Mature Woman's Dark Desires and Childhood Trauma: A Tale of Dysfunctional Family Dynamics

A River in Egypt
by DiscipleN

-- my first story posted here -- don't be gentle


Why would a mature woman find pleasure in resisting her desires? I ask myself that question about three times a day, and usually my family has to suffer the answer. I know I am not normal. No responsible mother would risk her children's future sexuality simply to resolve emotional troubles that have haunted her since her own childhood.

My mother drank because my father liked to fuck drunk women. They would carouse the night away while I was tucked into bed or, on a better planned night, given a baby-sitter. Sometimes more than the two of them would return, filling their bedroom with a stranger's laughter. Once, when I was ten, they returned with the baby-sitter's face glued between my legs. They laughed a lot over that one. I think my father fucked the baby sitter, while my mother rested on a couch arm and gave me the strangest look. I didn't like the baby-sitter, I told her. Her only response was to lift her skirt up, she never wore underwear, and told me not to judge in ignorance. Her eyes swirled with alcohol inspired lust. The next day, she and dad refused to admit anything had happened with the baby-sitter. They went to great lengths to assure me they hadn't hired that particular girl in over a month.

I grew older, and my parents' open sexuality grew less oppressive. Was it just me beginning to grasp adult feelings for the first time, or did they actually change their ways? Mom still drank, a lot. Dad took her out less often, but he went out more often. Their marriage kept degrading until I remember thinking when mom and dad had sex, it was like their fuse had blown, only the bed made a noise. I remember coming home one afternoon to find my mother slumped over the kitchen table, drooling the worst smelling phlegm upstream of a gutter drunk. She mumbled.

"Rat bastard and yer young girls... I oughta call tha cops. Rat bastard."

Her arms circled a pile of Polaroid's on the table, drool ruining their cheap finish. I scanned them until my stomach cramped. Rat bastard. There he was taking pictures of himself fucking girls, some of them nearly as old as myself. There was a note too. 'These girls like it! You're already a fucking drunk, let me know when you want to try this new shit.'

I didn't know it at the time, but my dad was dealing. Coke was just becoming popular, and dad found out early that teenage girls ate it up like candy. I still don't know how a white, suburban salaryman like him had hooked into the game, but the cops never caught him. I heard stories that a manager at his advertising firm was busted for giving his employees coke as the ultimate work motivation, and then he'd fire the ones who burned themselves out. He was the fastest rising manager in dad's company. Dad was the slowest. My father enjoyed a different kind of power.

He wanted to fuck himself to death and sought the power to remove any obstacle to his lusts. If a pretty teenager flashed by his BMW, he'd stop and ask directions. On the seat next to him, he'd lay a vial of cocaine in plain view. If the girl stared at it, he'd invite her to a party, take the bitch to a hotel, and they have coke sex until the coke or his sperm ran out. If an older woman flirted with him at a party, he'd tell her she was perfect for a tv commercial; you know, the 'real woman' look. That line got his cock between plenty of cellulite. He took all the sex he wanted, but on the day he died from a heart attack, mother was humping a plastic dong into my ass.

The worst of my troubles reaching adulthood stemmed more from my mother than my father. As their sex life disintegrated, I turned first to support my mother. To me, she was the obvious victim. Little did I realize I only set myself up as her private sanitarium. She came to rely on me as her emotional support column, but when her natural sex drive came a knocking she eventually turned me into her little cunt maid. One day I was holding her as she cried over dad's photos. One day, not so many months later, she was holding me down with her waist smothering my face.

After I blew my mother cunt juice out my nose and wiped it, I raced to my bed where I cried myself to sleep. Mother apologized the next day, but not three days passed before she sneaked into my bed and sucked on my pussy. By the next morning, she refused to admit any such thing had happened. She turned her sexual assaults on me, her 13 year old daughter, into the phantasms of an alcoholic. She used her control over a family's basic necessities to coerce me into more deviant escapades. If I wanted a new dress, I had to fist her. If I wanted to invite a friend over to play, that cost a rim job. If I asked her for pocket change, other than my lousy dollar per week allowance, she'd get to ream my ass with her double dildo. On the day my daddy died, I needed five dollars for a rock star poster.

I think I grew to like her attentions, but my memories are too fragmented with my own delusions to be sure. In truth, we probably only had sex a couple times a week, and most of the rest of the time, my mom was better than a lot of mothers. She didn't shirk parenting simply because I was her fuck doll. I said she refused to admit ever having assaulting me. Her drinking was like curtain. When she didn't drink, she took me to art galleries, bicycling along the river, helped me with my homework, and let me go out and play. If I asked her for anything as simple as a new pair of gloves, Mother reached for the bottle. Two hours later, I would be sucking on her cunt like a girl scout.

That's plenty to fuck up the mind of any child. But what I hated most of all were her outbursts. Once a month, she'd totally lose it, drinking way to much, and having to chase me down for a hard raping. She would curse and scream that I should have been a son. A son knows how to please a mom. A son wouldn't need to be taught how to respond to her needs. A son loves to fuck and suck and drive his cock into his mom's ass, suck on her tits like a good boy, and shoot a steaming load of cum into her womb. I grew up believing I was only a younger version of what she was, a horny cunt without a man to give herself. At best I would be just another cunt tease for daddy to coke-up and screw. I was mom's enemy!

Daddy never did fuck me. He died when I was fifteen, not too young for his tastes, but too young as his daughter. Dollar to nickels, he'd have offered me a white snort on my seventeenth birthday. Instead, that was the day I left home.

Mother caught me in bed with a young neighbor boy, Raymond. He couldn't have been older than twelve, but I felt safe with him. My parents were my only example of adult sexuality, and I was scare to death of it. That doesn't mean I didn't get horny. I grew to inherit both my parent's sex drives. Sick of my mom's raping lesbianism, and spiteful of my father's lechery, it's understandable that I took to seducing little boys, before they could grow up and hurt me emotionally, like dad had mom. On my seventeenth birthday, mom baked a marvelous cake and had invited a few of the neighbors along with my friends to celebrate. It was a lovely day, and by

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