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Why Do I Write?

By: WFEATHER



Sometimes we are asked why we do something, and sometimes we ask ourselves why we do something. 

This is a case of the latter. Specifically, I have been thinking about why I write erotica. 

Actually, in my case, the question should really be, What changed? Long before I began to write erotica, I spent an inordinate amount of time writing game guides, primarily for racing games on the PlayStation, PlayStation2, DreamCast, and other gaming platforms. I had realized that I had a lot of knowledge about racing games in general which could assist others in bettering themselves in playing racing games, and/or in simply gaining more enjoyment from racing games. Even when I was not at the computer and not playing a game, I would be thinking about games and their game guides quite often – someone could have peered into my brain and seen track maps, cockpit views, visualizations of component settings, and the like. Even if I was simply having lunch at Subway, someone could have come up to me and asked "What are you thinking about?" and I would have honestly answered along the lines of, "Just trying to improve my lap times in an open prototype at Brno." 

I suppose that the answer to What changed? is time. As I became more and more involved with my new job, I had less and less time to dedicate to playing games, which in turn meant less and less time to write game guides – after all, a game guide almost requires having the game in play at the same time to get the details right (even the same race circuit can appear very differently in two games). On the other hand, erotica does not require having a game in play at the same time – it does not even require having anything erotic happening to the writer at the same time. 

My start with erotica came because of an erotic story I had read on Usenet. The story itself actually was not very erotic, but I recognized the essence of the story masked by the poor execution, and I felt that I could do at least a passable job with that same essence. Soon, "Once a Maiden" was written and released on Usenet, and readers generally seemed to like it. So I wrote a few more stories, and readers generally seemed to like them. Yet erotica was not yet something I thought about all the time – it was just a nice distraction from everyday concerns and issues. 

Eventually, I discovered Literotica, and was impressed with the general quality of the stories I found on the site, and felt that a good way to test my erotica-writing abilities would be to submit my few stories to Literotica and see how the general readership reacted. 

Clearly, the reaction was quite favorable overall, as I now have (with this essay) 401 accepted submissions on Literotica. 

Yet I still cannot truly pinpoint the moment when I began to think about erotica a lot. I just know that, eventually, that transition happened, and combined with the positive feedback received on the initial stories I submitted to Literotica, I realized that I could engage in something I found I enjoyed doing and also give others some enjoyment as well as they read my writings. 

So why do I continue to write? In large part, it is because now that I have spent over four years writing erotica, I still have a lot of ideas in my head which are waiting to be unleashed. Many of these ideas are admittedly for one-off or few-chapter stories, but I also have some ideas for far longer tales, including a story currently at seven chapters and growing. 

But I also write to challenge myself. A significant step in that direction is NaNoWriMo 2008 – already, I am considering an idea and beginning to outline that story in my mind. I am branching out into new concepts and categories in my writing, including my first fanfic which is currently in development, nestled within the Robotech anime series. For the third year in a row, I am participating in the Literotica Survivor Contest, for which my goal is to attain a minimum of 150 points. To help keep myself in the habit of writing something on a daily basis, I created an online blog community dedicated to daily erotica fragments, and other community members are beginning to post daily as well. 

And, more and more, I am giving serious consideration to trying to become published. While I write for myself first and foremost, it would be nice to be paid for my writing and gain a larger audience. 

In the end, I suppose that Why do I write? and Why do I continue to write? are summed up by two ideas: the enjoyment and the challenge. Hopefully the readers will also enjoy each story and poem transferred from my mind to my laptop and onto the Internet, but ideally, the challenges will continue to come and, hopefully, be met. 

Why Do I Write?



I've taken a well-deserved beating over my latest submission for the 2012 Survivor Contest, "Cinderella and the King". I had to confess to one commentator that I had written it in haste and done only little research on it. That story is one of two that I am considering pulling, but, obviously I won't do that until I get around to replacing them with better offerings.

Of course, if the truth were known I don't have the time to think about and write alternative stories to the ones that I have only barely managed to push out; yet I persist in stretching my limited time resource to accommodate what could well become a passion. So, I ask myself, why do I do this? Why do I add this stress to my already crippling schedule? Why do I subject myself to the terror and potential embarrassment of rejection by the readers?

Quite simply, I think I do it for four reasons:

-to test the degree to which my ability to construct sentences may be construed as having a talent for creative writing;

-to give a voice to my thoughts and ideas about the world;

-to escape my real life by creating and inhabiting a world that operates in the way in which I want it to work; and finally,

-to prove to myself that I am not a coward.

The jury is still out on aim Number 1. Thankfully, I have had some wonderful comments in my feedback e-mails and in some of the public remarks about my stories and poems. Most of them speak about my readers' impressions about the open way in which I speak about my life. My own thinking about that is that that is probably driven by the fact that I have reached the stage where I no longer care about that life enough to keep it private on a sex site on the Net; so don't be too impressed, I recognize that I have some work to do.

Ironically, this leads to my second reason for writing. I began this reflection by mentioning the feedback for 'Cinderella'. One commentator spoke about his disappointment in reading that after having formed an impression about me from 'Trying Times' while the other lambasted my lamentable lack of research about Nigerian tribal names. Actually, he didn't lambast, but I like the sound of the running l's here. 

In any event, the criticism of giving a Yoruba name to the child of two Ibo people fed into two of the reasons that I write. One is that I want to talk about the world as I think it ought to be. I have chosen Soren as one of the names that I'd give my son should I ever have him. I don't think that Soren will ever be on the list of most popular boys' names in Jamaica; but I celebrate my right to name my child whatever I choose. If I wanted to go with Siegfried, the Germanic name meaning "powerful silence or peaceful victory", or with Bidziil, the Navajo name meaning "he is strong" then, thank God, the only problem that I would have is in helping my friends to pronounce my baby's name. There would be no question of having to be careful to follow any rules prescribed by my tribe or kinship group. I think that such prescriptions should have been left behind in the last century. I think that if people want to name their children something then they should have the right to do so if they are not pushing the boundaries of good taste.

Of course, the question of who determines what good taste is then arises. I had to admit to the commentator that I did not know enough about Nigerian names to know which name belonged to which tribe. Given that, the admission that I know even less about how violent the feelings of an Ibo couple would be toward a Yoruba name for their son should come as no surprise. Perhaps they feel as violently as some people felt about the couple who named their son Adolf Hitler Campbell and one of their daughters, JoyceLynn Aryan Nation Campbell. 

I remember that my eyebrows shot up when I read about this couple and I wondered what sort of people they must be. To be honest, even as I type this, I have found that my eyebrows are knitted in disgust thinking about them. To my mind, naming their children as they have was phenomenally unwise because in most sectors of society such names will prove to be liabilities to the children's efforts to get ahead in life. The reason that they will be liabilities is because most of us feel that these names are in extremely poor taste and we wonder what sort of people would label themselves in this way. In thinking this way we would be blaming the children for the sins of the parents in the first place and then, after that, for the effects of their upbringing if they were not to change these names. So, we add yet another moral question to our daisy chain. 

To move back to my central topic of why I write though, I want to link this point of someone's name being a label for self with the issue of taking a political stand and painting a picture of the world as we feel that it should be. Now that I've thought about it some more, I can see where it is idealistic to want an Ibo couple to have no qualms about naming their son a Yoruba name. I saw nothing wrong with it when I was first challenged yesterday, because I have stated publicly before that I feel that we should live and let live if there is no harm done. In thinking it through however, it has just occurred to me that the Campbells may well feel the same way.

So, the issues of anarchy and the decision about who determines when harm has been done arise. Through writing I may feel free to give voice to how I feel about the world, but what about other people's rights to do the same. Through writing I can vent my political beliefs through the words and actions of my characters, but so too can others. Through my stories I get a chance to create and sustain a world according to how I would do it were I God, or if I had the courage, or the personality, to run for political office. I get to dispense justice to the people whom I do not like without consequences, and I get to reward the nice people (my friends and me in disguise?) handsomely with abiding love, fabulous riches, happy families, successful careers and satisfying sex even if they do not look like supermodels.

With this realization, the last of my motives for writing comes under scrutiny. I think that it is very important to me that I say the things that I want to say and that I do not do this anonymously; an ironic statement since I say what I feel I must under the pseudonym 'Cinner'. With this in mind, the question of my courage emerges. The desire to be heard may be the spark that lit my conflagration, but the fuel behind it is that I cannot allow myself to stop until I have said it all; for to do that will prove to me that I am a coward. Continuing to submit my thoughts for public scrutiny has become a character-building exercise for me. It tells me that I am unafraid to raise potentially unpopular views to controversial issues and it assures me that I am above the need for the good opinion of others. Of course, none of this is true. No matter what I may say elsewhere the truth is that I am overjoyed with each sign of support from my readers and I am afraid of my inability to just leave things alone. The thing about proving one's courage though is that one must fight through fear in order to prove oneself worthy of being labeled a success.



Why do I write, by SusanJillParker?



As if truly seeing myself for the first time, I had an epiphany while staring at myself in the mirror as to why I write.

"Why do I write?"

I'm Susan Jill Parker, my real name, and I'm a writer. Yet, I'm not just any writer. I don't write non-fiction, something that most writers write. Matter of fact, did you know that 95% of everything published in the world is non-fiction? Think about it. With all of the newspapers, magazines, text books, manuals, directions, brochures, booklets, advertisements (if you want to call that non-fiction), packaging, and autobiographies, it's all non-fiction. Nearly every word written in the world every day is non-fiction.

"Wow!"

To me, with all of that research and reading that must be done before writing a word of non-fiction, non-fiction is boring which is why I write fiction. Counting only on myself and my creativity, I prefer making up things from my imagination. Yet, I don't just write one specific kind of fiction, I'm one of the few writers on Literotica who writes in 30 of the 35 categories. Most of what I write has sexual content. Yet, I don't write pornography. I write erotica.

Not to be confused with pornography, there's a huge difference from between pornography and erotica. Erotica is much different than pornography. Those who prefer reading pornography may not like reading erotica and vice versa. My stories are real stories with character names, descriptions, imagery, dialogue, tension, and plot. My stories all have a beginning, a middle, and an ending. Even my incest stories, more of a tender love story, are more about character development and relationships, especially mother and son love affairs, than that are about sex, sex, and more sex.

Yet, more importantly, being that I can only write what I know, most of my stories are from my real life experiences, especially my stories of exhibitionism and voyeurism. Being that I've always been an exhibitionist, as most women are, what I've written about in exposing my body to men is exactly what I've done in exposing my body to men in my life. Believe it or not, many of my stories are more non-fiction than they are fiction. In that regard, when writing about my sexual experiences, truly, most of what I write about me is indeed non-fiction.

* * * * *

With me being a woman alone writing on a porn site, afraid to write under my real name, I started writing erotica at Literotica in 2007 under the name of BostonFictionWriter. I wrote under that name for two years. Along the way in both years, 2007 and 2008, I finished 2nd place in Literotica's yearlong, prestigious and very difficult to win, Survivor contest, the writer with the most stories in the most categories wins. I won $250 in both of those years. Then, in 2009, too preoccupied with writing and publishing e-Books, I wrote under PositiveThinker, CarBuffStuff, and WmForrester and didn't finish in the top five.

With hundreds of thousands of stories posted to Literotica, my story written under WmForrester is 66th on the all-time most read list of stories with 1.666 million views. I would have had two stories in the top ten, Mother Stripped Naked and Sex with Sister-in-law, Samantha, written under BostonFictionWriter, had I not pulled them to post as e-Books. After only on the site for three months in 2007, the stories already had 850,000 and 650,000 hits respectively. I can't imagine how many millions of hits they would have had 7 years later. Because so many thieves were stealing my stories to post as e-Books on Amazon under their name, I deleted more than 400 stories posted on Literotica and written under BostonFictionWriter. I was tired of thieves making money off of me.

In 2010, I wrote under AndTheEnd and again finished 2nd place in the Survivor contest. The Survivor contest is the only contest on Literotica that I can win because it's not dependent upon phony votes and a writer's popularity but on pure volume. In 2011, I wrote under SuperHeroRalph and actually won the Survivor contest, along with $500. 

After writing for Literotica for 5 years and after being stalked, threatened with physical harm, having received several death threats, and having my Facebook page hacked and deleting it, I decided to give up the charade and write under my real name. In 2012, I wrote as SusanJillParker. I finished 3rd in the Survivor contest and won $200. Last year, 2013, I won the Survivor contest again, this time under SusanJillParker instead of SuperHeroRalph. Now, in 2014, I'm leading the Survivor contest yet again. 

Since 2007, I've written more than 1,500 stories, more than 100 poems, and more than 10 million words. I've received more than 200 million hits and tens of thousands of e-mails. Unlike other writers who don't answer any e-mails and who don't appreciate readers enough to thank them, I answer every e-mail, as long as it's not disrespectful and/or nasty. In 2008, I was the only writer ever nominated as the most influential writer and as the most influential poet on Literotica. With more than 60,000 writers writing on Literotica, I'm number 29th on the most favored authors list and still climbing. Seemingly, there are some readers who enjoy erotica over pornography. Seemingly, there are some readers enjoy what I write.

Only and sadly, please remove your hats for a moment of silence. With only 1 reader out of 500 readers who vote, sometimes I feel as if I'm writing just for myself and for the sake of writing. If only readers would view voting as applause, I'd have more votes. If only those readers who enjoyed my stories and liked my writing would vote, I'd win more contests. Yet, sadly, only 1 reader out of 10,000 readers make a comment. If only readers would view making a comment as asking the writer for an encore, I'd have more comments. I'd have more feedback. I'd have more fans.

"It's so sad not being appreciated for all the hard work that I do."

Most readers who don't write may not understand what it takes to create, develop, write, rewrite, edit, and reedit a story before submitting it to Literotica. Even then after spending hours rereading the story, a typo or two slips through. Taking about three weeks, it takes me about 60-90 hours to write a polished 6,000 word story.

Some stories fly out faster. Some stories are finished in a day and reread and reedited in a few hours. Yet, writing is as lonely as it is laborious. Only special people are writers. Only dreamers who would rather escape reality for hours every day, write fiction. The rest are readers, editors, and teachers. 

We writers write for free. Yeah sure, we write because we must but we write stories expressly for you. We write for you entertainment. We bear our souls so that you can read our stories.

Tell me this, would you attend a free concert and not applaud at the end? When served a meal in a restaurant, would you not give your food server a tip, especially if your food server looked anything like me, tall, blonde, blue-eyed, beautiful, and busty? Would you attend a school play and not applaud when finished? Would you attend a ballgame or a football game and not cheer?

Then, why do you read my stories without voting for my stories and without giving me a vote of confidence for me to continue writing for you? Forget about making a comment, just vote. Vote. Please vote. Just vote. Actually, it would be nice if you made a comment too. I need to know what you thought of my story so that I may write a better story the next time.

* * * * *

As a 42-year-old woman, I didn't just start out writing. Even though I may have been born a writer, as writing is something that can't be taught, I wasn't born with a pen in my hand or my fingers poised on typewriter or computer keys. Sure professors in college can teach you the mechanics of writing but either you're a writer or you're not. Either you live to write or you don't. 

As have many great writers experienced the hardships of life, I was made to suffer through my emotions by enduring, living, and surviving my sad, little life. Oh, woe is me, boohoo, but realistically, I should have a problem. At least I can get out of bed every morning. At least I'm not blind, deaf, dumb, and/or crippled. At least I don't have some God awful disease. With the horrible childhood that I had, I'm lucky to be alive actually.

"I made it! I survived my mother and my half-brothers."

My writing all started one day, 33-years-ago, when I was at my lowest point. As far as I'm concerned, no child should be depressed but I was depressed every day. Tired of being sad, depressed, and angry, I picked up a pen and a pad and wrote what I was feeling through poetry. Wow! A mind altering experience, opening a window to my soul, it was as if I had released the flood gates after being constipated.

I felt so much better after purging myself through words, albeit words that rhymed. A therapeutic and necessary process, instead of keeping everything in my head, now I was putting all that I felt to paper. As if saying goodbye to all of those thoughts, I released them from me. Then, reading them on paper instead of thinking them in my head, and reading them as if they were written by someone else and were their thoughts and not mine, I separated myself from feeling bad and sad. Those thoughts were no longer mine. Those thoughts were no longer private. With my internal monologue no longer controlling me, finally, I was free from my thoughts. Finally, I was free to begin living my life in the way that I wanted to live it without feeling sad, bad, guilty, and remorseful.

After reading poetry for years, I finally discovered writing poetry. I was writing my poem instead of reading someone else's poems. Granted, the first to admit my lack of poetic skill, I was a terrible poet but that wasn't the point of me writing poetry. More importantly, I was freeing my mind and purging my soul. I was writing while learning how to write poetry to be a better poet. Now having a much needed outlet, I was finally free from my misery. Writing poetry was my release valve. Assuredly and admittedly, I'm not a great poet, but poetry was my first attempt at writing anything.

Whenever I was ready to boil over with frustration and explode with anger, writing poetry lessened my load by calming my disturbed mind. Even better than reading, which I was a voracious reader, writing poetry cleared my mind to not only make room for my other thoughts but also to help me understand the thoughts that I was already thinking. A troubled young woman heading down the road of self-destruction, if I had to pick one thing to credit or to blame for my love of writing, unbelievably, it all started with television. My becoming a writer, whether poetry, short stories, novels, and/or erotica started with me watching TV.

My escape from my reality, I'm a huge TV trivia and movie buff fan, always have been and always will be. Since I was a kid, the television was my babysitter. While my four, much older half-brothers worked or were out screwing and drinking, and while my mother was either out whoring all night or passed out drunk and/or sleeping until noon, I watched TV. I would have not survived my childhood had it not been for the miracle of television. I can't imagine my life without that glimpse to the rest of the world through the odyssey of television. I don't know how others lived without television before it was invented but I'm glad that I was born after television was invented.

* * * * *

"I didn't want you," said my mother. "You were an unwanted pregnancy. You should have been squirted in a condom, in my mouth, in my ass, on my tits, or down my leg instead of inside of my pussy," she said looking right through me after being out all night fucking, sucking, and drinking.

"Mom?" Shocked, hurt, sad, and angry, I couldn't think of anything else to say. "How can you say that to me?"

Easy. She didn't care about me. My eye opening moment of realization, if she cared about me, she never would have said something so hurtful. Thinking back on it now, my mother was such a disgusting, drunken whore. Sleeping in her clothes without even bothering to remove her makeup, with her hair and makeup a mess and her clothes disheveled, she looked more like a homeless woman than I did when I was homeless. As if someone how just crawled out of the sewer, she always smelled of stale perfume, booze, and cigarettes. 

"I nearly aborted you," she said punctuating what she previously said to obviously make sure that I understood her meaning.

I was an unwanted pregnancy. That's something I could have done without knowing. I was just told that I was an accident of birth and nearly aborted, even more information that I didn't need to know. How about that?

Can you imagine my mother having the audacity, the insensitivity, and the insanity to tell me that bit of information that I wished you had kept to herself? Can you imagine your mother telling you that you weren't wanted and that she almost terminated you? What do you say to that? There was nothing that I could say in response to that other than thank you for not aborting me. 

"Wow!"

What she said is important enough to repeat. I'll never forget her telling me that. She was sitting at the kitchen table. It was 2 am in the morning and she had just come home after being out all night God knows where and doing God knows what. As if I was her mother and she was my daughter, I was worried sick about her. She could have been dead for all I knew. Yet, because I loved my mother, even though it was obvious that she didn't love me, I still worried about her. 

"You were an accident of birth. With four grown sons, the last thing that I wanted was another frigging baby, especially a worthless girl who will never amount to anything and who will never earn any money," she said looking right through me.

Figuring she was drunk and didn't mean what she said, the next day, she said it all again.

"I should have aborted you and I almost did. Only, you lucked out. I didn't have the money for an abortion," she said raising her voice while looking at me with hatred and before putting an exclamation point to all that she already said. "I don't love you. I never loved you. You're an anchor around my neck. I despise you."

An automatic habit that I have, always comparing my real life to a movie, when she told me that, I thought of Joan Crawford's movie Mommy Dearest and in the deplorable way she treated her daughter, Christina. When she told me that she didn't love me but despised me, I was hurt, an understatement. I was sad, another understatement. I was angry. I wanted to strangle her. I wanted to beat her to death with her heavy, green, glass ashtray that was always full of lipstick coated cigarettes. Seeing her cigarettes made me wonder how many cocks had her lipstick on them the night before.

After that, never forgiving her for what she said, I had little to do with her for the rest of the day and for days, weeks, months, and years after. I tried to act as if I wasn't living there. Avoiding her, I became as invisible as I could. While she slept, I watched TV with the sound turned down. As soon as she got out of bed to pee, I hid. As soon as she got up for coffee, I left the house.

Knowing she'd be going out with some guy, hanging out with friends or walking around Boston alone, I didn't return home from school until late and until after she left the house. In those hours when I wasn't home from school, she never looked for me. She never called any of my friends' mothers to see if I was there. She didn't care. Obviously, she hoped I was dead, as dead as she was on the inside.

With not seeing her at all some days, I had little to do with her after that. If she didn't want me, then I didn't want her. If she didn't love me, then I didn't love her. If she despised me, then I despised her. I couldn't wait to get a job and leave home.

Yet, embracing the new me, instead of getting angry enough to do something destructive to her or to myself, I wrote poetry. Without doubt, writing poetry not only saved my sanity, it saved my life. Writing poetry was my place to hide and my private place to disappear from the misery of my life. Writing poetry was my answer to my prayers to God to save me from these horrible people, from my mother and from my four half-half-brothers. Seemingly born again, with me writing down all that troubled me, whatever my mother and my half-half-brothers said, did, didn't say, or didn't do troubled me less. Just as they didn't care about me, I didn't care about them.

* * * * *

With my youngest half-brother 18 years older than me and my oldest half-brother 27 years older than me and with all of us having different fathers, now grown men, they were seldom home. Not long after I was born, not wanting to bother with babysitting me, they lived their own lives. Later, married and with families and living in Ohio and Michigan while working for automotive manufacturing industries, they had little to do with me. It was as if I wasn't even their half-sister still living with my mother in Boston.

Perhaps they felt funny that I knew their dirty, little secret. Before they all raped me, they all slept with my mother, not just once but multiple times. I'd hear them drinking, laughing, sucking, and fucking. Maybe they feared that I'd tell their wives and/or girlfriends the perverts they were for sleeping with their mother and then raping me.

Being that my four half-half-brothers were all sexually, incestuously intimate with my mother at one time or another, there's a justified suspicion that one of my half-brothers is my father. With no one coming forward to claim me as their daughter, no one knows which one may be my father. With us all looking so much alike, surely I don't which one of my half-brothers fathered me or if perhaps it was one of many of my mother's "special boyfriends" is how she referred to them who gave me life.

"How's that for being fucked up? If it's not bad enough that my father may be from my mother having sex with a paid for sex stranger, a multitude of paid for sex strangers, but my father may be one of my half-brothers."

Practically growing up alone and without adult supervision most times, television was my only entertainment. A latchkey kid who was trapped in my small apartment, being that I was friendless, lonely, and alone, television was not only my only friend but also my best friend. I didn't have any interaction with anyone but my teachers and classmates at school. I was always the quiet kid and the shy kid who stayed on the sidelines while the others played their games. Depressed and angry, I found it impossibly difficult to interact with anyone. I just wanted to be left alone.

As if I was a stay-at-home invalid, by watching situation comedies and inappropriate movies, television was my way to see the world and to learn the nuances of the language, along with the customs and traditions of what it's like to have a real family. Rather than my mother and half-brothers teaching me things, a stunted childhood, I learned everything I knew from watching TV. Being that we didn't have cable or a VCR thirty-five years ago when I was a kid, and didn't have a lot of channels to choose from, 4, 5, 7, 38, and 56, old movies and old situation comedies were not only my favorite programs to watch but also my only programs to watch. 

When not watching TV and when playing hooky from school, unable to afford the admission price, I'd sneak in the movies. There was always a side door ajar that was left open for an usher to return back to work after smoking a cigarette. Even though the light from the door opening and closing illuminated me sneaking in the movie, most ushers didn't care that someone entered without paying. After talking to them about the movie, I got to know all of the ushers. Perhaps because I was friendly and pretty, they didn't care that I snuck in the movies. Once, an usher even held the door open for me to sneak inside.




Why do I write, by SusanJillParker?



Suffice to say that unless I took myself to school, with my mother seemingly not caring if I was dead or alive and with my half-brothers considering me nothing more than a nuisance, I missed a lot of school. Without ever seeing a dentist or a doctor, until I was either reported by the school nurse or rushed to the hospital by ambulance, I didn't see a doctor or a dentist until I paid for a medical visit myself once working. I'm lucky to still have all of my teeth in my head. With me growing up without any medical care whatsoever, I'm lucky I survived my childhood. I'm lucky I didn't die from the flu, a whooping cough, or a concussion. Obviously, I had good genes.

* * * * *

Along with a steady diet of milk, Cocoa Puff and/or Cocoa Krispy cereal, Pop Tarts, and Cheese Doodles, I was always left alone with my imagination and my thoughts. With all of us eating at different times of the day, around the clock, we ate mostly fast foods, TV dinners, mac and cheese, toast, Eggo waffles, frozen pizza, and apples and bananas. Just as there wasn't a lot of cooking going on in my house, there wasn't a lot of food either.

With everyone coming and going, mostly going, everything was hit or miss, mostly miss. Everyone ate out but with me being stuck at home and not having any money to buy what I wanted or needed, I had to make do whatever I could find to eat. Sometimes one of my half-brothers would think of me and bring me home something to eat. There was never any food until the end of the week when my half-brothers got paid and would fill the refrigerator with beer and everything else. Sometimes they threw a few dollars at me for running them an errand or doing them a favor.

Unlike all of the other kids in the neighborhood, there were no back-to-school or Easter outfits. With my mother and half-brothers never home and with me caring for myself, I was the poor kid that all the kids called names. I was the poor kid that the mothers from the neighborhood would leave a package of hand-me-down clothes or food for me at our door. Most times, until I entered high school and became more self-conscious of how I looked because of jealous girls and interested boys, I wore my half-brothers old clothes. For the longest time, wearing jeans, tee shirts, and sweatshirts instead of skirts, blouses, and dresses, I dressed more like a boy than I did a girl. With my long, blonde hair pinned back and tucked beneath a baseball cap, most people thought that I was a boy until I started growing breasts. 

It would be easier for me to remember how many birthday parties, Thanksgiving dinners, and Christmas celebrations I had than I didn't have. I never had a birthday party until my girlfriend game me a surprise birthday party when I turned 21. Not knowing what to do and how to act, instead of acting surprised, I cried. Unable to face everyone who was there for me, embarrassed by the attention and sad that this was my first birthday party, I stayed out in the hall until my girlfriend coaxed me inside.

One year, with one of my half-brothers thinking that he was doing a good thing, he came home drunk with a frozen turkey on Thanksgiving morning. Unable to cook a frozen bird, with all the stores closed, my mother still in bed, and nothing else to eat, we had pancakes. It's odd that I remember having pancakes with my half-brothers while watching football as a good memory instead of a Thanksgiving nightmare. It's odd that I remember my mother sleeping being a good memory instead of her being there with her poisonous attitude and combative disposition always ready to start trouble.

In the eighteen years that I lived there, I remember sitting at a table for two Thanksgiving dinners with my mom and half-brothers before everyone started fighting and leaving and I was left sitting at the table alone. With them all drunk every holiday, they were no fun to be around anyway. When I was older, I cooked my own Thanksgiving Day dinner but, with them out all night the day before, no one came home to eat it. Spending the day watching TV, the Macy's Day parade and football games afterward, I was alone and had a better Thanksgiving dinner with myself than I ever could have with any of them.

* * * * *

Most Christmases, we didn't even have a tree or if we did have one it was an afterthought and one of my half-brothers would lug home a Charlie Brown Christmas tree that he bought at discount the day before Christmas. I remember him being so happy that he bought it for cheap instead of paying full price like all the other suckers. Only, while all the other suckers were having a good Christmas, my mother and brothers were drunk and having sex with one another in her bedroom. Then, later, with my Mom celebrating Christmas with some, new "special boyfriend," and my half-brothers God knows where and doing God knows what, Christmas was just another day. With nothing to look forward to, I stayed to myself while writing my poetry. 

Instead of receiving a gift at Christmas, I had a better chance of getting a gift from one of my half-brothers during the year. When one of my half-brothers used his five finger discount and stole something from a downtown, department store or when something supposedly fell off of a truck, they gave me what they didn't want or thought that I might like. Stolen merchandise was part of our lives. We always had boxes of unopened items all throughout the house that my half-brothers routinely sold out of their car trunks to people in the neighborhood. Toasters, coffeemakers, CD's, CD players, TV's, vacuum cleaners, irons, blenders, toaster ovens, microwaves, and stereos, crowded our small apartment.

An innocent victim, I just lived there. As if I was Sergeant Schultz on Hogan's Heroes, I knew nothing and wanted to keep it that way. It was as if we had our own black market in our kitchen, bedrooms, and living room. With this their thing, minding my own business and saying nothing to no one about anything, I wasn't party to any of that. Being that we only lived in four, small rooms, we had stolen merchandise nearly piled to the ceiling.

With my mother Hungarian and Italian, an odd combination, she came here as a baby after the war. Back then, when she was first married and before any of us were born, she was tall and strikingly beautiful. In love and happily married, it was when her husband died, the details of that were sketchy and never told to me, that she did whatever she did to survive, mostly stripping and prostitution. All of our fathers were English and Irish or English and Italian. In the vein of strongmen competitors, my half-brothers were all tall, big bodied strong, Hungarian men and were big eaters. Watching them feed was like watching wild animals eating. With their elbows out, their heads bent over their food, and with all of them chewing loudly, I knew enough to stay away from the table whenever they were eating.

A chubby kid because of all the junk food I ate, I didn't develop my hot, bikini body until I was in my early twenties. It was when I started shooting 100 baskets, three times a day, every day in the blistering, hot sun that the pounds literally disappeared to leave me with a toned, shapely figure. Of course, it helped that I stopped eating junk food and was blessed with big breasts. Enamored with them, I loved my big tits. Once I left home at 18, after my four half-brothers raped me, long story, it was then that I was finally able to put my troubled past behind me and make it on my own. 

* * * * *

While watching TV, losing myself in the program and becoming one of the fictional characters, I used to imagine that I'd be rich but not famous. Always wanting to hide, always feeling self-consciously embarrassed over one thing or another, feeling so bad about myself that I never thought of myself as being beautiful, I never imagined myself being famous only rich. Never wanting the aggravation and lack of privacy that comes with celebrity, I always wanted to be rich. I'd much rather have fortune than fame. I imagined everyday being Christmas.

Truth be told, I imagined my life being much like a female version of Howard Hughes living alone on the top floor of the Desert Hotel in Vegas albeit without the Kleenex boxes for slippers. Later in life I imagined my life being much like a female version of Sean Connery in Finding Forrester when he lived on the top floor of a rundown house in a ghetto. Ultimately, in the way of Marlena Dietrich, "wanting to be left alone," I'd rather hide myself behind my mansion's walls while writing, writing, and writing. If only I were rich, while the rest of the world passed me by and while knowing that I could buy anything any time, all I had to do was to pick up the phone and order it.

"Wow! How cool is that having the whole world at my fingertips while holding a credit card with an unlimited balance?"

Only that dream of being rich never happened for me. Instead, I grew up as emotionally troubled as I was suffering poor. The six of us, my four half-brothers, my mother, and me, lived in a small, rundown, four room apartment with one bathroom and no shower or bathtub. With none of us having any privacy, we washed in the kitchen sink or showered in the gym or the public bathhouse. Filled with pent-up rage controlling my thoughts, I remember always being angry. When I wasn't angry, I remember always being sad. If I wasn't yelling and screaming at someone, I was crying. Never do I ever remember being happy. Then, with my half-brothers leaving one by one and my mother never home, I was always alone.

Just needing a place to flop at night, whenever they came home, my half-brothers didn't give a care what the place looked like. With clothes strewn everywhere, seemingly they didn't notice the dirt or the filth. As long as they bought me a washer and a dryer, which they stole, and paid me to do it, I did all of their dirty laundry. It was when I found my first roach and my first mouse that I went on a cleaning and extermination binge. Something my mother should have been doing, but never did.

A total mess, the place was littered with empty beer and vodka bottles, trash and garbage. With us not having a dishwasher, other than me, I can't remember ever having a clean sink. The sink was always full of dirty dishes, cups, glasses, and silverware. Embarrassed by the place and by my mother and half-brothers, I never brought any of my friends home. With roach and mice traps set all over the place, every time I killed a bug or a mouse, I'd make a little tombstone, give the creature a name, and tape it to my bedroom wall. It wasn't very long before I had a virtual cemetery of little tombstones with names such as Mickey, Minnie, Mighty, Tom, Jerry, Jiminy, Raid, Rocky, and Mad Max. 

Then, one day, out of the corner of my eye, seemingly as big as a small mouse and big enough to create a shadow, I spotted Roachzilla. He was poised at the very top of my window. Armed with my can of hairspray, somehow he knew I was out to kill him. With my arm outstretch and taking aim with a steady stream of Aqua Net hairspray, he jumped from the window and flew at my head.

"Fuck! I didn't know cockroaches could fly."

I sprayed so much hairspray at this thing that there was a toxic cloud of Ethanol, Butanol, and Dimethyl in my room. Until the toxic cloud dissipated, I couldn't see to find him. I feared that he wasn't dead. I feared that somehow I missed him and somehow he escaped to materialize again when I'm sleeping. Maybe he's a she, a pregnant female who will lay her eggs in my mouth while I was snoring. Only, there he was on my bed as if a prehistoric relic frozen in time. I grabbed the bedpan and flushed him down the toilet twice to make sure he was gone. I thought of showing my step-brothers, but they'd not only laugh at me but also they'd bring home another bug even bigger and put it in my room to terrorize me.

* * * * *

An inner city kid, my school was the streets of Boston and my education were all the experiences that I endured and somehow survived. Where most kids never strayed from their neighborhood, always outgoing, funny, and friendly albeit still very angry, I had friends everywhere. Charlestown, South Boston, Dorchester, Roxbury, the South End, East Boston, and the North End where I lived, I walked everywhere. I was the good kid but scratch the surface, always ready for a fight, I was a troubled kid.

A tall, blonde woman living within an Italian neighborhood, I stuck out like a sore thumb. With my long, blonde hair, big blue eyes, and D cup breasts, I was the pretty woman unlike any other woman in my neighborhood. Where most women were short with dark hair and dark eyes, everyone thought that I was Scandinavian instead of Hungarian. Then, whenever I corrected them, they'd call me Zsa Zsa. Zsa Zsa was my nickname and was what I was known by during the years that I lived there.

I was the popular woman that all the other women wanted to befriend and all the men wanted to kiss, feel, and fuck. Seemingly, even though there were some who were jealous of me and others who lusted over me, even with my temper sometimes getting the better of me, I was still well liked. Whenever I ventured out whether to buy fruits, vegetables, or fish at the market, meat from the butcher, or groceries from our neighborhood store, I was greeted as if I was a queen.

"Ah, buongiorno, Signorina. There she is, my Hungarian princess. Che bella! There's my pretty Zsa Zsa. Look how beautiful she is. Mama Mia. I'm going to fix you up with my son. You'll have lots of beautiful bambinos," the shopkeepers would say the same things to me every time he saw me.

Not realizing it back then because of my low self-esteem, just as I still am now, if I say so myself, I was good looking, an understatement. I was hot. With Boston being so snooty and proper, and seemingly with everyone having a college degree, despite my lack of education, my good looks and hot body always opened a door that would otherwise remain closed to me. While thinking that I was going to be someone special, in reality but unbeknownst to everyone but me, I was a nothing and a no one, especially after dropping out of high school at sixteen. 

Literally and figuratively, with no one giving me a good example on how to live my life, I was a dope for giving up on myself so soon in life. On a path to nowhere, the same as my mother, like mother like daughter, I was on my way to a life of crime, alcoholism, drugs, whoring, and prison. If I hadn't turned my life around, no doubt, just like my mother, I would have become a stripper and/or a hooker. Imprisoned for some dumb crime or dead from an overdose, I count my blessing every day for discovering poetry, television, and the movies.

My mother told everyone that she was a beauty queen and an ex-model. Because she was tall, stunning, shapely, and sexy, many believed her. Only, she was no beauty queen. She was never a model. The only thing she did was to spin around a pole while nearly naked before giving her "special boyfriends" lap dances and more.

* * * * *

Only resisting the stereotype, not wanting to be like my mother, I prayed to God for help. It took me to fall to my knees not to suck cock but to pray for my salvation and to begin my life anew. Turning my life around at twenty-one-years-old, the first in my family to earn a high school diploma, I earned my GED, general equivalency diploma, by walking in and taking the test. Where most test takers study for the exam and even pay to take a course with an instructor to pass the exam, I didn't. I just took a seat, took the test, and received one of the highest scores ever received. 

With my big brain, I should have stayed in school. With my big brain, I should have gone to college. With my big brain, I should have realized my dream of being rich. Being that I had very high College Board scores in the tenth and eleventh grades, had I graduated high school with my class, I probably would have earned a scholarship. Yet, a product of my environment and with all of the incestuous, sexual abuse that I suffered so early in my life, with only one year of high school to finish, I dropped out of school. Hating school, hating my teachers, hating my classmates, hating my mother, my half-brothers, and everyone, my emotional turmoil overwhelmed me and the only place I felt safe was out on the streets with my friends or at home alone watching TV or writing my poetry.

If we had formed a gang back then, I would have been a gang member and a gangbanger. Definitely, I would have been in prison or dead. Only, Caucasian kids, especially girls, didn't form gangs in Boston. I can't even imagine a white girl gang. Sure there were lots of black, Hispanic, and Asian gangs in Dorchester, Roxbury, Charlestown, South Boston, and Chinatown, but not in Boston proper, two miles from Beacon Hill and Back Bay where I lived. Fortunately for me, I chose the former over the later and stayed home to watch TV and write poetry. Otherwise I'd be serving time for some stupid crime that some lowlife convinced me to commit.

Instead of continuing to hang out with my friends, drinking, taking drugs, and staying out late, I took an inventory of myself. I reevaluated my existence and I changed my miserable life for the better. Fortunately for me, even though I drank to an excess, I never took drugs. Having lost too many friends from overdoses, I saw the danger of taking drugs early. Besides, I was fucked up enough from my mother, my half-brothers, and from childhood without having to take some drug to fuck me up even more.

With my good looks and hot body, I got a job on Newbury Street, Boston's version of Rodeo Drive. I worked as a full-charge bookkeeper for a furrier. He was always hitting on me and he finally gave me a fur coat after I agree to have sex with him. Always admiring the coats, I never had a fur. Every time he had a customer, because I was so tall and so shapely thin, he'd call me to model the fur. These short, obese woman actually thought that a mink, a beaver, and/or a fox would look as good on them as it did on me. His wife worked there too and she knew that her husband was cheating on her with any woman with a mouth, tits, and a pussy but she didn't care so long as he continued making and giving her lots of money.

I worked there for several years until he went out of business. The times were changing and no one was buying fur anymore. Yet, because I was already working on Newbury Street, a woman who owned a modeling agency hired me to do her books. Good looking enough to be one of her models, I wasn't interested in having any more men ogle me. I just wanted to do her finances and go home. Even though I was constantly and continually invited to parties, I never attended. I finally left there after she made a pass at me.

"Eww! Gross. Sorry, but I'm not lesbian," I said pushing her away when she grabbed my breast and tried kissing me.

* * * * *

Instead of continuing to ruin my life, tired of being illiterately ignorant and needing to be enlightened, at 23-years-old, I enrolled in and attended night school at Northeastern University in Boston. What takes most students eight years to do with most never finishing and graduating, I earned my bachelor's degree in just five years. Just five years, I write that as if it was nothing but those five years were the most difficult years of my life. Taking four courses a semester and taking four semesters a year, there was a time that I was reading three books a day to keep up with my reading while writing, writing, and writing. My biggest compliment was making my Creative Writing professor cry when he read my final exam story.

"Wow! Seriously?" 

As if I had written my own version of Angela's Ashes by Frank McCort, with his head down, his shoulders shaking, and his hand shading his eyes, I couldn't believe he was sitting there crying while reading my sad story. Sadly for me, it was supposed to be a creative writing class, a course called, Creative Autobiography, kind of oxymoronic in the title, but if only he knew there was nothing creative about my writing and about my story. No doubt shocked and pitying me, if only he knew that the story I passed in was all true. I wonder what his reaction would have been if he knew that not only had I lived through and endured all that I wrote but also that I survived my selfish, self-centered, and mean spirited mother and my sexually abusive half-brothers.




Why do I write, by SusanJillParker?



Yet, proud of myself, doing it all the hard way by paying my way through school, I earned my college degree by going to school full-time, even through the summers, while working full-time. When I wasn't working, I was in school. When I wasn't in school, I was reading and writing. With a GPA average of 3.65, I graduated magna cum laude with a degree in English and with minors in Creative Writing and Literature. Emerging as a new college graduate, expecting to find a good job and earn a good living, suddenly and inexplicably even though the economy was good, there were no jobs.

The only jobs available were part-time jobs without benefits and a wage too low to support yourself. It wasn't right. It wasn't fair. Lay off after lay off, companies were reducing their staffs, not hiring, forcing those who remained to work hard, faster, and kept the profits for themselves. With the rich getting richer, the poor were getting poorer. Unless you had a foot in the door to some company who valued you as an important member of their staff, you were just another unemployed or underemployed statistic.

Even when I was homeless in 2011 after divorcing my physically and emotionally abusive ex and losing everything in a flood, the one thing that I still had and refused to sell was my 14K gold, college graduation ring. With gold at a record high price then, I thought about selling the ring. I even had the jeweler quote me a price but with so little gold in the ring, the money wasn't worth not having the daily, visual memory of my personal accomplishment and my educational achievement on my finger. A testimony to myself for all the hard work I did to graduate with high honors, that stupid ring meant more to me than having food in my belly. I'd rather starve than to sell that ring and I still proudly wear it on my finger every day.

Saving me from homelessness, a kind, elderly Mennonite woman offered me her spare bedroom. Three years later, ensconced and safe within the Mennonite community, still living with her, I've become her caretaker and chauffeur. For the first time in my life, I'm happy. For the first time in my life, after divorcing my abusive ex, who threatened to kill me, I feel safe. For the first time in my life, I'm finally doing what I love to do and what I was meant to do. I'm writing stories.

THE END



Why Do I Write Incestuous Erotica?



Why do I write erotica, especially incest stories? The short answer is because I was bitten by a vampire.

This is a true, sexually explicit story that shows actual sexual experiences. Caring only of protecting the innocent, I used actually first names to reveal the guilty. For those of you who may be offended by reading such a graphic, incestuously erotic story, please do not continue reading. For those of you who enjoy reading a private glimpse into the sexual life of an innocent, nearly virginal, albeit sexual woman, please continue reading. All characters depicted in this story are over the age of 18-years-old. There are no underage characters in this story. If you chose to read my story, please give me the courtesy of your vote at the end of the story. Thank you for reading Why Do I Write Incestuous Erotica?

So why do I write erotica? Because I was bitten by a vampire. Vampire? C'mon, seriously? What does a vampire have to do with erotica or incest. Besides, excluding ex-husbands, ex-boyfriends, ex-wives, and ex-girlfriends, there's no such thing as a vampire, a non-human thing that sucks the life out of you, is there? For me to make the connection of erotica and vampires, perhaps a bit of a stretch for some, allow me to explain why I write erotica, especially incestuous stories by reading this story. I shall explain why having and/or writing about incestuous sex is much like being bitten by a vampire.

* * * * *

"Being that I'm a woman, a beautiful woman, and a modest woman, why do I write erotica, especially incestuous stories?"

Having been asked this question many times before from readers, and for those who'd like to know why I write erotica, especially incestuous stories, this story is my answer. Only you'd better pull up a chair, make yourself comfortable, smoke 'em if you have them, and make yourself a drink or a cup of coffee because it's a long story that has taken years to surface enough for me to understand why I write erotica, especially incestuous stories. Being that my passion is writing, for some strange, inexplicable reason, out of all of the stories that I've written, I enjoy writing erotica, specifically incestuous stories, the most. 

Why do I write incestuously erotic stories? Not questioning it, I never knew why until, one day, when I sat and pondered the question by looking back on my life. Filled with emotional upheaval, sex, violence, incest, debauchery, and depravity, a much harder life than most women, my life hasn't been an easy one. By my true confession that I enjoy writing erotica, especially incestuous stories, and with my response begging the question to be answered as to why I enjoy writing erotica, especially incestuous stories, I figured that I owed my readers my answer. For those of you who have read some of my stories, especially Who is the Writer, SusanJillParker? story, now that you know something about me, why do I write erotica, specifically incestuous stories?

Yet before I answer the question, as troubling to me to write as they are exciting for me to write, why do I seemingly enjoy writing incestuous stories, especially mother and son incestuous stories? Weird yet the reason is psychologically understandable, once I scratch the surface by telling you some of the horrible events that happened to me in my life for me to help you understand the way that I am today. Alas, no doubt, I'm a disturbed writer who is as twisted as much if not more than many of my readers. For those of you who care to know, once you understand my tarnished background, troubled past, and my tormented mind, you'll no longer wonder why I not only enjoy writing erotica but also why I enjoy writing incestuous stories.

* * * * *

"I Love You, Mommy!"

I wrote that story under my WmForrester name back in October of 2009. I Love You, Mommy was the most read story in all of 2010. Presently, it sits at #77 of the 250 most read Literotica stories of all time with more than 1.2 million hits, not bad considering there are more than 50,000 writers and 3 million stories on the site.

My stories, Stripping My Mother Naked and Sex with my Sister-in-law Samantha, written under my BostonFictionWriter name, would have been in the top ten most read Literotica stories of all time had I not pulled them a few months after I wrote them in 2007 to publish them. After only appearing on the site for 3 months, my mother-in-law story had already amassed 850,000 hits and my sister-in-law story had already amassed 650,000 hits, quite a lot on this site in such a short period of time. Being that it has taken me three years to amass 1.2 million hits with my I Love You, Mommy story, I can't imagine how many hits my mother-in-law and sister-in-law stories would have amassed had I left them on the board. Five years later, I figure they would have had a few million hits each. 

Nonetheless the success of some of my incestuous stories, it's a bit disconcertingly weird that a mature, college educated, and sophisticated woman would enjoy writing incestuously erotic stories about a mother having sex with her son. What's inherently wrong with me for me to enjoy writing stories such as that? Yet, for some bizarre reason, I do enjoy writing about a mother lusting over and seducing her son or a son lusting over and seducing his mother. Notwithstanding my passionate love for writing and for my preference in writing erotica, specifically incest, even I didn't understand why I not only enjoyed writing erotica but also why I enjoyed writing mother and son incestuous stories, that is, until I made a connection to what happened to me in my sordid past.

Sometimes, when writing my mother and son incestuous stories, I wondered if I had a son if I'd have sex with him. I'd like to think that I wouldn't but, honestly, I don't know. Being the way that I am, as twisted as much if not more than many of my readers, perhaps had I a son, I may have had sex with him. No doubt, based on that confession alone, albeit sexually satisfied, had I had a son, I would have been a terrible mother.

* * * * *

In thinking about all of the sexual scenarios, incestuous sex between a mother and her son makes me wonder what if... 

"You have a beautiful penis Johnny," said Susan to her 18-year-old son while reaching out to take him in her hand to touch him and to hold his throbbing cock. Having lusted over her son since he became a man and since his father left, she's been waiting for this moment for a long time. While looking up at him, she wrapped her fingers around his cock and slowly stroked him to an erection. "Do you like Mommy touching you in this way?"

"Yes, thank you mother," he said watching her stroking him. "I love watching you stroke my cock."

A loving mother holding her son's cock in her hand, she looked up at him with as much sexual lust as he was looking down at her. Not even pausing to ponder the question whether she should stop or continue forward, instead she paused with excited anticipation and sexual trepidation before asking her question.

"Would you like me to take you in my mouth?" Already knowing his answer, Susan stared up at her son before looking down at his pulsating prick.

"Yes mother," he said staring down his mother's low cut and loosely fitted nightgown that had suddenly fallen forward and open. Immorally and immodestly flashing her son her tits, Johnny leered at her exposed breasts. "I would love for you to suck me."

As if this was the first time that this mother had sex with her son, this was their incestuous game that they enjoyed playing whenever they got together. His mother had beautiful, big breasts and he couldn't wait to see them, touch them, feel them, caress them, and suck them again, as she always allowed him to do while she masturbated him before blowing him.

"Would you like to cum in Mommy's mouth?" She asked while on her knees stroking her son and looking up at him adoringly with her big, blue eyes before giving him a sexy smile.

"Oh, yes, Mother," he said putting a gentle hand to the back of her blonde head before impaling her mouth with his hard, hairy cock.

* * * * * 

Now that I think more about having sex with my son, had I had a son, I probably wouldn't have sex with him. Even though the thoughts of having incestuous sex with my imagined son is an exciting sexual fantasy to have, the repercussions of having forbidden sex that would certainly take years of therapy on psychiatrists' or psychologists' couches to unravel wouldn't be worth the few minutes of incestuous sex. Especially after all that's happened to me and after all that I've been through, I wouldn't want to put any son of mine through any and all of that.

If I had been blessed with a son, I wouldn't want him to start his sexual life as scarred and as scared as I always was. Besides, the thoughts of having sex with my imagined son doesn't excite me in the way that it does when imagining one of my female characters having sex with her son. To me, the incestuous erotica that I write about a son lusting over his mother, doing whatever he can do to see his mother naked, writing about his attempts to seduce his mother, and a mother willingly wanting to have sex with her son are just a fictional stories. Surely, the incestuous, fictional stories that I write don't really happen in real life...do they?

* * * * *

"You have a beautiful body mother?"

Looking at her as if she was naked, Mike, Susan's 20-year-old son, stared at his mother's figure as if she was a decadent dessert on his personal menu of sexual foods. He leered at his mother with as much lust as she stared at him with surprised confusion that he'd dare blurt out such a so shockingly sexual compliment. She was her mother after all and he was her son. Mother and sons weren't supposed to have sexual thoughts for one another.

"Thank you, I think," she said pausing as she seductively fingered her lush, blonde hair. As if afraid to ask the question, she contemplated him with her blue eyes. "Tell me," she said wetting her full, red lips with her tongue, "how do you know I have a beautiful body?"

Sexually frustrated and always so very horny, all it took was for her son to compliment her for her to imagine stripping herself naked in front him to show him the beautiful body that she truly did have. When he said that she had a beautiful body, as modestly embarrassed as she was sexually excited, she nonchalantly looked down at herself to see if any part of her was exposed. Even though she's had incestuous thoughts about her son and even though she wanted to, other than seeing her in her bikini, she's never inappropriately walked around him when not fully covered. Other than giving him a few, discreet, accidentally on purpose flashes of her panties when slowly crossing and/or uncrossing her legs after having one too many glasses of wine, she's always acted like a lady in the way that any mother should when alone with her son. Other than giving him a few down blouse views of her bra and cleavage when purposely leaning forward on the pretense of picking up something from the carpet while wearing her low cut, loose tops, she's more acted like his mother than the incestuous slut that he obviously wishes her to be.

Yet, recently and out of character, perhaps it's hormonal, she's had this wickedly wanton desire and incestuously lustful need to walk around her son in her nearly transparent nightgown. Wanting him to see her naked body, after he complimented her on her body, now she was intent on flashing him her body. With the impressions of her nipples, the dark shadow of her blonde, pubic hair, and her ass crack clearly visible, especially when leaning forward to stretch the thin material of her nightgown across her backside, she's been so horny lately. Acting oblivious on the pretense that she wasn't aware that her nightgown was so shockingly see through, she's been walking in front of their big, bay window every morning to open the drapes.

As the sun poured through her nightgown clad, 40-year-old body to show her son her nakedness, she didn't have to guess what he was thinking when she saw his erection tent his pajama bottoms. No doubt, she was enjoying her flashing show as much as she was having fun flashing herself. Only, not wanting to open that forbidden door, content with just teasing him with sexy flashes of her nearly naked body, she didn't dare cross the line of incest for fear of the lifelong consequences. Later, when alone in her room masturbating over him and, on doubt, with him in alone in his room masturbating over her, she'll remember all that she showed her son.

She reminded herself again that he was her son and she was his mother. Her son had been so dependent upon her since she divorced her husband and even though they had become close, sometimes too close with all the pelvis to pelvis hugging, prolonged holding, and constant kissing without tongues, she wondered if their mother and son relationship was a normal one. If she was to go by how she felt about her son, she knew that her feelings of wanting sexual attention from him wasn't normal. She feared falling to the dark side and taking up residence in the Devil's playground by submitting her will and her body to her son.

She looked at her son with as much shame and embarrassment as he looked at her with incestuous lust and sexual excitement to notice her body enough to compliment her. When she looked more closely at him again feeling a familiar wetness between her legs, she shared his forbidden sexual desire when she noticed the big bulge in his jeans. Suddenly, she felt guilty for all the incestuous thoughts she's been having about her son when pleasuring herself with her dildo and vibrator. Imagining him French kissing her while touching and feeling her where no son should ever touch and feel his mother, she's been imagining making love to her son before sucking his cock and allowing him to cum in her mouth.

Nothing more than a sexual fantasy, just once, she'd love to flash him her naked body if only to see his reaction. Would he want her in the way that she wants him? Would he touch her, feel her, and make love to her in the way that she yearned to make love to him? Nothing more than an excited reaction of her private sexual fantasy when she's about to cum from rubbing her clit with her finger while fingering her nipples, just once, she'd love to see, touch, feel, and stroke his cock to know how he measured up to his father.

"I've been watching you dress and undress on my hidden video camera mother," he confessed while making eye contact. 

Dizzily delirious with incestuous depravity, her son watching her strip naked was a speeding freight train on a collision course doomed for disaster but she didn't care. Obviously, he wanted her as much as she wanted him. Unable to move and unable to respond, imagining him watching her while masturbating over the sexy, naked sight of her, she stood there silently stunned that her son had invaded her privacy by watching her strip naked. With a million sexually wicked thoughts flashing through her mind but unable to take the lead on any of them that meant crossing the incestuous line, he made that decision for her.

As if happening in slow motion, she watched her son unzip himself and pull out his already erect penis. As if he was someone else other than her son, with her pulse racing and her heart beating, she stared down at his cock before staring up at him and before returning her stare to his engorged prick. Even if it was inevitable that she'd be fucking and sucking her son, it had been a long time since any man wanted her enough sexually, albeit incestuously, to so brazenly expose his penis to her, in the way that her son was doing and so wanted her now. As if she was hypnotized to touch him, she reached out her hand and wrapped her fingers around his big, hard prick before stroking him. With a gentle hand to her shoulder, her son pushed her down to her knees. Wantonly and lustfully, as if this was meant to be and she was playing a character in a porn movie, she willingly opened her mouth and took him inside.

* * * * *

So, again, especially mother and son stories, why do I write erotica? As best as I can figure, I write erotica because I'm a survivor of incest. Moreover, I was bitten by a vampire.

"Whew! There I said it. That's big load off my busty chest. I feel better now."

Especially in my case, being that I can only write what I know, just as it takes a sexual predator to know another sexual predator, it takes an incest survivor to know another incest survivor. Allow me to count the ways how I've been sexually abused and incestuously used. Certainly, as there were so very many other sexual experiences that I successfully denied men from having with my body, if I counted all of the times that men have tried to force me to do sexual things that I didn't want to do, I'd have a 300,000 word life story entitled, Susan's Story of Shunned Sex. Now that I have your interest, shall I explain why it is that I write erotica, especially mother and son incestuous stories?

* * * * *

Not counting my 22-year-old prom date, Mike, I was barely 18-years-old, when he forced me to give him a blowjob in the backseat of his car, a new Chevrolet Camaro Z28. After the prom and after having had one too many drinks at our makeshift bar outside by his car, we drove to a secluded spot by the beach. Walking, talking, laughing, hugging, and touching, we were having a good time kissing. 

"It's getting late. Let's go back to the car," he said.

Being that it was just before midnight, as if I was Cinderella at the Ball, I figured our prom date was over. I figured it was past his bedtime and he had to get up early for work the next day. I figured he was being respectful of me and wanted to deliver me home safe and sound at a respectable hour. I figured wrong. 

"Thanks for a wonderful evening Mike," I said trying to fit my dress without squishing it in the front seat of his car and without flashing him a down blouse view of my bra or an up skirt view of my panties, which I so wanted to accidentally on purpose do anyway.

"Let's get in back," he said. "We'd have more room to make out before I drive you home."

Shocked that he wanted to make out with me, having just started dating, I was so young. I was so naive. I was so innocent and I really liked him.

"Okay," I said still swooning that this 22-year-old college senior wanted to make out with me, an 18-year-old, high school senior. 

Once we closed the door, kissing and kissing me, his sexy lips were attached to my red, full lips as much as his horny, impetuous hand was attached to my breasts. Feeling my big tits through my dress and bra while fingering my nipples, always having to swipe guys hands away from my big breasts at the movies, tonight was different. Tonight, as tipsy as I was horny, I wanted him to touch me and to feel me. Being dressed up and having a good time at the prom, I felt more like an adult than I did an immature 18-year-old teenager and I willingly allowed him to feel my big breasts and finger my erect nipples, so long as it was outside of my dress and not down my dress and bra.

Then, as if he suddenly grew two more pair of hands, he was all over me. As soon as I thwarted him from sticking a hand down my dress to fondle my naked breast, he successfully stuck his hand up my dress and in between my legs to finger my pussy slit through my panty. I'm not going to lie and write that I wasn't sexually excited by him touching me in such a sexual way. Even though I was embarrassed when he pushed my panty aside with his finger and touched my wetness, I was aroused. Now sexually excited enough to allow him to finally stick his hand down my dress to cup my breasts and finger my nipples, I would have done anything at that point.

Now with my tits nearly out of my dress, he fingered my pussy and rubbed my clit, while alternating between sucking my nipples and French kissing me. Then, when he put my hand on his bulging cock through his pants, moved it around while holding it there, and humping my hand, I didn't try to pull my hand away. No harm done, only feeling him through his pants, it was sexually exciting to feel his cock through his pants. Yet, not wanting him to get any more sexually excited than he already was and not wanting to start something that I couldn't finish, I finally pulled my hand away when he started directing my fingers to fondle the head of his cock while squeezing his shaft. Quite the ambidextrous, dirty devil, I don't know how he did it as I never saw him but somehow, while kissing me, he managed to unzip himself with one hand and pull out his cock while feeling my tits and fingering my pussy through my panty with his other hand. 




Why Do I Write Incestuous Erotica?



Still a virgin and living a sheltered life, not even having a steady boyfriend and with my parents being overly protective of me because of my good looks and overtly sexually developed body, his was the first naked cock that I had ever felt. I had plenty of dates put my hands on their erect pricks through their pants, but Mike's cock was the first naked cock that he forced my hand down to feel. As soon as my hand touched him, he wrapped my fingers around his hard prick and, with his hand over my hand, he directed me to slowly stroke him to a harder erection. Truth be told, the first hand job that I had ever given when most of my friends had already had gone all the way with their boyfriends, I really didn't mind giving him a forced hand job.

Now done kissing me and done feeling my breasts and fingering my pussy, he gave the back of my head a gentle nudge. At first I thought my head was in the way of him looking out of his car window and I lowered my head to give him an unobstructed his view. Only, as soon as I willingly lowered my head, with a heavy hand to the back of my blonde hair, he pushed my head all the way down and nearly impaled my mouth with his erect cock. I had never given a blowjob before and his cock was the first erect prick to bounce off my lips.

"Suck it," he ordered. "Blow me Susan," he said. "I need to feel my cock in your mouth."

"No, I'm a good girl Mike. I don't suck cock," I said trying to push my head up against his hand but he was too strong and too determined for me. 

Then, with a hard tug of my long, blonde hair, when I screamed in pain, he filled my mouth with his cock. Holding my head in place with a big, strong hand while humping my mouth and fucking my face, he stuck his hand inside my low cut, prom dress to fondle my tits and finger my nipples before removing his hand and sticking the same hand beneath my dress to finger my pussy through my panties again. Not even allowing me to take a breath of air, he didn't let go of my head until I felt a warm, oozy gush of his cum hit the back of my throat and coat my tongue with a salty splash. Trying not to swallow him, I had no choice when he wouldn't let go of me until I did. Albeit forced, that was my first blowjob.

Being that I was still a virgin and because he was older and more mature than me, I could count him as my first sexual predator. Only and honestly, being that I was so pressured by my friends to have sex before heading off to college, when I told them that I was going to the prom with him, they put it in my head to at least give him a blowjob and, albeit a bit forced, I did. Truth be told, even though he forced me, I wanted to blow him as much as he wanted me to blow him. I needed to know what it felt like to have a man's cock in my mouth. Little did I know, the victim that I was that I'd have plenty of men's cocks in my mouth throughout my life.

Foolishly, I thought I was in love with him. I thought he loved me too. Only, he never called me again after the prom. Now, so many years later, it took me a while to even remember his name.

* * * * *

My first sexual molester was my 24-year-old cousin Bob. Ready to start college, I was only 19-years-old and just out of high school.

"I have a graduation gift to give you Susan, before you head off to college and I don't see you for four, long years," he said. "Can you swing by Saturday?"

Without going into all the gory details of what happened to me and what he did to me, too horrifying to for even me to write about it, never mind recall it all, I was drugged, beaten, tortured, brutalized, stripped naked, and raped multiple times over three, agonizingly, long hours. Enough said about that. Only and unfortunately, that wasn't the worst of it.

Fearing that I'd report him to the authorities, have him arrested, and embarrass him in front of our family and mutual friends, when he was done having his wicked way with my semi-conscious naked body, he tried to drown me in his bathtub. What he would have done with my dead body, God only knows. At the last minute, still panicked but losing consciousness, while he held my head underwater, I watched my life flash before my eyes. Thinking that he was going to kill me, he had a change of heart. Glad to survive, gather myself and my clothes to run to my car and drive away with my life, fearing repercussions if I told anyone, I told no one but my psychiatrist and, recently, years later, my friends and family. I never had anything more to do with my cousin Bob ever again.

* * * * *

Admittedly, after dating a lot that summer before college and after allowing a man I dated a few times to take my virginity, even when I was still a virgin, always flashing and teasing, I was no virgin back then. Suddenly feeling as the sexual woman that I was quickly becoming, as wild as I was feeling frisky to be free of my parents and away from home and living with my girlfriends, some may have even considered me a slut being that I was always an exhibitionist. It wasn't my fault that I liked men and enjoyed flashing them my body. Absolutely loving the attention of men looking at what I was showing, I was born to tease or maybe I was twisted by all that happened to me for it to manifest in my flashing and teasing men.

I enjoyed flashing men my body while on spring break, at Mardi Gras, or whenever dancing at a club. Yet, always making my flashes appear accidental by acting coyly embarrassed if caught, an up skirt or a down blouse was just as exciting for me to flash someone as I imagined it was for someone to see me flashing. Unfortunately, what comes around goes around and I blamed myself for being physically attacked and violently and sexually assaulted because of my sexy, erratic, and erotic behavior. A virgin one day, I was a slut the next. Perhaps in the sexy way that I dressed and the teasing way that I flirted, maybe I gave my cousin the wrong signals. Still, that was no reason for him to violently and brutally, sexually attack me. He was family and not some stranger who picked me up at a bar. He drugged me. Yet, now that I think more about why I write erotica, I wonder how much my need to flash men relates to me being sexually abused by sexual predators.

In hindsight, maybe after drugging me, stripping off my clothes, and raping me over and again, he was just trying to scare me into silence by nearly drowning me in his bathtub. Scaring me silent, he succeeded. Nonetheless, not wanting to take that chance again, I stayed as far away from him as I could. I think if I saw him again, I'd flip out and attack him with whatever I could grab. Besides, obviously a violent, sexual predator and with me now knowing that he was one, he stayed away from family gatherings. No more coming over unannounced to watch a basketball, baseball, football, or hockey games and no more birthday parties, Fourth of July barbeques, Thanksgiving Day meals, and Christmas dinners, no one has seen or heard from him since my incident. After I told my family all that happened to me and everything he did to me, now they know why cousin Bob is among the missing. Like them not to say anything about what they did, it wouldn't surprise me if my big brothers tracked him down and beat the shit out of him for what he did to me. 

Sadly and tragically, diagnosed with post traumatic stress, besides having nightmares, besides going around locking doors and windows, always looking over my shoulder, and being afraid enough to carry a weapon with me, those who are victims of sexual abuse typically have more than one abuser. No different than any other victim of violent, sexually abuse, I had five violent sexual abusers who forced and/or coerced me to have their sexual way with me. As if I had a sign on my forehead that read, VIOLENTLY ASSAULT ME AND SEXUALLY ABUSE ME, they did. Perhaps by my good looks and shapely body or more likely because I was just unfortunate to be born a beautiful, outspoken, not so shy, and exhibitionist of a woman, too nice, too trusting, and too naive, I was a target for their unwelcomed advances.

* * * * *

My second sexual predator was one of my English literature, college professor. Thinking it was those short skirts and low cut tops that I liked wearing to class to show off my long, shapely legs, abundant cleavage, and sexy figure, even though I enjoyed the stares, sometimes I attracted the wrong attention. Flashing a lot back then, maybe I flashed my professor my panties in an up skirt and my bra and cleavage in a down blouse one too many times. I imagined that I must have driven him crazy for him to do what he did to me. A year after my cousin had his wicked way with me, on the pretense of inviting me to his office to talk about my final exam, my college professor coerced me to blow him. Now that I think back about how he groomed me with compliments and personal attention, he was my second sexual predator.

Attracted to him as a father figure and trusting him as I'd a trust a teacher or any figure in authority, perhaps, I wouldn't have sucked his cock had I not been attracted to him. Perhaps I wouldn't have sucked his cock had I not been enamored with the intelligence and envious of the articulation of the silver tongued man. Thinking that I was in love with him, definitely, I was infatuated with him. Being that he was so scholarly, so sophisticated, and so worldly, I truly and immaturely believed that he was in love with me too. I truly believed that he'd leave his wife for me. I was so dumb. Already setting the stage for me to be victimized again, perhaps I wouldn't have sucked his cock had I not had that unfortunate and incestuous experience with my cousin violently raping me and sexually abusing me before trying to murder me.

As my cousin did before the brief, sordid affair that I had with my professor, ripe for the taking, perhaps, my professor would have not solicited me had he not seen something in me that a sexual predator sees in his intended victims. Granted I was a provocatively dressed slut but that's still no reason for a man, an educated man at that, to take sexual advantage of one of his 20-year-old students. That's what I was, a victim and that's what I still am today, a woman alone in a man's world, a victim to be used, abused, and victimized. Now older and wiser, albeit not as attractive as I was in my twenties but still better looking than most women at my 40-year-old age, even though I still enjoy flashing men, especially when at the mall riding the escalator, trying on clothes, or being fitted for shoes, I'm not the victim now that I was then. Having been around the block a few times, I'm not afraid to tell some asshole to go fuck himself while wielding and ready to swing a baseball bat.

Plain and simple, when it comes to sexual predators, being that I'm good looking, especially that I'm attractive, they only see my shapely ass, my big tits, and my blonde pussy. With the woman behind the face and the body unimportant in their quest for sex, they don't see me for the person that I am. I'm just another victim in a long line of victims to these men. To these men, I wasn't even a woman per se. I wasn't even a person per se. I was just a thing, a vessel to be used and abused. Instead of being someone, I was something for them to use to get themselves off and to have them cum in my hand, in my mouth, or in my pussy. Someone to be used and abused, I trusted them and they all betrayed me by deceiving me. I'm such a fool. They were only after one thing, sex, and once I gave them that, free to return to their cold wives and bitchy girlfriends, they were done with me. 

"How dare they!"

I'm not proud of what I did with my college professor but after that incident with my cousin, I suddenly had a real and warranted fear of men and it wasn't until I got older that I was able to control and use men in the way that they had always controlled and used me. After seducing me with his words and romancing me with his compliments, not very subtle about it, my professor just stood from his chair to walk to where I was sitting in his office. Staring at him in stunned silence, I watched him unzip himself and reach his hand inside his pants and underwear to pull out his cock. Acting if he was offering me treat, something good to eat, he dangled his engorged prick in front of my face while stroking himself to an even harder erection. This was my professor a degreed man with a Masters of Fine Arts degree in creative writing and a Ph.D. in philosophy. I was shocked to see such a scholarly man holding and stroking his erect prick in his hand. I stared at his cock before looking up at him and before returning my focus to his exposed penis again.

Old enough to be my father, it wasn't about him being attracted to me as a love interest, he was already married after all. It was more about him wanting to have a onetime sexual relationship with me. Assuredly and embarrassingly, there was no future for his career in bedding a student. As far as he was concerned, perhaps because I was so pretty and had big tits. and perhaps because I had been flashing him, it was just about sex. Knowing him as I did, always one with his nose in a book when his head wasn't in the clouds, perhaps he had read one too many classical romance, literature novels. Perhaps he imagined me as someone else, his literary love interest.

No doubt, being that my literature professor was so fond of Cervantes' Don Quixote, perhaps I was his Dulcinea or his Elizabeth Bennett, his personal, prized whore that Jane Austen wrote about in her book, Pride and Prejudice. Maybe I was his Annabel Lee that Edgar Allan Poe so delirious described in his poem, The Bells. Truth be told, I had no idea what he was thinking. For all that I knew, I may have been his Madame Bovary in Gustave Flaubert's book by the same title. Being that he was most read, I may have been some combination of his imagined image of Ellen Olenska in Edith Wharton's Age of Innocence, his Ophelia in Shakespeare's Hamlet, his Hester Prynne in Nathanial Hawthorne's Scarlet Letter, or his Anna Karenina in Leo Tolstoy's novel of the same name. Definitely, when he dumped me, it was obvious to me that I wasn't his Juliet. 

Now remembering it years later, with his cock in my mouth while he fondled my big tits and fingered my nipples, it was just a blowjob. It was just about me sucking him and him cumming in my mouth. With no room for me in his future plans, this improper, sexual liaison was all about him. As if he was closing the book on me, as if he was done reading me and onto someone else, when he was done with me, he was done with me and there was nothing left for me to feel other than rejection and the emptiness that I had been used again by yet another sexual predator. 

In hindsight, when he pulled out his cock and dangled it in my face while stroking himself, I could have screamed. I could have fought him. I could have reported him to the dean of the college but with his word against mine, I didn't want to win that battle to lose the war. A well respected college professor with 30-years of teaching experience versus a student accused of flashing a teacher to entice him to have sex with her and then blaming him and reporting him for the indiscretion, it was no contest. 

Who knows, being that he fashioned himself as a romantic reader of classical literature, maybe he had a long list of female students reporting him and maybe my complaint wouldn't have been the only complaint filed against him. The last straw, maybe my complaint would have cost him his job. Maybe he may have blamed me for ruining his teaching career. Having watched one too many CSI dramas, maybe he may have stalked me and tried to harm me. Glad that nothing more ever came of it, especially after nearly being murdered by my cousin, I chalked up the experience with my professor as a valuable life lesson learned.

Oddly enough though, the priorities that I had back then were skewed. Young, dumb, and horny, I was more concerned with my grade point average than I was with my reputation. Knowing what he wanted by the brazen display of his cock and what I could give him by his huge erection, I got the message. I wasn't as stupid as I imagine he thought I was. Figuring that I had already been through worse, getting more from my professor than I ever got from my cousin, if nothing more than the promise of an A grade, I gave him what he wanted and he gave me what I wanted. Even going through the trouble of changing schools for fear that he'd tell his buddies that I was an easy mark for their sexual advances, I made sure never to take another class with him again.

* * * * *

Undaunted by some of my disturbing sexual experiences and using the incidents to learn from my errors, unfortunately, the tragedy of my life continued. Several years later when visiting my Uncle Henry, who lived alone after his wife died, I experienced my third sexual predator. 

"Jesus, are these guys just waiting for the right opportunity to present itself. Whether prom date, cousin, teacher, or uncle is any woman safe anywhere?"

Not my cousin Bob's father but another uncle, he sexually assaulted me by touching me and feeling me where no uncle should ever feel his niece. Shocked, embarrassed, and ashamed, every time he inappropriately touched me, feeling sick to my stomach, I recoiled. I always suspected that he was a dirty, old man by the sexual things he said, the off-color jokes he told, and the way that he perceived women as things to be used and abused. Years in the making, it started slow in the way that he leered at me and tried to inappropriately grope me. Foolishly and naively, I thought that by just being alert and mindful of him was enough to keep me safe. I was wrong.

Always breaking off his grinding pelvis to pelvis full body hugs, I never voluntarily prolonged his uncle and niece lingering kisses that always seemed to last longer. Fending off his groping hand that was always plastered to my round ass or reaching up to feel my firm breast that he enjoyed squishing against his chest, I always felt that I could handle him. Besides, always enjoying an honest and open relationship with him, being able to discuss anything with him even sex, he was my uncle and with me having four, big, burly brothers, he'd never cross the line with me. My brothers would kick his ass if only I wasn't so embarrassed and ashamed to tell my brothers what he did to me. Blaming myself for his inappropriate, incestuous behavior because of all the times that I flashed my uncle my panties and bra and cock teased him with sexual innuendoes, even immorally and immodestly sharing my private sexual life with him, obviously, he thought that I was just as incestuously attracted to him as he was to me. Big mistake.

Then, one day, perhaps because his wife was no longer there to run interference to fend him off and to protect me from him, he did something totally unexpected and out of character, even for him. Practically stripping me naked by stealthily coming up to me, he squatted down behind me while I was washing his sink full of dirty dishes. As he erected his posture, in one quick, fluid movement, as if pulling a dust cloth off of a valuable piece of furniture, he pulled my dress up and over my head and held it there with one big, strong hand. Being that my uncle is 6'5" tall and very powerful, I was as helpless as I was defenseless.

"Uncle Henry! What are you doing?"

Taking me by surprise and thinking that it was just a sick joke at first, for an instant I stood there in shocked disbelief. I thought he was kidding and teasing me before tickling me. He was always tickling me for an obvious accidental on purpose feel of my breasts and/or ass. With my hands soapy wet, for a split second, I didn't even realize that my panties and bra were so exposed to him until I remembered what it was that I was wearing or not wearing. With my arms helplessly up in the air and the neck opening of my dress too small to fit over my head when zippered up all the way and in the way that it was, I was unable to free myself of him. As if trying to fight myself out of a paper bag, I just stood there squirming, struggling, and screaming.




Why Do I Write Incestuous Erotica?



"Uncle Henry! Hey! Stop! What the Hell are you doing? Don't!"

Then, as soon as he inappropriately touched me, I knew what he was doing. As if I was standing there for his personal, sexual delight, he felt my breasts while fingering my big nipples through my bra. I'll never forget the feel of his big hands cupping my breasts, feeling my breasts, fingering my nipples through my bra before feeling the top exposed portion of my breasts. Then reaching his hand behind my back and down, he felt and squeezed my ass before reaching down and around to cup and finger my pussy through my panty. My uncle was touching me. My uncle was feeling me. Standing there in my bra and panty, I felt so violated.

I was sick to my stomach. Panicked, being that I had flashed him and teased him so very many times before as my sexy game that I played with every man, I blamed myself for his sexual assault. Yet, being the exhibitionist that I am, it was one thing for him to see me in my bra and panty, but quite another thing for him to touch me and feel me through my bra and panty, which he did continually, non-stop. We were family. He was my beloved uncle and I was his favorite niece.

"Uncle Henry! What the fuck? What are you doing? Stop!" My screams were muffled by the material of my dress over my mouth.

Then, I remembered those Japanese videos where the molester cuts a hole in the woman's uplifted dress by her mouth and forces her to blow him. Is that what my uncle wants, a blowjob? Is that what my uncle expects me to do, to blow him? Is he wanting and expecting me to suck his cock? After being forced to blow my cousin, and coerced to suck my college professor, enough is enough, I'd bite my uncle's cock off before I sucked it.

It was then that I realized how totally defenseless and helpless I was. In just a push down of my panty and a pull up of my bra, he'd have me naked. Squirming and struggling, I only hoped he wouldn't try to remove my underwear but, as soon as I thought that, horrifyingly enough, he did. While he held my dress over my head with one, big hand, I felt his thick fingers reach beneath the underside of my bra and lift. Even though I squirmed, even though I struggled, and even though I jumped around as if a fish out of water being taken aboard a fishing boat, in one fluid motion, as if he was pulling his Boston Red Sox baseball cap off of his head, he pulled my bra up and over my breasts.

As if releasing my melons to take their place in a fruit bin, I felt my breasts flop down and rest on my lower chest. I was so mortified. As soon as my breasts were out of my bra and so exposed, I felt his big, horny hands feel me, fondle me, and caress my tits while his fingers pulled, turned, and twisted my big nipples. Too scared to be sexually excited and too embarrassed to admit that I was but, being that my nipples are one of my erogenous zones, with him knowing all the right buttons to push and with him touching and feeling my nipples in the way that he was touching and feeling my nipples, he had me sexually aroused nonetheless.

Then, when he pulled down my panties to my knees and tried to finger my pussy, I feared he'd rape me. Maybe he just wanted to see me naked as if that wasn't bad enough. Maybe he just wanted to feel my naked body, even worse. No matter how much struggling and screaming I did, unable to break free and with nothing that I could do to preserve my modesty and save my dignity, figuring it would be over soon, I relaxed and allowed him to trace my pussy slit with his finger. I don't know if I was more embarrassed with Uncle Henry seeing me naked, with him feeling and touching me, or with me being sexually aroused because my nipples were erect and my pussy was wet. Always so horny anyway, my uncle Henry was making me sexually want him in a way that I never thought I'd incestuously want him.

Alternating between feeling my breasts, fingering my nipples, squeezing my naked ass, and cupping and fingering my pussy, no matter how much I struggled and screamed, not caring if I ripped my dress to shreds in trying to get away from him, I couldn't break his hold of me. Then, as if there was a speaker put to my ear, I heard the sound of his zipper. He leaned me forward as if to fuck me like a dog and, when I felt his erect cock against my skin, I thought for sure that he'd rape me. In the way that it had with my cousin, my life flashed across my mind with my uncle.

Thinking of my prom date putting my hand on his cock through his pants, while feeling my breasts through my dress, I remembered him unzipping himself and pulling out his cock as if it was yesterday instead of a dozen years ago. I remembered him forcing my hand on his exposed prick to wrap my fingers around him. With his hand positioned on top of mine, I remembered him forcing me to touch him, hold him, and stroke him. I remembered him forcing my head down for me to take him in my mouth and to suck him.

As if my Uncle Henry was my crystal ball inspiring me to look back in my past to recall all of my unpleasant sexual experiences, I remembered my cousin putting something in my drink. Even though I was conscious of what he was doing and aware of everything around me, I didn't even have the strength to struggle. Kissing and kissing me, I remembered him touching me everywhere through my clothes. I remembered him undressing me and feeling my naked body. I remembered him sucking my nipples and licking my pussy before forcing me to blow him. After I blew him and after he ejaculated in my mouth, delirious with incestuous desire for me, I remembered my cousin fucking and fucking me. He was such a sick bastard.

As if my life was suspended in time, I remembered my college professor talking and complimenting me while lightly touching my hair, my shoulder, and my thigh before exposing his cock to me. Eye level with his cock, I remembered him looking down at me while he stroked my hair and moved his hips closer to my mouth. As if in a daze, as if this private lesson was part of my class assignment, I remembered voluntarily putting my hand around his cock to stroke him before closing my eyes to take him in my mouth to suck him. Now back to the present, here I was with my beloved Uncle Henry in the same dire, sexual situation.

As if I was able to watch him feel me and touch me, apparently, I was so upset that I was having an out of body experience. As if the woman he was fondling and fingering was someone else, I watched him have his wicked way with her naked body. Awakening me from my resigned submission that my uncle was about to rape me and there was nothing that I could do about it, as if there as a speaker hooked up to my ears, it wasn't until I heard that exaggerated, loud sound of his pant zipper being lowered that I reacted into action. Then, as if I was a burn victim in a hospital and the mere touch of his cock to my naked ass caused me terrible pain, I suddenly had superhuman strength.

Humiliated and feeling so foolish that I trusted my uncle enough to put myself in danger again by being alone with yet another sexual predator of a man, never was I so embarrassed and felt so deceived. My mother's brother and my Godfather, he was my favorite uncle. Finally, when I felt his naked cock poking me in the ass, not wanting to be taken anally, not wanting to be taken by my uncle at all, in a rush of adrenaline, it took all the strength that I had to struggle myself away from him. With my dress still bunched around my chest and my underwear askew, I ran from his house and jumped in my car. If he had emerged from the house to chase me, I would have run him down with my car. Fortunately for him, he stayed in his house, no doubt, to masturbate over all that he saw and felt of me. I couldn't wait to go home to the safety of my apartment, lock my door, and take a long, hot shower.

* * * * *

Only, once in the shower and showering is when I discovered my fourth predator. Something fell from the ceiling and hit me in the head. I jumped figuring that it was a big bug, a spider. I hate spider or worse a roach. Rubbing my hair, when I looked down at the drain, it was a small bit of masking tape. Masking tape? How in the Hell did that get way up there? Then when I looked up at the high ceiling in my bathroom, I noticed something I had never noticed before. There was a dim glow of a red light. Obviously the tape had been concealing the light. 

"What the fuck? What the Hell is that?" Only, I knew what it was. "Are you kidding me?"

I turned off the water and dried myself before donning my robe and putting a stepstool in the shower to have a closer look. It was a tiny camera. I couldn't believe it. No doubt, my landlord, a fat, short, hairy men from some God forsaken country, had been watching me for how long, I had no idea, maybe ever since I rented this apartment last year after I divorced my husband. I grabbed the camera with both hands and jumped from the ladder while pulling the camera down from the ceiling. With my hair still wet and wearing nothing but a robe and slippers, I banged on his door.

"Open up! Let me in," I yelled.

When he didn't open his door, I decided to use a different tactic to gain entry. Knowing that he was standing there looking, I stood back from his door to allow him to see me through his peephole. I opened my bathrobe wide and mouthed the words, "I'm so horny. I want you. I have to have you. Fuck me!"

Being that he was naked from the waist down when he opened his door and with his little erection still in hand, he must have been masturbating over my naked body while watching me showering. When he opened his door with a big, sexually excited smile on his face, I bum rushed past him and ran inside his apartment. With his recorded video set to pause, there I was on his 50" HD TV totally naked. I removed the video from his player, pulled the DVD from the wall and through it against his television screen. The TV fell from the stand with a horrible crash. With him yelling at me in some foreign language, I took the entire stack of videos he had beside his TV and put them in the box he had on the floor with the other videos marked with numbers, apartment numbers, no doubt.

"Hey! What are you doing? You can't take those!. They're private property. They don't belong to you. They belong to me. Get out! Get out! Get out of here. I'll sue you! I'll evict you! I'll kill you."

"These are my free rent cards," I said shaking the box of videos at him. When he made a lung and a grab for the box, I kicked him in the balls. "If I so much as see you sniffing around me again, I'll take these to the police," I said slamming his door as I left with his videos. 

One by one, over the course of a week, I forced myself to watch them. He had every apartment in the complex under his perverted surveillance, the dirty, little bastard. I lived there another two years rent free, before moving to Pennsylvania from Boston to live with and care for my elderly mother. Then, on moving day, when I was leaving with my car loaded with my stuff, standing there naked with his cock plainly in sight, he gave me the finger from his big bay window. Free rent for everyone, I smiled and waved because I had already given him the finger when I mailed his videos to each and every resident of the apartment complex. I could only imagine the women's husbands, boyfriends, and sons banging on his door.

* * * * *

My fifth sexual predator and assuredly not my last sexual predator was my father. When first married, we lived with my husband's father to save money to buy a house. His father was long since divorced and he seemed like a nice enough man. Yet, whenever my husband was working, he worked nights back then, my father-in-law gradually made his sexual attraction to me known. Granted and admittedly, no doubt, I stoked his sexual fire by accidentally on purpose flashing him my panty up my short skirt and my pussy up my open legged nightgown. My game to always play, something that I was able to control and control men, I wasn't so innocent flashing him my bra and abundant cleavage when wearing low cut blouses and my big tits when wearing low cut nightgowns. Certainly, I accept my share of blame for encouraging my father-in-law's bad behavior but he was out of control.

Yet it takes two and he was as much at fault trying to see me naked as I was at fault for accidentally on purpose flashing him bits and pieces of my body. Now his game to play, pretending he didn't know I was changing, even though my bedroom door was closed or pretending that he had to pee and couldn't hold it, being that we only had the one bathroom, he was always walking in on me when I was changing and/or showering. A man on a sexual mission, being that he was always so fascinated with my big tits, he was always trying to catch me in my underwear, topless, and/or naked. Being that I've always been an exhibitionist and have always enjoyed the sexual attention of a man wanting to see my body, and at a time when I was participating in the swinging lifestyle with my ex-husband, admittedly it was fun playing my cock teasing game of flashing my father up skirts and down blouses. As my way for me to keep my reputation intact, so long as it appeared accidental, with a flash of my panty here or a flash of my pussy there and a flash of my bra and breast here, there, and everywhere, I never minded showing my body to my father-in-law or to any man.

Then, escalating the game of voyeurism and exhibitionism, an unwelcomed, shocking surprise, an understatement, my father started returning the favor of exhibitionism and voyeurism by exposing himself to me. It's one thing for a woman to sexily flash a man her panty and bra, even her pussy and breasts, but quite another thing for a man to disturbingly and purposely flash a woman his erect cock. Whenever his son wasn't home, acting as if he didn't know he had a big boner, he walked around me in his underwear with a difficult not to notice erection. Like son like father, my father-in-law had a big cock too and I had a difficult time not looking, staring, and leering in the way that he's always looked, stared, and leered at me. 

When he wasn't walking around me in his underwear, he was wearing a loose bathrobe with nothing underneath and damn if his bathrobe tie didn't always, suddenly come undone and completely open at the most opportune time for him to flash me his naked, erect cock. Actually, all that it took for me to see everything he had was for him to bend or stoop on the pretense of picking something up from the floor. Now that I think of it, with me thinking that he was just a clumsy, old fool, while I was sitting there watching television, he was always dropping things and picking them up in front of me, no doubt to flash me his cock and balls.

He'd wear his pajama bottoms without underwear with his erect cock suddenly flopping out and/or swaying back and forth practically in front of my face. Obviously wondering if I'd take the hint and grab at the bait, he was keen to see my reaction to seeing his prick. Most times, I pretended not to notice and that made him mad enough to parade back and forth in front of me until I did notice enough to tell him that he was exposed. By then, already a professed swinger, I had seen a lot of pricks and he didn't have anything that I hadn't already seen before.

No doubt hoping that I'd do the same and expose myself to him, which I did eventually, being that I'm not embarrassed to admit that I'm an exhibitionist, it wasn't until I called his bluff and exposed my naked body to him that he finally left me alone. When he walked in on me for the fiftieth time when I was showering on the pretense that he had to pee, I turned off the water and opened the shower curtain. Staring him down, I just stood there watching him leer at me. Forget about my morals, without preserving my modesty by reaching for a towel to cover my nakedness, I brazenly and unabashedly showed him what he had been lusting to see, my naked big breasts, areolas, and nipples and naked, blonde trimmed pussy. Knowing he had been dying to see my tits, he stared at my big tits as if he was a man dying of hunger.

As if I won and as if he silently agreed that our little game was over, he meekly left the bathroom and never barged in on me again. I guess he didn't want to take our daughter/father-in-law an incestuous, sexual step further. I wonder what I would have done had he called my bluff and tried to have sex with me. Nonetheless, even though I was the victim, thinking that these sexual assaults were all my fault in the way that I dressed, provocatively talked, flagrantly flashed, and/or sexually teased, not only did I feel too guilty to report my abusers, I was too embarrassed and too ashamed to share this with anyone until now. Not wanting anyone to ruin my sexy game by broadcasting my erotic intentions, I didn't want anyone to put the blame of being sexually assaulted, used, and abused on me for flashing them. Being that much of it happened so long ago, in the same way that I use my real name to write erotica, now I just don't care who knows what I write and why I write erotica, especially incestuous stories.

* * * * *

So why do I write erotica? That's easy silly. I was bitten by a vampire, of course. My vampires were my sexual predators. My take on the subject of vampires is those who have been sexually abused by a sexual predator is the same as being bitten by a vampire. There's no difference between the two to me. Now we all know that there are no such thing as vampires but we all know that there are sexual predators abound. I write erotica because I was bitten by a vampire. My sexual predators were my vampires. Instead of drawing blood, they drew something from deep within me that changed me and transformed me into what I am and who I am today. Fortunately for me, I had years of therapy yet, even after all of that therapy, private and group counseling sessions, here I am writing erotica on a porn board. Go figure.

Many of those who have been sexually abused, whether incestuously abused by a relative or sexually abused by a stranger, become sexual abusers themselves. Many who have been sexually abused turn to alcohol and/or drugs to help them soothe their pain. Some commit suicide. Meant to be that I'd be sitting here writing erotic, incestuous stories, if that's all that I'm driven to do, then I'm one of the lucky survivors of incest. Yet, still, I guess, I've always wondered how different my life would have been had I not been forced to blow my prom date, had not been alone with my cousin, coerced to suck my professor's cock, violently and sexually assaulted by my perverted uncle, and used by my father. Who knows, maybe I would have been a nun.

Begging yet another question by my unsolicited confession, just curious, I wonder how many of you readers have had similar experiences. Leave a comment and/or send me an e-mail. Maybe you too were sexually abused. Maybe the reason why you enjoy reading my stories is because you were bitten by a vampire too.

THE END