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Three months back, I was your daily housewife and mother of 3-- 2 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 boredom and made me what I am today. I easily admit I am a sex addict, a slut, a slut. Sex is all I consider, and no perversion turns me off. I want my sex down and filthy, filthy and revolting . In fantasy, I desired everyone to understand the new me. In reality, I didn't want to market that fact, but 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 desire assistance. The dangers outweighed the consequences since the sex was that excellent. I enjoy Staci for what she's done. Eight months of patient prodding has actually paid off for both me and Staci. Staci adored me from our very first meeting. Her other half is a cops investigator, so Max and Joe have the law in common. Staci and I had absolutely nothing in common. I discovered her rather dull and one dimensional. She's also rather plain and plump with short-cropped hair and a pudgy face. She left of high school, whereas I am dealing with my masters in English. I found her childish fascination with sexual matters troubling and her language godawful. In mixed business, I laughed uneasily at her crude jokes, but the stories she told me when we were alone left me speechless.

I 'd never heard such shocking and disgusting things in my life: S&M piss-freak orgies, mother's fucking children, fathers raping young daughters, women making love with animals, mothers enjoying dirty old men molest their children and getting off on it, better halves taking on soldiers of randy men, 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. I seemed like I needed to indulge her. I had to listen to her stories and make fun of her jokes. Her stories were constantly about somebody she knew or heard about, never ever about anything she had any direct understanding of. I felt like she was just thinking out loud, and I thought she was a very sick lady. What I found particularly disturbing was that her vile fantasies worked their method into my tame dreams like an getting into infection, pushing my easy, relatively tidy visions of romantic love out changing them with fuck and suck orgy marathons, frequently with me as the featured performer. I stopped my monthly practice of masturbating in the shower utilizing a water wand, and began a daily session of self-abuse, sticking anything phallic up my cunt or ass, throughout your house. After six months of Staci's stories, I found out 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 offer it a whirl. I almost broke my back in the attempt, but a simple self-fuck with cucumbers or my daughter's hair brush deal with was no longer enough.

We didn't constantly sit for stories. The majority of our time together was spent with Staci doting over me, doing my hair and make-up, giving me pedicures, rubbing me, dressing and undressing me continuously. We bought clothes a lot, with Staci making the selections as though she were my wardrobe supervisor. I accepted her and wore what she chose. I let her clear out my closet of all my modest gowns, throwing out every pair of pants I owned. I wore only brief gowns at Staci's insistence. I became Staci's live Barbie Doll. When I came to accept my function as a living Barbie Doll, my dull life ended. Staci worshipped my body, every inch of it. According to Staci, I had the ideal female kind. She convinced me I was beautiful to the severe, specifically in between my legs. This took some convincing, but she soon had me comfortable even when languishing prior to her with my legs wide 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, but concealing the result from my hubby was difficult. My very first cunnicure triggered Max to sit me down for a stern lecture. In the early days of our marital relationship, Max cautioned me not to cheat. I keep in mind being incensed at the mere idea. This time, I listened attentively as he said, Theresa, I'm not the kind of male that lives in worry of his other half cheating on him. I won't have you followed. I will not question your activities or the method you dress. I will not sleuth or ask questions. You can come and go as you please. If I ever learn that you cheated on me. I'll make you want you had never ever been born if I ever get evidence favorable or catch you in the act. He had never threatened me with divorce. I might only envision what wishing I 'd never been born entailed. I seriously doubted he would physically hurt me, however the idea never left my mind. I thought he might force me to undergo a breast reduction or a cliterectomy. Staci and I had a good laugh at the possibilities, however it was Max's threatening lecture, strangely enough, that launched Staci's crusade to begin me down the road of adulterous affairs.

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