Why Do I Write Incestuous Erotica?

Still a virgin and living a sheltered life, not even having a steady boyfriend and with my parents being overly protective of me because of my good looks and overtly sexually developed body, his was the first naked cock that I had ever felt. I had plenty of dates put my hands on their erect pricks through their pants, but Mike's cock was the first naked cock that he forced my hand down to feel. As soon as my hand touched him, he wrapped my fingers around his hard prick and, with his hand over my hand, he directed me to slowly stroke him to a harder erection. Truth be told, the first hand job that I had ever given when most of my friends had already had gone all the way with their boyfriends, I really didn't mind giving him a forced hand job.

Now done kissing me and done feeling my breasts and fingering my pussy, he gave the back of my head a gentle nudge. At first I thought my head was in the way of him looking out of his car window and I lowered my head to give him an unobstructed his view. Only, as soon as I willingly lowered my head, with a heavy hand to the back of my blonde hair, he pushed my head all the way down and nearly impaled my mouth with his erect cock. I had never given a blowjob before and his cock was the first erect prick to bounce off my lips.

"Suck it," he ordered. "Blow me Susan," he said. "I need to feel my cock in your mouth."

"No, I'm a good girl Mike. I don't suck cock," I said trying to push my head up against his hand but he was too strong and too determined for me.

Then, with a hard tug of my long, blonde hair, when I screamed in pain, he filled my mouth with his cock. Holding my head in place with a big, strong hand while humping my mouth and fucking my face, he stuck his hand inside my low cut, prom dress to fondle my tits and finger my nipples before removing his hand and sticking the same hand beneath my dress to finger my pussy through my panties again. Not even allowing me to take a breath of air, he didn't let go of my head until I felt a warm, oozy gush of his cum hit the back of my throat and coat my tongue with a salty splash. Trying not to swallow him, I had no choice when he wouldn't let go of me until I did. Albeit forced, that was my first blowjob.

Being that I was still a virgin and because he was older and more mature than me, I could count him as my first sexual predator. Only and honestly, being that I was so pressured by my friends to have sex before heading off to college, when I told them that I was going to the prom with him, they put it in my head to at least give him a blowjob and, albeit a bit forced, I did. Truth be told, even though he forced me, I wanted to blow him as much as he wanted me to blow him. I needed to know what it felt like to have a man's cock in my mouth. Little did I know, the victim that I was that I'd have plenty of men's cocks in my mouth throughout my life.

Foolishly, I thought I was in love with him. I thought he loved me too. Only, he never called me again after the prom. Now, so many years later, it took me a while to even remember his name.

* * * * *

My first sexual molester was my 24-year-old cousin Bob. Ready to start college, I was only 19-years-old and just out of high school.

"I have a graduation gift to give you Susan, before you head off to college and I don't see you for four, long years," he said. "Can you swing by Saturday?"

Without going into all the gory details of what happened to me and what he did to me, too horrifying to for even me to write about it, never mind recall it all, I was drugged, beaten, tortured, brutalized, stripped naked, and raped multiple times over three, agonizingly, long hours. Enough said about that. Only and unfortunately, that wasn't the worst of it.

Fearing that I'd report him to the authorities, have him arrested, and embarrass him in front of our family and mutual friends, when he was done having his wicked way with my semi-conscious naked body, he tried to drown me in his bathtub. What he would have done with my dead body, God only knows. At the last minute, still panicked but losing consciousness, while he held my head underwater, I watched my life flash before my eyes. Thinking that he was going to kill me, he had a change of heart. Glad to survive, gather myself and my clothes to run to my car and drive away with my life, fearing repercussions if I told anyone, I told no one but my psychiatrist and, recently, years later, my friends and family. I never had anything more to do with my cousin Bob ever again.

* * * * *

Admittedly, after dating a lot that summer before college and after allowing a man I dated a few times to take my virginity, even when I was still a virgin, always flashing and teasing, I was no virgin back then. Suddenly feeling as the sexual woman that I was quickly becoming, as wild as I was feeling frisky to be free of my parents and away from home and living with my girlfriends, some may have even considered me a slut being that I was always an exhibitionist. It wasn't my fault that I liked men and enjoyed flashing them my body. Absolutely loving the attention of men looking at what I was showing, I was born to tease or maybe I was twisted by all that happened to me for it to manifest in my flashing and teasing men.

I enjoyed flashing men my body while on spring break, at Mardi Gras, or whenever dancing at a club. Yet, always making my flashes appear accidental by acting coyly embarrassed if caught, an up skirt or a down blouse was just as exciting for me to flash someone as I imagined it was for someone to see me flashing. Unfortunately, what comes around goes around and I blamed myself for being physically attacked and violently and sexually assaulted because of my sexy, erratic, and erotic behavior. A virgin one day, I was a slut the next. Perhaps in the sexy way that I dressed and the teasing way that I flirted, maybe I gave my cousin the wrong signals. Still, that was no reason for him to violently and brutally, sexually attack me. He was family and not some stranger who picked me up at a bar. He drugged me. Yet, now that I think more about why I write erotica, I wonder how much my need to flash men relates to me being sexually abused by sexual predators.

In hindsight, maybe after drugging me, stripping off my clothes, and raping me over and again, he was just trying to scare me into silence by nearly drowning me in his bathtub. Scaring me silent, he succeeded. Nonetheless, not wanting to take that chance again, I stayed as far away from him as I could. I think if I saw him again, I'd flip out and attack him with whatever I could grab. Besides, obviously a violent, sexual predator and with me now knowing that he was one, he stayed away from family gatherings. No more coming over unannounced to watch a basketball, baseball, football, or hockey games and no more birthday parties, Fourth of July barbeques, Thanksgiving Day meals, and Christmas dinners, no one has seen or heard from him since my incident. After I told my family all that happened to me and everything he did to me, now they know why cousin Bob is among the missing. Like them not to say anything about what they did, it wouldn't surprise me if my big brothers tracked him down and beat the shit out of him for what he did to me.

Sadly and tragically, diagnosed with post traumatic stress, besides having nightmares, besides going around locking doors and windows, always looking over my shoulder, and being afraid enough to carry a weapon with me, those who are victims of sexual abuse typically have more than one abuser. No different than any other victim of violent, sexually abuse, I had five violent sexual abusers who forced and/or coerced me to have their sexual way with me. As if I had a sign on my forehead that read, VIOLENTLY ASSAULT ME AND SEXUALLY ABUSE ME, they did. Perhaps by my good looks and shapely body or more likely because I was just unfortunate to be born a beautiful, outspoken, not so shy, and exhibitionist of a woman, too nice, too trusting, and too naive, I was a target for their unwelcomed advances.

* * * * *

My second sexual predator was one of my English literature, college professor. Thinking it was those short skirts and low cut tops that I liked wearing to class to show off my long, shapely legs, abundant cleavage, and sexy figure, even though I enjoyed the stares, sometimes I attracted the wrong attention. Flashing a lot back then, maybe I flashed my professor my panties in an up skirt and my bra and cleavage in a down blouse one too many times. I imagined that I must have driven him crazy for him to do what he did to me. A year after my cousin had his wicked way with me, on the pretense of inviting me to his office to talk about my final exam, my college professor coerced me to blow him. Now that I think back about how he groomed me with compliments and personal attention, he was my second sexual predator.

Attracted to him as a father figure and trusting him as I'd a trust a teacher or any figure in authority, perhaps, I wouldn't have sucked his cock had I not been attracted to him. Perhaps I wouldn't have sucked his cock had I not been enamored with the intelligence and envious of the articulation of the silver tongued man. Thinking that I was in love with him, definitely, I was infatuated with him. Being that he was so scholarly, so sophisticated, and so worldly, I truly and immaturely believed that he was in love with me too. I truly believed that he'd leave his wife for me. I was so dumb. Already setting the stage for me to be victimized again, perhaps I wouldn't have sucked his cock had I not had that unfortunate and incestuous experience with my cousin violently raping me and sexually abusing me before trying to murder me.

As my cousin did before the brief, sordid affair that I had with my professor, ripe for the taking, perhaps, my professor would have not solicited me had he not seen something in me that a sexual predator sees in his intended victims. Granted I was a provocatively dressed slut but that's still no reason for a man, an educated man at that, to take sexual advantage of one of his 20-year-old students. That's what I was, a victim and that's what I still am today, a woman alone in a man's world, a victim to be used, abused, and victimized. Now older and wiser, albeit not as attractive as I was in my twenties but still better looking than most women at my 40-year-old age, even though I still enjoy flashing men, especially when at the mall riding the escalator, trying on clothes, or being fitted for shoes, I'm not the victim now that I was then. Having been around the block a few times, I'm not afraid to tell some asshole to go fuck himself while wielding and ready to swing a baseball bat.

Plain and simple, when it comes to sexual predators, being that I'm good looking, especially that I'm attractive, they only see my shapely ass, my big tits, and my blonde pussy. With the woman behind the face and the body unimportant in their quest for sex, they don't see me for the person that I am. I'm just another victim in a long line of victims to these men. To these men, I wasn't even a woman per se. I wasn't even a person per se. I was just a thing, a vessel to be used and abused. Instead of being someone, I was something for them to use to get themselves off and to have them cum in my hand, in my mouth, or in my pussy. Someone to be used and abused, I trusted them and they all betrayed me by deceiving me. I'm such a fool. They were only after one thing, sex, and once I gave them that, free to return to their cold wives and bitchy girlfriends, they were done with me.

"How dare they!"

I'm not proud of what I did with my college professor but after that incident with my cousin, I suddenly had a real and warranted fear of men and it wasn't until I got older that I was able to control and use men in the way that they had always controlled and used me. After seducing me with his words and romancing me with his compliments, not very subtle about it, my professor just stood from his chair to walk to where I was sitting in his office. Staring at him in stunned silence, I watched him unzip himself and reach his hand inside his pants and underwear to pull out his cock. Acting if he was offering me treat, something good to eat, he dangled his engorged prick in front of my face while stroking himself to an even harder erection. This was my professor a degreed man with a Masters of Fine Arts degree in creative writing and a Ph.D. in philosophy. I was shocked to see such a scholarly man holding and stroking his erect prick in his hand. I stared at his cock before looking up at him and before returning my focus to his exposed penis again.

Old enough to be my father, it wasn't about him being attracted to me as a love interest, he was already married after all. It was more about him wanting to have a onetime sexual relationship with me. Assuredly and embarrassingly, there was no future for his career in bedding a student. As far as he was concerned, perhaps because I was so pretty and had big tits. and perhaps because I had been flashing him, it was just about sex. Knowing him as I did, always one with his nose in a book when his head wasn't in the clouds, perhaps he had read one too many classical romance, literature novels. Perhaps he imagined me as someone else, his literary love interest.

No doubt, being that my literature professor was so fond of Cervantes' Don Quixote, perhaps I was his Dulcinea or his Elizabeth Bennett, his personal, prized whore that Jane Austen wrote about in her book, Pride and Prejudice. Maybe I was his Annabel Lee that Edgar Allan Poe so delirious described in his poem, The Bells. Truth be told, I had no idea what he was thinking. For all that I knew, I may have been his Madame Bovary in Gustave Flaubert's book by the same title. Being that he was most read, I may have been some combination of his imagined image of Ellen Olenska in Edith Wharton's Age of Innocence, his Ophelia in Shakespeare's Hamlet, his Hester Prynne in Nathanial Hawthorne's Scarlet Letter, or his Anna Karenina in Leo Tolstoy's novel of the same name. Definitely, when he dumped me, it was obvious to me that I wasn't his Juliet.

Now remembering it years later, with his cock in my mouth while he fondled my big tits and fingered my nipples, it was just a blowjob. It was just about me sucking him and him cumming in my mouth. With no room for me in his future plans, this improper, sexual liaison was all about him. As if he was closing the book on me, as if he was done reading me and onto someone else, when he was done with me, he was done with me and there was nothing left for me to feel other than rejection and the emptiness that I had been used again by yet another sexual predator.

In hindsight, when he pulled out his cock and dangled it in my face while stroking himself, I could have screamed. I could have fought him. I could have reported him to the dean of the college but with his word against mine, I didn't want to win that battle to lose the war. A well respected college professor with 30-years of teaching experience versus a student accused of flashing a teacher to entice him to have sex with her and then blaming him and reporting him for the indiscretion, it was no contest.

Who knows, being that he fashioned himself as a romantic reader of classical literature, maybe he had a long list of female students reporting him and maybe my complaint wouldn't have been the only complaint filed against him. The last straw, maybe my complaint would have cost him his job. Maybe he may have blamed me for ruining his teaching career. Having watched one too many CSI dramas, maybe he may have stalked me and tried to harm me. Glad that nothing more ever came of it, especially after nearly being murdered by my cousin, I chalked up the experience with my professor as a valuable life lesson learned.

Oddly enough though, the priorities that I had back then were skewed. Young, dumb, and horny, I was more concerned with my grade point average than I was with my reputation. Knowing what he wanted by the brazen display of his cock and what I could give him by his huge erection, I got the message. I wasn't as stupid as I imagine he thought I was. Figuring that I had already been through worse, getting more from my professor than I ever got from my cousin, if nothing more than the promise of an A grade, I gave him what he wanted and he gave me what I wanted. Even going through the trouble of changing schools for fear that he'd tell his buddies that I was an easy mark for their sexual advances, I made sure never to take another class with him again.

* * * * *

Undaunted by some of my disturbing sexual experiences and using the incidents to learn from my errors, unfortunately, the tragedy of my life continued. Several years later when visiting my Uncle Henry, who lived alone after his wife died, I experienced my third sexual predator.

"Jesus, are these guys just waiting for the right opportunity to present itself. Whether prom date, cousin, teacher, or uncle is any woman safe anywhere?"

Not my cousin Bob's father but another uncle, he sexually assaulted me by touching me and feeling me where no uncle should ever feel his niece. Shocked, embarrassed, and ashamed, every time he inappropriately touched me, feeling sick to my stomach, I recoiled. I always suspected that he was a dirty, old man by the sexual things he said, the off-color jokes he told, and the way that he perceived women as things to be used and abused. Years in the making, it started slow in the way that he leered at me and tried to inappropriately grope me. Foolishly and naively, I thought that by just being alert and mindful of him was enough to keep me safe. I was wrong.

Always breaking off his grinding pelvis to pelvis full body hugs, I never voluntarily prolonged his uncle and niece lingering kisses that always seemed to last longer. Fending off his groping hand that was always plastered to my round ass or reaching up to feel my firm breast that he enjoyed squishing against his chest, I always felt that I could handle him. Besides, always enjoying an honest and open relationship with him, being able to discuss anything with him even sex, he was my uncle and with me having four, big, burly brothers, he'd never cross the line with me. My brothers would kick his ass if only I wasn't so embarrassed and ashamed to tell my brothers what he did to me. Blaming myself for his inappropriate, incestuous behavior because of all the times that I flashed my uncle my panties and bra and cock teased him with sexual innuendoes, even immorally and immodestly sharing my private sexual life with him, obviously, he thought that I was just as incestuously attracted to him as he was to me. Big mistake.

Then, one day, perhaps because his wife was no longer there to run interference to fend him off and to protect me from him, he did something totally unexpected and out of character, even for him. Practically stripping me naked by stealthily coming up to me, he squatted down behind me while I was washing his sink full of dirty dishes. As he erected his posture, in one quick, fluid movement, as if pulling a dust cloth off of a valuable piece of furniture, he pulled my dress up and over my head and held it there with one big, strong hand. Being that my uncle is 6'5" tall and very powerful, I was as helpless as I was defenseless.

"Uncle Henry! What are you doing?"

Taking me by surprise and thinking that it was just a sick joke at first, for an instant I stood there in shocked disbelief. I thought he was kidding and teasing me before tickling me. He was always tickling me for an obvious accidental on purpose feel of my breasts and/or ass. With my hands soapy wet, for a split second, I didn't even realize that my panties and bra were so exposed to him until I remembered what it was that I was wearing or not wearing. With my arms helplessly up in the air and the neck opening of my dress too small to fit over my head when zippered up all the way and in the way that it was, I was unable to free myself of him. As if trying to fight myself out of a paper bag, I just stood there squirming, struggling, and screaming.