Mom never told me that she was a masochist or my father’s sexual submissive or slave. I just kind of figured it out on my own, over time, from the clues they hid in plain sight. Years later, whenever I asked her questions involving sexual submission, pain, or masochism, she would just smile. Sometimes she would blush and then change the subject. We have an interesting relationship, mom and I. Once I reached my teenage years, I do not believe that either of us has ever once lied to the other. We tell each other "the truth," but we don't tell each other everything, "not the whole truth." Most of all, we respect each other's privacy.

Mom knows that my best friend Vicky and I are lovers. And that we have been since the night of "our" seventeenth birthday. My birthday is really a month before Vic’s. But since that fateful first night making love, we have always celebrated birthdays together. Mom knows that my brothers Gabe and Max are the biological fathers of two of her grandchildren, Vic’s children. Mom knows that Vicky’s brothers Lance and Blake are the biological father of her other two grandchildren, my two children. She knows that I idolize Gabe. I once told her that if he were not my brother I would marry him.

Mom knows Kayla--I’m Kayla, by the way--well enough not to have pointed out that Gabe would have a choice in the matter. Kayla is driven and she gets what she wants. (By the way, he did have a choice and he’s bright. He made the right choice.) Well, everything except that one thing I really, truly wanted but then decided that I didn’t have the right to do. Back then mom thought that I chose Vicky because no man could ever hope to live up to the idealized image that I hold of my big brother Gabe.

Mom was never a prude about sex. Probably because we were both girls. She never shared any intimate information with my brothers. She told me that she did not have to worry about birth control because my father had a vasectomy after my younger brother was born. Well, that, and the fact that there were "multiple ways to be intimate which could not lead to unforeseen difficulties--" by which she meant anal and oral.

She taught me how human beings reproduce, and how to “avoid doing so until the time is right, while still satisfying the normal, natural urges that we all have." Mom taught me that if someone really, truly loved me, that “he”--I chose to interpret “he” rather globally--would put my needs first, before “his” own. Then she actually said, “Just the way that Gabe does with you." Oh, my God! She could not have been more right about that. Not that she meant Gabe as anything other than as a shining example of the perfect platonic love that so often exists between siblings.

I have thought about just blurting out, "Mom… Now that you mention it... I found the PERFECT guy for me, and I know YOU WILL JUST LOVE HIM, actually you already do." But I couldn't tell her quite in that particular way.

The one thing I regret in life. The one thing I would have done almost anything for. That thing that I would have loved to have, but knew that I should never have, would have been to have my big brother Gabe's child growing inside of me. I just couldn’t give a child that secret to keep, or social burden to bear.

Once in my seventies, my mom responded to a general question about my father's health with, "Well, he still knows how to ride a bicycle." Well, this was something new. I had never seen my father on a bicycle.

"When did Dad take up cycling?" I inquired.

Mom blushed, and replied with a smile, "It's called a metaphor, honey. They probably covered them in school. Maybe on one of the days you chose to skip." Even when everyone was saying in an unkind way that Vicky and I were “being gay together,” the only thing that mom wanted to know was, was I happy, and was Vic who she had always loved like one of her own happy.

As I always do, I told her the truth, that I was very happy, that we were both happy. Just not the whole truth, as I often do (or should that be “as I do not”)--that what made me, and Vic so very, very happy was that we were somewhat following in her erotic footsteps. By being sex slaves to my big brother Gabe; as well as Max, Lance, and Blake.

Dad was never much of a conversationalist unless the subject was Kenworths, Peterbilts, Camaros, 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, Peterbilts, Camaros or Mustangs and couldn't tell if the part that he was holding came out of a washing machine or a diesel engine. 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. Dad was 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 bare buttocks of the mother of his children until the spot that those children had emerged into this world from was a soppy wet mess. Then using a vibrator on her pussy and her clit. Then slowly, forcefully, 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 seventeen, I discovered both my parents were pretty cool. And really kinky.

Neither Mom nor Dad were ever weird about sex, about talking about the most involved subject. They never conveyed judgment concerning my questions or choices. Maybe that was 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 normal 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 would be found. In those days before the internet was widely available, answers would always ostensibly come from the reference section of the local library.

It took me a while to piece the clues together. To figure out that those curiosities that we found under the bed in the sleeper of the truck, under the counter in my parent's bathroom, or in the box on the top shelf in their closet. Those items all had names and they all had purposes. An armbinder was used to secure mom's arms behind her back and take away her physical control of a situation. That way she could just be in the moment. She could truly enjoy what dad was doing to her cunt with that vibrator. What he was doing with those little stainless steel medical things called urethral sounds in the small leather case. What he did to her buttocks with the flexible cane and the polished leather strap. Why the high-end German douche and enema set in the bathroom vanity had so darn many attachments and a forty-eight-page illustrated book titled “Erotische Bedienungsanleitung.”

Once we had it figured out, I would masturbate while thinking of my dad sitting on their bed naked and fully erect. In my fantasy, he was commanding his wife to slowly strip down to nothing before him. For her to bend over his thighs and for him to authoritatively inspect her naked body. To bite her neck and her breasts and to stroke her hips. Then to slap and fondle her ass. To push one finger into her vagina as I was… Oh my, just as I was doing to myself. Then to push two fingers inside... Ahhh, to feel her heated wetness. To order her to place her arms behind her back and then to lace them into the soft white leather armbinder I had found under the mattress. For him to bend her over the bed. To cane her ass until it was red and angry warm marks appeared… 

Oh, my God! Those marks… I had really seen them… I didn’t know what they were at the time.

To cane her until her cunt was gushing… Just like mine was doing right about now. For him to push his rock-hard penis into her cunt… To coat it with her fragrant lubricant, then to tease her and remove it. To plunge a vibrator into her soppy wet cunt and simultaneously push his pussy-juice lubricated hard-on into her asshole. To ride her, to be moving around inside of both of her orifices making long stroke after long stroke until she released and came, and came, and came. Uhm… Well... Just like I seemed to be doing imagining it.

This, me 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 decades on this planet. It's 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, love, kinky desires, and passionate sex lives.

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 that I adore? She was understanding, did that mean she had ever been with another woman? Perhaps as her Master, my father watched. Would she embrace the masochistic joy of seeing her lover carry the child she desperately wanted to carry? Did she enjoy 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 Gabe and Max, or Lance and Blake, double penetrate or spit roast me? Had she ever enjoyed four hard penises at the same time? Could she keep herself high pretty much indefinitely on her body's own natural 'happy juice' as I have-- pretty much since 1983?

-- Kayla