Cuckold Daughter Story

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Cuckold Daughter Story
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Dear Amy: My husband of more than 30 years has erectile dysfunction. When I was overweight I was happy enough not to have relations with him. Now I've got control of my health and would like to step it up in the bedroom.
He suggests, regularly, that I seek another partner. Besides being hurt by these requests, I'm fine waiting for him. Now, he says that if he knew I was seeing someone else, he would not have to take pills because he'd be aroused at the thought.
I'm stunned and confused. He's never been into porn. I don't know where this is coming from. What should I do?
Dear Complicated: If your husband is aroused at the thought of you being with another man, maybe he can use that fantasy to become sexual with you again. You (and he) imply through his suggestion that his ED isn't wholly physical.
A counsellor could help both of you to talk honestly about your sexual relationship. The way you're currently communicating about it is not working, and is hurting your emotional connection. More honesty could lead to more intimacy.
Dear Amy: I have spent many years struggling with my older daughter's attitude toward me (and many others). I have cried, sobbed and ranted (to myself), but I can't figure out what to do.
She is in her mid-30s, and spent her childhood going back and forth between her father and myself. Amicably. We all got along.
I am bipolar, and so is she. As she got older, she has changed. She talks to me like I am an idiot, treats me poorly and it hurts.
She has a wonderful 10-year-old daughter whom I love, but with the slightest error on my part, she will cut off contact. She is out of contact with her older sister.
I love her and want to spend time with her, but I cannot take this much longer without saying something I would later regret. The people she works with love her and so do her friends. I just want us to get along. Her father passed away three years ago and it darn near did her in, but she wouldn't accept any help with her grieving.
Any ideas? I can't handle this stress as well as I used to.
Dear Sad Mom: If you and your daughter both have bipolar disorder, I hope you will use your own insight into the condition to guide your actions and reactions. If your daughter has changed with age, you have likely changed, too. Is there anything you could (or should) do differently? Is she being treated for her bipolar disorder, and if so, is she getting the care she needs and taking meds?
Ranting isn't called for, but honesty is, and to some extent you have to reach down and serenely let the consequences fall where they may. You cannot control her, or her reactions to you. 
Acknowledge your daughter's challenges. Ask her what changes she would like to see both of you make. And when it's your turn, tell her that you have certain expectations: that she talk to you respectfully and treat you the way she does her friends and co-workers. Tell her you are on her side and that you would like to have a positive and healthier relationship.
Dear Amy: As a mother of a teenager, I feel the need to respond to "Puzzled in Hartford," who wondered why kids don't help their parents around the house.
My son occasionally helps around the house by cleaning his room, taking out the garbage and vacuuming when I ask him. However, he does not have time for much else because he spends around 80% of his time doing homework.
The complexity and amount of homework assigned is substantially greater than what was expected of me when I was his age. As a parent, I try to support my son's education and find ways to help him enjoy his journey. So if he can't always shovel the snow (which he loves to do by the way), I cut him some slack. He is doing a lot more than I did at his age.
Dear Supportive Mom: I agree that the amount and complexity of homework for college-bound students is extreme. Some parents and educators are starting to push back on homework and I agree that re-balancing is a good idea.
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True Confession: My boyfriend impregnated me and my daughter

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I am in my early 50s. I am divorced; have been for more than a decade. I live on my own with my three children.
About a year ago, I went into a relationship with a man four years younger than I am. Being married, we meet in my place. As a matter of fact he has the key to my flat. It was better than going to hotels.
Besides, my daughters were grown up to appreciate that I need a man in my life. Well, I thought I could trust him so I gave him permission to come to my house whenever he likes I am in or not. I also assumed my daughters were responsible enough to see him as their father. Unfortunately, I miscalculated. Unknown to me while he was having affairs with me, he was also sleeping with my two older daughters.
I didn’t know what was happening until I took my elders daughter to the hospital following her persistent complains of malaria. I also haven’t been feeling well; so decided to visit the hospital with my daughter.
When the result came out, we were both pronounced pregnant. I was shocked because I didn’t expect to be at y age since I have been having irregular period in the last two years.
At 28, my daughter has never been pregnant. I was happy for her thinking it was the man I knew her with was responsible. Then, it didn’t even occur to me that he [my daughter’s fiancé] has been out of Lagos for three months.
It wasn’t until we got home that the real problem started. We met my boyfriend at home. While I was still thinking of how to break my news to him, a text message came to his phone. After reading the text, he became very agitated so much so he lost concentration.
I was so concerned. I forget what I was about to say and snatched the phone from him to know what got him me very suspicious; I quickly transferred the message to my phone before handing it over to him. I did the transfer while he was struggling to take the phone away from me so, he wasn’t aware of what I did.
I almost fainted when I read the text and discovered it was my daughter telling him that we were both pregnant for him and he should tell me to abort the baby since she was going to keep hers.
She told him if he tried to play smart with her, the whole world would know that he has been sleeping with her mother, sister and herself.
The worst thing now is that he is nowhere to be found. I have tried getting him on his phone numbers but none is going through. The friend I know him with says, he doesn’t know his whereabout and has bluntly refused to take me to his house.
My second daughter has left home for an unknown destination following the revelation by her sister that she too has been sleeping with him.
I am very confused as my daughter and I are stuck without situation. How do I explain to the world that my daughter and I are pregnant for this same man and that he is nowhere to be seen? What should I do please?
True Confession: I don’t know who got me pregnant – My husband or my boyfriend?
True confession: I’m impotent, how do I tell her?

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Nearly every day at 4 p.m., for years, he would summon me to bed. His acts were unthinkable, but now I'm ready to talk.
In Michelle Stevens' powerful, just-published memoir, Scared Selfless , she shares how she overcame horrendous child sexual abuse and mental illness to lead a satisfying and happy life as a successful psychologist, wife and mother. Here, an excerpt from the book:
Since birth, I had been Michelle Brechbill. Daughter of Judy. Granddaughter of Evelyn and Glenn. Now, with the flick of a pen, I was Mooch (a nickname) Lundquist, daughter of Gary, new student at his out-of-state school. In 1976 no one seemed to question any of this. No one seemed to care that my school records displayed a different name or that Gary was not my legal guardian. We weren't even related. He was just my mother's boyfriend. But social norms dictate that we do not insert ourselves into other people's personal lives. Being polite means keeping one's mouth shut.
And so I, the newly minted Mooch Lundquist, became a third grader at Delaware Township School. My classroom was on the first floor of the elementary building — just a staircase away from Gary. Every day at 3 p.m., as soon as the bell rang, I was expected to climb those stairs and report to Gary's desk. Inevitably, a few of his favored 10-year-old students would still be hanging around — joking with him or sitting on his lap.
Some days Gary would oversee an after-school activity. The gifted and talented club was invitation only — Gary's invitation, that is. Trouble was: Gary had no real training or authority to be administering IQ tests. Instead, he gave kids a short multiple-choice test, the Mickey Mouse kind sold in bookstores. Then, based on his findings, he labeled certain kids — the kids he liked and wanted to spend more time with — as "gifted."
I was gifted, according to Gary. This was a real convenience, as he demanded I join his, and only his, after-school clubs. He signed me up for his drama club too and encouraged me to sing in the school talent contest. On the night of the show, various kids performed their acts, and the winner was chosen based on audience response. Gary was among the judges who awarded me first prize. After that, I was given the lead in all the school plays that he directed.
To the other parents, I suppose it seemed that Gary was harmlessly lauding his new daughter. In a certain way, he was. Not because he actually thought I was gifted or talented. Gary was a narcissist, and narcissists view their families as extensions of themselves, as trophies. Gary believed he was superior, so it was imperative that the world see his daughter as superior too.
Behind closed doors it was a different story. Gary treated me with a dizzying blend of over-involvement, neglect, overindulgence and cruelty. With Svengali-like skill, he quickly took over every aspect of my life, dictating what I wore, to whom I talked, even what toys I used.
Gary dictated what I wore, to whom I talked, even what toys I used.
He also strove to monopolize my time — an easy accomplishment since my mother left for work before I awoke and didn't return until evening. During the school year, this meant Gary had me all to himself for an hour each morning and at least three hours every afternoon. Once summer came, he had me all day, every day, all to himself.
Summer was the time when Gary could really play out his S/M (sadomasochism) fantasies and treat me like a full-time sex slave. This meant being subjected to daily "training sessions" — intense periods when I was explicitly instructed on how to behave and think like a slave. Much like a dog must be trained to sit, to stay, to heel, practitioners of sadomasochism believe a sex slave must be trained in how to speak, sit, serve. In short, like a dog, she must be taught total obedience.
Gary's dungeon was in the basement. Because he had to avoid my mother's prying eyes, though, he could not leave it permanently set up like other S/M enthusiasts. Instead, he left a series of nails and hooks attached to the ceiling beams, which could quickly and easily hold a harness, a rope or some other type of bondage device. While much of Gary's paraphernalia had to be kept hidden, I could tell he also had some fun in displaying a few tools of his trade. The dog cage, for instance, was left in plain sight — folded up in a cluttered corner where it appeared to be waiting for the next garage sale. He also kept a wooden paddle hanging on the wall of his home office, which he jokingly told guests was for "errant children." Little did they realize it was no joke. Nor did most people realize that he kept a set of metal handcuffs in his desk drawer, right next to a stun gun and his handgun.
I can't remember being threatened with the gun — although it may have happened. (Due to amnesia, as well as the normal forgetfulness of memory, there are many details about my abuse I can't recall. I know this because, over the years, eyewitnesses have told stories about my abuse that I cannot personally remember.) I do, however, remember Gary threatening me with the stun gun repeatedly. He even used it on me once. Once was all it took. For after experiencing the excruciating, utterly indescribable pain it inflicted, I never, ever wanted to experience it again.
When he wasn't hurting me, he lavished me with parental attention. On the long drives to and from school, he would initiate conversations about history, politics and art. We ate nearly every meal together while he instructed me on things like table manners and ethnic cuisine. He gave me my first typewriter and influenced my decisions to become both a writer and psychologist. He took the time to open up the world for me. He was my first and most significant mentor.
Under my mother's care, I'd been neglected and deprived. She was constantly at work, leaving me alone and lonely. Gary preyed on that loneliness. Like any skilled pedophile, he identified what I needed, and he gave it to me. He made me feel special, talented, smart.
Even sexually, staying on Gary's good side had its advantages. For once he felt I had become sufficiently trained and submissive, most of the torture tapered off. Afternoons in the basement were replaced by the bedroom. And his fervor to cause me pain was replaced with a passion to bring me pleasure. I suspect it made him feel powerful — like more of a man.
Nearly every day at 4 p.m., for years, he would summon me to bed for what can only be described as a lovers' tryst. The weird part, of course, was that his "lover" was just under four feet tall and weighed less than 60 pounds.
Nearly every day at 4 p.m., he would summon me to bed.
There was also the inconvenient fact that his official lover, my mother, refused to vanish. Unable to ditch her physically, he did it emotionally instead. Every evening, he locked himself in his home office. Every weekend, he went to his store. As I was expected to work for him, I followed wherever he went. Very early on, my mother began to notice this pattern, and she didn't like it. Not one bit. Being immature, she didn't handle the situation with grace. She felt excluded, which she was. So she began to yell a lot, mostly at me.
One particular Saturday morning (we had probably been living with Gary for about six weeks), I was in the bathroom getting dressed for the flea market, just as I did every weekend. But my mother wasn't happy, so she stood in the doorway, whining. "What're you gettin' dressed to go there for? Huh? You oughta be staying home with me."
Just then, Gary came into the hall. My mother cornered him. "I want Shell to stay home with me," she demanded. "She's down at that flea market with you way too much!"
Gary, as always, remain
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