Mom stayed home in a comfortable house, in many ways a stereotypical 1950s housewife.
Now that she was divorced, Mom had no idea what to do with herself.
I was to remain in my room until I had spent ninety continuous minutes with no loud noises. She then quietly locked me in and went back downstairs while I continued caterwauling.
When I finally calmed down and had completed thirty minutes of silence, she brought me a brownie, saying, “Well done, sweetheart, carry on.” When I’d reached an hour, she brought me another.
I could tell you dozens of stories about times she’d acted effectively to correct my behaviour, then did everything she could to resolve the situation that had caused me to act out in the first place.
*** I came home from school, and although she smiled resolutely as she greeted me, it was obvious Mom had been crying… She was sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee, so I sat across the corner from her and looked into her eyes gently. And he left me, too.” This seemed to make Mom even sadder. “After all the things you’ve done for me my whole life, I wouldn’t have it any other way.” “It’s just… I smiled, “I’ve moved on to angry mode.” “I think I’m in a lot of modes,” she laughed. “It’s just personal, honey,” she said, avoiding eye contact. You’re a special woman, and you deserve to be treated like a goddess.” “Oh, Hannah,” she smiled, suddenly near tears of a different kind. “Guys whip towels at each other’s asses and we tug thongs.” “Why? “I literally have no idea,” I answered, which was true. It was a tradition, but no one seemed to know where it started. “Well, okay,” she said, following me, even though she was trying to process how clothes were going to cheer her up. ” she asked, as she went to her dresser drawer and pulled out a few pairs of stockings, still in the package. “Your body is better than most high school girls’.” “You’re being silly,” she responded, but didn’t move away as I finally dropped her dress to the floor. “Seriously, your breasts are huge, and mine are so small,” I said, pouting, as I jerked my sweater off. ” “You’re not wearing a bra,” she pointed out, surprised. “I can’t argue with that,” Mom nodded, before adding, as I rolled up the first stocking in my hands, “but there is sexier than stockings with a garter-belt.” As I began putting the first stocking on my foot, I smiled, getting turned on by the sight of my mother in only a thong, garter and stockings, “You’re wonderful proof of that statement.” “Oh, thanks,” Mom blushed.
and me, but I didn’t give a fuck, I was glad he was gone. ” “Hannah, it was never that black and white,” she continued to defend him. ” I shouted, slamming my palm onto the counter, a technique my father had often used to silence Mom. “Blame Amanda,” I answered, who was my best friend and the one I messed around with the most.
He’d abandoned her during the holiday season, which only made him a bigger dick than I’d already thought he was. Oh sure, sexual attraction was the main one, but my hatred for the way my dad had treated Mom my entire life had generalised itself into a very early dislike for men, thus boys, and at eighteen I was definitely one hundred percent lesbian. I was perceived by Mom and by most people who knew me as a sweet, shy, nerdy young woman. “I feel like such a failure,” she admitted, although I could tell that wasn’t what she really meant. She looked at me in shock as I took control, took her hand, and led her to the couch. She said she liked quick access to my pussy when she wanted a quick snack, and that was often (at lunchtime in the bathroom, in the car, at her house and even once in an empty movie theatre).
He didn’t me into a lesbian, but he sure made it easier for me to accept that any great love in my life would definitely be wearing a skirt. I was far from that, but I didn’t mind letting most people think I was. ” “I’m fine, honey,” she answered like she always did, as she wiped away some streaks of evidence to the contrary, attempting to be casual. I pulled Mom into a hug and said, “Mom, you’re not a failure. He’s a failure as a husband and as a father.” “Oh, honey,” Mom said, bursting into tears again. “He treated you like a slave.” “I don’t know what I did wrong,” she wailed through her tears. “Mom, no more defending him,” I lectured, not holding back my anger. Any damn fool can ejaculate in a cunt.” “Hannah, language,” Mom scolded, swearing not something I usually did in front of my mother or she in front of me. “You should try commando; it’s quite liberating,” I encouraged, “and in the winter you can feel Jack Frost nipping at your… Amanda said I had the sweetest pussy she’d ever tasted (something several girls had said to me) and thus she had a second home between my legs.
Shy around boys vs couldn’t care less about boys didn’t look so different from the outside. Few, besides my best friend and partner in crime Amanda, a still in the closet athlete Brittany (I knew where her closet was and visited her there regularly), a neighbour Mrs. Walker, and a few other trusted souls had any clue that I was a lesbian. Today was Valentine’s Day and it was her first one since Dad had left two months ago. “All you did was love your children and get older,” I told her. “Sorry, Mom,” I apologized much more softly, putting my hand on her nylon-clad leg. “I see girls completely naked almost every day.” I withheld the part where we were naked so they could lick me and vice versa. When she didn’t move away, I slipped the dress off her shoulders and down her torso to her hips. ” she reproved me, although clearly appreciating the compliment. I ignored her protests as I tossed her bra onto the floor and quickly cupped her big, firm breasts. I now wondered if my yummy pussy taste was hereditary. ” Mom asked, as I selected the mocha pair, which was my favourite color: it really enhanced my rather pale legs.