olsen

Hey, girls: remember how I said I'd post a short story I had written?

Well I finally remembered.

So here it is. To the people who haven't heard the BG info, it's FICTIONAL (so no it isn't about me!) but Very Distantly inspired by someone I know, and hardly knew at all at the time of writing.



When My Mother Stopped Smiling


I wanted to tell you that there was a happy time, a few moments of glory before I started to let it all fade. I feel like a damned thirty-year old, settled into my domestic life now, cooking traditional meals in this college kitchen, food that everyone smells and finds disgustingly culturally erotic.

Yum.

So people here can lick my exotic cunt and watch me smile in pleasure, knowing someone knows me. Someone loves me. All in the biblical sense, never anything meaningful, because I still want to feel young enough to flirt with life and not yet own it. Taste everything richly like when I was in highschool, and action was spiced in the flavor of rebellion and I had somewhere to put my rage.

Being 16 was all about trying to get the right people to stop loving me, and everyone else to start. Instead, they loved my parents, loved coming to my house at dinner, loved especially my mother who was always quiet and meek as fuck, shuffled her feet and looked down as she walked. My mother made me achingly popular. They liked her food, liked the strange politenesses that fall out of a mouth with nothing substantial to say.

My parents raised me speaking English with the hopes that Id stay with the times, belong to this place. If shed taken her own advice, maybe we could communicate, but as it is, my mother can only speak broken English, and I can only utter a few phrases in Chinese. I dont know if there was ever anything she wanted to say to me, but it certainly never came across.

The only thing I ever got from that woman in the 19 years I lived with her was love. Eager, desperate, slovenly love, oozing from her pores like glistening juice on swollen lips. Drove me crazy, this blind love she had for me, as if she couldnt ever stop to understand who I am and try to love that. She chose instead to love indiscriminately, as if seeing me would destroy her affection.

And I hated her for taking all the love that should have been directed at me, wanted to rip it out through her loving throat and instill it in everyone at school. They should love me. My mother could hate me for all I cared, as long as she really hated Me.

We fought viciously between emotions, like characters in an RPG. She wielded love, and I, hatred. Beautiful, pristine, passionate loathing. The unspoken war.

But I hit highschool like a killer on the run, and I had just upgraded my weapons systems.

Ass.

Lips.

Tits.

Cunt.

Mother came from a quiet place where breeding was coordinated by the parents of the bride. She didnt own sex, she borrowed it. I was in highschool, and sex was all mine.
I prowled the halls, eager as fuck to start fucking. Touched boys softly as I passed them, then got more aggressive, started grabbing asses, reaching just far enough underneath them to press my fingertips into their balls for a moment before letting go. I liked the uncontrollable way they would spring up when I came to toy with them, the pubescent powerlessness that made their voices swing to involuntary falsettos when they spoke in class, forced them to keep a book free to drop in front of their crotch if I was nearby in the hall. I knew they talked about me at their Friday night drinking parties, speculated about how many fingers I could slip inside myself, how many people Id gone down on, who could fuck me, whether Id take it in the ass, if I screamed, if I moaned, if I came.

Everyone dreamed, but no one ever touched me. They all thought I had been tapped out, that I was sitting somewhere in an easy chair, cum dripping down my face, that I was intangible, because I had found my place. I yearned desperately for someone to grab me, tug at my tits, plunge into me, show me that someone could love meprove it in the only way one can.

.His name was Nick Polowski because I never knew him well enough for his last name to disengage. When I brought him home, I pulled him right past my mother as she cooked, didnt expose him to her near-mute English or her incessantly bashful blinking. I moved him by the wrist, directed him as he walked one step behind me, until we were in the wide-open living room, where my aging, American-dream dog shook and quaked in her sleep.

It was exciting and awkward. I wanted it to feel infinite, wanted myself to feel alive and present. I moved over him, my cunt all covered in goo like liquid soap, but still dry through the skin, so that his dick pressed and stuck to me like cotton gauze around a pulled tooth.

I think a lot about the way that felt. I have never been so moved by sex as I was the afternoon my mother cooked sweet rolls in the kitchen, when my insides were so tight and shiny and new. I recognize that afternoon in the sounds I still make--maybe you dont scream because you want to, you scream because you have to.

But that day was my triumph. It took so much screaming and panting and wailing to bring my mom into the room, but she knew all along that the show was for her. I could never forget the fallen stare she wore when she finally came in, when I caught her eye in the midst of my naughty ride.

My thighs sore, my back aching, and my pussy still leaking thin streams of blood, I slept well that night, smiling from the heart out, knowing that I had finally introduced myself to my mother.






obligatory writer's precaution:
This is all copyrighted material.
If you liked it and would like to reprint it in part or in whole,
please ask. Chances are I'll be soo bloody flattered,
I'll mail you fudge along with all my permissions.
♥