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3 months back, I was your everyday housewife and mother of 3-- two young boys, Phil, 15 Joey, 13 and a lady of twelve, Sandy. Cheating on Max never entered my mind, and most likely never ever would have had we not moved across the street from Staci and Joe. Staci ended my dullness and made me what I am today. Sex is all I believe about, and no perversion turns me off. In dream, I wanted everyone to understand the brand-new me. In reality, I didn't wish to advertise that fact, however I had no desire to reverse the self-destructive course Staci had me on.

I was like the junkie that knows where the dependency will lead, but does not want aid. I feared my sexual dependency would virtually destroy my marriage. I 'd lose my kids and possibly end up in prison. I couldn't help that. The risks surpassed the repercussions 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 adored me from our first conference. Her spouse is a police detective, so Max and Joe have the law in common. Staci and I had absolutely 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 found her childish fascination with sexual matters troubling and her language atrocious. In mixed company, I laughed uneasily at her unrefined jokes, however 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, dads raping young children, females having sex with animals, mothers seeing 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. I seemed like I needed to indulge her. I had to listen to her stories and make fun of her jokes. Her stories were always about somebody she understood or heard about, never ever about anything she had any direct knowledge of. I felt like she was merely fantasizing aloud, and I thought she was a very ill lady. What I discovered especially troubling was that her vile fantasies worked their method into my tame fantasies like an getting into infection, pressing my simple, reasonably clean visions of romantic love out replacing them with fuck and suck orgy marathons, often with me as the featured performer. I stopped my regular monthly practice of masturbating in the shower using a water wand, and began a daily session of self-abuse, sticking anything phallic up my cunt or ass, anywhere in 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 offer it a try. I nearly broke my back in the attempt, however a simple 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 makeup, offering me pedicures, massaging me, dressing and undressing me continuously. We looked for clothes a lot, with Staci making the choices as though she were my wardrobe manager. I deferred to her and used what she selected. I let her clear out my closet of all my modest gowns, tossing 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. When I came to accept my role as a living Barbie Doll, my uninteresting life ended. Staci worshipped my body, every inch of it. According to Staci, I had the perfect female kind. She encouraged me I was beautiful to the severe, especially between my legs. This took some convincing, but she soon had me comfy even when suffering before her with my legs broad apart for a vaginal shave or the vaginal area variation of a pedicure-- a cunniecure as she called it. A cannelure started with a aromatic 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 concealing the arise 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 warned me not to cheat. I remember being incensed at the simple tip. This time, I listened diligently as he stated, Theresa, I'm not the type of man that resides in worry of his better half cheating on him. I won't have you followed. I won't question your activities or the way you dress. I won't snoop 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 want you had actually never been born if I ever get proof favorable or capture you in the act. He had never ever threatened me with divorce. I could only picture what wanting I 'd never ever been born required. I seriously doubted he would physically damage me, however the idea never ever left my mind. I believed he may require 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 excellent make fun of the possibilities, but it was Max's threatening lecture, oddly enough, that launched Staci's crusade to start me down the road of adulterous affairs.

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