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My brother saw my dick, Elitesingles brother saw friend for dick

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My age: 24
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Welcome to the Digital Spy forums. Forums Recent Rules My Activity. Hey there! In Register. Well I'm 18 and he's 13 so probally just started puberty because that's when i did and we both had to sleep round my dad's house last night. And he just came out with it, he seemed nervous and just asked if i could show him my penis, to see if he was doing okay and all that.

About me

My sister Asia loved to kick my ass. The violence began when she was ten and I was eight, after our mother started dating Freddy, a tall, bulky, dark-skinned man who chewed his tongue between sentences and had a booming laugh that sounded like it could topple buildings and crush small boys.

By the age of ten Asia had become secretive and obsessed with her body. With a toy M in my grip, I was crawling elbow-to-knee along the carpeted floor between our beds when my sister dropped a foot into my back that pushed the wind out of me and pinned me to the floor.

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Then she snatched from my head the dark bandanna I had borrowed from her drawer and smothered my face with it, as if she expected me to snort the cloth up my nose. The bandanna was an essential part of my lifesaving mission that day. For that she twisted an arm behind my back, scraped some of the makeup off with her fingernail, and smeared it over my lips. When I began to call for help, she dug her knee into me harder, wringing the air out of me like water from a sponge.

My left cheek was pressed against the floor, and tears spilled across the bridge of my nose and disappeared into the carpet. Then she flipped me over onto my back, still keeping me down with her knee. The bandanna was crumpled in her fist.

Finally she got up and stood over me, giggling in that familiar, slow, wicked way that made me think of her as a monster. I pushed myself up on my elbows and lay there, tasting the salty tears and makeup on my lips.

A rage swelled in me until my face felt fat with electricity. Asia continued to hover like the villain she was. Growl-crying through gritted teeth, I glared at her hard, hoping to set her on fire with nothing more than my thoughts. And as though she had read my mind, Asia cocked her fists and came at me again. I fell backward and kicked at her with both feet. A blow to her stomach sent Asia backpedaling, and she fell to the floor hard.

I felt as if I had superhuman strength. We both jumped up at the same time, and before I could decide on my next move, she caught me in a headlock. Then she reached between my legs, pinched my penis between two fingers, and yanked it as if snapping a rubber band. The scream that burst from me rattled my chest and set my throat on fire. Asia released me just as our mother turned the corner into our bedroom, already working the belt from around her waist.

Asia took most of the whipping the way she did all the others: after each blow, she touched the hurt part of her body as if shooing a fly and sucked her teeth. This drove Mommy wild and made her bring the belt back over her shoulder and swing it with both hands. When my sister finally broke, she dropped to the floor and blanketed her head with her arms.

At one point she kicked out, trying to block the strap with her foot. Soon her legs and arms tired, and she rolled onto her side and took the blows along her back and ribs, wailing louder with each strike. Mommy just kept on swinging. Finally Asia was able to scurry past my mother on her knees, push herself up, and run for the door.

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With one last swing of her arm, Mommy threw the belt at Asia, but it missed her and fell to the floor. Only when my sister was trying to escape these beatings did she seem to me more like a little girl than an enemy. The beatings I received were baptisms rather than outright whippings. The pain she inflicted on my sister, on the other hand, was clumsy and passionate and vicious. This disparity, I know, drove Asia wild, and she would kick my ass in part because she got her ass kicked so much for kicking my ass all the time. They spent hours sequestered in their bedroom while thin sheets of smoke slipped underneath the door and into the hallway.

My screams would bring Mommy slowly and softly into the room, the belt unwound from her waist. My sister and I both attended P. During journeys to and from school Asia was a different sibling than the one I knew at home. She became my guardian, an invincible bionic sister. One day after school I begged her to cut through a field of debris where a building had recently been demolished, because it reminded me of a battlefield. Asia saw the stray dog charging at us before I did.

The animal took off yelping in the other direction. Other days she was quick to offer a Fuck you! And yet as soon as we got home, she transformed back into the sister who, at the first hint of the sweet, magic smell from the bedroom, could pin me down and make me feel her pain.

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I had no understanding then of the enormity of his remark, nor of how improper it was to make to a stepson. But I understood enough to know that Freddy felt he had made some kind of mistake in relation to the woman in the photograph and my mother. I have only vague memories of affection between my stepfather and my mother, and I still wonder whether they ever actually loved one another. Did it slowly seep out every time their eyes rolled back in their he, intoxicated with a fix?

Did their affection for the drug take the place of their feelings for one another? And are the children of addicts ever able to care properly for one another as siblings, or love themselves, or recognize and receive love from another? This last question must have plagued Asia — my sister, tyrant, and protector — while she stood before the mirror and waited for her body to develop, or wrote the names of boys next to hers in the notebook she cherished, or snapped my penis like a rubber band just so Mommy would put down the pipe and behold her children.

One night I awoke to the sound of furniture crashing and the sight of Asia sitting on the edge of her bed, hugging her legs against her. At first it pleased me to see her rocking back and forth peacefully in the dark. Not until I realized she was crying did I pay attention.

The bedroom door was open, and light from the kitchen spread across the hallway and illuminated the floor near the foot of our mattresses. I seemed to float out of bed, but Asia was right there to catch me before I could step into the hallway.

Asia and I dropped to our knees at the bedroom doorway and peeked into the corridor. Mommy faced him, leaning against the wall where the large, oval mirror had hung, but was now in pieces at their feet.

I knew this was no dance when his right hand fell hard against her temple. Each time Mommy tried to move past Freddy, he flung her back in place.

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Between blows he asked her where she had been all night and said that she best not lie to him. Before she could answer, he popped her in the mouth with the back of his hand, the same way Mommy did Asia and me when we got fresh.

Real nice. He landed a flurry of blows with both hands against either side of her face, her head like a ball he was tossing back and forth from palm to palm.

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She stumbled against the wall, her legs buckled, and she fell to her knees on the glass. Asia came to my side, telling me to get up, but I let out another roar, hoping the sound of my voice would act like a grenade and blow this scene to pieces. I clutched her around the neck with no intention of ever letting go.

Come on, calm down. At daylight I woke to find Mommy gone. Their battles now began and ended behind the closed door of their bedroom, but the wall between our room and theirs was thin, and my bed rested against it. The sounds of hushed, angry dialogue and the muffled skidding of feet and crashing of furniture planted images in my head of the barbarity on the other side of the flimsy sheetrock.

Not seeing the violence kept me from crying out, but whenever silence fell, I feared my mother was unconscious or dead. Many nights, before the quiet came, Asia would pull me from my bed into her own and place me against the far wall and press her hands tightly over my ears, and I would escape into a fantasy of being a superhero or a commando leading my men to victory, and finally I would fall asleep.

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I spent each school day frightened of what that night would bring at home. Asia talked about running away, and I clung to her side more than ever. The thought of her absence made her seem even more necessary to me. Instead of running away, Asia began disappearing with boys behind a huge boulder atop the steepest hill in Claremont Park.

No sooner would we get to the top of the hill than Asia would have one of those boys by the collar, yanking him behind the boulder. Once I scaled the rock and crawled along its ridge to get a peek at what was going on. I could hear panting and lips smacking.

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They both still had their clothes on. And the boy did, and Asia brought her lips to his forehead, then rested her cheek against his scalp. F or years my mother and Freddy both worked the same shift at the post office, but then she switched to nights, and in the evening, while Freddy slept, Asia began sneaking out of the apartment to see boys.

A truce had fallen between our parents. Our mother would sit in the living room and stare vacantly at the television until it was time for her to go to work at seven. Once she was gone, Freddy would come out of the bedroom, drop his plate in the sink, and watch a basketball game or a police drama before heading to bed.

The violence at home had brought Asia and me closer. She was going to secure more of those confessions of love instead of remaining a warrior sister by my side. As possessive of Asia as I had become, and perhaps always had been, I would not rat her out.