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3 months ago, I was your everyday housewife and mother of three-- 2 boys, Phil, 15 Joey, 13 and a girl 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 confess I am a sex addict, a whore, a slut. Sex is all I think of, and no perversion turns me off. I desire my sex down and unclean, unclean and disgusting .
In dream, I desired everybody to understand the brand-new me. In reality, I didn't want to promote that fact, but I had no desire to reverse the self-destructive course Staci had me on.
I was like the junkie that understands where the dependency will lead, but does not want aid. The dangers exceeded the consequences because the sex was that good. I like Staci for what she's done. 8 months of client prodding has paid off for both me and Staci. Staci loved me from our first conference. Her husband is a authorities detective, so Max and Joe have the law in common. Staci and I had nothing in common.
I 'd never heard such shocking and revolting things in my life: S&M piss-freak orgies, mother's fucking boys, fathers raping young daughters, ladies making love with animals, moms enjoying dirty old men molest their children and getting off on it, partners handling troops of randy males, blacks on whites, old with young, canines 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. Her stories were constantly about somebody she understood or heard about, never ever about anything she had any direct knowledge of. What I discovered especially troubling was that her disgusting fantasies worked their method into my tame fantasies like an attacking infection, pressing my easy, reasonably tidy daydreams of romantic love out replacing them with fuck and suck orgy marathons, frequently with me as the included entertainer. I stopped my regular monthly 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, throughout your home. After six months of Staci's stories, I learned how to lick my own pussy. Staci planted that idea in my head too. 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 practically broke my back in the effort, but a simple self-fuck with cucumbers or my child's hair brush handle was no longer enough.
We didn't always sit for stories. Most of our time together was invested with Staci doting over me, doing my hair and cosmetics, giving me pedicures, massaging me, dressing and undressing me continuously. We purchased clothing a lot, with Staci making the choices as though she were my wardrobe manager. I accepted her and wore what she picked out. I let her clear out my closet of all my modest dresses, throwing out every set of pants I owned. I used just brief gowns at Staci's persistence. 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 best female form. She persuaded me I was gorgeous to the extreme, specifically between my legs. This took some convincing, however she soon had me comfortable even when languishing prior to her with my legs large apart for a vaginal shave or the vaginal area version of a pedicure-- a cunniecure as she called it. A cannelure began with a scented douche and included a close shave, a clitty suck to orgasm, a thorough hot oil massage, and ended with a dab of perfume. I liked her manicures, however concealing the result from my hubby was difficult. My very first cunnicure prompted Max to sit me down for a stern lecture. In the early days of our marital relationship, Max warned me not to cheat. If I ever find out that you cheated on me. If I ever get proof favorable or catch you in the act, I'll make you wish you had never ever been born. That was it. I simply nodded my understanding, but I didn't rather understand. He didn't elaborate on what he 'd do precisely. Max wasn't the type to ever strike a lady. He had never threatened me with divorce. I could only picture what wishing I 'd never been born required. Max is a huge male, a guy of John Wayne stature who could snap my back with one hand. I seriously doubted he would physically harm me, however the thought never left my mind. I believed he may require me to go through 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, unusually enough, that released Staci's crusade to begin me down the road of adulterous affairs.
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