When I was a kid I hated fighting. My role in my family, such as it was, was as the ‘reasonable’ one. I’d like to say reasonable child but that would kind of suggest that there were reasonable adults around. There were not. My mum and dad’s divorce was bitter. My mum thought she had the upper hand because although my dad, largely on his own, had paid for the house, she had the kids so got to keep the house until I turned 18 which when I was four was a long, long way away. My mum’s argument with my dad was simple. She wanted to move to a more expensive area, make herself middle class. Think Hyacinth Bucket. My dad on the other hand, after becoming an outright homeowner, wanted to enjoy life, take holidays, trips to Alton Towers and generally give the lot of us a nice childhood. With Maggie as her role model, think breaking the miners, out the door my dad went, divorce papers handed to him, off to a shitty rented room with a landlady, if memory serves correctly who was 75 if she was a day complete with about ten cats and two dogs. That was his punishment and the nervous breakdown that followed for not agreeing to her terms.
His revenge was awesome. When he got better, and it did take some time because he had been married to her for 14 years, he did well and truly get his own back. He got a better job which meant more money which meant nicer everything. Cars, house, clothes, holidays, everything. To this day I still like BMWs because he got a silver one around this time. He lived it up; he used to drive past my mum when it was raining, when she had bags and bags of shopping from Somerfield as it was then, smile and wave. He didn’t just leave her to it; he left the lots of us, brought up the family of his then girlfriend and had a very nice life indeed, not least because he was in the pub four nights of each and every week. In fact he spent so much time in the pub during my childhood and teenage years that if ever my mum wanted to communicate with him she would send me to his local and get me to pass a message on.
Yep, my dad left my mum with the kids and the house just as she wanted and rubbed his new found good life right in her face; her anger at her plan backfiring in a way she never imagined knew no bounds. He wasn’t suffering as she had hoped, he wasn’t suffering at all, he had never been so happy. Over joyed isn’t stretching the term. It was her suffering now and didn’t we all know it. With no husband to make miserable she set about making her children miserable. And by miserable I mean that every time my dad drove past her in the rain, smiling and waving as she struggled with too many bags of shopping, from that point onwards, with every step taken from that moment till she trundled home her anger would mount. When she got home she started looking for targets. Which one of her kids would she strangle and batter today? It didn’t really matter, it could have been any one of us, she wasn’t fussy in that way. My older brother, who I, in no affectionate manner, have, since being a kid, referred to as ‘Satan’ did not react well to these indiscriminate beatings. When he got big and strong with no small help from steroids he became much more vicious than my mother could ever hope to be. He is my mother’s favourite because no son could she have produced more in her own image. He smashed the house up and whoever got in his way on a disturbingly regular basis. It was both funny and awful but more awful really to have the police round the house every second week and to be part of THAT family. You know the type, the one that drags house prices down.
While I was never my mother’s favourite target for battery, like I said she didn’t really have a favourite, it was always whoever was closest and I always had the good sense to hide in my bedroom. However I was my brother’s target of choice. I am not saying he didn’t hit my other brother, because he did and hard but I was the one he wanted to break. While I don’t wish to play at amateur psychologist I’ve started, in recent years, to think the reason he smacked me around was because he couldn’t hit my mother. He wouldn’t hit my mother, not because the knuckle dragging, Rockport wearing vocabulary of 600, missing part of link chav would believe it was wrong but because he knew he would do it once and in ten seconds flat he would be homeless. He could, on the other hand, hit his little sister to his heartless content. It wasn’t like anyone cared and it wasn’t like I stood a chance. I am six years younger than him, half his size, no more than seven stone at the time. All in all it’s pretty easy to twat a girl like that around. Oh and yes, I did tell a teacher when they were shouting at me yet again for being late and only having 13% attendance and yes they did do something. Social services did get involved; they removed me from my mum’s house and only let me go back once my mother assured them that my older brother had moved out. He moved back in ten days later. I kept my mouth shut after that point, not feeling particularly protected by the child protection register I had been placed on.
What I find extraordinary is that it’s not the beatings per se that I remember. There were obviously a few standout ones that were of note either because they were more vicious than usual or absolutely degrading but it’s not the physical violence that is really echoed on my memory. It is feeling embarrassed. I remember going to the pub with my first boyfriend when I was 15, hidden away in a dark corner because I in no way looked old enough to be in there. Maybe I was jumpy or something because I remember that boyfriend very clearly turning to me and saying ‘being out with you is like being out with a battered woman.’ I wanted the ground to swallow me up whole. I felt so embarrassed. Guess some things are harder to hide than others but God knows I was trying. It is fucking hard work, make no mistake about it, hiding being a nervous wreck and it took more energy, in the end, than I had to spare. I was a burn out by the time I was 17.
Mind you on the upside at least he referred to me as a woman. That was quite nice of him given I looked 12. However as my research partner has said that made the whole relationship even more wrong given this boyfriend was 21 at the time. He has used the word ‘paedo’ on more than one occasion. Funnily enough so did my major friend. When that was first said to me I was adamant that the relationship I had with this guy, and it lasted 2 years, wasn’t like that. However, now I am a bit older I am starting to wonder, what did a grown man want with a kid who looked every bit a kid? If me being an innocent, vulnerable, childlike virgin were the things that got his rocks off then that is sick. Not that I am traumatized by the experience, the sex was fucking fantastic. In fact the sex became, in the end, the only reason I stayed with him for so long. He realized this in the end, when we split he said I had only been using him for sex. I lied and said it wasn’t all about the sex because I didn’t want to upset him anymore than I already was. And it wasn’t a complete lie; the sky TV in his bedroom was also a draw. I don’t want it to sound like I didn’t care for this guy because I did, there were feelings and there was friendship, there just wasn’t love on my part because I didn’t have the energy to love at that that age. Like I said, burn out at 17.
All I knew was that I had to save myself, no one was coming to help, there was no rescue party on its way, it was on me. I had to do it. I wanted out because he was pressuring me into getting engaged and that didn’t fit with my plans of getting the fuck away from my brother for good. Moving in with my boyfriend wasn’t nearly far enough away. I wanted to be somewhere where he could never find me and there was no chance what so ever of bumping into him. Even to this day the sound of his voice makes me want to vomit. I knew I would never become the person I could become if I stayed in spitting distance of him.
Anyway I don’t think my research partner can talk about age. When he was 15 he was shagging a 32 year old woman who had been his childhood babysitter, in what way is that any better? Like, what the fuck? Was she eying him up at seven when he was playing with toy guns, rubbing her hands with grubby intent, thinking to herself ‘One day cutie pie, one day.’ I mean she was 32 for fucks sake. I was in town weeks ago and I got a poppy off two boy cadets. They were about 15. I thought how cute with their little berets and everything, just like the one I had when I was a cadet. I did not think, ooh, hold me down, lovely fresh meat there, I’d love to jump their bones and break them in. No, no, I did not think this. This is because I am an adult woman and I am attracted to adult men, not little boys who should be playing on PlayStations and fuck all else.
Anyway I am not, as a general rule, a big fan of fighting. I fight when I have to and I don’t take on battles I can’t win. Think of me more as a happy, smiling sort of girl, I am at my most happy when everyone is getting along. For this reason the odd spats I have been having with my research partner that the last two posts document have troubled me. I know he isn’t mad at me (at least I am fairly sure he isn’t) and the reason we have been sniping at each other is because we have been catching each other at bad times. His job role in the army has dramatically increased and the poor man is exhausted. Given that he has been so stressed, what I decided he needed more than anything was a holiday. I also thought it would be nice to take an imaginary break because the best part of fighting is of course making up. So while I don’t think the army are going to give him time off anytime soon to go to Mauritius in our heads that was where we headed.
So while I waited for my research partner to call I slipped on my favourite turquoise bikini and got myself into the holiday spirit. I imagined what it would be like to go skinny dipping in an actual ocean as opposed to my normal haunt, the local canal after a night out on the beer. I know, I think I quite like getting my tits out as well.
Anyway on that note, I was very much in the mood when my research partner called. Straight to it, I didn’t feel the need for any polite chit chat, I asked him to imagine lying naked on a deserted sun drenched beach. I could tell by his soothed reaction that this was just the kind of break he needed. The naked bit was his idea, apparently so he told me, he does that on holiday. Never in my life have I seen a naked man on a beach, I’m not objecting, game on if they are fit; I have just never seen it. According to my research partner stripping off on beaches has worked in his favour and by this he means he has cheerfully lay there, topping up his all over tan, rubbing sun lotion in and he has been approached by various women for sex. ‘What is a man to do but give the girls what they want? Yes Alfie. Quite.
So there we were, together on a hot sticky deserted beach, he a bit sunburnt and me in my favourite bikini, well at least the bottoms, I might like to flash but that doesn’t include everything. Aftersun lotion to hand, me very willing and more than able to soothe his raw scorched skin. I started with his thighs, gently massaging the cream in, just gentle enough not to cause his baked flesh too much pain but firm enough not to tickle. As I massaged each thigh in turn I turned my attention to my research partner’s chest. Tease, he laughed, laughing because he wouldn’t have it any other way. Like a lot of men he likes his nipples tugged and played with and that I can relate to. In the midst of hot horny actual real life fucks I have had in the past I have been known, in the heat of the moment, to demand, not ask, I mean demand, that my sexual partner bite down on one of my nipples. I have no idea what that is about, when not super horny that idea does nothing for me except wince but in that moment, just for that second, that added pain is as erotic as fuck and makes me cum extra specially hard.
Tease my research partner I continued to do. With his words and suggestions I could tell he wanted me to get quicker than I wanted to, to the point where I pay attention, in no particular order, to his cock, balls, perineum and arse. I was in no mood to rush, this was a holiday after all and no one rushes when they are on holiday. That is the whole point of taking them. So I took my sweet leisurely time as I soothed his sunburn and as I toyed with him as well as his nipples. I did cheekily describe my tongue lingering on the tip of his cock just for a second which made him declare slightly more forcefully this time that I was in fact a tease. If only he didn’t love it!
However, all this teasing had made me a very horny girl indeed, I could no longer ignore how wet I had become nor the ache from my pussy, my pussy was insisting that I do something to satisfy its desires. Luckily, like all good girl scouts I had come prepared with a handy selection of toys. Fuck shoes, I have discovered amassing a collection of sex toys is the way forward (Think PlayStation for girls, a show that can also entertain boys as well as any shoot em up game). I knew which one I wanted, the new one with fresh batteries, turned up to full speed. This was not an occasion where there was any need to take things slow. I placed it against my pussy much to my clits delight, I let it rock back and forth while I got back to my research partner, who was hard, and needed a graphic vulgar description of a good hard rhythmic wank. As his voice changed, deeper and slower he was clearly turned on, it was time for him to hear me satisfy myself utterly. To slam my toys deep inside my pussy that was nothing short of pleading for it by this point. I knew I was going to come hard and fast as I rammed that toy deep and hard inside myself. My research partner at first said he was just going to listen to me cum but not cum himself so we could keep going a bit longer into the night. However, he said I was screaming so loud he couldn’t help, resist as he tried, to do anything other than cum. And fall asleep two minutes later. Bless him, the man’s overworked. A good holiday was just what he needed!
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