Naked mom in the kitchen

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2020.09.29 00:24 slimboi725 Naked mom in the kitchen

28 days until mom and dad arrive
Two days after robs ballbusting experience with his sister.
Rob was in the kitchen making himself a sandwich while in his underwear.
Madison walks in and scoffs.
Madison: why the fuck are you always in your underwear its fucking disgusting.
Rob:fuck off bitch
she kicks him as hard as she can from behind
Madison: dont ever call me bitch again you understand
rob groans
Madison kicks again
Madison: I said do you fucking understand!
Rob: yes yes for fuck sake yes!
Madison: I'm going for a jog and when I get back you better be naked and waiting for me so you can clean my feet!
1 hour later
Madison walks through the door to see her brother naked and kneeling
Madison:oh good boy now let's go to the couch
rob crawls to the couch and sits at the ned with Madisons feet in his face
Madison: when you're at my feet I am goddess not your sister. Now get to licking. And if they are not done to my satisfaction you'll get a worse kicking.
Rob: yes goddess.
rob sticks his toung out and closes his eyes as he put it against her sweaty and stinky heel he slowly runs his toung up her sole to her big toe and wraps his lips around her toe
Madison: *covers her mouth to hid her moans *if you do a good job maybe I'll let you fuck me
rob sucks on her toes licking between them and sucking all the sweat off them robs dick is throbbingfully erect dripping pre cum
Rob: goddess may I jerk to your feet please.
Madison: I'll allow it but you better save some for later she winks but you have to listen to me and how I tell you to jerk it. Mow grab your dick and jerk slowly.
rob takes his big dick in his hand and starts jerking while he licks
Madison:now speed it up a little I've watched you jerk it before I know you can go faster. Here use this she throws her sock at him you're gonna jerk it with my sweety sock and when you cum you'll drink it from that sock.
rob putsher dirty sock on his dick
Madison: now start jerking again and fast but dont stop licking my feet or else.
rob starts jerking his dick faster as he licks his sister feet like a dog
Madison: now jerk it slower HAHAHAH. Don't need you Cumming too fast now do we?
*rob starts going slower
Madison: I think I might wanna crush one of you balls at some point...I mean I can always have them fixed my friends mom is a nurse and so is mom so if I decided it I can crush you balls and let mom fix them and then do it all over again.
rob starts to shake
Madison: hahhaha are you seriously about to cum to the thought of me crushing your balls? Hahaha you're so fucking pathetic you know that. Ok I'll let you cum but I'm gonna count you down 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 . . . 1 CUM! rob shakes as he explodes in his sister sock overflowing in her sock
Madison: that is so disgusting well I gues you have a big mess to clean up. And you still need to finish my feet
after twenty minutes of rob sucking and licking his sisters feet and toes she finally let's him stop
Madison: ok I'll let you stop. I was gonna suck you off but now that your dick has been in my dirty socks I don't think so
rob grabs his sister by her hair and shoves his dick In her mouth
Rob:now its my turn bitch!
Madison secretly loving her brothers big dick scratching the back of her throat continues to suck,
Rob:moans god you suck dick so good! You better not stop until I cum down your fucking throat!
Madison grabs her brothers balls and squeezes them as hard as she can
Rob:grunts that's not gonna stop me from cumming in your mouth
rob starts to fuck his sister throat
Madison: grunting and moanings..t...o..p...
Rob: hold on in close....
rob pulls out just in time to cum over his sister face
Madison:coughing and choking.....WHAT IN THE FUCK YOU FUCKING PERVERTED BASTARD !
Rob: that's for kicking me in the nuts earlier.
rob knees down to his sister and starts to make out with her
Madison: while kissing you know I still have cum in my mouth.
Rob: I dont care rob sticks his toung down Madisons throat
after they are done making out rob and Madison take a shower together
(The shower will be a bonus story I will make on the side)
Any more advice or tips I really appreciated the comments on my last post. Aslo I will follow and like everyone who comments and I hope you will follow me back for more.
submitted by slimboi725 to BallbustingStories [link] [comments]


2020.09.28 05:40 _johdy_ Mom kitchen naked in the

Last week I finally got the keys to my new apartment... before I get to the point of my story I feel that I have to give a little backstory first. Feel free to skim if it’s too long of a read.
I had been living for the past year in a transitional housing apartment provided to me by a state run program. When I first entered the program they told me that I’d be allowed to stay in this apartment with my two little girls for two years and at the end of said two years they would match any savings that I had (up to $2500). It seemed like a dream come true.
Fast forward a year and COVID-19 happens. I’m a barber, so of course, the shop where I worked was shut down and I was penniless and out of work. Thankfully I qualified for unemployment and it was sooo plentiful after the $600 boost. I fixed up my broken down car, got some much needed dental work done, and started to relain my credit. With so much money circulating in my pocket I decided to invest that money in opening my own shop as soon as the lockdown was over. This way when it’s time to move on from this place I’ll be in a good place to start fresh.
So fast forward again about 2 months after quarantine and my business is doing well. I’m not really “making money” but I’m also not losing a ton of money either. Also I’m my own boss which means that I have more time with my kids. At this point I’m feeling so very blessed and every day I feel so thankful for my new windfall.
One day I get a call from my case manager asking me for my income details. Now, this isn’t unheard of in this program but it is strange because I’m “unemployed” technically as far as they know so I don’t have any income. So I give them all of the info they ask for and about a week later I get a message from them saying that I no longer qualify for their program because I make to much money on unemployment and that I should have used that extra money to secure stable housing. I try to explain that I couldn’t find stable housing because I’m unemployed and that the boost is temporary but they can’t be reasoned with. However, this whole journey so far has been more that I could have ever hoped for and as much as is saddens me and honestly shocks me, I really can’t complain too much. So, I start the hunt for a new apartment.
As a barber I usually chat with my clients all day everyday just about random stuff but usually we just end up telling stories about our lives and what’s going on in our day to day. So I’m talking to my clients (a guy and his wife) about my apartment hunt and how I have to be out within the month. I have horrible credit and I can’t pass any income verification because honestly I have none. My shop isn’t making money and I’m basically living on unemployment at the moment. So my clients (who happen to be Serbian) basically tell me that if I have hurdles to overcome, the easiest way to get past them is to look in areas where there are a lot of immigrants because a lot of them are overcoming the same hurdles. So they tell me don’t worry, my apartment search is done. At this point the month is more than half over and I don’t have many options. I’m trusting them but I’m still looking on my own as well. About a week before the end of the month my dad calls me and says that he wants me and the girls to move in with him. He lives about an hour from my barber shop and my girls’ school and the commute in the winter will be awful. It’s not an ideal situation but I guess for now it’s the best option that I have, so I start making plans to move in with him. About two days after that, I get a call from my client and his wife telling me that they are moving and that they talked to their landlord for me, if I want their apartment then it’s mine. Long story short, I’m elated. They live one block away from my current apartment which is about a block from my kids’ schools and five minutes from my shop. They tell me that I can come over and check out the apartment. Of course I drop everything right then and there and head over. The apartment is gorgeous. It has high ceilings, two spacious bedrooms, and even a separate dining room which is huge as well. It must be at least double the size of my current apartment and for only $400 extra per month in rent. I’m so happy I could cry. I thank them profusely and ask them about the landlord and the other tenants. Basically I’m just making conversation because obviously I’m taking this apartment. They tell me that the landlord is a sweet old man and that his daughter can be a bit bitchy but we rarely ever have to deal with her. The neighbors are all very sweet and even though the people upstairs can can be kind of loud, they aren’t bad either. He tells me that the guy across the hall just moved in with his daughter a few months ago but they pretty much keep to themselves. Then my client and his wife joke about how he tends to have a lot of lady callers who they assume are hookers because they all seem to be pretty young and scantily clad. We all laugh a bit and I thank them again and head home to resume packing. Later that night I get another email from my case manager about how I need to be out of the apartment soon. At this point I’m so thankful for my clients because I was feeling hopeless and like I was slowly falling into a depression before they gave me this amazing gift.
So fast forward another week and it’s finally time to secure my lease and get my new keys. The landlord is a little apprehensive once he finds out that I’m a single mom and a new business owner. He thinks that I won’t be able to afford the rent but he basically takes a chance on me. I’m so grateful for the good news and even though I’m also a little scared and unsure about my new predicament I’m optimistic as well.
Here’s where things get weird....
So I gave the landlord my deposit and received my keys. The first thing I did was paint my new apartment. After about 12hrs of nonstop painting not only was I exhausted... I was starving. The only thing was that I was covered in paint and really didn’t even have the energy to shower let alone leave my place for food. I didn’t have much money at this point but I figured that I deserved a little job well done splurge. So I ordered Chipotle on Uber Eats. As soon as I put my phone down and really settled into the quiet of my new apartment I started feeling... weird. Just kinda creeped out. Maybe because I was by myself or maybe because the place was unfamiliar to me but it was like a strange hair raising feeling. So I called my boyfriend to come over. After about 20 long, creepy, hungry minutes I finally got the call from my uber delivery guy that my food was here. I could hear something that sounded like sobbing in the background but I brushed it off and ran to the door to grab the meal. As I’m heading to the front door I notice two things: the apartment door across the hall is wide open, and the sobbing is coming from these two young girls standing at the front door. They look to be about 15 or 16 and they aren’t just sobbing, they’re wailing. I walk past the wailing teens and grab my food from the guy who looks at me with panic in his eyes and he takes off quickly. In my head I register it as odd but don’t really think twice about it, instead, I now focus in on the two girls to my right.
“Hey, you girls ok?” I ask hesitantly. One of the girls has a phone in her hand and I hear the woman on the phone ask who I am.
“N-n-no m-my dad is in bed and he’s naked. S-s-something about him just doesn’t look r-r-right.” The girl with the phone wails. The other girl grabs her other hand and they begin sobbing again. I immediately jump into mom mode. I’m imagining this idiot dad in a drunken passed out state scaring the hell out of his kids. I hear the person on the phone say that she’s going to call the police. I tell her that I’m the across the hall neighbor and that I’m going to go check it out. So I head with the two girls up into my apartment to sit my food down and tell them to take me to their dad. At this point I’m extremely irritated with this guy who I don’t even know because how irresponsible to get that drunk midday knowing your kid could be home any minute. As the girls are leading me through their apartment I’m noticing that it’s pretty much empty. Just one lamp in the living room and one pot on the counter in the kitchen. Weird, they moved in months ago I thought. I brush off the thought as I realize that the girls have stopped walking. Jeeze, they’re really scared. I look back at the girl with the phone to reassure her that he’s probably fine and she doesn’t come any closer.
“He-he-he’s naked.” She warns. And hands me a blanket randomly. I didn’t even notice that she’d grabbed it. I turn back to the door in-front of me and ask her is this where he is. She nods but doesn’t come any closer.
“Sir” I call out. Not wanting to freak him out. “Sir” I call out again. A little more cautiously this time. There is no answer. No sound a all. So I slowly push open the door.
My eyes immediately flash to the only thing in the room which is the bed. The room is brightly lit from the sun outside and I quickly glance away from the obviously naked figure laying spread eagle in the bed.
“Sir” I repeat, trying to be respectful of the fact that I’m in his home, and he is naked and I’m a stranger.
Still nothing. Not a sound. I slowly look back over to the bed. Now I’m examining the full picture. He’s definitely naked. Very naked. I’m not wearing my glasses of course so I step just a little closer into the room. As I do I realize that he’s wearing a empty condom. And that his chest is raised unnaturally into the air. Also that his head is back in an extremely unnatural angle as well. As my eyes take in even more details l notice that his fingers are curled and the tips of them are black and that from the top of his chest to his chin is black as well. I stare at his chest for a while to confirm what I was beginning to suspect. He’s dead. Very dead. And it looks like he wasn’t alone when he died. Someone left him like this.
I slowly back out of the room and close the door as I leave. The girls are still in the hallway.
“I-is he ok?” The girl and the woman on the phone ask simultaneously. I pull the girls with me into my apartment. I tell them that I don’t know and ask who the woman on the phone is. She tells me that it’s her mother. I ask the girl for her phone and tell her to have a seat I. My living room while I speak to her mom in private.
“Ma’am where are you?” I ask trying to keep my voice calm. The woman is on FaceTime and I can see the panic on her face. “I’m in Texas. I-is he dead?” She asks me with her hand over her mouth. At this point I don’t even know how to break the news to her. “Ma’am I don’t know for sure because I’m no trained professional but he’s not moving and his fingers are black.” I respond trying to be respectful and also convey the urgency of the situation. “Is he dead?!” She asks again. This time more panicked. “I don’t know ma’am. All I know is that he sure doesn’t look alive” I reply and this time a little more forcefully. Her hand flies to her mouth and she wails and hangs up the phone. I walk out of my bedroom into the living room to return the phone to the little girls. Only they aren’t there. I walk back towards their apartment to find them heading back in.
“No sweetie you guys should come sit with me until...” I’m cut off by an officer walking into the unit as I’m leading the girls back into the hallway. It is only at this point do I realize how suspicious this could all look. I point the officer into the guys bedroom. He turns and looks at me and asks who I am. He questions me for a while but after seeing all the paint on me he decides that I’m probably not a person of interest and let’s me go back to my apartment. Just then about four other officers fill the tiny hallway between the two units and the girls’ uncle shows up and leads them down the stairs to speak with the officers. I go back to my place and the rest of the day kind of goes by in a blur.
Eventually everything quiets down and my boyfriend gets there. He comforts me and tells me that there’s still a few officers in the hallway. They don’t leave completely until well after one in the morning. They also didn’t move the body for a while either. It was all so very surreal. My boyfriend kept asking me how did I not hear anything. I keep telling him that I was just so focused on my painting. I just feel horrible for those poor girls. Can you imagine the that being the last way you see your dad? I know I can’t unsee it.
Here we are a whole week later, we still don’t know what happened to him. However I just keep thinking about my clients telling me about the hookers and strange women. Another thing that I can’t get out of my head, is that I heard those kids come home. I remember because they flew into the parking lot behind our building and I remember making a mental note to remind my kids to be careful when walking to the car. I heard them giggling in the hallway between our apartments. The girls got home at least 3 hours before I found them in the doorway crying. That means that they were home for at least 3 hours with their dad in the next room. I still have that weird creepy hair raising feeling on the back of my neck. What a nice welcoming to the new building. Next time, I’ll probably just mind my own business.
submitted by _johdy_ to creepyencounters [link] [comments]


2020.09.28 00:24 tsinnyc30 *TS* *NSW* I can't trust men, so I don't know how to love...where do i start to heal?

tw nsw rape/child sexual abuse. I write in a way thats very vivid, thats how the images in my mind work. Maybe its also because I am a writer, and it is hella drilled into us about details. All about the details. I know this can upset some people. So there is the warning.
I was a child of sexual abuse. Which made my rape at 23 worse. Much worse.
When I was 5, I was in foster care. I was a super feminine acting boy. (I am a trans woman now). My foster brothers and male figures never used to play with me. Saying things like:
"Don't you want to play with the girls, sissies don't like sports"

"Take ya gay, useless ass on somewhere" They would always leave me 
In came Carl. He always included me. He was 16/17 and he was amazing at first. He let me play super Nintendo with him. He took me to the park. He snuck me candy like Reese cups, when my Grandma told me no. I loved him. Growing up with my twin in foster care, I felt abandoned. Because I was a feminine boy, i felt doubly abandoned.
 He started asking me if I wanted to cuddle with him at night. My grandma was tired and he was always so nice to me, I don't even think she had a second thought about it. The first few sleep overs with Carl was beautiful. He would just hold me. He would tell me scary stories, then I would run to the bathroom in the dark, running back to his bad shaking. He would get me cupcakes. He would hold me, and tell me how he loved me. Until one night, it changed. He smelled funny to me, the-now-gorgeous-familar smell of Marijuana. He told me he wanted to show me a secret game. The games of men. Not knowing any better, I said show me. I loved and trusted him at 5. He was the big brother I always wanted...replacing the abandoned feeling I felt at my parents. He kissed me. He had vitiligo, and a pink spot that was so unique on the corner of his lips on his right side. I remeber the feeling of his third degree burned hands on my body. His mother tortured him and locked him in the closet for weeks on end in the Bronx. He had cigarette burns all over his body. He was still attractive. Beautiful hazel eyes. Brown skin like mines. Full pink lips. He was a boxer, he turned the hands his mother tried to take from him into weapons that made the street nickname him "Mean Machine", with how savagely he would fight guys on the street. He was also a child of sex abuse, once the system found him at 7, and placed him in group homes, which later, in my teenage years when I found out, made me totally forgave him. He did love me, even though he hurt me, but ultimately as a late teenager, he was just reliving a cycle. It does not excuse him, but compared to my rape at 23, I can forgive Carl. 
He pulled his pants down and put my tiny hands on his bigger genitalia. That was all we did the first time. He called me pretty.
"You really look like a little girl with ya long curly hair and bambi eyes". 
He orgasmed and because it didn't feel bad, I didn't see it as bad. It was just a game.
He then grabbed me softly and forced me to look at him. 
"You can't tell. If you tell, I will die. You don't want me to die right? If you tell, I will be gone and you will have nobody to play with, I will be killed horribly. This is our secret game. Only us. Okay?"
I was heartbroken. I let out a high pitch shrill cry. As I clang to him and repeated:
"Puleazhh don't die...please don't die. Please don't die...i lub you."
He held me again and we fell asleep.
The game was simple at first, just touching, but quickly it progressed.
 The 4th time I saw him, he put whip cream on himself. "I have a treat for you. If you play our secret game well, you will get a reward. You have to lick it off" 
So I did. I remember the smell of him. His just turned into a man pheromones plugging my noise. The sweat of his skin, and the sweetness of the whip cream. I gagged horribly. But he told me i was doing a Good job even though it was barely fitting. I remember his fluid on my face.
He wiped us both off and got a big ass bag of candy out his closet. Again...the behavior was painted as something good by him.
 (Im legit unnerved even though I can't help writing so candidly. To do that to a child, to lie and use manipulation is utterly insidious. To use my emotions, that he should have protected.....it id fucking gross. Gross. A 5 year old. What was sexy about me, I still occasionally peed the bed, I was dirty from always climbing and exploring things, etc...but then its not about that. But its just....ugh. I know he picked me because I was feminine and because I was a loner by the nature of what I am, a transgender individual.) This went on for months. His "you are so beautiful like a little princess", his cuddles, his playfulness. I loved it. Even the sex acts we did, i didn't mind because it was not violent nor did it hurt at that point. It was definitely uncomfortable/ weird and there was no sexual thrill for me. The only thrill was for me to please the brother I loved. If it pleased him, I was happy with that. I had turned 6 and a week later he brought me upstairs. He smelt like straight alcohol. He kissed me aggressively. "I missed my princess" His aggressiveness was scaring me. He had never acted that way before. "Ima go to De-lores. Goodnight. You being weird. (my adopted mom/ I call her grandma too). 
"No...u can't leave yet. You don't miss me?"
He pinned me down, as I yelled for him to let me go. He placed his hand over my mouth and nose, until I almost couldn't breathe and thrashed in the bed. He bent me over and tried to penetrate me, but I was wayyyyyy to small for that. So it never went in, but it was sooo painful. The edges of my hole, burned from the friction of him desperately tryna penetrate me......
He let me down on the cream color carpet of his room as I cried and hit him.
"U HURTED ME...CARL! YOU HURTED MY BUTT. YOU HURTED ME!" HE HUGGED ME AS I HEARD WHAT SOUNDED LIKE A WHISTLE NEAR THE STAIRS LEADING TO THE SECOND FLOOR. 
He placed me in the upstairs bathroom.
"If anybody asks why you up here, tell them you were using the bathroom. And im sorry. Im sorry. You forgive me. I'll make it up to you. I promise. Say you forgive me...please."
"I...forgived...u...." 
I said wiping snot away.
A week later. My grandma sat me down. She asked if anyone was touching us. She looked evil though. I know she would never hurt me, but I loved Carl like family. She had hell and brimstone in her irises, and she got into one of her righteous rants, where she said she would kill for me, kill for my brother, nobody would hurt us.
I don't know if she meant it, but she scared me into silence. I don't blame her. Its hard even bringing those topics up without emotion. But I didn't want Carl to die. So I shut up. At 6, I shut up. I didn't want him to die. And her words made what he said reality in my head.
I never went to him anymore though after my Grandma's talk and him tryna penetrate me. I never let him get me alone. He would try to bribe me with food, candy, video games, begging, clothes, money...but i never went.
He went to Juvie a few months later for stabbing a boy in the face over street wars.
 Life was normal until 11. In fourth grade, I was taking a NYS official test, I was answering a question about the Native American indigenous to NY state and boom: (There were two paintings in the upstairs hallway. My grandma had a picture of a Native man, with striking features, in a swamp, grabbing a snake. It was next to a picture of a black girl playing double dutch. That question connected back to that picture) 
It all played out in my mind like a movie. I didn't even realize I had suppressed it that much. I fought back tears and (I work well in stress, idk why but I do), I got a 97%.
 After that day I became hypersexual. When I think about it, I always was....touching boys and girls. Kissing girls and boys, playing house and being the wife. Always too fucking touchy and in people's personal space. But I guess at 11, puberty hit me full force and the idea of sex became something constant in me. Before that it was all mimicry of what happened to me. At 11, these thoughts entered me and would not leave. I wanted real sex after that moment. It is hell to be hypersexual at 11. My southern-upbrung Grandma was definitely not ready for that. Then my thoughts were about boys. I was consumed with them. Especially older men. Taking my friend in the closet and telling him I love him, while I pull his penis out and offer him a blow job. 
"...ok...ok...idk..but if its you...ok"
 I started fucking myself with things. The ends of a big screw driver with a soft silicon handle. An ugly yellow toy banana I found at Family Dollars. Fingers. It was like older men knew I was in a heat, I didn't want. I would masturbate like 7 times a day. It was never enough. It was all consuming. An older man who liked me gave me a dildo, he never had sex with me though. We would just talk about how it felt when I penetrate myself. He would stutter and cum to my stories. (I lose myself in good anal sex. I still do, I dissassociate in a good way, the noise of the world falls away and all I am in those moments are a body, feeling. There is no analyzing life, or existential crises. There is not a thousand thoughts in my head. No ptsd or bpd or bipolaor depression or all those mental illness therapists told me I had directly and not so directly) This feeling of shame came when I couldn't stop the thoughts. I was something bad and deviant. My thoughts were deviant, so I locked them up tightly. Even though they were ever present Carl came out of juvie/prison when I was 12. His 6 pack all those years ago had turned into an 8 pack. His slender, toned teen body, had grown into a young man's body. I was drawn to him. He felt indebted to me. 
I remember at 12, when of his hood friends used to flirt with me. Nothing crazy, just a little flirtatious. Always tryna wrestle me. Always tryna get my attention.
I came home one afternoon to him surprising me, him agitated.
"Jay is fucking with you D?" "No he is cool" "Lemme know cuz I will end any nigga for you. You hear me...any of them. You mines. You hear me!" 
My grandma sat on her bed smiling. Like aww look at the older brother being protective.
It wasn't protection though. He still felt like i belonged to him some way even though he never made anymore moves. He also felt guilty.
He was always giving me stuff. Clothes. Food. Money. Anything. It could have been his last.
I would watch him shower. He would leave the door open slightly. I would peek and look at his naked body, until my mind went crazy in heat. One Night, he left his shirt on the floor as he showered. I had a small t-shirt on and these too tight underwear. On the same cream color floor where he tried to penetrate me, i pentrated myself with that, ugly yellow banana, inhaling the intoxicating smell of his shirt. I was so into it, I didn't feel his eyes on me. 
He was watching me smell his shirt and fuck myself.
 He was hard and staring when I came on his rug. "We can't do that nomore. What i did was wrong....but fuck...you looked so sexy....still with the soft skin and big bambi eyes." "Fuck all that...i want you to fuck me..." "What's gotten into you...you used to be so innocent and sweet. We don't have to. I will always be be ya side. You still sexy though God. Even more sexy." "I don't know how to handle what you exposed to me. I want dick in me all the time. 24/7. I dream about it. I day dream about it. I fantasize about it. Please Carl, fuck me...please" "Im too big and people in the house and...." 
I got up knocking all the shit off his dresser. There's a rage in me, a darkness. A need. Impulsivity. Like every emotion is competing for best actress.
I started crying in pure fucking frustration. 
"So you could try to fuck me at 6, you pedo, but 12 is too old? Fuck you nigga. I hate what you did to me. You made me so fucking weird and now!!!!! You don't want to FUCKING continue. I hate you. Fucking die."
He hugged me like when I was little.
"You went me that bad? To finally have me truly take ya virginity. Wait a little longer okay. But look at me...clearly I'm excited. Just wait...ok? Sex starves D might be the seseries. (Him referring to me at 5/6 as sexy 🤢🤮, when I think about that disgusting convo) I pouted. He gave me 300 from his drug business to shut up. 
After that, every time he would pass me, he would feel on me. I'd wear little t shirts where my nipples poked out and pajamas too small, so my little butt could poke out.
He would touch me and kiss me in rushing. He was never home, always in the street. 
At 13, he died from a gunshot wound to the heart. He never did get to fuck me.
(Sometimes, when im depressed, and analytical, I think if all that really did propel me on my way to my life now. I pass as a woman and live an alright life, even with the trauma, but my Mom says when things like that happen to us so young, they become apart of our psyche. Not to say I would have been a sterotypical masculine male....but is this why I like being called princess and good girl, is this one of the reasons why I so desperately clung to womanhood, is this why, especially young, all my sexual fantasies were of me being penetrated by older, well hung, developed men. How much of it is my true nature, how much was groomed into me. The choking, the hypersexuality in my youth, the crazy sex adventures I found myself in. I don't think about it often. Its one of those questions that if I let it sit too long in me, will undo me. I love my transition (mostly) but that thought is scary. To think that, the person I am today can be attributed, at the least, slightly, to my childhood trauma)
The real trauma happened at 23. When i was 23, I dated this guy named Jason for 6 months. I had just started transistioning for a few months. He took me out. I met his close friends. I met his cousins. The sex was good, he was sweet and passionate. I felt like i was falling for him. Lucky. Special
I was a new trans woman, and most guys arent always so kind to not so passable trans women.
He treated me like a woman. How I always wanted to be treated.
Up until the night I told him no.
We had went out on a night on the town. The place is near west 4th street in NYC. It is called the Fat Black Pussy Cat. He bought me these bomb ass nachos and like 13 tequila shots. My stomach was queasy and I couldn't keep my head from spinning.
I get home and boom, sleep.
His body weight and his massive hands on me woke me up. (5'9 150 to his 6'5 250 pure muscled body). He was an athlete and he had went to prison. I never saw it as a red flag because it was a white collar crime.
He wanted sex.
I said no. I'm nauseous. In the morning bae.
It took my brain 10 minutes to catch up to what was going on.
My laughs and his stoic face.
My giggles and "stop playing Jason, in the morning im ride it good daddy." fall on a face that was determined.
His hand on my throat squeezing tighter and tighter.
When I realized what was happening (i'm also a childhood survivor as well). I fought. Two rights to his eyes and nose. He laughed. I ran for my kitchen, and picked up a knife but he slammed me.
Those first few moments were straight anxiety. Me, running full speed over my couch; him catching my leg and my face hitting the floor.
Me, head butting him right in his lip. I sunk my teeth into his shoulder blade. He slammed my body face first into my living room wall.
I remember the sound of glass breaking as he slammed my back against my glass coffee table. Bits of glass, like glass splinters, on the side of my spine.
I remember the anxious feeling turning into a doomed one, when my strength and stamina didn't match up to his. Even just 10 months on estrogen shots and anti testestorone pills had made me weaker. Like 50 percent weaker
His laughter in my ear as he said:
"I like girls with heart, ya are more satisfying to break"
After 20 minutes he got tired. Not physically tired. Tired of this fight in me.
I was on my last wind. Every nerve in my body was in fire from fighting with him so long. I grew up fighting and winning as a feminine boy. But as a trans women, on hrt, a high dosage, its just not the same.
I remember my teeth cutting into my jaw as he slammed my head into the kitchen tiles, the hemoglobin left the taste of iron in my head.
He punched my ribs, knocking the wind out of me. Stomped my right hand. I just laid there, as the reality of my situation set in.
Im not getting away.
"Isn't this why you transistioned...to entice men. Didn't you do this to become mines"
I dissassociated as he choked me until i couldn't breathe. Color flashed in front of my eyes. I focused on my cat in a corner, a white ball, like this had happened to her before . I didn't want to die from fighting for the right over my body. So I mentally left.
I focused on a dustball under my stove
I stared at a dead sparrow on my kitchen window ledge I had never noticed. I imagined I was that bird. Dead. If I'm dead, I can't feel and if I can't feel, this is not happening to me.
His kisses on my shoulder....and his "there's my baby girl", was worse than the rape or beating. That memory lives under my skin. His attempted intimacy daring rape. How....how....
It makes me so mad and digusted. Like I wanna take my nails to my skin to kill that fucking memory.
I wanted him to be evil. You are a fucking monster, fucking show it, you disgusting, deviant, criminally sadistic bastard. If you wanna be evil.
He caressed and kissed my unresponsive body.
Pushing his dick into my dry walls, slightly ripping me.
It was messy because I was not ready nor did I prep. It hurt because he went in dry.
I didn't even scream, as I felt myself tear a little. I just stared....i was death in those moments.
He left me there saying "I love you Daisy". I stayed on the ground for 30 minutes. No thoughts. I just stared. My kitty Carmen licked my face and I cried so horribly, stirred back to reality by her. She left white hairs on my chin as she turned into a ball under my neck.
He left anal fissures in me and a hemorrhoid. It hurt to use the bathroom for 10 days. He had fractured the bone below my right index finger. My left eye was filled with blood. When he slammed my head in the kitchen, blood filled into it. I looked like an extra in the Walking dead.
I never told because I am transgender. They don't care if we live let alone if we are raped.
I swallowed it. Never telling anybody for years, going to school the next day like I was in a car accident and smiling.
I sometimes attack men in my sleep. My exs always tell me how wild I sleep at night and how they can't touch me when im deep sleeping or I become violent.
I have extreme pstd at times. Fits of paranoia and rage.
I don't trust men. Nor do I think I can ever conventionally date again. I try but I leave or dip...or go m.i.a. i just don't feel connected to me like I once did. Its been so many secual wrongs done to me.
But him making me almost love him and then brutally raping me, was the one sexual trauma to truly do me in.
Even if i like a guy, there's a subliminal voice in my head telling me:
"All men are predators, some just are more good at hiding it"
I never hated my transition until that moment. That sheer terror of my body failing me. The sheer terror of my physical strength changed. The utter hopelessness.
"Damn I made myself a fucking target. I had to be a fucking tranny. I'm weak now and can't even protect myself."
And i don't think I can ever trust any man 100 percent. Maybe...at best...99 percent.
But it has made me lonely and depressive. How do I love again? How do I learn to trust?
I don't want to die without finding true love but at this progression...im be an old trans woman with mad cats. Bitter and jaded, seeing the world as evil.
I used to be so carefree. Now I trust nothing.
How do I get a piece of the old me back?
How do I move on?
The memories being like movies. I can see all the details.
 Im ready to heal. 
submitted by tsinnyc30 to stories [link] [comments]


2020.09.28 00:21 tsinnyc30 In naked mom the kitchen

tw nsw rape/child sexual abuse. I write in a way thats very vivid, thats how the images in my mind work. Maybe its also because I am a writer, and it is hella drilled into us about details. All about the details. I know this can upset some people. So there is the warning.
I was a child of sexual abuse. Which made my rape at 23 worse. Much worse.
When I was 5, I was in foster care. I was a super feminine acting boy. (I am a trans woman now). My foster brothers and male figures never used to play with me. Saying things like:
"Don't you want to play with the girls, sissies don't like sports"

"Take ya gay, useless ass on somewhere" They would always leave me 
In came Carl. He always included me. He was 16/17 and he was amazing at first. He let me play super Nintendo with him. He took me to the park. He snuck me candy like Reese cups, when my Grandma told me no. I loved him. Growing up with my twin in foster care, I felt abandoned. Because I was a feminine boy, i felt doubly abandoned.
 He started asking me if I wanted to cuddle with him at night. My grandma was tired and he was always so nice to me, I don't even think she had a second thought about it. The first few sleep overs with Carl was beautiful. He would just hold me. He would tell me scary stories, then I would run to the bathroom in the dark, running back to his bad shaking. He would get me cupcakes. He would hold me, and tell me how he loved me. Until one night, it changed. He smelled funny to me, the-now-gorgeous-familar smell of Marijuana. He told me he wanted to show me a secret game. The games of men. Not knowing any better, I said show me. I loved and trusted him at 5. He was the big brother I always wanted...replacing the abandoned feeling I felt at my parents. He kissed me. He had vitiligo, and a pink spot that was so unique on the corner of his lips on his right side. I remeber the feeling of his third degree burned hands on my body. His mother tortured him and locked him in the closet for weeks on end in the Bronx. He had cigarette burns all over his body. He was still attractive. Beautiful hazel eyes. Brown skin like mines. Full pink lips. He was a boxer, he turned the hands his mother tried to take from him into weapons that made the street nickname him "Mean Machine", with how savagely he would fight guys on the street. He was also a child of sex abuse, once the system found him at 7, and placed him in group homes, which later, in my teenage years when I found out, made me totally forgave him. He did love me, even though he hurt me, but ultimately as a late teenager, he was just reliving a cycle. It does not excuse him, but compared to my rape at 23, I can forgive Carl. 
He pulled his pants down and put my tiny hands on his bigger genitalia. That was all we did the first time. He called me pretty.
"You really look like a little girl with ya long curly hair and bambi eyes". 
He orgasmed and because it didn't feel bad, I didn't see it as bad. It was just a game.
He then grabbed me softly and forced me to look at him. 
"You can't tell. If you tell, I will die. You don't want me to die right? If you tell, I will be gone and you will have nobody to play with, I will be killed horribly. This is our secret game. Only us. Okay?"
I was heartbroken. I let out a high pitch shrill cry. As I clang to him and repeated:
"Puleazhh don't die...please don't die. Please don't die...i lub you."
He held me again and we fell asleep.
The game was simple at first, just touching, but quickly it progressed.
 The 4th time I saw him, he put whip cream on himself. "I have a treat for you. If you play our secret game well, you will get a reward. You have to lick it off" 
So I did. I remember the smell of him. His just turned into a man pheromones plugging my noise. The sweat of his skin, and the sweetness of the whip cream. I gagged horribly. But he told me i was doing a Good job even though it was barely fitting. I remember his fluid on my face.
He wiped us both off and got a big ass bag of candy out his closet. Again...the behavior was painted as something good by him.
 (Im legit unnerved even though I can't help writing so candidly. To do that to a child, to lie and use manipulation is utterly insidious. To use my emotions, that he should have protected.....it id fucking gross. Gross. A 5 year old. What was sexy about me, I still occasionally peed the bed, I was dirty from always climbing and exploring things, etc...but then its not about that. But its just....ugh. I know he picked me because I was feminine and because I was a loner by the nature of what I am, a transgender individual.) This went on for months. His "you are so beautiful like a little princess", his cuddles, his playfulness. I loved it. Even the sex acts we did, i didn't mind because it was not violent nor did it hurt at that point. It was definitely uncomfortable/ weird and there was no sexual thrill for me. The only thrill was for me to please the brother I loved. If it pleased him, I was happy with that. I had turned 6 and a week later he brought me upstairs. He smelt like straight alcohol. He kissed me aggressively. "I missed my princess" His aggressiveness was scaring me. He had never acted that way before. "Ima go to De-lores. Goodnight. You being weird. (my adopted mom/ I call her grandma too). 
"No...u can't leave yet. You don't miss me?"
He pinned me down, as I yelled for him to let me go. He placed his hand over my mouth and nose, until I almost couldn't breathe and thrashed in the bed. He bent me over and tried to penetrate me, but I was wayyyyyy to small for that. So it never went in, but it was sooo painful. The edges of my hole, burned from the friction of him desperately tryna penetrate me......
He let me down on the cream color carpet of his room as I cried and hit him.
"U HURTED ME...CARL! YOU HURTED MY BUTT. YOU HURTED ME!" HE HUGGED ME AS I HEARD WHAT SOUNDED LIKE A WHISTLE NEAR THE STAIRS LEADING TO THE SECOND FLOOR. 
He placed me in the upstairs bathroom.
"If anybody asks why you up here, tell them you were using the bathroom. And im sorry. Im sorry. You forgive me. I'll make it up to you. I promise. Say you forgive me...please."
"I...forgived...u...." 
I said wiping snot away.
A week later. My grandma sat me down. She asked if anyone was touching us. She looked evil though. I know she would never hurt me, but I loved Carl like family. She had hell and brimstone in her irises, and she got into one of her righteous rants, where she said she would kill for me, kill for my brother, nobody would hurt us.
I don't know if she meant it, but she scared me into silence. I don't blame her. Its hard even bringing those topics up without emotion. But I didn't want Carl to die. So I shut up. At 6, I shut up. I didn't want him to die. And her words made what he said reality in my head.
I never went to him anymore though after my Grandma's talk and him tryna penetrate me. I never let him get me alone. He would try to bribe me with food, candy, video games, begging, clothes, money...but i never went.
He went to Juvie a few months later for stabbing a boy in the face over street wars.
 Life was normal until 11. In fourth grade, I was taking a NYS official test, I was answering a question about the Native American indigenous to NY state and boom: (There were two paintings in the upstairs hallway. My grandma had a picture of a Native man, with striking features, in a swamp, grabbing a snake. It was next to a picture of a black girl playing double dutch. That question connected back to that picture) 
It all played out in my mind like a movie. I didn't even realize I had suppressed it that much. I fought back tears and (I work well in stress, idk why but I do), I got a 97%.
 After that day I became hypersexual. When I think about it, I always was....touching boys and girls. Kissing girls and boys, playing house and being the wife. Always too fucking touchy and in people's personal space. But I guess at 11, puberty hit me full force and the idea of sex became something constant in me. Before that it was all mimicry of what happened to me. At 11, these thoughts entered me and would not leave. I wanted real sex after that moment. It is hell to be hypersexual at 11. My southern-upbrung Grandma was definitely not ready for that. Then my thoughts were about boys. I was consumed with them. Especially older men. Taking my friend in the closet and telling him I love him, while I pull his penis out and offer him a blow job. 
"...ok...ok...idk..but if its you...ok"
 I started fucking myself with things. The ends of a big screw driver with a soft silicon handle. An ugly yellow toy banana I found at Family Dollars. Fingers. It was like older men knew I was in a heat, I didn't want. I would masturbate like 7 times a day. It was never enough. It was all consuming. An older man who liked me gave me a dildo, he never had sex with me though. We would just talk about how it felt when I penetrate myself. He would stutter and cum to my stories. (I lose myself in good anal sex. I still do, I dissassociate in a good way, the noise of the world falls away and all I am in those moments are a body, feeling. There is no analyzing life, or existential crises. There is not a thousand thoughts in my head. No ptsd or bpd or bipolaor depression or all those mental illness therapists told me I had directly and not so directly) This feeling of shame came when I couldn't stop the thoughts. I was something bad and deviant. My thoughts were deviant, so I locked them up tightly. Even though they were ever present Carl came out of juvie/prison when I was 12. His 6 pack all those years ago had turned into an 8 pack. His slender, toned teen body, had grown into a young man's body. I was drawn to him. He felt indebted to me. 
I remember at 12, when of his hood friends used to flirt with me. Nothing crazy, just a little flirtatious. Always tryna wrestle me. Always tryna get my attention.
I came home one afternoon to him surprising me, him agitated.
"Jay is fucking with you D?" "No he is cool" "Lemme know cuz I will end any nigga for you. You hear me...any of them. You mines. You hear me!" 
My grandma sat on her bed smiling. Like aww look at the older brother being protective.
It wasn't protection though. He still felt like i belonged to him some way even though he never made anymore moves. He also felt guilty.
He was always giving me stuff. Clothes. Food. Money. Anything. It could have been his last.
I would watch him shower. He would leave the door open slightly. I would peek and look at his naked body, until my mind went crazy in heat. One Night, he left his shirt on the floor as he showered. I had a small t-shirt on and these too tight underwear. On the same cream color floor where he tried to penetrate me, i pentrated myself with that, ugly yellow banana, inhaling the intoxicating smell of his shirt. I was so into it, I didn't feel his eyes on me. 
He was watching me smell his shirt and fuck myself.
 He was hard and staring when I came on his rug. "We can't do that nomore. What i did was wrong....but fuck...you looked so sexy....still with the soft skin and big bambi eyes." "Fuck all that...i want you to fuck me..." "What's gotten into you...you used to be so innocent and sweet. We don't have to. I will always be be ya side. You still sexy though God. Even more sexy." "I don't know how to handle what you exposed to me. I want dick in me all the time. 24/7. I dream about it. I day dream about it. I fantasize about it. Please Carl, fuck me...please" "Im too big and people in the house and...." 
I got up knocking all the shit off his dresser. There's a rage in me, a darkness. A need. Impulsivity. Like every emotion is competing for best actress.
I started crying in pure fucking frustration. 
"So you could try to fuck me at 6, you pedo, but 12 is too old? Fuck you nigga. I hate what you did to me. You made me so fucking weird and now!!!!! You don't want to FUCKING continue. I hate you. Fucking die."
He hugged me like when I was little.
"You went me that bad? To finally have me truly take ya virginity. Wait a little longer okay. But look at me...clearly I'm excited. Just wait...ok? Sex starves D might be the seseries. (Him referring to me at 5/6 as sexy 🤢🤮, when I think about that disgusting convo) I pouted. He gave me 300 from his drug business to shut up. 
After that, every time he would pass me, he would feel on me. I'd wear little t shirts where my nipples poked out and pajamas too small, so my little butt could poke out.
He would touch me and kiss me in rushing. He was never home, always in the street. 
At 13, he died from a gunshot wound to the heart. He never did get to fuck me.
(Sometimes, when im depressed, and analytical, I think if all that really did propel me on my way to my life now. I pass as a woman and live an alright life, even with the trauma, but my Mom says when things like that happen to us so young, they become apart of our psyche. Not to say I would have been a sterotypical masculine male....but is this why I like being called princess and good girl, is this one of the reasons why I so desperately clung to womanhood, is this why, especially young, all my sexual fantasies were of me being penetrated by older, well hung, developed men. How much of it is my true nature, how much was groomed into me. The choking, the hypersexuality in my youth, the crazy sex adventures I found myself in. I don't think about it often. Its one of those questions that if I let it sit too long in me, will undo me. I love my transition (mostly) but that thought is scary. To think that, the person I am today can be attributed, at the least, slightly, to my childhood trauma)
The real trauma happened at 23. When i was 23, I dated this guy named Jason for 6 months. I had just started transistioning for a few months. He took me out. I met his close friends. I met his cousins. The sex was good, he was sweet and passionate. I felt like i was falling for him. Lucky. Special
I was a new trans woman, and most guys arent always so kind to not so passable trans women.
He treated me like a woman. How I always wanted to be treated.
Up until the night I told him no.
We had went out on a night on the town. The place is near west 4th street in NYC. It is called the Fat Black Pussy Cat. He bought me these bomb ass nachos and like 13 tequila shots. My stomach was queasy and I couldn't keep my head from spinning.
I get home and boom, sleep.
His body weight and his massive hands on me woke me up. (5'9 150 to his 6'5 250 pure muscled body). He was an athlete and he had went to prison. I never saw it as a red flag because it was a white collar crime.
He wanted sex.
I said no. I'm nauseous. In the morning bae.
It took my brain 10 minutes to catch up to what was going on.
My laughs and his stoic face.
My giggles and "stop playing Jason, in the morning im ride it good daddy." fall on a face that was determined.
His hand on my throat squeezing tighter and tighter.
When I realized what was happening (i'm also a childhood survivor as well). I fought. Two rights to his eyes and nose. He laughed. I ran for my kitchen, and picked up a knife but he slammed me.
Those first few moments were straight anxiety. Me, running full speed over my couch; him catching my leg and my face hitting the floor.
Me, head butting him right in his lip. I sunk my teeth into his shoulder blade. He slammed my body face first into my living room wall.
I remember the sound of glass breaking as he slammed my back against my glass coffee table. Bits of glass, like glass splinters, on the side of my spine.
I remember the anxious feeling turning into a doomed one, when my strength and stamina didn't match up to his. Even just 10 months on estrogen shots and anti testestorone pills had made me weaker. Like 50 percent weaker
His laughter in my ear as he said:
"I like girls with heart, ya are more satisfying to break"
After 20 minutes he got tired. Not physically tired. Tired of this fight in me.
I was on my last wind. Every nerve in my body was in fire from fighting with him so long. I grew up fighting and winning as a feminine boy. But as a trans women, on hrt, a high dosage, its just not the same.
I remember my teeth cutting into my jaw as he slammed my head into the kitchen tiles, the hemoglobin left the taste of iron in my head.
He punched my ribs, knocking the wind out of me. Stomped my right hand. I just laid there, as the reality of my situation set in.
Im not getting away.
"Isn't this why you transistioned...to entice men. Didn't you do this to become mines"
I dissassociated as he choked me until i couldn't breathe. Color flashed in front of my eyes. I focused on my cat in a corner, a white ball, like this had happened to her before . I didn't want to die from fighting for the right over my body. So I mentally left.
I focused on a dustball under my stove
I stared at a dead sparrow on my kitchen window ledge I had never noticed. I imagined I was that bird. Dead. If I'm dead, I can't feel and if I can't feel, this is not happening to me.
His kisses on my shoulder....and his "there's my baby girl", was worse than the rape or beating. That memory lives under my skin. His attempted intimacy daring rape. How....how....
It makes me so mad and digusted. Like I wanna take my nails to my skin to kill that fucking memory.
I wanted him to be evil. You are a fucking monster, fucking show it, you disgusting, deviant, criminally sadistic bastard. If you wanna be evil.
He caressed and kissed my unresponsive body.
Pushing his dick into my dry walls, slightly ripping me.
It was messy because I was not ready nor did I prep. It hurt because he went in dry.
I didn't even scream, as I felt myself tear a little. I just stared....i was death in those moments.
He left me there saying "I love you Daisy". I stayed on the ground for 30 minutes. No thoughts. I just stared. My kitty Carmen licked my face and I cried so horribly, stirred back to reality by her. She left white hairs on my chin as she turned into a ball under my neck.
He left anal fissures in me and a hemorrhoid. It hurt to use the bathroom for 10 days. He had fractured the bone below my right index finger. My left eye was filled with blood. When he slammed my head in the kitchen, blood filled into it. I looked like an extra in the Walking dead.
I never told because I am transgender. They don't care if we live let alone if we are raped.
I swallowed it. Never telling anybody for years, going to school the next day like I was in a car accident and smiling.
I sometimes attack men in my sleep. My exs always tell me how wild I sleep at night and how they can't touch me when im deep sleeping or I become violent.
I have extreme pstd at times. Fits of paranoia and rage.
I don't trust men. Nor do I think I can ever conventionally date again. I try but I leave or dip...or go m.i.a. i just don't feel connected to me like I once did. Its been so many secual wrongs done to me.
But him making me almost love him and then brutally raping me, was the one sexual trauma to truly do me in.
Even if i like a guy, there's a subliminal voice in my head telling me:
"All men are predators, some just are more good at hiding it"
I never hated my transition until that moment. That sheer terror of my body failing me. The sheer terror of my physical strength changed. The utter hopelessness.
"Damn I made myself a fucking target. I had to be a fucking tranny. I'm weak now and can't even protect myself."
And i don't think I can ever trust any man 100 percent. Maybe...at best...99 percent.
But it has made me lonely and depressive. How do I love again? How do I learn to trust?
I don't want to die without finding true love but at this progression...im be an old trans woman with mad cats. Bitter and jaded, seeing the world as evil.
I used to be so carefree. Now I trust nothing.
How do I get a piece of the old me back?
How do I move on?
The memories being like movies. I can see all the details.
 Im ready to heal. 
submitted by tsinnyc30 to adultsurvivors [link] [comments]


2020.09.27 16:19 HaulA27Sepl1 Mom in naked kitchen the

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2020.09.27 16:11 HaulA27Sepl Naked mom in the kitchen

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2020.09.27 14:01 antarutin Naked mom in the kitchen

I really don´t know where to start. first of all I am new here. My Name is sascha I am 22 years old and live in Germany ( sry for bad englisch) Please take thje time to read this I would really appreciate some advice here.
I´ve come here today because I needed to share. I don´t have that many people to talk to and most won´t understand or listen anyway on such a hard topic. First of all I already had a pretty bad life by itself but I was rarely depressed or suicidal. Father left when we were kids. Never had any money, first 2 Year relationship cheated on me with my best friend at the time. After that my mom kicked me out and I had to look for a Job and a place to live. This resulted in me having no Driver license by the age of 22 and doing Jobs that I hated. Mom and me did not have a bad relationsship but she was struggling her own depression and we also lost her last year to suicide. That all being said I already was handed some bad cards in life .
It was so much stress at the time I had panic attacks for almost 2 years. Got into Fitness and meditation and turned my life around. I was in a really good spot mentally and really hopeful for the future. But now I want to tell you about this girl.
As I said before I was in a really good spot and was dming with this girl I knew since I was 14. She was was coming out of a 5 Year relationship which I already should have spotted as red flag. But I fell so hard and so fast in love with her it was insane. And at the time she felt the same. She told me she did not even want something serious but this connection we had was just.. I dont know we just clicked in a second. We spend almost every day together and even booked a vacation and went to the netherlands for 1 week. It was the most beautiful time of my life. And I knew she felt the same. She cried in my arms and told me how much she thanked me. She was in a dark place back then so I got her to the gym got her into good nutrition and meditation. She lost almost 50 pounds in 3 months and I was so proud of her.
But then suddenly things began to change. She did not really text back anymore. She did not wanna hang out anymore, Got annoyed with me for no reason. And even denied to some people that we were having a relationship So I started to figure out something was wrong and endet it with her immediately. After that she reached out to me and we had a terrible argument which endet in her apologising and telling me she did not want to lose me and try to make it work. She saw her mistakes and I really believed her. But then Yesterday we went out with my boys and she was out with her girls. We then met at the bar my friends where at and she brought her friend. And my boys off course were asking her "Oh sascha has been talking so much about you lately you two are together now ?" she did not answer, no yes or even a no. She turned to her friend and both giggling and laughing. I knew something was off. After we went to her place we had a chat and I Thought we made it through, we slept a last time together and she fell asleep. But I was wide awake and her phone kept ringing so I checked it out.
It was a Dating app where I saw she was atleast texting 3 dudes on how she wanted to meet up with them and was looking for nothing serious at the time. So I went to her chats just to find out she was talking to atleast 3 dudes more on Whatsapp. She slept with atleast 2 of them and this was by the time we had this huge argument because I knew something wasn´t right. She even bragged about it with her stupid friends on whatsapp. sending them pictures of the dudes how the lay there in bed or naked in the kitchen. I could go way more into detail here but I think you get the Idea what happend. I sended me some of the Messages I found in her phone some pictures so she whould knew after looking at her phone. I went back to sleep. After she was awake I just grabbed all my stuff and left without saying anything. I Removed her from every social media etc.
I am absolutely ruined right now. As I said before I was never really hard depressed or suicidal but this hurts me so deep I cant even tell you guys. I had some bad experiences before with girls but this was so special to me for so many reasons. The last 3 Girls I dated I did not even let them get into my heart because I knew it wasnt worth it. But this one played me so hard. I am just trying to get trough the day right now because the suicidal thoughts are just coming and coming. Thanks for anyone who made it this far in the post please share your thoughts and storys !
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2020.09.23 07:35 xxyessirxxx My extremely abusive mother told me to kill myself so she could be happy.

My mom has been extremely abusive since the day i could remember. My father died when I was 2, since then its been me and my mom, since my mother could never keep a man bc of her controlling ways. From what im told my mom started hitting me and calling me bad names as a toddler. I remember when I was 7, i spent the night at my grandmothers house (she had roaches), and she dropped me off at my moms right before school. I told my mom i ate cereal at my g ma's, and then next thing i knew my mom was yanking my head over a toilet forcing me to puke out the cereal. When I was 9 my mom told me to start the shower and tell her when my hair needed to be done (she demanded to wash my hair whenever i took a shower and still does this everytime I shower and im 14). I forgot to call for her and did my hair on my own. When I turned to water off she walked in the bathroom and automatically knew i washed my hair. She started screaming and punched me in my stomach. She dragged me to the kitchen and strangled me untill I fainted for a quick second. she opened our back door and thrw me outside and yelled, "little girl outside! come and get her!" (reminder I was still BUTT NAKED). When I was 11 I faked running away and hid under our living room couch. My mom called my named and i thought she was worried about me, but all she kept saying was, "im gunna beat her a** when I find her" and stuff like that. I ended up coming out from hiding and of course, she hit me and yelled at me. Now, im 14 and last week my mom left me home alone to go to her boyfriends house and at midnight, she called me to make sure I was awake doing my homework. My phone was dead and I frantically was looking for an extesion cord and when I finally found one and charged my phone up just enough, I called her back. She left 18 missed calls and 13 messages with just "???". She told me her boyfriend told her to go home to see if i was okay, and my mom snapped on him and now they might be broken up. She then told me to kill myself and to be dead when she got home, and maybe she would finally be happy. This is not the first time shes done this and I dont know what to do. Ive started cutting myself now and ive been depressed since i was 11. If anyone has any questions about anything else in my life, please ask bc i need someone to vent to.
submitted by xxyessirxxx to abuse [link] [comments]


2020.09.22 18:13 MikeJesus Naked mom in the kitchen

I have made a powerful enemy.
There’s approximately eighty thousand pigeons that roost within Prague city limits. They roam through the farmer’s markets looking for drops of food, they sit on the Art Noveau windowsills that loom near the city center, every figure of Czech history who has been rewarded with a statue is also rewarded with a pigeon patron who will sit and shit on top of their heads for all eternity. Every inch of the city is filled with those gray birds.
But not today.
As the farmer’s markets get set up the peddlers mumble to themselves about the surprising lack of avian companionship. The twilight commuters look up at the bare windowsills and try to figure out what has changed in the architecture of the city overnight. The layer of droppings on Winston Churchill’s head is at least a day old. This morning, as the city slowly rustles awake to the midi tones of cellphone alarms, the pigeons are gathering outside of the main train station.
They’re here because of me.
The birds hate me for what I have done.
For weeks I have only traveled by night, for weeks I have been avoiding the inevitable, for weeks I had hoped they would simply forget. But they didn’t and I know they won’t. The birds will not let me live freely until I pay for what I have done.
I set out this morning to bring the feud to rest, but as I emerge out of the subway and see what awaits me beyond the Plexiglas windows I get second thoughts. The park outside the automatic doors of the train station has been swallowed up in feathers. From the sea of gray, hateful beads of crimson stare at me. They’re waiting.
There’s two bags filled with Bohemia Bakery croissants in my hands. I can’t control the shaking. I can’t deny the inevitable. As the loudspeakers squawk out announcements of delays in a dozen muffled languages I can’t help but to think about how I got here.
There has to be a better word for it than break-up. We were engaged for the better part of a year, sharing a bed for five, dating for seven. A break-up sounds like a cracked plate, a minor inconvenience, something that you shrug off and carry on with your life. What happened between Julia and me was a multi-ton hydrogen bomb.
She said I never introduce her to work friends. So I did. I introduced her to the IT guy who I would occasionally grab beers with after work. She got to know him more intimately than I ever did. Much more intimately.
Suddenly, the person who was my one constant over the past seven years was telling me we could still be friends. Suddenly, the comfortable pad in the center that was affordable from two paychecks was replaced by a five person flat share in the housing projects. Suddenly, I couldn’t show my face in the office anymore.
He set up the remote-work software on my laptop. It took fifteen minutes but that moment dragged on for eternity. He mumbled an apology. My hand tightened into a fist, the uncapped pen on my desk gleamed with sharpness but I remained impotent. He regularly went to the gym. I didn’t.
When he finished the set-up he offered me his hand and without thinking I shook it. I even mumbled a “Thank you.”
I wanted to rip off my tongue and throw it out for the birds to devour.
Working from home was impossible. Not only was I in the midst of a personal cataclysm, but my four roommates had social lives so loud and amorous that they seeped through the paper-thin walls every second of the day. Whenever they brought someone home there was no escape from the echoes of lovemaking. I knew that back in my old apartment, in that cozy flat in the center, Julia was screaming the IT guy’s name. I had been with her for long enough to be able to imagine it all so vividly.
I needed to get out of that house.
‘Bohemia Bakery croissants, that’s a good treat right there, brother.’ The voice, followed by a familiar smell of distillates and festering bandages, drags me back into the present moment. Outside, the congregation of pigeons is slowly growing. In front of me, a Prague train station vagrant. ‘Got a lot of those croissants there, brother. Mind helping a hungry fella out?’
He looks like he’s been through a war-zone, his tattered rags the uniform of an army that loses in perpetuity. Beyond the Plexiglas the pigeons stare. I give the homeless man one of the croissants. I do this partially out of human kindness, but mainly in hopes that the pigeons see that I am not a monster, that the pigeons take pity on me.
The sea of beady eyes doesn’t flinch. They don’t care.
‘God bless, brother, God bless,’ the vagrant says as he starts to walk away. He stops. After considering the crowd of pigeons he turns back to me. ‘A lot of pigeons, eh? God bless, brother.’
He sets off towards the doors and I know I should follow him. I know it’s time for me to pay the price for my sins. I know there is no other way to get rid of the birds. But my legs are frozen.
When the homeless man is a couple of steps away from me a dark thought enters my mind. Maybe I can trick the pigeons into taking their revenge on someone else. They’re pigeons, how smart can they be? I open my mouth to yell out to him –
I want to give him another croissant. I want to suggest he take both the bags of offerings. I want to make him the target of the avian hatred.
But before I can vocalize my offer the plan falls apart.
The vagrant walks past the automatic doors into the park outside. The pigeons pay him no mind; he is completely invisible to them. They’re here for me and they’re getting impatient.
As the automatic doors grind to a close three pigeons fly into the station. I reach into my Bohemia Bakery bag and start turning croissants into crumbs between my fingers. The birds are getting restless.
Walking into the Bohemia Bakery on Michalská Street and setting up my laptop for a day of excel scrolling was a completely arbitrary decision. There’s hundreds of corporate owned coffee shops in Prague that have stable wi-fi and inoffensive Spotify playlists for ambience. I ended up there completely by accident. Yet as soon as I got settled I knew I wouldn’t be leaving any time soon.
Bohemia Bakery had all the makings of a coffee shop office. The refreshments were cheap enough to be drunk without a second thought, the neighborhood was safe enough to quell any fears about my laptop being stolen and the majority of the customers were locals. I have no qualms with tourists or immigrants, but American clientele does have a tendency to turn their private conversations into public three act plays. The chatter in the coffee shop was limited to complaint-filled grumbles, as is Czech custom.
The good work environment that Bohemia Bakery provided, however, was completely irrelevant to why I kept on coming there day after day. From the moment I saw her my visits to Bohemia Bakery ceased to be work related. I kept on coming back for Bára.
I was in a dark place. Every other morning I woke up to messages that I had sent to Julia in the middle of the night and forgotten about.
“I’m scared I’ll forget the smell of you.”
“You’re a scab I can’t stop picking.”
“Remember when we made love in the mountains?”
The response was always the same:
“Jesus, Mark, stop sending me these weird messages.”
The texts were desperate attempts to change her mind about moving on. Somewhere, in the depths of my soul, I was still sixteen and believed that one poetic message could turn back the clock on years of a stagnant relationship. I was sick with heartbreak, there was no one out who could make me happy like Julia did. The moment I saw Bára I knew that was a lie.
She made the question “Cash or card?” sound like a line of sensuous poetry pried from the throats of love-struck bards. When she prepared orders she didn’t move like a twenty-year-old barista, she floated behind her counter like a goddess examining the offerings that were being burnt in her temple. That unflattering gray and gold uniform that Bohemia Bakery would force on their employees to wear looked downright erotic on her. God forbid when the milquetoast music the coffee shop had turned to something with an actual beat. If there weren’t any customers Bára would quietly dance.
I tried not to stare. I wasn’t very good at that.
She didn’t mind. The moment when she winked at me I knew I was in love.
I stayed in the coffee shop for much longer than my job demanded. When I was around her all thoughts of Julia seemed absurd. Bára kept on smiling and winking and occasionally she would stick out her pierced tongue at me. After a week of nervously sneaking peeks at the coffee shop Venus I asked her out. After her shift was over we went to sit down in a nearby park.
There are so many parts of that night that have made themselves permanent in my memory; the way her hand slipped into mine before we even reached the park, the smell of cherry blossom and bubble gum that stemmed from her neck, the way her piercing clinked against my nervous teeth, the way she looked up at me when we made love. But none of the memories are as permanent in my head as the words she said when she threw out crumbs of stale croissants to the pigeons that gathered around us in the park.
“Ever looked a pigeon in the eyes? They’re angry creatures. And they talk. Always better to stay on their good side.”
Even as those tiny beaks pick at the droplets of dough scattered through the dirty tiles of the train station the pigeons keep their beady eyes locked on me.
There are more than a few of them now. The out-of-towners who come to Prague for work from the countryside are keeping the automatic doors opened wide. For each person that leaves the train station a pigeon sneaks its way in. The people might be leaving for different jobs but the aim of the birds is singular. Their aim is revenge.
An Uber Eats driver waiting for his next order plays a beautiful melody on one of the pianos that the city council has strewn across the city. He stops as I walk by him. The procession of pigeons behind me is impossible to ignore.
People keep on looking at me. I’m sweating. I know what’s coming. I know that there’s only so long that the pigeons are willing to wait for justice. I know how this all ends.
But still, there’s a part of me that wants to ignore the reality of my situation. Out of habit I take out my phone and text Julia.
“There’s a group of pigeons chasing me through the train station. They mean me harm. Help!”
Her living situation could have been better. Bára shared her two bedroom flat with three other girls from her hometown. On most nights the only thing that kept our lovemaking sessions out of Bára’s roommate’s eye-line was the sheet we draped from the bookshelf.
She moved out from the countryside with her three bestest friend to go live the crazy, cosmopolitan life out in the capital. I don’t think Bára’s roommate felt very cosmopolitan on the nights I stayed over.
There were also the pigeons. The mattress that Bára slept on was propped up against the window to the balcony and every morning I would wake up to the cooing of sky-rats. They usually managed to catch me about fifteen minutes before my alarm clock went off, and they were a gentler welcome to the waking world than the blaring of midi tones off my phone, but the constant cooing definitely made the Sunday morning cuddles less romantic.
Pigeons and roomates aside, the first couple months of our relationship went smoothly. All thoughts of Julia floated away. I felt no need to send her weird texts or obsess over whether she was still thinking about me. I was just enjoying my Bohemian Bakery beauty.
An old classmate of Bára’s came to visit. She knew all about me, Bára had spent the past couple of weeks preparing this girl to meet her “Super cool boyfriend” and whilst meeting a person who knew more about me than I knew about them would have intimidated me back when I was dating Julia, I didn’t mind by then. I had grown into my role. I didn’t know what made me cool or even what made Bára like me so much, but after months of living in my new, lucky reality I stopped questioning it.
Bára stole a couple of bottles of wine from the bakery and invited me over to get drunk with the rest of the apartment. I had the most minor of moral qualms about Bára’s theft, but after a couple of glasses my dislike of stealing became a purely hypothetical topic rather than an actual source of bother. I listened to the four girls drunkenly tell stories from the countryside.
‘Holy shit,’ Bára’s visiting friend said after the fourth bottle of wine had been drained, ‘We’re the only ones from our graduating class who don’t have any kids yet.’
I laughed. Hard. I was etching towards my early thirties and the thought of producing offspring seemed like something that wouldn’t happen for a long, long time. The idea that somewhere out in the countryside people were getting married at twenty seemed absurd to me.
As I laughed Bára kept her glass pressed to her lips. She drained it, poured another and topped me off in the process. We drank more. The other roommates went out clubbing. I was left alone with Bára and her visiting friend. We drank more. The three of us got drunk enough to lay down on the mattress.
One moment I was splashing water on my face trying to sober up and the next I tasted a kiss drenched in menthol cigarettes and red wine. The tongue that was caressing mine felt different. There was no piercing.
I opened up my eyes in terror realizing that I was not kissing my girlfriend. Bára’s friend looked up at me sheepishly. A familiar hand ran down my back.
‘It’s okay honey, it’s not like we’re married yet, we can share.’
I woke up with a horrible hangover the next day, it felt like my eyes were about to pop out of my skull and take everything I had ever eaten in the past 24 hours along with them, but the two naked bodies next to me assured me that my pain was temporary.
Overall, my life was good. With the help of the gentle cooing from the balcony I went back to sleep.
Then things changed.
We were sitting on the tram riding out to the farmer’s market to grab something to eat. There was a lull in the conversation, the type of lull where you throw out a random observation or a Facebook article headline in hopes of having something to talk about. She mentioned it as if it was the most casual thing in the world, as if it wasn’t a matter of any importance at all.
‘Missed my period three days ago.’
I think the lady at the ticket office is calling animal control. There’s a good thirty pigeons behind me now.
I have been mobbed by them before. Back in the early days, before I knew they were after me, they’d chase me while I was going out for groceries, or out drinking. There would always be a confused driver or a subway to help me escape. I have never tried to face the pigeons.
I start making my way towards the doors. This charade has been going on for long enough. I try to trick myself into believing that the pigeons will go easy on me, that they won’t really hurt me.
Yet as I walk towards the automatic doors one of the birds jumps up and pecks at my jeans.
Those beaks are sharp. Sharp enough to give me second thoughts. Sharp enough to make me think that maybe the solution to my qualm with the pigeons is to pack up and move.
I try to think of a country without pigeons, I can’t, but I presume there is one. There has to be one.
Deciding to move my life instead of paying for what I’ve done, I start making my way down into the subway. They follow.
But that’s fine. I convince myself that’s fine. As soon as the subway is about to arrive I can just break into a sprint and hop on. No way all thirty of them can follow me. Worst case scenario I’ll be locked up in a metal tube with two or three angry pigeons. I could take those on if needed.
I have killed pigeons before. Well, theoretically at least.
We didn’t talk about it. Well, we did, but not really.
‘Missed my period three days ago.’
‘Oh shit.’
‘Oh, don’t worry.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yeah.’
Then we moved on to talking about something else. For the whole day there was no discussion of Bára’s potential pregnancy, but from the moment that she mentioned it a cold sweat broke over me. Somewhere in the back of my head I started to imagine her as a lifelong partner.
I didn’t like what I saw.
What I once thought of as a face of perfection was now just a disparate collection of sharp facial features with crooked teeth. Her voice, her laugh, it all droned in my ears in a horrible, annoying way.
I tried to remind myself not to be shallow, not to judge the woman who I had been dating for nearly half a year based on her looks. That made the situation significantly worse.
As we were walking around the farmer’s market Bára started eating a sandwich. I knew that she didn’t buy it. I knew that she didn’t bring one. I knew she stole it.
Bára liked to steal shit. I didn’t mind her swiping stuff from the bakery, didn’t have empathy to spare for corporate owned franchises, but Bára stealing stuff from old folks got under my skin.
‘Hey, where did you get that sandwich?’
‘Found it on the floor. Ha-ha!’
She gave me a smile and a wink. I started to miss Julia again.
By the time we got back home the feverish dislike that I was starting to develop for Bára had turned physical. My head throbbed with some horrible strain of the flu that had crept into my system. I considered going home, but Bára assured me that the wave of fatigue I was feeling was just sleep deprivation. All I needed to do was take a nap and I’d be right as rain. I was too tired to argue.
By late afternoon I was fading in and out of consciousness on Bára’s mattress as she piled more and more blankets on top of me.
‘Ah, c’mon, just sweat it out babe. Quit complaining, you’re a real man, aren’t you?’
Her voice cut through my migraine like the stolen cutlery she had in her kitchen. What made the sickness induced delirium so much worse were the pigeons on the balcony. They just kept on cooing. Even as I drifted off into frenzied fever dreams I could sense their dirty, feathered bodies rustling behind the paper-thin walls.
‘What if I actually am pregnant?’ I heard a voice ask out of the darkness. I was far too deep in the sweaty, lethargic limbo to identify the source but through context clues I figured out who was asking. I pretended to be asleep.
‘What if I actually am pregnant?’ Bára asked, again, this time prodding me with her frigid foot.
I let loose a torrent of mucus filled coughs, hoping to dissuade her from trying to talk to me. It didn’t work. Her cold toes ran across my burning abdomen.
‘Mark, what if I actually am pregnant?’ She asked, sweetly.
‘Can we talk about this tomorrow?’ I groaned.
‘Sure,’ she hissed with the intensity of a silenced pistol.
Bára’s roommate was snoring, the pigeons outside were cooing and just as I started to get used to the jarring soundscape of the bedroom Bára started to sob next to me.
I pretended to be asleep, and eventually, I was.
I make my way down the stairs to the subway platform with dreams of escape glowing in my heart.
I could grow a shitty beard and live in some cabin in the woods, or lounge around on some exotic beach, or I could be freezing my ass of in the arctic. The only important thing is getting on that subway and riding off to somewhere where there are no flying rats that demand vengeance.
The screeching of metal. Below me, the subway has just arrived. I hold on tight to the railing and start jumping down the stairs two at a time. I’m praying that the doors of the train will stay open long enough for me to make my escape.
Some of the birds stop hopping down the stairs and ascend into flight. The feathers of the pigeons fit right into the metallic gray of the subway station in the worst possible way.
There’s a new mom who doesn’t quite know how to handle a stroller stalling the doors to the subway. I still have a chance, I can still run in and make my escape – but just as I am descending the last three steps towards the platform one of those beady eyed vermin dives straight at me.
I lift my hand off the rail to shoo the pigeon away, shifting my balance. Suddenly, I’m falling. Suddenly, my head crashes against the concrete. Suddenly, I’m back on my feet, running towards the subway, screaming past the burning pain that has materialized in my ankle.
I slam into the closed doors. Everyone on the train stares at me and my bizarre pursuers in horror. Except for the baby. The baby points and giggles and laughs from its carriage as the train slowly rumbles into life and disappears in the dark tunnel.
The next train is coming in eight minutes.
I’m at the edge of the platform and there’s a good fifty pigeons staring at me.
‘Jesus, you’re still here?’
I woke up to the sound of Bára’s roommate angrily stomping around the bedroom. My fever was gone, but somehow it had managed to carry me into the late afternoon.
‘It smells like a frigging sex dungeon here dude. Least you could have done was pop open a window.’ She towers over me, eyes filled with disgust, as she cracks open the balcony windows. ‘And you should definitely talk to Bára. It’s none of my business but when she left to work today she was… Gross! Eeew!’
‘Gross?’ I sat up on the mattress. The roommate didn’t look at me, she just kept on staring out of the window. ‘Bára was… gross?’
‘No, you idiot. Look outside. No wonder those birds have been waking us up every morning. There’s a goddamn nest on the balcony.’
As soon as the moist covers slid off me the dizzying stench of sweat overpowered any amount of fresh air coming in from the window. Bára’s roommate jumped back in disgust and with a barrage of comments about how disgusting I am, she left.
Among the discarded plastic bags and cigarette butts there was a roughly picked home of straw. In it there were three little eggs that looked like dirty oversized tic-tacs.
Bára’s roommate pressed a broom into my hand.
‘Go.’
‘Go where?’
‘Go push that shit off the roof. They carry diseases, you know.’
‘Why me?’
‘Why you? Because you’re a frigging man, act like it.’
Memories of the IT guy setting up my remote working software crawled through the back of my head. I grabbed the broom and went out to the balcony, intent on proving my masculinity. All I had to do was just push the nest off into the street below and Bára’s roommate would get off my back.
Yet as soon as I got outside on the terrace I realized I wasn’t alone. On the neighbor’s windowsill, just a meter or two away from the nest, was a pigeon. The bird’s feathers were fuller than any other pigeon that I had ever seen, it’s eyes shone in a blood red, hateful glow. This was no ordinary pigeon.
And it was watching me.
I moved up the broom to the edge of the nest, but my arms froze. Something about that animal’s blank expression was telling me that I was about to take a step into a world from which I could not return, something was telling me that I was about to make the biggest mistake of my life. An ancient, Hammurabi-era truth loomed behind those red orbs.
An eye for an eye,
A tooth for a tooth,
You harm my young and we will harm yours,
The front door opened. I could hear Bára’s tired voice.
‘Is my man still here?’
‘Yeah, your middle management looking dude is out on the balcony, trying to work up the balls to get rid of a pigeon nest,’ I heard her roommate say.
The passive aggressive insult didn’t even register with me. I was lost in the showdown with the pigeon. Those eyes meant business, and that beak looked sharp enough to break the skin.
I could pick up the nest and take it outside, I could put it in a tree, I could google how to deal with this situation, there were so many things that I could have done but, before I knew it, there was a pair of cold hands wrapped around the broom. Bára pressed her body against mine and before I knew it the broom did its job.
The pigeon’s eyes went wide. Like a paper airplane covered in gravel the nest tumbled down into the street with the gentlest crunch. Within seconds it went from being a bastion of blossoming life to being some leash-less dog’s dinner.
‘Come inside. We need to talk.’ No kiss. She was angry.
The pigeon’s eyes were still locked on the crushed eggs running over the pavement. A wave of self-loathing washed through my chest. It was time for an apology.
I cleared my throat. The pigeon’s eyes quickly darted back to me. That wide-eyed expression of shock quickly faded away. The balls of red that dwelled in the creature’s skull turned into focused, hate-filled dots.
“Look, I’m so-“
The bird launched at my tongue.
My avian predicament catches the attention of a group of Chinese tourists gathered on the other side of the platform. For a split second the shuttering of cameras rises above the cooing, but as the pigeons get closer the clicks and flashes became imperceptible static.
The pigeons have me cornered. I’ve started throwing the croissants from Bohemia Bakery at them wholesale, but for every pigeon I distract there are five more that are thirsty for blood. They’re thirsty for revenge.
The birds hate me for what I have done.
With my back up against a map of the Prague subway system I look up at the ‘Next arrival’ board. The red numbers glare: five minutes thirty-six seconds and counting.
I fire off another text to Julia:
The birds will punish me for what I have done.”
I look out into the sea of gray and see a familiar set of red dots. The bird who’s children I killed leads the march.
I don’t have five minutes. I don’t even have thirty-six seconds.
Wings flutter, the birds take flight. With closed eyes I pray that my punishment will be swift.
It isn’t.
My skin burns with blood as the razor beaks bite into me. My hands barely cover my eyes as the pigeons try to claw at my face. They drag at my hair, they tear at my clothes, they peck at my jeans.
My agony reaches incomprehensible heights. With each bite of flesh they take, however, a sliver of my consciousness fades away. Before the pigeons get to the worst part of their punishment, I black out.
We sat in her kitchen; me, pressing a packet of frozen peas to my tongue and her, nursing a cigarette lit off the stove. Smoke drifted from her nostrils as if she was a passive-aggressive dragon.
‘Thanku, don’t kno wha got into that brd.’ My numb, bleeding tongue didn’t get my point across very eloquently but Bára understood what I meant. Those hazel eyes burrowed into me, watching every twitch in my face.
‘Not pregnant,’ she finally said, ‘Had my period this morning.’
‘Tha’s grea!’ I yelled, sending a trickle of iron into my mouth. I grinned. That was the first good news I heard all day.
She wasn’t smiling.
‘What if I actually was pregnant?’ She took a drag and looked away from me. Whatever nuanced reaction my face made wasn’t to her liking.
The conversation dragged on into eternity and at each turn I said the wrong things. Even if my mouth wasn’t slowly filling up with blood, even if my tongue didn’t have a beak-imposed lisp, I don’t think I could have salvaged that relationship.
I didn’t notice the bird at first, but as soon as I became aware of him it was impossible to fully focus on what Bára was saying. Right behind her, with my blood on his beak, was my red-eyed enemy. Soon friends joined him. The longer Bara and me spoke, the bigger our audience got.
Those beady eyes burnt with hatred.
I left the apartment, newly single, with blood in my mouth and a toothbrush in my pocket, and started making my way towards the bus station. I was about to fire off a text to Julia to let her know I was still in love with her but before I could unblock her number-
Peck!
Something small and sharp snapped at my scalp. The flock of enraged pigeons descended me from the windowsills of the Soviet-era housing projects. If there wasn’t a subway station nearby I probably would have lost an eye.
At first I had hoped that the assault from the pigeons was simply a rare occurrence of an angry parent, yet they followed me everywhere. For months I lived my life in fear, desperately hoping that they would tire of chasing me, but it became clear that the birds would not leave me alone.
They wouldn’t leave me alone until I paid the price.
I keep staring out of the window. This makes the doctor visibly uncomfortable. He tells me about how my body was rushed into surgery, about how there is a good chance I have contracted a fair amount of diseases, about all of the permanent damage that the pigeons had inflicted on me, but I just keep looking out of the window.
I had an educated guess on the extent of the pigeon’s revenge.
An eye for an eye,
A tooth for a tooth,
You harm my young and I will harm yours,
The doctor eventually gives up on trying to elicit a reaction out of me and leaves me alone in my room. And I am alone. The windowsill is empty. The pigeons have had their revenge.
I breathe out a sigh of pained relief.
Ding!
I get a text from someone who makes my heart flutter.
I look back at the conversation.
ME – 5:16AM: “There’s a group of pigeons chasing me through the main train station. They mean me harm. Help!”
ME – 5:24AM: “The Birds will punish me for what I have done.”
JULIA – 7:02PM: “What???”
In the stillness of the hospital room I type out my reply, my explanation. As soon as my scarred thumbs punch the words into reality a weight is lifted off my chest. A chapter of my life has ended. I am free now.
Ding!
ME – 7:02PM: “It’s okay. The pigeons have punished me for my misdeeds. I am scarred and will never be able to have children, but I am a free man. I love you.”
JULIA – 7:03PM: “Jesus Mark, stop sending me these messages.”
submitted by MikeJesus to libraryofshadows [link] [comments]


2020.09.21 07:02 tuuhduuh Naked mom in the kitchen

I am 35 years old and I recently had a PTSD flashback when me and my fiancé got into a huge argument over getting married. I have never realized I had PTSD until a few days ago. Before I dive into what recently happened, let me start off by explaining my childhood. When I was a kid, about 7, I woke up one morning to seeing my Mom on the front porch, she had a backpack beside her. She was just sitting there, so I opened the door and I can’t really remember what was said, but to my knowledge she said something like she is smoking a cigarette and just came back in. The next morning I woke up my mom was gone, and left a note saying she left my dad for another woman. Now my Dad is 6”2, 260 long haired tattooed up mean biker type guy. He didn’t take crap from anyone, or authority figures. He beat two cops up legally before because they failed to identify themselves. Anyways my Mom never came back at all. I never seen her since. I was the third born out of 4 boys. And my Dad was very strict, he had to control everything. He lived on disability even though he could’ve worked. We were pretty poor living in cockroach infested houses with barely any food to get by, and we wore raggedy clothes from donations. I would sometimes have to wear the same outfits days at a time. So you can imagine how we was treated in school. Now also I am hearing impaired and I wear hearing aids in both ears. I have had 20 surgeries to put tubes in. Well here’s where it starts getting dark... Our dad was a fuckin prick, he didn’t give two shits about who saw him beat us. Everyone was scared of him. One time I was really hungry so I made some deep fried potatoes and onions because that’s all we had at the time. My Dad was drunk too. And when he found out I was cooking without permission, he made me eat the entire plate of food. All while he was saying I’m a piece of shit for eating food and not asking if he was hungry, and he would smack me so hard I would almost lose consciousness every time I would take another bite. I don’t remember much after that. Then when me and my brothers would play, we would always be “too loud” because he was trying to lay down and watch tv (he always laid on the couch while we all was forced to stay inside and not go out and play) and do nothing all day. So he would take us all one by one, and we would watch each other get smacked so hard it would make our ears ring.... wow I just now remembered the ear ringing part.... anyways we would have to watch each other get smacked, and to see this happen to your own brother, the brother you played with and laughed with, the only people who we trusted, would be forced to watch this happen, and we would wait our turns. (Sorry for skipping some things, it’s the first time I had to explain this, so I’m leaving out a lot of other abuse, I’m just stating what I remember right now) One time a friend of ours drew a Jewish star on toilet paper and my Dad seen it and flipped out. At this time none of us knew what was going on. We all thought he made it up just so he can beat us. We later found out it was our friend who was the only friend who could come hangout. Anyways he made us all line up and he would pretend he was doing martial arts on us. He would act like Bruce Lee, and he just hit me right in my chest and I fell down 6 feet away starving for oxygen. I couldn’t imagine what this looked like to my brothers who had to witness it. Then it was the next brothers turn, he would make us all draw stars to see if it matched the one on the toilet paper roll, he said “this is like me wiping my ass to God, who did this” and we all would say we didn’t do it because we didn’t. Anyways it was the next brothers turn, it was my oldest brothers turn. My Dad jumped and did a front kick to his chest and knocked him through the closet wall. He fell to the ground gasping for air....whew this is hard to explain....especially the next part... I hated seeing my brothers get hurt, it killed me. I was helpless I couldn’t do anything, I wanted to, I wished that Superman would come save us, because no one could take my dad he was pretty well rounded in CQC. I would imagine Superman coming in and kicking his ass. And it made me feel a little better. Anyways he continued this for I have no idea how long... This part is the hardest on me to explain but I’ll do my best.... WARNING, TRIGGER!!! My dad did this to us 3 times that I can remember.... I can’t remember why he did this to us but the site we all had to participate in and watch and feel what was going on was so surreal.... He would make us three hold one of our brothers down.... by the ankle last, the wrists and head....We would have to strip naked....as we would hold each other down.... whew it hurts so much thinking about it....I had to forcibly hold my brother down and if he got loose he would smack the taste out our mouths... so we had no choice but to be rough....I had to hold down my brother as he begged my dad to stop beating his naked body....with a leather belt, he would sometimes use the belt buckle side... the feeling of me holding down my brothers ankles as he was tortured by our own Father, who we looked up to for guidance and security and safety, who we still loved even though he hated us, would do such things to us.... My brothers and I would take turns begging our dad to stop, this happened four times because there’s four of us, so this was pretty traumatic. Ok... also when we would go out to public we could t say anything, touch anything, play, or even look sad. If we did he would say “You think I wouldn’t smack you in front of all these people” boy was we wrong, he would smack us so hard that the ringing in our ears would go crazy. I’m hearing impaired so when he smacked me it would hurt so much more... Me... I had to deal with this, and deal with bullies at school. Our dad made us all have long hair and we wasn’t allowed to cut it. So he gave us all mullets. T hat wasn’t popular in school, maybe it was then but I didn’t like it. I had long hair, big glasses, and the old time big ol hearing aid. So I was quite the specimen for bullies because they could come up with so many things to make fun of me about. All while I’m trying to forget what happened the night before from my dad. My Dad never taught us how to do anything. Nothing at all. Not even to ride a bike or even tie our shoes. My second oldest brother didn’t learn to tie his shoes until he was 14, or ride a bike until he was 15. So we wasn’t prepared for what the world had to offer. Oh also me and my brothers lived on the south side in a bad neighborhood and we was in a drive by, some van pulled up and started shooting up our house while my dad was bouncing at a strip club. Me being the crazy one (the one who goes head first into trouble) tried to pull out my dads gun and shoot back but my oldest brother took the gun from me. One of the bullets ripped through my oldest brothers pillow where he was resting his head..... Then after that he would mentally abuse us by putting his gun to his head making us beg him not to do it, we would freak out crying not knowing what to do. He did this I don’t know how many times. To the point where we knew he was lying. As we got older my brothers started to get gfs and eventually they all had children and wives. I was 22 I think I don’t feel like doing math) While me, the bad boy was stuck with him because I would get drunk a lot and go out and get into fights and I would repeat this over and over until I was so depressed that I told my dad I was going to kill myself (before this I almost got shot by a cop, I have so many stories to tell but not enough time, I could write a book) and he didn’t utter a word. This happened December 27th, 2007. TRIGGER!! So I went into the kitchen and drew out a steak knife and I worked myself up to stab myself in the stomach..... I did and I didn’t feel anything, when I pulled the knife out some fat or muscle came out with it (because it was a serrated blade) and plugged the hole I made. I went into the living room where my dad was laying and showed him and he didn’t seem to be phased. Until I passed out on the floor.... I was in and out while I was driven to the hospital by my oldest brother and my Dad. I was in so much pain, it hurt so bad I couldn’t stop cussing, I was yelling curse words so loud. So I wake up the next morning with 25 staples in my stomach and I’m surrounded by all my loved ones....The look on their faces.. will haunt me for the rest of my life...(one of the people there was my best friend Cody who I played my guitar with and he played drums, recently took his own life) From that day on I never thought about suicide again. I have a huge heart, I love without limitation. I give and never want anything in return. This story isn’t even including what has triggered my ptsd. Or the love story I am currently in. I made a wish when I was 5 to marry a redhead with blue eyes. And I met her, in high school. I had long hair still and still wore glasses and hearing aids. I didn’t like my hair so I never took care of it. So one time I was in a crowded hallway at my locker, and this beautiful BEAUTIFUL redhead walked past me and I fell in love... I never had a chance...even though in my mind I thought I could get her, just by looking in the mirror then there was no way in hell she would even want to talk to me. I went to this dudes house to buys some weed and she was there with the weedmans sister. I froze in my spot as soon as I seen her, I contemplated on turning around and getting the hell outta there. But I had to get high, so I went up and sat next to her and the weedmans sister. I was introduced and she actually talked to me!! She smiled at me! She could do tell I was crushing hard. I even somehow left with her fucking phone number!! Man i just knew my life from here on would be worth it. We quickly became friends because I am a pretty goofy funny guy. (Not bragging but I made a inmate in jail laugh so hard he begged me to stop making him laugh and he shit himself, what happened was a guard wouldn’t get me my hot water so I can cook some noodles, I kept banging on the cell door and he came over and said “are you fuckin stupid” I said “no your fuckin stupid” in a kids voice and my cell mate lost it. Then when the guard left I said that mother fucker called me stupid, he’s gonna think I’m stupid when I kidnap his ass and tie em up and rip the tape off his mouth and say “wwwwhhhooooo’s sssstuuuupiiiid nnnnnooooowwww” and my cell mate shit himself. (You see this readers, I’m trying to impress you guys or make you guys like me even though I never seen any of you) I catch myself now doing things normal people shouldn’t do. I don’t know how to respond to emotions, I feel awkward about showing someone affection or intimacy. Also you see what else I did. I cut off my story to tell another story. I do that and I dunno. I’m always distracted, distracted by me always criticizing and analyzing what I do, the way I walk, the way I carry myself, the way I talk, and when I try to do something that is showing affection I feel like every single move I make being watched and that I am not doing it right. And in this moment I am being awkward, I won’t stand like I should).... Anyways the redhead.... and then we would hangout everyday until she got a bf. It didn’t crush me but I wasn’t happy. He was a good guy, (he ended up killing himself over this same girl). So then I would hangout with this one dude and he had a gf that was pretty classy and she asked if I wanted to cut my hair, I quickly said yes please. When she cut my hair....I became the stud I knew I always was. I was blown away by the attention I got. Then the weedmans sister calls me and says “she wants to fuck your brains out” and I’m like “huh who!?” She says her name and I start laughing while saying “yeah right quit playing with me” and I hear the redhead laughing in the background saying “I really do”. She ended up coming over and you can figure the rest out. It was like wow, it was the best moment of my life. She ended up disappearing and then eventually she came to me and we started dating which I still couldn’t believe. (Till this day I have bad self esteem, self confidence and self worth. I think everyone hates me and that I should isolate myself out of fear of confrontation. I recently came to the conclusion that I am pretty fucin hot (I am) and then she ended up cheating on me and left me. We was still friends because we were buddies. We told each other everything. Done all kinds of stuff together and I loved her so so much.... From the day I laid eyes on her, I just knew deep down, that we would eventually end up together, there’s no doubt in my mind. That this is true love. Then I would come hangout with her and her bfs over the years and even became friends with them, like it bothered me tbh but I just put the feelings aside cause she is my buddy and I couldn’t lose my best friend. So I kept talking to her. Then she moved away and I went to jail for 4 months. And she connected back with me somehow. I had a Job at a bread factory, that paid 20/hr and the best benefits around. Got me a nice car. And I was living with my brother at this time because, never mind that’s a long story. Anyways I had my shit together and she liked it and she wanted to hook up. She also had a baby by, ironically the weedman. I told her I could take care of her and her baby. As best friends. But I never expected to fall so hard for her....So hard that I treated her like a fairy princess, I was very clingy. She would tell me I’m clingy but I never understood how. So I figured she meant clingy as I’m showing too much love and affection. I’m not sure if I’m still wrong or not but I did the opposite of what she meant. I now in hindsight see what she meant. She meant following her around always up her ass always wanting to do what she wanted even if I hated to do it. She got whatever she wanted. She would try to do super duper nice things for me but I rejected it because it made me feel uncomfortable, I didn’t know how to react to someone showing me genuine love and tenderness. And I acted wrong. Because I would always over think every action I made. I would always sit and wonder what to say to her instead of being myself. Right before this I asked her to marry me and she said no. And again later I asked her and she said no. Then she went to jail for failing a drug test and I would write her and I would write the most sweetest lovey dovey letters. Which was also a mistake. I can’t be writing her gay letters when she’s in Jail, that made me look like a bitch. Anyways I asked her to marry me again and she said yes. Her daughter became my daughter cause her real daddy is a pos. Then later I got an apartment and she moved in with me and we got in an argument over getting married. When this happened I started to panic, I started to not think coherently. I was saying jibberish as if my brain put a “do not disturb” sign up. She would ask about the things I do and how I act and how I show jy love and she would say why am I even with her, because I’m a high clsss good lookin guy (so never knew this till recently) She freaked me out so bad because I didn’t want her to go, I would die if she left. I am guessing I had an attack I have no clue. But I said “I guess my unconscious mind doesn’t want me to marry you” and she asked if I wanted the ring back and I thought that’s what she wanted, that she wanted me to take the ring so she would t leave me) I guess I was wrong cause she left. She left and fucked about 40 dudes within 4 months. I still love her, and I still talk to her. She gave me a ring the other day that says “true love waits”. And my baby calls me Daddy and I love it so much. Noe I am too attached to my daughter and I can’t leave her, because I want to raise her the way I wish I was raised. Noe I am scared to death of losing her and my best friend. I know why she left me really. It’s because I did t assert myself. I was a pushover to her (I was no way near being a pussy, I didn’t care how many people there were I’d fuck all em up, I’ve been jumped a few times and still whooped em) there I go again. Anyways she isn’t attracted to a girl, she’s attracted to a man. She did t say that, but she calls me a girl sometimes. It’s cause I always thought you treat a girl how a lovey dovey girl treats guys. I was so wrong. My Dad did t teach me shit. I did have gfs growing up but they did t last long. Most was just fuck and go’s. Noe I’m about to finally see a psychiatrist this week and I hopr I get my emotions in check. I cry a lot and she hates it because it makes her disgusted. Which I understand because it’s not who I am. I am asserted but my mind just freezes up.... I dunno what to do. I can’t lose them or my life is truly over. I have no children, my brothers all have wives and kids and get love and defection every single day. I had to be stuck with my dad for 35 years. He had so much control iver me that he stil ran my life.
submitted by tuuhduuh to CPTSD [link] [comments]