Specific Violence Warning: If you don't want to read about domestic violence, skip chapter 5 entirely. I completely understand. You'll still be able to understand the story even if you miss some things. There's also a hard slap in chapter 1.
If you have decided to stay and read all of it, then thank you! Your feedback is always welcome, negative or positive, so feel free to leave me a comment.
Everyone depicted in this story that is involved in sexual acts is 18 or over. This story is a fantasy by, about, and for adults.
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--1--
I'm writing this because I think other people can learn from my experiences. This happened about fifteen years ago, in the early 2000's. I'm not going to be more specific than that. I don't want to hurt the people...truthfully the person...that I love.
This started when I was eighteen and in high school. I grew up in a small town. We had five churches, a community college, and a combined junior high/high school. I had some friends, but I wasn't what you called popular. I guess, if I'm honest, I was a nerd. I still am, but I was then too. The big difference was that I was ashamed of it. I wasn't big, strong, or brave. I wasn't as smart as some of my peers. I got bullied some, but since I didn't stand out that much I suffered a lot less than others. And honestly, I didn't have a lot of hope.
I lived at home with my Mom, Dad, and my little sister Becky. That's not her real name but I chose it because if she ever read this, she'd totally hate it. Our house was a small white ranch house with vinyl siding. We had three bedrooms, all in use, two bathrooms and a small kitchen, dining room, and office. The basement had a workshop and a pool table and a lot of boxes. We were at the low-end of middle class, but to me it was just normal. I had a game console, and the family had a computer. I was sensitive enough to be grateful for what we had, but that also made me vulnerable in ways my sister wasn't.
Dad was tall and coldly handsome and Becky was skinny and sweet. I'd be lying if I told you that this story was about them though. Mom was a looker. At least I thought so. I still do. She had black hair that she liked to wear in a ponytail. She had an hourglass figure that was easy to notice even in the "mom clothes" that she tended to wear. Her breasts were large and just between firm and saggy, aer ass was round and soft and filled out anything she wore. She had some extra weight that I knew she was ashamed of, especially around her belly, but honestly, she was pretty hot. She never really wore anything revealing enough for you to appreciate her beauty though, at least then. Her eyes were blue as ice and had a way of holding your attention. She still loves to be complimented on them.
I was all too aware of our father's distance from us. His lack of interest couldn't be called dislike. You have to care about something to dislike it. He saved that for Mom. I don't know what, if anything, happened between them to push them apart. I suspect that he just resented her for getting pregnant twice and ruining his shot at some kind of bigger life.
She gradually began to resent him right back. And that's where things got fucked up for me. It started with little things, like never believing that I had done my chores or homework. Don't get me wrong, I could be lazy, but generally, I was better about these things than my friends. Or my sister for that matter. I noticed the difference in treatment, but I figured I had done something to deserve it. As time went on, and it because clearer that Dad increasingly treated her poorly, she got more argumentative with me, more likely to explode. Even Becky noticed. We got along and she had, in her own way, taken to try and console me after Mom yelled at me. She was never there for the really bad stuff though.
It was a slow process, but I remember when she pushed me too far. I was starting to get mixed up inside. My friends were great, but I didn't know how to talk with them about things. All I knew is that my father didn't love me or respect me enough to do anything everyone else's dad did. And my mom was more than just irritable with me. She had taken to belittling me. Nothing that you would call abuse, but small digs on my clothes, the way I looked, my height, my grades. Nothing was ever quite good enough, everything needed improvement. And I never seemed to be respectful enough for her. It was like she was provoking me on purpose. And I wasn't really a fighter.
It was late spring when this all really started. School's end was in sight but still seemed ages away to me. It was a Saturday afternoon, sunny and a little too warm. We had AC but never turned it on until August to save money, so we were all a little sweaty. Dad was on a "fishing trip" which was the lie that barely covered his affairs. Becky was, thankfully, away at a friends house for a slumber party and didn't see the incident. I was in the living room, playing Knights of the Old Republic obsessively.
That's when she got back from dropping off Becky. She had stopped off at the store and was carrying some grocery bags. I got up to help her, being a somewhat good kid, and I noticed what she was wearing for the first time. I don't think I'm unique in that I didn't really pay attention to what my family wore day to day. Today though, Mom was rocking a tank top. It must of been old because it was too small for her. Not so much that it looked bad. The opposite in fact. Her cleavage was being pushed out the top and her nipples were obvious. Her belly was outlined, and while the media liked to show pictures of women who didn't look like they had a sandwich in years, the outline of her stomach woke something in me that I didn't quite understand. To top it off, she wore short jogging shorts that showed all of her thighs and a very nice camel toe.
She was, at that moment, the most beautiful woman that I'd ever seen. And my mom. I immediately popped a huge boner and panicked. And like a lot of people who panic, I froze. She took one look at me, halfway between helping her and not, and I guess between the heat, my father's perpetual unfaithfulness, and her confusion at my inaction, she finally lost her temper and for the moment any sense of maternal affection for me.
"Can you not see me carrying all these fucking bags? Are you that goddamn useless that you'd let your mother lift all this shit by herself?"
If the words were chosen to make me move to help her, then they had the opposite effect. For all of her passive aggressiveness towards me, she never really let her anger out. I think if she had she would have been forced to face up to how she'd been treating me. And she never swore. Ever. I stayed frozen, and my eyes got even bigger. This sent her over the edge.
"You know what? You're just like your fucking father. You take and take, but never do anything for me. Go to your room. I don't want to see your fucking face for the rest of the day. Maybe when you learn to man up just a little bit you can have some food, but no dinner for you tonight."
And that was the real problem, I was soon to discover. To me it was just a face that I saw in the mirror all the time and hated a little more every day. Normal, not really that great. But all she could see was my dad, and it reminded her of all the slights and neglect. She had finally found a target for it, someone that she could take out all the injustices of her life on. Someone weak and insecure. It was the wrong fucking thing to say to me at that particular moment.
I was already incredibly aroused and very confused about it. And suddenly, I wasn't afraid of her any more. The words had done all the damage they were going to do that day. I was just angry. I was so incredibly sick of her and her bullshit. I think I even moderated my behavior a little for Becky. No-one wants to have screaming matches in front of their honestly adorable little sister. But she wasn't there, and this was the end of the rope. I exploded.
"You don't want to see my face? Too fucking bad. It's not my fault dad doesn't love you. It's not my fault you got stuck with a kid you hate. And its not my fault you dress like a fucking whore." I said, quietly, dangerously. I wasn't even aware of it but as I said the words I moved closer and closer to her. By the time I was done I was inches away from her face. I'd never actually felt rage before, real burning uncontrollable rage. I don't know what would have happened next had Mom not interrupted my increasingly dark train of thought.
She slapped me. Hit me, really. She never had before, and I'm pretty certain that she meant it to be lighter than it was. It glanced off my cheek and into my nose. It hurt like hell, far more than it actually caused any damage. I saw stars and I felt something wet on my upper lip. For a second, just a split second, I had an image in my mind. It was of her, my mom, crying on the floor. Groceries were spilled around her and I was tearing the shirt off of her. It was crystal clear, and it aroused and sickened me.
To my credit, I did the only other thing I could think of. I turned around, went to my room and slammed the door hard behind me, locking it. I didn't know at the time how she interpreted my behavior, but at that moment I was no longer angry. I just knew, deep inside myself, that I had to put as many barriers between me and her as possible. I knew that I was exactly one bad decision away from being a monster. We weren't getting along, but she was still my mom. I still loved her and I believed she still loved me. I didn't want to hurt her in the heat of the moment. To do something that I could never take back.
I grabbed a towel and held it to my nose as I lay down and closed my eyes. I took deep breaths. I counted down from one hundred. All the little tricks you pick up when you don't want to respond to a bully. I was dimly aware of my mom's voice in the background, and her knocking at the door. I didn't quite understand what was going on, but I knew she wasn't angry any more.
"Sweetie. Honey, oh my god I can't believe I did that. I'm sorry, ok? Please come out and let me look at it. I...I don't know why I said those things. But we can talk about it. Oh god. Please just open the door."
I could hear that she was crying a little bit. I was there but not really there. Part of me wanted to open the door and let her mother me and just let things return to some kind of normal. I don't know what would have happened had I done that. Maybe we'd have ended up getting in worse fights. Or maybe that would have been the spark that led to us returning to some kind of loving relationship. But I didn't open the door.
"Just go away. I don't want to hurt you. I don't want dinner. I just need to be alone." I said it loud enough to be heard, but there was no anger. My voice was dead. Foreign to me, and distant. I was in pain and suddenly sad and tired and my cock was still rock hard. I don't think I would have done anything to hurt her, but in my mind I was dangerous and unpredictable. I couldn't trust my mother to not be angry so therefore I couldn't trust my own reactions.
I heard her crying recede slowly away. I knew I had hurt her. Part of me was pleased that I finally had said something to hurt my bully, but most of me was just relieved that she was farther away and that I wouldn't be able to, well, rape her. That was my fear.
I fell asleep like that, and slept for far longer than I normally would have. I woke in the earliest hours of the morning. It must have been 3 or 4 am. I felt the silence of the house and I knew that my father wasn't home. He'd return late Sunday night with some excuses, smelling of alcohol and sex. I didn't really care though. I was starving and I felt a stickiness on my face that must of been dried blood. And, embarrassingly, I must have had a wet dream because I could smell and feel the drying cum in my underwear.
I was too hungry to care about how i looked or smelled, however. I got up, unlocked the door, and walked as quietly as I could down the hall. I really didn't want to deal with my mom just then. I was certain, absolutely and completely, that she was going to kick me out, or put me in boarding school. Anything to get rid of the monster that she had somehow allowed into her home. I wasn't mad about it, either. It seemed like the right thing to do. Not to put a fine point on it, but shit was fucked up.
Naturally, she was at the kitchen table, waiting for me in the dark. Well I doubt she was waiting for me particularly, probably she just couldn't sleep. She had a look of surprise, then shock at my appearance, then honest to god sadness and shame. It was so pathetic I felt bad for making her see me like that.
