My Sister, My Slave
This story is a work of fiction. it features hardcore domestic and sexual abuse/ incest, this isn't a lovey dovy incest story; it pretty much has every hot code.
My Sister My Slave
By PerfectlyNormalPerson
Normal, what does it mean to be normal? What’s normal for some people is totally foreign to others. Afterall the normal lived experience of a Somali refugee trying to cross the Adriatic sea to reach the promised land of the European Union is going to be drastically different than that of an upper middle class American boy raised in the suburbs outside of LA.
When you are little you just accept whatever is happening around you as normal, after all how would you know anything different? My dad being away for months at a time just to come back for a weekend and shout at mum? It was just the way Life was; like the fact we lived in Culver CIty, I just accepted it as true and continued on.
Every Monday there would be a black sedan waiting for him outside to take him to LAX and he would be gone until he wasn't. Mum would be sitting at the breakfast nook nursing a mug of coffee and she would smile at me but it was always wane or brittle after my father left; usually it would take her 2 to 3 days before she would be back to her cheerful smiling self. Sometimes it would take a week or more for her not to jump when I accidentally slammed a door or dropped something. As I grew older I realized that she usually had bruises on her face and arms when that happened.
My father was a hard man. Hard to work for: he was a demanding taskmaster who expected nothing but perfection. Hard to work with: he refused to compromise his vision of how to manage a project. Hard to live with: for what should be apparent reasons. He was 6’3 and 190 lbs with piercing grey eyes and a short brown buzz cut; he worked as a project manager for SAIC a Major defense contractor, he specialized in logistics and supply chain management. His name was Paul although I didn't actually learn that until I was in kindergarten. Mum always answered to him as sir or master, and never spoke to him unless he spoke first. Every time she used master he would punish her right away, well yelling at her and calling her a “dumb bimbo” or “useless slut” or something along those lines. Once after father had left I asked her what some of those words meant and she just burst into tears while hugging me and didn't answer.
My mum was 5’10 and the light of my life. She was my caretaker, my cook, my ever present companion and guide for the first 4 years of my life. She had long blonde hair that was slightly wavy, large full D cup breasts, a toned and muscular stomach with a narrow waist and curvy hips. Her ass was fantastic. When I was older I realized she was like a fitter, more muscular Lorelei Lee. Her name was Samantha but she always wanted me to call her mom, mum, or mother; she said it was disrespectful to call her by her first name. I asked if that's why Father never called her by her first name and she got sad and quietly said “no” then changed the topic.