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Three months back, I was your everyday housewife and mom of three-- two boys, Phil, 15 Joey, 13 and a woman of twelve, Sandy. Cheating on Max never entered my mind, and most likely never would have had we not moved across the street from Staci and Joe. The life of a homemaker with all kids in school is boring to the extreme. Staci ended my monotony and made me what I am today. I easily confess I am a sex addict, a whore, a slut. Sex is all I think of, and no perversion turns me off. I want my sex down and dirty, unclean and revolting . In dream, I wanted everybody to understand the new me. In reality, I didn't want to promote 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, but doesn't want help. The risks surpassed the effects since the sex was that excellent. I love Staci for what she's done. Eight 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 detective, so Max and Joe have the law in typical. Staci and I had nothing in typical.

I 'd never heard such stunning and disgusting things in my life: S&M piss-freak orgies, mom's fucking children, dads raping young children, women making love with animals, mothers viewing dirty old men molest their children and getting off on it, spouses taking on troops of randy guys, blacks on whites, old with young, canines on little girls. She had my head swimming in a overload of perverse sex. Max and Joe got along like bros, so I was stuck with Staci. I felt like I had to indulge her. I needed to listen to her stories and laugh at her jokes. Her stories were always about someone she knew or heard about, never ever about anything she had any direct understanding of. I seemed like she was simply fantasizing aloud, and I believed she was a extremely ill female. What I found especially disturbing was that her disgusting dreams worked their way into my tame dreams like an invading virus, pushing my basic, fairly tidy daydreams of romantic love out replacing them with fuck and draw orgy marathons, frequently with me as the featured performer. I stopped my month-to-month practice of masturbating in the shower using a water wand, and started a day-to-day session of self-abuse, sticking anything phallic up my cunt or ass, anywhere in your house. After six months of Staci's stories, I learned how to lick my own pussy. Staci planted that idea 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 provide it a whirl. I nearly broke my back in the effort, but a simple self-fuck with cucumbers or my child's hair brush deal with was no longer enough.

We didn't constantly sit for stories. Most of our time together was invested with Staci doting over me, doing my hair and cosmetics, offering me pedicures, massaging me, dressing and undressing me constantly. We bought clothes a good deal, with Staci making the selections as though she were my wardrobe manager. I deferred to her and wore what she chose. I let her clear out my closet of all my modest dresses, tossing out every pair of pants I owned. I wore only brief gowns at Staci's insistence. I ended up being Staci's live Barbie Doll. When I came to accept my function as a living Barbie Doll, my boring life ended. Staci worshipped my body, every inch of it. According to Staci, I had the ideal female form. I have always thought of myself as being too brief, too skinny, too hippy, and too top-heavy. Furthermore, I thought of the female genitalia as a nasty crack beside a shit hole. She convinced me I was lovely to the extreme, specifically in between my legs. This took some convincing, however she soon had me comfy even when languishing 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 scented douche and involved 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 hiding the result from my hubby was impossible. My first cunnicure prompted Max to sit me down for a stern lecture. In the early days of our marital relationship, Max alerted me not to cheat. I remember being incensed at the mere recommendation. This time, I listened diligently as he stated, Theresa, I'm not the kind of male that resides in worry of his wife cheating on him. I will not have you followed. I won't question your activities or the method you dress. I won't snoop or ask concerns. You can come and go as you please. , if I ever find out that you cheated on me.. If I ever get evidence favorable or catch you in the act, I'll make you want you had actually never been born. He had never ever threatened me with divorce. I might just envision what wishing I 'd never been born entailed. I seriously doubted he would physically harm me, but the thought never ever left my mind. I thought he may require me to undergo a breast reduction or a cliterectomy. Staci and I had a good laugh at the possibilities, but it was Max's threatening lecture, unusually enough, that introduced Staci's crusade to start me down the roadway of adulterous affairs.

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