Wendy Warren's Erotic Writing Story

Wendy Warren's Erotic Writing Story

How Wendy Warren became the Wicked Whore Writer?

Wendy writes erotica as therapy to heal from being sexually abused when she was eighteen-years-old.

Not much of a role model, gone every night and most weekends, my Mom, Natalie, Nasty Natty, worked as a stripper. With her 5'10" tall, pretty enough to do so, and looking ten-years younger than her age, she told everyone that she worked as a model. The only modeling she did was posing and dancing around a pole to music while removing her clothes.

She dyed her beautiful, natural blonde hair, shoe polish black, owing them both money, to get away from her pimp and her bookie when she moved to Detroit. She had five children by four different men. Grateful that she didn't abort me, she realized that she earned more money stripping when she was pregnant.

Then, after I was born, instead of breastfeeding me, she wasted her precious breastmilk on men gathered around the stage throwing her tips. She earned bigger tips when she squirted her breast milk in the mouths of her audience of perverted men while allowing them to rain her with tips. Yet, no matter, she was never home to breastfeed me. Always pawning me off on her neighbor or hiring a babysitter, I never felt loved by my mother.

When my whore of a mom wasn't working the VIP rooms of a strip club, she was an all-around whore who prostituted herself on the side. Unbelievably, working from home before working from home was popular, she sometimes took her dates home with her to have sex with them in her bedroom. While I remained quiet in my bedroom with my door locked and blockaded. With her not having to split her take with the owner of the club, the bartender, and the doorman, she earned more money prostituting herself at private parties than she earned at strip clubs.

With her gone for days, and sometimes weeks, holidays, especially Christmas and New Years Eve with her sunbathing on some tropical island, were the days that she earned the most money. Yacht trips, limousine rides, and private jet flights were big paydays for my mother. A big moneymaker, she made enough money during those two holidays sucking and fucking rich men's cocks to support us for the rest of the year.

A real pro, taking after Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, with no one guessing that she was a whore, a prostitute, and/or a stripper, she dressed with class. When seeing her on the street men would think she was a professional woman. With her articulate and well-spoken, versed on many subjects in the way of an escort, men thought she was a multi-degreed, college educated woman. Not graduating high school, she left because she was pregnant with her first child. Yet, to her benefit, she loved to read. A voracious reader, she read everything.

Heartbreaking to write and painful to remember, with no tree, no ornaments, no decorations, no music, and no gifts under the nonexistent tree, Christmas was just another day to me. While my mother was out whoring and my half-brothers were out doing only God knows what, I stayed home alone watching our small black and white TV. Yet, giving her some credit, we somewhat celebrated Christmas after the holiday.

Then, one day, my brothers carried home a color TV. I had never seen a color TV, didn't even know they existed. Yet, everything was a little too green. One of my half-brothers said that they got a big discount on the TV. No doubt, he got a ten finger discount.

Another one of my half-brothers said that it had fallen off of a truck. They were always stealing things and bringing them home to sell. We had three of everything stacked up in our kitchen, toasters, typewriters, pots and pan sets, blenders, mixers, knife sets, and silverware.

My four much older, half-brothers weren't big on shopping. They never went to the mall. Whatever they needed, they stole from the back of a delivery truck. Even though they didn't buy me gifts, they always threw money at me. Always flush with cash, whatever I wanted and needed, with money no issue, all I had to do was to ask.

They had wads of cash in their pockets from all of the illegal activities they did. Back then, in the late seventies and early eighties, a hundred-dollars was a lot of money, nearly four times what it is now. Yet, a C-note to someone else was like a dollar to them. For Christmas and on my birthdays, they gave me fistfuls of one-hundred-dollar bills. Instead of spending all of the money that they gave me, I saved most of it for my escape to move out and rent my own place with a roommate.

***

With me an unwanted and unplanned accident of birth from my whore of a mother having incestuous sex with my four, much older half-brothers before I was even born, she decided to keep me instead of abort me. Had I been born a boy with a penis, I would have received more attention, sexual and otherwise, from my mother. With me not knowing my Dad, unable to prove it or disprove it, with none of them coming forward and admitting to the truth, I suspected that one of my half-brothers was my father.

How's that for fucked up? With my half-brothers much older than me and my mother having sex with them long before I was born, one of my half-brothers is my father and the other three half-brothers are my step uncles, too. What chance did I have living a normal life when growing up in that Hellish of a background? I was doomed from the start.

'Wait. What? Huh? I'm confused,' I thought. 'Could it really be that one of my half-brothers is my father? No way! Gross! That's so fucked up!'

Later, with them taking turns having incestuous sex with our mother, I'd hear her having screaming, orgasmic, drunken sex with one of her sons in the room next to mine. Every night, fearing that one of my half-brothers or one of my mother's Johns that my mother sexually entertained in our house would rape me, I'd not only lock my bedroom door but also, I'd move my heavy bureau in front of my bedroom door. Then, years later, when I was 18-years-old, it happened.

My four, drunken, half-brothers sexually attacked me. They gangraped me because I dared to disobey, disrespect, and sassed them back with an attitude that they didn't like. Always drunk and/or high, they stripped off my clothes. Just for the drunken fun of it, they tore off my blouse, pulled down my short skirt, pulled my bra off over my head, and pushed down my panties. They stripped me naked.

Never have I been as embarrassed when standing before my half-brothers without my clothes. Not allowing me to run to my room, they held me in place while staring at my naked body. They touched, felt, and fondled me everywhere that half-brothers should never touch, feel, and fondle their half-sister.

Then, not stopping with stripping me naked, they stripped themselves naked, and stroked their cocks to big and hard erections. As if they were male strippers and I was a woman at a CFNM (clothed female, and Nude Male) strip club, they stuck their erect pricks in my hands. Then, humping my hands, they forced me to give them hand jobs.

Protecting myself from my violent half-brothers, and from a beating, going along with their sexual assault, I pretended that I enjoyed their incestuous, sexual attention. I laughed. Again, pretending that I willingly and consensually wanted to suck them, better than getting slapped around, the four of them pushed me to my knees and stuck their cocks in my mouth. With heavy hands to the back of my head, they forced me to blow them.

Instead of trying to fight them off, I stroked their cocks while sucking their pricks. I blew them. I allowed to cum in my mouth and I swallowed all that they gave me. Then, not done with me, after they ejaculated their cum in my mouth, they exploded a second load all over my face, in my hair, and across my naked breasts.

Still not done with me, they leaned me over the sofa. Glad that they didn't fuck me in my ass, they stuffed their big dicks in my pussy and fucked. While thinking that I enjoyed them raping me, they fucked me fast enough and hard enough to give me an orgasm with their cocks. Glad that none of my brothers impregnated me, I was scarred from having forced sex with my four half-brothers.

Again, pretending that I wanted to suck and fuck them as much they wanted me to suck and fuck them, I got even with them later. With me doing all of the cooking, I added my secret puking and diarrhea ingredients to get them puking and shitting. Not taking them long to put two and two together, they got my message not to fuck with me and/or fuck me again.

***

"Where you going," asked my half-brother Freddie, the eldest and the smallest, but the most violent of my brothers?

He stood 6'3" and weighed a muscular 230 pounds.

"You can't leave the house dressed like that. You're dressed like a whore," he said.

While exposing my white, bikini panties, he lifted my short skirt and grabbed my ass in his big hand.

The father figure that he was, always watching out for me, I suspected that Freddie was my biological father. The style of the day, granted, I was wearing a very short skirt that showed my panties whenever I leaned forward, walked up stairs, or rode an escalator. Unlike my whore of a mother, at least I was wearing panties.

Along with my short skirt, I wore a low-cut top that highlighted my big breasts. I love to show my long line of sexy cleavage. It excited me for men to see the tops of my meaty breasts, jiggling, and my low-cut bra whenever I leaned forward. With me having the same size breasts as my mother, in the way that she loved to do, too, I loved showing off my big, double D cup breasts.

Granted, I looked like a slut but what would one expect a daughter to look like when her mother is a stripper, a prostitute, and a whore, and God only knows who her father is? Besides, my deliberate intention, I looked much older than I was. I was trying to get into a club with my friends. Hoping that I'd look 21-years-old, instead of my 18-year-old age, I wanted to party with some cute, older men.

Especially after my brothers forced themselves on me, no longer shy, modest, and an innocent virgin, following in the footsteps of my mother, I became experienced at sucking and fucking my way through life. Good at sucking cock, something that was quick and as it was easy to do, as it was impersonal, I loved giving blowjobs. I loved sucking cock and still do. Sometimes, less personal than someone sticking their tongue in my mouth and French kissing me, I'd rather give them a hand job or a blowjob than a goodnight kiss.

My half-brother's hand turned me into a nymphomaniac. Always ready for sex, I loved sex. In the way that my half-brothers had done, I loved it when men forced me to have sex with them. Not taking no for an answer, I loved it when they stripped off my clothes. I loved it when they touched and felt my naked body everywhere. I loved it when they forced me to suck them and fuck them.

Instant gratification and sexual satisfaction for a blowjob well done, I loved it when men ejaculated their sexual pleasure in my mouth. A swallower instead of a spitter, by the time I turned 21-years-old, I could have made a man out of all of the blowjobs that I had given men and all of cum that I had swallowed. At first, keeping a little black book of all the men that I sucked, too many to keep track of, I lost count years ago.

***

"Take that off," said my brother Vito, pulling hard at my top. "When you lean forward like that, I can not only see down your top but I can see down your bra, too. I can see your nipples."

He pulled my top down to my waist to expose my white, low-cut bra. I was glad that I was wearing a bra, otherwise he would have seen my naked breasts, again. Yet, what did it matter? Touching and feeling me everywhere that half-brothers should never touch and feel their half-sister, they already saw me naked when they gangraped me. They already fingered, licked, fondled, and fucked every inch of my naked, virginal body.

"Go to your room and change. You can't wear that outside," said my brother Guido, Vito's identical twin brother.

No matter what one said, taking one another's side, one always parroted the other. The twins were 6'6" tall and weighed 260 pounds. Thinking that he was funny and he would have been if it was anyone else but me, my half-brother Big Louie, the baby of the bunch, lifted the back of my short skirt to my waist. He held it there while fondling my ass through my panties. Then, he stuck his big hand in between the back of my legs to cup my pussy through my panties while sliding a slow finger along my pussy slit through my panties.

"Unlike her whore of a mother who never wears panties, at least she's wearing panties," he said with a big, loud laugh.

Struggling to get away, I pulled, turned, and twisted but dare I rip it, he held me by the back of my skirt. As if he was my boyfriend instead of my half-brother, he continued feeling my panty clad ass and fingering the back of my panty clad pussy. I was as embarrassed as I was angry. The only thing that went through my mind was that they were going to gangrape me again and, this time, possibly impregnate me.

Then, he pulled down my panties to expose my naked ass before letting me go. Glad that I was wearing panties otherwise, they would have seen my naked pussy and may have gangraped me again. After having done that once already, the last thing that I wanted to do was to stroke, suck, and fuck my four half-brothers again.

***

As big as Hafpor Julius Bjornsson, Gregor Clegane, The Mountain, in the Games of Thrones, and one of the strongest men in the world, Big Louie was indeed big. Standing 6'9" tall, he admitted to weighing 360 pounds but we all knew that he weighed over 400 pounds. He gave me a neck ache every time I looked up at him.

With them all wearing bulletproof vests and possessing a small arsenal of weapons, as if they were the Peaky Blinders, they all worked as collectors, bouncers, enforcers, leg breakers, protection, and bodyguards for the mob. They all carried guns, knives, brass knuckles, and blackjacks. You didn't want to see Big Louie in a dark alley or filling up your doorway when you owed his mob boss money. There were no more excuses and no more ands, buts, and maybes why you didn't have the money when big Louie came calling.

My four half-brothers were from three different fathers. With my Mom Catholic, a parochial school girl, she didn't believe in abortion, thank God. Whenever one of her Johns made her pregnant, she'd ask them for two-thousand dollars for an abortion. If they refused to pay, she'd have her sons pay them a visit at their place of work. Instead of having the abortion, she kept the money, had the baby, kept it, and raised it.

With me held back a couple of times, I was already 18-years-old when I quit high school in my junior year. I wasn't stupid. I was just distracted by the faster life that my mother and brothers were living.

I hung out on the streets with a bad crowd. Then, when I turned 18-years-old, I moved in with my girlfriend. We me working part-time and my brothers throwing money at me, I had enough money saved to live on my own.

We split the rent and the monthly expenses. Finally, I was away from my whore of a mother and my four, violent half-brothers. We were out every night living the wild life of the still remnants of the sexual revolution. Drugs, sex, alcohol, and rock and roll, the 90's were my wild times. Yet, anytime anyone gave me trouble, I'd call one of my brothers to put them in their place.

***

Born with a high IQ, I was very intelligent. The smartest one in my class, I was the smartest one in my family. Yet, what I lacked in street smarts, I had in intelligence. If I needed someone with street smarts, I'd just call on one of my four, giant, half-brothers.

Like mother like daughter, I dropped out of high school as soon as I turned sixteen. Unlike my mother, I took the GED test without taking classes and/or studying for it, and got my general equivalency diploma. Now I could attend college, which is what I did.

When, I was 18-years-old, instead of going back to high school to finish my junior and senior years, I took the GED, general equivalency test. I received a test score in the ninety-eight percentile. Paying my own way, so very proud of myself.

Able to afford the tuition and the books, I attended evening college. Where it takes most folks eight-years to graduate from evening school, if they finished at all, I attended full-time, taking four subjects a semester, and attended in the summers, too. I earned my bachelors in English degree with minors in English Literature and Creative Writing in just five-years. With a score of 3.65 out of a 4.0, I graduated magna cum laude from Northeastern University.

From there, I worked full-time at a fur salon on Newbury Street, the Rodeo Drive of Boston. Then, with no one buying furs in the 90's because of all of the animal rights activists, fur salons went out of business. The point that all of these animal activists missed was that furs were made from the pelts of rodents. Their rich wives and mothers were wearing rats on their backs.

Beaver, chinchilla, ermine, fisher, fitch, fox, lynx, mink, marten, muskrat, nutria, opossum, rabbit, raccoon, sable, squirrel, tanuki, and weasel are all rodents. With more rodents in the world than there are people, the fur industry actually controlled the rodent population by making coats, jackets, and hats from their skins. They employed thousands of people to not only buy the skins but also to make the handmade garments and to sell them.

From there, after the fur salon declared bankruptcy and went out of business, half a block away, I got a job as a business manager for a modeling agency. Never have I met as many drop-dead gorgeous people. Whether men or women, all I could do was to stare.

We had 2,200 models under contract. Seldom do we see any of these people on the street. Yet, when there's a catcall, they all appeared to compete for modeling, commercials, voiceovers, and/or for acting roles.

***

I met my husband at a Super Bowl championship, New England Patriots parade on the corner of Newbury and Berkeley Streets. He was a Boston Police sergeant working the crowd when my heel got caught in a sewer grate. He saved me from breaking my heel and hurting my leg by lifting me up, and removing my shoe from the metal screen.

It turned out that he was a friend of my half-brother, Big Louie. Within a year we were married. Everything was fine until he took an undercover cop assignment surveilling a motorcycle biker gang selling illegal drugs, guns, and stolen goods. That experience changed him. A good man before, he became a drunk and a wife beater.

Taking the job home with him, he started drinking. Every time he came home drunk, he'd hit me, which was most nights. With a 5th degree, black belt in Judo and a black belt in two other martial arts disciplines, he knew how and where to hit me without leaving a mark. The marriage lasted 3-years. The last straw was when he shoved me down the cellar stairs as I was carrying a load of laundry and left me there overnight unconscious and bleeding.

Much like my four brothers, Bob was an angry man. I didn't tell him that my four half-brothers gangraped me. If I had, he may have murdered them. If I told any of my half-brothers that my husband beat me, they may have murdered him. No stranger to violence, I grew up in a violent family, even after I was married, especially after I was married.

My husband served two tours of duty in Iraq and in Afghanistan as an Army Ranger. He was an instructor in kill or be killed hand-to-hand combat. Obviously, with no escaping it after losing so many buddies in combat and from IEDs, improvised explosive devices; while leaving no one behind, he had post-traumatic stress syndrome. Until he was injured, sent home, and discharged, he wanted to make a career of working in private security overseas.