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Note all characters in this story are over 18-years-old. There are no underage characters in this story. James is 20-years-old and his mother is 40-years-old.
A mother wants her son in a forbidden, incestuous way.
Much worse than being raped by a stranger, after being separately and sexually abused, first by my uncle and then by my cousin when I was only an 18-years-old virgin, I was a basket case. Bad enough for the sexual abuse to happen once, but when it happened again, I was beside myself with anger, shame, and rage. I felt so stupid to trust my uncle. I felt even worse to trust my cousin and to go to him alone. Inviting me over to his apartment to discuss the incident, his way of diffusing what happened and dissuading me from reporting his father to the authorities, I thought my cousin was consoling me for what his father did. Instead, as his father did before him, he was intent on having his wicked way with me too.
“How could I be a part of such a fucked up family, but I was.”
After being groped and kissed before being forced to strip naked and forced to suck them and to fuck them, I swore that incestuous abuse would never happen to my children should I ever have children. Only, even if I didn’t do the dirty deed and never did the dirty deed myself, I broke my promise to myself by incestuously lusting over my 20-year-old son. After putting what happened behind me, more than twenty years later, I never thought I’d be a woman who’d lust over her own, grown, adult son but I do.
“What’s wrong with me? A forty-year-old woman who’s already been down that incestuous path as a victim is now walking the same road as a sexual predator. I should know better but I don’t.”
Even after years of psychological therapy, I thought I was over what happened to me but I’m not. I’m still suffering the side effects and related consequences of being the target of my relatives incestuous lust for me. It was their sexual desire for me that made them cross the incestuous line to kiss me, touch me, strip me, and have sex with me. It was their incestuous actions that has made me who I am today, a twisted, dysfunctional, and angry middle aged woman. So very angry, I’m still too angry to maintain a normal, sexual and intimate relationship with a man. Two decades later, even though I thought I survived the experience of being used and abused incestuously, there were unknown, maladjusted repercussions that hadn’t surfaced yet, that is, until now. For one, I’m an exhibitionist.
So? What’s wrong with being an exhibitionist? Being that women enjoy wearing skin tight clothes that show nipples and camel toes, and enjoy wearing short skirts, low cut tops, bikinis, and sheer, sexy nightgowns, aren’t all women exhibitionist? Being that most men are voyeurs, no doubt, men would be happy that I’m an exhibitionistic woman who enjoys exposing her body to men. Instead of helping me to understand the underlying reasons why I feel the need to expose myself, whether by their words, their stares, their leers, or their actions, they encourage me to expose myself. Alas, as if is with everything else in life, it’s up to me to get the help that I need.
Only, most times, thinking that I’m a normal, sexual woman with an overactive libido who enjoys flashing her body, I don’t see that there’s anything wrong with me. Then whenever I think about having sex with my adult son, I don’t feel that I’m a normal, sexual woman with an overactive libido who enjoys flashing her body. Instead, I think of myself as an incestuous, flashing slut.
“An exhibitionist? What’s wrong with that? Take something off and show me some part of your body that I shouldn’t see. I love up skirts and down blouses,” say the average, horny male.
Only, they’re oblivious to all the sexual peculiarities and peccadilloes that go along with having the uncontrollable need to be an exhibitionist and the unstoppable urges that are behind my need to expose myself. No doubt, because of what happened to me so very long ago, I enjoy flashing my body to unsuspecting men, that is, so long as my flashing appears accidental. Teasing men by flaunting my sexy, shapely body to them, whenever confronted by men for my exhibitionism, I immediately play the part of the accosted, innocent virgin.
“Me? Flash you? How dare you! I did no such thing. What? You peeped at my panties. Pervert! What? You leered down my blouse. How dare you! You’re the pervert and not me. Help! Police! Rape!”
In a much different category than the man who wears a raincoat with nothing else beneath it, I have more class and more self-respect than that. Moreover, I’m not driven to flash just anyone. Once I grew out of the need to flash all of my family, my friends, and strangers coming to my house or meeting by chance on the street, the mall, and on the subway, I’m more selective who I flash now. The flashing that I did early on and the flashing that I did daily, multiple times a day, albeit always with an internal struggle and sometimes with great restraint, has changed from flashing many men to flashing just a few halkalı eve gelen escort select men a few times a year.
Every time I flashed someone I felt bad about myself. I felt dirty. I felt perverted. I felt that there was something really wrong with me, that is, until I masturbated over all the men who saw my panties, my bra, my pussy, and/or my tits. Then, I was ready for the next time to flash again.
Yet, in thinking about why I do the things that I do, it occurred to me that there’s a common thread between those who have been incestuously abused and those who haven’t. Those strippers, exotic dancers, prostitutes, porn stars, deviates, perverts, even readers of erotica, and writers of pornography, more often than not, have had incestuous sex. I know because I’ve taken my personal, albeit unofficial poll and have asked the probing questions that so many don’t want to answer but who will answer me, a survivor of incestuous, sexual abuse.
Whether the aggressor of the victim, with much of it swept beneath that carpet, too embarrassed and too ashamed to come forward, unless wearing a hockey goalie’s mask and disguising their voice, few admit to having had an incestuous, sexual relationship. Unfortunately and undoubtedly, admittedly or not, and whether we remember it or not, we’ve all been bitten by a sexual vampire one time or another. We’re all a twisted lot jumbled into a tightly fisted ball of always wanting sex, sex, and more sex. By not saying no to the Devil, we’ve all been enlisted to continue the Devil’s work. We’re all doomed. When it comes to sex, even those holier than thou preachers who preach the gospel while holding out their hand for money, before succumbing to the devil, are tempted and perverted by sex.
Sex sells. Sex is what we all want to read. Sex is what we all want to watch. Sex is what we all want to have with our spouses, significant others, the girl or boy next door, our neighbors’ spouses, our friends’ sons and daughters, and celebrities. We want to fuck the world and if we all could, we would. The only thing that stops us from being totally out of control with sex is money and lack thereof. If only we had more money, we’d have more sex. Sex and money go together in the way of milk and honey. Show me the money and I’ll give you the sex.
“Heaven help us. God have mercy on our souls for we’re only weak humans. Dear God in Heaven save me from myself. Give me peace.”
Even after my uncle and cousin apologized to me, knowing they weren’t really weren’t sorry for what they did to me, undoubtedly, seeing the incestuous lust in their eyes by their unbroken stares of my clothed breasts, ass, and pussy, they’d ravish me again, if given the chance. Just as I can’t help myself now in lusting over my son, they couldn’t help themselves then in lusting over me. Being that I didn’t know then what I know now, I should have known that for them to have been incestuous aggressors, they were incestuous victims themselves once too.
Nonetheless their hollow and insincere apologies, I had to forgive them to move forward with my life. I had to think of myself and forget about them. Yet, with no going back and with no erasing from my mind what they had done to me, the real damaged was already done. Tit for tat, they ruined my life and I ruined their life by reporting them, having them arrested, and incarcerated. Now that they wear the label of shame of sex offender for the rest of their miserable lives, I feel some consolation and justice.
“How dare they! Why did they do that to me?”
“Get over it,” said Dr. Phil to a incestuously abused woman about being sexually assaulted and brutalized by her father and brother.
Easy for him to say. Unlike Oprah who’s been through Hell and back with all the incestuous experiences she’s had, he’s lived a charmed existence compared to the rest of us who have been sexually used and incestuously abused. What the Hell does he know? Just ask a trained psychiatrist who’s a medical doctor what he or she thinks about Dr. Phil’s off-the-cuff, instant diagnosis of people coming on his show that he’s met for the first time. Dr. Phil isn’t even a real doctor. He’s merely a psychologist. In the vein of Dr. Ruth, Dr. Joyce Brothers, and Dr. Joy Browne, they’ll just celebrity psychologists there to entertain us on radio and television.
I don’t care what Dr. Phil says, there’s no coming back from what happened to me. Having changed me and my life, I can’t get over something that is now a part of me. I’m not the person I was. I’m not the person I could have been. They destroyed that person and replaced her with me, someone else and someone who is always angry, sad, crying, and depressed. Scratch the surface and my bad side emerges. Scratch the surface and I want to flash unsuspecting men my naked and semi-naked body. Scratch the surface and I want to suck my son and fuck my son. Scratch the surface and in the way that I have incestuous lust for my son, I’m no different than my uncle and my cousin in having incestuous lust halkalı grup yapan escort for me.
“Woe is me. Poor, poor, pitiful Susan.”
I was at a loss to understand before, what was happening to me and why it was happening to me, when my uncle and cousin sexually used and abused me as if I was a common whore in the street instead of their lovely niece and their beloved cousin. After experiencing the uncontrollable urge to have incestuous sex myself with my son and temporarily over the lust that I suddenly had for him, I understand now.
“I get it. I really do.”
Turned into a delirious, diabolical demon, I was a werewolf howling at a full moon or a vampire seething uncontrollably when seeing a drop of blood. The strong draw of incestuous lust that still stirs my soul and surges deep inside of me makes me want to have sex with my own, flesh and blood, my 20-year-old son in the way that incestuous lust must have made my uncle and cousin want to have sex with me, an 18-years-old virgin.
“God help me! Give me the strength to stop my incestuous desire for my son.”
My uncle and cousin didn’t even try to control their twisted urges in the way that I have worked to control mine with therapy, introspection, prayer, and drugs. They never sought the help that I sought for their incestuous demons, not that the help that I was given did any good, but the psychological therapy helped me to understand that I wasn’t a monster. I was just an exhibitionist, incestuous slut driven to expose myself and driven to have sex with my son. Ah, I feel better, not really, not at all. The shame, the rage, and the sadness makes me wish I had never been born, never mind having been incestuously, sexually abused.
Yet, I wonder, if because of what happened to me, as if being bitten by a sexual vampire, if I was doomed to repeat the incestuous, sexual experience myself with my son. Maybe just as my uncle and cousin didn’t have control over their dark monster, I too have no control over my dark monster either. Beyond being a cougar, being that my son is half my age, beyond being an exhibitionist, being that I enjoy flashing my body, and beyond being an incestuous slut, being that I want to incestuously and sexually experience my son, I’m a degenerate mother. Susan the incestuous pervert, how dare I lust over my only child? How could I dare contemplate putting my son through all the pain and all the suffering that I’ve experienced while being so damn angry and so damn miserable?
Perhaps, when it comes to thoughts of incest or any sexual thoughts for that matter, it’s different for a man than it is for a woman. Nonetheless whether it’s different for a man or not, I mask my incestuous feelings with self imposed and self manufactured justification to make myself believe that I’m allowed my incestuous transgressions against my son, my own blood related relative. Always with my guilty conscience making me feel bad about myself, I’m not kidding anyone, especially myself into thinking that I’m not the same incestuous monster that my uncle and cousin are.
My deplorable thoughts that manifest my incestuous feelings and actions are still there to keep me honest albeit tortured. Yet, tied to my past as if it’s an anchor around my neck, weighing me down and waiting to sink me in the dark abyss of incestuous sex, just as incestuous sex happened to me, I realize that it’s only a matter of time before I seduce my son. Because of the sexually depraved mother that I’ve become, it’s only a matter of time before I turn my son into the wicked person that I am by biting him with my incestuous bug.
“How dare I think that I could change! How dare I think that I could get over it! I can’t.”
From that first time I was bitten by an incestuous, sexual predator, incest has always had a strangle hold over me. I couldn’t save myself from drowning in an incestuous sea if I was wearing a life vest given to me by God himself and if I was in a lifeboat with Saint Peter and Archangel Michael. With no turning back, once I’ve traveled that incestuous path, be it victim or predator, I’m doomed to dance with the Devil to his delight.”
Using justification as my way to make something so dirty, so disgusting, and so vile more palatable, perhaps, a son having sex with his mother, instead of an uncle having sex with his niece and a cousin forcing himself on an innocent virgin, isn’t as terrifying as a mother seducing her son. I don’t know. I’d have to ask a man who’s already traveled this slippery slope before. Yet, for me to ask anyone for helpful advice, I’d have to speak the unspeakable and mention the unmentionable. I’d actually have to say the word…incest. I’d have to give light to all that I’m thinking when having such incestuous thoughts about wanting to have sex with my son.
“God help me. I’m so tortured. I’m so broken. Why me? Except for the incestuous lust that I harbor for my son, I’m so good otherwise.”
As part of my twisted justification to cross the incestuous line and have sex with halkalı masöz escort my son, perhaps, I hope, cherishing the fond memories of our sexual union together in bed naked, my son would wear our incestuous, sexual relationship as a badge of honor for the rest of his life. Making him into a man, perhaps, my son would be proud to have had sex with his mother. Perhaps, incestuous sex for the male of the species is a rite of passage that he must take and must be traveled before he can be deemed a man. All through literature there are plenty of references to a mother taking her son to her bed, a mother having sex with her son, and a mother marrying her son.
Why should I think I’m any different in wanting my son than Helen was in Pendennis or Hamlet’s mother, Queen Gertrude was with her incestuous relationships? In wanting to have sex with my son, I’m no different than the mother was in Spanking the Monkey. I’m not any different from them. A no one and a nothing, why should I think that I’m special in thinking that I’m strong enough to control my incestuous urges and deny my incestuous lust?
“I can’t. I’m weak. I’m doomed.”
I wish I had a man to ask the question. I wish I had a man to want me, love me, and pleasure me so that I’d stop thinking about wanting to make love to my son. Must men fuck their mothers before they can cut the apron ties to have a loving relationship with a woman or is it just the opposite? If a son has sex with his mother, tied to her forever, can he never enjoy a normal relationship with a woman? Quite the paradox and quite the dichotomy, having sex with one’s own mother is something that Dr. Sigmund Freud would love to analyze again I’m sure, if he were still alive. I’m not smart enough to analyze my thoughts and motives, but even greater minds than mine have fallen victim to incest.
“What should I do? What should I do? I wish I had someone to help me, to guide me, and to tell me what to do so that I wouldn’t do what I really want to do and that’s to have sex with my son.”
Who am I kidding? Whether mother and son, uncle and niece, or even cousin with cousin, color it anyway one wants by spinning it with distorted justification, incest is incest. Having said that, having held incest up to the light of day and defined it, examined it, and rejected it before embracing it, I yearn to have incestuous sex with my son. For all that I’ve done to raise him, that one foul ingredient in our mother and son loving relationship shouldn’t ruin everything I’ve worked so hard to have with him. Yet, I’m afraid it would and I’m afraid it will if, indeed, I cross that incestuous line and play in the Devil’s playground with my son.
“Please God give me the strength to keep my legs and my mouth closed and to say no. I shall not leer at him with my eyes. I shall not touch him with my hand. I shall not take him in my mouth, my ass, and my pussy. Only, dear God in Heaven, you must help me to stay strong against the Devil.”
Behind closed bedroom doors, there are so many incestuous, sexual relationships happening after all. Then multiple all of those incestuous, sexual relationships by all of those incestuous thoughts that men have towards their mothers, sisters, daughters, and cousins, and that women have towards their fathers, brothers, sons, and cousins. Whether we do the dirty deed or just think about doing the dirty deed, we’re a country drowning in incestuous sex. As if fearing to mention the Devil’s name for the perceived terror that we’re opening our minds, our hearts, and our souls to the Dark Angel, too many men and women never speak of the unspeakable and mention the unmentionable. Forever playing the righteous one and the ones without sins, we all keep our incestuous thoughts to ourselves while thinking they are sufficiently hidden, albeit so transparently displayed in our glass houses.
We are all idiots to think we’re strong when we’re not. We’re weak. Just as a man cannot fight his incestuous desire to have sex with his mother, his sister, his daughter, and his cousin, neither can a woman fight her incestuous desire to have sex with her father, her brother, her son, and her cousin. Being that we’re all so wicked, we’re all so doomed.
“Boy, I’d love to fuck her,” said father. “Look at my daughter shaking her tight, little ass while bouncing her perky tits.”
“Boy, I’d like to suck him,” said mother. “Look at my son parading around with his swollen erection while teasing me with his ass.”
A never ending cycle of debauchery and shame, are those who have experienced incestuous sex as victims all doomed to repeat the process as predators? Is the reason why I expose myself because I was the victim of incestuous sex? Most definitely, I do. Do I have thoughts of seducing my son because my uncle and cousin deflowered me? Probably, I do. Do I think that I have the strength to break the cycle and just say no to incest? Probably, I don’t.
Why must my incestuous thoughts overpower me and paralyze me in the way that they do. Helpless not to ponder them, I’m helpless not to act upon them. I’m even helpless to block them from my mind, once I allow them to creep in as if oil oozing through a leak. Just as I can’t help myself from thinking of holding, kissing, touching, feeling, sucking, and fucking my son, I can’t help but think of my son holding me, kissing me, touching me, feeling me, licking me, and fucking me. I want him. I must have him.
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