Mom is an Incestuous Slut Ch. 02

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There are no underage characters in this story. All characters portrayed in this story are over the age of 18-year-old and are consenting adults.

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A product of incest, Susan now knows why she is the way that she is.

Easier to blame myself than to blame someone else, sadly confused, deeply troubled, and blaming my desperate situation on myself, I always wondered why my life is such shit and why I’m the way that I am. Unemployed, homeless, and broke, I’m unable to maintain a relationship with a man. As with most women, a man would be my saving grace by putting a roof over my head and paying for all the other necessities of life, so long as I gave him a warm meal, a clean house, and a hot bed.

Don’t get me wrong. I love men and I’m not lesbian but sometimes antagonistic, I’m too combative and too angry in the way that Susan is, my character is my story the Bag Lady and the Retired Marine. I was much like Rachel in my story, Born Beautiful, Rachel’s Story, when I was her age, 19-years-old. Being that I can only write what I know, sharing more than a piece of me, my characters are all about me. For sure, I’m not the helplessly submissive, busty, pretty, blue-eyed blonde that most men think that I am on the surface and want. Having survived living on the streets, I’m no Angel. Yet, having lived my life caring for myself and now deeming myself as an equal, I don’t want a man who will belittle me and not appreciate me.

Having been held down and back for so long by men, now that I know that I’m able to take care of myself, I resent a man bossing me around and telling me what to do, especially when I have a mind of my own and can make my own decisions for myself. Moreover, in many regards, other than being a city girl instead of a country girl, especially in physical appearance and abilities, I’m a modern day version of Elly Mae Clampett from the Beverly Hillbillies fame. Feeling that I’m just as good if not better than any man, I’m smarter than most of the men who’ve been attracted to me and who I’ve ended up dating.

I’m not sure what dating a dumber man and a dumber man being attracted to me says about me and about them but it suggests enough for me to question why I don’t have a man in my life. Maybe if I played more the role of the cutesy dimwitted, big breasted blonde, I’d have men fawning all over me but, having more self-respect than that, I don’t and I won’t. I don’t want that type of shallow man who’d fall for me just because I’m blonde, busty, and beautiful. I’d rather have a man who appreciates me for the woman that I am inside instead of only seeing me from the outside.

As does everything else, I suspect my personal problems with men all stem from growing up without a father, from not having much of a relationship with my mother, and from being alienated from my brothers. I suspect my personal problems with men all stem from being raped not once but numerous times, first by my uncle, then by my cousins, then by my brothers, and last by my mother’s boyfriends. I probably would have had a better life had I been left on a doorstep and raised as an orphan. It would have been nice if a rich family had adopted me and given me a privileged life of excesses. It would have been nice to have grown up in a loving family instead of in a dysfunctional one. It would have been nice, an understatement, not to have been incestuously abused and sexually used in my life over and again.

When I do have any kind of relationship with my mother, it’s always a love/hate relationship. Always butting heads with what each of us wants getting in the way, instead of one relenting to the will of the other, we’re always at one another. Every conversation turns into a confrontation and an argument. Just by the look on her face, as if my physical presence is her constant reminder that I’m the accidental and frightful product of her giving birth to me in an incestuous relationship, she more hates me than loves me.

Truth be told, I never got along with my mother. We were never close in the way that mothers and daughters should be with a mother buying her daughter pretty dresses and doing her hair and a daughter asking her mother questions and sharing secrets. When growing up, I never even felt comfortable enough to dress up in my mother’s clothes. Not wanting to emulate her, I didn’t want to dress in the way my mother dressed with much of her body exposed. In the way that I perceived her, cold, distant, selfish, and self-centered, I didn’t want to be anything like my mother and now, the self-righteous one, here I am alone while she’s living with yet another man.

Always too sparkly in her low cut tops and too short skirts, and always too phony in her bubbly personality, especially whenever men were around, there was no room in my mother’s mirror than that of her own self image. She was always acting for the sake of men’s sexual attention. With her shine overpowering me, her bright light only glowed enough to encompass herself. When canlı bahis she looked at herself in the mirror, she never saw me and/or acknowledged my presence standing there in the background watching her get dressed to go out yet again. She was always going out on a date with yet another man. There was always some party with a man taking her there and another man bringing her home. Too popular, she had so many boyfriends and too many boyfriends to count.

When I lived with her before I was married, we argued every day. An understatement, she liked men better than she did me. Her life was all about men and she loved my ex-husband which now makes me wonder if they ever had sex. If she had sex with her own sons, why wouldn’t she have sex with her son-in-law?

Spraying hairspray and perfume, she was always primping in front of the bathroom mirror for a date. If she spent as much time on cleaning the house, cooking, and taking care of her five children as she did on her hair, nails, and shopping for clothes, I wouldn’t be writing this story today. Always too busy with trying to get ready to go out and too late and too tired when she returned home to interact with any of us, as if she didn’t even have children and a daughter, she preferred having casual, albeit sexual relationships with her many boyfriends instead of having a mother/daughter relationship with me.

Never without a man in her bed and without a drink in her hand, she always had a man sniffing around her. She was such a sexual flirt and tease. If my mother could have devised a way to put a pole in her bedroom, she would have but the ceiling was too low. I could see my mother stripping off her clothes while dancing to music and doing stretching, spread legged, aerobic, acrobatics with the help of a pole. Like mother like daughter, she’s always been physically strong and coordinated.

My mother’s behavior got worse once my brothers left. With just me there, she started bringing her work home with her. Every time I came home from college or, later, from work, there’d be another new man in her bed and they’d both be drunk and naked. Humping, banging, fucking, sucking, and screaming with orgasms as is they were alone and I wasn’t even there, they’d be having sex in her room while I tried to study and sleep behind my locked bedroom door. If my brothers were there, they never would have allowed her to bring her men in the house never mind to have sex with them in front of me.

My only way to keep myself safe, I had to keep my bedroom door closed and locked, otherwise her men would try to get in bed with me. With neither of them having any decency and shame, I was embarrassed enough for the both of them. Even when I was older, 18-years-old, forget about inviting one of my friends for a sleepover, never could I invite my friends to my house for fear that my Mom would be entertaining one of her many boyfriends and publically having sex.

Because her many boyfriends were so openly and brazenly sexual with my mother, they thought it was okay for them to be naked around me too. After having sex with my mother and with her still sleeping or drunk in bed, I’d be getting ready for work in the bathroom or having my breakfast in the kitchen before heading off to work. When her bedroom door finally opened, thinking that it was my Mom finally emerging from her room alone, it was the man who spent the night. After my brothers left for Ohio and Michigan to work out of state at one of the automotive plants, we always had a man in my house but none of them was my father. All of them were my mother’s one night stands.

Strange men would routinely walk around my house naked with their dangling or hardened cocks. Not wanting to be raped by them or forced to service them while on my knees, I’d hide in my room behind my locked bedroom door until they left. As if I was living in a whorehouse, because of my mother, I can’t tell you how many men’s cocks I’ve seen, quite a lot, but much less than my mother has had in her mouth and pussy, I’m sure. Like mother like daughter, apparently most men thought I was part of the dirty, sexual deal too of mother and daughter sex but I wasn’t.

Just as I was no one’s fool, I was nobody’s bitch. In the way that Elly Mae Clampett would, I cold cocked more than one drunken man for dare groping me and trying to have his wicked way with me. Catching me by surprised outside of my locked bedroom door, more than one man tried kissing me while pushing me up against the wall and holding my hand on his cock. While reaching up my short skirt between my legs to cup my pussy through my panty, he’d feel my ass or stick his hand down my top to cup my breasts and finger my nipples inside my bra while I struggled to get away.

Maybe because I was genetically predisposed to do so, or maybe from learned behavior from watching my mother’s interaction with men, or maybe because I envied my mother and was jealous of the attention she received from so many men, I allowed the cuter bahis siteleri men to have more of a feel of my body. As my way to tease them and as my way to emerge from an ignored moth to a beautiful butterfly, I allowed the sexier men to keep my hand in contact with their cocks longer. Allowing them to wrap my fingers around their stiff pricks and stroke them by moving their hand with mine, with the shapely body that I had, I realized early the sexual power that I possessed over men.

Finally, I was getting something out of my mother being a whore too. Finally, I was having some fun too. Only fearing that I was becoming just like my mother, I didn’t want to be like her. Moreover, fearing that I was going too far and that one of these men would rape me and/or force me to suck them, I was always careful and on guard.

Sometimes, when my mother was having sex, especially in the way that I was so sexually taken advantage of and abused by some of her boyfriends, I sometimes felt that I was having sex too. Sometimes wishing it was me sucking and fucking, more than once I masturbated to their sounds of their sexual passion. Most times they made me angry that they disrespected me by having sex in my presence but sometimes I felt horny from hearing them pleasuring one another that I wished I could have sex too. My sexy game to play, no doubt a side effect from the incestuous sexual abuse that I was forced to endure, it was around that time that I started flashing my body to her men. It was fun sexually teasing a man I didn’t know and probably would never see again. It sexually excited me to know that a man wanted me in the way that he wanted my mother.

While my mother still slept and with her man walking around naked or in his underwear in my house, I took advantage of the situation as much as they did. Being that men always stared at my big breasts whether if I was wearing a blouse, sweater, or a coat, just as my mother had done with her sons and their friends, I knew that the impressions that my big nipples made in my nightgown would surely get the sexual attention of any man. Walking around in a short, low cut, sheer nightgown, it excited me to see their eyes staring at me when they saw my big tits in a down nightgown or my blonde, trimmed pussy in an up nightgown. When wearing my short skirts and low cut tops, like mother like daughter, it was easy for me to flash them my panties and bra. Yet, not wanting to be deemed the slut that my mother was, the trick was to make my flashing appear accidental and their sexual advances unwanted.

Making my flashes appear accidental was my way out should my flashing get out of hand and someone tried to force me to have sex with them. Yet, with most of her men drunk or hung over, most of her boyfriends did little than stare and leer at my impromptu, sexy show. Even though some managed to touch me, feel me, and grope me while forcing me to feel their cocks, I was always able to get away from them, run to my room, and lock my door. In hindsight, I suspect that flashing my body was because I wanted some of the sexual attention from men that my mother was getting. Yet, unbeknownst to me then, the flashing would later become an integral part of my life. There wasn’t a man that I knew that I didn’t flash him some part of my lingerie clad or naked body. I had fun giving every man a sexy show, so long as my flashing appeared accidental.

Never setting an example for me to model myself after, she wasn’t a good mother. Never cooking or cleaning, leaving that all up to me, even though I was going to college and working, she’d never win the coveted title of the mother of the year award. I couldn’t wait to leave her to live on my own with a boyfriend or a roommate. Anything was better than this.

A chain smoker, slowing killing herself with cigarettes and alcohol, but not fast enough as far as I was concerned, she was a hard liquor drinker. Having never smoked and drinking only an occasional glass of wine with dinner, I’m not much of a drinker. With nothing in common, unless I was smoking, drinking, sucking, and fucking along with her, we had nothing to discuss. Her life was men, smoking, and drinking and my life was trying to improve myself to be a better person. Oblivious to her attention and to my needs, virtually invisible unless she needed something from me to personally benefit her, I was just there living in the background.

I really didn’t want to know what gutter or bar she dragged home that man the last time, this man this time or the next man the next time. Not knowing their names and not wanting to get attached to them by knowing anything about them, knowing they wouldn’t be around very long, I didn’t want to know who they were. Just an anonymous face and another cock, should I bump into them on the street, it was better than way.

I gave them all numbers and before I was able to leave her, I was up to number 54 and that was just the men she brought home. Before my brothers left her to her bahis şirketleri bad self, I don’t know how many men she did outside in a parking lot, on a bedbug infested bed in a cheap motel room, or in their cars or trucks. Who cares? She had sex with so many men that I don’t know how she didn’t catch a sexually transmitted disease. Who knows? Maybe she did.

It’s funny how, despite her bad behavior and our deplorable living conditions, I still thought of her as my mother, even when she was rolling around on the floor drunk and naked, laughing, crying, or screaming in front of my four brothers and/or their friends. With all of us accustomed to her outrageous, drunken an naked behavior, as if we were all tired of seeing the same, sad, old show, her own sons and their friends routinely saw every part of her naked body. Walking around naked, she was always flashing my brothers and their friends her tits with her low cut nightgown or her pussy when sitting like a guy with her legs spread. Having no modesty, no shame, and no decorum, standing there topless with her arms over her head, she always did her hair in the bathroom with the door wide open while just wearing sheer panties, sheer enough to see every strand of her black bush.

With her hogging the bathroom, my brothers would just whip out their cocks and pee in front of her. If she didn’t care, they didn’t care either. I was appalled by their inappropriate behavior. Only, I didn’t know the half of it. I didn’t know my mother had been sexually servicing my brothers for years. Maybe they paid their own mother to have sex with them. Who knows?

Accustomed to having her parade around like that in front of my brothers and their friends, it never occurred to me that my mother might be a prostitute. I mean, I always knew she was an incestuous whore, but I never thought my Mom was having sex for money. Duh? Go figure. Why wouldn’t I think that? Maybe because she was my mother that I gave her the benefit of the doubt and just thought that she was popular with men. She did have an outgoing personality and, quick with a joke, was very funny. I don’t know. Yet, when I now think back now that she was a prostitute, it makes sense to me now that she was a prostitute.

She didn’t have a job. She didn’t work. Yet, she always had enough money to pay for rent, booze, cigarettes, lottery tickets, gas for her car, and food, not that she ate very much food. Always there was money and always it was cash. The woman didn’t even have a checking or a savings account. Her bank was her bra with a wad of hundreds in one bra cup and a wad of fifties and twenties in the other.

Duh, never putting two and two together, perhaps because before my brothers left, she did all of her tricks outside. Maybe the men in her bed now is how she supports us with all that money. Maybe the men in her bed was the reason why she drank. Maybe she’d rather be numb while having sex with a stranger than being lucid enough for her to realize what she was doing in front of her young, impressionable, 18-year-old daughter was wrong.

Now that I’ve been away from her, able to give her some credit, prostituting herself for the sake of her five children, as if going to work to an office every day, was the only way she knew how to support all of us. Yet, still, prostituting herself was no excuse for her to sleep with her sons. She needed to draw the line right there but she didn’t. She could blame her low morals or the alcohol but the fact remains is that she crossed a line she never should have crossed. She sucked and fucked her four sons, not once or twice and not one over the other, she fucked and sucked all four of her sons over a 20 year period. She’d be a shining star on Jerry Springer. I can just see her and my four brothers on stage with her as the camera pans the audience full of her boyfriends.

She was drunk all the time and I wasn’t. She was a whore and I was a virgin. With each of us on the opposite ends of the spectrum, we had nothing of interest to discuss. I couldn’t wait to get my own apartment, get away from her, and live my own life. In the way she had no respect for herself, I had no respect for her. Any time there was a man around, it was as if she was an actress on stage, she changed to play her sexual role. She loved the attention of a man looking at her, kissing her, touching her, feeling her, and having sex with her. Finally I did leave to get my own apartment when she packed up and left me to move to Pennsylvania for, yet, another man that she met online.

With the advent of the Internet helping her to find her man, rather than hanging around a bar or standing on a street corner, she had been exchanging naked photos of herself and finally found her dream man, a man who had a job and who could afford to pay for her to move in with him. Only, as did all of her other relationships with men and mine as well, that relationship didn’t last very long and she was alone again while begging me to come live with her. Fearing she’d die alone, now that she didn’t have a man in her life, she didn’t want to be alone, that is, until she recently found another man to support her. Then, suddenly, she didn’t need me to live with her anymore.

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