My step father would wake me up at night by sticking his index and middle fingers in my mouth. Not quite far enough to gag me, but just before. Like he knew exactly how far to go.
This is the first thing I think of this morning as my eyes open to car lights flooding through my light blue drapes. It's a terrible thing to start a day this way. For me, that is. It will set the tone. I always let it.
It is so real that I can taste his fingers and remember how rough they were.
A few years ago, I got a flat tire on the way to work and ended up pulling into a garage to have it fixed. That was when I remembered what that taste was. I had spent years thinking I had made it up in my head. The mind is such a powerful thing.
The smell was the rubber of tires. That garage. That waiting room. Dirty rubber stacked around on display just collecting dust, waiting to be taken home.
Yes, the sales associate tried to sell me a new set. They prey on women too.
"I'll have to wait and talk to my husband," I told him.
They hate that answer.
My stepdad worked at a place called El Amigo tires for most of his life. That smell is difficult to lose.
His name was Maurice, though everyone called him Red because of his hair.
I had this habit for years of running two fingers along the passenger side front tire of my cars before I got in. No clue why, except maybe some OCD. Well, I also used to bite my nails a lot. Maybe there was a connection between them. I like to overthink.
Red proposed to me when I got pregnant. He did it in the romantic way of asking me while he had his dick inside me. He didn't really say it in a question.
My mind raced to the future of being the girl in town who ran off with her mother's husband. I would always be that if I said yes.
Red wrapped his arm around my neck and whispered in my ear.
"Say what your name would be if I married you," he demanded.
His full weight pressed down on my body, and his arm tightened around my neck. He kept thrusting into me harder and harder.
"Melinda Raines" I finally answered between grunts and gasps for air.
It was not a completely terrible experience when I look back at it now. Red fucked very well and all he wanted to do was break me.
All I want is to feel that broken again and to cum like I did with him. It always felt as though I had no choice.
My nightly Seroquel still lingers as I try to replace the missing caffeine and nicotine in my body. It helps me not think about anything by knocking me out.
David hates me taking it.
"You're in a coma," he gripes "I couldn't wake you up if the house was on fire"
I guess that's the reason for my madness. Hardly ever got a good night's sleep.
Sometimes I'll take one before dinner even
starts so I can be asleep early and wake up to being alone.
I've hardly ever been alone.
Even now I'm just waiting for a guy I met in a chat room. He knows how I need to be treated.
Roland had a motorcycle, and I went for my first ride with him shortly after we met. I loved and still love the feeling of freedom as I cling to the driver and trust him with my life. Combine that with the power between my legs and I'm in heaven.
We all get to be angels from time to time.
Roland lived in Hell. I could describe Hell as a place that time had forgotten about. They built every building and house during the 1950s. The only things new were the trailers that kept popping up between houses. The population kept getting bigger, but the places to stay had to be improvised. It was like there wasn't anyone in charge here.
