First of all, this will not be a fictional story, nor will it be funny or even arousing.

Now I need to apologize to my readers. Despite my assurances, I did abandon my last story “Death Wish”. There are reasons, that I want to share with all of you.

As many of you hopefully know, an author shares a part of themself with every story they put out there. It is pretty much inevitable. The same is true for me and my stories. The extend of it varies from story to story. “Death Wish” and “Cherish What You Got While It Lasts” are two stories, in which I am sharing a whole lot of myself with you.

To jump around a little bit, I will continue by telling you, that I just finished my psychological therapy. I have been in therapy for more than three years. Over this time, I learned a lot about myself and worked on several deeply rooted issues. Unfortunately, I also changed and somehow lost the connection to my story “Death Wish”.

Let me tell you a little story:

I am a middle-aged male, born in the 1970s. My parents were both born during the second world war. Both of them were raised rather strictly. From the age of 14, my father worked in construction and was a physically imposing person.

When I was born, the marriage of my parents was already dying. Both of them were alcoholics. My mother was drunk by noon and my father maybe an hour after coming home from work. If I bothered him, broke something, or got a bad grade, my father would beat me. He did not use his hands. I described his preferred instrument in “Cherish What You Got While It Lasts” as accurately as I could: a cable that he had folded in half and then twirled up.

My father used to whip me with that thing for as long as I can remember. My mother used to just sit there and watch, drunk as a skunk. There was no love in our house, none at all.

When I was about ten or eleven, a teacher of mine noticed something off about me. I practically never did my homework, did not participate in class, and often even was a disturbance. The school talked about that with my parents. While my father would show me his displeasure at home in the usual way, at school he needed to play along. It was decided that I should go to counseling. For about 4 years, I went to a counselor to work out my issues.

How did that work out? Well, at the age of fifteen I had already repeated a grade and had the general appearance of a bum. I did not wash myself. I did not change my clothes. I did not brush my teeth. I did not shave.

Does not look like my counseling was working, does it?

Let me briefly describe my first appointment with the guy that was supposed to help me. My parents and I were sitting in his office and my father was describing the problem. After some time, the guy asked me to accompany him to the next room. He said that he was supposed to check for physical abuse. Being the typical eleven-year-old child, I stripped naked after he told me to do that. He was some kind of doctor. Of course, that was alright. Then he examined my body, my ass, my balls, and even stroked my cock to check if I was able to achieve an erection. Nice of him to check, if I was developing properly.