The Rise and Fall of Jamie Pt 1

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This is a work of fiction.  You must be 18 or over to read this story.  In real life, incestuous relationships, particularly when an under-aged person is involved with a parent or adult, often causes deep psychological damage.  This story is provided for entertainment purposes only.  The author does not condone any sexual activity with persons under 18 in real life.

You must be 18 or over to read these stories of rape and non-consensual sex. If you do not like such stories, please turn back. I do not promote rape or non-consent sex. This is only a story, fiction, if you do not understand the difference between reality and fantasy, read no more. Rape is WRONG. Those who commit rape are despised everywhere.

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I’m going to prison. This sucks. I raped fourteen women and girls, more than half under sixteen, most repeatedly. I kidnapped one across state lines. I held a dozen captive for several hours of sex and torture.

And that’s just what I know they know. There’s more, much more.

Even I pleased guilty, I won’t ever be released. I don’t want to go to prison, but I’m too much of a coward to take my own life.

Maybe if I plead mental illness.

Well, here comes the FBI agent. Man, that is a THICK file as is the one his partner is carrying.

“Alright,” he says. “Let’s start at the beginning. This is beyond Walden and Dallas.”

They know. I’m sure in the four days I was in the hospital, they’ve had plenty of time to do their homework. I had a fake identity; I never cleaned up after myself; I didn’t think I’d ever get caught.

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It really started on my thirteenth birthday. That’s when I got the Polaroid.

Well, we can probably back up another couple of years when my twin sister and I hit puberty. For me, it was just hair in places there ain’t been hair before and that hard-ons were no longer just an embarassing nuisance.

For Janie, it meant that her hips flared out a little, her chest pumped up a touch and her ass rounded out. She was still kinda short and skinny for her age, so those little adjustments seemed a bit magnified, like someone took a fifteen year-old and shrunk her down to four-six and maybe fifty-some odd pounds.

People noticed and she loved the attention. So she started prancing around a lot in little short shorts, half-shirts, tight tanks, crop tops.

By the time we hit thirteen, I had shot up to five-six and a good buck twenty on the scales. Janie, she seemed to have stopped; still a foot shorter than me and about half my weight. Still, very cute.

See, dad was Scandinavian; he wasn’t born there, but his blood was one hundred percent Norse; tall, blue eyes, blond hair, the whole bit. And so was Janie, except for the stature. That light blond hair, fair skin and those baby blue eyes just made her all the more appealing to my senses (and dad’s).

Janie got all that but his stature. That came from the majority donor to yours truly.

Mom was as Hispanic as dad was Scandinavian, U.S. born daughter to two illegal immigrants from Guatemala. She was a foot shorter than dad and very dark-skinned, but not African. I got most of her color, with a little lightener from dad and dark brown hair. My stature, I got from dad. I admit, I was a damned good looking kid.

So, back to our thirteenth birthday. I got a Polaroid; she got a bikini.

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