My Always Perfect Family

Asian

We had the perfect family, or so everyone thought. Mom was a tall, buxom blonde with the help of Clairol and breast augmentation, an LPN at the time of my birth. She worked so dad could become a CPA and then dad worked nights so she could become an RN. Mom wanted everything ‘just so’ and was not at all embarrassed about dad working long hours so she could buy ‘only the best.’ I came along as planned, after mom finished nursing school and after dad had about given up on ever having a family. She didn’t like being pregnant as she claimed it was the reason she didn’t have a perfect figure and she told me that on repeated occasions.She didn’t want to ever nurse a baby, so my dad was up many a night with my feedings as an infant, and since she worked the 7-3 shift at the hospital and he did not go to work until 9, he fed and bathed me many a morning and took me to the daycare. Until I was in middle school, he also went to most of the school conferences and some people believed that I didn’t even have a mom. When my father’s company was doing well, she was relatively happy. She goaded my father into buying a house in the best neighborhood in town, and she did her best to keep up with the Jones’. She had the latest of furnishings, window treatments, a premier yard service, and her friends either came over after she got home from work to chat and have a glass of wine, or she went to them. Many afternoons and evenings as I grew up were lonely without either of my parents at home for long periods. My dad’s family kept me until my grandfather got Alzheimer’s and when my grandmother suddenly became ill two months later, my father and I kept a vigil at her bedside until she passed away. I was very much like my father’s side of the family and felt a closeness with them that I still feel to this day. My father’s sister is a great person to be around; it’s just too bad she lives so far away. In sixth grade, my mother’s wine parties disintegrated from four or five women down to two, then down to just my mom drinking wine alone. She became verbally nasty to me when she had had more than two glasses, most often calling me names like “Skinny”, “Toothpick”, “String Bean”, and “Miss Scarecrow”. When dad got home he used to sit and listen to me cry, istanbul travesti rub my back, and tuck me in. At first mom was a nice drunk to dad but after about two years of drinking alone, she would rip daddy a new one nightly. I think at one point, when he used to come home particularly late, he was glad that she had passed out. When he helped her get to bed, he used to close the door and stay with her until she fell asleep. Then we would talk and laugh until it was time for my bedtime. When I was a junior in high school, she ruined my 16th birthday party and he came home after taking my friends home to find her passed out and in her bathrobe. I was crying and yelling at her. She was ignoring me, and began on him, all kissy and mushy, and he gave me a look that said, “Let me take care of your mom and I will be back.” That afternoon he helped her down the hallway. I saw them disappear into their room but then I heard them in the bathroom which accentuates sounds and echoes. I kept hearing my mother call his name, and I was curious as to why she had to call his name when he was right there. Still upset, I crept down the hall to hear what they were saying and came upon a shocking sight: she was lying on the bed, robe open, and his head was between her legs. The door had been left open as an oversight, but since my bedroom was on the opposite side of the house, normally I was not down near their room. I stood, frozen to the spot, watching him trying to bring her off, and hearing her calling his name, screaming it, her legs wrapped around his head, his tongue licking her between her legs with his face soaking wet from her juices. When she was finally done bucking and screaming “Oh GOD, OH GOD”, she passed out and he pulled her to the top of bed, cradling her head with a pillow and wrapping her up in her robe. When he stood up, I noticed that he was naked, his penis hanging in front of him flaccid and limp. I actually felt a tingling in my own pussy then, seeing him that way, not even getting any sexual pleasure from my mom. I stepped away then, running quickly back to my place where he had left me, and he came out about ten minutes later with a clean face, sleep pants and a bathrobe. He patiently istanbul travestileri listened to the events of my day and assured me that my mother only said mean things because the wine was talking. He told me that he loved her but wasn’t ‘in love’ with her, and that he was staying in the marriage so I could have a good life. I cried for a long time that night, for my mom who was so sick, for my dad in a loveless marriage, and then I took off all my clothes, opened my legs, and started rubbing my pussy, wishing I was the one receiving a licking. I had my first orgasm that night from my own hand, and though I was scared to climax, finally I let go. It was pure bliss and I felt very grown up. It was also the beginning of me sleeping naked, as the summer was so warm and my sheets felt cool to my budding body. School was starting that fall and with it clothes shopping. Mom was trying to make up for ruining my birthday and she took me and watched other mothers with their daughters, noting that they were starting to develop, hitting puberty, getting breasts and hips, and I wasn’t. She refused to get me a padded bra, instead insisted that I wear girl t-shirts. She called my little budding breasts niblets and I felt ashamed as I looked at her huge breasts. I wanted so much to have a womanly figure! I confided in my best friend that my mom called my breasts niblets and the next thing I knew, my friend was calling me ‘niblets’and ‘ninnies,’ ‘wee nipps’ and other derogatory names for small breasts. She even began calling me ‘fried egg wannabe’ and told a girl I despised that I was a charter member of the ‘itty bitty titty club.’ I was mortified, and it was more than I could take. Getting off the school bus that afternoon, I ran home crying. Mom was in a foul mood, drunk and cursing. I took a long shower, washing away my anger and humiliation, and then cried myself to sleep. I awakened to find mom snoring in her recliner in the den, so I went back to my room, opened my robe, and stood looking in my long mirror at my body. I stood there for a long time, telling myself how ugly I was, how flat I was, how I was never going to have breasts, and how I would never be sexy to any man. I covered my face in my travesti hands and cried like a baby. Then I blew my nose, stood up and announced to my mirror that I would start exercises to increase my breasts and practice being sexy. As I carried on this one-way conversation in the mirror, I noticed a movement by my door. I had left it open to listen for mom, but when I turned around, no one was there. I put on my bathrobe again, and tried to act casual as I walked to the den. Mom was still sleeping it off, and there was dad, fumbling with the mail and acting distracted. He finally looked up at me and said, “How is my girl doing tonight?” searching my face for any kind of reaction. He was holding his brief case in front of his body with one hand and the mail in the other. “Daddy, I did not have a good day at all,” I wailed, expecting him to come running to me for a hug. But strangely he did not walk over to me, instead imploring me to help him get my mom to bed. We somewhat dragged her down the hall, mumbling to us, and he, with great effort got her in the bed. She had her arm around me, and the stooping down opened my robe at the top. Dad was staring at my breasts, but I turned away after we got mom settled, face aflame, and ran to my room. My mixed emotions ranged from humiliation to excitement to fear, but I took off my robe and went straight to bed, my face cooling and my body aching for whatever that wonderful release was that mom had. I was almost asleep before I heard a knock at the door. I never said a word, but dad tiptoed in to check on me. With the covers up to my neck and on my tummy, he asked me if I was OK. Crying anew, I spilled out the days events. He began to rub my back, calming me and he kept saying it would be OK. He asked me after some time of just listening to me vent my frustration if I was going to be OK. I asked him if he would go with me and help me get a new bra, one that would make me look bigger. He was trying to explain that time and puberty would help me the most when I turned over and pulled down the sheets, showing him my little buds. He swallowed hard and looked like he was having a serious internal struggle, looking me right in the eyes, and began to tenderly touch my tiny nipples. My eyelashes fluttered, I let out a gasp, and he continued to gently caress them very tenderly, his eyes closing and his fingertips deftly teasing the nipples and araeolas. He massaged my breasts for the next half hour and I blushed, embarrassed that he had seen me yet glad he had come to me anyway.