Tag Archives: panty sniffing

The Story Of Baby Girl’s End

I am the baby of the family, youngest sibling to three brothers. A surprise baby, I was born years after anyone had any idea of having more kids. My eldest brothers, Mark & Saul, were out of the house before I was five and even Jeff’s a whopping eight years older than I am.

Growing up, everyone called me “Baby Girl” — including people outside our family, who called me “Baby Girl [Surname]”.

Until I turned twelve, that is.

It was at that time that the candy giving changed. Even if my body hadn’t quite blossomed (and some might still be waiting for my ittie bittie titties to grow-in — but they won’t, ya’ll; that’s the way they is), there were subtle changes… I became not only longer in leg, but in tooth, as they say. I started to not only know the score, but what the game was all about.

It wasn’t the magic number “12” or maturity’s hormones which had me growing up, but life at home.

Momma caught Dad sniffing some other woman’s panties.

All hell broke loose, as you can imagine. Mom left and took up with men years her junior who she treated like slaves — and they only adored her for it. Dad bellowed and stormed around, rather like a wounded boar. He put himself inside the bottle, and then sobered up when he realized “his Patsie” (her name is Patricia, and he’s always called her “Patsie”; it is not to mean she was a patsy) wasn’t going to come back to some slob she’d have to take care of. Now & then she “comes home”, let’s him wait on her & submit to her, and then, when he fails her, she’s off again with some buck with a proper attitude (and some money doesn’t hurt either).

It’s been a decade of watching my parents perform this strange dance of submission, denial, and love — which literally continues to this day. The details of which may become another post; but for now, let’s return to me.

Finally seeing my parents’ relationship for what it was, how it worked, and what it meant was not just an eye-opener about them or even relationships in general — it was self-illuminating. At that moment, their relationship did not die or really even change, but become crystal clear to all of us. And it helped me see myself better.

I wasn’t going to remain anyone’s “baby girl” — I was far too powerful for that. And it all had to start with a name change. At the age of 12 I became what I could; I made them stop calling me Baby Girl and call me Miss Angel.

“Baby Girl” didn’t die some tragic death, wasn’t part of childhood’s innocence lost and all that crap; “Baby Girl” never really existed, you see. She was an idea, or the ideal, of others; but she wasn’t me.

Now I seethe when I’m called “Mistress” or “Goddess” because those are generic terms for generic women, in generic roles. I don’t “play” that way; I have my own games, my own rules, my own role. So you will call me The Celebutaunt or Mock-tress or whatever name I tell you to address me by. Got it? Good.