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House Watching II: Family Hystery

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This part is boring. For those of you who don’t care where they’re coming from, it can be skipped…

‘Ana (g2F Memoire)

I suppose it all started before I was born, in America. My mother, God love her. She is what you would call a Poseur, but she would never lower herself to use a word so French.

From Cary North Carolina, she told me what it was like, in her own self centered way. “A suburb of Research Triangle Park, it was a surprisingly modern enclave of Technology, amongst the rednecks.”

She actually talks like that. So pretentious, it’s embarrassing when she asks to go to the “Loo.” My friends had parents like that, that tried to sound hip, cool, or trendy. My mother, she went the other way.

From pictures of her, in primary school her friends and her wore Uniforms. Catholic uniforms, she’s Italian BTW. Regina Lastra-Kerr, but that last name, my father’s is pronounced “Car.” Not “Care,” in Kerrlina, as my mother says it, when her accent slips. Her put on, Posh accent, she was always too good for it.

“The racists,” she told me, “Protested everything about equality.” She showed me, a picture of a protest, in Raleigh. The banner “Go back to Africa” over a sea of ballcaps, with fish-hooks stuck to the bills. For some reason, that was the fashion at the time, as well as the beer bottlecaps folded in half. The wind guards from Cigarette Lighters, a subtle nod to all the money in Tobacco the region is famous for. “So, I decided to go back to England.”

Instead of Italy, so she’d have to learn Italian. SHE’S NOT EVEN ENGLISH!

I was home schooled. Princess, though nobody calls me Princess except me mum. That’s my name, Princess Diana Kerr. If that doesn’t tell you everything you need to know about my childhood, do let me go on…

We had a turret, in the house. Mother had servants, far too many for the large Victorian farmhouse, which she had stuccoed, with boards up to look more like a Tudor.

Literally a Tower, to look out over the gardens, and Reggie now. She changed her name from Gina to Reggie, but she always hated her full name. Regina, rhymes with Vagina, because she was teased about it, in secondary school. The only home I had ever known, though I remember the original siding, and the porches remain.

Honestly, it looks ridiculous. The neighbors complained, that she took an original Victorian. That’s Queen Victoria, of England (1897-1901) farmhouse, and devalued it by having the woodwork pulled down, to make it look like a wattle, and daub, timber frame Tudor, when it wouldn’t.

EV VER look like anything else. Unless she took the porches off. I hated her, my mother honestly, but her parents had the foresight to name her Regina. Latin for Queen. When she converted to Episcopalian, it wasn’t for the right to divorce, but she insisted on a pre-nuptual contract, just in case.

My father was a business man, he did well on the Tech markets, and the Housing market after that. He saw the writing on the wall, when many of his contemporaries missed the signs of a bubble about to bust. Twice, so many lost a fortune on the .Com bubble, then remade another fortune on the housing market. Only to lose it again, when that bubble burst.

Not me da. He made a fortune, twice over. Lost the first one when mother left him, and made off with half of it laughing all the way to England. He’s doing fine, but she always wanted to visit England. #GoBackToEngland, and she fell in love with Sommerset, she says.

She bought a house, on a hill, and had the trees cleared away so we could see the Severn Estuary from there. Put up hedgerows around the back garden, and hired a small army of landscapers to command. Live as a queen, and keep me up in my playroom. The round room at the top of the tower, to look out from my Tower.

I never wanted to be a fucking Princess. I suppose, it is normal, growing up with fairy tales. Which always seem to have a princess, for the tale to revolve around. Well, most of these were written in the middle ages, when the commoners couldn’t read. So, who else would they write children’s stories for? Other than the nobles, with dreams of marrying Prince Charming, and becoming a queen. The children that actually learned to read.

Prince Charles. Pardon me, for a moment, while I roll my eyes. She remarried him, not for his money, but to lord her fortune over him. He was, “Pussy whipped,” I believe would be the proper term. As much a servant as the pool boy.

Captain Lassiter, which would suggest a good English captain. Nope, that’s from the New Jersey Lassiters, but the title Captain comes from his service in the US Coast Guard, stationed in Miami Florida.

I like him, I don’t love him, but. He’s too good for my mother. He doesn’t have any of that Pretention, he doesn’t pretend to be anything, other than who he is. Somehow, she managed to Land a good man. Whatever he sees in her, it isn’t her money.

She bought him a Yacht. He calls it his “Boat.” He loves to swim, so she bought him a pool, and micromanaged the entire project. She’s a “Perfectionist,” she says. No, she’s a fucking QUEEN. Honestly, I’ve known her all my life, she could care less if everything was perfect or not, err would she have listened to her neighbors.

Her real, British neighbors, from Somerset, telling her what a travesty remodeling a Victorian farmhouse to look like a Tudor mansion was. She just likes ordering people around, and nitpicking their work. She’s a bully, emotionally abusive, manipulative, and I thought that I had to love her. It was in the contract, in return for giving birth to me, but I don’t. She could die for all I care.


Milkmaid (gBs Circle Jerk)

I suppose, at some point, I should talk about my sexuality. Growing up with a dommy mommy, and her subby hubby, you would think that, he could talk her into doing something kinky, at some point, but no.

She’s repressed, herself. She had this fantasy in her head, about posh British people, she tried to act like, but never had the first idea how they go about it. The truth is that the well to do here have just as much surplus time as say the affluent of Miami, only with more rainy days.

They get bored, and horney, which leads to kinky games, just like everyone else. It just amazes me, in retrospect, that Charlie too almost 20 years to convince her to tie him up. so, she bought him a dungeon, but this was years after I left for university.

SHE LOCKED ME IN A FUCKING TOWER!!! Not literally, there weren’t even doors between the playroom, and the corridors, down the corner of the bedroom storey. Figuratively speaking, she didn’t even order me to “Stay there.” She just left me in there with all my toys, and windows all around, to look out, and watch the world go on about it’s business from there.

Ships move up and down the Severn Estuary with the tides. The modern Hedgerows she had planted around the garden grow. Finally, I was old enough to go out, and explore on my own, without being driven. (Another servant, she never deigned to call “Chauffeur” because that was tediously French. So, they were just “Drivers.”)

It didn’t take long to find out, how the posh actually lived. Acted, and talked about the Yanks moving in. Ruining a perfectly fine house, and fussing over that hideous yard. Fake hedgerows, and a miniature maze for me to play hide in seek, with my half brothers. 2 of them, younger of course. Charles’ boys, and he didn’t particularly have his heart set on a daughter.

So, she got him spayed. Sorry, a vasectomy. I suppose that would be neutered, but you get the idea. He was a pet, always a pet, a kept man, and a boy toy for her whims. As a young girl, I suppose. Perhaps 10, give or take a year, I didn’t mark it on a calendar. It was overcast, with intermittent drizzle, so it’s hard to say which season it was, either. Neither summer, nor winter, so it had the more typical weather I was accustomed to.

A friend, Cecelia invited me over to play in the garden. Well, Gazebo, I don’t know what else you’d call it. They called it a shed, but it wasn’t. It was a raised platform, octagonal, made up of wood boards like decking, with a cone shaped roof. Like the the turret on my house, which couldn’t be seen from there, but stranded in the corner of their yard, with railings instead of walls, and steps up one side with bannisters to hold onto.

She wanted to play Buttercross, and her family draped tarpaulins over boxes, to store things in, the “Garden Shed.” They didn’t have a garden, either. Just a back yard, with a lawn, and a mower in the garage. So, they didn’t have gardeners, either.

Apparently, it’s called a Buttercross, because back in the day, farmer’s daughters would bring surplus produce to sell, or barter at a crossroads, or the market if there was a city. There’s one outside of Dunster, which you can look up if you like, but they had a cross. An old brass one, braised together with solder, and the gold plate taken off, before it was sold by the Vicar. No idea why her family bought it, but Cecelia had me help her put it up in the middle. Braced between boxes to mock up the steps to lay out hankies and the like.

No butter, eggs, flower, or salt, there were boys playing football (You may know it as Soccer) in the yard, until it started raining. So, they all ran for the shelter in the corner, stamping mud out of their cleats, and sitting down to remove them. With knee, and shin-guards on, to protect them from the cleats, they asked us what we’re playing at.

“Buttercross,” but the boys didn’t want to barter for pretend milk, eggs, flour, or salty, on empty hankies. They wanted to play “Milkmaids,” which Cecilia didn’t really want to play. She shrugged, one shoulder, and looked away, squirming uncomfortably, and her bothers stood up for her.

“Come on, then. She doesn’t want to play it, so.”

“I’ll play milkmaid!” I offered, and the boys got down, on their hands, and knees, to play the cows.

Cecilia had to get up, and show me. “These cows don’t have udders, so you have to milk them like bulls.”

“How do you milk a bull?”

“Well,” the boys got up, on their kneepads, and showed me. “We have to take our pants down.”

We giggled, looking back at each other, then the half naked boys. Covering our mouths, because it was incredibly naughty, but the boys just bent over again, and mooed.

They were all flaccid, but tried to face away from each other. To avoid looking at the other boys, and trusting them not to look at their bottoms. Their bare bottoms, and I couldn’t help touching her brother.

Cecelia, she didn’t want to play milkmaids, with her brothers. She didn’t really want to play it with their friends in front of them, but she had an older brother. The younger one, he hadn’t begun puberty yet, but there were 4 of them, and 2 girls. With 2 hands each, so we wound up turning around, and sitting down to grasp them hanging between their legs.

The eldest got erect, before I got more than a few tugs, but I’d never milked a cow before. Honestly, we lived in a farmhouse, and there were other farmhouses in the neighborhood that my mother hadn’t ruined, but over the years, more families had moved in, and it had become more of a suburb for wealthy families.

Which is to say that I hadn’t even seen cattle, up close. We counted them in the car, for something to pass the time driving into London, up the coast to Bristol, or what have you, but I hadn’t even been up to the fence.

The boys kept mooing, and the youngest slowly stiffened to the point that it had to be held down. So that it didn’t stick straight up, against his tummy. “Moo, moohH!” His older brother, started moaning, and gave up the act. “The cup, hurry up, and pass me the cup, uh! Huh!” He shook, shivered, and I listened to hear the trickle, of urine into the cup. He held down for me, as I kept up the milking motion, but all I heard was a spatter. “Uh, uh!” In time with his grunts.

“You finished? Pass the cup over here then, I’m close.” So, they passed the cup, around the boxes to collect the “Butter.” I suppose it was supposed to be a milk pail, but I thought of it as a buttercup. Perhaps even churning boy butter instead of milking cows, because they’re boys, they don’t have udders, and they didn’t even hold their hands up as horns to look like bulls. Silly game really. Silly excuse for girls to wank their brother’s friends.

It wasn’t butter, of course. It was semen, but I was sheltered. Home schooled, and my mother hadn’t really covered such things in much detail. What little I knew was the disgusting parts, the lady bits, that go rotten, and started bleeding on a semi-regular basis. When I started that, after I began playing “Milkmaid” with the neighborhood boys.

I hadn’t gotten my period, so I hadn’t gotten the talk that goes with it, but being my first time. I got the cup of “Milk.” It wasn’t a full cup, it was probably a fluid ounce, ounce and a half, but a mouthful.

“Swallow it. Haha! She swallowed it!” They pointed, and told each other the obvious. That I’d swallowed 3 boy’s plumbs worth of semen, and it was disgusting. Of course, the first time you taste it, it’s going to be disgusting. It’s an acquired taste, but I began going over there, to play with Cicelia’s brothers in the garden shed, and her younger brother, he began puberty at some point, as well.

Cecelia wouldn’t play that, with her brother, but there were plenty of other boys around to milk. it was honestly her favorite game to play with boys, she just avoided playing it incestuously. I suppose it was a good thing that both of my brothers were too young to play with it, but we had a bit of a competition.

It’s part of the game, the one that finishes first gets the milk.


Author’s Note

IDK if anybody ever played “Buttercross,” and/or “Milkmaid” in Marry olde England. In my mind, Cecelia (Who’s probably never going to tell her side of the story) got the idea from visiting the Dunster Buttercross for lunch on a field trip to Bristol. It’s just the sort of games kids make up like “Lava” or “Doctor.”

They actually live with a view of the Bristol Channel, which she calls the “Severn Estuary,” just to spite her mother. Because Bristol is a British word, and Severn a Norman/French name. She hates her mother’s Angliophilia that much.

Also, her grammar reflects being home schooled by a pretentious wop from Cary (I’m from Raleigh) who honestly doesn’t CARE about proper English, so much as assumes that taking it at Oxford qualifies her to teach it. So, her daughter has no concepts of subject, paragraphs, and just jumps around randomly as if she has ADHD. She doesn’t, she just got taught how to write from somebody with no idea what the fuck she’s talking about.

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