Millie 90 lbs of Dynamite: Blog

Back to Millie 90 lbs of Dynamite's Blog

An Introduction to all things Millie

March 1, 2016
Posted at 4:22 pm
Updated: March 1, 2016 - 5:39 pm

For some time now I have wanted to make a few post about me - yes, it is self-centered and just a bit egocentric. I just wanted those that enjoy my writing, and even more importantly those that hate it but continue to read my stories, to know a little about me. Maybe get an idea why I write the things I write. So here goes.

Let me begin by saying, while Millie is now my legal name it is not the name my mother and father gave me. They named me Lakeisha and I suppose it was some African inspired name. I can still hear my fathers voice calling me, "Lakeisha, come here girl." Perhaps that is one reason I hate the name so much. The thought of him grunting my name out while he jabbed his cock in me over and over, all the while telling me to be his, "good girl - Lakeisha."

I was born on September 10, 1989 and was raped by father the first time on my birthday. The following morning, a Monday, my mother tells me my father is just showing his love to me. She further explains that it is his right and I have a duty to keep my mouth shut about this. She let me stay home from school that day - to heal up a bit - so while she explains all this to me, I watch the news on TV. Why the news - it is all that is on. No cartoons, no talk shows, no soap operas, just the news. The buildings fall. The plains crash. My life tumbles down around my head and I feel - unimportant, insignificant, unworthy, and very much unloved.

There is no love in the act my father preformed on me - this is not normal family behavior - it is cruel, selfish, and destructive. No, I do not like incest stories - especially the lovey dovey, bullshit ones where everyone is happy and all is right with the world.

My fascination with horror, violence, and murder began in the aftermath of that terrible birthday gift from my father. Eight months to day after the rape I ran away from home - ruined by my father turning to prostitution was not a difficult thing. I remember May 10th, 2002 hitch hiking from Huston Texas heading to nowhere. I remember an old fat trucker picking me up. He had big muscled up arms, a big chest and this enormous beer belly. In no time he calculated I was a child, running away from a terrible situation and desperate to put miles between me and whatever I was running away from, he looked me up and down almost licking his lips.

When I crawled in the cab he had the friendliest smile I had ever seen. I thought to myself, "Great a nice person." In less than mile on the highway he told me to move next to him. I asked why his friendly face changed in twinkling, "Because I told you to, fucking nigger child, get your ass over here." That giant friendly face twisted into the most hateful grimace, as soon as slid next to him he unzipped his pants and fished out his cock. His big powerful hand clutched my neck forcing my face down to his prick.

"You got pay for your ride," he said. He made frequent long stops off the highway and did what he wanted to do to me. I had traded one hell for another. Late the next day we made Oklahoma City and he parked in a big truck stop. He fucked me several times then asked if I had any money.

"No," I said as he shoved a wad of bills in my hand.

"Good luck to you, not get the fuck out. This street is 28th, walk down that way until you get to a street called Robinson. You can make your living on that street," he said. His voice was odd, not angry, not mean almost sorrowful.

"What will I do?" I asked him confused that he was throwing me out.

"You'll do your whoreing there. Now get out I got to get home to my wife," he sat there with this look on his face, I can't describe it to you. I don't know what he was feeling but I think he was conflicted. "You be careful," he said, as I climbed down to the street. "Some men ain't kind and gentle like me."

I thought he was making some kind of joke, but he was telling me the truth. I looked at the bills in my hand - twenty-five dollars. I had 3 bras', two pair of panties, 4 tops and one pair of jeans to my name and twenty-five dollars. I was four feet and six inches tall and weighed less than 80 pounds, and I seriously I doubt I looked even old as I was. I had no idea what was to become of me and kept telling myself, "Well, this is better than what I had at home."

If you kind folks will indulge me I may make more posting on me from time to time.

Love y'all