Misfortune Gives Birth to Love

Some have only good memories of childhood, some have both good and bad, and then some have only bad memories.

I'm one of those unfortunate ones who have only bad memories. The earliest memory I have is getting punished for spilling milk on the kitchen floor.

Some might wonder why didn't my mom help me. She would have, but her fate was worse than mine. She was not only going through physical and mental abuse but was also struggling with the fact of how unfortunate she was to have met her husband, Sean, my father.

My dad had gone to Russia for a week with his friends during his college days and had apparently loved the girls there so much that he learned Russian and decided to find a bride from there.

However, it all remained a dream until his second marriage broke down, and he was facing a lonely life in a two-bedroom house near a small town in North Dakota.

He then decided to make his long-held dream come true and scraping whatever money he could, off he went to Moscow to find a bride. Armed with an American passport, a 6'2 body, long wavy hair, and knowledge of the Russian language, he prowled the bars, clubs, and pubs all over Moscow until he finally found a girl he instantly liked.

She was walking to school when he first saw her from his apartment and for the next four days, he watched her every morning and evening walk down the street.

The first time Dad spoke to her, he asked her for directions to a shop he already knew and engaged her in small talk about the city and its culture. Slowly and deliberately, he made sure she became fixated on his masculine body and American charm.

After about twenty days, he told her that he was going back to the U.S., but could arrange for her to join him there if she wanted. My father, of course, sold her the whole deal: Big cars, huge houses, shopping malls, etc. She was enthralled and jumped at the prospect of an American life.

When he saw that she was ready, he went back to the U.S., arranged a tourist visa and tickets, and told her to catch the next flight. The reality she experienced on arrival was different from the dreams he had woven in her head.

Dad was living in an old house, way off the main road, and there were no big cars, just a Ford truck, and no glitzy shopping malls. It all hit her hard and she wanted to go back, but he charmed her into staying -- a mistake she came to regret.

She was under the impression that he would marry her as soon as she arrived, but Dad told her, deceitfully as it turned out, that since she was only 18 she couldn't get married as the minimum age was 21. Then she thought he would help her get the visa extended, but he kept on giving excuses.

She thought about running away several times, but since she didn't know anybody, spoke little English and had heard all sorts of stories from Dad about how the illegals were treated in prisons, she couldn't bring herself to take the final step.

All in all, she was at his mercy and he knew it. Within a year, she was carrying me and living more like a slave than a wife.

That's how the journey and the misfortune of my mom, Natasha, began.

Surprisingly, the earliest memory I have of my mother is not of the beatings, the screaming, and the abuse, but of her sitting on a chair with her legs crossed and her hands in her lap in the backyard.

I remember her red hair falling over her shoulders, her deep blue eyes looking at me and her nose ring and gold anklets shining in the sun.

"Do you miss Russia?" I asked her, sitting opposite her.

"Yes, a lot," she said, adjusting her gray, knee-length pleated skirt.

"Any relatives still there?"

"There are your two aunts and an uncle."

"You must have enjoyed there?"

"A lot. We used to cycle across the town, play volleyball, and dance to Russian music. The school was fun, too."

"Were you good in studies?"

"No, just average. I was a good swimmer though. There's a lake near our house and all of us used to swim in it."

"I guess they miss you, too?"

"Yes, they do. Will take you there someday. Now let's go inside and cook lunch for your dad," she said, taking a deep breath and tucking in her white sleeveless shirt.

But that's the only memory I have of childhood where she's smiling and happy. All the others are of shame and pain.

My father had a more or less set schedule. He would go to work at the garage by eight in the morning, come home for lunch, and then be back again at home by evening.

Most of his Saturday nights were spent playing poker at home with his two friends Jason and Matt.

Since our house was so far away from everything, Mom and I remained stuck day and night inside the house. Dad would take us to town maybe once in three months and even then not to the town that was near our house, but to a town that was far away from our place.

My father wasn't even keen to send me to school and only reluctantly changed his mind, but took me out after just a few years, so all I learned was to read and write.

Even there it was Dad who used to drop and pick me up from school, with Mom staying stuck inside the house.

I don't remember anything about school, friends, or playing any game or sport.

What I do remember is how my father used to beat me with his belt, steel rod, or shoes for the smallest of mistakes. What's more shameful is that he continued to beat me even when I was 18 years old.

I was tall with broad shoulders, although not as tall as him, but the fact that I was nearly grown up or that Mom could see me standing there with my jeans and underwear pulled down to my ankles with my cock and balls clearly visible didn't bother him.

To some, all this might seem barbaric, but it was nothing compared to what Mom had to endure.

One day we were having dinner when Dad thought the steak was burnt a little bit too much, so he started shouting at Mom that she didn't know how to cook and that she was useless. Then he got up, dragged her by her hair, and forced her to bend over the couch without caring that I was sitting there.

He lifted Mom's skirt up and began working on her ass with his belt.

She tried to push her skirt down, but that made him angrier and he started beating her with the belt on her arms, making her scream in agony. Soon Mom's arms and white panties had belt marks all over them.

One evening Mom and I were washing his truck in the backyard and didn't hear him call her, so he dragged us inside the house and told her to take off her jeans, but she pleaded with him to have mercy on her. He told her that if she didn't take them off, he would start the beating again, so she began removing them, crying all the time.

My mom's jeans were off. Then he wanted her to take off her black panties and then her brown shirt and black bra and was only satisfied once she was completely naked.

Mom, who was 5'8 and had a full-figured body, sat there, with her back against the wall, her long legs joined together and her knees and arms trying to cover her big breasts, while he kept calling her a bitch and a whore.

After staying on the floor for more than five minutes, my mom got up to make dinner.

Since Dad was busy drinking in the living room, I sneaked into my room, snatched a bed sheet, and was creeping to the kitchen to give it to her to cover herself up when he warned me that he would beat the hell out of me if I tried to help her, so threw the sheet back into my room and went to calm Mom down.

She prepared the dinner, tried to make it as delicious as possible because she didn't want him to get angry again, and went into my room to eat it. I took my plate and followed her into my room, leaving my father to eat alone at the table.

There I saw her, sitting on a pillow, still naked.

"Could you do me a favor?" she said, looking up from her plate.

"Yes, sure."

"Go to my room and bring the white cream kept inside the drawer."

I came out of the room, saw Dad was busy with TV and whiskey, and gave it to her.

"Would you please put it on, it's hurting a lot," she pleaded, handing me the cream and lying back on her stomach on the bed.

I dipped my fingers inside the jar, scooped the cream out, and started applying it on Mom's ass and inner thighs as she lay there with her legs spread. I rubbed it all over the red marks made by Dad's beatings and then lightly massaged her ass, inner thighs, and the bottom part of her back with my fingers.

"Why don't we run away from here?" I asked her.

"We will, very soon," she promised, burying her face into the pillow.

"Have you always worn this blue necklace?" I asked her just to cheer her up.

She lifted her face from the pillow and turned her head toward me, exposing the side of her right breast in the process.

"It was given by my grandmother when I was a child," she replied, holding the necklace in her fingers.

"Is she alive?"

"No. She was very beautiful and graceful."

"Like you?"

"Yeah, right. Like me," she said, rolling her eyes and looking down at her bruised ass.

"You're beautiful," I comforted her by going near her and kissing her neck and bare shoulder.

She didn't reply but just lay there on the bed while I ran my fingers through her long red hair and over her soft and smooth back.

We heard Dad stumble back to his room, so Mom got up to give him medicines and plead with him to allow her to put some clothes on.

As if all this wasn't enough, he found another way to humiliate and shame her.

On Saturday nights, he used to play poker with his two friends Jason and Matt in the living room, so both Mom and I avoided going there and remained in our rooms. Then he started calling her on one excuse or other and began forcing her to sit there with them, while his friends shared lewd jokes and ogled at her body.

She felt uncomfortable and tried to get away by pretending to have a fever or headache, but he wanted her there, so she had to be there.

One Saturday night I was helping Mom change the bed sheets in her room when my father came in, handed her a white top and a black mini skirt, and told her to put them on as he wanted to give his friend Matt a surprise birthday present.

She looked at the top and saw that somebody had cut it with scissors in such a way that now it had a really deep neck and the bottom part wasn't long enough to cover her belly button. Mom stared at it and said to him that somebody had butchered it from all sides and it was probably one size too small.

He glared back at her and told her to wear it and the skirt and to come to the living room with the cake he had kept in the kitchen and the drinks when he called her. With that, he went back to join his poker and drinking friends.

Mom was looking at the top and mini skirt he had just handed her and was still wondering what to do when he came back and told her not to spoil the evening by wearing a bra and stormed back into the living room.

She hesitatingly began taking off the jeans and yellow shirt she was wearing and then the green bra, but not her panties. Since Dad had stripped her naked so often, she didn't mind me there nor tried to hide her breasts. She began putting on the white top and the black mini-skirt.

Mom was right. The top had such a deep neckline that a good part of her breasts, including the blue veins, were clearly visible. It had been cut so badly by the scissors that it barely reached below her breasts, exposing her whole stomach and even her underboobs. But what made it worse was that it was tight for her and as she wasn't wearing a bra, her big breasts and her pink nipples were as visible as her hands.

And the mini skirt? Well, it was long enough to hide only her green panties, leaving her long legs and her ample thighs completely uncovered.

My father was always calling her a whore or a slut and today, as Mom looked at herself in the mirror, she knew he had succeeded in making her dress like one.

After adjusting her gold anklets, the blue necklace, which was buried in her cleavage, and her gold nose ring, she sat down on the bed to wait to be summoned.

When she heard him call her, she got up and hugging me tightly asked me to look out for her and to come in there and start shouting and screaming if she began panicking. I told her that I would listen, but she asked me to promise her, so promised her that I would barge into the living room and start screaming if she seemed to be in trouble.

Mom held my hand for a few seconds, kissed my cheek, and went to serve Dad's friends while I left the house by the backyard and kept my eyes on them through the living room window.

She took the cake from the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of whiskey, and walked toward them.

"Matt, here's your surprise gift. She's here to serve you in her full glory," said Dad, getting up from the couch and pointing toward Mom.

Jason and Matt both looked at Mom, first in surprise but then the surprise quickly turned into pure and sheer lust.

Matt got up from the couch, apparently to touch her, but my father said, "First, let's cut the cake," so Mom placed the cake on the table and stood aside.

But Matt asked her to join him, so she held the knife with him, and when she bent down to cut the cake, both Jason and Matt began staring at her breasts.

Matt picked the first piece of the cake and made Mom share it with him while Jason feasted his eyes on her semi-naked body. Then Matt handed her a drink and sitting back on the couch, thanked my father for the best birthday he ever had.

Dad dismissed his gratitude with his hand and told my mom to go and sit on the birthday boy's lap, but she hesitated, so he growled at her and told her to make Matt happy.

She hesitatingly walked toward him and sat down on his knees. Putting his arms on her naked thighs, Matt pushed her ass near his crotch, so now Mom was not only sitting on his cock, but her skirt had ridden higher, exposing her green panties to Jason.

"Like your top, it's very beautiful," said Matt rubbing his hands over Mom's long legs, bare thighs and looking down at her boobs.

My mom's face was now completely red with shame and she squirmed and tried to shift away from his crotch, but he held her tightly and brought his face inches away from her clearly visible pink nipples. Then moving his hand toward her cleavage, he lifted her necklace buried between her breasts and started playing with it, while his fingertips touched her cleavage and even her nipples.

Putting his hands over her knees, he turned her body sideways, so now Mom's ass was on his legs, and her near-naked boobs right under his gaze.

He began caressing her ass and her green panties with one hand, while his other hand played with her blue necklace. He ran his fingers over Mom's exposed cleavage, her nipples, and then cupping her big breasts, he squeezed them right in front of Dad and Jason. His other hand, meanwhile, continued to roam all over her ass and naked thighs.

Matt continued playing with Mom's nipples and her breasts, including running his hand over and under her boobs, while feeling her tight ass, smooth thighs, and long legs for more than fifteen minutes.

Jason, who was watching Matt enjoy Mom's body so shamelessly, turned toward Dad and asked him when he would get the surprise gift.

"On your birthday," he replied, smiling.

My mom finally got the opportunity to escape the situation when my father got bored with her sitting among them and told her to go back to her room as he wanted to play poker.

Mom removed Matt's hands from her ass and breasts, got up from his lap and rushed back to her room threw herself on the bed, and began sobbing. I went and lay down next to her and tried to calm her down but she kept crying. It took her nearly thirty minutes to calm down and then she got up, lit a cigarette, took off the top and skirt and even the green panties, and got into a brown nightgown.

Assured that Mom had calmed down, I left her alone and went into my room to try and get some peace and sleep. Throughout the following weeks and months, Dad continued whipping our naked behinds, continued his verbal abuse, and continued making strip Mom naked.

One day I accidentally broke one of his vinyl records and that made him so angry that he stripped me of my jeans, and underwear and then started beating me on my thighs and ass with a steel rod and didn't stop until his hands began aching. Then he left me there, crying, sobbing, and bleeding, and went back to resume drinking.

As soon as he sat down on the couch with his glass, my mom came to me, helped me stand up and took me to my room, and began consoling me. While she was comforting me, we heard a loud noise, so she got up, opened the door, and saw that Dad was lying out cold on the floor drunk, but neither Mom nor I went to help him and left him on the floor.

My mom closed the door and coming back to me ran her fingers through my hair and told me not to worry and that everything would be alright. Sadly, both of us knew that things would never be alright as long as he lived.

She loosened her cream nightgown and hugged me tightly, threw her leg around my naked thigh, and buried my face into her breasts. I put my arm not above the robe but under it and dug my hand into the naked skin of her back. She was now covering me, giving me security, and trying to shield me by throwing her robe around me and pulling me inside it.

My face was buried deep inside her ample breasts, with my lips inches away from her pink nipples, my one arm around her bare back and the other pressed against her tits and stomach while my legs were sandwiched between her naked thighs and legs. My cock was resting against the lower part of her stomach.

We remained like that for at least twenty minutes, and then Mom got up and without bothering to tie her nightgown, went to her room and came back with a pack of cigarettes and lit one for each of us. We lay there nearly naked on our backs with cigarettes in our hands and an array of thoughts in our minds.

I thought our misfortunes would never end, but then the unexpected happened.

Dad, who had made our lives hell for years, died one night peacefully in his sleep.

It was Mom who found him dead in the bed and since we knew only his two friends, Matt and Jason, I called them on the phone and told them the news.

They came within thirty minutes. Jason was the first to arrive and immediately hugged me, which I found detestable. Then he went and tightly hugged Mom, who was wearing the only black dress she had. He kept his arms around her lower back until she forced herself out of his clutch.

When Matt arrived he didn't even bother to shake my hand, but went straight to Mom and enveloped her in his arms while making sure that her breasts were tightly pressed against his chest. He took her to the kitchen where he kept telling her not to worry as he was there and that he would look after her.

Mom stood there listening to him and just when she thought he was finished assuring her, he put his fingers under her chin and lifting her face up, told her that he would always be there for her. She nodded her head in agreement and was coming out of the kitchen when he ran his hand over her ass.

My mom, who had been abused by Dad so much, didn't bother to say anything or even look at him and came and stood near me.

The funeral was quick, simply because there were just four of us. As soon as he was buried, Mom told both Jason and Matt that she wanted to be alone and so got rid of them, but not before both told her that they were available night and day and would check on us every day.

As soon as they left, she slumped down on the couch in the living room and told me to get a white satin robe from the bathroom. I took off my brown coat - I didn't have a black suit -- and blue tie and went to bring her the robe.

When I came back, Mom was still slumped on the couch with her eyes closed and asked me if I could help her get out of the black dress as she was mentally drained.