My Confession_(1)

This is my entry in the “Calling All Writers – Chapter 6” challenge on the Sex Stories forum on www.xnxx.com. (That’s for those pricks who steal stories and post them elsewhere.) The theme of this challenge was to write a story about unrequited love, referencing the song “All I Have to do is Dream,” popularized by the Everly Brothers as a hit single released in April, 1958. There’s a catch: writers who entered the challenge were to write from the point of view of the opposite sex. I’m a man, so I had to write as a female.

PLEASE NOTE: This is not a pretty story. Wantsomefun.

* * * * *

I’ve thought about it a lot. I have a story to tell. Sitting in this motel room, I’ve decided to write it all down.

The best way for me to organize my thoughts is to put them on paper. It doesn’t matter if someone reads this. They know who I am, and they’re getting close. I won’t run any more, but I won’t go to jail, either. I’m sure some smart-ass will call it suicide by cop, but they’ll be wrong. I’d like to live a long life. Still, when they come for me, there’s going to be trouble.

I know what’s going on. I’ve known it for years. I have some “abnormalities,” as the psychiatrists call them Some people would use these as an excuse for bad behavior. They’re weak.

Not me. I’m strong. My childhood made me that way. I detest weak people. That’s part of the problem. Women are supposed to be the weaker sex. Men are supposed to be the strong ones. Mom and Dad always said that. I bought it for a while, growing up.

Dad was strong. He was a big man, but he was known as a gentle, kind man, at least in public. No one knew what he was like at home. No one saw the bruises he used to put on my mother and me. No one heard her scream in the bedroom. I remember crying myself to sleep as a little girl after hearing her beg him not to do something to her, and then hearing her crying and yelling.

On my twelfth birthday, I woke up to her screams. She was louder than usual, and she sounded hysterical. When I went to their bedroom door, I could hear the slap of his belt on her flesh. I stood there crying and scared. I guess I must have been too loud, because suddenly the door opened and Dad’s big hand grabbed my arm and whipped me into the room.

Mom was naked on their bed, face down and spread eagle, with all four limbs tied to the bedposts. She had red welts all over her buttocks and thighs.

“I’ll teach you to spy on us, you little cunt!” my father roared. He picked me up and carried me to the bed, where he sat and held me on his lap. “Look at your mother, you little bitch! She misbehaved, so she’s getting punished. Now you’ve misbehaved, too. You know the rules. You are never to eavesdrop on us, and you are never to talk to anyone about anything that happens in this house. Do you understand?”

I was too terrified to speak.

“Do you understand me, Becky?”

“Yes, Dad.”

“Let her go, Ralph, please,” my mother sobbed.

“Shut up, whore,” he growled. “I’ll let her go, but not until she’s had her birthday present.”

“NO! YOU CAN’T!” my mother screeched.

“Why do you have to keep proving how stupid you are, Joan? I’m not some sick fuck like you probably wish I was. No, all she’s getting is the belt. The fun things I save for you, my love.”

My father picked me up roughly and slammed me down across his lap. With one big hand, he yanked my nightgown up and my panties down, and with the other he held my head down on the bed. All I could see was my mother’s crying face.

I was used to getting spanked or hit pretty often for something. Usually Dad just used his hand, which was bad enough, and usually I was dressed, at least in my underwear. This was the first time I got a bare-bottom spanking with the belt.

“You’re old enough to know respect now, to know about privacy. To make sure you remember, you’re going to get a swat for every year on those creamy white ass cheeks of yours. You’d better not cry. One!”

The pain was like nothing I had ever imagined. The closest thing I had ever felt to that was when I fell off my bike on gravel and brush-burned my arm a couple of months earlier. This stinging was much worse.

“Two! Three! Four!”

Mom was crying loudly now. In a way, I was glad, because I knew her noise might keep Dad from hearing me. I didn’t want to find out what would happen if he did.

“Five!”

It seemed like he must not have been counting right. It felt like that leather strap had cut me a hundred times by then.

“Six! Seven! Eight!”

The pain was unbearable I struggled not to scream.

“Nine! Ten! You’re going to remember, aren’t you Becky?” he roared.

I was afraid to open my mouth, so I just nodded my head.

“Eleven! Twelve!” Then Dad laughed, quietly. Still holding the belt in his hand, he stroked my wounded buttocks gently. “You’ll remember what you’ve learned tonight, won’t you, baby girl?”

“Yes, Dad, I’ll remember. I’ll be good,” I whimpered. I started trying to breathe again. It was over. Why was he still holding my head down?

“I’m sure you will. Dad loves you, you know. I want you to grow up to be a good woman and a good wife some day. Not like your stupid, ugly slut of a mother. Always be a good girl. Then I won’t have to do this.” I felt Dad push my legs apart, and then the belt slammed down on the tender flesh between them. “Now go to bed. I don’t want to see you or hear you until your mother comes and gets you for breakfast.”

I yanked up my panties and ran to my room. The only way I could safely cry myself to sleep was to bury my head under my pillow. The next morning, when I went to the bathroom, there was a little blood on the toilet tissue.

At breakfast, neither of my parents said a word about the events of the night before. It was as though they never happened.

I started to suspect that other families didn’t do some of these things Other girls had friends come over to their house, but no one was allowed to visit me if Dad was going to be home. Other girls got to sleep over at their friends’ houses, but not me. I knew this was because my parents were afraid a friend would see the marks on me. I decided that what my Dad did to Mom and me was wrong, but it was the only life I knew.

* * * * *

Early on the morning of my fifteenth birthday, Dad came to my room and woke me up.

“Becky, you don’t have to go to school today,” he said. “It’s your birthday, so you can stay home. Help your Mom around the house today, and then we’ll go out for your birthday dinner when I get home. Would you like that, honey?”

“Really? Thanks, Dad! I hate school.”

“I know you do, baby girl. Don’t worry. I wouldn’t send you if I didn’t have to, but the law says you have to go to school. One day off won’t hurt, though.”

“Why do they make you send me to school, Dad?”

“I don’t know, Becky. I can see it for a boy, I guess. Boys have to grow up and get jobs and support a family. Girls have to grow up and stay home and take care of the house and the babies. They don’t need school to do that. They don’t teach a girl the stuff she needs to know in school, anyway.”

“You mean the things you and Mom teach me?” I asked.

“Yes. You know you’re supposed to do what a man tells you to do. You’re getting better with tools, you know how to do some housework, you’re good in the garden, and you wash dishes. I’m going to have your mother teach you some other things, starting today.”

“Like what, Dad?”

“It’s time you learned more about cooking and baking. In fact, here’s a great idea. I’ll have Mom take you to the grocery store today. You’ll get everything you need to make your own birthday cake. Mom can help you make it.”

“I’ve helped Mom make cakes with mixes before, Dad. I wonder if I can make one from scratch?”

“You want to do that, baby girl? We can have it for desert when we get home from dinner.”

“OK, Dad,” I said.

As always, we kissed on the lips, and then he went downstairs while I got dressed.

I had a good time with Mom that day. She had the radio on in the kitchen while we worked on my birthday cake. Just as I put in in the oven, my favorite “oldies” song came on. The Everly Brothers sang,

“When I want you in my arms
When I want you and all your charms
Whenever I want you, all I have to do is dream
Dream, dream, dream….”

I hummed along to the song as I started washing the mixing bowl.

“You really like that song, don’t you, Becky?” my mom asked.

“Yeah, Mom, I do.”

“What do you think about when you hear it?”

“I guess I think about what it will be like to be in love. What’s it supposed to make me think about?” I asked.

“Oh, I don’t know what the songwriter wanted you to think about. I just wanted to know what it means to you,” Mom said. “You know what I think about when I hear that song?”

“No.”

“I think about the way it was when I was young, when I first met your father. I was just a little older than you are now. The first time I saw him, he was playing basketball with some of his friends. I watched him for over an hour. I had never felt like that looking at any other boy. The next time I saw him was a couple of weeks later. There was a teen dance at the pavilion at the park. A local band started playing a cover of that song, and your father came over and asked me to dance. Later that night, I got my first ever kiss from him. I knew he would be my husband some day,” Mom said.

Suddenly I knew my mother was going to cry.