobe manager. I used only brief dresses at Staci's insistence. Staci worshipped my body, every inch of it. According to Staci, I had the perfect female kind. I have constantly thought about myself as being too brief, too slim, too hippy, and too top-heavy. I thought of the female genitalia as a nasty crack next to a shit hole. She persuaded me I was gorgeous to the extreme, particularly between my legs. This took some convincing, however she quickly had me comfy even when suffering before her with my legs wide apart for a vaginal shave or the vaginal area version of a pedicure-- a cunniecure as she called it. A cannelure started 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 perfume. I liked her manicures, however concealing the result from my partner was impossible. My very 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 keep in mind being incensed at the simple idea. This time, I listened diligently as he said, Theresa, I'm not the kind of guy that lives in fear of his wife unfaithful on him. I won't have you followed. I will not question your activities or the method you dress. I will not snoop or ask questions. You can come and go as you please. , if I ever discover out that you cheated on me.. I'll make you wish you had actually never been born if I ever get evidence positive or capture you in the act. He had never threatened me with divorce. I could only picture what wishing I 'd never ever been born entailed. I seriously doubted he would physically harm me, however the thought never ever left my mind. I thought he might require me to go through a breast reduction or a cliterectomy. Staci and I had a great laugh at the possibilities, but it was Max's threatening lecture, oddly enough, that released Staci's crusade to start me down the roadway of adulterous affairs.

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