Copyright (c) 2003, by DiscipleN. All rights reserved.

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 the end of it, I was feeling brave and very horny. I told Raymond to meet me in our backyard, and I'd give him something to thank him for visiting. He really was a sweet boy.

Mother began drinking while she cleared the house of party wreckage, but I didn't notice. I figured I could sneak Raymond into my room, through the kitchen back door, and I did. Unfortunately, he was really shy and it took me a lot of patient explaining that what I wanted from him would be really good for him. I had hardly begun to suck on his delicious young cock when mother barged into my room waving a well used double dildo. I got more than an ass reaming that night, and Raymond got a scare that made him piss in my mouth. Mother froze at the sight of my young conquest. You could see the flame in her eyes, the flare of her nostrils, and her short but powerful intake of breath. Her alcohol supercharged desire kicked her into a mental orbit of the room, unable to reenter until she'd burned up most of her fuel. She froze solid.

I spit Raymond's piss back into his groin, grabbed up his jeans and snapped them back together. Mother started screaming. I don't remember what she said. Raymond looked like a kitten facing a deadly tomcat. I tried to intervene, but mother grabbed my ear and pulled me away like a naughty little girl. She hit me once with the dildo and dropped it. Then she lunged for Raymond. She would have put a vise grip on him, but I grabbed her arm spun her around, leaving a space between her and the door. Raymond got a clue and leaped. I held on to mother for his dear life. At seventeen, I hadn't fully realized how much I had grown. I was nearly my mother's height, but not half her weight. She clobbered me more than I ever thought I could take before I fell sobbing beneath her blows. I had to stay a week out of school to recuperate. The next day, Mother swore all she remembered was saving me from that horrid hooligan. She tried to make herself and me believe that Raymond was older, bigger, meaner and my real assailant. I didn't care what she wanted to fantasize. I was through with her. I had found my strength.

I guess it was fortunate that Raymond's parents called the authorities. I was still a sight when they showed up with questions, five days later. They hauled my mother to jail and put me into foster care for the remainder of my minority. Before that though, mother was released into an alcohol treatment facility, and after promising me she'd never drink again, I moved back in with her. She never did drink again. There were nights when I caught her doing something else out of the corner of my eye. She would sometimes finger fuck herself when we were in the same room, as long as she thought I couldn't see her. I didn't really care. I had begun to set my future on a course that made her perversions seem quaint by comparison.

My twenties flash across my memory like a 30 second commercial. Father's life insurance paid my way through college. I fucked a lot of teenage boys. I graduated with honors in physical therapy. Unlike most children of alcoholics, I never fell into drinking beyond an occasional glass of wine or cocktail. My mother wasn't a classic alcoholic, she'd been driven to it by her husband, and when she dried out she dried out for good.

I met a physics graduate in my senior year and found myself at odds with my feelings. He was a good man. He wasn't much to look at, nice eyes, dressed like his mother had told him, quiet unless he was with his science friends. I know I didn't love him, but neither was I afraid of him. And for me that was a solid gold key to my cunt. Henry loved my cunt! He fell head over heels in love with me a few minutes before he began fucking it. I was getting too old to pick up high school boys, and by no means was it a compulsion. It was simply my most comfortable sexual relationship. Henry was sweet. He had a nice cock, and it didn't take me very long to teach him how to use it. We went steady until I graduated. Then we moved together into my apartment. I got a job at a very exclusive medical center, and he worked on his master's degree. I let him get me pregnant the day he landed three job offers. He knew how babies were made, but I had let him think he was in control of his sperm. When I broke the 'good news' to him he scratched his head and made sort of a embarrassed smile. We were married within the year.

Neither Henry nor I believed that we should limit our sexual experiences to each other. My man wasn't a creature of repressed religious doctrine, or America's sexually ignorant culture. I taught him good. Funny thing was, we never really did go outside of our marriage for sex. Henry was not my perfect sexual partner, but he was ready with a hard-on when I needed it, whereas many before him had failed to produce wood consistently over time. I never brought a sopping cunt home for him to suck, and the phone never rang with his bastard's manic mother on the other end.

I was twenty seven when Michael was born. I hardly remember much of those three years, except how much I hated motherhood. He was a whiney, fussy, messy, smelly son of a diaper bulge. Henry tried with the best of intentions and all of his precise logic to convince me to have another child. Two children near the same age were bound to grow up better individuals than a lone child or two separated by many years. I almost left him for his eagerness. Instead we hired a nanny, and I issued one beautiful and healthy girl into the world a year later. My thirtieth birthday struck a month after Julia's.

I think I panicked. After thirty years of living in the world, I had accomplished everything a woman might desire. The problem was, I realized, never had I actually faced what it was that 'I' desired! Suddenly, it seemed like I had been living someone else's life. I didn't know who I was or what I wanted. I was entering my prime, but the only thing ahead was the traditional long fade into retirement. This did not sit well with my psyche. Some long lost, root of my soul wailed within me, and I was inconsolable. I cried for weeks.

The doctors said it was postpartum depression. They prescribed drugs. I took them, threw up, and took some more. My shrink said it was a dangling thread of my personality, and the best way to sew back into place was with his cock as the needle. I fucked him. Then I fired him. Henry was no help at all. I'd married him for material and sexual security, not emotional support. The poor dear tried but hadn't a clue about mending a female soul. He wouldn't have had a clue about women's sexual needs if I hadn't taught him. No woman can teach a man how to bridge her psychological rifts. She has to find the one man who happens to fill hers. Out of options, I turned to the only other emotional support I had.

I was never one to make women friends. I saw them as either leeches or competitors. My experiences of forced lesbianism colored my natural instinct to forge social links with my female peers. I saw men as either potential orgasm donors or emotional Jack the Rippers. I flew cross-country to my mother. We met mingling our tears upon her doorstep.

Mother was now forty-seven. Ten years earlier she had begun to date again. Three years earlier, she had married again. I did not attend the wedding, but I sent her a basket of fruit in the form of a gift certificate. For my prodigal return, she sent Vincent out of the house for a week. After twelve hours of sobbing my life's story into her breasts, she offered me a drink to settle my nerves. I gulped it down. Three glasses later, I couldn't feel her remove my dress. Head spinning, I lied prostrate on her couch. It's worn floral pattern was lucky I hit the carpet with my first gush of vomit. Mom hurried me into the bathroom, globulous projectiles marking the path. I threw up into the toilet bowl until the dry heaves left me too weak to drool. Mother knew what was best for me. As I hovered over the porcelain receptacle her fingers sneaked into my cunt and eased my suffering. She took me to her bed and tucked me in. I slept for an entire day.

I awoke over the course of two hours. Full daylight struggled against thick curtains. I eased my aching body out of bed and showered. I felt better after that. I dressed and entered the hall where a promising smell led me. Mother was making coffee in the kitchen. When I timidly poked my head in, she turned and looked at me, a little pained.

"Mother did you..." I began to accuse her.

"Yes, I did." Her lower lip trembled. "I don't regret it."

My voice lost its strength. "What am I going to do?"

"Stay with me, until Vincent returns." She crossed the room and placed her hand against my forearm. "I've missed you terribly." Her hand smoothed down my arm until she gripped my hand. It burned with need.

I reached for her, and we embraced. We spent the remainder of the week in her bed.

My return home was no happier than when I had left. I was stronger. My path remained uncertain, but fraught with fewer pits. Mother had helped me face one thing, but it was not the important one. I did not forgive her for betraying her maternal trust, once again, but I understood it. Understanding it, I had begun to glean something new of myself. I was a sexual predator, the daughter of a sexual predator. In the jungle of nature's passions, cluttered with mechanical rabbits, I was the she leopard. My range overlapped the males'. Their domains remained isolated and interlopers were driven off by tooth and claw. In my season, the males should copulate with me and dispersed. Unlike leopards, I would remain in season until my pores ran with cum and my breast burst with milk. From that moment on, I had bound myself to a dreadful and irrevocable decision. I spoke nothing of this to anyone, hardly even unto myself.

Henry was the first to sense my change, but he was the last to know what hit him. I took a lover, a random one. Kevin and I met outside a department store, waiting for it to open. I followed him to the menswear and raped him in the change booth. He dangled from my key chain for weeks thereafter. Kevin was a younger man, twenty five, salesman, the kind of man that use to intimidate me. I devoured him whole until the day when he showed up on my doorstep with a gigantic half-gross of carnations and a promise to rid me of my 'weak and insufficient' husband. I sicked the dog on him. The best thing I got from Kevin was getting over my fear of emotionally crippling men. Instead I began to hunt them like foxes.

Henry figured out I was cheating on him. I think he rationalized it by telling himself it was a phase I was going through. He didn't act cuckolded, but I knew his misery was just beginning. I left plenty of scraps for him, not just occasional morsels seeping from my pussy lips, but full intercourse, oral, anal, vaginal, mammarian, whatever he asked for. Henry just wasn't a sexual athlete. His sex drive dropped into gear only when I sought him. I doubt he craved sex all that much when I was out trying three different colors of cock. He tended his research and theories as meticulously and passionately as he tended my dripping pussy with his reliable hard-on.

After five years of total un-inhibition, I felt like I had just graduated from college all over again. There wasn't a man alive who could bend me to their will, and all of them had fallen to my voracious appetite. From state congressmen to local starlets, I had made them beg to partake from my sex. In my third year of full sexual awakening, I returned to the gender that had laid the foundation for my perversions. I sought women out for sex as men became too easy. I even tried to share them with Henry, but he was rapidly loosing the one thing he needed from me, his wife. I hardly gave him the time of day. My cunt was open to him whenever I crawled home, leaving a slime trail of sexual juices, but my heart soared far out of his reach.

Let me say this. I am not the most attractive of women. I am good looking, but when the heat spills from my eyes it mesmerizes my prey like headlights. My internal nature makes up for my external mediocrity. Sure there were men who could resist me, but in my book that made them less of a man. Their reasons were not so noble, religious fanatics were easier seduce than freshmen college students. The men who did not fall prey to me were either too distractible like schizophrenics or sexually retarded. My husband was nearly the first case. After five years of getting the sopping end, Henry finally broke down.

"Come back to me, honey. Let the others go. Your family needs you. Your children need you. I need you." He held me dearly, but he could feel the stellar heat burning in my depths. I considered him, seriously. Henry was still a good man, a nice man. I did not want him to finish last. I maybe even loved him. I came back each time to his house and our children even after weeks of perversions. Michael was eight and Julia was five and a half. I might have quit my rebellious antics for them and Henry. I could have done it. I didn't have to sacrifice all of my new freedoms and power to give my family what they needed from their mother. We could have came to an arrangement that satisfied everyone. We could have, until our nanny, Nancy, turned up pregnant.

"You miserable, CHEATING, SCUMBAG!!!" I screamed at Henry.

"But Honey, I thought it was a logical thing to do. I just made a mistake with our contraception."

"Just like the mistake you made with me! Your silly little condoms are no match for a sewing needle. And I bet Nancy is an expert with sewing needles!" I accused. Somehow, I kept my tears behind my facade of hate.

"She said she was on the pill." He offered meekly.

I didn't dare look at him anymore. My mask was melting from the flood of water dammed behind it. I fled my home. My heart felt as if it had burst. I cursed myself. How could I have ever let that geek-ridden creature into my life? He did not deserve to affect me so. That stupid little man... I left Henry to let him muddle through his mistake. For two years I abandoned family and friends. I lived no better than a whore, selling my sex for money, clothes, food, and shelter. My ability to lure men to their demise quickly faded as the power in my soul drained away through un-mendable rips. Eventually, I was selling blow jobs to alcoholics for ten bucks a pop. Sick, broke, and unhinged, I found myself ready one day to crawl back to Henry and beg his forgiveness. Mother met me at the door. She welcomed me with arms like snakes.

It was only natural, I guess. Henry had to dismiss Nancy. He paid every cent of the child support she demanded from him, and we never heard from her again. From court documents sifted from the internet, he discovered she eventually married and had named their son James. He left it at that. To help him raise little Michael and Julia, mother jumped at the chance to offer her services. It was only natural our children's Grandmother took the place of their wayward mother. She had recently sent Vincent packing, permanently this time. "He wasn't my sort of gentleman after all." She said. In other words, even Viagra couldn't help him against my mother's tide of sexuality. Likewise, it was only natural that she discovered Henry could withstand it. Once again, my mother had stolen my sexual core being, but she was willing to share. She and Henry welcomed me back with open arms, a warm place in the bed beside them, healthy food, attention to my physical ills, and even outreach for my tattered being.