I swear when I leave home I'm going to have a house with four bathrooms. If there are three of us living there, there's going to be six bathrooms. Right now, I live with my father and my brother Carl, in a four room apartment with only one bathroom, and it's hell.
Mom and dad broke up when I was eleven and Carl was nine. There was this terrific fight one night - worse than usual. I think he really did a number on her that night. I can remember lying in bed praying to God he wouldn't kill her. Daddy was drunk that night I guess. I don't really know exactly what happened -- neither of them would talk about it -- but mom had bruises the next day where I could see them. That was unusual. Usually they were in places that didn't show.
A couple of days later she was gone. There was a note for me that said she loved me but that she couldn't live there anymore. That it wasn't my fault so I shouldn't blame myself. I still have the note, tear stains and all. My tears. Carl got one too, and I suppose daddy did.
Anyway, he went into a terrible state that lasted for hours. Carl and I got out of the house. It's not good to be around him when he's in that kind of mood. When we came back the rage was burned out, and he was very quiet. This was definitely not normal for my father. We kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. He gathered us in for a "family talk".
"I suppose ye know by now what's happened." he began, "I don't know where she went, when she'll be back, or even if she'll be back. But 'til that happens, it's just the three of us, ye see? We must go on like nothing happened. We all must take up some of the slack. Cindy, that's going to mean more work for you. Carl too. I work all day, so there's not a lot I can do around here. We haven't got enough to pay a housekeeper. So that means Cindy, ye've got to help more with the house, laundry 'n' meals, things like that. Carl, you've got to help too. Ye must both keep up with schoolwork, I'll not let you slack off that.
So, I had to keep house. I had a pretty good idea what that meant.
It turned out that I was right. I was the housekeeper and surrogate mother to Carl as well. My own mother never was terribly good at controlling either of the men in our family, and without her practice I didn't do as well.
The bathroom was a real problem. We all had to be out of the house at the same time in the morning, so of course we all got up about the same time. So naturally, everybody wanted the bathroom at the same time. If I was showering, or even on the pot, it was nothing for one or the other of them to come barging in without even knocking, needing to shave, wash, brush teeth or whatever. My complaints got brushed aside with "We all have to get out of here, so you don't mind, do you? I'll just be a minute."
It didn't matter if I minded or not. I did mind more and more as I got older. When I got to be thirteen and began to change from a girl into a woman, I thought it would be nice if they would respect the fact that I needed privacy for personal things. Good luck! There was no lock on the door, and daddy never did find the time to install one, so anybody could just walk in anytime. And they did.
Carl got worse and worse. I certainly couldn't control him. "You're not my mother! I don't have to listen to you," he'd insist, and go on doing whatever it was he wanted. Daddy thought Carl could do no wrong, most of the time. If Carl did annoy him, he'd blow up and Carl would be in for a whipping. Daddy really believed in not sparing the rod as they say. Consequently Carl avoided daddy as much as he could.
I couldn't avoid Carl, unfortunately. He was there when I got home from school, or shortly after. I had to get home to fix dinner for us. If I didn't, daddy would be really pissed, and that was something to be avoided...
Yes, he would spank me too. He really seemed to think that was a suitable punishment for all transgressions. When I was little he would spank my bottom with his hand, and I just had to put up with it. I seemed to me, though, that by the time I was fifteen or sixteen that he might have found some other way to express his displeasure. Sometimes I think he enjoyed it, and went out of his way to look for opportunities.
Anyway, I was stuck with Carl all afternoon and sometimes all evening if daddy went out and I became baby sitter. It really got to be a problem as we got older. I started to fill out. I began to get breasts, and my body got softer while Carl, on the other hand, got bigger and stronger. I could only argue with him. I couldn't force him to behave anymore. He would blast his way into the bathroom while I was having my shower, stick his head into past the curtain and say something like, "Hey hey hey! Look at them tits. Sis, you're gettin' really stacked!" Then pull back his head before I could hit him. I didn't want to go chasing him, wet and naked, around the house, and afterward I didn't have time to kill him.
Or I'd be on the pot, and in he'd come. I'd squeal, "Carl! Get out of here!"
He grin that evil grin he gets sometimes and say, "Sorry. I'm late and I gotta brush my teeth." Then he'd dawdle. I had to pee, but I didn't want to do it with him in there watching me, but he would outwait me, and I'd have to go anyway, and he would stand there listening and grinning form ear to ear. He'd usually have some witty comment about Niagara Falls or something. He knew I wanted to dry myself after, so he'd stand there waiting. I hated to have to do that sort of thing with an audience, and he knew it. After I'd pulled up my pants he'd lose interest.
The sexual perversions of a fourteen year old boy are disgusting.
After my shape started developing, daddy decided that Carl had better move into the other bedroom with him. To this I agreed wholeheartedly. To have a room of my own was bliss beyond dreaming. I could decorate it (to a degree) to my own taste, but best of all, it was a place to retreat into privacy. Sometimes Carl would come in there too, but I could usually chase him back out. By the time I was fourteen, It was clear that I was going to be really built. I am only five foot three, one hundred and two pounds, but the weight is very well distributed. I would never be mistaken for a fashion model. My hair is light blonde, - I get that from my mother; daddy's is coal black – and very fine. I wear it shoulder length and straight. That way I don't have to fuss with it much, other than washing and brushing and pony-tailing it. Saves time.
When I was thirteen, I kept having to buy bigger bras. I outgrew them so fast that I never had more than three or four that fit at any one time. One time Carl got into my room while I was out grocery shopping and took a scissors and cut holes in the cups of all my bras, right in the middle. I didn't discover it until the next morning. I raised bloody hell about it, but all daddy did was to tell Carl never to do that again - we didn't have enough money to buy me underwear for him to ruin. I think daddy was amused by Carl's "prank".
I had no choice that day. I wore one of them, with my nipples sticking out. I tried to find a loose blouse to wear over it so it wouldn't show much, but I hadn't gotten any new clothes in a while and everything was sort of tight on me. I got a lot of looks that day as everybody checked out my chest with the two little sharp points poking out my blouse. I'd like to have died! I could kill that kid!
Daddy always seemed to be a lot stricter with me that with Carl too. I had a curfew, and heaven help me if I got in late, explanation or no. I was a girl, he explained, and Carl wasn't, as if that made all the difference. I didn't have much time to be out anyway, and when I did I hated to have to always watch the clock.
I'll never forget the night when I didn't watch it closely enough. I was at my friend Jennifer's house and her boyfriend showed up with another guy. Well, one thing led to another and we were getting kind of cuddly and it was really nice. I just plain lost track of time. We weren't doing anything really bad, but you know how guys are. We were watching TV and eating popcorn and George put his arm around me. It felt nice, and I didn't mind. I don't get much cuddling, and I really like it.
There's no keeping a guy from feeling around under those conditions, and George was no exception, but that's all that I was going to let happen. I decided I would let him feel my breast if he wanted to. I mean, I didn't say it was OK, I just didn't fight very hard when he tried. It was warm and cozy and I was really contented snuggling with him. I had my head against his chest and his arm was around me and he was rubbing my shoulder. He would take his hand and stroke my cheek once in a while, then drift his fingers along my collarbone to my shoulder and down my arm a little. I noticed that each time his fingers would drift a little lower on my chest. I guess he figured if he was sneaky I might not notice. I decided not to say anything yet.
Besides, it's really nice having a guy stroking you. I knew I'd have to stop him at some point before it got too serious, but I was enjoying it, so I let it go on. Anyway, I was curious about what he would do. I looked up at him, and he kissed me. He wasn't too terribly good at it, but I suppose I wasn't either. His hand held my cheek until I broke it off. His eyes were bright and his breathing heavy; I think I was really getting to him, and I rather liked the idea of that.
.... There is more of this story ...