Jesus, where do I start?
My parents were horrid, truly horrid. One example is when I had left school at 16 and before I started college in September I worked in a factory for an agency to get a bit of money, fair play to me as my parents would never give me any money.

Anyway, I started work at 2pm and finished at 10, getting home at about 10:30 - 10:45, being dropped off by the agency bus.

When I got in, I was hungry, grubby, needed the loo (being female I can't poo in a public toilet) and wanted to wind down before going to bed. My mother would never cook me a meal with the rest of the family and leave it for me to reheat, so I would come in and cook myself something, eat it in the front room (parents would be in bed by about 10) with the telly on really low watching Jerry Springer whilst running a bath, finish eating, tidy up what I'd used, put it away, turn off everything that needed turing off and go to the loo, get in the bath, go to bed. Sounds fairly tame doesn't it?

Well, like I say my parents are cunts and mum had a word with me one day about how she and dad could smell the food I was cooking at night so I had to stop cooking any dinner when I got in. I did so, tried toast, sandwiches, but got told they could hear me moving about in the kitchen, so in the end, I'd come home to find the kitchen door closed and I wasn't allowed to open it.

Then she said they could hear the telly (one night I didn't even put it on and read a book for a while in the front room instead but the next day she moaned the telly had kept them awake and I was no longer allowed to put it on) so I'd come home and find they had hidden the remote (couldnt turn telly on without it), so theres me, no food, no telly.

THEN, she takes me aside one day and explains as thier bedroom is next to the bathroom they could hear me run the bath and flush the loo, so could I not do either anymore, I explained that if I had a shit I couldnt exactly not flush it, so she just told me that I wasn't allowed to poo anymore when I got in, I promise this is all true. And not to have a bath either as they heard it being run and then emptied.

So basically when I got in, my only option was to go to bed (where I couldn't put the light on as I shared with my little sister and she'd wake up) and that was it.

My parents banned me from eating, watching tv, pooing and bathing.

A few months later she kicked me out, and 3 years ago I cut off all contact with them.

Cunts.
( diffy maybs, Tue 13 Mar 2007, 19:29, Reply)

They feck you up, your mum and dad
When I was younger, my parents wouldn't let me wear any low-cut tops, miniskirts, heels, makeup or even decent lingerie.

Then again, looking around, the community where I grew up was quite strict. None of the other parents would let their nine year old boys dress in women's clothes either.
(mochyn, Sat 10 Mar 2007, 10:08, Reply)

Memories..
One night, when I was back from my travels, I was staying with my mum for a while before I buggered off on my wanders again. This particular night I'd been on the piss in Newcastle and ended up getting home at about 3am a wee bit worse for wear. I fished around in my pockets and then drunkenly tried to get my key in the door. Arse. I was so pissed I couldn't find the lock in the dark. So I poked and poked at the lock then magically the door opened!

"Legless!! You bloody useless drunken oaf. You're just like your bloody dad. You've woken up half the street!!"

"What! What! What are you on about? I'm only trying to open the bloody door. I'm being quiet as a mouse.." I explained.

"You useless idiot. You've been trying to stick your key in the doorbell for the last half hour...."

Oops....

I was in the doghouse big style for that one. For a whole week. Eventually she forgave me and the atmosphere thawed a bit and Friday night rolled around again. And again I went out in town and got well pissed and rolled home around 3am. I was super quiet as I arrived home and then I fished around in my pockets for my keys. Arsebiscuits! I couldn't find them.

Now this was a pickle. I didn't dare ring the doorbell and wake the family again, not after last week, so what was I to do? Brainwave!

I headed round to the back of the house, into the garden shed and dug out an old hand-powered drill. One of those ancient ones with a handle on the side. Fitting a drill bit to it, I staggered over to the downstairs toilets window and laboriously drilled a series of holes through the window frame until I eventually had made enough so I could wiggle a bit of wire about and flick up the window catch. Yay! I was in.

I opened the window and heaved my drunken bulk into the window and, being slightly enthusiastic , crashed head-first into the toilet bowl and broke the bloody thing. Smashed to pieces and with water all over the sodding place. Of course, this racket didn't go un-noticed and in a few seconds my mother arrived with her trusty broom and proceeded to beat me about the face and head while screeching like a banshee....


I'm my own worst enemy at times....


Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Mon 12 Mar 2007, 23:25, Reply)

Bastard parents...
Both my parents were and remain acutely dysfunctional. I can't quite explain fully why, but my mum was orphaned during WWII and was passed around various relatives and foster homes, but my Dad remains an enigma. He was the youngest of five and used to sticking up for himself by scaring the bejesus out of whoever stood in his way. He was a control freak who had a weakness for flying into a sometimes violent rage with absolutely no warning whatsoever and was utterly unpredictable, being docile one minute and raging the next. Mum had endured nearly twenty years of this by the time I was born, so was as neurotic as it gets not to mention being fairly adept at her own brand of control freakiness.

As a result, growing up was a little unconventional to say the least. Oddly enough, Dad would usually just leave me to my own devices until he either a) was in a bad mood anyway or b) decided I was in need of some fatherly guidance when in both cases all fire and brimstone would be unleashed. Mum on the other hand would pretty much meddle with everything, as was her neurotic way.

Hmm... Where do I start? Early days first I think.

One Sunday I was challenged as to why the soap in the bathroom was wearing out faster than usual. Apparently Dad had decided I was the culprit and I recall getting a beating for this, I think I was five or six.

Dad would make a point week of yelling at me and my brother for interfering with his collection of records. Every week my brother, my mum and I stayed as far as we could from the records just in case. Truly bizarre... He was convinced that they'd been moved or someone had been messing around with them.

Sundays were the worst. Dad would want to listen to his records after Sunday roast, which meant absolute quiet so as not to disturb him. Opening or closing the living room door was out of the question, so I'd either sit listening to 1940s big band jazz (which I hate to this very day) or sit quietly in my bedroom. Afterward he'd have a nap, which meant more absolute silence. I wasn't allowed to play or make any noise whatsoever otherwise I'd get a thorough hiding. Dad was ultra sensitive to noise, often raging at my brother for the noise made closing a car door on the other side of our street.

My Dad was something of a DIY enthusiast and was keen to conscript my assistance with statements like "you're going to help me build a shed/shelf/etc". Now any thoughts that I might be able to participate in the actual construction of anything went west as my responsibilities were to either sit on wood while it's being sawn or hold various tools and hand them over when required. Strict concentration and silence was expected for the duration of these tasks. I was never allowed to wield a saw in anger in case I broke something, but it was apparently important for me to learn how to fix things. It wouldn't be long before something went wrong with either the tool/materials/ruler/etc and Dad would lose his temper and end up in a screaming rage. Guess who's job it was to bear the brunt?

One weekend Dad won a small amount of money on the pools and bought some wood with which he was constructing a record cabinet. Things went relatively well until the peace was suddenly shattered by a scream of "Oh shit!!!" followed by a loud bang and the sound of splintering wood as Dad ran round the garden kicking the rapidly disintegrating cabinet. Why? The wood was crap. Dad failed to spot the potential for disaster when attempting to plane chipboard. Of course, the logical thing to do was to kick an inanimate object around the garden, screaming. We still laugh about that at family gatherings now.

I recall once, I was beaten black and blue aged 8 by my father because I lost a fight with the kid round the corner, who'd been giving me hassle. Naturally the little fucker who beat me claimed responsibility when I turned up at school with bruises down the side of my face and a swollen lip, just to add insult to injury. I quickly learned that in the instance of getting a good beating, it's best to sit there and take it. Any resistance usually made it ten times worse, so Dad was absolutely furious with my total unwillingness to indulge in violence of any sort.

Naturally, this was yet another excuse for Dad to scream at me and sometimes hit me because I wasn't the fearless fighter he apparently was. Although I never saw dad flinch from a fight (I've seen him deck blokes twice his size) he began to realise as I got older that using fear to control me didn't work. We eventually squared up one evening in my mid teens and I made it clear I wasn't about to back down. Honest to god, I was ready to take him outside and let sixteen years of repression loose. It was the first time I ever saw him try and talk his way out of confrontation, he actually suggested we sit down and talk like adults.

Dad announced we were all off to South Africa to live one morning in mid 1987. The fact that the country was in a self declared state of emergency and was a hair's width from civil war notwithstanding. However, the worst thing for me was the humiliation of being forced to wear khaki shorts, khaki knee high socks, regulation Hush Puppy shoes, bottle green blazer (it's 35 degrees FFS!) and shirt/tie was one thing. But showing all my mates and any lady I bring home the pictures goes way beyond being merely "cruel".

The years since have seen something of a role reversal. My parents are both now in their 70s and recent events has caused Dad to seek my counsel more than once. Bizarrely I have earned his respect by being compassionate, level headed and even tempered. The irony of this I that when pushed to extremes (and it takes a heck of a lot) I am more than able to take care of myself, but it takes an awful lot of provokation. However, when I go, I go big.

My mum doesn't escape this scott free, oh no...

My mother, bless her was as nervous as a kitten when Dad was in one of his rages but her attempts to placate him only made things worse. The one and only time she dared intervene when Dad was losing his temper was during the aforementioned incident when Dad beat me black and blue. Dad was absolutely incandescent with rage at this point and I recall being so frightened that he was going to hit her that I put myself in between the pair of them so he might hit me instead of her.

I find it very difficult to sympathise with her, as she often knew that the way Dad treated us all was wrong, but she'd never protest. Dad comes home from work in a foul mood and swings at one of us, it's our fault for getting in his way. She continued to make excuses until very recently, but dared not stand up to him. I have never quite forgiven her for that to this very day, despite the fact that I do love her dearly.

Mum was anxious for me to do well at school and would often express her forlorn wish that I might be clever like #### and get some of my work pinned to the classroom wall. The fact that #### now drives a dustcart for a living speaks volumes I guess.

My mum continued to set new standards in embarrassment. She could not understand why I'd save my money for clothes/trainers and used to labour the point of complimenting how good my Goth friends looked in their DMs and old baggy jumpers. Despite spending hours trying to explain the relationship between one's adopted subculture and the clothing which went with the territory she still never understood it.

"But #### looks so smart! Why can't you look like him?"

She was part of the war generation who's mantra was 'make do and mend', so while she'd think nothing of spending a small fortune on various useless and often unused gadgets around the house, the children's clothing budget was fair game to cut back on. New food mixer? Fair play. Slightly fashionable cut trousers for me? But they're soooo expensive! If I had birthday or xmas money from a relative my mum would not get the hint and hand it over so I could buy clothes, instead she'd insist on not trusting me to spend my own money by making sure she had my savings "in a safe place" and holding it for me while I went clothes shopping. It was only when I got my own Saturday job and had control of my own cash she was prized away from interfering. Doing odd jobs for my bro was another source of income which funded my beer/smoking passtimes.

There are some more lighthearted anecdotes however, for example at 15, when I'd saved my pennies for weeks and weeks so that I could buy myself a pair of baggy jeans and the obligatory paisley hooded top, my father vetoed the plan saying he didn't want me "looking like all the other herberts". I went behind his back, which didn't amuse him one bit, but an important victory was won that day. Oddly, he never complained when I'd roll up to the house at 2am in above ensemble on a school night pissed out of my gourd and smelling like a pub ashtray barely two weeks from my GCSE exams.

My mum was a chronic worrier and minor misdemeanours of mine resulted in the full theatrics. Even at age 18 when my family moved across town she was so concerned that I'd not be used to getting up earlier to get to college that she took to making sure my alarm clock went off five minutes earlier each morning for a month beforehand. Such meddling would invariably drive me nuts, which meant she'd be more covert about it.

For example, she knew I was heading off to a mate's house for a sleepover and she knew that I might indulge in a beer or three (aged 16). However, in her mind I'd lose control of my faculties to such a point that I'd misplace my clothing (!), so she decided to order some name tags and sew them into my clothing "just in case". Thankfully I caught her in the act and made damn sure that she undid the damage under my watchful eye, saying "don't come crying to me if you lose your nike t-shirt!". No amount of reasoning would get her to grasp the immense damage to my credibility which would have ensued.

Parental strictness is a funny thing. Both parents took next to no notice when I returned from said party to collect a sleeping bag, with me utterly reeking of booze and cigarettes and openly discussing with them that some of the partygoers were partaking in the Moroccan mixed herbs. Mum said words to the effect of "have a nice time, dear" as I disappeared through the front door on my way back to the debauchery.

I'd discovered that the way to deal with my folks was to tell the truth about everything, which would be dismissed as exaggeration. Strangeness...
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Thu 8 Mar 2007, 13:02, Reply)

philosophical
My dad is a philosophy lecturer, and as I was growing up he encouraged me to always argue my case. If I could provide a good argument, he'd let me do whatever I wanted.

Me: Can I stay out all night at the party on Saturday?
Dad: Why do you want to do that?
Me: Because it will help me to integrate with my peers.
Dad: There'll be drink and drugs there. That's bad.
Me: Er ... But alcohol and tobacco are harmful drugs and they are legal. Isn't that just hypocrisy? You hate hypocrisy.
Dad: There's the matter of the law. You are underage for drinking.
Me True, but ... age is as much a matter of personal maturity as numerical calculation. The law doesn't consider this. I can handle it.
Dad: OK, so why do you have to stay all night?
Me: Because the girls won't be drunk enough to sleep with me until about 11.00, and then I'm going to need a couple of hours to do the job properly. Then it'll be too late for public transport and I don't want to wake you up ...
Dad: Hmm. I don't want any teenage pregnancies.
Me: Which is why I have this pack of condoms.
Dad: ...........
Me: Dad?
Dad: ..... OK, son. Go and get yourself laid.
Me: Cheers, dad!
(Fothermucker, Tue 13 Mar 2007, 11:03, Reply)

Not my parents...
... who have among other things babysat for Ozzy Osbourne while he and the rest of the band got twunted off their faces. No, mine are pretty chilled out. Mrs. Spoon on the other hand...

Parents used to be strict Catholics - as in Mother was a Nun and Father was a trainee priest (obviously something went wrong somewhere for there to be a daughter but anyway). As she was growing up there were numerous acts of parental lunacy but this one wins.

They were ridiculously over-paranoid about drugs - even the slightest mention and they'd flip out, so one day when the mother of the story is in my missus bedroom and finds a wrapped up foil thing she goes fucking apeshit - but not in front of my missus. No, she has to be sure first, so off she goes to best mates house to consult with other parents... no-one can identify the former contents of the mysterious foil, but it smells kind of sweet...

wobbly lines
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

one week later, having had no luck with parents, the mother of our story heads over to see the doctor, foil wrap in hand. The doctor has a look, takes scraping from the edge of this stuff to try and figure out what it is, has a sniff - same slightly sweet smell, a little bit like strawberries. He's getting on a bit though and doesn't really know what the kids are into these days. Best to open the whole thing up and see if there's a better sample anywhere. As the doctor opens up this tinfoil flower, a rather familiar looking word appears:


Petit Filous.

It was a strawberry yoghurt pot lid.
( Sonic James Doom forgetting the date since... umm..., Thu 8 Mar 2007, 17:08, Reply)

ill
Both of my parents had a long history of mental instability and Christian fundamentalism, and so their rules were predictably weird. They included:

1) Not watching "Knightrider" because Michael Knight was "obviously an instrument of Satan". The red light on Kitt was demonic and his voice was "other-worldy".
2) Not being allowed to ride a bike because "the manufacturers have designed them especilaly to squash your testicles and make a whole genertion of young boys infertile".
3) Making the sign of the cross each time BA Baracus said "I ain't getting on no plane, fool" in the A Team. This was a coded message to killers, apparently. I never asked which killers.
4) Walking only on the balls of my feet in the house because "bad energy travels through the heels and poisons the spine." You should have seen the whole family tip-toeing trhough the house like Scooby and Shaggy in a haunted castle.
5) No Scooby Doo. Dogs can't talk, ergo Scooby was "possessed".
6) I had to put on a northern Irish accent whenever I spoke to the neighbours. This was in order to "confuse them." Unfortunately, I couldn't do Belfast so I had a stab at Dublin: "Could I be borra'in yer lawnmower to be sure?"
7) I had to go to church every Sunday and be a loyal member of the Sunday Club. This meant pretending I liked Jesus when in fact I thought he looked like a poofta in a dress who was a bit too touchy-feely for my liking. (I was banned after I asked to play Herod in the nativity play.)
8) I was forbidden from having or even using a Space Hopper because "they are filled with the fart gas of Chinese people." I did once have an illicit try on one, but was overcome with fear.
9) Computer games would "burn your eyes out of your head and make your winkle shrivel to the size of a desiccated maggot", so I wasn't allowed to play Space Invaders.
10) Worst of all, I was forbidden from nakedness. Nakedness would encourage masturbation, so I wore the same pair of pants for 12 years. By the age of 12, they were so tight that I whistled through my arse when I sneezed.
(frankspencer, Thu 8 Mar 2007, 15:42, Reply)

Rough Childhood
I had a crap childhood. I was raised in Las Vegas where both my parents were blackjack dealers. They used to hit me until I was 17.
( enoughblueskyforsailorstrousers, Sat 10 Mar 2007, 22:39, Reply)

Banned from scatter cushions...
Being much younger than my brothers (they all left home when I was 5) meant that I had to play on my own. One day when I was about 7, I was pretending to be a cat, creeping around the house, stalking imaginary prey. I finally pounced, killed and ate my imaginary rat (i.e. jumped on and wrestled with a cushion then stuffed it under my jumper). I then went to sit in front of the electric fire for a sleep (still in cat-mode). My mother came in to the lounge, saw me lying on the floor and went ballistic. Shaking all over; her red face inches from mine, 'You're pretending to have a baby aren't you. You're giving birth aren't you. Give me that cushion; give me that cushion; don't you dare play this again. You are not having cushions again'(slap). Despite protesting that I was pretending to be a cat. I was not allowed near a cushion for a long, long time.
( pottybeaver is neither a potty nor a beaver, Sat 10 Mar 2007, 14:40, Reply)

OK, I'm going to do the obligatory rant...
...before someone beats me to it.

I was trying to think of some stuff that I could post, but my parents are genuinely messed-up people and most of what I could come up with would merely be disturbing and not in the spirit of the board at all (though I promise to think of some actually funny stuff and post it later).

That being said, some of these little twunts whining about not being allowed to do stuff 'under their roof' even though they are 'twenty something' 'work full-time' 'have graduated uni', whatever...THERE IS A REASON FOR ALL OF THIS.

I wouldn't want to be woken up by my precious little sprogs rooting like jackhammers in MY house. To the little bastard who SWORE at his MUM on CHRISTMAS DAY because she wouldn't let him play his precious friggin video game, your behaviour is unbecoming to a guest, and a loving son anyway, whatever the content of those games. I'd be pissed off if I slaved over a hot friggin stove and spent weeks choosing pressies for you so that you could piss away a family event in front of a flickering computer screen. Stating your age only hammers home how ungrateful and immature you are.

To the 26 year old girl whose parents won't let her keep stuff in the fridge, given that you haven't come up with any other hilarious anecdotes about their CRAZY behaviour, they're probably trying to GET YOU THE HELL OUT OF THEIR HOME at your RIPE OLD AGE so that they can actually enjoy some peace, quiet and privacy for the first time since they were wiping your crappy little arse five times a day and waking at 3am to feed you. That was 26 years ago by your own admission. Take the hint!

I'm 21 years old by the way. I moved out 3 days after my 16th birthday and put myself through my final year of highschool and all of uni. Even then, my mum was DRIVING PAST MY HOUSE to get to Christmas when I was 18 and I asked for a lift as public transport halfway across the city on a public holiday (with all of my lovely baked goods) would have been a big hassle....she demanded petrol money in cash as soon as I got in the car.

*wanders off muttering about spoiled brats and awaits the flaming sure to ensue*
(Angie the Redneck Wonder, Sat 10 Mar 2007, 7:02, Reply)

Errrrm
Sorry. Not really answering the question but I need to share. My mother just used the phrase 'That's the last time I buy black pudding from the Co-op. It tastes like semen!".

I suddenly need to drink bleach. Is that strict enough for you?
( Gleeballs is mostly made out of chocolate and hate., Sat 10 Mar 2007, 18:45, Reply)

Card shock
My Dad was convinced that the Joker in a deck of cards was in some way evil, and he would burn them. Until that otherwise uneventful Xmas when, demonstrating his belief, he inadvertently set fire to his beard.
(Borusa's Weetabix, Sun 11 Mar 2007, 20:05, Reply)

Tidy
At 10 years old, the last thing you care about, is a tidy bedroom. Sheffield Wednesday, Formula One, the lasses off Byker Grove and Wham Bars, yeah, but tidying your bedroom? Barely a murmur of interest on the Scentless scale.

Now, that incensed my mum. Being a stickler for tidyness (imagine Monica off Friends, but tidier) this was anathema to her, and since I was 'supposed to be the sensible older brother' I had to book my ideas up...

But I wouldn't listen, and it got to the point where there were more clothes and books and tapes on the floor than on the shelves and cupboards.

Things came to a head one day, when before a visit to the corner shop, my mum said the following...

"If you don't tidy your room up by the time I get back from the shops, I'll throw everything in your room out onto the street, because you're not good enough to look after it all, so we might as well chuck it..."

Now, parents do this kind of threat knowing it'll be enough to get what they want, but, I was a clever little bastard, so I didn't bother.

So there I was, in my room playing on Thunderforce IV, when she burst in, to see the shitheap that was my bedroom.

Without a word, she opened the sash window, lifted the not-inconsiderable chest of drawers up onto the window ledge, and out onto the street. Within half an hour, everything in my bedroom apart from my bed, my Megadrive and TV, were distributed across the street, in full view of the neighbours and all whilst I stood, in sheer amazement, of what my mum had just done. I didn't even cry, I was that in shock.

"I'll give you an hour, and this room better be in the fucking (mums swearing!) state I expect by that time. Sort it."

I did. Picked up all the stuff off the street, brought it back in the house, rebuilt my wardrobe, chest of drawers and shelves, folded all the clothes away, packed all my tapes and games in their correct drawers, and then went without my tea as a reward.

Now, my mum might come across as a bit of a nutter, but if it wasn't for events like that, I'd not be where I am today. Neurotic, lacking in self-esteem and fearful of the opposite sex.

But still, she had a point.

Length? Even sword-swallowers have trouble.
(scentless_apprentice takes two bottles into the shower!, Thu 8 Mar 2007, 21:20, Reply)

Playing`
.
I was banned from playing with "darkies" by my deeply racist father.

He was so racist that he'd even switch the TV over if anyone remotely black was on the telly. He made my mother get rid of some statues of Africans as "he didn't want niggers looking at me while I eat".

Funny old world though. As he lay dying in hospital he seemed to lose all vestiges of racism as he begged his Indian doctor to save his life. Didn't work. :)

Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Thu 8 Mar 2007, 12:55, Reply)

Not me but a twisted fantasy
My parents divorced when I was 17. It was amicable and I wasn't screwed up too much by it - they just needed to be apart. The problem, however, was that my dad's new girlfriend was a red hot 24 year-old redhead with long legs, a prize-winning bust and hips that haven't been since since Marilyn croaked. I once shot in my pants just watching her eat strawberries. And she was a dominatrix at a local 'dungeon'.

I can't tell you how many times I watched her change into her work clothes before going out. She'd wear a skintight black latex corset with lacing up the front so that her considerable cleavage was visible. She wore fishnet stockings, latex panties and a suspender belt. She wore ultra-high heels in red leather. I saw all of this through the keyhole of their room (so I also knew that her pubic hair was shaved into a cute heart.)

Anyway, one day while I was urgently handling my tool and looking through the keyhole, she rushed to the door and caught me in the act. She dragged me into the room, threw me on the bed and stood over me in second-skin latex. That didn't help the boner at all.

"So, you like to watch do you?" she said.
"A bit ..."
"You're a naughty boy, aren't you?"
"Er, yes."
"Here, unlace me."

My shaking fingers worked at the lacing up her front and soon her swelling breasts burst forth, bouncing unapologetically before my eyes with erect rasberry nipples. I felt like my schlong would fossilise, so hard was it. She sat on the bed and lifted her legs up:

"Pull my panties down."

Shaking now with Parkinsons-like quivers, I hooked my fingers into the latex at her hips and slowly pulled down those rubber pants along her endless legs, leaving her with just the stockings and suspenders on. She spread her legs and let me see the heart.

"Naughty boys should be put to work. Lick here," she said, pointing to her clit with a red manicured nail. And I went to work, lapping at the soft flesh as she ground her hips and made low animal noises. Unbidden, I set some fingers to work and watched her body writhe and jiggle, her stomach stretching sinuously. When she came, my tongue was fully extended inside her and I believe I felt her muscles contract around it.

She sat up and regarded my rigid tool, which by now could have played the xylophone. She took it in her right hand and began to work it with agonising slowness, stroking it and fluttering fingers across the tip. With the other hand, she cupped my balls, squeezing gently. I just fixated on her giant tits, willing myself to remember every second of this.

In no time, I felt an orgasm building from my very heels. It swelled and rushed with locomotive force through my tubes and burst forth in powerful gushes, striping her breasts and neck. Even as I was expelling the final geysers, she bent and took the still spraying head into her soft, full lips and sucked the final drops from my exhausted reservoirs.

Then she went off to work, leaving me drained and shellshocked. Strict? My real mum would just have slapped me.


EDIT: My wife is away at the moment. I am feeling the strain.
(frankspencer, Sun 11 Mar 2007, 21:58, Reply)

I know that somewhere
Kelly Osbourne is sitting at a computer going "um, well what about...OK, one time he...fuck."
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Fri 9 Mar 2007, 13:40, Reply)

sorry.
i'm not allowed to post. my mom won't let me. i'm 34.
( bierbelly, Sun 11 Mar 2007, 20:21, Reply)

Summer of 1986
The World Cup was on, in Mexico to be exact. Me, my brother and me mates were all into collecting the Panini stickers. I had completed about 2 thirds of my sticker album, had plenty of swapsies and on this fateful day, had just aquired a "Garry Lineker"!

Oh joy, life couldn't get any better - and it didn't... i innocently walked in after school with my sticker album undermy arm, clutching my wad of swapsies when my foster mum (devout Catholic, secondary school teacher) spotted them and said something like "what have you got there?... they're a waste of money - now throw them away - all of them - NOW!"

Cunt-bitch!

She also did pretty much the same to my one and only "brand-name" toy - a He-Man figure (with punching arm motion)... the moment she saw it she took a dislike to it (she probably thought it'd turn me into a fist-fucking rapist). Anyway, one day i moaned about having to clean and polish my football boots and she instantly marched to my room and took it, saying she was going to throw it away - i never saw it again. To be honest i didn't even like He-Man really, but like i said, it was my only brand name toy (everything else was ethnic wooden carved puzzles n' shit)... AND it was given to me for my birthday by my real mum!

D'YOU HEAR THAT YOU FUCKIN SPAZZY GOD-FEARING CUNT LUMP! - MY REAL MUM!!!!

*runs away and cries under the duvet*
(A Hospital Carpark, Fri 9 Mar 2007, 3:49, Reply)

Girl Guides
When I was little, all my little friends were in Brownies and then Girl Guides when they were older. I wasn't allowed to join because my father was convinced that the whole Scout movement was a facist organisation. The fact that my local troop were 90% non-white was deemed irrelevant.

My father thinks all WASPs are racist, facist bigots. He does not see the irony in this.

Click "I like this" if you think he's a knob.
(grandmasterfluffles Come to my Armageddon party on, Thu 8 Mar 2007, 14:29, Reply)

My parents were pretty laid back.
Never grounded, never sent to my room without dinner, never smacked (well, once, but it was very half-hearted and just made me laugh). But I was banned from something. Just the once.

I was banned from doing homework for my Science teacher, Mrs Murphy. You see, she had seen fit to give me detention for not doing the set homework the previous week.

There was a flaw in Mrs Murphy's argument, however, as I had produced the work in question, and she had marked it. When I pointed this out to her, and that she was actually holding my completed work in her hand at the time, I was backed up by half the class (which surprised me as I wasn't a popular kid). So Mrs Murphy gave me a detention. No big deal. I just sat there and wasted the time staring into space.

Naturally the parental units got involved and complained, asking for an apology which she never gave. So the next best course of action? Why, they banned me from doing any more homework for her! Hurrah!

I fear I may have never given my parents the respect they deserve.
(Captain Skippy pooed in a bag and left it on your doorstep, Thu 8 Mar 2007, 17:23, Reply)

My sister
forbade her kids from watching "Animaniacs" because it was too violent. (She teaches Special Ed, in case you wondered.)

Had she ever actually watched an episode or two, she would have seen that it was really one of the most brilliantly written cartoons ever, with incredible references to classical literature and movies- but she was going by what she saw of Slappy Squirrel.

The irony? She (and I) used to watch "Tom & Jerry" and the Roadrunner back in the days before they censored them for violence. I pointed this out to her and noted that neither of us had ever dropped an anvil on anyone or pushed them off a mile high cliff, so cartoon violence was hardly a threat to the kids' mental health- but as I am the younger sibling and am not a Certified Teaching Professional who works with Disturbed Children, my opinions counted for naught.

So I rolled up the Acme cannon I had just ordered through the mail and blew all her hair off and turned her black. You should have seen her spong eyes goggling at me...
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Thu 8 Mar 2007, 16:49, Reply)

Silence is golden?
Not me, but a friend - her sister and her husband decided that they weren't going to speak in front of their child at all - as they wanted to encourage psychic powers. She was nearly taken into care but is now at school, somewhat bewildered I'll warrant.
(Countryslicker, Thu 8 Mar 2007, 15:52, Reply)

My Dear Mother
IS A SAINT
( The Baroness The Harlot Pimpernel, Sun 11 Mar 2007, 17:25, Reply)

my parents wouldn't let me
ask a girl from my school to the Year 10 formal.

And I was like, but she's really nice, she's in my Science class...

But then they said I wasn't just forbidden to ask that particular girl, I couldn't ask any girl!

God they went on - blah blah blah, you'll get fired...
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Fri 9 Mar 2007, 16:51, Reply)

liar
Among her other interesting traits, my mother is a pathological liar and a fantasist who spends most of her life in her own world. Once, when returning a Rick Astley CD to a street trader because "it didn't sound like him" she tried to bolster her argument by pretending she was Astley's mum. The trader pissed himself laughing at her. But that's not the story.

The story is that I had a thing for playing the drums with anything remotely drumstick-like: knives, forks, bamboo canes, whatever. Once, I found some chopsticks in the cutlery draw and drummed with such ferocity that I broke them. So I just threw them away.

When mother dear discovered the shattered sticks, she went ballistic and told me that the chopsticks were antique, made of ivory and handed down through generations. She stormed upstairs and gathered my most prized possessions together: my stereo, my Samantha Fox poster, my Star Wars figures. And she said she'd burn them all unless I could replace the chopsticks.

Me: Why did you have antique chopsticks in the cutlery draw?
Mum: Never mind.
Me: Where am I going to buy antique chopsticks that have been in your family for generations?
Mum: I don't care.
Me: Your family are Irish - they lived in Sheffield since they were kids ...
Mum: Somebody went to China ... and they bought these chopsticks.
Me: Why didn't they just take a fork?
Mum: I'm going to get some matches ...

So I went to a friend's house and bitched about my psycho mother, telling him the story of the 'priceless' chopsticks. He said, "We've got loads of chopsticks - why not take some of ours?" And, lo!, his chopsticks were exactly the same as my mother's - £2 for about 50 of them from a charity shop. Made of plastic. I offered to give him Boba Fett for 10 of them.

Cue me going home and presenting not one pair but 5 to my mother.

Mum: Where did you get these?
Me: My friend's family also has a Chinese connection - it's called Oxfam

I got all my stuff back. The lying bitch.
(frankspencer, Fri 9 Mar 2007, 9:37, Reply)

History Homework
Not parents but my grandad.

He was an Italian fella who was usually quite meek and mild by nature. I used to have to go round to his place to do my homework as mum and dad worked late and somebody had to keep an eye on me or I'd be out playing football and trying to catch squirrels.

Spread my books out on the big dining room table and reluctantly made a start.

Grandad saunters over, sees what I'm working on and throws an absolute fit. "You are not going to write lies about the great man under my roof! Put those books away IMMEDIATELY!!!"

I had to go in to school the next day and explain I hadn't written my essay about the life and times of Benito Mussolini because my grandad wouldn't let me.

Fascist dictator, yes, but he replaced all the wooden manhole covers in my grandads village with metal ones.

Apparently this made up for all the bad stuff.
( SpankyHanky, Fri 9 Mar 2007, 9:30, Reply)

Can't touch this...
My friend Richard was banned by his parents from touching street lights, telegraph poles, electricity pylons and the like, presumably because they were under the impression that he'd one day climb one and get killed to death.

This was knowledge beaten into him with an iron fist by God-fearing parents that wouldn't let him fart without written permission.

So they told him that they were all wired to the mains and had 240 volts running through them, certain death to anyone damn fool enough to touch one.

This all came to a head the first time we played hide-and-seek with him in the street. The counting post was the street light outside our house, and Richard was understandbly reluctant to take his turn.

"Look, Rich," says I making to touch the street light, "there's nothing to worry about."

"DON'T TOUCH IT! DON'T TOUCH IT! YOU'LL DIE!!!"

I touched it, and didn't die.

Poor Richard, people really do wee their trousers when they're scared.
( Scaryduck LIKES EGG, Mon 12 Mar 2007, 8:52, Reply)

Toilet
This kid I know Luke has older parents. Fair enough. All of our parents are older than us. But these are the Daily Mail Hyacinth Bucket Variety and their downstairs toilet is set aside for use only by the Queen. Not even Luke is allowed to use it.

Now I was round my other mate Jared's house with a few other mates and we decided to go for a little walk round the faceless housing estate he lived on, picking Luke up on the way.

We arrived and luke's house and rang the doorbell. Jared, being acquainted with Luke's mum and dad lapped up the welcome and conversation they gave him as luke prepared hisself for later.

My other mate Spraggs saw the golden opportunity to go and take a shit in the sacred guarderobe. We all know Spraggs, or all know a Spraggs. The cheery chappy everyone loves, with a glint in his eye and a nose for mischief. Anyway. As Jared engaged Mr and Mrs Luke in conversation and Lamming and myself waited outside, unbeknownst to us spraggs crept inside, opening the door to the sacred piss place across the hall.

He then, in full view of me and Lamming who were standing in teh doorway, pulled down his pantaloons and sat on the sacred stool admiring the hideous plates with kittens on that clung to the vile pink wall.

the guffaws from the doorway became too much and mrs luke went to have a look at what the source of the mirth could be. And to her horror, as she turned round the corridoor what did she see? Spraggs, sitting on her throne, squeezing out a fresh one. "'Allo Mrs Luke" he grinned and she slammed the door in his face.

Spraggs opened the door after two minutes of exclamations of "it's a big 'un!" and "ooooh it wont flush!" to a flabberghasted pair of parents and 3 spotty oiks pissing themselves with laughter.
(Papa Chocolat, Sun 11 Mar 2007, 23:57, Reply)

WHOOP WHOPP (its the sound of tha police)
dear old Unstablemum was clearly terrified of me being abducted by child molesting types, so every time I went to the local playing fields (5 mins walk away) I would have to ensure to be back right on my allotted time.

Heaven forbid I would stroll in at 5 past 7 of a warm summers evening, because I was meant to be in at 7.
So I had been raped and left in a ditch.
And now a patrol car was outside my house taking a description off my mum.

4 effing times that happened. Between the ages of 10 and 16.

My mates still take the piss.
(UnstableDan Bah, Humbug! ooooh, humbugs, nyom!, Thu 8 Mar 2007, 13:56, Reply)