A Very Special AFN’s Road to Kink: A Brief Stint with Incest Play

Sorry I had not written in this as much as I used to – so many exciting announcements to make.

First, I have a new website – christinacicchelli.com. I have a list of my movies on display, brief history about my life as a sex worker, and other bits of knowledge for those who aren’t familiar with my past.

Also big news: I’m a Fetish Consultant! Yes, that’s right. So, if you’re in need of guidance and motivation, or need someone who can help you awaken your inner pervert. Then, look no further! More info is on my website. So do be a doll and check it out for me, won’t you?

Even bigger news: Thurs. Sept 3rd, I’ll be reading at the Sex Literati Workshop. I may read some yummy stuff about my Dommes life or porn work, have not decided yet. But, please stop by Happy Ending (Located on Broome Street) and listen in on me and other hos and rentboys dish about the sinful life.

As I was writing last week’s post about Age-Play, I reminisced about those plentiful moments in my past where I played the role of the gregarious younger sister or naive daughter to a mischievous, older Daddy. And these roles, by far, were the most arousing to me.

A few theories come to mind as to why my incest fantasies are so strong. I grew up with no fathers or brothers, and so there was no romantic interest for any of the members of my family. My uncle was the closest thing to a paternal figure that I had as a young girl, but he was such a fantastical person to look at that I looked to him in admiration and fascination rather than lust. He had over 60 dreadlocks as thick as my 12 year old arm and was over 6 ft tall with gold caps in his teeth. He was a Rastafarian in an oil-spotted mechanics uniform, a hunk of a man for some women, but, to a preteen, an absolutely eccentric guy.

Because of my lack of direct father figures or a brother I can wrestle with, it left room to explore what it would be like if I did have a crush on my brother or father. Even a grandfather (whom was also absent in my childhood). My closest crush on a kin was for my second cousin, K.

I was 7; K must had been 14 or so, but to me at that age he was an older man. And I absorbed his lean chocolate body and luscious heart-shaped lips with great infatuation and curiosity. Of great interest to me was the deep black mole on the chiseled curve of his cheek. It was the size of a small button, and it distinguished him amongst the others.

During one summer afternoon, the neighborhood kids that hung around my uncle’s house wanted to play a game called soap opera. The rules were self-explanatory: Act like the grownups do on TV. Since I lived on the other side of town, I was eager to make new friends, so I signed up for the opportunity right away. To further expand my popularity, I volunteered to get K to play with us. Since the other kids were my age, the prospect of an older playmate would take our seemingly premature games to a whole new level. Plus, I’d get to spend more time with K. So, quickly, I ran to the kitchen where he was finishing a snack. He only wore his sweat shorts, thus exposing his lean body in the stage of pubescence, and his fit muscular legs. I begged him to play with us, and since I bugged him so much anyway, K waved his hand and accepted the invitation.

I re-assembled with the other kids in my uncle’s living room. I thought, for sure, if K heard us playing from the kitchen (which was just a few feet away), then he would have no choice but to inevitably join us. But, he had yet to show up. A bossy young black girl with three braids poking asymmetrically out of her head demanded we start right away. Disappointed with K’s absence, I conceded.

She and her sister had taken a large blanket from the corner of the room and sprawled it out on the floor. “Okay,” the young girl said. “Each boy takes a girl underneath the covers and do it.” That was how they played Soap Opera. And, as one of the youngest in the group, I had not fully comprehended what this actually had to do with being a grownup. But I did not protest. And, before I knew it, I was being ushered underneath the blanket by an overweight boy, his face pockmarked with pimples. He laid on top of me and dry humped me for what seemed like an eternity. Still, I had not comprehended what all of this meant. But, in the obscurity of the darkness, the heavy blanket undulating above the boys’ awkward bodies swaying and thrusting above our own, I imagined K’s beautiful face and body on top of me, and that made being a “grownup” a little more bearable.

Years later, possibly out of situations like that one, I discovered social comforts through the Internet. AOL chats was my favorite website to visit. There was an endless list of rooms inhabited by scores of people, all of which (besides spammers and webcam girls) wanted to share a little piece of themselves (either amplified or intrinsically represented) with others. After extended hours chatting with strangers about this or that, the conversations became rather boring. However, after some fibbing about my age so that I was 21, not 12, I entered the mature chat rooms, where others discussed topical conversations about music and books. This got old pretty quickly too, so then I traveled to the world of “Adults Only” chat rooms. There, it was indeed not uncool for me to be 12, in fact, it made me naturally popular amongst the older members, who would send me secret messages detailing their desires. One man promised to buy my expensive gifts in exchange for my company. Another wanted me to mail him my bra and panties, along with pictures of me modeling my pre-pubescent lingerie. In exchange, he’ll send me $50. I was mildly interested in the offer and even hinted at performing for him, but he never did receive my underwear.

I met a man named Hungbear99. He sent me an instant message asking for my age, sex, location (a/s/l), to which I replied 12/f/ct. He was 53/m/ny. Dangerously close, but, as long as he didn’t know my address we were still strangers. He asked me to describe what I looked like, which really meant that he wanted to know how skinny I was and how big (or small) my tits were. I told him. The following conversation goes as such:

Hungbear99: Do you have a daddy?
Lilfaerydragon09: Why?
Hungbear99: You have someone there to teach you about sex?
Lilfaerydragon09: No. No daddy or anything like that.
Hungbear99: I can be your daddy. And I can teach you things that your mother never told you about.
Lilfaerydragon09: Like what?
Hungbear99: First you have to call me daddy.
Lilfaerydragon09: Ok… daddy…
Hungbear99: Good. Now does baby know how to wash herself properly before bedtime?
Lilfaerydragon09: No.
Hungbear99: Say daddy.
Lilfaerydragon09: No… Daddy.

Hungbear99 proceeded to molest what had now become my 9 year-old body in the bathtub. Then, he dried me off in his bed, since Mommy was out. This encounter in our make-believe bathroom went on for several weeks. But, then I traveled on to other chatrooms, and so did he. Eventually, I became the erotic darling for many online strangers. Since I liked the bathroom as a private and personal space, i often implemented that in my fantasies with others. Many times, I egged my brother out of the bathroom if he spotted me watching beyond the bluriness of the shower curtain, or encouraged my uncle or grandfather to bathe me while my mother was away. Although I wasn’t familiar with masturbation at that age, there was an unsettling sensation I felt at the bottom of my stomach when I played the naive young daughter, granddaughter, niece, or sister. It was like a tummy ache, but deeply unresolved. No medicine or food can cure it, and when I chatted with these older men, this encouraged the growing affection I had developed for them. At that point, in the real world, my body was thick from weekly desserts and I hid myself underneath over-sized sweaters and jeans. I still remained friends with those that I knew well in elementary school, but for the most part I was picked on by the older girls in our class. So, to find myself the center of attraction for faceless men was appealing to me. It satisfied the unnecessary crushes I had on the boys in school. It was a bit of paradise waiting for me on the Internet.

While these flirtations were very exciting, I had read enough Seventeen Magazines and watched enough Lifetime movies with my mother to know the dangers of making these online encounters real. Most stories are similar, and follows as such:

-Girl meets attractive boy (who is actually a man but lies about it) or man who promises her the love and affection she isn’t getting at home.

-After an exchange of romantic emails and online chats, the mother (like a hawk) touches upon the harmful obsession her young girl has with her online suitor and swiftly removes the computer (Really a tool for deviance) from the home.

-But this doesn’t stop the young girl… who decides to flee her domestic imprisonment and live happily ever after with her new soulmate…

-Girl then discovers with great shock and fear that her new soulmate is really an older pervert or a suave gentleman some decades her senior who eventually becomes possessive and transforms her into a stripper/hooker/junkie. Or rapes and kills her.

Most often the young woman isn’t killed, but saved by her snooping mother and private investigator. In this fashion, the young victim has a redeeming and moralistic quality.

The only difference between me and this so-called “heroine” was that I hadn’t fallen in love with any of my online suitors. I didn’t even know what that meant. And, because I was afraid to meet these men in public (out of embarrassment and intimidation), it gave me a sense of superiority over them. I was able to develop the incest fantasies to specifically fit my own, which included lots of brotherly love. That may be in reference to K, my long lost second cousin. It was no longer about age difference; it was about settling my emotions for a relative in a harmless atmosphere, one in which I was allowed to flirt with my “brother” and tease him enough so he couldn’t help but ravage me in my bedroom, or secretly masturbate in the closet while I changed into my nightie.

This incestuous behavior continued until I entered high school. By then, my time was occupied with friends and wholesome activities like video games and trips to the Milford Rec Center. I wanted to regale my friends with stories of lust and reckless abandon, like when Grandpa54 sodomized me on my 13th birthday, but they weren’t the types to dig those sort of tales. They were still trying to understand their own hormonal impulses. Plus, I was nearing 16, which is pretty much 21 in the eyes of the men I “grew up” with. Surely, I’ve graduated from their level of perversity.

It wasn’t until my third year in college, when I dropped out and the world as I knew it was in complete disarray, which was exhilarating, to say the least, that I reunited with my incestuous fantasies. Up until that point, I was powerless to the stifling structure of academics and the incomprehensible need for success that my mother had shouldered on my already heavy head. Somehow, by indulging in this world of recklessness and debauchery, I remained in control. So, after embarking on a journey through the world of the adult industry, I had a rather settled position as a phone sex operator. After a week, the supervisors quickly realized that while other girls stumbled and received hang-ups with kinkier callers, I maintained hour-long sessions and repeats. I was quickly given access to their fetish phone-line, where a number of cross-dressers, panty-sniffers, and human carpets were at my disposal.

One of the last calls I took before ending my sessions came from an Midwestern-born gentleman. He was in his late 20s and, at first, asked if I could play the part of an older woman he lives with. She catches him enjoying a bath and asks if she could help him rinse off. Fairly simple fantasy, no? I dove into his imagination with great enthusiasm, and, like the snake I envisioned, slithered into the make-believe bathroom a voluptuous woman in her mid-40s, with fluffy auburn hair and a lurid inflection similar to that of Kathleen Turner. I kneeled down next to his sleepy body, my manicured hand elegantly disappearing beneath the foamy surface of the bathwater. The tender rippling of the water echoed in the quiet bathroom, as my hand slowly stroked his half-hard dick..

“Mommy,” he said. I paused for a moment. Only twice in my career as a sex worker had I been called “Mommy”. Once, as a dominatrix to a precocious 50-something entrepreneur, who would purposefully misbehave in order to receive harder spankings. This phone call was my second time.

He whispered it again. “Mommy,” then said, “I want to go to bed with you Mommy.” He sneezed. “Sleepy time. Sleepy time.”

He hadn’t regressed in tone; he still sounded like a twenty-something man. Even older. But, the way he cooed for his mother’s warm body in bed made this phone call particularly poignant. He cried for me, needed me more than anything in the world. So, I carried him out of the bathtub and into my bedroom, where no Daddy or unfamiliar Uncle took up my time. He wanted to wear his “Pajammies.” “The ones with the button-ups near my bummy, Mommy,” he said. I dried his body and helped him into his favorite pjs. Then, we got into bed together. I switched off the light.

I painted a picture of my nightgown to be a satin chemise gown with mesh that lined the sides of my body. The mesh was taut against my skin, my cleavage expansive and full like fresh fruit. I described this all to him.

Soon, I heard a suckling sound on the other end of the call. “Baby loves Mommy’s milk,” he said, and then suckled some more. “Baby loves to rub against Mommy’s skin.” He continued, and told me that his peepee grew hard when pressed next to the mesh, and pressed even more so against the wooly fabric of his pajamas.

His voice grew fervent, his breaths shortened and stagnated. He squealed and suckled. Then said, “I love you, Mommy.” I nursed his overgrown mouth a few minutes longer. “I love you Mommy.” His voice cracked. Then, I heard him whimper, his moans breaking up and bubbling like the soft ripples of the water I’d imagined just minutes before. Regardless, he continued to suckle and coo through what sounded like painful bouts of sobbing.

I love you is a no man’s land for a sex worker. It’s when playtime becomes serious, when the line between our imaginations and the realness of our emotions have dissolved into one another like melting ice cream. Almost every fetish is associated with a wrinkle of unforgettable moments that are no longer within our reach. For me, my arousal returned to me in waves… the older seductress, the desired mother… But, what to do about this? It was as if I had to suddenly baby-sit a crying infant. What else could I say to make him feel better? Or was this simple act of being his mother helpful enough?

“I love you too,” I answered.

He hung up. An hour and a half after we started, my baby boy had left the nest. For the next few days I anticipated his call but, in the mornings when I was through with my shift, I left the building with a sense of disappointment. I had never had a father to seduce, a brother to teach me why we were so different (He, boy and I, girl) but I’d never been a mother either. Regardless of the sexual undertones, I contemplated the disconnection I felt after the phone call had ended, as if his mouth was really pursed around my nipple, then suddenly snapped away, and too soon. Was that how real mothers felt? If so, I did not like it. And it took me a few weeks to shake the maternal grief from my mind.

  1. November 9th, 2009

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