The Tableau That is Lisa Ch. 00 – Intro.

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Introduction, Mom and Dad

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All participants in the events described herein were at least 18 years of age at the time of the events described. Please don’t ask how old we are now. It just isn’t polite.

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No temptation has overtaken you that is not common to man, God is faithful and will not let you be tempted before your ability. -First Corinthians 10.13

And you shall know the truth. And the truth shall set you free. -John 8.32

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Mom never told me that she was a Masochist. I just kind of figured it out on my own, over time, from the clues. Years later when I asked her questions involving submission, pain, or masochism she would just smile, sometimes blush, and change the subject. We have an interesting relationship, Mom and I. Once I reached my teenaged years I do not believe that either of us has ever once lied to the other. (“The truth-“) But we don’t tell each other everything, (“but not the whole truth”) and we respect each other’s privacy.

Mom knows that Jamie and I are lovers. And that we have been since the night of “our” eighteenth birthday. (Mine is really a few days before her’s, but since number eighteen, we have always celebrated them together.) Mom knows that my big brother George is the biological father of her grandchild by Jamie. And she knows that Punch is the biological father of her grandchild my moi. Mom knows that I idolize George. I once told her that if he were not my brother I would marry him. Mom knows me well enough not to have pointed out that he would have a choice in the matter. Lisa, I am your narrator in this little tale. Lisa is driven and she gets what she wants. Well, everything except that one thing I really, truly wanted. Mom thinks that I am gay because no boy, no man, could ever hope to live up to the idealized image that I hold of my big brother George.

Mom was never a prude about sex. I am guessing that this was because we were both girls. She never shared any intimate information with my three brothers. She told me that she did not have to worry about birth control because my father had a vasectomy. Well, that, and the fact that there were “ways to be intimate” which could not lead to “unforeseen bahis siteleri difficulties”. She taught me how human beings reproduce, and how to avoid doing so “until the time is right”, while still satisfying “the natural urges we all have”. Mom taught me that if someone really, truly loved me, that they (she actually said “he”) would put my needs first, before their own. “Like the way that George did with (Jamie and I).” She could not have been more right about that. Not that she meant George as anything other than an example of the perfect platonic love that so often exists between siblings.

I have thought about just blurting out, “Mom, I found the PERFECT guy for me, and I know YOU WILL JUST LOVE HIM”. But I couldn’t hurt her in that way. The one thing I regret in life. The one thing I would have done anything for. That thing that I would have loved to have, but knew that I could never have. Would have been to have George’s child growing inside of me. Mom taught me how to avoid “social diseases”, and how to attract a better class of suitors.

Once in her seventies, she responded to a general question about my father’s health with, “Well, he still knows how to ride a bicycle”. This was something new, I had never seen my father on a bicycle.

“When did Dad take up cycling?” I inquired.

She blushed, smiled, and replied, “It’s called a metaphor, honey. I really am surprised that you didn’t learn about them in school.” Even when everyone was saying in an unkind way that Jamie and I were gay together, the only thing she wanted to know was, was I happy. As I always do, I told her the truth, that I was very happy. Just not the whole truth, as I often do (or should that be do not). That what made me so very, very happy was being my big brother George’s sex slave.

Dad is not much of a conversationalist unless the subject was Kenworths, Peterbuilts, Cameros, Mustangs or something that goes into or on one of them. I used to think he was reserved around me because I was a girl, or maybe because I was not into Kenworths, Peterbuilts, Cameros or Mustangs and couldn’t tell if the part that he was holding came out of a washing machine or a diesel engine. canlı bahis siteleri But I found out later that he was just a strong, polite, silent, reserved guy. Someone trapped by circumstance into a mundane reality that was not as he had hoped it would be.

Someone who compensated for the ho-hum of his day to day toil, with a rich fantasy life. A quiet reserved guy in public, who spent his private time with his wife of many decades, binding her hands behind her back. Caning and or strapping the buttocks of the mother of his four children, until the spot that those children had emerged into this world from was soppy wet. Using a vibrator on her pussy and her clit. Then buggering her. I just love that word, bugger, verb, transitive. “Oh, Lovey dear, I think I shall have to bugger you now.” “Yes, please do at once Thurston, darling.” Shades of Sam Clemens, at sixteen I did not know my dad was cool. At eighteen I discovered both my parents were pretty cool. And kinky.

Neither Mom nor Dad was ever weird about sex, about talking about the most involved subject, never judgmental about my questions or choices. Was that maybe because they lived their private lives in a gigantic glass house. They both underplayed questions about sex perfectly. In general terms it was natural, a part of life. If God had not wanted us to reproduce sexually, well he certainly could have made us like the fern or daffodil or aspen. They were never familiar with the details. But, since one of their children asked, a trip would be taken to the public library and an answer found. In those days before the internet, answers would always ostensibly come from the reference section of the local library.

It took me years to piece the clues together. To figure out that those things I found in the sleeper of the truck, or under the counter in my parent’s bathroom, or on the top shelf in their closet. They had names and purposes. Armbinders to secure Mom’s arms behind her back and take away her physical control of a situation, so she could just be in the moment. Enjoy what dad was doing to her cunt with that vibrator. Or doing with those little things called urethral sounds in the small leather güvenilir bahis case. What he did to her buttocks with the cane and the strap. Why the high-end German douche and enema sets had so many attachments.

Once I had it figured out, I would masturbate while thinking of Dad, commanding his wife to strip naked before him. For him to authoritatively inspect her body. To bite her neck, and breast, her hips. To fondle her ass. To push one finger into her vagina as I was, oh my, doing to myself. To push two fingers in her, ahhh, to feel her heated wetness. To order her to place her arms behind her back and then to lace them into the soft leather armbinder I had found under their mattress. For him to bend her over the bed. To cane her ass until it was red and angry warm marks appeared. Until her cunt was gushing like mine was about now. For him to push his penis into her and coat it with her fragrant lubricant, to tease her then remove it. To plunge her vibrator into that soppy wet cunt and to simultaneously push his hard-on into her asshole. To ride her, to be inside of both orifices making long stoke until she released and came, and came, and came. Uhm, just like I seemed to be doing.

This, masturbating to my informed supposition as to what my parents sex play consisted of, is to me the weirdest thing I have ever done. And as an aside, I have done plenty of weird things in my six or so decades. Its funny what happens when a child grows up and discovers that her parents are real three dimensional people. Complex creatures like you and I who have imaginations, kinky desires and passion.

No wonder Mom loved traveling the open road with her Lord and Master. And in the years since I have wondered who of us was more intense. I wonder if Mom would have enjoyed being branded with her Master’s initials. Or having her openings filled with bottles. Would she prefer the round ones, or those yummy square ones I adore. Has she ever been with another woman. Perhaps, but probably not. Would she embrace the masochistic joy of seeing her lover carry the child she desperately wanted to carry. How about having needles pushed through her most sensitive flesh. Would having two lovers penetrating her at once be the same thrill for her as it is for me when George and Punch spit roast me. Can she keep herself high pretty much indefinitely on her body’s own natural ‘happy juice’ as I have for decades.

I have obviously never asked. And likely never will.

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Lisa Ann

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