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I don't know who my father is. I've never met him. No doubt, he's some rich dude who has given my mother piles of money to keep quiet about him giving her a baby. A small price to pay, we have everything that we financially need, that is, as long as I don't complain and keep my mouth shut.
Never would I try and find him. Never would I have a DNA test done. If he never wanted to claim me as his illegitimate daughter, then I don't want to claim him as my perverted father.
Fuck him, whoever the fuck he is. I don't care. I'd rather not know who my father is. As long as I have my mother in my life, I don't need anyone else. Although, it would have been nice to have a sister. Definitely, it would have been nice to have a friend.
Yet, no one needed to know our personal business. No one needed to know that I'm a bastard child and an illegitimate daughter of some rich man. Initially, I've thought about having a DNA test done but why? I don't want to know who my father is.
Instead, of living a normal life with school, friends, and going outside, with me having a brain in my head, I read. I read the newspaper. I read the Wall Street Journal. I read books, lots, and lots of books. I pick an author and read all his or her books. Then, I'm off to reading another author.
For the price of a book, I've received a better education than if I attended school. I have an impressive library of thousands of books. Not limited to one subject, I read about everything, from classics, to art education, to architecture, to biographies, to science, to medicine, to fantasy, and to fiction. With my interests varied, I read a variety of subjects. Fluent in them all, I taught myself to speak and understand three languages, French, Italian, and Spanish.
F F F
With my mother providing me with a collection of credit cards that she pays the balance off every month, as long as I don't abuse my charge card privileges by spending too much, she pays for whatever I need. Never having to go to a book store, I buy all of my books online. From food to perfume, to clothes, to personal items, I charge everything. In that regard, with me living in this beautiful condominium, I reap the rewards of my mother working as a high priced call girl.
Who knows, like mother like daughter, maybe I'll become a call girl, too? With me having knowledge of a variety of things, I can articulately discuss anything. I'd make for a good cocktail party date. Conversing in a room full of strangers, what man wouldn't want to impress his associates with my big brain, my pretty face, my shapely ass, my sexy body, and my humongous breasts.
Only, I don't see myself turning out and turning tricks like my mother. I don't see myself having sex with old, rich men. I want more than that. I want more than just money. I want love. I want romance. I want to marry a man that I love. Eventually, I want to have children of my own.
The last thing that I wanted is the first thing that my mother wanted. I don't want to be some perverted man's plaything. Instead of having sex for money, indeed, I want money. Yet, also, I want power.
I'd rather smash the glass ceiling. I'd rather have men be at my beck and call. I'd rather be the boss, the big boss. I'd rather have men fear me, a woman, in the way that women have always feared men.
This is who I am. Even though I'm my mother's daughter, I'm not a whore. I am a proud woman. I am Flanna Fiona Flaherty.
THE END
- COMMENTS
wwaldrip3 months agoExcellent story about where Flanna Fiona Flaherty came from. How she is a strong well read, knowledgeable, driven, articulate female that deserves better than to follow in her mother’s footsteps. Or Deidre’s happens stance of life to provide, survive for Flanna’s well being early in life to fall into the call girl job. Look forward to reading Flanna’s life adventurous and sexual journey.
Ambul4 months agoO.K. and the point of the story is? As erotica, I could see something happening to the daughter that she never anticipated, that would turn her into something she supposedly never wanted to be, an escort, a whore, like her mother. That journey, with twists and turns, could make for a very interestung story. The daughter has already made the very curious admission that she has the brains, education, and body for it:
“I'd make for a good cocktail party date. Conversing in a room full of strangers, what man wouldn't want to impress his associates with my big brain, my pretty face, my shapely ass, my sexy body, and my humongous breasts.”
This is something that could make for a good story. I hope the author writes a follow-up story.
