joanna  

sexyasianangel70 39F
214 posts
6/6/2006 5:22 pm
joanna

The scar on my inner wrist is my forever reminder of how much I hate my brother.It has been more than fifteen years since he pulled me into his bedroom and cruelly pressed a burning cigarette against my wrist just so he could watch me cry. It is not the only scar he left me with.

To this day I go out of my way to avoid him. When we have family get-togethers at Christmas or Thanksgiving I hate it when he pulls out a chair and forces me to sit next to him at the dinner table. He always makes a big show of calling me his favorite little sister. He is smug and arrogant and acts like there is nothing wrong between I us. I always warn my children to stay away from his kids.

He is not really my brother, but my step brother. He is three years older than me. My mother married his father and we moved into their house. I think that is why he hated me so and tormented me from that first day. He has always been the bane of my existence. Since I was little he saw it as his role in life to ruin my life. Growing up was living hell because of him.

I never had a doll I could play with because he would pull the heads off my Barbies. I was afraid to enjoy any toy even when I was little because as soon as he knew I liked something it became a target for destruction. The same thing happened when I got older and started to like boys.

My mother was never any help. No matter what he did to me, she refused to intervene, telling me I had to work it out with my brother. I know she was worried about upsetting her relationship with my step father. By the time I was nine I stopped running to her for protection because she always believed his lies and he was too shrewd to ever let anyone see him do anything mean to me.

Both my mother and stepfather actually blamed me for provoking him. I spent years trying to stay out of his reach. If I let my guard down for an instant, he would slam my head into the wall, or yank my pony tail. I was six or seven when he shut me in the clothes dryer for hours and told my mother he had no idea where I was when she noticed I was missing. I was punished for crawling into the dryer! He got me in terrible trouble when he doused my stuffed animals with a tiny bottle of expensive perfume his father had given my mother for her
birthday. One time he pushed me down the stairs and broke my arm. When I got into junior high he bullied any boys who were interested in me. He read my diary. He loved to humiliate me in front of my friends. He truly enjoyed making me cry because he liked the sight of my lip trembling.

He controlled me for years. I was terrified of what he would do to me if I ever disobeyed him. I made his bed every morning as he ordered and did just about everything he commanded.

I hated being alone in the house with him because I knew he would inevitably do something terrible to me. More than once, he stunned me by suddenly slamming his fist into my stomach and knocking the wind out of me so he could enjoy the sight of my terror and my pathetic struggle just for a breath. I remember the panic of being unable to make my lungs work, gasping, but getting no air and seeing him though teary eyes standing over me, watching with his intense sadistic grin.

One Saturday afternoon when I was fourteen he caught me alone down in the basement. I was getting laundry out of the washer. I had no idea he was home, much less in the basement. I was totally oblivious to his evil presence as he came up behind me. Suddenly he hooked his arm around my throat and grabbed my hair. He squeezed his arm around my throat and twisted my ponytail. He whispered mean things in my ear as he closed off my air. I panicked, thinking I was going to die. I tried clawing at his forearm with my fingernails, but I could not make him let me breathe. I squirmed against him, trying to wriggle out of his hold. I felt pressure building up in my face. I saw red, then explosions of pinpoints of light, then blackness. He let go of me and I slipped to the concrete floor in a pile of laundry. I was in a fog, barely conscious as I felt his sharp toe of
shoe kick me in the ribs. I was out of it. My throat was sore for days after that.

He never allowed me any privacy. He was always watching me. He invited his friend over to spy on me when I was taking a shower and when I was getting ready for bed. Sometimes I would wake up suddenly in the middle of the night knowing I was not alone to find him standing over my bed in the dark or sitting across the
room smoking a cigarette just watching me sleep. He routinely came into my bedroom. When I was younger he would just vandalize my toys, but as I got older and started dating and wearing sexy underwear he would steal my panties and bras, then sneak them back into my dresser after he was finished with them. I hated wearing them after he had had them. He absolutely ruined my sexiest panties.

I was very self conscious about being pretty and about my body when I was a teenager. When he sensed my insecurity over my small breasts, he teased me cruely about my flat chest. He called me titless and boy in front of my friends. When I was 15 and got excited about wearing a new bikini to the Pleasant Lake beach with my friends he pinned me against the wall with his forearm against my throat and wrote the word "slut" and drew a smiley face on my stomach with permanent marker. I told my friends I was too sick to go to the lake with them. He loved to show off his power over me. That summer I was fifteen he backed me into a corner while his buddies watched. He pushed me against the wall, talked crudely about me, put his hands on my throat and said he wanted his friend to see the way he could make my eyes bulge and role up in my head when he choked me.

He asked his friends if they wanted to see my tits and when they said yes, he made me lift my shirt. I had to stand there, holding my shirt up while they squeezed and pinched and talked about how little my breasts were. I begged them to please, leave me alone, but they just laughed at me. He asked them if they wanted to see my cunt and made me open my jeans and push them down my hips. He told them to not be shy, to go ahead and touch it, that I wanted them to. He made me nod that it was ok, even though I was trembling with fear and crying in humiliation. He made me give them one by one deep, open mouth tongue kisses and told me to press myself against them while they put their fingers inside me. For years after that those boys would smirk whenever they saw me and mutter obscene things to me when they got close.

When my mother got my brother a tent for his birthday he set up camp deep in the woods and marched me out to his campsite where he made me wait inside so that the older boys he wanted to impress could come in one at a time. It was hot and suffocating inside that tent, but he would not let me out and I had to beg for a drink of water. When I tried to get away he hit me with a stick. That was the day he started making me give oral sex to his friends.

He paid little kids a dollar to go up to me and tell me I was a whore and wrote mean things about me on bathroom walls.

He always told me what to do. He made me run errands for him and his friends. One day while he and his buddies were hanging around his room he told me to go to the store and buy them soda and he would not give me any money. I had to use my own birthday money or steal the soda. When I came back an hour later with the soda his friend said he treated me like a slave and they laughed at me. I was embarassed. It was the first time I had been called a slave. It did not stop with simple errands. When one of his friends had no one to date, he would order me to go out with his friend and make sure they had a good time or I would pay. After awhile I had no friends of my own. He isolated me from my classmates. My world revolved around him. He was in total control of my time and my emotions. If I had something he did not like, whether it was a friendship, a CD player or a blouse, he simply destroyed it. I wore what he told me to and did what he told me. I simply had no choice. He had taken away my will and made me his personal slave.

He would have his friends drive by the house and I had to get in their cars and drive off and make out with them. I never could trust that he would stop short of hurting me.

I was in heaven when he finally went into the Army. I didn't shed any tears when he was shipped to the first Gulf War. My life improved dramatically. I spent the last two years in high school as a cheerleader and playing field hockey and running cross country. My grades went up. I was happy. But he had done his damage. I had two lives. There were two me's. Even when I was a happy, energetic cheerleader and honor roll student, I still dated his old friends who treated me badly, talked meanly to me and knew I liked it rough. Now, I am still two me's: a married suburban soccer mom who has a garden and loves to shop, but every two years or so I cannot stand it any more and I find myself searching the Internet for some stranger to meet me in a Manhattan hotel because he promises to tie me up tight and pour hot candle wax on my skin and makes me call him Master.


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