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3 months earlier, I was your daily housewife and mother of three-- 2 kids, Phil, 15 Joey, 13 and a lady of twelve, Sandy. My husband, Maxwell Blake, is a big-shot lawyer with the DA's workplace. Cheating on Max never ever entered my mind, and most likely never ever would have had we not moved across the street from Staci and Joe. I was so straight if I masturbated more than once a month, I felt guilty. 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 easily admit I am a sex addict, a slut, a slut. Sex is all I think of, and no perversion turns me off. I desire my sex down and unclean, disgusting and dirty . In dream, 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 knows where the addiction will lead, but doesn't desire aid. I feared my sexual addiction would practically ruin my marriage. I 'd lose my children and possibly wind up in prison. I could not help that. The threats surpassed the consequences because the sex was that great. I love 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 first conference. Her other half is a authorities detective, so Max and Joe have the law in typical. Staci and I had absolutely nothing in common.

I 'd never ever heard such stunning and disgusting things in my life: S&M piss-freak orgies, mother's fucking sons, daddies raping young daughters, females making love with animals, moms viewing dirty old men molest their children and getting off on it, other halves taking on soldiers of randy guys, blacks on whites, old with young, pets on little ladies. She had my head swimming in a swamp of perverse sex. Max and Joe got along like bros, so I was stuck with Staci. Her stories were always about someone she knew or heard about, never about anything she had any direct understanding of. What I discovered particularly disturbing was that her disgusting dreams worked their way into my tame fantasies like an attacking infection, pressing my basic, reasonably clean musings of romantic love out replacing them with fuck and suck orgy marathons, often with me as the featured performer. I stopped my monthly practice of masturbating in the shower using a water wand, and started a everyday session of self-abuse, sticking anything phallic up my cunt or ass, anywhere in your home. After 6 months of Staci's stories, I discovered 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, however a simple self-fuck with cucumbers or my daughter's hair brush handle was no longer enough.

Most of our time together was spent with Staci doting over me, doing my hair and make-up, giving me pedicures, massaging me, dressing and undressing me continuously. We shopped for clothes a great offer, with Staci making the choices as though she were my closet manager. I wore just brief gowns at Staci's insistence. Staci worshipped my body, every inch of it. According to Staci, I had the best female type. I have actually constantly thought about myself as being too brief, too slim, 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 lovely to the severe, particularly in between my legs. This took some convincing, but she soon had me comfortable even when languishing prior to her with my legs broad apart for a vaginal shave or the vaginal area 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 thorough hot oil massage, and ended with a dab of fragrance. I liked her manicures, but hiding the arise from my hubby was impossible. 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 stated, Theresa, I'm not the type of man that lives 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 go and come as you please. If I ever learn that you cheated on me. If I ever get proof positive or capture you in the act, I'll make you want you had never ever been born. That was it. I merely nodded my understanding, but I didn't rather understand. He didn't elaborate on what he 'd do exactly. Max wasn't the type to ever hit a lady. He had never threatened me with divorce. I could just picture what wanting I 'd never ever been born entailed. Max is a big guy, a guy of John Wayne stature who might snap my back with one hand. I seriously questioned he would physically hurt me, however the thought never left my mind. I believed he might require me to undergo a breast reduction or a cliterectomy. Possibly, 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 released Staci's crusade to start me down the road of adulterous affairs.

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