“No, Sarah!” I yelled. I withdrew my fingers from inside myself and grabbed her, pulled her over my lap. “Please!” she cried. “Please touch ...e! I want you so badly!” She was bent over my lap and flailing her arms and legs around aimlessly. “Bad girl, Sarah, you stop that! Let me finish finger-fucking myself before you get your turn!” I brought my hand back and slapped her roughly in the ass. “AHH!” she screamed. And I slapped her again, harder. My hand left a red print on her soft bottom and. It was told to me in so many words and shown in so many ways.Words spoken were sometimes very direct, "You may be a part of this family, but that doesn't mean we have to love or accept you", to having my mother point out some woman or girl and say, "She's just exactly like the daughter I should have had instead of you."Somehow in my mother's hypochondriac and drug-demented mind, she took this "fault of mine", to an extreme. In her fantasy world, her daughter would have always been there to. More

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