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Literotica incest rape

Literotica Incest Rape

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Literotica incest rape

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Or perhaps she was annoyed that my father had snapped the photo at all. On the spur of the moment, I performed a simple experiment. To my dismay, she still looked uncomfortably sexy.

It was then I had the first suspicion that my mother was different than the other mothers in our circle of family friends. I imagined all the ancient year old parents I knew could still enjoy a late-night tumble now and then; I could see sex as a release or weekly pleasure for them.

But I began to wonder if sex was more than just occasional recreation, or earlier, procreation, for my mother; perhaps it was what had powered her.

Lest this sound like yet another tale of repressed womanhood flowering in sexual discovery, or another sappy tale of wild passion driving yet another good soul to ruin, let me say that my mother has never struck me as repressed or even suppressed.

What I find admirable in her secret life of sexual fulfillment was her sense of duty to herself, her children and her husband.

When I first read her memoir-as-novel, I was of course devastated by her infidelity, and saw not a sense of duty fulfilled but simple betrayal.

But as I have left my idealistic years behind, and indulged in my own secret life, I have discovered that she fulfilled her duty to herself with uncommonly good sense and a parallel care for her family.

Her infidelity did not intrude on her family, and apparently when it threatened to do so, she ended it. She neither sacrificed her own selfhood, nor the sexual life of her marriage, nor the security of her children.

She did what she needed to stay whole enough to parent. I should say immediately that I made a slip of tense a moment ago; I said that mother liked sex tremendously, when in fact I have little reason to doubt that she likes sex tremendously, and may well enjoy it with someone in addition to my father to this day.

My queasiness remains, I suppose, as perhaps it should; I have no desire to know who she makes love with or how many times she does so.

And she, of course, would never breathe a word of it to any of us, perhaps especially not to my sister. I have also been thinking lately that my father may not be the quiet, ignorant cuckold I once took him for.

Now I think that he loved my mother well, and made love with her well, and therefore he knew that weeks or months without touching were not in her nature.

Yet his sense of duty, and to some degree his ambition and love of the intelligence trade, required him to be stationed overseas on remote assignments for months at a time.

And his sense of love and duty required that he not ask my mother to hole up somewhere nearby, just for his occasional comfort; nor did it let him ask for a fidelity that would be broken, along with his trust.

Instead, I think, he said nothing, and trusted that my mother would find a decent man to make love with, and spare him both the details and pain of any emotional bond that would threaten their marriage or plans to have children.

There was, after all, nothing to do but trust her. For her part, I think she did likewise, trusting my father to wear a condom when loneliness and ardor became wearisome, and likewise trusting him to keep his sensual pleasures safely separate from his feelings of love and devotion for her.

And when, as her book suggests, her boss asked her to make love with him, she also agreed to this, my father was, if not relieved, then unsurprised.

I think now that whatever discomfort the image of his sexy wife splayed under another man no doubt caused my father, he preferred it being another Japanese-American man to any other.

What outraged me when I first read her book, and now causes me to smile with wonder at her naughtiness, was her apparently guileless pleasure in maintaining two lovers when my father would come home on leave.

Now, having experienced it myself, I believe her lack of guilt evidences an inner confidence which I greatly respect, especially when compared to my own conduct.

My mother, I sincerely believe, assessed who she was, the love match she made with my father and the career paths she and my father had chosen, and made a clear-eyed decision of what would sustain her through the times apart.

Cleaving off her part-time lover during his leave probably struck her as needless and perhaps even phony; to her, I think, duty to the secrecy that bound and protected them both was neither hypocritical nor immoral.

Indeed, it was perhaps the boldest form of morality and duty a married couple can share; the point was not to hurt or humiliate your partner with the mechanics of what kept you whole in their absence.

From references in her book and odd bits of recounted family history, I gather that my parents decided to start having children when they turned twenty-five.

They may not have understood all that it entailed, but they wanted them just the same. I gather my father stopped using condoms during his visits.

I imagine her lover complained about using them, as did the lover in her book; and so, shouldering the birth control burden herself, she began using a diaphragm with him.

In the very scene I first turned to in discovering her memoir-novel, the heroine is languorously enjoying a second lovemaking session on a hilltop picnic towel.

Her sense of spiritual completeness causes her to hold her lover to her, to capture the full joy of unity with Nature. Browse Fiction Poetry. Community General Fiction Poetry.

Forum General Fiction Poetry. Story Story Writer Forum Community. Fiction General. Izabella is daddy's girl. You could never sleep when it was raining.

The thunder can't get you in here," he said, putting his arms around me. He slipped off my robe.

Just let daddy warm you up," he said. Just relax your body," he said, running his hands through my hair. I won't tell anyone. Your daddy's girl. Suddenly, the rain didn't bother me anymore.

The author would like to thank you for your continued support. I call what happened with my mother incest and not rape.

There is a big debate among psychologist as to whether a man can be raped. Perhaps this is true but for me it was incest.

My mother waited for me to take the first move. She did, of course, present herself to me in an attractive way but in waiting for me to make the first move she smeared me with the guilt.

If I had not made the first move then she would have ignored me and eventually I would have been homeless. But in the process of becoming homeless my mother would have insured that my father and all others around her would have thought it was my fault.

My mother, in public, is a regal figure and has fooled most people and her opinion holds weight. And I needed female attention so why not pay attention to my mother.

The rewards were great-up to a point. I was spoiled and spoiled and spoiled. But my mother would sometimes have to stop spoiling me because the situation would be too obvious to everyone else.

Though I gave her emotional security, my father gave her financially security to a point, but much more than I could and so she had to please him for this reason also.

My mother taught me adultery. This was the worst thing about the incest. If I had not been emotionally involved and had somehow just remained aloof then it would have been different.

My parents taught me to go into any other relationship and stick my noise in where it did not belong. I would go into other marriages and start talking deeply with the woman about very personal things concerning her husband-things that were none of my business.

Again, this caused many problems with others and sometimes men would become very angry with me. There were women, as well, who would avoid me, who knew what was in my heart.

Sexually I went far beyond women, for my mother had introduced me to enough feminity for a lifetime. I was not only revolted by women-I was bored!

But that is another story.

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2 Comments

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