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3 months earlier, I was your daily homemaker and mother of three-- two young boys, Phil, 15 Joey, 13 and a girl of twelve, Sandy. My hubby, Maxwell Blake, is a big-shot attorney with the DA's workplace. Cheating on Max never ever entered my mind, and most likely 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. Staci ended my boredom and made me what I am today. Sex is all I think about, and no perversion turns me off. In dream, I wanted everybody to know the 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 addict that knows where the addiction will lead, however doesn't desire help. I feared my sexual addiction would practically destroy my marital relationship. I 'd lose my kids and potentially wind up in prison. I could not assist that. Due to the fact that the sex was that great, the risks outweighed the consequences. I love Staci for what she's done. Eight months of patient prodding has paid off for both me and Staci. Staci loved me from our first meeting. Her other half is a police investigator, so Max and Joe have the law in typical. Staci and I had absolutely nothing in common.

I 'd never heard such stunning and horrible things in my life: S&M piss-freak orgies, mother's fucking sons, dads raping young daughters, ladies making love with animals, mothers enjoying dirty old men molest their children and getting off on it, spouses taking on soldiers of horny males, 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 siblings, so I was stuck with Staci. I seemed like I had to indulge her. I needed to listen to her stories and make fun of her jokes. Her stories were constantly about someone she understood or heard about, never about anything she had any direct knowledge of. I seemed like she was merely thinking aloud, and I believed she was a extremely sick woman. What I found particularly disturbing was that her repellent dreams worked their way into my tame fantasies like an getting into virus, pushing my basic, fairly clean daydreams of romantic love out replacing them with fuck and suck orgy marathons, typically with me as the included performer. I stopped my monthly practice of masturbating in the shower utilizing a water wand, and started a day-to-day session of self-abuse, sticking anything phallic up my cunt or ass, throughout the house. After 6 months of Staci's stories, I learned how to lick my own pussy. Staci planted that idea in my head. 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 whirl. I almost broke my back in the attempt, but a simple self-fuck with cucumbers or my daughter's hair brush deal with 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 makeup, giving me pedicures, rubbing me, dressing and undressing me constantly. We shopped for clothes a great deal, with Staci making the choices as though she were my wardrobe supervisor. I deferred to her and used what she picked out. I let her clear out my closet of all my modest dresses, throwing out every set of trousers I owned. I used only brief gowns at Staci's insistence. I ended up being Staci's live Barbie Doll. My uninteresting life ended when I pertained to accept my function as a living Barbie Doll. Staci worshipped my body, every inch of it. According to Staci, I had the best female form. I have always considered myself as being too brief, too slim, too hippy, and too top-heavy. I believed of the female genitalia as a nasty fracture next to a shit hole. She encouraged me I was gorgeous to the severe, especially in between my legs. This took some convincing, however she soon had me comfy even when languishing before her with my legs wide apart for a vaginal shave or the vagina 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 fragrance. I liked her manicures, but hiding the result from my husband 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 alerted me not to cheat. I keep in mind being incensed at the mere idea. This time, I listened diligently as he said, Theresa, I'm not the kind of guy that lives in worry of his other half cheating on him. I will not have you followed. I won't question your activities or the method you dress. I will not snoop or ask concerns. You can come and go as you please. If I ever find out that you cheated on me. I'll make you want you had actually never been born if I ever get evidence positive or capture you in the act. That was it. I just 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 hit a woman. He had actually never threatened me with divorce. I could just picture what wanting I 'd never ever been born required. Max is a huge male, a guy of John Wayne stature who might snap my back with one hand. I seriously doubted he would physically damage me, however the idea never left my mind. I believed 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 good laugh at the possibilities, but it was Max's threatening lecture, strangely enough, that introduced Staci's crusade to begin me down the road of adulterous affairs.

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