Bits and pieces

[y=mx+b]

When you come to...

...are you still going to struggle?

Are you still going to want to fight me?


How far do you want to take this?
Because I will take you there.



I will remember every moment that you don't
And whisper them to you
As your eyes roll back
And their lids begin to flutter shut.

 

[y=mx+b]

Mother's Day

Confession

I am into mother/son incest stories.

It's true. That's how I happened upon lit 16 or so years ago now.

It was surprisingly difficult to find a good source of what you were into way back in the day. At least in comparison to where we all are right now internet porn-wise.

It's actually quite hilarious because you know those less popular porn sites you happen upon when you decide to venture beyond the few trusted sites you usually visit (or when those of you that are contented by what others spoon-feed you here, Twitter and/or tumblr venture out on your own for once...) and you find yourself on a site that instinctively compels you to question your own sanity, take a shower and burn whatever clothing you may have been wearing at the time, cancel all your credit cards even though you didn't make any purchases, and purchase some new "wipe my hard drive clean out of everything" virus scanning software because you're damn certain that what you convinced yourself being "questionably legal" at the time actually wasn't in your post orgasm moment of reflection of your moralistic integrity? Yeah... that was an everyday ordeal way back then. And I know I'm not alone in wondering why--of all things--2 girls, 1 cup caught the attention of mainstream pop culture.

Just as I fuck know for sure I'm not alone in wondering what the goddamn fuck was so fucking new fresh and scandalously shocking about 50 Shades of what I wouldn't even bother buying to wipe my ass with.

Honest to fuck people.


Fuck. I got myself all worked up and pissed off now... seriously... fucking idiots... I fucking bang my goddamn head every fucking day at the sheer dumbfuck stupidity of the masses and their collective inability to recognize sensationalism-- what it is-- how it's created-- and the purpose it serves.

It's the same kind of blind dumbfuckery that has pushed Donny thus far in the presidential race.

Well folks, my ADD got the best of me and now I'm too pissed the fuck off to bother with the rest of wherever I was going with this.

 

[y=mx+b]

Try this again

So anyway...

Not to weird you ladies out because I know nothing screams "issues" than a guy that's into mom/son fucking. Of course one could say the same thing about women into father/daughter fucking.

Yet there seems to be less of a stigma. At least that's how it seems to me. Of course I'm a guy. I'm sure over there in the ladies camp you all are "um... You got that turned around. Nothing screams "issues" more than a woman that has a penchant for father/daughter fuck stories"

Of course to this I say bullshit. And I have my reasons, but I currently don't give a fuck about explaining and I'm sure you don't give a fuck either because you just want me to get to telling you dirty little things about myself. And believe me I want to tell you!

Even if it means putting off a rather large portion of whoever all you creepers are.

Of course... I'm putting it out there for all to see so really you all creeping are about as creepy as the guy in the grocery store that just so happens to follow the woman putting her ass all out there

Of course... I don't feel the slightest bit threatened whereas said woman very well may. And even if she doesn't there always stands a chance that she could be.

So never mind.


Now on with the show!


Sometimes when my wife and I are fucking I will pretend that I am her son. She doesn't have a son, nor do I for that matter so I'm free to do so as far as I am concerned

Now, I don't tell her this as it would weird her out. And for those of you thinking "you don't know that! Healthy sexual relationships are about communication! just tell her, it could be her thing too!" I have to say... bullshit. I do know. There's a little thing called "perceptive feeling" that marriage counsellors, pop psychologists, and daytime TV "experts" seem to not know, or forget about all together. So, yeah this little show stays inside my head.

But in the case I did share, what if our role play style is different? What if she was all like "Mommy likes how much her little boy still loves to suckle mommies breast..."?

I'd go from steel carbide hard to overcooked pasta soft in .0 seconds. And I wouldn't recover

How do think that would make her feel?


So yeah... to myself.


Some times I, as the father am complicit in the sexual relationship with me as the son with my wife in a cuckold minus the associate humiliation kind of way. Other times I am oblivious as to why my wife spends the kind of time she does a couple nights a week.

I have this one story in my head where I'm having a few friends over for the night and being as guys are we get to talking about sex not knowing my parents can hear us upstairs as they lay in bed. As it turns out, I've never had a blowjob and boys being boys am made fun of mercilessly. This in turn makes my mother/wife* profoundly distraught particularly when she hears me walking up the steps pissed the fuck off. I mean what kind of bullshit is that!

*sometimes I'm myself as the dad that just finished a 72 hour workweek and all I want to do is sleep but my wife is having one of her absurd helicopter mom moments to which I suggest she go suck him off not realizing that an hour later after feeling her sit on the edge of the bed for a good 15 minutes--that's exactly what she's about to do.

So, yeah... there you have it. Do as you wish with these thoughts of mine for they are now yours as well.

 

[y=mx+b]

You know, one would think that I was drunk or perhaps just finished huffing paint thinner prior to posting.

But no. I'm sober.

 

[y=mx+b]

Couldn't fall back asleep like I wanted to this morning

...so I got to browsing ampic's

I admit to being suspicious about the legitimacy of many of them. I say this even though I've never been burned by a fraudulent poster. Of course I say this being one that seldom reaches out to comment, compliment, or simply say "hi".

In all honesty, I've been burned by my own doubt more times than by anyone else and sometimes it down right pisses me the fuck off because by the time said questionably legitimate online hottie has established themselves as being actually legitimate their ledger of Swinging Richards is a hundred pages deep and I'm like... fuck I should have thrown my name into that book.

All well.

 

[y=mx+b]

It was difficult...

not to find his daughter's friend attractive.

It wasn't; however, difficult to remain the adult and recognize the attraction as it was--biological as well as inappropriate. Nevertheless; biology, being as it is, is morally inept.

And sometimes an ejoyable thing to experience.

 

[y=mx+b]

Even if it was to just sneak a glance every now and then.

Actually watching the two interact has been some of the more enjoyable parts of his life. They were such... characters. His daughter the boisterous ballsy bull in the coffee shop with her infectious laugh oblivious of her surrounding, and Samantha... demure, sensible, astute, yet... sad. But not in the traditional teen angst kind of sense, or really in a clinical kind of sense for that matter. It was more of an abandoned kind of sense of sadness that had no real justification to actually be.

So it was really easy to understand both the depth and duration of their friendship. They complimented each other. His daughter was Samantha's source for soul cleansing, spirit building belly laughs. And Sam... Sam was the external manifestation of his daughter's inner princess. Something he knew she was insecure about.

 

[y=mx+b]

And so...

there he was watching his girls wash Sam's car in the driveway area in front of their detached garage.

He had a moment of hilarity as he imagined Sam's father saying "Samantha darling... that's something we just don't do here in our area. Besides dear, don't you feel that's something you should be above?" In a jet-set posh kind of voice in his head.

The crystal cutting clarity of his daughter's laugh brought his attention back to the girls.

T-shirts and bikini bottoms.


He was reluctant to allow them to wear so little. He knew shit-sure that his wife wouldn't allow it. But she wasn't home. And goddamn it there comes a time it just has to happen. Because it's going to happen. Because girls become young women and young woman become sexual without ever getting to stretch their legs first--so to speak--whereas boys... fuck, how does the saying go? Boys will be boys regardless what you tell them?

That said... fuck he hated having to let himself allow them to start being the women they were all too fast becoming.

 

[y=mx+b]

He knew better than to just stand there pontificating to himself justifications regarding the choice he made in allowing them to get away with what they were wearing. Granted the shirts did provide ample cover... except in certain positions. Nevertheless, those certain positions where things that he was counting.

So feeling like a guilty idiot he made his way back inside the garage to busy himself with sharpening the lawnmower blades he's been meaning to sharpen ever since the weather started turning nice.

 

[y=mx+b]

Alex and I finished washing my car an hour ago and her dad was still grinding away in the garage.

I have to say that I was surprised he didn't stop us from walking out of the house wearing what we were wearing for washing my car. I could tell by the look on his face he rather dissaproved yet at the same time there was an element of acknowledgment that made me feel more comfortable with myself. Of course having Ali and her matter-of-factness about whatever she gets to wanting to accomplish paving the way in front of me helped just as well.

But still... I was nervous. I really wasn't counting on Ali getting us such low cut bottoms. It felt absurd wearing something that was supposed to show my ass crack. And fighting the urge to pull them up was damn near impossible.

After changing back into our normal Alex's mom called needing her to pick up some forms she needed delivered to a company across town that needed them right away. She argued but there's no winning with that woman and so she left saying she probably won't be back for an hour. I didn't care. I wasn't in a rush to go back home. Besides I wanted to vacuum out the inside of my car yet.

 

[y=mx+b]

And so there Samantha was...

...quietly standing in the door way off to the side of the garage watching Alex's dad standing at the whirring grinding wheel. All his focus was on surface of the grinding stone rotating at an impossible speed.

She had always been facinated by the things in their garage. She didn't really know what much of it did but she knew that it all did something. It all served some kind of purpose. And it was all... put to use.

She stood there in the doorway surveying the space before her finding herself facinated by how absurd it was to find herself still facinated that the tools were actually used and used on a regular basis. Blocks of wood scattered about. New piles of fresh sawdust swept into corners next to small piles of sawdust partially composted into dirt. Random metal coffee cans all about the place, some filled with screws, others with bolts, and many others filled with screws, nails, bolts, and all whatever else was in them.

She closed her eyes and inhaled. It was that smell... that garage smell. The smell of used fuel and motor oil and dirt and cans of varnish and paint and leather polish and car wax and everything she wanted her father to smell like.

 

[y=mx+b]

It was raining out...

Samantha woke up feeling on the inside how it looked on the outside. She listened as her parents drove off to work oblivious to the fact that she hadn't left for school. Oblivious to the fact they even had a daughter.

She pulled off her nightshirt and walked topless into the bathroom just off her bedroom. She turned the shower on and stuck her hand under the cascading flow of water to test the temperature knowing full well it was still too cold.

She slid her panties off and began brushing her teeth avoiding eye contact with the reflection of herself in the mirror. Steam began to waft out from the shower. She pulled all her hair over to one side of her neck and leaned forward over the sink. Gobs of toothpaste and spit dropped into the sink. Slack-jawed she continued brushing, allowing all that was being worked up in her mouth to freely flow down along her arm until gravity pulled it away causing it to drop in thick splats near the chromed drain of the white porcelain sink.

 

[y=mx+b]

Intermission

 

[y=mx+b]

Her body...

was still warm from the shower

Her skin
Still pink from the hot water

Sensitive


Wet hair and barefoot
She stepped her way into her closet

The house was quiet
Lifeless
An empty space


The plush carpet wedged itself between her toes with each sinking footstep

Although she never forgot about them
There was still an excited shocking rush that radiated from just below her belly button all throughout her body when she saw them together on the floor of her closet

She shed the robe she had wrapped around her and knelt down onto her heels
She felt the cool air slither across the freshly parted parts of her body as her breasts smashed up against her knees

Holding herself there she reached out for the work gloves that belonged to Ali's father

The once sturdy thick leather, now broken in after so much use collapsed in her grasp.
They were huge
And she found herself just wanting to be with them.

 

[y=mx+b]

He found his hand in one of those precarious places...

...where the added protection of a pair of gloves would be greatly appreciated. A pair of gloves or a torque wrench. A torque wrench in that it would be a sure way to tighten the bolt without having to rely on feel and his years of experience of knowing when to stop tightening shit down before the fucking thing broke off. It was all a matter of not giving into the desire to "give it just a little more...".

Samantha stood unseen and feeling stupid in the doorway. She thought the insurmountable guilt she felt immediately following her orgasm would have subsided during the long walk over. And it probably would have had he not been home like she was counting on.

She looked at the gloves in her hands hoping they didn't smell like her when she heard the shearing sound of metal snapping followed by many of the same words she couldnt keep behind clentched teeth as she came earlier in the morning. But these words struck fear and horror bone-deep inside of her.


With his full strength in front of him, his body couldn't keep itself from throwing its full weight in as well charging under the cavalry call of "just a little bit..."

By the time the unmistakeable sound of a snapped bolt was processed by his brain, his fist had seated itself between the motor and frame in such a way that made it impossible to drop the wrench he was using... in order to extricate himself freely without further injury. But, as time tells no lies to he who hath already lived it... his hand was a seasoned veteran and what was once experienced as a sharp fear inducing kind of pain has now become a numb "fuck that was dumb as fuck" guttural rage inducing kind of pain that made you want to throw things and punch shit.

Free, he swiftly spun around where the grip strength of his good left hand found the lip of the metal workbench behind him and completely upended it into the air--just as his eyes saw her















standing there.

 

[y=mx+b]

And they lived happily ever after.

The End.
Goodbye.

 

[y=mx+b]

Meanwhile, somewhere else in my head...

She just wanted him to fuck her like her rapist did and no words could sufficiently express the degree of self-hate she felt because of it.

How do you tell him that? How do you tell the man that loves you, the man that once pleased you beyond measure that he no longer does? How do you not blame yourself for having developed such a want? How long and how hot does the shower have to be to wash the want away and make you feel beautiful again?

 

[y=mx+b]

Snippets
Scenarios
Vignettes...

I just want them to leave me alone

I just want them to let me make something of myself.

 

[y=mx+b]

He sat at the edge of his bunk...

stairing at the dull grey stainless steel toilet three feet away debating if he was indeed human. And if so, by what percent.

He thought this as he thought about the third one

He liked that he was a part of her growth as a woman. She was the one that showed so much promise.

She was also the one he watched the most
And the one that didn't pass out up until he wanted her to.

He had her for three days.


The curve of the bowl had a sexiness to it
Like the curve of a woman's thigh
The seat of it seamlessly molded into it
There was no lid to flip down
The rim, always open
Like the gaping hole of a woman's asshole
Waiting to be pissed in.

 

[y=mx+b]

The dirt...

on the golf ball he dug out of the ground dissolved in her mouth. The long narrow piece of fabric he had tied behind her head kept her from spitting the ball or the dirt out.

He had tied a lead to the collar she had around her neck and she struggled to dislodge the gag somehow using the knot used to tie her hands elbows-up behind her head. A feat made nearly impossible by the motion of their walking and her stumbling barefoot across what felt like a gravel driveway.

The sun licked it's humid mellow heat across the nipples of her naked breasts. It felt to be a nice day but when she tried opening her eyes to see for herself, the fiber of the cotton balls he had stuffed behind the makeshift blindfold quickly wicked the moisture out of her eyes and cut across her cornea. The event caused her lose the focus she had on anticipation for stepping down upon a sharp rock so that when she did her knee buckled.

The man didn't lose a step and kept pace as she stumbled stupidly behind him. Thick strands of spit swung in gobs off her chin. The constant pulling forward of the collar around her neck finally exceeded the center point of gravity just above her hips and she fell hard against the dry gravel surface scraping the tops of her feet and toes as she did.

Of the things that he had already done to her it was this that broke her ability to cope, it was this that broke her resilience.

She laid there on her side as the pull of the collar around her neck ceased to abate and with her head flung back he continued to pull her body across the hot spinning grinding wheel of the earth.

 

[y=mx+b]

Qotd.

"I think the police might come for you for your lit. posts."

 

[_me_]

...are you still going to struggle?

Are you still going to want to fight me?


How far do you want to take this?
Because I will take you there.



I will remember every moment that you don't
And whisper them to you
As your eyes roll back
And their lids begin to flutter shut.

Oh fuck, this is hot!!

 

[y=mx+b]

Oh fuck, this is hot!!

Speaking of hot...
Thank you

 

[y=mx+b]

But let's go back to the qotd for a sec.

It used to be a paranoid legitimate concern of mine that what I wrote would call the attention of the authorities and I'd be carted off or made a spectacle in the village square and I'd live my life either in ass-rape prison or having to move from villiage to villiage once word got out of my filth addled mind and the irreversible digital trial it left behind.

But then I was fortunate to sit in on a forum featuring Chuck Palahniuk which included him reading a few of his short short stories. Somewhere between two girls excusing themselves to go vomit in the trash outside the door, and the start of the answer and question portion, I thought to myself... "There is absolutely nothing I now cannot write. I am free... FREE! The thought police have no power over me... and they never really did!"

Because if that fucker can scribe what is in his mind down into the written form without shame or legal repercussions... so can I.


And to their credit, the two girls did come back and finish out the forum.

 

[y=mx+b]

That said... to those who have been put-off by my recent skribblings I apologize.

Perhaps I'm not the right kind of fantasy guy for you.