Linda continued to look at the albums with a more critical eye, seeing different expressions with an older, more experienced eye. Strained smiles, worried looks rather than loving and adoring… Linda had grown up with stories of how terribly mean her grandmother was, how she had heaped abuse on her daughter. Stories she had dismissed as exaggerations, memories filled in with
fantasy and imagined events given legitimacy by time. Beatings on the bathroom rug with hair brush and electric cords. Now Linda could see the evidence of fear on her mother’s face and dislike to revulsion on her grandmother’s face. Now she could see the stark difference that happened when her father began to show up in the photos. Betsy was no longer fearful… Elizabeth was no longer haughty and as sure of herself. Tom was a sea change for their mother/daughter relationship.
When her husband had gotten hurt, Betsy lost faith in his ability to protect her, even seeing him as another abuser, seeing her mothers example of expressing love in his outbursts of frustration, taking out his anger on those around him. He doubted his ability to protect and provide, seeing the fear in her eyes as a constant reminder of his failure to make her safe. When she tried to help it emasculated him more which sent him deeper down the spiral. The further he retreated, trying to protect her from himself, the more she tried to control what she felt was his love being withdrawn. She blamed herself and him, he blamed himself and her. Both tried to fix it as best they could, but both only pouring gas on the fire. Eventually they both gave up and just tried to exist causing the least amount of pain to the other, but really only succeeding in wallowing in the pain that they had created for themselves, trapping themselves and each other in a perpetually self eating spiral.
Linda cried, wept in sorrow for what seemed like hours. She went through the grief process about who they had been and what they had lost and how they had given up to save each other, only to condemn them to the very thing they sought to avoid. Then, when the tears were exhausted, a plan formed. It would wake them up and help them or it would wake them up and destroy what was left of them… but at least they would not be walking dead anymore.
Betsy came home, still upset with her daughter… it was bad enough that she acted the slut… she had to be a lesbian slut. Betsy shivered in revulsion at the memories of her mother, the things that abusive bitch did to me… forced me to do back to her… all the time blaming me for making her… “If you weren’t such a nasty girl I would not have to punish you like this”… “If you were not such a bad girl you father would not have left and he could do this for me instead of me having to use you!” Her hand stinging as she slapped face, the hair brush bruising my ass while she made me finger myself justifying her abuse and her state of arousal, blaming me for seducing her… justifying her the forcing me to service her…
Betsy could not stop the feelings from happening… ever since Tommy had gone limp she had had to take care of her nasty feelings herself. She did not blame him… if she was more attractive, if she had tried harder to satisfy him, be everything he wanted her to be, then maybe he would want her again. The doctors said the tests came back normal, it was not physically so it must be her… he was hurt… it was not his fault that she was not enough to help him…
Linda is home, I saw her car, but her door is closed. Maybe she is sleeping after her bacchanalia last night. I could go to my room and stop these nasty feelings for a while… it will help me be more calm when Tom gets home… I won’t be such a snappy bitch to my poor husband. He works so hard to provide what he can… the least I can do is try to be worthy of that.
Betsy went to her room and slowly undressed, silently berating herself for being so weak, so nasty, that she had to indulge her baser desires instead of using the time to make Tom’s house more of the home he deserved.
She opened the bottom drawer of her night stand and moved the few items of clothes that she kept on top of her toys. She had collected a variety trying to regain Tom’s interest, but not one of them had made a difference. She hid them from herself, he could not care less if she left them on the table top…
This would be the third time since Linda had returned home that she had resorted to her toys… the specter of her mother was much more present in her thoughts lately… and as much as she despised that monster, her nasty side craved the attention she had forced on her.. her nasty side wanted to get out… to get loose, but her inside voice told her that she needed to punish the nasty impulses… lately that inside voice sounded more and more like her mother.
There were cock shaped vibrators, clit ticklers, nipple clamps… nothing seemed right. Her mind went to the hair brush in the bathroom drawer. About a year ago she had been feeling especially guilty and had gone out to find one just like the hated one her mother had loved. Betsy forced herself to use it on her hair each morning, a reminder if how near she was to what her mother had always thought of her. She has even tried to use it on herself, but it was not the same… still, having it there, making herself touch it and feel the fear of it… that was punishment enough.
Betsy’s pussy was wet, her nipples so hard they hurt… serves me right. What a nasty cunt I have become, getting wet thinking about my mother and the brush she used to punish me.
She stood up to go and get the brush, even if it was to just hold on to it while she masturbated…
Instead Betsy knelt back on the bed with her face in a pillow and her round ass in the air. Her fingers found her wet pussy waiting, ready for its turn. She slapped her palm against her swollen and sensitive slit as hard as she could every time she shoved her fingers in her hot and slick hole. It felt good, too good… she could not make it hurt enough to be punishment, not like her mother could… at this rate she would orgasm quickly… not that it would be satisfying… it would lack a lot, but it would at least take the edge off for today. Such a failure… good for nothing… you deserve to be unsatisfied… her mothers voice sounded loud in her mind as her fingers worked to bring her off.
Linda put the finishing touches on her “look” and compared it to several pictures. It really was uncanny how much she looked like her grandmother.
Linda had not heard her mother return, but was, now that she was in the hallway, hearing sounds from her mother’s bed room… moans that sounded like pain and suffering… she opened the door and stepped into the room. The question, “Mom, are you alright?” stuck in her throat. Her reserved mom was ass up, face down, naked on her bed, fingers violently pounding into her pussy.
Betsy was concentrating hard on her “punishment”, but the door coming open while she was masturbating… well it got her attention right away.
It was a nightmare! Not one that she had had to deal with in reality for decades, but one that haunted her still… she could not believe that her mother was standing in the doorway.
Betsy screamed a short, sharp yelp and rolled off the bed, landing on hands and knees. She immediately popped her head up above the mattress to confirm the impossible… but there she stood, in the flesh, her mother had just caught her masturbating. She was 8 years old in a heartbeat.
Linda, still, struggling to find her voice, out of concern for her mom, took a step forward, towards the bed with an outstretched hand.
Betsy panicked when she saw her mother, hand outstretched to grab her, take a step towards her. She jumped up and ran for the bathroom, going through the door and leaving it wide open, shouting at the top of her frightened little girl voice, “I’msorryI’msorryI’msorry!” over and over again, her “yelling out” turning quickly to unintelligible sobbing. She threw herself on the fuzzy rug in front of the sink. Her subconscious mind noting that it seemed much smaller than she remembered, her conscious mind finding the words, still sobbing, pleading for understanding and mercy, “I am on the rug! I am on the rug! I won’t move! I’m sorry mother I was naughty… look, just like you told me! Please don’t use the brush mother PLEASE! It hurts so much!”. She assumed the same ass up, head down, knees spread, position she had been in on the bed.
Betsy continued to babble, verging on the hysterical, over and over she repeated her pleading refrain.
Linda moved almost mechanically to the bathroom door, trying desperately to make sense of what she was seeing. She had grown up with stories about her grandmother’s craziness… apparently they had not told her everything… maybe her dad did not know how deeply her mom was scared.
Linda reached out and took the brush from the edge of the sink countertop. All intelligent sound disappeared from Betsy and only an animalistic guttural wailing remained.
Linda tapped the brush on her palm a couple of times. This will still fit in what I though to do to shock them both out of their melancholy… maybe better.
“Quiet you naughty girl!”
Betsy locked her lips closed knowing the time for pleading her case was over. Once mother made up her mind protesting only made it worse… but her fear of what was to come was not as easy to contain as that… she could not completely stifle the low moaning hum that accompanied every ragged breath.
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