At one or more points in their lives, parents are invariably asked awkward questions by their children. These questions are usually triggered by some event or other observed by the child. A judgement needs to be made by the parent, whether or not to extend their knowledge of the event to the child, and also as importantly, to gauge the extent of their exposition to suit the understanding of the child asking the questions.
I remember driving both my parents mad, especially my father, with an endless barrage of questions, many of which were of the ‘awkward’ variety. His answers invariably did not satisfy me, and he found this both exasperating and annoying. Usually, it was my mother that took the heat off him before he exploded, by telling me to ’stop bothering your Dad, he’s tired.’
All my life I’ve asked questions. If there is no-one around to ask, I’ll ask myself. My desire for insight remains as insatiable today as it was over half-a-century ago, and those that have been close to me can bear witness to my sometimes uncomfortable technical de-construction of some of the lies they have attempted to beguile me with.
Notwithstanding the above, many of the questions I asked as a young boy, were never properly answered at the time, but instead of shrugging my shoulders and distracting myself with something else, I used to spend countless hours dreaming up explanations of the unexplained events, until I had a fairly full mental picture of what I imagined must have happened to cause the event. As I progressed through puberty towards manhood, these ‘explanations’ became more vivid and imaginative, and as a matter of course, had built into them my own fixations, personal sexual fantasies and aspirations too.
Some of these ’stories’ (for that’s all they were) I plundered as a source for school essays, which ironically my Dad loved to read. Some, of course, I would never have dared to write down without causing wrath to be heaped upon me for my ‘precocious’ thoughts.
There was one particular incident, the untimely death of a spinster lady who lived close by, which triggered my usual sea of questions which were so persistent, my Dad became very angry and I was told to ’shut up’. In the face of no information regarding the cause of the lady’s death, I once again made up my own.
This then, is her story, and to not a little extent, my own too. Naturally, I can’t remember all of what I conjectured and imagined long ago, just sufficient I hope, to give a glimpse back at the tale of love, lust and loss I wove around the incident, simply because the real truth was denied me.
Warning: The story contains adult subject matter, several explicit scenes of an intimate sexual nature, and is not suitable for minors, or those who are easily offended.
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The story is available as a PDF download here: Sister Mildred
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