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Three months earlier, I was your daily homemaker 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 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 tiring to the extreme. Staci ended my dullness and made me what I am today. I freely confess 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 dirty, horrible and filthy . In fantasy, I wanted everyone to know the brand-new me. In reality, I didn't wish to advertise that fact, but I had no desire to reverse the self-destructive course Staci had me on.

I resembled the addict that understands where the addiction will lead, but doesn't desire aid. I feared my sexual dependency would practically ruin my marriage. I 'd lose my kids and potentially wind up in prison. I couldn't assist that. Since the sex was that good, the threats outweighed the consequences. I like Staci for what she's done. She took her time with me, learnt more about me, inside and out, then started her professional adjustments that led me to where I am now. The journey has actually been a long and challenging one for me, however absolutely nothing rewarding comes easy as my dad would state. 8 months of patient prodding has actually settled for both me and Staci. Staci loved me from our first conference. Her spouse is a cops detective, so Max and Joe have the law in common. Staci and I had nothing in common.

I 'd never heard such shocking and horrible things in my life: S&M piss-freak orgies, mom's fucking kids, fathers raping young daughters, ladies making love with animals, moms watching dirty old men molest their daughters and getting off on it, spouses taking on troops of randy males, blacks on whites, old with young, pets on little women. She had my head swimming in a overload of perverse sex. Max and Joe got along like siblings, so I was stuck to Staci. I seemed like I needed to indulge her. I needed to listen to her stories and make fun of her jokes. Her stories were constantly about somebody she understood or found out about, never ever about anything she had any direct understanding of. I felt like she was merely daydreaming out loud, and I thought she was a very ill female. What I discovered particularly troubling was that her repellent fantasies worked their way into my tame dreams like an getting into virus, pushing my simple, fairly clean visions of romantic love out replacing them with fuck and suck orgy marathons, frequently with me as the featured entertainer. I stopped my monthly practice of masturbating in the shower utilizing a water wand, and began a everyday 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 try. I nearly broke my back in the effort, however a basic 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 spent with Staci doting over me, doing my hair and makeup, giving me pedicures, massaging me, dressing and undressing me constantly. We bought clothes a great deal, with Staci making the selections as though she were my closet supervisor. I accepted her and used what she chose. I let her clear out my closet of all my modest gowns, throwing out every set of pants I owned. I used just brief dresses at Staci's persistence. I became Staci's live Barbie Doll. When I came to accept my function as a living Barbie Doll, my uninteresting life ended. Staci worshipped my body, every inch of it. According to Staci, I had the ideal female type. I have always thought about myself as being too brief, too slim, too hippy, and too top-heavy. In addition, I thought about the female genitalia as a nasty fracture beside a shit hole. She persuaded me I was gorgeous to the severe, specifically between my legs. This took some convincing, however she quickly had me comfortable even when suffering prior to her with my legs broad apart for a vaginal shave or the vagina version of a pedicure-- a cunniecure as she called it. A cannelure started with a fragrant 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 hiding the arise from my husband 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 keep in mind being incensed at the mere recommendation. This time, I listened attentively as he stated, Theresa, I'm not the type of guy that lives in worry of his wife cheating on him. I will not have you followed. I will not question your activities or the method you dress. I will not snoop or ask questions. You can reoccur as you please. , if I ever find out that you cheated on me.. I'll make you wish you had actually never been born if I ever get proof favorable or capture you in the act. That was it. I merely nodded my understanding, however I didn't quite comprehend. He didn't elaborate on what he 'd do precisely. Max wasn't the type to ever strike a woman. He had never ever threatened me with divorce. I could just imagine what wishing I 'd never been born entailed. Max is a huge man, a male of John Wayne stature who could snap my back with one hand. I seriously questioned he would physically harm me, however the thought never ever left my mind. I thought he might require me to undergo a breast reduction or a cliterectomy. Maybe, he 'd tattoo the word Whore on my forehead. He might fit me with a chastity belt. Staci and I had a good make fun of the possibilities, but it was Max's threatening lecture, oddly enough, that launched Staci's crusade to begin me down the road of adulterous affairs.

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