Chapter 9: Ann’s Version

I’m Susan’s mother, and I’m called Ann, named after my grandmother. Those two things are the most interesting things about me, unless you’re interest is pussy. I’ve traded pussy for survival for my entire life. What kind of mother would trade a pedophile her thirty month old daughter in exchange for security? A mother who’s business is trading pussy for survival. Don’t matter if it’s toddle pussy. My dad began raping me when I was younger than Susan. Dad continued plugging me for twenty years, until I got pregnant with Susan. A big belly wouldn’t have mattered to him, and he would have kept right on plowing me, except I escaped. Ran away with a stupid wannabe boyfriend, and we joined a traveling preacher’s family group. Not a very holy religious preacher, cause him and his two hellion sons, killed my beau and turned me and a teenager girl named Alma into sex slaves. You think I look too old for not yet twenty five? Live as I have, and see if you don’t collect some extra wear and tear. Hardly living is a hard life. Enough about me, I don’t even want to remember my life, and I certainly don’t want to relive it, telling it.

Everybody has a life story, but not everyone’s life is an interesting story. Well, perhaps there will always be a few easily entertained, maybe get a woody from my story. To be fair to myself, I started with rotten luck and it soured to worse. Life dealt me a perverted hand of weirdos in the beginning, and now I’m convinced I’m some sort of magnet for perverts. Associating a lifetime with pervs, I guess has perverted me too.

Cappy? I’d much rather tell Cappy’s story, because I am fascinated by him.

Hardly anybody has the talent or enough time to create long term bonds. Con-man Cappy has the skills and talent, so he doesn’t require much time. Being lovable has always been Cappy’s Ace in the hole, his major trick of the trade. Susan took to him immediately, like a bee to honey. I horned in, as the mother’s right, to catch the ride. I don’t attract much attention now.

Attracted plenty when I was twelve and thirteen. Been tapering off ever since fourteen. I expected, counted on, Susan would eventually catch somebodies attention.

If a baby girl can be considered sexy, then Susan is a baby wet dream! She looks scrumptious enough to eat, intentionally so. I dress her to be pedo bait. Cappy messing with my cute baby girl, really gets me aroused. It just does. Cappy eats me out after I watch them together. Likes me hot, wet, and juicy! I want to see him eat her too, and expect to soon. I knew his game from the start. Should anybody recognize a pedo’s ways, a pedo’s daughter oughta!

Cappy Susan, and I arrived in Gothenburg in the late evening, disembarking at a downtown self storage facility. Abandoned, it’s affordable. There are no monthly rental charges, and it’s conveniently within walking distance from government headquarters. His ultralight plane and numerous other possessions are padlocked, stored in the largest pair of storage units available. One of the unique features Cappy selected these two units for, is private personnel entrances, opening into an originally air-conditioned hallway. Neither hall nor units are air-conditioned now, but once were. There’s a bathroom at the end of the hall, and a back door into the front office on one side. Standard doors eliminate having to frequently lift the exterior steel roll up doors, just to come and go, which would let all the cold air spill out.

The hall is accessed via a key locked outside exit door, near the front gate.

A master electrician, Cappy easily pirated power for his two units. Gothenburg has it’s own hydroelectric dam, and no shortage of electricity or potable water either. It was groceries, the lack of them, eventually drove away the looters, who by murder and intimidation, earlier eliminated everyone else. All the townsfolk abandoned their home and businesses, fleeing during the first weeks after SHTF, in fear for their lives.

Cappy one handed unlocks the outside door, enters the passageway, and unlocks a door to the unit he earlier set up and outfitted as sleeping quarters. Turning on an overhead light, Cappy carefully lifts sleeping Susan from his shoulder, and deposits her gently upon the bed. Susan goes right on sleeping.

“Come in.” He tells me.

“I don’t like this place, Cappy, it’s like a prison.”

I’m standing close, fearful and very close by his side, hugging his arm.

“Does this remind you of somewhere else? Were you ever imprisoned, Ann?”

“It feels bad here! I don’t like it. Take us to a hotel, a nice one. Don’t ask about my past. I intend forgetting lots of past things. Every miserable bit of it. Treat me good, and help me forget the bad, Cappy.”

“Afraid I can’t afford to do that. The hotel, I mean. I haven’t received my pay yet but tomorrow is payday. I hope. Don’t worry, we’ll be comfortable here for what remains of tonight. What you sense, is high security, Ann. Prisons lock up people. Here, people lock up possessions. Both types of places are as secure as they can be made to be. The fencing is to keep thieves, looters, and marauders out. Not to lock you in, Ann. Our security is good! A good thing.”

“Will you be rich tomorrow, when they pay you for all these months back salary, Cappy?”

“Rich? In a manner of speaking so, yes, I guess. I’ll receive title to a sizable fortune in an invaluable resource. Worth life itself to me, and to Sport.”

Cappy’s contract specifies, he’s to be paid with a large quantity of government owned, Navy fuel dock diesel fuel. The fuel title, ticket/order, with the Presidents signature, passes into his hands, sometime tomorrow. Then, they’re leaving high as a kite, flying to JNAS, Florida n his ultralight. The naval air station at Jacksonville has yacht docks, for boat dwelling retired military personnel. Cappy’s tug ‘SPORT’, is temporarily docked there. The major part of his floating home, is docked a hundred mil upstream in the St. Johns River. The 170 foot long converted RORO landing craft, now a ITB barge, is notched to mate with her tug ‘SPORT’. The barge is named ‘YNGHOUSE’. It’s upriver, well south of Jacksonville, docked at a private pier Cappy inherited and owns in Crescent City, Florida. The St Johns River, like the Nile River, flows North. The worlds only major rivers that do.

Cappy told me a lot about his current life now, while back at the farm.

During the three day drive to Gothenburg, bored to tears in the back of the truck, he must have felt compelled to blather, to tell me about his early life. I’m writing it down here, as best I can remember exactly as his telling it.

Cappy says.

My childhood is a confused jumble of memories, of changes. New names, new faces, and new places, all distinctly unpleasant. To realize you are unhappy, logically requires a happy comparison, doesn’t it? Wouldn’t it? I didn’t have a single happy memory.

With very few years of living and zero happy experiences as reference, my miserable existence wasn’t important to me when I was a young boy. I knew nothing else. I only recall that I felt numbed by it.

I don’t remember entering the world, but my birth began the unlucky streak that continues to over shadow me even today! Life is a shit sandwich. The more bread (money) you have, the less bitter the shit taste you’re forced to endure!

Born into extreme poverty, in a charity house for unwed mothers, I was whelped to a child mother, barely in her teens. A school dropout who ran away when she became pregnant. She precipitously preempted her father of the satisfaction of chucking her out in the street himself. Such was my ostentatious beginning.

My own father I never asked about. Possibly unknown, certainly unmentioned, he wasn’t even a mystery to me! He was unimagined, unnamed, and unnecessary, just an absent ignored figure!

Occasionally I had a mom, but more often than not, she was absent, too! An uneducated, good-time girl, my capricious promiscuous mom was obsessively optimistic. Dreams can come true she fervently believed! She had a limitless supply of unrealistic dreams but she was astute enough, realistic, and pragmatic enough to realize fairy godmothers didn’t exist!

Not being real, they couldn’t make dreams come true. Sugar-daddies do exist and can fulfill most dreams if you catch a rich one!

“Will you be my Sugar-daddy, Cappy?”

“Shut your pie hole, stupid! Where was I?”

My mom was irresistibly cute, compulsory discrete and a skillful liar. Jail bait for generous men easily enchanted by an early curvy body, a pouting potty mouth, and her fake-innocent big-eyed doll face. No false advertising with the sexy body, though! Mom has always had an voracious and avid appetite for marathon fucking! Men of all ages and financial circumstance, were happy to temporarily encourage mom’s fairytale fantasies, in exchange for her draining their libidos. Mom never lacked for male attention during her teens and twenties. Some even married her. She soon bored them though, and none stayed, didn’t wait around very long.

You’d be wrong to think it was my fault! The boring kid was herself!

Having a young kid in tow wasn’t as much of a detriment to Mom’s romances as you may imagine. If new guy objected to my presence, I was no big problem. She easily shed herself of me!

As easy as dropping off the trash at the curb, Mom dropped me off with a sitter the newest daddy hired for an evening, and invariably, the unfortunate sitter was stuck with me for days, not just the one evening.

I won’t say “Of course she did”, because not even mom was certain when or if she would return for me. It just worked out that eventually she always returned. Tardy, but eventually reliable in effect.

Sometimes days passed, and many days later, mom collected me with wild excuses for her “unavoidable” absence. Her excuses were all pretext.

She promptly abandoned me again with an another ignorant sitter, unaware of mom’s history. The poor unsuspecting new sitter would receive a valuable lesson in trusting too easily, and little else.

Sissy was the exception, my only repeating sitter. After the first tardiness, Sissy smilingly forgave Mom but insisted in the future, Mom pack toys and extra clothes to drop off together with me.

No matter how put upon, Sissy never complained or refused to take me and she became my regular sitter. I loved Sissy. Sissy loved me. Sissy liked sitting on me. Literally!

She’d kneel straddling me as I lay naked on the floor, raised by a pillow under my ass. Effectively, I was held captive beneath and between her quivering thighs. Sissy enjoyed squirming nude and slippery sliding about, frantically rubbing her wet bald pussy on me.

My other sitters, each and all sexually abused me too! Holding me against them, between their legs and rubbing my penis or more often, my face against their drooling sex! None were as pleasant, caring, as fun, or as smart as Sissy. Mostly I felt scratched by the other women’s coarse pubic hair. None bothered to considerately shave like Sissy. None had Sissy’s cowgirl technique worked out either!

Ladies? If any of you are reading Ann’s scribbling, THANK YOU! Thanks for not hurting me! And thanks for the early pussy memories! Couldn’t cum for you then, but frequently have fantasizing about you since. Kisses! Special kisses for Sissy and her gloriously wet pussy!