NOTE: This is a story of nonconsensual incestuous sex. If such stories offend you, please read no further.
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My father died when I was 13 years old. That gave me enough time to get to know him, but not really enough time to gain the wisdom to analyze whether he was a good role-model for me. Put another way, my father died before I realized that he was weird. However, my father was filthy rich, and therefore, people called him "eccentric" instead.
For example, I learned that he never had sex with my mother. I was conceived in a test tube and surgically implanted inside my mother's womb. I'm not sure why, but my father gave specific instructions that I be "borne of a virgin" and consequently arranged for a scheduled C-section birth. All that to preserve my mother's hymen...
My father was good to his employees and financial partners, and cultivated much respect, admiration and loyalty from them. In contrast, the only time he would speak to my mother would be to enquire about my care and upbringing, and when he did, he was extremely cold and domineering towards her. He would look at me during those times, as if silently telling me that I was to follow in his example.
My mother grew up in extreme poverty somewhere in the Appalachian mountain area of the United States. Her parents basically sold her to my father on her 18th birthday, whereupon he promptly whisked her away for medical examination and impregnation. She was absolutely beautiful: she had long, golden blonde hair, crystal-ice blue eyes and a fair complexion without being too pale. She was definitely curvy, with flaring hips, a firm round bubble-butt, and huge, seemingly oversized breasts that were so large that they mashed together to form what seemed to be a permanent cleavage. As a child, I once commented that each one of her breasts was larger than my own, big head -- and they were!
I always wondered why I didn't look like the woman who bore me; she was short, standing barely five feet tall, whereas I grew to five foot nine inches in height -- about two inches taller than my own father. Mother is of obviously white European Caucasian descent, whereas I look very much like my dark-skinned, black haired Filipino father, with Asian/Pacific Islander features. I've sometimes been mistaken for some other kind of Asian (Japanese, Chinese, Korean, etc.), Pacific Islander (Hawaiian, for example) or even Native American Indian (particularly when I grew my hair out).
It wasn't until after my father's funeral that I learned why my mother and I bore no resemblance to each other. My father implanted a previously-fertilized embryo inside mother -- one that was fertilized using my own father's sperm with a donor woman's egg -- the donor woman was presumably Asian or Pacific Islander or both. My father wanted his only heir to have as little familial attachments as possible. In his last will and testament, he stated that he wanted me to grow up cold and ruthless, for that was the key to HIS success.
And so I did. Father's death and the knowledge that the woman I called my mother was nothing but a human incubator -- all of this happened during a particularly formative time in my life. My grief over my father's death fueled my desire to resurrect him by living my life as he did his own. For the next five years, I apprenticed myself to my father's former business partners and learned as much as I could about the way my father did business. I studied well enough to get myself through high school and into college by the time I was 18 years old, but for the most part, I spent most of my energy learning from several prominent and successful businessmen. All of them reinforced my father's lesson: to be ruthlessly efficient when it came to business, and that having a cold heart made such a strategy much easier.
Unfortunately for my "mother," she bore the brunt of my lessons. At first, I merely abandoned her. I left her on our private island, alone with no one to speak with, except perhaps on the security-monitored telephone. And even then, she had no real privacy, since all of her telephone conversations were monitored, recorded and transcribed. She kept herself busy with mundane chores: house-keeping, cooking for herself, gardening, taking walks around the island with the family dogs, etc.
I made my first million dollars during my first year in college. I don't know why, but I went home to celebrate. I ignored my mother on my way in the house and into my Father's study. There, I broke down as I talked to the oversized life-portrait of my Father. It wasn't until several minutes after I calmed down when I realized a small, plain, white envelope on the desk. On the envelope was my name.
I opened the envelope and took out the small letter inside. It read:
"Son,
If I know you, then you are reading this after a moment of triumph, most likely your first one. I only wish I was there to share it with you, and I wonder as I write this: What is it that you just did to make me proud of you?
Did you make your first profitable business deal? Did you get into some kind of difficult conflict or contest with one or more persons, and come out victorious? Did you ravage and bed your first woman? If the latter, I hope she was a virgin, too, by the way... It simply won't do to catch some kind of disease reserved for the inferior of our species.
Whatever it is, I am proud of you. I hope that you will see this success as merely the first in many more that shall come to you in your life. Don't waste your time addicting yourself to vices: gambling, vile substances, women... Those are simply worthless, time-wasting activities designed to distract the inferior and the masses. Now that you've tasted the sweetness of success and victory, let your self consciously decide that THIS is your "addiction." Let success and victory fill your heart, body and mind with an undeniable craving for more -- and you will never be a failure, my Son.
Stay focused, and let not the personal interests of others get in the way of YOUR goals. Let them moan and complain as you win and succeed; there are always winners and losers, and such is the nature of the game. Just make sure that it is YOU who wins in the end, or else, it will be you who shall be moaning and complaining.
Win, my Son, at all costs. If you do this, you will forever make me proud.
From Beyond, Your Father"
A multitude of emotions and thoughts rushed through my head. Father was right about my first successful business venture, and in that, he was also right about my winning a contest with other men. I'd never bedded down a woman in my life, however, since I was too busy throwing myself into learning about business. Perhaps I should do that next, I told myself silently...
"John? Are you alright?" Hearing Mom call my name snapped me out of my reverie. Her voice was small and meek, and came from behind me. I looked back and saw her standing in the doorway to Father's study. She wore a green bathrobe, probably over her night gown. She was probably getting ready for bed when I first arrived unannounced. She looked a bit older now than I remembered. Although her hair was still predominantly golden-blonde, several platinum white strands grew together to frame her youthful face. She was still curvy, but her bosom seemed more pronounced, as if they didn't stop growing with age.
I turned around to face her. As I did, I crumpled Father's note in my hand, and threw it into the fireplace. I watched it burn as Father's words came to me, forever etched in my mind. I laughed out loud. Suddenly, a few things became quite clear to me -- things that confused me, and struck me as simply weird when I first learned of them shortly after my Father died.
"What's so funny?" she asked. I detected a hint of fear swimming hidden underneath her confusion. I stepped forward towards her and felt her feelings of intimidation grow as I came closer.
"I didn't realize that you were in bed," I said matter-of-factly, as I eyed her up and down. Her bathrobe did little to hide the contours of her curvy, buxom body.
"I wasn't," she said simply. She just stood there, looking at me, as I visually examined her. "I just got out of a bath and was drying my hair when you came in. I didn't know you were coming -- I would have made sure I had dinner waiting for you... But I'm glad to see you're home. I just wish I was more prepared... I can have dinner ready for you in a few minutes, if you want..."
"No, I think I'd rather just go to bed," I said as an idea formed in my head. "Besides, I have other plans."
