Fold Spindle and Mommy-rape Pt. 1 by DiscipleN
Experience an exhilarating journey with "Fold Spindle and Mommy-rape Pt. 1 by DiscipleN." This erotic sex story explores taboo desires and thrilling encounters that push boundaries. Immerse yourself in a world of passion and intrigue where fantasies come alive. Perfect for adventurous readers seeking intense narratives. Discover the captivating tale today!<br/>
A concerned mother rails on about the nation’s tolerance for incestuous rape. , Fold, Spindle, and Mommy Rape
by DiscipleN
Copyright (c) 2016, by DiscipleN. All rights reserved.
– all characters herein are 18 or older by the time they act sexually. –
Am I totally off the mark here, or should a mother not be exceedingly cross at her child when he rapes her? I’ve tried to find the answer from books, support groups, or anyone having a reasonable pedigree, but the topic quickly chills psychologists and social workers alike when I ask them. Nobody seems to be talking about this! It’s almost as if other mothers all over America don’t have to deal with their son raping them on a regular basis. Right, and panda cubs are less cute than koalas. Well, this mother has had it up to her ovaries with incestuous sperm and is determined to put an end to the silence about this national tragedy!
I was so looking forward to having children and loving them and raising them to live successful, happy lives. My dreams, beginning before high school, were very precise on the matter. I would marry a handsome building contractor, spend a few years just for ourselves, but not too many, creating the perfect home and being the perfect husband and wife. Then after much careful planning and yes, education, we’d have two children, first a son for him, and then a daughter for me. Our boy would become a great sousaphonist, and my little girl would grow up to fight for noble causes like abandoned pets and corruption at the horse track.
Some readers might think my dreams were perhaps a bit too specific, but a woman should always know what she wants, in advance. I am strong. I am woman. I can do anything a man can do, as long as I’m married to him.
Henry was not a building contractor, exactly, but he was hired regularly, on cash contracts to caulk the windows of leaky old houses and newly constructed town homes. I figured he just needed to apply himself a little more, and soon he’d be hiring illegal aliens and managing projects for the city. He was rather handsome, until misfortune intervened in my life plan. We’d been married nearly a year, a year of true marital bliss, when a construction site crane toppled down and smashed Henry’s left arm and left leg, leaving him scared all along that side from forehead to pinky toe.
The very good fortune from that terrible accident was, Henry was still able to impregnate me. With my tongue firmly stuck out at Miss-fortune, we did have a son. We named him Race, after a character from Henry’s favorite, classic cartoon show, or some new reincarnation of it. Henry watched a lot of television after his accident. I tried not to mind, and I didn’t complain at all about the name he chose for our nine week old fetus. I would be the one who named my daughter, Patricia Annabel Chloe Cutter. I looked so forward to calling my darling daughter to my side, ‘oh PattyAnnie, come to Mommy!’
I was sure I could nurse my devoted husband back to health and inspire him to take the county contractor’s exam. I bought him audio tapes about how to empower himself and succeed at government test taking. I wanted everything back that had been lost since his accident and more by the time little Race arrived home, but Henry never seemed to understand how important this was to me. I asked him if he really preferred watching television to supporting his family. He told me to shut my fucking trap, or he would shut it for me. I had to learn this the hard way, many times in our house, but there are already too many stories out there about that social issue. Little Miss-fortune had remembered not too kindly my moment of defiance. My story must press on, for the sake of mothers like me who need to decide what to do about having a mommy rapist for a son.
Compared to many other boys in our foothills town, Race at least HAD a father around to learn him a man’s way, while his mother worked two jobs to support them. Henry never had disability insurance, having worked under the table all his life. Our church’s compassion support ended right after Race was too old to be legally aborted. Not that I’ve ever considered abortion as anything but the vile murder of a human soul. Even godless terrorists know that; may God wipe them from the face of the Earth. With the decline in our family income, and Race’s birthing and other medical bills, suddenly, the idea of having a daughter right away wasn’t as endearing as it had been in high school. I began to neglect my duty as a woman cleaving unto her man.
Henry didn’t seem to mind, much. Oh, he hollered and hit me regular for a while, but after he started buying porno books, video tapes, and going out and liquoring up wrinkled, old floozies, a fact I was only too happy to ignore, he settled down and took his parental chores firmly in hand. With Race he did not spare the rod nor spoil the child. My fair haired boy grew up tough and fierce. Our neighbors often complained that he was bullying their children. I consoled them with a few wise words about the high spirits of children, their susceptibility to the lies of Satan, and whatever cash I had saved in the cookie jar.
Sometime around late puberty, Race finally convinced me he needed more serious help than the Lord Almighty and his born again flock. He killed his father with our ‘coon-n-‘possum gun.
That was the scandal. I went through a lot of trouble convincing the police to report it as an accident, I know very well that Henry did not keep the gun loaded. Race would have had to steal the key his father kept in his old caulking toolkit, unlock the fishing and tackle box where the shells were hidden, climb on a chair to reach the gun hanging over our fake fireplace, and sneak into the shower and wait for when his dad next limped to the toilet with a porno mag for the purpose of spilling his seed into the septic tank. The police found bits of ear on the hallway wall opposite the bathroom door. I think they just didn’t want the notoriety of charging a minor with an adult crime, because we made a deal before any of the forensic evidence could be analyzed. They wouldn’t book charges if I booked the boy with the county psychiatric ward.
Not only did I sign Race’s future care over to the state, I threw out all the guns in our house and all of Henry’s porn. Fortunately, the county mental center for juveniles was packed to the gills with abused, rural children, and they relegated him back to my custody, but they didn’t shirk their compassionate duty. Ronald Thames, a dedicated social worker, spent the next three years visiting Race, working with him, and checking on the evolution (pardon my french) of our family situation. It all came to a sudden end when Race discovered Ronald’s attempts to improve our family situation in my bed, weeks after Race had turned eighteen and was no longer under Ron’s care.
I’m not sure why everyone got so upset. Race’s feistiness had been mellowing for nearly three years before I decided Ronald was my best chance to bring dear little Patricia Annabel Chloe into our lives. Ronald was married. So I knew he wouldn’t want to claim the child as his own. I had grown out of my widow’s sorrow hours after Henry had been buried in the ground. Race was beginning to understand and accept the responsibilities and troubles adulthood had placed upon him. And lastly, we were almost rich!