And You're Daddy's Little Girl Ch. 02

Suspecting her mother-in-law of having incestuous sex with her son, after her tragic death, Violet reads her mother-in-law's personal and private diary.

Revised, rewritten, and continued from Chapter 01:

Yet, as if they're back in the African jungle and are naked savages taking whatever they want and whenever they want it, whether they're educated men, successful men, or criminals, I have a way of bringing out the animal in men. Somehow, I boil their base, sexual needs and bring their immoral, sexual desires to the surface. I make them want to do dirty and nasty, sexual things to my beautiful, naked body that they'd never do with their mean, fat, and ugly wives or naïve, innocent girlfriends.

If they can't have me willingly, as long as they think they can get away with it without being caught, they'd rape me. As long as they know they won't be arrested, the men that I turned down for sex grope me while trying to kiss me. As long as they're not prosecuted in a court of law, the men that I reject for sex are intent on stripping me naked. As long as they know that I won't report them and they won't go to jail, men that I've briefly dated have physically tried forcing me to have sex with them.

With no not meaning no, I can't count how many men have exposed their erect, naked cocks to me on a first date. I can't count how many men have forced my hand on their erect, naked pricks while hoping that I'd willingly wrap my long, manicured, black fingers around their pricks and stroke them. I can't count how many men have forced my head down to their erect, naked dicks while hoping that I'd willingly take them in my mouth and suck them. Just as most men want to cum in my mouth, most men want to strip me naked and fuck me.

Even with me screaming while pushing them away, I can't count how many men have felt my ass through my bikini panties and short skirt and/or felt my breasts and fingered my nipples through my blouse and bra. I can't count how many men have stuck their horny hands up my short skirt while fingering my pussy through my panties and while forcing their tongues in my mouth. I can't count how many men have tried pushing my panties aside to finger my dry pussy. I can't count how many men have stuck their horny hands down my low-cut blouse and in my bra to feel my naked breasts while fingering my nipples.

"No! Don't! Stop! Oh, my God. Get away from me. No! Stop! Don't you dare! How dare you?"

Thinking of me only as a sexual object instead of a kind, caring, and loving woman, men want me as a lover and/or as a fuck buddy but not as a wife. Until he gets down on one knee, proposes, and puts a ring on my finger, I won't be a whore for just any man. Willing to be a whore for my husband, I want romance. I want love. I want respect. I want a loving husband. I want a baby.

There's more to life than just sucking and fucking cocks. There's more to life than just sex. I don't want just sex. I want everything that goes along with a successful life and a happy marriage. I want a man to not only love me but also to financially take care of me and our children. I want a man who wants me for who I am as much as I want him for who he is.

# # #

Turning their heads away from God and to the vile influence of Satan's temptation instead, I have a way of turning every good, God fearing, Christian, churchgoing man to a lustfully and sexually perverted man. As if it's my fault that they want me but can't have me, they blame me for sexually teasing them, even when I'm not sexually enticing them. Not even romantically interested in them and/or sexually attracted to them, when I refuse to stroke and/or suck their cocks, they call me a whore and a cockteaser. Whether it's my pretty face, my blue eyes, or my shapely body, men would rather have sex with me than to talk to me.

Most all men want to kiss me while touching me and feeling me everywhere. In addition to giving them a goodnight kiss, most all men want me to give them a hand job while they feel my naked tits and finger my erect nipples. Most all men want to fuck me. Most all men want me to stroke their cocks while sucking their cocks. Most all men want to cum in my pussy and cum in my mouth before cumming all over my face and across my naked breasts.

"With not a gentleman in the bunch, most men are such dirty dogs and disgusting pigs."

Not wanting to be any man's baby momma, whether white or black, not an easy thing to do, I somehow managed to stay away from gangs and from drugs. Nearly every black man told me how beautiful I was, how sexy I was, and how much they wanted me but they only wanted me for sex. Nearly every white man, especially married men, believe that I'd strip naked and get on my knees and suck their cocks for money.

"Fuck you. I'm no one's whore. I'm not a prostitute. How dare you?"

Yet, even though they all sexually wanted me, none of them told me how smart I was or how funny I was. No one told me that they loved me and wanted to marry me. Instead of getting to know me, they just wanted to fuck me. Instead of talking to me, they just wanted to kiss me, touch me, and feel my naked body everywhere. Instead of dating me, they just wanted to take me in a back alley or in their truck, and have sex with me. They just wanted me to suck their cocks and cum in my mouth.

If I allowed them, they'd strip me naked and fuck me in every hole. If I allowed them, they'd tell all their friends and they'd gang raped me. If I allowed them, they'd impregnate me with their baby and then, instead of being a man, stepping up, and marrying me, they'd have nothing to do with me.

With none of the men in my neighborhood having a steady job, no future there for me, I needed to get out of Detroit as fast as I could. Instead of hanging out at the corners hustling, pricking my arm with needles, and shaking my ass for money, I studied, finished school, and eventually moved to Boston to finish my education. Much different than Detroit, even though there are twice as many white folks as there are black folks in Boston, oddly enough, I was more accepted there.

Notwithstanding wherever I lived, even though most men still wanted to see me naked, on my knees, and blowing them while staring up at them, at least now they listened to me. Even though most men still want to fuck me, at least now they respected me. I felt as if I'd have a better life and more of a chance at romance in Boston. Instead of my apartment being broken into and instead of me being gang raped, it was my decision to remain safe and as to who I wanted as my lover. As least now the men in Boston got to know me as a person first instead of just a sexual object.

Chapter 02:

Daddy's Little Girl was the song my father-in-law, John, my unofficial, adopted Dad, sang to me while dancing with me at my wedding to his son, my husband, Michael. Now, every time I hear that song, having grown up without a father and grateful for the way my father-in-law has kindly treated me with respect and with love as if I'm his daughter, I cry. Even though I'm 24-years-old and even though he's not my real father, as far as my father-in-law is concerned, with him always wanting a daughter and with me always wanting a Dad, I'm still his Daddy's, little girl.

"You're sugar, you're spice, you're everything nice, and you're Daddy's little girl," sang my father-in-law in my ear while dancing with me at my wedding.

It was a wonderful wedding with me dancing with my husband's father and Michael dancing with his mother. Yet, something that I didn't notice or even suspect then, but something that I should have known and wonder about now, I remember my husband close dancing, chest to chest and pelvis to pelvis, with his mother. I maintained a respectable distance and didn't make my wedding dance a sexual thing with my father-in-law in the way that my husband made dancing with his mother a sexual thing. I wasn't close dancing with his father in the way that Michael was close dancing with his mother.

Dancing cheek to cheek in the way that he should have been dancing with me, my husband romantically danced with his mother while his hand always rested on the top of her shapely hips. As if he was taking her on his Honeymoon, he held her in the same way that he held me. He held her as if she was his wife and/or lover instead of his mother. He held her as if he wanted to have sex with her. He held her as if he wanted to fuck her. He held her as if he owned his mother's ass, tits, and cunt.

Whether her hand, her arm, her shoulder, her hair, her face, or her hips, he was always touching his mother and she was always touching her son. Unless they're were sexually intimate and/or are still sexually intimate, what son close dances with their mother? Nonetheless, stretching the limits of a mother and son close relationship, something that I could never imagine, even with them dancing cheek to cheek, I never suspected them of having sex.

Why would I suspect them of having sex? Why would they have sex? She was his mother and he was her son. With us just married, why would my husband have sex with his mother? With us dating for the past two-years and with us just married, never saying no, I gave my boyfriend and then my husband all the sex he could handle.

Growing up an orphan, I had no idea who my biological mother and father were until much later in life. Not even knowing their first names, all I knew about them was that my biological father was black and my biological mother was white. Later, I discovered my Dad, Booker, was in and out of prison and was murdered in a drive by shooting.

Some people in the neighborhood told me that my Mom, Brianna, was a stripper, a prostitute, and a drug user who died of an overdose not long after I was born. Even though she was white, with me having the same lush, blue-black hair, fair complexion, and blue eyes, those who knew her said that I look a lot like her. Taking what they said as a compliment, they told me that I was tall, shapely, and sexy like her.

Not having much of a start in life, ready to change all of that, I put myself through college by working while studying. I was surprised to learn that I was eligible for scholarships that were earmarked for poor, inner city kids like me. I received a four-year scholarship from Boston University, my first choice. Relieving a big burden, the only loans I had to take out was to earn my Master's Degree in Fine Arts from Emerson College in Boston. As if I was born to rich parents, with my hard work paying off, my education, room, and board were all paid for in full.

# # #

It's funny the things you never notice until they slap you across the back of your head and you finally have that 'Duh? Aha! Eureka!' moment. Every morning was the same thing, up early and making out while having sex. Yet, unfortunately, instead of making out with me and having sex with me, my husband made out with and had sex with his mother. He had sex with his mother every morning and had sex with me every night. Suffice to write, my husband was always having sex, if not with me, then with his mother.

'He was such an asshole,' I thought when I finally found out that my husband was having an incestuous, sexual affair with his mother. 'How dare he? What kind of man is he to do that? What kind of man cheats on his young, newly married, beautiful wife with his mother? What kind of immoral mother has incestuous sex with her son? What kind of mother-in-law has illicit and forbidden sex with her daughter-in-law's husband behind her back?'

With him a sucker for big, breasted women, my C cup breasts are big but not as big as his mother's D cup breasts. Obviously, my C cup breasts weren't big enough for him. Obviously, he preferred being smothered by his mother's enormous tits. Yet, my breasts are shapelier than his mother's big tits and don't sag as much. Unfortunately, none of that mattered. Michael preferred his mother's enormous breasts to my big tits and there was nothing that I could do about that. Besides, too late now, they're both dead.

As written in her diary by his mother's hand, it was as shocking as it was true. Michael fondled her big breasts and fingered her erect nipples through her sheer, low-cut, sexy nightgown while she slowly stroked his erect prick through the pee hole of his pajama bottoms. Then, removing her breasts from her nightgown, he sucked her big, naked tits.

Obviously, like mother like son, as much as he loved her big tits, she loved his hard prick. Obviously, the sex she should have been giving her husband, she gave to her son. Obviously, the sex my husband should have been giving me, his newly wedded, 24-year-old wife, he gave to his 48-year-old, MILF of a mother.

'That's not right,' I thought while reading all that my mother-in-law wrote in her diary. 'That's just wrong. That's so nasty. All the while that I was dating him and throughout our brief marriage, I can't believe my husband was having early morning, every morning, sex with his mother. I can't believe my mother-in-law was having early morning, every morning, sex with her son.'

I wouldn't have known what they did behind my back had I not found and read Diana's diary. As if she was writing a book of mother and son incest sex, she wrote about every sexual thing they did. With her having sex with her son, ever since he turned 18-years-old, long before I even met him, leading her son astray, she was such a disgusting, incestuous whore. Yet, not blaming my husband more than his mother or blaming his mother more than her son, I blame them both. It takes two to have sex and not just one.

When he wasn't having his wicked, sexual way with his mother's shapely breasts, he was having his wicked sexual way with her round, firm ass, or her warm, wet pussy. Then, masturbating her, after he rubbed her clit and fingerfucked her pussy, and after she quietly had her sexual orgasms without awakening me, she stroked him while sucking him before fucking him. As if they were newlyweds, every morning was the same thing. They had incestuous, orgasmic sex.

With me not having a clue what they did behind my back, they had sex right under my nose. They had sex right out in the open. What started in the living room and moved to the kitchen and, as if they were animals, ended on the kitchen table. Michael ate, fucked, and had sex with his mother where we eat. With them not twenty-feet away from my closed, bedroom door, they had sex while I was sleeping.

'With them having sex every morning, how could I not know? How could I not have heard them? In the loving way they acted around one another, how stupid could I be,' I thought? 'With all the incestuous signs there, I should have known that they were sexually intimate. I should have known that his mother was sucking and fucking her son. I should have known that my husband was licking and fucking his mother.'

Yet, just as I never suspected my mother-in-law having sex with my husband, her son, I never suspected my husband of having sex with his mother. Robbed from having more of a loving and sexual relationship with my husband, the sex that he should have had with me, he had with his mother. The loving attention he should have paid me, he paid his mother. The multiple, sexual orgasms he gave his mother with his fingers, his tongue, and his cock, he should have given me, his wife.

'How dare he? How dare she? How dare they? That's not right. That's not fair. That's just wrong. That's so nasty,' I thought while reading all that my mother-in-law wrote in her diary.

His mother interfered with her our newly wedded marriage. With her son professing his love for me at the altar by marrying me and vowing to be faithful, his mother fatally hurt our loving relationship. Neither of them gave my marriage a chance to bloom and blossom without them fucking up my life with their sexual debauchery and disgusting perversity getting in the way.

'How could they? How dare they? Why would they,' I thought? 'She's such a fucking whore and he's such a miserable bastard.'

In the way that Michael made out with his mother, Diana, he should have been making out with me, his wife, Violet. In the way that his mother stroked his cock, sucked his cock, and fucked his cock, I should have been the one stroking his cock, sucking his cock, and fucking his cock. In the way that he felt her tits, fingered her nipples, and masturbated her pussy, he should have been feeling my tits, fingering my nipples, and masturbating my pussy. In the way that he licked her cunt and fucked her cunt, his own mother, he should have been licking my cunt and fucking me, his loving wife.

As if keeping record, a daily journal, of all they sexually and incestuously did behind my back, and for her to, no doubt, reread and masturbate over later, I don't know who was the biggest pervert, my husband or his mother. As shocking as it all was true, knowing that he'd be devastatingly hurt, I didn't dare show my father-in-law all that his wife wrote in her diary and all that she admitted sexually doing with their son. That would crush him. I didn't dare disclose to my father-in-law all that his son sexually did with his mother. That would kill him.

'How could they? How dare they,' I thought while as confused as I was angry? 'How dare they have sex? Why would they have sex? She's his mother and he's her son.'

Obviously, my husband was just as fucked up as was his mother. Obviously, my husband was as much the incestuous pervert as his mother was the incestuous whore. Obviously, my mother-in-law was just as guilty for having incestuous sex with her son as he was guilty for having incestuous sex with his mother.

Beyond that, with them both dead and buried, unable to ask them, I have no answers. All I had was Diana's diary. Instead of burning it, as if I was reading an incestuous novel by D. H. Lawrence, Jane Austen, George Eliot, Henry James, or Joseph Conrad, I couldn't stop reading it. Reading her diary allowed me to know more about my husband.

# # #

"Oh, Michael. Michael, you're going to make me cum again," she said whispering her sexual excitement in his ear before writing all that sexually happened between them in her diary later. "Rub my clit harder. Fingerfuck my pussy faster. Fuck me deeper with your long, stiff fingers. Fuck my cunt, Michael. Fuck my cunt. Fuck your mother, Michael. Fuck your mother," she said whispering her dirty talk in his ear while knowing that he loved talking dirty to her as much as she loved talking dirty to him.

As if this was her confession and I was the investigating officer reading a police report, I couldn't believe all that his mother had written about having sex with her son. As if I was reading an X-rated novel of incestuous sex between a mother and her son, instead of reading Diana's private diary, I couldn't believe what I was reading. As if I had been slapped across the face, if it wasn't bad enough that they were having incestuous sex, I always thought that his dirty talk was our dirty talk. I always thought that Michael was my sexual man and not his mother's sexual man.

As hurt as I was angry, I had no idea that he had been talking dirty to his mother of all people too. I had no idea that his mother had been talking dirty to her son, my husband. Never suspecting that they were lovers, I had no idea that they sexually did everything that we sexually did. Why he married me when he was getting everything that he sexually needed from his mother is a mystery to me. If he should have married anyone, in the way of Oedipus Rex, he should have killed his father and married his mother.

'How could they? Why would they? How dare they? How stupid can I be not to have known that they were having incestuous sex,' I thought? 'How could I not know that Michael was fucking his mother and that Diana was sucking her son?'