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Three months ago, I was your daily housewife and mom of 3-- two kids, Phil, 15 Joey, 13 and a girl 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. 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 junkie, a slut, a slut. Sex is all I think about, and no perversion turns me off. I want my sex down and filthy, dirty and horrible . In fantasy, I desired everyone to understand the new me. In reality, I didn't wish to market that fact, however 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, but doesn't desire assistance. The dangers surpassed the consequences because the sex was that great. I love Staci for what she's done. She took her time with me, was familiar with me, inside and out, then began her specialist adjustments that led me to where I am now. The journey has actually been a tough and long one for me, but nothing worthwhile comes easy as my daddy would say. 8 months of patient prodding has actually settled 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 ever heard such shocking and horrible things in my life: S&M piss-freak orgies, mom's fucking children, fathers raping young daughters, women having sex with animals, moms viewing dirty old men molest their daughters and getting off on it, better halves handling troops of horny men, 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. Her stories were always about somebody she knew or heard about, never about anything she had any direct understanding of. What I discovered particularly troubling was that her vile dreams worked their method into my tame fantasies like an attacking virus, pressing my basic, relatively clean daydreams of romantic love out changing them with fuck and draw orgy marathons, often with me as the featured performer. I stopped my month-to-month practice of masturbating in the shower using a water wand, and began a day-to-day session of self-abuse, sticking anything phallic up my cunt or ass, anywhere in the house. After 6 months of Staci's stories, I discovered how to lick my own pussy. Staci planted that concept in my head as well. 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 give it a try. I almost broke my back in the attempt, but a easy self-fuck with cucumbers or my daughter's hair brush deal with was no longer enough.

Most of our time together was invested with Staci doting over me, doing my hair and makeup, providing me pedicures, rubbing me, dressing and undressing me constantly. We went shopping for clothes a great offer, with Staci making the selections as though she were my wardrobe manager. I wore just short gowns at Staci's insistence. Staci worshipped my body, every inch of it. According to Staci, I had the best female type. I have always thought about myself as being too brief, too skinny, 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, specifically between my legs. This took some convincing, however she quickly had me comfortable even when languishing before her with my legs large apart for a vaginal shave or the vagina version of a pedicure-- a cunniecure as she called it. A cannelure began with a aromatic douche and involved a close shave, a clitty suck to orgasm, a thorough hot oil massage, and ended with a dab of fragrance. I liked her manicures, however hiding the result from my hubby was difficult. My first cunnicure prompted Max to sit me down for a stern lecture. In the early days of our marriage, Max cautioned me not to cheat. I remember being incensed at the simple recommendation. This time, I listened diligently as he said, Theresa, I'm not the type of male that resides in fear of his spouse cheating on him. I will not have you followed. I won't question your activities or the way you dress. I won't sleuth 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 never ever 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 comprehend. He didn't elaborate on what he 'd do precisely. Max wasn't the type to ever hit a woman. He had never threatened me with divorce. I might just envision what wishing I 'd never been born required. Max is a huge man, a guy of John Wayne stature who could snap my back with one hand. I seriously doubted he would physically damage me, however the idea never left my mind. I believed he might force me to undergo a breast reduction or a cliterectomy. Perhaps, he 'd tattoo the word Whore on my forehead. He may fit me with a chastity belt. Staci and I had a excellent laugh at 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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